International Baccalaureate



VSA: Victoria Shanghai Academy

International Baccalaureate DP

English A: Literature

Part 4: F. Scott Fitzgerald Short Stories

Contents

|Background |3 |

|Biography |4 |

|Social and Historical Context |10 |

|Women and The Jazz Age |20 |

|The Very Rich are Different |23 |

|Charles McGrath article |24 |

|Major Themes |26 |

|Major Works of Short Fiction |31 |

|Critical Overview |61 |

|Contemporary Reception |100 |

|Studying Fitzgerald |110 |

|The Diamond as Big as the Ritz |115 |

|Bernice Bobs Her Hair |150 |

|The Ice Palace |177 |

|May Day |194 |

|Winter Dreams |212 |

|Appendix |237 |

Background: A Sense of Place

Biography

Early Life

Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald was born September 24, 1896, in St. Paul, Minnesota. His father, Edward Fitzgerald, was a furniture manufacturer, and his mother, Mollie McQuillan Fitzgerald, the daughter of a wealthy St. Paul businessman. After Edward Fitzgerald’s business failed in 1898, he became a wholesale grocery salesman for Procter and Gamble in Buffalo, New York. Edward was transferred to Syracuse, New York, in 1901 (when Scott’s sister Annabel was born) and back to Buffalo in 1903 before losing his job in 1908. The family then returned to St. Paul to live off the money Mollie had inherited from her father.

Edward Fitzgerald, who had co-written a novel when he was young, read from the works of George Gordon, Lord Byron and Edgar Allan Poe to his son and praised the boy’s attempts at writing, but he hoped that Scott would become an army officer. Mollie did not encourage his literary interests and wanted him to be a successful businessman like her father, to make up for Edward’s failure and to live up to the illustrious ancestors on his father’s side of the family, a long line of wealthy Maryland landowners, politicians, and lawyers. (Francis Scott Key was a distant relative.)

Because Scott’s family believed that he needed discipline, he was sent in 1911 to the Newman School, a Catholic preparatory school in Hackensack, New Jersey. At Newman, Fitzgerald met Father Sigourney Fay, a wealthy intellectual who introduced him to Henry Adams and other well-known literary figures. Fay became the boy’s surrogate father and is the model for Monsignor Darcy in This Side of Paradise (1920).

In 1913, Fitzgerald enrolled at Princeton University. He dreamed of becoming a college football star but did not make the team. He had worked on school publications throughout high school and began writing for the Princeton Tiger, the college humor magazine. He also wrote the books and lyrics for musical productions of the prestigious Triangle Club, and through such literary endeavors he made friends with fellow students Edmund Wilson, who became one of America’s most important critics, and John Peale Bishop, later a successful poet. Fitzgerald and Wilson wrote The Evil Eye for the Triangle Club in 1915. After a publicity photograph for that production of Fitzgerald dressed as a girl ran in The New York Times, he received an offer to become a female impersonator in vaudeville.

Earlier that year, Fitzgerald had met sixteen-year-old Ginevra King of Lake Forest, Illinois, at a party in St. Paul. For him, she was the embodiment of the perfect woman: beautiful, rich, socially prominent, and sought after. Ginevra, the model for many of the young women in Fitzgerald’s short stories, rejected him eventually because he was not wealthy.

That disappointment was not Fitzgerald’s only one in 1915. He was elected secretary of the Triangle Club, meaning that he would be its president during his senior year, but bad grades made him ineligible for campus offices. Fitzgerald had neglected his studies almost from his arrival at Princeton. At the end of the fall semester, poor grades and illness forced him to drop out of school.

Fitzgerald returned to Princeton in the fall of 1916 to repeat his junior year, and he continued to write stories for the campus literary magazine. He was never graduated, however, since the United States entered World War I, and he joined the army as a second lieutenant in October, 1917. On weekends, he began writing “The Romantic Egotist,” an early version of This Side of Paradise. In June, 1918, he was sent to Camp Sheridan, near Montgomery, Alabama. At a country club dance that July, Fitzgerald met eighteen-year-old Zelda Sayre, and they fell in love two months later. Zelda came from a prominent Montgomery family, her father being a justice of the Alabama Supreme Court. Zelda, considered the most popular girl in Montgomery, was attracted to Fitzgerald because they wanted the same things: success, fame, and glamour.

The war ended just as Fitzgerald was to go overseas. He was disappointed because he wanted to test himself in battle and because he saw the war as a romantic adventure. Yet more disappointments were the rejection of his novel by Charles Scribner’s Sons and the disapproval of Zelda’s parents, who believed that Scott was not stable enough to take proper care of their high-strung daughter. Nevertheless, Zelda agreed to marry him if he went to New York—where she desperately wanted to live—and became a success.

Fitzgerald began working for the Barron Collier advertising agency in February, 1919, writing advertisements which appeared in trolley cars. That spring, he sold his first short story, “Babes in the Woods,” to The Smart Set, the sophisticated magazine edited by H. L. Mencken and George Jean Nathan. Zelda, however, was too impatient for his success and broke off their engagement that June.

Life’s Work

Fitzgerald quit his job in July, 1919, and returned to St. Paul to live with his parents while revising his novel. Maxwell Perkins, the legendary Scribner’s editor, accepted This Side of Paradise that September, despite objections to what his very conservative employer considered a frivolous novel. Perkins, whose suggestions helped Fitzgerald improve the book, said he would resign if Scribner’s did not publish it.

Shortly after the novel was accepted, Fitzgerald became a client of agent Harold Ober and began publishing stories in the Saturday Evening Post, at that time the highest-paying magazine in the field. Unfortunately, he also began a lifelong pattern of drinking and wild spending. He and Zelda seemed made for each other because of their youth, beauty, ambition, and excesses. They were married April 3, 1920, a few days after This Side of Paradise was published.

Scribner’s published three thousand copies of Fitzgerald’s autobiographical novel about a college student’s coming of age, and the book was sold out in three days. By the end of 1921, it had gone through twelve printings of 49,075 copies, a huge success for a serious first novel. This Side of Paradise, considered the first realistic American college novel, was read as a handbook for collegiate conduct. By presenting the new American girl in rebellion against her mother’s values, the novel also created the prototype of the flapper. Novelist John O’Hara later claimed that a half million Americans between the ages of fifteen and thirty fell in love with the book.

The Fitzgeralds quickly became major celebrities in New York because of Scott’s success and the young couple’s good looks and flamboyant personalities. (Unfortunately, few photographs capture the charismatic good looks of Zelda, with her wavy hair, almond-shaped eyes, and oval face, and blond, blue-eyed, stocky Scott, whose impact is widely attested in contemporary accounts.) Zelda went from the center of attention she had been in Montgomery to the wife of a famous novelist, and she resented the change. She remained jealous of her husband’s artistic success and attempted, in the course of their marriage, to become a ballerina, a painter, and a novelist. Save Me the Waltz (1932), her highly autobiographical novel, was written to compete with Scott’s Tender Is the Night (1934). This sense of competition increased Zelda’s drinking and contributed to her mental problems. The birth of their only child, Frances Scott (Scottie) Fitzgerald, in 1921 did little to slow down the Fitzgeralds.

The couple had to lead extravagant lives to live up to their press clippings, and Fitzgerald’s work suffered for it. He borrowed from his publisher and agent and wrote short stories to finance the writing of his novels. (Of Fitzgerald’s 178 stories, 146 published during his lifetime, or about two-thirds, are of inferior quality, written primarily to pay bills.) Whenever he got ahead, he spent himself into debt again.

Fitzgerald’s early success was followed by two failures. The Beautiful and Damned (1922), while actually selling more copies than This Side of Paradise because of Fitzgerald’s reputation, was not as well received by the critics as his first novel. This examination of how greed corrupts a marriage is Fitzgerald’s bleakest, most cynical, least effective novel. Because he had long loved the theater, Fitzgerald wanted to be as good a playwright as he was a novelist. The Vegetable (1923), a political satire, opened in Atlantic City, New Jersey, in November, 1923, and closed quickly, leaving Fitzgerald’s aspirations as a dramatist unfulfilled.

In 1924, the Fitzgeralds made their second trip to Europe; Zelda had an affair with a French aviator on the Riviera and attempted suicide, events that her husband used in Tender Is the Night. In Paris, Scott was introduced to Gertrude Stein and other prominent American expatriates. He met the then-unknown Ernest Hemingway and recruited him for Scribner’s. Their friendship was a close but rocky one, for both writers were temperamental and suspicious of each other.

Fitzgerald’s masterpiece, The Great Gatsby (1925), is one of the most widely read serious American novels, but this poetic look at love, wealth, innocence, illusions, corruption, and the American Dream was, ironically, a failure when it first appeared, selling half as many copies as either of Fitzgerald’s previous novels. He blamed this failure on the lack of the strong women characters necessary to please the predominantly female reading public. The genius of this almost perfect novel, however, was recognized by many serious readers, including T. S. Eliot, who wrote Fitzgerald that “it seems to me to be the first step that American fiction has taken since Henry James.”

Almost a decade would pass before Fitzgerald’s next novel appeared. He spent that time writing stories, twice attempting unsuccessfully to become a Hollywood screenwriter, moving back and forth between the United States and Europe, seeing Zelda’s mental instability and his own drinking increase. Zelda entered psychiatric clinics in France and Switzerland in 1930 and was in and out of institutions for the remainder of her life.

Fitzgerald’s account of the disintegration of fragile Americans living on the French Riviera in Tender Is the Night is autobiographical, as is most of his fiction. The novel is considered a masterpiece but was yet another failure in 1934; both readers and critics were puzzled by the flashback structure. Fitzgerald hoped that the novel would be republished with the events rearranged into chronological order, and such an edition finally appeared posthumously, in 1951, but most critics regard it as inferior to the original version.

In the mid-1930’s, Fitzgerald reached his nadir. Between 1935 and 1937, he wrote nine stories that no one would publish, and he constantly begged Harold Ober for money. His drinking became so bad that he finally had to be hospitalized. Hemingway offered to have his friend killed so that Zelda and Scottie would receive insurance money.

Fitzgerald’s fortunes began improving in the month of July, 1937, when Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer hired him as a screenwriter at a salary of one thousand dollars a week, allowing him to pay off many of his debts. That same month, he met gossip columnist Sheilah Graham, and they fell in love. Fitzgerald spent his spare time educating the young Englishwoman while she tried to save him from himself, sticking by him even when he resumed drinking and mistreated her.

Fitzgerald took his film work seriously and even entertained hopes of becoming a director, but the assembly line system of creating scripts at that time was unsuitable for someone of his talent and fragile ego. He received screen credit for only one script, Three Comrades (1938), an adaptation of an Erich Maria Remarque novel, but even then the finished product differed greatly from what Fitzgerald had conceived. He protested to producer Joseph L. Mankiewicz, “Oh, Joe, can’t producers ever be wrong? I’m a good writer—honest. I thought you were going to play fair.” He was sent to Dartmouth College with young writer Budd Schulberg in February, 1939, to research a film about the school’s winter carnival, only to spend the entire trip drunk, and he was fired.

By October, 1939, Fitzgerald had decided to ignore his personal, financial, and professional problems as much as possible and began writing The Last Tycoon (1941), the story of an idealist film producer—based on himself and Irving Thalberg, the late head of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer—who falls in love with a young woman much like Sheilah Graham. The novel was about half finished when Fitzgerald died of a heart attack at Graham’s apartment on December 21, 1940.

Edmund Wilson assembled the unfinished novel and Fitzgerald’s outline for the remainder of the book for publication in 1941. Fitzgerald’s other posthumous book is The Crack-Up (1945), also edited by Wilson, a collection of autobiographical essays about his problems which first appeared in Esquire in the 1930’s. Zelda Fitzgerald died in a fire at a sanatorium in Asheville, North Carolina, on March 10, 1948, and was buried beside her husband in Rockville, Maryland.

Social Concerns

Like his friend Hemingway, Fitzgerald had the misfortune to live such a colorful existence that it has almost overshadowed his work. For many, the names Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald evoke images of an attractive but drunk couple jumping into the fountain in front of the Plaza Hotel in Manhattan. For all of his weaknesses as a human being, however, Fitzgerald is recognized as one of America’s best, most perceptive writers. He produced two great novels and dozens of good-to-excellent short stories, the best being “The Ice Palace,” “May Day,” “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz,” “Winter Dreams,” “The Rich Boy,” “Babylon Revisited,” “Crazy Sunday,” and “The Lost Decade.”

One of the great subjects in American literature is failure, and Fitzgerald knew as much about this subject as any writer. He created his art to make up for his father’s failure, for his not making the Princeton football team, for not living up to his potential in college, for losing Ginevra King, for missing out on the war, for not continuing to be the successful author of This Side of Paradise, for not working out in Hollywood, for Zelda’s madness and his drinking, for not being the husband Zelda needed or the father Scottie should have had—for not proving himself to himself. Few Americans have understood the thin line between success and failure as well as Fitzgerald.

He is one of the major delineators of the American Dream, perhaps being more closely identified with this mythical concept than any other twentieth century artist. In The Great Gatsby, Jay Gatsby reinvents himself to fit his romantic idea of the American Dream, ending up both betraying and being betrayed by it. Throughout his fiction, Fitzgerald mourns the loss of innocence and youthful ideals while recognizing the inevitability of this loss. The great American paradox, as posed by Fitzgerald, is that holding on to illusions is both destructive and necessary. As the poet of the Jazz Age, a term he created to describe the 1920’s, Fitzgerald will forever be associated with that time. In Tender Is the Night, he shows America’s self-destructive urges in that decade and their painful consequences.

What matters most about F. Scott Fitzgerald, however, is not the tawdry details of his sad life, not any themes he examines in his art, not his place in American letters. What matters is that he could write beautifully. Nowhere in American fiction are there as many heartbreakingly lovely passages as in The Great Gatsby. The most moving tragedy of Fitzgerald’s life was that he died believing that he was a failure and would be forgotten.

Although Fitzgerald often derogated his short fiction, claiming that these works were accomplished only in order to give him money so that he could work on his long fiction, many readers find the tales, at least the better ones, of great worth. Fitzgerald did state that he put a great deal of his "essence" into these pieces. They frequently do offer an immediacy and focus not found in the longer works. Also, the sense of place can sometimes be found in a short story more sharply than in the novels. Surely, most of the stories express the main themes of Fitzgerald's other fiction in a compact form; these include the importance and glamour of youth, the significance of social standing, a sense of the "historical moment," the necessity of moral standards, an emphasis on both the power of circumstance and the exercise of free will, as well as the aforementioned sense of setting.

Social and Historical Context

The American Dream

The American Dream, sometimes in the phrase "Chasing the American Dream," is a national ethos of the United States in which freedom includes a promise of prosperity and success. In the American Dream, first expressed by James Truslow Adams in 1931, citizens of every rank feel that they can achieve a "better, richer, and happier life." The idea of the American Dream is rooted in the second sentence of the Declaration of Independence which states that "all men are created equal" and that they are "endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable Rights" including "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."

Home ownership is sometimes used as a proxy for achieving the promised prosperity; ownership has been a status symbol separating the middle classes from the poor. Sometimes the Dream is identified with success in sports or how working class immigrants seek to join the American way of life.

Since its founding in 1776, the United States has regarded and promoted itself as a beacon of liberty and prosperity.

Movement West

When America declared independence from Britain in 1776, only thirteen states along the East Coast existed. The rest of the country was virtually unknown to Europeans. These states were:

New Hampshire

New York

Massachusetts

Pennsylvania

Rhode Island

Connecticut

New Jersey

Delaware

Maryland

Virginia

North Carolina

South Carolina Georgia

Romantic explorers, such as Lewis and Clark in 1804, opened trails across the country with their amazing expedition through Louisiana and into Oregon.

Horace Greeley, the great reforming newspaper editor, advised ambitious young men of the mid 19th century to seek new opportunities in this virgin territory:

“Go West, young man, and grow up with the country!”

Poor single men and families flocked West during the second half of the 19th century in search of farmland so that they could create their own opportunities with their own labour.

London, author of The Call of the Wild, personified this free spirit in his life as well as his work.

“I would rather be ashes than dust! I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry rot. I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet. The proper function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them. I shall use my time.”

Jack London (1876-1916)

The autobiography of Tobias Wolff describes a modern journey West, as the young Tobias and his mother try to recreate themselves in Utah.

“I didn't come to Utah to be the same boy I'd been before. I had my own dreams of transformation, Western dreams, dreams of freedom and dominion and taciturn self-sufficiency. The first thing I wanted to do was change my name.”

This Boy’s Life (1989) Tobias Wolff

The American Dream Today

The meaning of the "American Dream" has changed over the course of history. While historically traced to the New World mystique — especially the availability of low-cost land for farm ownership — the ethos today simply indicates the ability, through participation in the society and economy for everyone to achieve prosperity. According to the dream, this includes the opportunity for one's children to grow up and receive a good education and career without artificial barriers. It is the opportunity to make individual choices without the prior restrictions that limit people according to their class, caste, religion, race, or ethnicity.

Roaring Twenties

The Roaring Twenties is a phrase used to describe the 1920s, principally in North America but also in London, Paris and Berlin. The phrase was meant to emphasize the period's social, artistic, and cultural dynamism. 'Normalcy' returned to politics in the wake of World War I, jazz music blossomed, the flapper redefined modern womanhood, Art Deco peaked, and finally the Wall Street Crash of 1929 served to punctuate the end of the era, as The Great Depression set in. The era was further distinguished by several inventions and discoveries of far-reaching importance, unprecedented industrial growth, accelerated consumer demand and aspirations, and significant changes in lifestyle.

The social and societal upheaval known as the Roaring Twenties began in North America and spread to Europe in the aftermath of World War I. Europe spent these years rebuilding and coming to terms with the vast human cost of the conflict. The economy of the United States became increasingly intertwined with that of Europe. When Germany could no longer afford war payments, Wall Street invested heavily in European debts to keep the European economy afloat as a large consumer market for American mass produced goods. By the middle of the decade, economic development soared in Europe, and the Roaring Twenties broke out in Germany (the Weimar Republic), Britain and France, the second half of the decade becoming known as the "Golden Twenties". In France and francophone Canada, they were also called the "années folles" ("Crazy Years").

The spirit of the Roaring Twenties was marked by a general feeling of discontinuity associated with modernity, a break with traditions. Everything seemed to be feasible through modern technology. New technologies, especially automobiles, moving pictures and radio proliferated 'modernity' to a large part of the population. Formal decorative frills were shed in favor of practicality in both daily life and architecture. At the same time, jazz and dancing rose in popularity, in opposition to the mood of the specter of World War I. As such, the period is also often referred to as the Jazz Age.

Economy

The decade following World War I (1914–1918), The Roaring Twenties is traditionally viewed as an era of great economic prosperity driven by the introduction of a wide array of new consumer goods. The North American economy, particularly the economy of the US, which had successfully transitioned from a wartime economy to a peacetime economy, subsequently boomed. More efficient methods of production had developed during the war to compensate for the reduced workforce. Now this increased productivity meant higher wages for workers and also shorter work hours, giving Americans both the means and the leisure to buy more goods. A new age of consumerism was born.

The United States augmented its standing as the richest country in the world, its industry aligned to mass production and its society acculturated into consumerism. In Europe, the economy did not start to flourish until 1924.

In spite of the social, economic and technological advances, African Americans, recent immigrants and farmers—along with a large part of the working class population—were not much affected by this period. In fact, millions of people lived below the poverty line of US $2,000 per year per family.

The Great Depression demarcates the conceptualization of the Roaring Twenties from the 1930s. The hopefulness in the wake of World War I that had initiated the Roaring Twenties gave way to the debilitating economic hardship of the later era.

New products and technologies

Mass production made technology affordable to the middle class. The automobile, movie, radio, and chemical industries skyrocketed during the 1920s. Of chief importance was the automobile industry. Before the war, cars were a luxury. In the 1920s, mass-produced vehicles became common throughout the U.S. and Canada. By 1927, Ford ended the Model T after selling 15 million of them. Only about 300,000 vehicles were registered in 1918 in all of Canada, but by 1929, there were 1.9 million, and automobile parts were being made in parts of Ontario near Detroit, Michigan. The automobile industry's effects were widespread, contributing to such industries as highway building, motels, service stations, used car dealerships and new housing outside the range of mass transit.

Radio became the first mass broadcasting medium. Radios were expensive, but their mode of entertainment proved revolutionary. Radio advertising became the grandstand for mass marketing. Its economic importance led to the mass culture that has dominated society since. During the "golden age of radio", radio programming was as varied as TV programming today. The 1927 establishment of the Federal Radio Commission introduced a new era of regulation.

Hollywood boomed, producing a new form of entertainment that shut down the old vaudeville. Watching a movie was cheap and accessible; crowds surged into new downtown movie palaces and neighborhood theatres, with even greater marvels like sound appearing at the end of the decade.

New infrastructure

The new technologies led to an unprecedented need for new infrastructure, largely funded by the government. Road construction was crucial to the motor vehicle industry; several roads were upgraded to highways, and expressways were constructed. A class of Americans emerged with surplus money and a desire to spend more, spurring the demand for consumer goods, including the automobile.

Electrification, having slowed during the war, progressed greatly as more of the U.S. and Canada was added to the electric grid. Most industries switched from coal power to electricity. At the same time, new power plants were constructed. In America, electricity production almost quadrupled.

Telephone lines also were being strung across the continent. Indoor plumbing and modern sewer systems were installed for the first time in many regions.

These infrastructure programs were mostly left to the local governments in both Canada and the United States. Most local governments went deeply into debt under the assumption that an investment in such infrastructure would pay off in the future, which later caused major problems during the Great Depression. In both Canada and the United States, the federal governments did the reverse, using the decade to pay down war debts and roll back some of the taxes that had been introduced during the war.

Urbanization

Urbanization reached a climax in the 1920s. For the first time, more Americans and Canadians lived in cities of 2,500 or more people than in small towns or rural areas. However the nation was fascinated with its great metropolitan centers that contained about 15% of the population. New York and Chicago vied in building skyscrapers, and New York pulled ahead with the Chrysler Building and the Empire State Buildings. The finance and insurance industries doubled and tripled in size. The basic pattern of the modern white collar job was set during the late 19th century, but it now became the norm for life in large and medium cities. Typewriters, filing cabinets and telephones brought unmarried women into clerical jobs. In Canada, one in five workers was a woman by the end of the decade.

Culture

Suffrage

On August 18, 1920, Tennessee became the last of 36 states needed to ratify the Nineteenth Amendment, granting women the right to vote. Equality at the polls marked a pivotal moment in the women's rights movement.

Lost Generation

The Lost Generation were young people who came out of World War I disillusioned and cynical about the world. The term usually refers to American literary notables who lived in Paris at the time. Famous members included Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Gertrude Stein. These authors, also referred to as expatriates, wrote novels and short stories expressing their resentment towards the materialism and individualism that permeated during this era.

Social criticism

As the average American in the 1920s became more enamored of wealth and everyday luxuries, some began satirizing the hypocrisy and greed they observed. Of these social critics, Sinclair Lewis was the most popular. His popular 1920 novel Main Street satirized the dull and ignorant lives of the residents of a Midwestern town. He followed with Babbitt, about a middle-aged businessman who rebels against his safe life and family, only to realize that the young generation is as hypocritical as his own. Lewis satirized religion with Elmer Gantry, which followed a con man who teams up with an evangelist to sell religion to a small town.

Other social critics included Sherwood Anderson, Edith Wharton and H.L. Mencken. Anderson published a collection of short stories titled Winesburg, Ohio, which studied the dynamics of a small town. Wharton mocked the fads of the new era through her novels, such as Twilight Sleep (1927). Mencken criticized narrow American tastes and culture in various essays and articles.

Harlem Renaissance

African-American literary and artistic culture developed rapidly during the 1920s under the banner of "The Harlem Renaissance". In 1921, the Black Swan Corporation opened. At its height, it issued ten recordings per month. All-African-American musicals also started in 1921. In 1923, the Harlem Renaissance Basketball Club was founded by Bob Douglas. During the later 1920s, and especially in the 1930s, the basketball team became known as the best in the world.

The first issue of Opportunity was published. The African-American playwright, Willis Richardson, debuted his play The Chip Woman's Fortune, at the Frazee Theatre (also known as the Wallacks theatre). Notable African-American authors such as Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston began to achieve a level of national public recognition during the 1920s. African American culture has contributed the largest part to the rise of jazz.

Jazz Age

The first commercial radio station in the United States, KDKA, began broadcasting in Pittsburgh in 1922. Radio stations subsequently proliferated at a remarkable rate, and with them spread the popularity of jazz. Jazz became associated with all things modern, sophisticated, and also decadent. Men tended to sing in a high pitched voice, typified by Harold Scrappy Lambert, one of the popular recording artists of the decade.

The music that people consider today as "jazz" tended to be played by minorities. In the 1920s, the majority of people listened to what we would call today "sweet music", with hardcore jazz categorized as "hot music" or "race music." Louis Armstrong marked the time with improvisations and endless variations on a single melody, popularizing scat singing, an improvisational vocal technique in which nonsensical syllables are sung or otherwise vocalized, often as part of a call-and-response interaction with other musicians on-stage. Apart from the clarinet, Sidney Bechet popularized the saxophone. Dance venues increased the demand for professional musicians and jazz adopted the 4/4 beat of dance music. Tap dancers entertained people in Vaudeville theaters, out on the streets or accompanying bands. At the end of the Roaring Twenties, Duke Ellington initiated the big band era.

Dance

Starting in the 1920s, ballrooms across the U.S. sponsored dance contests, where dancers invented, tried, and competed with new moves. Professionals began to hone their skills in tap dance and other dances of the era throughout the Vaudeville circuit across the United States. Electric lighting made evening social entertainment more comfortable, giving rise to an era of dance halls and live music. The most popular dances were the Foxtrot, waltz and tango, the Charleston, and Lindy Hop.

Harlem played a key role in the development of dance styles. With several entertainment venues, people from all walks of life, all races, and all classes came together. The Cotton Club featured black performers and catered to a white clientele, while the Savoy Ballroom catered to a mostly black clientele.

From the early 1920s, a variety of eccentric dances were developed. The first of these were the Breakaway and Charleston. Both were based on African-American musical styles and beats, including the widely popular blues. The Charleston's popularity exploded after its feature in two 1922 Broadway shows. A brief Black Bottom craze, originating from the Apollo Theater, swept dance halls from 1926 to 1927, replacing the Charleston in popularity. By 1927, the Lindy Hop, a dance based on Breakaway and Charleston and integrating elements of tap, became the dominant social dance. Developed in the Savoy Ballroom, it was set to stride piano ragtime jazz. The Lindy Hop remained popular for over a decade, before evolving into Swing dance. These dances, nonetheless, were never mainstreamed, and the overwhelming majority of people continued to dance the fox-trot, waltz and tango throughout the decade.

Fashion

Immortalized in movies and magazine covers, young women’s fashion of the 1920s was both a trend and a social statement, a breaking-off from the rigid Victorian way of life. These young, rebellious, middle-class women, labeled ‘flappers’ by older generations, did away with the corset and donned slinky knee-length dresses, which exposed their legs and arms. The hairstyle of the decade was a chin-length bob, of which there were several popular variations. Cosmetics, which until the 1920s was not typically accepted in American society because of its association with prostitution, became, for the first time, extremely popular.

The changing role of women

With the passing of the 19th Amendment in 1920, women finally attained the political equality that they had so long been fighting for. A generational gap began to form between the “new” women of the 20s and the previous generation. Prior to the 19th Amendment, feminists commonly thought that one could have either a career or one could have a husband and a family, for one would inherently inhibit the development of the other. This mentality began to change in the 20s as more women began to desire not only successful careers of their own but also families. The “new” woman was less invested in social service than the Progressive generations, and in tune with the capitalistic spirit of the era, she was eager to compete and to find personal fulfilment.

The 1920s saw significant change in the lives of working women. World War I had temporarily allowed women to enter into industries such as chemical, automobile, and iron and steel manufacturing, which were once deemed inappropriate work for women. Black women, who had been historically closed out of factory jobs, began to find a place in industry during World War I by accepting lower wages and replacing the lost immigrant labor and in heavy work. Yet, like other women during World War I, their success was only temporary; most black women were also pushed out of their factory jobs after the war. In 1920, seventy-five percent of the black female labor force consisted of agricultural laborers, domestic servants, and laundry workers. Legislation passed at the beginning of the 20th century forced many factories to shorten their workdays and pay a minimum wage. This shifted the focus in the 1920s to job performance in order to meet demand. Factories encouraged workers to produce more quickly and efficiently with speedups and bonus systems, increasing the pressure on factory workers. Despite the strain on women in the factories, the booming economy of the 1920s meant more opportunities even for the lower classes. Many young girls from working-class backgrounds did not need to help support their families as prior generations did and were often encouraged to seek work or receive vocational training which would result in social mobility.

Achieving suffrage meant having to refocus feminism. Groups such as the National Women’s Party (NWP) continued the political fight, proposing the Equal Rights Amendment in 1923 and working to remove laws that used sex to discriminate against women. But many women shifted their focus from politics to challenge traditional definitions of womanhood.

Young women, especially, began staking claim to their own bodies and took part in a sexual liberation of their generation. Many of the ideas that fueled this change in sexual thought were already floating around New York intellectual circles prior to World War I, with the writings of Sigmund Freud, Havelock Ellis, and Ellen Key. There, thinkers felt that sex was not only central to the human experience but that women were sexual beings with human impulses and desires just like men and restraining these impulses was self-destructive. By the 1920s, these ideas had permeated the mainstream.

The 1920s saw the emergence of the co-ed, as women began attending large state colleges and universities. Women entered into the mainstream middle-class experience, but took on a gendered role within society. Women typically took classes such as home economics, “Husband and Wife”, “Motherhood” and “The Family as an Economic Unit”. In an increasingly conservative post-war era, it was common for a young woman to attend college with the intention of finding a suitable husband. Fueled by ideas of sexual liberation, dating underwent major changes on college campuses. With the advent of the automobile, courtship occurred in a much more private setting. “Petting”, sexual relations without intercourse, became the social norm for college students.

Despite women’s increased knowledge of pleasure and sex, the decade of unfettered capitalism that was the 20s gave birth to the ‘feminine mystique’. With this formulation, all women wanted to marry, all good women stayed at home with their children, cooking and cleaning, and the best women did the aforementioned and in addition, exercised their purchasing power freely and as frequently as possible in order to better their families and their homes. This left many housewives feeling frustrated and unsatisfied.

New freedoms, coupled with the prosperity of the times, gave birth to flappers, a term that refers to certain irreverent young women who challenged traditional mores with their shocking manner of dress, cropped hairstyles, and risqué attitudes towards men and romance. Fitzgerald first rose to fame with his stories about flappers, and stories such as “Bernice Bobs Her Hair,” “The Offshore Pirate,” and “The Jelly-Bean” are still reader favorites.

Bias towards other groups

In urban areas, minorities were treated with more equality than they had been accustomed to previously. This was reflected in some of the films of the decade. Redskin (1929) and Son of the Gods (1929), for instance, deal sympathetically with Native Americans and Asian Americans, openly reviling social bias. On the stage and in movies, black and white players appeared together for the first time.[19] It became possible to go to nightclubs and see whites and minorities dancing and eating together. Even popular songs poked fun at the new social acceptance of homosexuality. One of these songs had the title "Masculine Women, Feminine Men." It was released in 1926 and recorded by numerous artists of the day and included the following lyrics:

Masculine women, Feminine men

Which is the rooster, which is the hen?

It's hard to tell 'em apart today! And, say!

Sister is busy learning to shave,

Brother just loves his permanent wave,

It's hard to tell 'em apart today! Hey, hey!

Girls were girls and boys were boys when I was a tot,

Now we don't know who is who, or even what's what!

Knickers and trousers, baggy and wide,

Nobody knows who's walking inside,

Those masculine women and feminine men!

Until the early 1930s, gay clubs were openly operated, commonly known as "pansy clubs”. The relative liberalism of the decade is demonstrated by the fact that the actor William Haines, regularly named in newspapers and magazines as the #1 male box-office draw, openly lived in a gay relationship with his partner, Jimmie Shields. Other popular gay actors/actresses of the decade included Alla Nazimova and Ramon Novarro. In 1927, Mae West wrote a play about homosexuality called, The Drag, and alluded to the work of Karl Heinrich Ulrichs. It was a box-office success. West regarded talking about sex as a basic human rights issue, and was also an early advocate of gay rights. With the return of conservatism in the 1930s, the public grew intolerant of homosexuality, and gay actors were forced to choose between retiring or agreeing to hide their sexuality.

Society

Immigration laws

The United States, and to a lesser degree Canada, became more xenophobic or, at least, anti-immigrant. The American Immigration Act of 1924 limited immigration from countries where 2% of the total U.S. population, per the 1890 census (not counting African Americans), were immigrants from that country. Thus, the massive influx of Europeans that had come to America during the first two decades of the century slowed to a trickle. Asians and citizens of India were prohibited from immigrating altogether. Alien Land Laws, such as California's Webb-Haney Act in 1913, prevented aliens ineligible for citizenship, (except Filipinos, who were subjects of U.S.) of the right to own land in California. It also limited the leasing of land by said aliens to three years. Many Japanese immigrants, or Issei, circumvented this law by transferring the title of their land to their American-born children, or Nisei, who were citizens. Similar laws were passed in 11 other states.

In Canada, the Chinese Immigration Act of 1923 prevented almost all immigration from Asia. Other laws curbed immigration from Southern and Eastern Europe. A Gentlemen's Act gave America the right to prevent any Japanese immigrants from entering the country.

Isolationism

Before World War II (1939–1945), the United States had a tendency towards isolationism; Woodrow Wilson won reelection in 1916 running on the slogan, “He Kept Us Out of War.” However, the next year the United States entered World War I, after German submarines sank the Lusitania, killing nearly twelve hundred people, among whom were over one hundred children and one hundred and twenty Americans.

By the time “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” was published, the war had been over for almost four years, and the United States had retreated even further into isolationism. The Emergency Quota Act of 1921 became the first legislation to restrict immigration into the country, greatly reducing the number of immigrants allowed into the United States each year (immigration was even further restricted by the Immigration Act of 1924).

Prohibition

In 1920, the manufacture, sale, import and export of alcohol was prohibited by the Eighteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution in an attempt to alleviate various social problems; this came to be known as "Prohibition". It was enacted through the Volstead Act, supported greatly by churches and leagues such as 'The Anti Saloon League'. America's continued desire for alcohol under prohibition led to the rise of organized crime as typified by Chicago's Al Capone, smuggling and gangster associations all over the U.S. In Canada, prohibition was only imposed nationally for a short period of time, but the American liquor laws nonetheless had an important impact. The combination of national isolation and restrictions of personal freedom caused many artists of the time to leave the country and spend time in Europe, most notably in Paris, where Fitzgerald himself lived while writing The Great Gatsby. This was good news for Fitzgerald, whose stories often featured the antics of the extremely wealthy and frivolous.

End of the Roaring Twenties

Black Tuesday

The Dow Jones Industrial Stock Index had continued its upward move for weeks, and coupled with heightened speculative activities, it gave an illusion that the bull market of 1928 to 1929 would last forever. On October 29, 1929, also known as Black Tuesday, stock prices on Wall Street collapsed. The events in the United States added to a worldwide depression, later called the Great Depression, that put millions of people out of work across the world throughout the 1930s. The popularity of his work declined considerably during the depression, in part because people struggling to make ends meet found these types of stories less entertaining and less relevant to their own lives.

Women and The Jazz Age

After World War I, the image of women changed rapidly. The ideal changed from the Gibson Girl (illustrated by Charles Dana Gibson) to the Life and New Yorker cartoons of John Held Jr.

While for most women attitudes changed less than would appear, rich young women in particular enjoyed a new freedom that was symbolized by the shortness of their hair and skirts.

This conflict between old and new ideals could also be seen in the cinema, where fragile yet wholesome beauties like Lillian Gish and Mary Pickford competed with the more sophisticated styles of Louise Brooks and Greta Garbo.

From left:

Lillian Gish, Mary Pickford, Louise Brooks and Greta Garbo.

Clothes became simpler, allowing freer movement (though many women still required a fair degree of corseting to achieve the desired boyish silhouette).

An elegant day-dress of 1923, ‘flattening corsets’ and the carpet-roll shaped wrap coats of the period.

Right: Chanel in her daring sleeveless, short-skirted knitted suit. This could easily

be worn today.

Extract from: The Language of Clothes by Alison Lurie (Henry Holt, NY 1982): Fashion and Time (pp. 73-74)

A second revolution in fashion took place during and just after World War I, when Europe and America politically, economically and culturally entered what was then called “the modern world”. Again, youth and novelty were in fashion, and fashion transformed itself to emphasize and proclaim youth. Thousands of women entered the second decade of the century shaped like hourglasses and came out of it shaped like rolls of carpet, though often only with the assistance of painful flattening corsets and starvation diets.

Even before the war the Edwardian figure had begun to diminish, and by 1914 women’s clothes followed more or less natural lines. During the war years, fashions remained conservative, though skirts rose slowly from floor level to just above the ankle, easing the life of the many women now working outside the home or serving as nurses of members of the auxiliary corps. After peace broke out, hems continued to rise more rapidly and waistlines to expand. Dresses became brief sacks. Low-cut and often sleeveless; hats shrunk into tight cloches. Curves were out; instead a “boyish” figure was admired, flat both before and aft, with long thin legs.

Historians of costume have put forward various explanations for the modes of the 1920s. Some have attributed them to the need of the human species to maintain its numbers; to make up for the loss of population in World War I. According to this theory, women’s fashions had to be sexually provocative in order to boost the birth rate. But though an unconscious wish for increased procreation may have been responsible for the sexual freedom of the 1920s, it cannot be claimed that the clothes of the period, with their suppression of secondary sex characteristics, were intrinsically more provocative than those of the previous generation. It has also been suggested that women were asserting their new-won rights by dressing like men, or, alternatively, that they were trying to replace the young males who had died in World War I.

Possibly some or all of these motives were operating, but a glance at contemporary photographs and films show that women in the 1920s did not look like men, but rather like children – like the little girls they had been ten to twenty years earlier, and (to a lesser extent) the little boys they had played with. Just as before, the clock had been turned back; but whereas a hundred years earlier the ideal woman had been a good and innocent little girl, she as now a daring, even a naughty, tomboy. The “flapper” of the 1920s was high-spirited, flirtatious and often reckless in her search for fun and thrills. And though she might have the figure of an adolescent boy, her face was that of a small child: round and soft, with a turned-up nose, saucer eyes and a pouting, “bee-stung” mouth. Her bobbed hair curled about her head like a child’s, or clung to it like a baby’s

Extract from: The Language of Clothes by Alison Lurie (Henry Holt, NY 1982): Color and Pattern (pp. 184-185)

In classical times, long before the “White” race was invented, white was the color of fair-weather clouds and the snow-topped mountains where the gods dwelt. It was sacred to Zeus, the king of the gods: white horses drew his chariot, and white animals were sacrificed to him by white-robed priests. In the Christian church, white is the color of heavenly joy and purity, and is associated with Easter and the Resurrection. In Christian art, God the Father, like Zeus, usually wears a long white robe.

In secular life white has always stood for purity and innocence. Logically, all-white outfits are most frequently worn by babies and very young children. They often become fashionable for unmarried young women, and sometimes (as in the early nineteenth century) for women of all ages. Innocent heroines in fiction customarily wear white on their first appearance, especially when – like Hardy’s Tess or Henry James’s Daisy Miller – they are destined for a tragic end. Because it is so easily soiled physically as well as symbolically, white has always been popular with those who wish to demonstrate wealth and status through the conspicuous consumption of laundry soap or conspicuous freedom from manual labor. It is traditionally worn by participants in the high-status sports of tennis and polo, especially in professional competition.

Perhaps because it soils easily, or perhaps because of its long association with infancy and early childhood, all-white clothing has often suggested delicacy, and even physical infirmity or weakness, especially when the material is fragile. Invalids in fiction and on stage – as well as in real life – often wear such clothes, and even today the woman who wishes to look especially innocent and dainty may wear an all-white costume. The man who imitates her, however, has usually been considered eccentric and dandified.

The Very Rich Are Different…

The Liberal Imagination: Essays on Literature and Society Lionel Trilling (Viking Press NY 1951) 'F. Scott Fitzgerald' (p14)

Everyone knows about the famous exchange between Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway - Hemingway refers to it in his story, 'The Snows of Kilimanjaro' and Fitzgerald records it in his notebook - in which, to Fitzgerald's remark, 'The very rich are different from us,' Hemingway replied, 'Yes, they have more money.' It is usually supposed that Hemingway had the better of the encounter and quite settled the matter. But we ought not to be too sure. The novelist of a certain kind, if he is to write about social life, may not brush away the reality of the differences of class, even though to do so may have the momentary appearance of a virtuous social avowal. The novel took its rise and its nature from the radical revision of the class structure in the eighteenth century, and the novelist must still live by his sense of class differences, and must be absorbed by them, as Fitzgerald was, even though he despise them, as Fitzgerald did.

No doubt there was a certain ambiguity in Fitzgerald's attitude toward the 'very rich'; no doubt they were for him something more than the mere object of his social observation. They seem to have been the nearest thing to an aristocracy that America could offer him, and we cannot be too simple about what a critic has recently noted, the artist's frequent 'taste for aristocracy, his need - often quite open - of a superior social class with which he can make some fraction of common cause - enough, at any rate, to account for his own distinction.

'The Rich Boy' (F. Scott Fitzgerald): short story first published in Red Book magazine in January & February 1925, and in the short story collection All the Sad Young Men in 1926

The narrator explains:

Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me. They possess and enjoy early, and it does something to them, makes them soft where we are hard, and cynical where we are trustful, in a way that, unless you were born rich, it is very hard to understand. They think, deep in their hearts, that they are better than we are because we had to discover the compensations and refuges of life for ourselves. Even when they enter deep into our world or sink below us, they still think they are better than we are. They are different.

CHARLES McGRATH Book Review Editor, New York Times

What Princeton was for Fitzgerald, Yale was for the young O'Hara -- the magical, beckoning realm where he believed he would finally come into his own. But he was a wretched student, bouncing from one second-rate prep school to another until, in 1925, his father died intestate and left the family virtually penniless. O'Hara reluctantly gave up his dreams of New Haven -- he saw no point in going unless he could go in the proper style -- and for the rest of his life he fantasized about which Yale clubs he might have belonged to, which secret society would have tapped him; amazingly, as late as 1935, when he had already published three books, he was still talking about enrolling as a Yale pre-med.

* * *

Most of O'Hara's really bad behavior stemmed from drinking, and he wasn't alone. He belonged to that hard-living generation of American writers (especially well represented on the New Yorker staff) for whom drinking meant not just a few cocktails after work; it meant disappearing for two or three days at a time and waking up with no recollection of what you had done and said. Reading Wolff's account of those long, woozy evenings at Bleeck's or ''21,'' you sometimes wonder how any writing got done at all. But for O'Hara, alcohol was also an essential part of what he wrote about: it's the volatile fuel that propels many of his novels, especially the first two, ''Appointment in Samarra'' and ''Butterfield 8.'' In those books, both of which are set during Prohibition, booze is, first of all, a dangerous solvent eating away at the very foundations of the social order -- because to be a drinker, no matter how proper you were, was by definition to be a lawbreaker, forced to associate with bootleggers or frequent speak-easies. Even the seemingly innocent mixing of a country club cocktail brought with it the faint whiff of corruption. For certain doomed characters, moreover -- people like the self-destructive Julian English in ''Appointment,'' and Weston Liggett, the bored stockbroker in ''Butterfield'' -- a drink (or five or six) is like the potion that turns Jekyll into Hyde; it literally transforms you, bit by bit revealing the monster lurking inside, from whom friends and family flinch and turn away.

Drink, even in moderation, also makes O'Hara's people libidinous. ''Appointment'' was a scandalously sexy book when it first came out, in 1934, and even today it has a surprising raciness, as when Julian recalls the sound his wife, the well-bred Caroline, makes during orgasm: ''He knew, and not another human being knew, that she cried 'I' or 'high' in moments of great ecstasy.'' Even more remarkable is the novel's opening, when Luther Fliegler, the story's Everyman character, and his wife make love, while slightly hung over, on Christmas morning. This is, I'm pretty sure, the first explicit sex scene between a married couple in all of American literature. Before O'Hara nice girls didn't have sex -- not in polite fiction – and even married ones weren't supposed to like it. His great revelation -- though it seems obvious now -- was that women are sexual creatures every bit as much as men. In some of his later novels he took this notion too far and made a caricature of it -- in characters like the nymphomaniacal Grace Caldwell Tate in ''A Rage to Live,'' or the rapacious lesbian Lovey Childs in the novel of the same name – but in the earlier books and in the stories it had a liberating effect and enabled O'Hara to create unusually complex and sympathetic female characters.

This newspaper review describes an author, John O’Hara, who admired Scott Fitzgerald greatly and was a friend of his. Like Fitzgerald, he was an Irish American who never quite fitted neatly into the world of the super-rich, although he did belong more securely to the upper class. However, the description of the effect of illegal drink (and female sexuality to some extent) seems highly relevant to Fitzgerald’s writing – O’Hara writes about exactly the same world as Fitzgerald, though he did so a few years later.

Major Themes

Wealth and Richness

The perception of wealth and what is truly meant by the term is a theme explored in many of the stories. In “The Rich Boy,” Hunter is rich. He is not, however, wealthy. He is given the name Hunter as he continues to search for something that will be of true value to him. He does not value his relationship with Paula until it is too late, and he has lost the wealth she has bestowed on other men – marriage and children. At the end of the story, he is still searching when he takes up with the girl on the cruise ship.

There is a great irony in “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” in that the Washingtons have found the largest diamond in the world, but knowledge of its existence would immediately remove its value. The Washingtons surround themselves with opulence and luxury, but any friends they may have had are killed after their first visit. There is beauty and power, but not true wealth and value.

In “The Offshore Pirate” the spoiled and greedy Ardita is impressed with Curtis Carlyle’s tales of armed hold ups and his plans to be a rajah. She is content when these are revealed as fantasies because she is pleased that Toby Moreland is in reality a rich man, both in money and in imagination.

Fitzgerald gives a description at the beginning of “The Rich Boy” of how the rich are different from ordinary people. "They think, deep in their hearts, that they are better than us because we had to discover the compensations and refuges of life for ourselves.” These qualities may be what make people rich, but people become wealthy by knowledge, experience, fortitude and resilience. Kismine has wealth at the end of the story, as she sits amongst her rhinestones planning a future with Unger and her sister. Before then, like other characters, she was just rich.

Family Relationships

Fitzgerald’s stories represent a more modern, or at least perhaps realistic, view of family relationships than some earlier fiction. There is a direct criticism of the cloying closeness emphasized in texts such as Little Women. In “Bernice Bobs Her Hair,” Bernice and Marjorie are cousins. There is no closeness between them, although Bernice wishes that there were. Any kinship that Marjorie shows is part of her cruel plan to humiliate Bernice. She is initially simply bored of her dull cousin, Bernice, but then fiercely jealous when she takes the beau that Marjorie had already rejected.

In “The Ice Palace,” Sally Carrol is very quickly made aware of the fact that she is unlikely to fit in with the Bellamy family. With a prospective sister-in-law who is "the essence of spiritless conventionality" and the prospect of a hostile and judgmental mother-in-law, it is evident that the union would not be a comfortable one. The Washingtons in “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” have a closeness inflicted on them by the limitations of their private lifestyle, but still they are divided as Kismine and Jasmine leave with Unger, whilst Percy and his parents perish on the property.

There is seemingly no similarity between Jenny Delehanty and her sister Mrs. Choyinski, and yet perhaps Jenny’s early speech is as harsh and penetrating as her sister’s evil eyes. They each have flaws, although Jenny is able to work through hers.

In “Babylon Revisited,” Marion considers Honoria to be her family, but not Charlie. She will not forgive him for taking away her sister – a sister that she herself was not close to, so she punishes him by preventing him having a relationship with his daughter.

Alcohol

Despite being a writer who was infamous for his alcoholism, Fitzgerald's stories include numerous warnings about the dangers and consequences of alcohol use. In “The Jelly-Bean,” Jim Powell lost his father in a drunken brawl, which triggered the fall in fortunes of his family. His devotion to Nancy Lamar is forged on her drunken announcement that she loves him, after he saves her from a gambling debt. He is determined to improve himself to win her over, but she dashes his hopes as she goes off with another beau and marries him – while drunk. Powell gives up his plan of social betterment to return to the friendly crowd at the pool hall.

In “May Day,” Gordon Sterrett ends up taking his own life, as he cannot face the realization that he will be tied to Jewel forever. He has faced the love of his life, Edith Bradin, and revealed himself to be a poor, sad drunk. He had decided early on in the evening that his friendship with Dean was at an end, and that he was not going to get the money he needed, but he stayed in his company and kept on drinking.

Key and Rose, newly emerged from the war, head first to get alcohol from Key’s brother. They are swept up in the mob storming the newspaper offices, and Key pays with his life. Rose is apprehended later, in connection with the event.

There is a humorous edge to the characters of Mr. In and Mr. Out, wearing their ridiculous signs and lurching from one hotel to the next, but the suicide of Sterrett at the end of the story, in the cruel gloom of a hangover, destroys the jovial atmosphere.

In “Crazy Sunday,” Joel Coles’ causes his initial predicament by drinking too much and performing a lame burlesque at his boss’ party. His lack of willpower to refuse the cocktail offered at the beginning of the evening is an indicator that he will have no willpower to avoid any other challenges that he faces: such as being the pawn in the Calmans' jealousy games.

Selfishness

Many of the characters are supremely, obscenely selfish. Honoria Wales is used as a pawn in the family dispute between Charlie and Marion. Both have them have lost Helen: Charlie has only memories of excess whereas Marion sees her dying sister and the possibility of a bond with Honoria that she did not have with Helen. Charlie wants to be part of his daughter’s childhood now that he can afford – emotionally and financially – to support her. However, he has not let go of his past, and Marion refuses to forgive him for it. The adults spend little time considering what is best for Honoria, only what suits their selfish desires.

The Washington family in “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” see only themselves and their interests. In order to protect what they have, the Washingtons enslave and murder others. To facilitate social contact they bring home friends, but kill them to preserve their lifestyle. Kismine does not understand that servants are not the norm outside of her closeted world, and she does not consider the feelings of those who are chosen, then disposed of, for her entertainment. The colossal selfishness evident in the texts has to be represented in Braddock Washington’s insane belief that he can bribe God. He sees that "God is made in man’s image," implying that he is the blueprint for the almighty. It is fitting that he does not survive this insane bargaining.

The Modern Heroine

Fitzgerald was said to have created a particular character "type" in his young, vigorous, strong-minded heroines of his short stories. There are certainly several examples of these. Bernice, in “Bernice Bobs Her Hair,” emerges as a resilient creature who, despite the cruel machinations of her selfish cousin, Marjorie, surfaces from beneath the tragedy of her lost locks to dynamically wreak revenge. The reader feels a similar glee to Bernice when she "scalps" Marjorie. Ardita in “The Offshore Pirate” is passionate, petulant and self-obsessed until she is calmed and charmed by Toby Moreland’s alter ego, Curtis Carlyle. The reader is relieved to see the beautiful Sally Carrol reinstated to her beloved South where she will blossom and bewitch the likes of the handsome Clark Darrow.

However, on reflection, each of these girls retains or returns to some of the conventional values of the time. Bernice is presumably going back to her parents, Ardita is to marry the man her uncle intended and Sally Carrol returns to her roots. It seems that the dynamism and excitement for these modern misses is the journey, not the destination.

The beautiful Jenny Prince emerges from a crude chrysalis of poor speech and dubious background into the dizzy heights of silver screen stardom in “Jacob’s Ladder.” She loses her childish dependence on the journey to self-confidence and love. She is not as selfish as her counterparts are, however, which may be why she is more successful and happy.

Loss of Youth

Several stories deal with the fear and inevitability of growing old, and its effects and its consequences. There is a fear among many of the characters that aging is a destructive and negative phenomenon, particularly when seen in others. In “The Rich Boy,” we see Hunter’s increasing isolation as he reaches thirty and is still single. His friends begin to move in more settled circles. He runs up a huge telephone bill trying to track down friends who could spend time with him "every one who might be in New York - men and girls he had not seen for years." He is tragically, uncomfortably unsuccessful. He becomes "stale" in his job, and is wounded when Paula tells him that she never loved him. His way of dealing with the inevitability of growing old is to deny it: he grieves for Paula only momentarily before he sees another young beauty who will spend her "brightest, freshest, rarest hours to nurse and protect that superiority he cherished in his heart."

Dexter Green’s “Winter Dreams” are dashed when the image of passionate, vital Judy Jones is gone from his life. Although he and Judy drift apart after their month together, and his emotionally stable future with Irene is wrecked as a consequence, he does not regret their time together. However, when he is told later that she has lost her youthful beauty, Green feels that "something had been taken from him" and he cries "for himself now." He has lost "that thing" - although he was not with Judy, and did not truly wish to be, he had cherished the idea of her as being out there somewhere, a beautiful possibility. With the knowledge of her ordinariness, he lost the idea of her. The Judy he knew at that moment died.

In “Jacob’s Ladder,” Jacob is already past his prime, with his worn-out vocal chords. He nurtures Jenny, values her and assumes that she will, in time, fall in love with him. She does fall in love, but with someone else, when she is away from him, on location with the vibrant, exciting movie crowd. Although Booth enjoys watching her bloom into womanhood, this growth moves her away from him.

The reversal of the aging process is explored in the fantasy story “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” is unusual but serves well to illustrate the way in which society perceives youth and age. When Hildegarde Moncrief first falls for Benjamin he is overwhelmed, besotted and feels their connection on a physical, chemical level. As she ages, however, he is bored of her, ‘depressed’ by her gray hair and her once enamel-blue eyes. She however, seems to believe that he should be able to control his advancing youth, which is as futile as controlling advancing age. Benjamin appears at his most ridiculous when he is trying to defy the natural processes for his development. Fitzgerald is surely making the point that the reader should consider too the absurdity of the lengths to which people go to conceal their natural developments too.

War

The stories in this collection were written between the two World Wars, and feature references to other wars that have affected American society. Fitzgerald’s early stories catalog the youth, exuberance and pressure that were unleashed on the home front as the armed forces returned to America. In the later stories, as political and social tensions mount again, there is evidence of Fitzgerald's greater cynicism.

In “The Ice Palace,” Sally Carrol reflects on the casualties of the Civil War. She is humbled by the sacrifice of the many men who died, but also creates an image of a woman who also sacrificed for the South: Margery Lee who died, unmarried, aged 29. She recognizes their sacrifices and is ardent that their bravery should not be forgotten. In this way, she is also keeping the dispute between North and South alive.

In “May Day,” the traditional air of celebration becomes tainted by the restlessness and lack of direction of the many demobilized troops. Thousands of men like Key and Rose were rootless, aimless and dangerous. The story illustrates how quickly tragic events can ensue.

Both Benjamin Button and Dexter Green choose to go to war for excitement, adventure and to escape their lives back home. The aging (but youthful-looking) Button is thrilled to have the opportunity to return to war, and devastated to find himself dismissed for seeming too young. Green chooses the challenges of war to escape his “Winter Dreams” and the “web of tangled emotion.”

Major Works of Short Fiction

Fitzgerald's short stories have often been dismissed as slick, commercial productions intended to capitalize on the successes of his novels. The author's own disparaging remarks regarding his stories have also helped lend discredit to their status as works of literature. Yet, since the 1960s, critics have come to regard many of Fitzgerald's short pieces as works that reflect themes characteristic of his most significant writings while experimenting with new techniques and subjects. In “The Rich Boy,” for example, Fitzgerald writes about the life of the wealthy and privileged. The protagonist of the story, the wealthy Anson Hunter, has developed a sense of superiority and aloofness, a need for dominance, and contempt for commonplace life—attitudes that result in alienation from those who would love him and separation from happiness. Instead of a means to fulfill his dreams, wealth has become for Anson an obstacle to self-realization. Another early tale, “Winter Dreams,” relies, like many of Fitzgerald's writings, on his recollections of childhood. In this story a young boy's longing for the “glittering things” of life guide his actions over the years until he realizes as a successful and wealthy adult that the greatest value of dreams resides in dreaming and striving, not in fulfillment.

In other stories, Fitzgerald portrays the socioeconomic divisions that characterized the early twentieth century. His story “May Day” is perceived as a somber and complex tale that many critics have interpreted as a remarkable evocation of the imminent collapse of the Jazz Age. The story focuses on the intersecting lives of three young protagonists—wealthy Phillip Dean; Dean's penniless former Yale roommate, Gordon Sterrett; and shallow, pretty Edith Bradin—during the May Day Parade in New York City in 1919. In “Babylon, Revisited,” overwhelmingly Fitzgerald's most frequently anthologized and analyzed short story, the author expands on his characteristic themes. Set against the backdrop of expatriate Europe during the 1930s, this story focuses on Charlie Wales, wealthy playboy of 1920s Paris whose excesses contributed at least in part to the death of his wife and subsequent placement of his daughter into the custodianship of his bitter and resentful sister-in-law, Marion. He has now returned to Paris, having put aside his careless ways and reestablished himself as a responsible member of society, to reclaim his daughter.

Marion's suspicions of Charlie's insincerity are apparently confirmed, however, when two acquaintances from his halcyon days emerge to momentarily divert his attention. As a result, Marion will not relinquish the child. The story ends as Charlie resolves to return and try again to regain his daughter, believing that “they couldn't make him pay forever.”

Critical Reception

At the time of his death, Fitzgerald was virtually forgotten and unread. Since the 1950s, however, a growing Fitzgerald revival has led to the publication of numerous volumes of stories, letters, and notebooks. Critics have universally praised Fitzgerald's mastery of style and technique that renders even his most trivial efforts entertaining and well-executed. Numerous critical studies on Fitzgerald's short fiction have been published, exploring his stories from socioeconomical, feminist, psychoanalytical, and autobiographical perspectives. Recent critical studies have examined the relationship between his novels and short stories, asserting that although earlier critics dismissed his short fiction as inferior efforts intended to capitalize on the successes of his novels, the stories are valuable for their insight into Fitzgerald's characteristic, thematic concerns and deserve a well-considered place in Fitzgerald's fictional oeuvre. He is regarded as a profound and sensitive artist, as well as the unmatched voice of the Jazz Age.

Fitzgerald at Work

Getting Established

EARLY SUCCESS: Reflecting upon his career in his 1937 essay “Early Success,” Fitzgerald declared, “Premature success gives one an almost mystical conception of destiny as opposed to will power—at its worst the Napoleonic delusion. The man who arrives young believes that he exercises his will because his star is shining. The man who only asserts him-self at thirty has a balanced idea of what will power and fate have each contributed, the one who gets there at forty is liable to put the emphasis on will alone.” In many ways Fitzgerald’s early career seemed the product of destiny, of fate. He had served his literary apprenticeship at the St. Paul Academy, the Newman School, and Princeton. During a three-month period in 1917–1918, he had diligently used weekends and leave time from military service to write “The Romantic Egotist,” the 120,000-word novel that he later rewrote as This Side of Paradise. Nonetheless, Fitzgerald’s early success had a fairy-tale quality. He was twenty-three years old when, in the spring of 1920, his first novel was published and his short stories began appearing regularly in The Saturday Evening Post and other mass-circulation magazines. This Side of Paradise brought him instant critical and popular recognition, and his stories provided him with both a substantial income and a large audience. So much success at such an early age confirmed Fitzgerald’s sense that his star was shining, that destiny was guiding him. He might have found his strongest proof of this conviction in his fortunate involvement with two men who would have a significant impact on his career, the editor Maxwell E. Perkins, of Charles Scribner’s Sons, and the agent Harold Ober, of the Paul Revere Reynolds literary agency and, later, of Harold Ober Associates.

MAXWELL PERKINS: Maxwell E. Perkins, a Harvard graduate with New England roots, was twelve years older than Fitzgerald. Reserved and conservative in every way but his literary tastes, Perkins seemed an unlikely sponsor for the exuberant young writer and his iconoclastic first novel. Yet when Fitzgerald, with the help and recommendation of Anglo-Irish writer Shane Leslie, submitted “The Romantic Egotist” to Scribners in 1918, Perkins saw its promise and argued for its publication. Over-ruled by senior editors, Perkins almost certainly wrote the 19 August 1918 letter of rejection, which praised the novel’s originality, provided suggestions for rewriting, and encouraged submission of a revised version. Fitzgerald hastily reworked some of the material, but Perkins again declined the novel in October 1918.

During the spring and early summer of 1919, Fitzgerald suspended work on the novel while he worked for an ad agency in New York City and tried unsuccessfully to have his short fiction published in magazines. In July he returned home to St. Paul and rewrote “The Romantic Egotist.” The typescript of the novel, now titled “This Side of Paradise,” was delivered in late summer to Perkins, who was again its only supporter when it came up for consideration during a Scribners editorial meeting. Perkins in effect threatened to resign if the novel were not accepted for publication: “My feeling is that a publisher’s first allegiance is to talent. And if we aren’t going to publish a talent like this, it is a very serious thing.... If we’re going to turn down the likes of Fitzgerald, I will lose all interest in publishing books.” The other editors relented, and in a 16 September 1919 letter Perkins told Fitzgerald: “I am very glad, personally, to be able to write you that we are all for publishing your book, ‘This Side of Paradise.’” In Perkins, Fitzgerald had discovered a perceptive editor and steadfast friend; in Fitzgerald, Perkins had found the first of his stable of geniuses—including Ernest Hemingway, Thomas Wolfe, and Ring Lardner—which made him America’s most famous literary editor.

As an editor Perkins was not concerned with line-editing— restructuring writers’ sentences, correcting or questioning possible factual errors, pointing out problems in grammar or usage—nor was he a good proofreader. His great strength was in structure and character development, but his editorial role with Fitzgerald—as with all of his authors—was advisory, not collaborative. His contributions to This Side of Paradise cannot be determined with certainty since the setting-copy type-script and proofs of the novel are lost, but correspondence between author and editor in late 1919 and early 1920 suggests that Perkins did not require significant changes by Fitzgerald. Moreover, when in December 1921 Perkins advised Fitzgerald to soften character Maury Noble’s cynical discussion of the Bible in The Beautiful and Damned, and the novelist responded with a strong defense of the passage, Perkins replied, “Don’t ever defer to my judgment. You won’t on any vital point, I know, and 1 should be ashamed, if it- were possible to have made you; for a writer of any account must speak solely for himself.” Perkins then explained the reasons for his objections to the passage—that flippant language undercut the effectiveness of the scene—and Fitzgerald, admitting the soundness of his editor’s advice, made revisions.

When Perkins received the typescript for The Great Gatsby, he recognized its brilliance, as his 20 November 1924 letter to Fitzgerald reveals:

... The amount of meaning you get into a sentence, the dimensions and intensity of the impression you make a paragraph carry, are most extraordinary. The manuscript is full of phrases which make a scene blaze with life. If one enjoyed a rapid railroad journey I would compare the number and vividness of pictures your living words suggest, to the living scenes disclosed in that way. It seems in reading a much shorter book than it is, but it carries the mind through a series of experiences that one would think would require a book of three times its length.

The presentation of Tom, his place, Daisy and Jordan, and the unfolding of their characters is unequalled so far as I know. The description of the valley of ashes adjacent to the lovely country, the conversation and the action in Myrtle’s apartment, the marvelous catalogue of those who came to Gatsby’s house,— these are such things as make a man famous. And all these things, the whole pathetic episode, you have given a place in time and space, for with the help of T. J. Eckleberg and by an occasional glance at the sky, or the sea, or the city, you have imparted a sort of sense of eternity. You once told me you were not a natural writer—my God! You have plainly mastered the craft, of course; but you needed far more than craftsmanship for this.

Yet, Perkins also suggested that the novel would be strengthened if Gatsby’s character and the source of his wealth were made clearer and if his biography were presented “bit by bit” in the “regular flow” of the narrative rather than in longer sections. Fitzgerald revised and rewrote the book in galley proofs and thereby created a masterpiece.

For Fitzgerald, Perkins’s encouragement and expressions of confidence were extremely important, particularly during the 1930s, when the writer fell upon hard times. In a 14 May 1930 letter Perkins wrote: “I have never found any flaw in your judgment about your work, yet.... The only thing that has ever worried me about you was the question of health.... But don’t blame me for being impatient once in a while. It is only the impatience to see something one expects greatly to enjoy and admire, and wishes to see triumph. That’s the truth.” Fitzgerald in a January 1932 letter expressed his recognition of Perkins’s unfailing support: “... you’re the only one whose ever consistently felt faith in me....” On 4 August 1933, Perkins told Fitzgerald, “Whenever any of these new writers come up who are brilliant, I always realize that you have more talent and more skill than any of them;—but circumstances have prevented you from realizing upon the fact for a long time,” and on 9 March 1938 he wrote of The Great Gatsby: “What a pleasure it was to publish that! It was as perfect a thing as I ever had any share in publishing.—One does not seem to get such satisfactions as that any more.”  During the mid-1930s, when Scribners no longer granted Fitzgerald cash advances on future books, his editor provided personal loans, and after Fitzgerald’s death Perkins not only helped manage his literary properties but also, with Harold Ober and Gerald Murphy, lent Scottie Fitzgerald money so that she could complete her education at Vassar.

Many commentators have suggested that Perkins, who had five daughters, functioned as a surrogate father to the younger men who became his three greatest authors. In a 2 April 1934 letter to Wolfe, Fitzgerald referred to “our common parent, Max.” In a 23 April 1938 letter to Perkins—written when Hemingway seemed obsessed by the Spanish Civil War, Wolfe had bitterly broken with Perkins and Scribners, and Fitzgerald himself appeared finished as a novelist—Fitzgerald again drew the father-sons connection between the editor and his authors: “What a time you’ve had with your sons, Max—Ernest gone to Spain, me gone to Hollywood, Tom Wolfe reverting to an artistic hill-billy.”

HAROLD OBER: Harold Ober, like Perkins a New Englander and a Harvard graduate, became Fitzgerald’s literary agent in November 1919. In October of that year Fitzgerald had sent the typescript of a story to the Paul Revere Reynolds literary agency, where Ober was a partner. The Reynolds Agency sold Fitzgerald’s story, “Head and Shoulders,” to The Saturday Evening Post for $400; published in the 21 February 1920 issue, the story was Fitzgerald’s first appearance in the magazine. In a January 1925 letter to Ober, Fitzgerald recalled his jubilation at breaking into the mass-circulation or slick-magazine market: “I was twenty-two when I came to New York and found that you’d sold Head and Shoulders to the Post. I’d like to get a thrill like that again but I suppose it’s only once in a life-time.”

Fitzgerald’s connection with Ober, first at the Reynolds agency and beginning in 1929 at Ober’s own agency, helped shape the writer’s career. Earning a 10 percent commission, Ober handled magazine and movie sales for Fitzgerald but did not represent him in book deals with Scribners, with whom the novelist made his own contractual arrangements. Ober was extremely successful in selling Fitzgerald’s stories, particularly to The Saturday Evening Post. Between 1920 and 1937 The Post was his major short-story market, at least in part because in 1924 Ober gave the magazine first refusal rights on his author’s short fiction. Sixty-five of Fitzgerald’s 160 stories appeared in the magazine, which during the 1920s cost five cents per issue and had a circulation of 2.75 million. Some twenty-five more of Fitzgerald’s stories were published in such other high-paying mass-market magazines as Red Book, Liberty, Collier’s, and McCall’s. The author became better known in his own time as a short-story writer than as a novelist.

Until he went to Hollywood in 1937, an arrangement also brokered by Ober, Fitzgerald made most of his money through sales of stories. His Ledger shows that during 1920 he cleared some $18,850, all but $6,775 from story and movie sales handled by his agent. According to his Ledger for 1925, the year that The Great Gatsby was published, Fitzgerald earned, after commissions to Ober, $11,025 on five stories, plus $2,402 on “Miscellaneous” items, including an advance on a stage version of The Great Gatsby, second serial rights on the novel, and English sales of two stories. His income that same year from three novels and three collections of stories was $4,906.61. Thus, $13,427 of his $18,333.61 in earnings that year came from projects handled by Ober. By 1929 Fitzgerald’s Saturday Evening Post rate peaked at $4,000 per story, and even between 1932 and 1937, when his talent for sustained short fiction had abandoned him and his pay rate had fallen, he earned $1,000 to $3,000 per story from The Saturday Evening Post and other slicks, though fewer of his stories were being accepted.

At the beginning of his career Fitzgerald enjoyed writing for the magazines. Three stories published in May 1920 issues of The Saturday Evening Post— “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” (1 May), “The Ice Palace” (22 May), and “The Offshore Pirate” (29 May)—reveal the charm, wit, and power of observation that he could command in the commercial short-story form. All three of these early Post stories entertainingly treat young American women trying to define themselves in the contemporary world, and Fitzgerald inscribed a copy of Flappers and Philosophers, in which they were collected, “For Harold Ober who chaperoned these debutantes.” Yet, the writer soon became disillusioned with The Post and the other slicks because, he felt, they discouraged serious material. As early as September 1922 Fitzgerald complained “that the magazines want only flapper stories from me,” and in April 1926 he reminded his agent that editors at The Post were “hostile, as you know, to the general cast of thought that permeates my serious work.” He was unfair to The Post. Although it and the other mass-circulation magazines had declined two of his brilliant novelettes—the naturalistic “May Day” (1920) and the satiric “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” (1922), which were ultimately published by H. L. Mencken’s journal The Smart Set—The Post did print several of his most enduring serious stories, including “The Last of the Belles” (2 March 1929), “One Trip Abroad” (11 October 1930), and “Babylon Revisited” (21 February 1931). Fitzgerald’s real complaint arose from his growing conviction that the necessity to produce income-generating stories stole time he needed to work on novels. He therefore began to denigrate his work for the magazines. In a 9 September 1929 letter to Hemingway he described himself as an “old whore” turning $4,000 tricks for The Post.

In the course of their nearly twenty years together as author and agent, Fitzgerald and Ober built a strong professional relationship. Ober was a skilled marketer of Fitzgerald’s stories, and, even when the author’s reputation was at its lowest, in 1937, Ober was able to engineer the $l,000-per-week M-G-M screenwriting contract—with an option to renew at $1,250 per week—that took Fitzgerald to Hollywood and, for a year and a half, eased his financial worries. When he first became an Ober client in 1919, Fitzgerald received payment (less commission) only when stories were sold. By the early 1920s he was requesting payment when stories were delivered to but not yet sold by Ober, and shortly thereafter he began depending upon his agent’s advances against unwritten stories.

In a spring 1926 letter to Ober, Fitzgerald mused, “I must owe you thousands—three at least—maybe more. I am forever under obligations to you for your kindness.... I honestly think I cause you more trouble and bring you less business than any of your clients. How you tolerate it I don’t know—but thank God you do.” Ober, in fact, earned a good income from commissions on sales of Fitzgerald’s work, but he had to endure substantial risks to do so. By the time Fitzgerald went to Hollywood in July 1937, he owed Ober $12,511.69, which he was able to repay by the end of 1938 from his M-G-M salary.

In July 1939, after Fitzgerald’s contract with M-G-M had expired and he was yet again short of money, he pressed Ober to resume their old system of advances against promised work. Ober made one small loan but then advised Fitzgerald that he could do no more because the Depression had eaten into the profit margin of his agency and he needed to save money for his two sons’ college educations. In a letter dated 19 July Fitzgerald expressed shock and dismay at his agent’s “sudden change in policy.” Although Ober continued to handle Fitzgerald’s previously published work, the writer henceforth acted as his own agent for his new work, a practice he had already begun in 1934 with his low-paying essays and stories for Esquire.

Despite his break with Fitzgerald, Ober and his wife, Anne, continued to act as surrogate parents to Scottie Fitzgerald, a role they had filled since 1936 when she had enrolled at the Ethel Walker School in Simsbury, Connecticut. When Fitzgerald died, Ober was a major contributor to the loan that allowed Scottie to complete her Vassar education. (She later provided a moving tribute to Ober in the foreword to As Ever, Scott Fitz—, a collection of Fitzgerald’s correspondence with Ober.) Both Perkins and Ober helped Judge John Biggs Jr., the executor of Fitzgerald’s estate, manage his literary properties, and Harold Ober Associates, the agency Ober founded, still handles these properties.

Subjects and Themes

MATERIAL: Throughout his twenty-year career as a professional writer, Fitzgerald was often regarded as a not-quite-serious literary figure. This assessment was fueled by his image as a free-spending, heavy-drinking playboy and by the material he often exploited: the interests’ usually romantic’ of young people; the pursuit of wealth, success, and happiness by ambitious poor boys; the concerns of affluent, upper-middle-class men and women. Fitzgerald’s material seemed, in short, the stuff of popular, escapist fiction rather than of enduring literature. In his introduction to the 1934 Modern Library reprint of The Great Gatsby, Fitzgerald stated that certain reviewers had attacked the novel in 1925 because “the pages weren’t loaded with big names of big things-and the subject not concerned with farmers (who were the heroes of the moment).... 1 had recently been kidded half haywire by critics who felt that my material was such as to preclude all dealing with mature persons in a mature world. But, my God! it was my material, and it was all I had to deal with.”

Writers’ material—the subjects, experiences, ideas that they examine and re-examine—is what makes them the kinds of authors they are. Writers and material are inseparable, as Fitzgerald explained in his 1933 essay “One Hundred False Starts”:

Mostly, we authors must repeat ourselves—that’s the truth. We have two or three great and moving experiences in our lives—experiences so great and moving that it doesn’t seem at the time that anyone else has been so caught up and pounded and dazzled and astonished and beaten and broken and rescued and illuminated and rewarded and humbled in just that way ever before.

Then we learn our trade, well or less well, and we tell our two or three stories—each time in a new disguise—maybe ten times, maybe a hundred, as long as people will listen.

Fitzgerald’s statement emphasizes the intensely personal nature of a writer’s material, which is drawn from the most important and most emotionally involving experiences in his or her life. For Fitzgerald these experiences included his growing up with a sense of being a poor boy in a rich man’s world but also with a sense of his own special destiny: both perceptions led him to believe in and pursue the American dream of success, personal fulfillment, and wealth. Another of his formative experiences was his dramatic early success as a writer and celebrity, which was followed by his later collapse into emotional bankruptcy and anonymity: his greatest work from the late 1920s through the mid-1930s examines the decline of potential heroes, a decline colored by their own and their creator’s sense of regret. In his Notebooks Fitzgerald wrote, “Show me a hero and I will write you a tragedy.” Still another of his life- and work-shaping experiences was the intense romance and devastating misfortune of his relationship with Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald: virtually all of his important female characters reflect some facet of Zelda and his involvement with her.

Characterisation

Theme is most dramatically expressed through character, and Fitzgerald used the people he created to convey his personal vision of the world. In his five novels and 160 stories, he portrayed a wide range of characters. Though he may be most closely identified with his debutantes, college boys, and ambitious young men seeking the fulfillments promised by wealth, social standing, and personal happiness, he also provided memorable portraits of other kinds of people: the deranged priest, Father Adolphus Schwartz, with his vision of a place where ‘“things go glimmering all the time’” in “Absolution” (1924); the vulgar, vital, lower-class Myrtle Wilson with her own meretricious dreams in The Great Gatsby; the sinister Meyer Wolfshiem with his human-molar cuff buttons and his “gonnegtions” with the underworld in Gatsby; and the wealthy Anson Hunter with his sense of superiority in “The Rich Boy” (1926). The best of these characters emerge as recognizable, credible individuals rather than stock figures. Fitzgerald’s novella “The Rich Boy” opens with the line “Begin with an individual, and before you know it you find that you have created a type; begin with a type, and you find that you have created—nothing.” It is only through portraying individuals, Fitzgerald writes, that an author is able to convey their social identities. In a 20 November 1924 letter about the unrevised draft version of The Great Gatsby, Perkins commented on Fitzgerald’s ability both to draw individuals and to invest them with the symbolic importance of the “type,” or representative figure. Praising the novel’s “set of characters marvelously palpable and vital,” Perkins remarked, “I would know Tom Buchanan if I met him on the street and would avoid him....”

Because they are drawn from his own experience, many of Fitzgerald’s characters manifest recognizably Fitzgeraldian qualities. His men often combine ambition for early success with the desire for romantic love and the achievement of an ideal life. Amory Blaine, the protagonist of This Side of Paradise, pursues romantic attachments but, more important, engages in a quest to fulfill his promise, intelligence, idealism, and sense of “aristocratic egotism.” Jay Gatsby, the title figure of The Great Gatsby, is inspired by his “heightened sensitivity to the promises of life” to amass the fortune that he believes will enable him to recover Daisy Fay Buchanan, his lost love. Dexter Green, the central male character in the short story “Winter Dreams,” becomes a prosperous businessman partly in response to the splendid world represented by selfish, beautiful, rich Judy Jones, whom he loves. Fitzgerald’s men often lack the hardness to fulfill their dreams: Amory is thwarted by love and life, though he remains determined to continue his quest; Gatsby is defeated and destroyed by the Buchanans, who “smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness or whatever it was that kept them together...”; Dexter not only fails to win Judy but is devastated by news of her lost beauty, which symbolizes for him the loss of “the country of illusion, of youth, of the richness of life, where his winter dreams had flourished.” Certain of Fitzgerald’s male characters are actually weak—notably Anthony Patch in The Beautiful and Damned and Gordon Sterrett in “May Day”—but the majority of the men portrayed by Fitzgerald fail because the objects of their pursuit do not and cannot measure up to the men’s conceptions of them. Because the quests of Fitzgerald’s best male characters usually are played out in the real world, their objects, their dreams, are assailed by mutability—by inevitable change and loss—so that youthful beauty fades; innocence hardens into cynicism; and aspirations fade when tested against harsh experience. ‘“Can’t repeat the past?’ [Gatsby] cried incredulously., ’Why of course you can!’” Gatsby is wrong, but his faith makes him unforgettable.

“A personality is what you thought you were, what this Kerry and Sloane you tell me of evidently are. Personality is a physical matter almost entirely; it lowers the people it acts on–I’ve seen it vanish in a long sickness. But while a personality is active, it overrides ’the next thing. ‘Now a personage, on the other hand, gathers. He is never thought of apart from what he’s done. He’s a bar on which a thousand things have been hung–glittering things sometimes, as ours are, but he uses those things with a cold mentality back of them.“

Monsignor Darcy to Amory Blaine

From F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise (New York: Scribners, I92O).

Women like Fitzgerald’s female characters scarcely existed in American fiction before 1920. Part of the appeal of This Side of Paradise and much of Fitzgerald’s early short fiction resulted from their portrayals of the new American girl in revolt against conventional standards for women. Ardita Farnam in “The Offshore Pirate” is imaginative, independent, and outspoken; in an authorial intrusion into the narrative, Fitzgerald connects her most compelling quality with her membership in the postwar generation of women: “To me the interesting thing about Ardita is the courage that will tarnish with her beauty and youth.” Fitzgerald recognizes that Ardita’s courage will fail her as she grows older, less attractive, and more similar in interests and values to the middle-aged, prewar generation of women, but he also celebrates her present-day youthful power. Rosalind Connage, one of the major female characters in This Side of Paradise, is described as willful and self-centered, but, says the omniscient narrator, “in the true sense she is not spoiled. Her fresh enthusiasm, her will to grow and learn, her endless faith in the inexhaustibility of romance, her courage and fundamental honesty—these things are not spoiled.” The best of Fitzgerald’s heroines are brave, determined, beautiful (or at least attractive), intelligent (but not educated), and chaste (though willing to exchange pre-engagement kisses with their love interests). These young women, many of them still in their teens, also understand that their lives depend upon the marital choices they make. Rosalind eventually breaks with Amory Blaine because she knows that the “little flat,” which is all that he can presently provide, would ruin their relationship and their future. The Fitzgerald woman’s marital concerns are further explicated in a 1931 story, “A New Leaf,” in which Julia Ross tells her fiancé, Dick Ragland, that she will not marry him until he proves that he can stop drinking: “‘Remember, I’m also deciding for my children.”’

Fitzgerald clearly admired attractive, independent, unconventional women like the characters Ardita, Rosalind, and Julia, and his wife, Zelda, but he also tended to treat his most fully developed women characters rather critically. Both Nicole Warren Diver and Daisy Fay Buchanan are undeniably charming figures—beautiful, desirable, intelligent—but they have flaws. Nicole’s history as a mental patient causes her to drain her husband’s energies and thus prevent him from fulfilling his promise as a brilliant young psychiatrist; her possession of a fortune has accustomed her to a luxurious lifestyle, and its comforts and requirements further weaken Dick Diver’s resolve. Daisy lacks the courage to commit herself to Gatsby, either when they first meet in 1917 or when they are reunited in 1922. She is romantically drawn to him in both periods of her life but, because of fear, twice rejects the uncertain promises offered by Gatsby and instead chooses the old wealth and secure upper-class social position provided by Tom Buchanan, a hard and unfaithful man. Nicole and Daisy, like many of Fitzgerald’s most complex female characters, are incapable of sharing the lofty dreams and aspirations of the men who love them.

Moral Stance / Double Vision

Fitzgerald was not a purely objective reporter or chronicler of the Jazz Age and the 1930s but instead brought a strong moral perspective to his work. His central characters undergo processes of self-assessment (Amory Blaine, for example), or they judge others (Nick Carraway), or they are judged by Fitzgerald himself, who constantly measured the behavior of characters against implicit standards of responsibility, honor, and courage. “Action is character,” Fitzgerald wrote in his Notebooks, and by character he meant the moral qualities of the fictional being that are defined by his or her actions. In a 4 November 1939 letter to his daughter, Fitzgerald commented on musical-comedy writers Cole Porter, Richard Rodgers, and Lorenz Hart: “Sometimes I wish I had gone along with that gang, but I guess I am too much a moralist at heart and really want to preach at people in some acceptable form rather than to entertain them.”

One of Fitzgerald’s major methods for achieving this acceptable form of preaching was his adoption of a perspective that the critic Malcolm Cowley labeled “double vision”—the perception of events both as an insider and as an outsider: “It was as if all his novels described a big dance to which he had taken... the prettiest girl... and as if at the same time he stood outside the ballroom, a little Midwestern boy with his nose to the glass, wondering how much the tickets cost and who paid for the music.” One of the best and most familiar embodiments of double vision in Fitzgerald’s work is the narrator of The Great Gatsby, Nick Carraway, who both participates in and comments on the action of the novel. In the second chapter Nick describes himself as “entangled in” as well as a “watcher” over the events that unfold in Myrtle Wilson’s apartment: “I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.” His position as both insider and outsider remains intact throughout the novel, though at its end he rejects the carelessness of the Buchanans for a firmer moral stance. Of his final meeting with Tom, Nick says: “I couldn’t forgive him or like him but I saw that what he had done was, to him, entirely justified.... I shook hands with him; it seemed silly not to, for I felt suddenly as though I were talking to a child. Then he went into the jewelry store to buy a pearl necklace—or perhaps only a pair of cuff buttons—rid of my provincial squeamishness forever.” Nick fully understands Tom’s behavior, but he ultimately rejects it for his own more mature and responsible moral position; he continues to observe objectively but also to draw his own moral judgments. Nick thus fulfills Fitzgerald’s declaration in his 1936 essay “The Crack-Up” that “the test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function.”

In “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” Fitzgerald employs a mixture of literary modes to develop his doubleness of vision and unmistakable moral stance. In the annotated table of contents for Tales of the Jazz Age, in which “Diamond” was collected, Fitzgerald explained that the novelette “was designed utterly for my own amusement. I was in a mood characterized by a perfect craving for luxury, and the story began as an attempt to feed that craving on imaginary food.” “Diamond” seems at first an elaborate joke. The protagonist, John T. Unger, who comes from a small town named Hades, enrolls at St. Midas‘, the most expensive prep school in the world, and then accompanies his classmate Percy Washington through the arid Montana town of Fish to the hidden Washington family estate built on’ “a diamond bigger than the Ritz-Carlton Hotel.’” Much of the charm of the story results from its elements of fantasy:

Fitzgerald’s descriptions at the end of section II and throughout section III of the opulence of the Washingtons’ “exquisite château” and of their lifestyle, in which a bath, for example, becomes a measure of their voluptuous, “standards of living.” The fantasy continues in Fitzgerald’s descriptions of John’s romantic involvement with Percy’s beautiful younger sister, Kismine, who in a parody of romance conventions utters such lines as ‘“We can’t let such an inevitable thing as death stand in the way of enjoying life while we have it’” (this in response to John’s realization that he will be murdered to prevent him from disclosing the source of the Washingtons’ wealth) and ‘“We’ll be poor, won’t we? Like people in books. And I’ll be an orphan and utterly free. Free and poor! What fun!’” (this as the couple begin their flight from the mountain as the aerial attack is launched in section IX).

The novelette also develops into a religious allegory: John escapes Hades (in section I Fitzgerald indulges in elaborate jokes on the heat of the place) for St. Midas’ (but Midas, the legendary king with the gift for turning everything he touches to gold, also turns his food to gold). John then passes the wasteland presided over by the twelve men of Fish (the fish, of course, is a Christian symbol, but the twelve men are weary, dispirited apostles) before he enters the apparent paradise of the Washingtons’ estate. The allegory may not be entirely successful, particularly in its rather inconsistent treatment of Hades at the beginning and end, but the story provides a convincing condemnation of misused wealth even as it seems to celebrate its luxurious manifestations. Braddock Tarleton Washington—the richest man in the world and father to Percy, Kismine, and another daughter, Jasmine—is revealed as an amoral autocrat who keeps African American slaves, imprisons or murders all intruders, shields his children from reality, and even offers a bribe to God. In his scene of crisis, Washington intrudes his perspective upon the omniscient-narrator voice: “God had His price, of course. God was made in man’s image, so it had been said: He must have His price.” John watches as Washington offers the bribe, and God and all the natural world seem momentarily to pause in their activities. Then “The dawn and the day resumed their place in a time, and the risen sun sent hot waves of yellow mist that made its path bright before it. The leaves laughed in the sun, and their laughter shook the trees until each bough was like a girl’s school in fairyland. God had refused to accept the bribe.” God and nature triumph over the soulless man’s immense wealth and lead Washington to destroy himself, his wife and son, and all his material possessions, including the diamond as big as the Ritz. Through his merging of fantasy and allegory—a brilliant demonstration of his double vision and moral stance—Fitzgerald portrays both the apparent attractions of wealth and its terrible corruptions.

In one of his greatest stories, “Babylon Revisited,” Fitzgerald develops a protagonist, Charlie Wales, who has lived a life of dissipation in 1920s Paris. He has been at least partially responsible for the death of his wife, Helen, by locking her out in the snowy Parisian streets after a night of drunkenness and marital discord, and he has surrendered the guardianship of his young daughter, Honoria, to his wife’s sister and brother-in-law, Marion and Lincoln Peters. As the story begins, Charlie has returned to Depression-era Paris, where Honoria lives with the Peterses and their children. Wales is an apparently changed man. He runs a successful business in Prague; he limits himself to one drink a day “‘so that the idea of alcohol won’t get too big in my imagination’”; and he now wishes to take Honoria with him to Prague and thus restore their family life. He clearly understands the consequences of his earlier irresponsible life in Boom-era Paris:

... All the catering to vice and waste was on an utterly childish scale, and he suddenly realized the meaning of the word “dissipate”—to dissipate into thin air; to make nothing out of something. ...

He remembered thousand-franc notes given to an orchestra for playing a single number, hundred-franc notes tossed to a doorman for calling a cab.

But it hadn’t been given for nothing.

It had been given, even the most wildly squandered sum, as an offering to destiny that he might not remember the things most worth remembering, the things that now he would always remember—his child taken from his control, his wife escaped to a grave in Vermont.

Charlie’s failure in the course of the story to win custody of his daughter at first seems unfair, the result of others’ inability to recognize the very real changes he has made in his life. His neurotic sister-in-law, Marion, continues to dislike and distrust him, and the drunken Duncan Schaeffer and Lorraine Quarries, who show up at the Peterses’ apartment just as Marion is about surrender Honoria’s guardianship to Charlie, assume that he is still the reveler they have known in the past. He is not. Yet, as Fitzgerald reveals through his skillful handling of characterization and action, Charlie has not entirely reformed. He is still drawn to the Babylon of 1920s Paris. The beginning and ending of the story find him in the Ritz bar, a symbol of 1920s extravagance. He returns to the cabarets and nightclubs of Montmartre, which recall for him both the exhilaration and “utter irresponsibility” of those days; he refuses to give up alcohol altogether and leaves the Peterses’ address with the Ritz barman for Duncan Schaeffer, both acts revealing his partial attraction to the past; and he constantly engages in self-pity and rationalization, imagining that his dead wife would want Honoria to be with him again: “He was absolutely sure Helen wouldn’t have wanted him to be so alone.” Charlie clearly recognizes the extent of his earlier culpability when in section V of the story he tells Paul, the Ritz bartender, that he had lost everything he wanted in the boom—wife, child, sense of purpose—by “selling short.” But Charlie also suggests that his behavior in the 1920s was perhaps not really so blameworthy because the rules of that time were different from those of present time, the 1930s: “—The men who locked their wives out in the snow, because the snow of twenty-nine wasn’t real snow. If you didn’t want it to be snow, you just paid some money.” Charlie wants to have it both ways: his pride of reform in the present, and his nostalgia for the good and bad old days of the 1920s. He therefore does not deserve to regain Honoria (his lost honor) because he cannot finally surrender his remaining allegiances to the past. Through the characterization of Charlie Wales, “Babylon Revisited” exploits the double vision that conveys the moral stance in the best of Fitzgerald’s work.

The American Dream

Gertrude Stein said of the younger American writers who gathered in Paris in the 1920s, “You are all a lost generation,” a line that Hemingway used as an epigraph for The Sun Also Rises(1926). Stein’s statement described many of the American expatriates who had witnessed the battlefield carnage of World War I and thus had become disillusioned with the political and philosophical tenets that brought about the war. These writers and intellectuals were also dismayed by what they regarded as clear signs of provincialism in the United States during the 1920s: Prohibition, religious and political conservatism, rampant consumerism, and the conformist behavior that found its label in the title character of Sinclair Lewis’s 1922 novel, Babbitt. For many of the young expatriate writers, the American dream—the belief that aspirations could be fulfilled through imagination and hard work—seemed dead or at least terribly corrupted. They thus moved to Europe, which appeared to offer a freer, more stimulating, and perhaps less hypocritical environment.

Although Fitzgerald lived abroad for nearly six years and was one of the major American writers to emerge during the 1920s, he did not share the disillusionment with or contempt for their country of certain expatriate Americans. Instead, he was unabashedly patriotic, believing that America remained the land of opportunity, of idealism, of great potentialities and possibilities. For Fitzgerald, the American dream was bound up inextricably with the country’s history, which he called in a note accompanying material for The Love of the Last Tycoon “the most beautiful history in the world.” Yet he also recognized that however beautiful this history, its real meaning was elusive. In the coda to his 1929 story “The Swimmers” Fitzgerald wrote: “France was a land, England was a people, but America, having about it still that quality of the idea, was harder to utter—it was the graves at Shiloh and the tired, drawn, nervous faces of its great men, and the country boys dying in the Argonne for a phrase that was empty before their bodies withered. It was a willingness of the heart.”

In his novels and stories Fitzgerald revealed not only the fulfillment of the American dream but also the many ways it could be debased and distorted. His most evocative protagonists—among them Jay Gatsby, Dick Diver, and Monroe Stahr—share “that quality of the idea” and “willingness of the heart” defined by Fitzgerald as quintessentially American. Although they are frequently disappointed in their quests, it is not finally the dream that fails them but instead something else: some weakness or corruption in themselves or others. In The Great Gatsby, for example, Gatsby’s dreams are noble, even incorruptible; but as Nick Carraway says, it is “what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams” that destroys him: his own innocence about the differences between new and old wealth, and the hardness and carelessness of the Buchanans. At the end of the novel Nick, Fitzgerald’s spokesman, reasserts the validity and pervasiveness of the American dream by tying Gatsby’s vision to that of the historical Dutch sailors catching their first sight of the “fresh, green breast of the new world” with all of its rich if elusive promises to the brave and adventurous: “something commensurate to [their] capacity for wonder.”

In Tender Is the Night Dick Diver’s pursuit of the American dream of success and fulfillment is defeated by weakness in himself. His promise as a young American psychiatrist—before his self-indulgent and self-sacrificing marriage to the wealthy mental patient Nicole Warren—is revealed early in Book II of the novel, which begins with a flashback to Zurich. At the end of the first chapter of Book II, the omniscient narrator declares, “The foregoing has the ring of a biography, without the satisfaction of knowing that the hero, like Grant, lolling in his general store in Galena, is ready to be called to an intricate destiny.” The connection of Dick with Ulysses S. Grant, who worked in a Galena, Illinois, general store before rising to commander of the Union army during the Civil War and president of the United States later, suggests Diver’s splendid potential, just as the repetition of the image in the novel’s final sentence emphasizes the enormity of his fall.

‘“See that little stream-we could walk to it in two minutes. It took the British a month to walk to it–a whole empire walking very slowly, dying in front and pushing forward behind. And another empire walked very slowly backward a few inches a day, leaving the dead like a million bloody rugs. No Europeans will ever do that again in this generation.’

‘Why, they’ve only just quit over in Turkey,’ said Abe. ‘And in Morocco-’

‘That’s different. This Western Front business couldn’t be done again, not for a long time. The young men think they could do it but they couldn’t. They could fight the First Marne again but not this. This took religion and years of plenty and tremendous sureties and the exact relation that existed between the classes. The Russians and Italians weren’t any good on this front. You had to have a whole-souled sentimental equipment going back further than you could remember. You had to remember Christmas, and postcards of the Crown Prince and his fiancée, and little cafes in Valence and beer gardens in Unter den Linden and weddings at the mairie, and going to the Derby, and your grandfather’s whiskers.

‘... Why, this was a love battle—there was a century of middle-class love spent here. This was the last love battle.’”

Dick Diver

From F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night, text established by Matthew J. Bruccoli (London: Everyman, 1996), Book I, chapter 13, pp. 61–62.

Almost from the beginning of his story in Book II, Diver is torn between his desire to devote himself to his work while enduring material privations and his equally strong desire to enjoy the “grace and adventure” associated with affluence:

“God, am I like the rest after all?”— So he used to think starting awake at night—“Am I like the rest?”

This was poor material for a socialist but good material for those who do much of the world’s rarest work.... In the dead white hours in Zurich staring into a stranger’s pantry across the upshine of a street-lamp, he used to think that he wanted to be good, he wanted to be kind, he wanted to be brave and wise, but it was all pretty difficult. He wanted to be loved, too, if he could fit it in.

Both his eloquent oration at the World War I battlefield Beaumont Hamel in Book I, chapter 13, and his meditation on his father’s death in Book II, chapters 18 and 19, reveal that after his marriage to Nicole, Dick retains his capacity to respond to dedication and sacrifice— two principles implicit in the fulfillment of the American dream. In his Beaumont Hamel speech he declares, “‘All my beautiful lovely safe world blew itself up here with a great gust of high-explosive love,’” but he then confesses his own helplessness in combating his sense of loss: “‘... an old romantic like me can’t do anything about it.’” Hearing of his father’s death, he praises the Reverend Mr. Diver’s ’“good instincts, ‘honor, courtesy, and courage,” but as he lays his father to rest in his ancestral Virginia churchyard, Dick symbolically acknowledges his own inability to live up to the elder Diver’s standards: “‘Good-by, my father—good-by, all my fathers.’” This scene represents Dick Diver’s final surrender of his sense of duty and purpose. Thereafter his decline is both precipitous and inevitable.

In his final, unfinished novel, The Love of the Last Tycoon, Fitzgerald develops a protagonist who has achieved the American dream of success and fulfillment. Monroe Stahr, a young Jew from a lower-middle-class background, has made himself through genius and hard work the most respected producer in the Hollywood movie industry, which by the mid-1930s had become the world’s most popular and powerful medium for conveying images of the American dream. Fitzgerald’s plan for the novel included Stahr’s death in a plane crash near the end. Yet, in the sections of the book that were written, the protagonist maintains his standards and his work ethic despite formidable obstacles: efforts by rival movie executives and labor organizers to wrest control of his studio from him; complications arising from his involvement with Kathleen Moore, who resembles his dead actress wife, Minna Davis; and concerns caused by his failing health. By refusing to compromise his vision and his work, Stahr fulfills the implicit requirements of the American dream and thereby becomes the only major Fitzgerald protagonist who both achieves and maintains his success.

Fitzgerald, who was an avid student of history, provided his final hero with historical associations. Stahr is connected by the narrator, Cecelia Brady, with royalty—“he had looked out on all the kingdoms,” he was “a little like the Emperor and the Old Guard.... the last of the princes”—and with legendary figures of the movie industry, “Edison and Lumiere and Griffith and Chaplin.” He is identified by cameraman Pete Zavras with great figures from ancient Greece—“‘You are the Aeschylus and the Diogenes of the moving picture.... Also the Asclepius and the Menander.’” More significantly, Stahr is connected with tycoons from American history—Jay Gould, Cornelius Vanderbilt, Andrew Carnegie, and John Jacob Astor—and when writer Wylie White objects to Stahr’s calling himself a “merchant” by citing historian Charles Francis Adams’s negative assessment of the early American tycoons, the producer responds, ‘“Adams was probably a sour belly.... He wanted to be headman himself but he didn’t have the judgement or else the character.’” Most significantly of all, Stahr is associated with Abraham Lincoln, who was martyred for his successful efforts to preserve the country’s union. (The Oxford English Dictionary notes that the word tycoon was applied to Lincoln.) In a scene in episode 10, the Danish prince Agge, who accompanies Stahr on a studio tour, is moved by the sight of an actor dressed as Lincoln: “—This then, he thought, was what they all meant to be.” Agge refers in general to Americans, but in particular to Stahr, who at the end of his meeting with the prince reinforces his identification with the presidential preserver of the union by declaring that in the world of the studio, “‘I’m the unity.’” Later in the novel, the English screenwriter Boxley who has begun to master his trade through Stahr’s instruction, even more clearly connects the producer with the president, thereby emphasizing the magnitude of Stahr’s efforts: “Stahr like Lincoln was a leader carrying on a long war on many fronts.” In his final novel, then, Fitzgerald makes explicit both the imaginative and historical validity of his twenty-year investigation of the American dream.

Fitzgerald and Money

More than any other writer of his time, with the possible exception of Theodore Dreiser, Fitzgerald was aware of the influence of money on American life and character. Because he wrote seriously about money, aspiration, and love, which were usually inseparable in his fiction, Fitzgerald has been labeled a materialist by his detractors. He also has been regarded as an uncritical worshipper of the rich, a view promulgated by Ernest Hemingway’s crack in his 1936 story “The Snows of Kilimanjaro” that “poor Scott Fitzgerald” was ruined by his “romantic awe” of the rich.

Fitzgerald wrote about the rich, but his understanding of the effects of money on character was complex. His most-quoted statement on the subject appears in his 1926 story “The Rich Boy”: “Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me. They possess and enjoy early, and it does something to them, makes them soft where we are hard, and cynical where we are trustful, in a way that, unless you were born rich, it is very difficult to understand. They think, deep in their hearts, that they are better than we are because we had to discover the compensations and refuges of life for ourselves. Even when they enter deep into our world or sink below us, they still think that they are better than we are. They are different.” This passage reflects the ambivalence of Fitzgerald’s attitude: his attraction to and his distrust of the rich.

For Fitzgerald, money was an important part of the American dream because it provided not just luxuries but also opportunities unavailable to less affluent people. Money therefore had its obligations. As Fitzgerald told Hemingway in his 16 July 1936 letter of reply to “The Snows of Kilimanjaro”: “Riches have never fascinated me, unless combined with the greatest charm or distinction.” Wealthy people who wasted or perverted the opportunities that their money gave them were objects of Fitzgerald’s disappointment or disapproval. In “The Rich Boy,” for example, Anson Hunter’s sense of superiority prevents him from committing himself to meaningful human relationships, and he thus becomes increasingly isolated as he grows older. In The Beautiful and Damned Anthony Patch’s expectations of an inheritance cause him to waste his talents and life. In The Great Gatsby the Buchanans’ money makes them careless, hard, and directionless: “They had spent a year in France, for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together.” In “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” the Washingtons’ vast wealth enslaves them, making them emotionally and spiritually arid. In Tender Is the Night Dick Diver has “been swallowed up like a gigolo, and somehow permitted his arsenal to be locked up in the Warren safety-deposit vaults.” Fitzgerald clearly understood that money had the power to corrupt its possessors, just as it had the potential to increase their fulfillment.

Fitzgerald’s responses to money were formed by his family’s ambiguous social position in St. Paul and by his exposure to the sons and daughters of the affluent at prep school and Princeton. In a 4 March 1938 letter to Anne Ober about Scottie Fitzgerald’s upcoming private-school graduation ceremony, Fitzgerald wrote: “... we will watch all the other little girls get diamond bracelets and Cord roadsters. I am going to a costumer’s in New York and buy Scotty some phoney jewelry so she can pretend they are graduation presents. Otherwise, she will have to suffer the shame of being a poor girl in a rich girl’s school. That was always my experience—a poor boy in a rich town; a poor boy in a rich boy’s school; a poor boy in a rich man’s club at Princeton. So I guess she can stand it. However, I have never been able to forgive the rich for being rich, and it has colored my entire life and works.”

Fitzgerald’s sense of being excluded from the freedom and opportunities provided by money had been further intensified by his inability to marry Zelda right away because of his failures in New York following his army discharge. As he declared in “Pasting It Together”:

The man with the jingle of money in his pocket who married the girl a year later would always cherish an abiding distrust, an animosity, toward the leisure class—not the conviction of a revolutionist but the smouldering hatred of a peasant. In the years since then I have never been able to stop wondering where my friends’ money came from, nor to stop thinking that at one time a sort of droit de seigneur might have been exercised to give one of them my girl.

For sixteen years I lived pretty much as this latter person, distrusting the rich, yet working for money with which to share their mobility and the grace that some of them brought into their lives.

Because Fitzgerald’s response to wealth was complex, mixing resentment and strong attraction, his fictional treatment of this material is both pro-found and extensive.

Emotional Bankruptcy

Fitzgerald employed a financial metaphor, “emotional bankruptcy,” to label a theme that pervades his work. He believed that people—in and out of fiction—have a fixed amount of emotional capital and that when this capital is depleted by reckless expenditure, it cannot be replaced. Fitzgerald developed this idea from his own struggles with money, personal relationships, and internal and external impediments to his work. In “The Crack-Up” he charged himself with being “only a mediocre caretaker of most of the things left in my hands, even of my talent.“ From the early 1920s on, he often lamented the dissipations of his life: his Ledger headings include “a bad year. No work ” (1921–1922), “dangerous and deteriorating year” (1922–1923), “The most miserable year since I was nineteen” (1923–1924), “Total loss” (1926–1927), “Increasingly unhappy.... Ominous” (1932–1933). When he was working, it was usually on the short stories that he increasingly resented. During the 1930s he confided in his Notebooks, “I have asked a lot of my emotions—one hundred and twenty stories, The price was high, right up with Kipling, because there was one little drop of something not blood, not a tear, not my seed, but me more intimately than these, in every story, it was the extra I had. Now it is gone and I am just like you now.” In “Pasting It Together” Fitzgerald again described his sense of emotional bankruptcy through financial metaphors, declaring that “like a man over-drawing at his bank,” he felt “a vast irresponsibility toward every obligation, a deflation of all my values.”

“There are no second acts in American lives,” Fitzgerald wrote in both the Notebooks and his 1932 essay “My Lost City.” In this statement he suggested that both he and his countrymen, engaged in quests for the quintessential American dream of success, wealth, and happiness, must almost inevitably exhaust their energies and resources. “I began to realize,” he admitted in “The Crack-Up,” “that I had been mortgaging myself physically and spiritually up to the hilt,” a phenomenon that he saw repeated in certain of his associates during the 1930s and that he treated in important fictional works of that decade. Charlie Wales in “Babylon Revisited” employs financial imagery—“selling short” and “you just paid some money”—to describe his surrender to the affluence and dissipations of the expatriate life that had undermined his commitment to responsible behavior. Josephine Perry, the teenaged protagonist of the short story “Emotional Bankruptcy” (1931), discovers that she is unable to love the man she wants to love because she has squandered her emotional capital on frivolous earlier romances: “She was very tired and lay face downward on the couch with that awful, awful realization that all the old things are true. One cannot both spend and have.” Similarly, in the 1930 story “One Trip Abroad” Nelson and Nicole Kelly, who have come to Europe to study painting and singing, respectively, expend their energies on restless travel and meaningless social connections until, their health and spirits broken, they are forced to enter a Swiss sanatorium. There they discover in horror that the young couple they have observed from time to time during their years in Europe—she now marked by “ill health” and “unwholesomeness” and he appearing “weak and self-indulgent”—are, in fact, themselves. In “Afternoon of an Author,” a highly autobiographical 1936 story or essay (it has been variously labeled), Fitzgerald’s ill, weary writer-protagonist grasps for inspiration that he hopes will refresh his exhausted material, as he glimpses a pair of young lovers from the upper deck of a bus: “Their isolation moved him and he knew he would get something out of it professionally, if only in contrast to the growing seclusion of his life and the increasing necessity of picking over an already well-picked past. He needed reforestation and he was well aware of it, and he hoped the soil would stand one more growth. It had never been the very best soil for he had had an early weakness for showing off instead of listening and observing.” Most significantly, Dick Diver, having given too much to too many people, fades from once-brilliant psychiatrist to failed small-town doctor in Tender Is the Night. The final sentence of the novel is a much-admired example of Fitzgerald’s perfectly controlled tone and rhythm as he conveys Diver’s emotional bankruptcy and obscurity: “Perhaps, so she [Nicole Diver] liked to think, his career was biding its time, again like Grant’s in Galena; his latest note was post-marked from Hornell, New York, which is some distance from Geneva and a very small town; in any case he is almost certainly in that section of the country, in one town or another.”

Techniques and Style

TRADITIONALIST: With the publication of This Side of Paradise in 1920, Fitzgerald became known as a daring writer primarily because of his material and themes rather than because of his technical innovations. His questing young men and courageous young women, who challenged conventional standards of behavior, seemed emblematic of the new decade of the 1920s, thereby attracting youthful readers and unsettling many older ones. Fitzgerald, however, was not essentially a modernist or an experimental writer, as were many of his contemporaries. Except for a brief passage in Book II, chapter 5, of This Side of Paradise and for Book II, chapter 10, of Tender Is the Night— Nicole Diver’s account of the development of her relationship with her husband—he avoided the stream-of-consciousness technique perfected by British writers James Joyce and Virginia Woolf. Fitzgerald also rejected what he called the “infectious style,” with its short declarative sentences and simple diction, of Ernest Hemingway, as well as the collage-like “Newsreel” and “Camera Eye” techniques used by John Dos Passos in his U.S.A. trilogy.

“He tried to find the visible act that revealed a moral quality inherent in a certain moment of time. He was haunted by time, as if he wrote in a room full of clocks and calendars. He made lists by the hundred, including lists of the popular songs, the football players, the top debutantes (with the types of beauty they cultivated), the hobbies and the slang expressions of a given year; he felt that all these names and phrases belonged to the year and helped to reveal its momentary color. ‘After all, ‘he said in an otherwise undistinguished magazine story, ‘any given moment has its value; it can be questioned in the light of after-events, but the moment remains. The young prince in velvet gathered in lovely domesticity around the queen amid the hush of rich draperies may presently grow up to be Pedro the Cruel or Charles the Mad, but the moment of beauty was there.’”

Malcolm Cowley

From the introduction to The Stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald, edited by Cowley (New York: Scribners, 1951), pp. xiii-xiv.

Fitzgerald’s techniques and writing style were traditional because his vision of the world was at least in part drawn from pre-World War I assumptions. Lionel Trilling correctly observed that “Fitzgerald was perhaps the last notable writer to affirm the Romantic fantasy, descended from the Renaissance, of personal ambition and heroism, of life committed to, or thrown away for, some ideal of self.“ Whereas Hemingway’s and Dos Passos’s male protagonists often express their disillusionment with “all faiths,” Fitzgerald’s best male figures adhere to these faiths, though they may question them and may be— indeed, usually are—defeated in their quests. In his Notebooks Fitzgerald wrote, “The two basic stories of all times are Cinderella and Jack the Giant Killer—the charm of women and the courage of men. The 19th century glorified the merchant’s cowardly son. Now a reaction.” Observing this “reaction” in the often nihilistic themes and experimental techniques of his most distinguished contemporaries, Fitzgerald asserted his allegiance to the older, nineteenth-century tradition: “I am the last of the novelists for a long time now.”

Fitzgerald was, above all, a storyteller who achieved a close relationship with the reader through the voice of his fiction, which was intimate, warm, and witty. Trilling defined this quality as “his power of love”: “Even in Fitzgerald’s early, cruder books, or even in his commercial stories, and even when the style is careless, there is a tone and pitch to the sentences which suggest his warmth and tenderness, and, what is rare nowadays and not likely to be admired, his gentleness without softness.... [H]e was gifted with the satiric eye; yet we feel that in his morality he was more drawn to celebrate the good than to denounce the bad.... [W]e know this the more surely because we perceive that he loved the good not only with his mind but also with his quick senses and his youthful pride and desire.” Hard-boiled novelist Raymond Chandler made a similar point about Fitzgerald’s distinctive voice: “He had one of the rarest qualities in all literature, and it’s a great shame that the word for it has been thoroughly debased by the cosmetic racketeers, so that one is almost ashamed to use it to describe a real distinction. Nevertheless, the word is charm—charm as Keats would have used it. Who has it today? It’s not a matter of pretty writing or clear style. It’s a kind of subdued magic, controlled and exquisite, the sort of thing you get from good string quartettes. Yes, where would you find it today?”

NOVELIST OF SELECTION: Most practitioners of American social fiction tend to saturate their texts with details of character and place—Sinclair Lewis, John O’Hara, or Thomas Wolfe, for example—but Fitzgerald in his mature work employed a different method. He recognized the genius of his Scribners stablemate Wolfe, but in a July 1937 letter to him, Fitzgerald suggested that the younger writer’s saturation method blunted his artistic effects: “The novel of selected incidents has this to be said that the great writer like Flaubert has consciously left out the stuff that Bill or Joe, (in his case Zola) will come along and say presently.... So Mme Bovary becomes eternal while Zola already rocks with age.”

Critics have observed that in This Side of Paradise Fitzgerald employed the saturation method, mixing a variety of styles and forms— verse and short plays, for example, are included within his narrative—as well as at least two sometimes inconsistent points of view: Amory Blaine’s and the author’s own omniscient voice. The reviewer for The New Republic described the novel as “the collected works of F. Scott Fitzgerald.” The Beautiful and Damned is more tightly constructed than This Side of Paradise, though it still suffers from inconsistent style and tone, authorial intrusions, and awkwardly interpolated material from other genres. With The Great Gatsby, however, Fitzgerald truly became the novelist of selection, disciplining his wealth of literary sources and his fertile imagination.

Great fiction is great social history. Although Fitzgerald is one of the best practitioners of American social fiction and The Great Gatsby is regarded as a bible of the 1920s, the novel includes surprisingly little anthropological data. Only six songs—most of them romantic ballads, not jazz—are mentioned. Though many cars figure in the narrative and careless driving becomes a motif of the novel, only a few—including Nick Carraway’s “old Dodge” and George Wilson’s “dust-covered wreck of a Ford which crouched in a dim corner” of his gas-station/garage—are identified by make. The most famous automobile in American literature, Gatsby’s yellow car, is not defined as a Rolls-Royce or a Duesenberg but is instead labeled by Tom Buchanan as a “‘circus wagon’” and described by Nick Carraway as “a rich cream color, bright with nickel, swollen here and there in its monstrous length with triumphant hatboxes and supper-boxes and tool-boxes, and terraced with a labyrinth of wind-shields that mirrored a dozen suns.” Fitzgerald uses carefully selected details of description to convey through each automobile the character and vision of its owner: Nick’s unostentatious pragmatism; Wilson’s trapped, poverty-stricken, crouching desperation; and Gatsby’s “gorgeous,” grandiose “Platonic conception of himself in “service of a vast, vulgar and meretricious beauty.”

Similarly, Fitzgerald’s celebrated catalogue at the beginning of chapter 4 of Gatsby’s party guests does not list actual people but instead, through suggestive naming, provides a cross-section of members of 1920s society who have either succeeded in the world’s terms or aspire to do so. Several critics have commented on Fitzgerald’s use of imagery drawn from unappealing animal or aquatic life—the “Leeches,” “Doctor Webster Civet,” “A whole clan named Blackbuck,” “the Fishguards,” “James B. (‘Rot-gut’) Ferret, ” “S. B. Whitebait,“ for example—and his fondness for incongruous combinations: “the Willie Voltaires,” “the Stonewall Jackson Abrams of Georgia,” “Mrs. Ulysses Swett. “Others have celebrated his pure comic or satiric invention in naming: “the Cheadles,” “S. W. Belcher and the Smirkes,” “the Chromes and the Backhyssons,” and the inter-changeable young women whose “last names were either the melodious names of flowers and months or the sterner ones of the great American capitalists whose cousins, if pressed, they would confess themselves to be.“110 In his treatment both of automobiles and the guest list, Fitzgerald proved himself a master of the selective, evocative detail.

STYLIST: Throughout his best work Fitzgerald’s writing style is impressionistic: his details evoke sensory responses in the reader and, in the description of Nicole Diver’s shopping trip in Book I, chapter 12, of Tender Is the Night, permit omniscient-narrator response:

... She bought colored beads, folding beach cushions, artificial flowers, honey, a guest bed, bags, scarfs, love birds, miniatures for a doll’s house and three yards of some new cloth the color of prawns. She bought a dozen bathing suits, a rubber alligator, a travelling chess set of gold and ivory, big linen handker-chiefs for Abe, two chamois leather jackets of kingfisher blue and burning bush from Hermés’—bought all these things not a bit like a high-class courtesan buying underwear and jewels, which were after all professional equipment and insurance—but with an entirely different point of view. Nicole was the product of much ingenuity and toil. For her sake trains began their run at Chicago and traversed the round belly of the continent to California; chicle factories fumed and link belts grew link by link in factories; men mixed toothpaste in vats and drew mouthwash out of copper hogsheads; girls canned tomatoes quickly in August or worked rudely at the Five-and-Tens on Christmas Eve; half-breed Indians toiled on Brazilian coffee plantations and dreamers were muscled out of patent rights in new tractors—these were some of the people who gave a tithe to Nicole, and as the whole system swayed and thundered onward it lent a feverish bloom to such processes of hers as wholesale buying, like the flush of a fireman’s face holding his post before a spreading blaze. She illustrated very simple principles, containing in herself her own doom, but illustrated them so accurately that there was grace in the procedure, and presently Rosemary [Hoyt] would try to imitate it.

Here Fitzgerald astonishes the reader with the variety and luxury of Nicole’s purchases, then suggests the price that her extravagant needs exact both upon poorer people everywhere and upon herself—she “contain[s] in herself her own doom”—and, in a final brilliant imaginative leap, concedes her exciting “feverish bloom” and “grace” as she fulfills her privileges as a wealthy woman.

In other places Fitzgerald’s style evokes mood. At the beginning of chapter 3 of The Great Gatsby, for example, Nick Carraway begins his first description of a Gatsby party with these lines: “There was music from my neighbor’s house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars.” The language and the rhythm of the first sentence—especially in the phrase “through the summer nights”—establish a romantic scene that is reinforced by the apparently magical “blue gardens” filled with “men and girls” in the second sentence. As this sentence develops, however, Nick suggests that these couples are in constant and meaningless flux—they “came and went like moths”—and that they are absorbed equally by “the whisperings” (romantic murmurings or rumors about Gatsby) and “the champagne” (beverage associated with celebration or drunkenness) and “the stars” (normally a symbol of lofty aspirations or destiny, but here perhaps no more than a prop for the make-believe world Gatsby has created). Fitzgerald, through his narrator Nick, employs language that subtly suggests both the magic and corruption that fill the world of the novel. When Nick remarks, as the scene draws to a close, that “the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music,” he strikingly combines color and sound through a rhetorical device known as synesthesia.

Many literary critics have attempted to identify distinctive elements of Fitzgerald’s style. They have focused on his dramatic use of verbs—Wilson’s car that “crouched in a dim corner”—or his pattern of linking adjectives that seem contradictory: Jordan Baker’s “charming, discontented face” and Nicole Diver’s “hard and lovely and pitiful” face. Critics have also cited his linkage of apparently incompatible nouns and adjectives to produce startling but thematically evocative effects: the “triumphant hatboxes” of Gatsby’s car and the “blue gardens” of his parties, both suggesting the grandeur but unreality of his vision of self. Similarly, Tender Is the Night begins with a description of Gausse’s Hotel des Etrangers, which is fronted by “Deferential palms; here the oddly paired adjective and noun evoke the artificial splendor of this hotel for strangers—wealthy expatriates—and its equally artificial “bright tan prayer rug of a beach,” where these expatriates worship the leisure their wealth provides. Moreover, in Cecelia Brady’s meditation on Monroe Stahr at the end of the first chapter of The Love of the Last Tycoon, she envisions him in flight, gazing down on and measuring the “jerky hopes and graceful rogueries and awkward sorrows” of the less heroic people surrounding him; here, through her linkage of apparently disparate adjectives and nouns, she emphasizes Stahr’s penetrating but compassionate response as “he came here from choice to be with us to the end.”

SYMBOLIST: Commentators have given much attention to symbolism in Fitzgerald’s novels and short fiction, particularly to his expansion of color imagery into larger symbolic patterns, his persistent drawing upon figures and episodes from American history, and, above all, his pervasive concern with time and mutability, or inevitable change. (In The Great Gatsby there are at least 450 words that have to do with time, and in Tender Is the Night,840 words.) In “May Day” Fitzgerald examines the failure of virtually all social classes in the United States to fulfill the promises of the American dream, and, as a scene near the end of the story reveals, he uses symbolism to convey his message. In this scene several major characters—weak, unsuccessful artist Gordon Sterrett; Sterrett’s lower-class, blackmailing lover, Jewel Hudson; discharged soldier and ignorant rioter Gus Rose; and drunken Yalemen Philip Dean and Peter Himmel—are brought together in Childs’, a New York restaurant, at four o’clock in the morning. At the end of the scene the sun rises, turning the plate-glass front of the restaurant “a blue that seemed to press close upon the pane as if to crowd its way into the restaurant. Dawn had come up in Columbus Circle, magical, breathless dawn, silhouetting the great statue of the immortal Christopher, and mingling in a curious and uncanny manner with the fading yellow electric light inside.” Here Fitzgerald uses the blue light of dawn and the yellow electric light of the restaurant to link the statue of Christopher Columbus, the heroic discoverer of the New World, and the degraded Americans assembled in Childs’. Through his symbolism Fitzgerald subtly but profoundly suggests how far the modern Americans of the story have fallen from the New World dreams embodied in Columbus.

“MAY DAY”

“This somewhat unpleasant tale, published as a novelette in the Smart Set in June, 1920, relates a series of events which took place in the spring of the previous year. Each of the three events made a great impression upon me. In life they were unrelated, except by the general hysteria of that spring which inaugurated the Age of Jazz, but in my story I have tried, unsuccessfully I’m afraid, to weave them into a pattern-a pattern which would give the effect of those months as they appeared to at least one member of what was then the younger generation.“

F. Scott Fitzgerald

From the annotated table of contents for Tales of the Jazz Age (New York: Scribners, 1922).

A single example from The Great Gatsby— a novel filled with evocative symbols— illustrates Fitzgerald’s skill in handling this device. The green light at the end of Daisy’s dock becomes an emblem of Gatsby’s devotion to her and to the dream that she personifies for him. The light appears at three important positions in the novel and evolves on each appearance. At the end of chapter 1, Nick has his first glimpse of Gatsby standing in the darkness of his lawn and trembling as he stretches his arms out toward the green light across the bay; his posture suggests the enormous importance he attaches to the object, though its meaning remains a mystery to both Nick and the reader at this point in the book. In chapter 5, the fulcrum of the novel, Gatsby and Daisy are reunited, and near the end of the scene he mentions the green light. Noticing Gatsby’s apparent absorption in what he has said, Nick speculates, “Possibly it had occurred to him that the colossal significance of that light had now vanished forever. Compared to the great distance that had separated him from Daisy it had seemed very near to her, almost touching her. It had seemed as close as a star to the moon. Now it was again a green light on a dock. His count of enchanted objects had diminished by one.” Daisy, the actual woman, may already have fallen a bit short of his vision of her. In chapter 9, as the novel concludes, Nick again evokes the light, which with Daisy’s betrayal and Gatsby’s destruction has resumed magical properties; now, however, it represents the magnitude and essential incorruptibility of Gatsby’s dream that also lives on, despite impossible odds, in all who aspire greatly. “Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us,” Nick declares. In the final lines of the novel, he makes Gatsby’s experience the reader’s experience by changing the third-person pronouns to first-person: “It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther [recalling Gatsby’s gesture in the first chapter].... So we beat on” but are, like Gatsby, “borne back ceaselessly into the past.” Thus, the green light becomes symbolic not only of Gatsby’s dreams but also of the elusive “American dream” that all readers presumably share.

Master of Point of View and Structure

Fitzgerald has been particularly praised for his handling of point of view and structure, especially in The Great Gatsby. His adoption of a partially involved narrator for the novel—a technique that he probably learned from reading British fiction writer Joseph Conrad—allowed Fitzgerald both to bring structural complexity to the novel and to increase readers’ belief in and sympathy for his title character. Nick, who tells Gatsby’s story, declares.at the beginning of the novel that he is “inclined to reserve all judgements,” but as he is drawn into relationships with Tom, Daisy, Gatsby, and Jordan Baker, this intelligent, observant, and essentially moral man is forced to judge the conduct of the other characters. As he says in the preface to his story: “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;...,” 

Fitzgerald rewrote and restructured The Great Gatsby in galley proofs, primarily by breaking up and moving forward in the novel sections of Nick’s account of Gatsby’s history. This structural decision on Fitzgerald’s part complicates the time scheme of the novel, but it also increases reader interest as author, narrator, and reader become collaborators in discovering the truths of Gatsby’s story. Nick functions as a filter for and commentator on the history, which appears in chapters 4, 6, 8, and 9 of the published novel, and in each case he documents his sources.

In chapter 4, during their automobile ride to New York, Nick reports Gatsby’s false, highly romantic autobiography, which Nick says is “like skimming hastily through a dozen magazines” and to which he responds with incredulity—until Gatsby produces both a photo of himself at Oxford and his war medal from Montenegro. At the end of the chapter Nick reports Jordan Baker’s account of Gatsby’s courtship of Daisy in 1917 Louisville (an account that focuses on Daisy); her restlessness when the young military officer leaves for the war; her wedding to Tom Buchanan following a drunken episode provoked by a mysterious letter; and her early happiness with Tom, which is destroyed by his infidelity. Jordan then relays Gatsby’s request that Nick manage a reunion between the former lovers, which takes place in chapter 5.

In chapter 6 Nick tells the story of Gatsby’s youth, when he was named James Gatz, and his early years with Dan Cody, a self-made millionaire; the narrator clearly stipulates both the source of his information and his reason for divulging it at this point: “He told me all this very much later, but I’ve put it down here with the idea of exploding those first wild rumors about his antecedents, which weren’t even faintly true. More-over he told it to me at a time of confusion, when I had reached the point of believing everything and nothing about him.” This piece of Gatsby’s story is followed by scenes in which Tom and two of his friends stop by Gatsby’s house for a drink and the Buchanans attend a Gatsby party, which in turn is followed by Nick’s post-party meeting with Gatsby, during which Gatsby makes his startlingly romantic statement about the possibility of repeating the past. Nick provides an eloquent account of the moment Gatsby had “forever wed his unutterable visions to [Daisy’s] perishable breath” but then resumes his usual, more pragmatic voice by commenting on Gatsby’s “appalling sentimentality.”

At the beginning of chapter 8, following the confrontation between Tom and Gatsby at the Plaza Hotel; the death of Tom’s lover, Myrtle Wilson; and Gatsby’s vigil outside the Buchanan home in chapter 7, Nick and Gatsby meet before dawn at Gatsby’s house. Nick, revealing that this was the night Gatsby told him of his early years with Dan Cody, retells the story of Gatsby’s courtship of Daisy (an account that focuses on Gatsby), his heroism during the war, and his forlorn return to Louisville, where he begins his efforts to recapture the past. Nick’s narrative is interrupted by Gatsby’s extraordinary remark about Daisy’s relationship with Tom—“‘In any case... it was just personal’”—which Nick interprets as reflecting “some intensity in his conception of the affair that couldn’t be measured.” By this point in the novel, because of Nick’s skillful telling of Gatsby’s story, the reader is prepared to shout with him to Gatsby, “They’re a rotten crowd.... You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.’”

In chapter 9, following Gatsby’s murder by George Wilson at the end of chapter 8, Nick provides after-biographies balancing Mr. Gatz’s account of his son’s early preparation for transforming himself into Gatsby against Wolfshiem’s brief testimonial about his own role in helping Gatsby to acquire the wealth that allowed him to pursue his dream. Both narratives miss the point about the magnitude of Gatsby’s effort, but they ironically reinforce Nick’s conclusions about the title character in his prefatory meditation: “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.” Nick may “temporarily” have lost his interest, but he and his creator then retell Gatsby’s story, increasing its effectiveness through brilliant handling of point of view and structure.

Fitzgerald intended to employ a similar partially involved narrator, Cecelia Brady, in The Love of the Last Tycoon, but because the unfinished novel is fragmentary and Fitzgerald’s notes and outlines for the complete work are unclear about Cecelia’s role, it is impossible to say whether she would have been the only narrator of Tycoon. In Tender Is the Night, however, Fitzgerald abandoned the first-person narrator and developed instead another complex structural plan.

The novel is divided into three books employing an omniscient narrator, but Book I (twenty-five chapters)—which describes events that occur on the Riviera and Paris during a two-week period in the summer of 1925—is seen primarily through the eyes of Rosemary Hoyt, a young American actress. Because Rosemary is naive and becomes infatuated with the central character of the novel, Dr. Dick Diver, her perspective makes him and his wife, Nicole, seem elegant, glamorous, and in control of their world, until Nicole’s breakdown at the end of this section. Book II (twenty-three chapters) abandons Rosemary’s perspective in favor of the omniscient narrator and begins with a flashback to 1917, when Dick, then a brilliant young psychiatrist, comes to Zurich, meets and marries the wealthy mental patient Nicole Warren, and begins to become dependent on her money. In Book II, chapter 10, Nicole provides a stream-of-consciousness account of her life with Dick, an account that concludes with her apprehensive notice of Rosemary’s arrival on the Riviera beach in summer 1925, thereby bringing the novel back to its starting point in Book I. The remainder of Book II employs the omniscient narrator to trace Dick’s gradual decline through 1928 into purposelessness, alcoholism, and infidelity. Book III (thirteen chapters), again related by the omniscient narrator, rapidly chronicles Dick’s complete deterioration in 1928 and 1929: his increasing alcoholism, his final abandonment of his career as a psychiatrist, and his desertion by both Rosemary and Nicole. This third book produces a cataclysmic effect; in its final postscript chapter the narrator matter-of-factly reveals Diver as a total failure living in obscurity in upstate New York. The point of view and structure of the novel brilliantly convey the tragedy of Diver’s collapse, moving as they do from Rosemary’s romanticized vision of him in Book I, through the richly detailed omniscient-narrator account of his rise and fall in Book II, to the understated but devastating omniscient-narrator report of his final degradation in Book III. Fitzgerald, who regarded his ambitious 1934 novel as “a confession of faith,”135 was so disappointed by its contemporary critical reception that he restructured his own copy in straight chronological order. This so-called “Author’s Final Version,” published in 1951, demonstrated the effectiveness of the original plan.

CODA: Fitzgerald was clearly a master of stylistic and technical devices that are often identified with great writing. Author James Thurber recognized an effect of this mastery when he wrote in 1942, “Fitzgerald’s perfection of style and form, as in The Great Gatsby,’ has a way of making something that lies between your stomach and your heart quiver a little.” Modernist writer Gertrude Stein declared in 1933 that Fitzgerald was “the only one of the younger writers who wrote naturally in sentences,” and she could have added that he combined his sentences into fully developed, integrated paragraphs. But Fitzgerald was more than a brilliant technician and stylist. In an October 1936 letter to his daughter, who was trying to write short stories, Fitzgerald offered advice drawn from his own experience: “If you have anything to say, anything you feel nobody has ever said before, you have got to feel it so desperately that you will find some way to say it that nobody has ever found before, so that the thing you have to say and the way of saying it blend as one matter—as indissolubly as if they were conceived together.” Fitzgerald’s accomplishments as a fiction writer were, finally, the product of his remarkable fusion of technique and style with material, theme, and a distinctive personal voice.

Subject to Revision

WRITING HABITS: Fitzgerald is an authentic instance of an author who wrote by ear, the way a composer writes music. His prose is rhythmical, and he punctuated for sound, not for sight or in accordance with mechanical rules. He has been unnecessarily ridiculed for his bad spelling, which does not diminish the brilliance and control of his prose: literature is not a spelling bee. Fitzgerald felt that it was his publisher’s responsibility to correct misspellings and other mechanical and usage errors, but because the Scribners proofreading standards were low, his books—particularly This Side of Paradise and Tender Is the Night— were published with errors for which he was blamed. In addition to spelling and usage problems, factual errors occur. In The Great Gatsby, for example, the description of the eyes on Dr. T. J. Eckleburg’s billboard includes the line “their retinas are one yard high”; since retinas cannot be seen, Fitzgerald probably meant irises. The blunder was Fitzgerald’s, but a good copyeditor should have caught it. Though Fitzgerald committed factual and mechanical errors, he evoked emotions, moods, and sensory responses through delicate self-editing. Every word mattered to him. As he wrote in a 13 August 1936 letter to publisher Bennett Cerf, “[S]ome-times by a single word one can throw a new emphasis or give a new value to the exact same scene or setting.” Thus, in the description of Monroe Stahr’s unfinished house in section 14 of The Love of the Last Tycoon, Fitzgerald wrote “the skeleton of Stahr’s house” and then substituted fuselage for skeleton to emphasize the connections between Stahr and flight.

Fitzgerald was a painstaking writer and rewriter. His first drafts were done in pencil on legal-size paper and then were turned over to a typist, who prepared a triple-spaced text with one or two carbon copies. Fitzgerald then revised the ribbon copy and sometimes the carbons in pencil. One of these revised typescripts, which incorporated all corrections, went back to the typist, who prepared a new typescript. After another round of pencil corrections, this typescript was usually submitted for publication, but it might be retyped if the corrections were extensive. Fitzgerald then polished the galley proofs, not hesitating to revise or rewrite so heavily that the proofs had to be reset.

ACHIEVING MASTERPIECES: The composition process for Fitzgerald’s novels was more elaborate than for his short fiction, involving layers of rewriting and revisions in both typescript and proofs. Authors are normally expected to read their proofs for typographical errors only; the writing process is supposed to be finished before the work is set in type. Fitzgerald, however, regarded proofs as just another typescript; he refused to leave his work alone while there was an opportunity to improve it. He revised, rewrote, and restructured The Great Gatsby in galley proofs, and he revised Tender Is the Night in magazine serial proofs, book galleys, and book page proofs. He did not engage in nervous tinkering: examination of his revised typescripts and proofs reveals that the work got better in each layer of revision. The alterations ranged from single-word substitutions to rewrites of complete scenes as Fitzgerald endeavored to achieve the work that existed in his mind.

Because Fitzgerald was a saver and preserved his manuscripts, typescripts, and proofs, it is possible to reconstruct the writing of The Great Gatsby and Tender Is the Night—and to see how they became masterpieces. The process is clearer for Gatsby, for which the extant documents are the pencil manuscript, the untouched first galley proofs, and the revised/rewritten galleys; the typescript has not survived. This intricately structured short novel achieved its narrative control in the galley stage. Fitzgerald’s changes were so extensive that the proofs had to be entirely reset.

When Perkins read the typescript for the unrevised text of The Great Gatsby, he wrote Fitzgerald, who was in Europe, a long letter that most significantly focused on the structure of the novel:

There is one other point: in giving deliberately Gatsby’s biography when he gives it to the narrator you do depart from the method of the narrative in some degree, for otherwise almost everything is told, and beautifully told, in the regular flow of it,—in the succession of events or in accompaniment with them. But you can’t avoid the biography altogether. I thought you might find ways to let the truth of some of his claims like “Oxford” and his army career come out bit by bit in the course of actual narrative. I mention the point anyway for consideration in this interval before I send the proofs.

Fitzgerald responded in a December 1924 letter:

(b) Chapters VI + VIII know how to fix

(c) Gatsby’s business affairs I can fix. I get your point about them.

(d) His vagueness I can repair by making more pointed—this doesn’t sound good but wait and see. It’ll make him clear

(e) But his long narrative in Chap VIII will be difficult to split up. Zelda also thought I was a little out of key but it is good writing and I don’t think I could bear to sacrifice any of it

(f) I have 1000 minor corrections which I will make on the proof + several more large ones which you didn’t mention.

After publication of The Great Gatsby Fitzgerald gave his editor credit for improving the novel: “Max, it amuses me when praise comes in on the structure of the book—because it was you who fixed up the structure, not me.“ Fitzgerald was extravagant in his expression of gratitude: he did all of his own work in restructuring Gatsby by transposing, cutting, and replacing episodes in the galley proofs. The novel became a master-piece in the process.

As he told Perkins, Fitzgerald recognized that Gatsby’s long biography in proof chapter 8 withheld necessary information from the reader. His solution was to transpose the facts about Gatsby’s past from proof chapters 7 and 8 to the beginning and end of book chapter 6.

The large proof revisions were accompanied by thousands of minute changes: single-word substitutions and alterations of sentence rhythms. Comparison of the manuscript and revised proof texts for the eloquent closing of the novel reveals Fitzgerald’s painstaking concern with every word.

Fitzgerald worked on the novel that became Tender Is the Night between 1925 and 1933, but his writing was frequently interrupted, and the novel evolved through three different plotlines and seventeen stages before its publication in 1934. His original story centered on Francis Melarky, a young American movie technician who meets charming American expatriates Seth and Dinah Piper (also called Roreback) and alcoholic Abe Grant (Herkimer) on the Riviera while traveling with his mother. In this version Melarky was to murder the domineering Mrs. Melarky, and the work-in-progress was variously titled “The Boy Who Killed His Mother,” “Our Type,” “The World’s Fair,” and “The Melarky Case.” Fitzgerald worked intermittently on the Melarky matricide plot between 1925 and 1930, producing five drafts, no one of which was longer than four chapters. Three of the drafts used a third-person narrator and two employed an unidentified first-person narrator. In 1929 Fitzgerald briefly shifted his focus to a new plotline involving movie director Lew Kelly and his wife, Nicole, who meet a young actress named Rosemary while traveling to Europe on an ocean liner. Only two manuscript chapters of this version survive, and in early 1930 Fitzgerald returned to the Melarky story.

Zelda’s first psychological breakdown in April 1930 and Fitzgerald’s growing sense of his own failures during the late 1920s and early 1930s provided him with new, deeply felt material, which in turn generated a new plotline. He abandoned the Melarky-Kelly versions, though clearly the Pipers and Nicole Kelly contributed to the Divers, Abe Grant evolved into Abe North, and Francis Melarky and the actress Rosemary were combined and transformed into Rosemary Hoyt in Tender Is the Night. Between 1931 and 1933 the final version of the novel went through eleven stages: notes, manuscript, four sets of typescripts and carbons, revised galleys and revised pages proofs for its serial appearance in Scribner’s Magazine, “ the serial itself, and revised book galley proofs and book page proofs. Fitzgerald used several different working titles for the novel, including “The Drunkard’s Holiday,” “Dr. Diver’s Holiday,” and “Richard Diver,” before settling on Tender Is the Night, drawn from “Ode to a Nightingale” by his favorite poet, the nineteenth-century British Romantic John Keats. His drafts for the Diver version reveal that he settled on the flashback structure from the beginning of his work on this plot-line. Though his posthumously published “Author’s Final Version” placed chapters in chronological order, there is no evidence that Fitzgerald experimented with a straight chronological narrative while he was working on the novel published in 1934.

Stories and Novels

The working relationship between Fitzgerald’s short stories and novels is not generally understood. The stories have been disparaged as hackwork that took time away from his serious fiction. Although this view was endorsed by Fitzgerald, who resented the necessity to produce commercial work, careful reading of the stories reveals close connections with the novels. Fitzgerald’s stories can be regarded as trial drafts for elements in his novels; in certain of these “cluster stories” he tested themes, scenes, and characters that were developed in his next novel. The most instructive of the cluster stories are associated with The Great Gatsby and Tender Is the Night. Fitzgerald described “Winter Dreams” (1922) as “A sort of 1st draft of the Gatsby idea,” for it tells the story of a poor boy inspired to succeed by a desirable rich girl who betrays him.

“Absolution,” “The Sensible Thing,’” and “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” also have meaningful connections with Gatsby. Because Tender Is the Night was nine years in gestation and composition, at least thirty-seven magazine stories relate to it, notably “Babylon Revisited” and “One Trip Abroad.” Both analyze the deterioration of Americans in Europe during the boom years. Fitzgerald did not include “One Trip Abroad” in his final volume of stories, Taps at Reveille, perhaps because he regarded it as too close to Tender Is the Night.

The reciprocity between his stories and novels resulted in problems for Fitzgerald because he had a firm rule against repeating pieces of his writing in his novels and story collections. When he was working on The Great Gatsby, he transferred short passages from magazine stories to the novel but then removed and replaced those passages before reprinting the stories in one of his collections. If a story had been too heavily mined to be salvaged for book republication, Fitzgerald designated it in his Ledger as “Permanently Buried.”

This system worked well for The Great Gatsby, but it resulted in difficulties for Tender Is the Night. During the long period while Fitzgerald wrote and rewrote Tender Is the Night, he borrowed material from the novel-in-progress for the short stories he was producing for ready money, and he stripped material from stories for use in the novel. The completed novel therefore included material originally written for stories as well as story material borrowed from the novel and then re-borrowed back into the novel. This process was not a literary crime: many authors have recycled their own writings. Nevertheless, Fitzgerald did regard the repetition of passages in his story volumes and novels as improper. When Perkins suggested that Fitzgerald was overly conscientious in this regard, he replied: “The fact that Ernest [Hemingway] has let himself repeat here and there a phrase would be no possible justification for me doing the same. Each of us has his virtues and one of mine happens to be a great sense of exactitude about my work. He might be able to afford a lapse in that line where I wouldn’t be and after all I have got to be the final judge of what is appropriate in these cases.

“The taxi driver regarded me indulgently while I stumbled here and there in the knee-deep underbrush, looking for my youth in a clapboard or a strip of roofing or a rusty tomato can. I tried to sight on a vaguely familiar clump of trees, but it was growing darker now and I couldn’t be quite sure they were the right trees.

‘They’re going to fix up the old race course,’ Ailie called from the car. ‘Tarleton’s getting quite doggy in its old age.’

No. Upon consideration they didn’t look like the right trees. All I could be sure of was this place that had once been so full of life and effort was gone, as if it had never existed, and that in another month Ailie would be gone, and the South would be empty for me forever.“

F. Scott Fitzgerald

From “The Last of the Belles” (1929), in The Short Stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald, edited, with a preface, by Matthew J. Bruccoli (New York: Scribners, 1989), pp. 462–463.

The symbiotic relationship between Fitzgerald’s commercial short-story work and his novels must be understood in terms of his own standards: he did not write down for magazines, nor did he write carelessly for them. The plots of the stories are sometimes gimmicky, and the happy endings may be contrived, but his writing maintains Fitzgerald’s standards. He always wrote the only way he knew how to write. Moreover, the recycling and polishing of material is characteristic of Fitzgerald’s practice of refining his prose through layers of revision. Even the disparaged Saturday Evening Post stories underwent this process, which is one of the reasons they were so successful.

Critical Overview

A Critical Analysis of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Work

Although for the general reader F. Scott Fitzgerald’s fame rests primarily on one novel, The Great Gatsby (1925), his creative life, from youth to early death, found full expression in some 160 short stories. These works not only provided the income that sustained Fitzgerald when writing his novels, but they also enhanced the legend that grew up around Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald after his first novel, This Side of Paradise (1920), appeared at the beginning of the Jazz Age. For ten years thereafter the pages of the Saturday Evening Post, Redbook, Woman’s Home Companion, and other mass-circulation magazines were filled with romantic tales of young lovers, of dreamers and doers, of madcap heroines and sad young men, many of whom seemed to reflect aspects of the lives of their creator and his wife.

Fitzgerald is one of the most widely recognized names in American literature, yet the legend he so carefully cultivated has, paradoxically, tended to obscure the writer as well as his work. Fitzgerald was a major novelist, but at least a dozen of his stories rank among the very best short fiction written in the twentieth century. Fitzgerald’s whole life was bound up with his short stories; indeed, the story of his life cannot be told without them. Only through an acquaintance with his career as a short-fiction writer can the complex man who now occupies a major position in the literary and mythic life of the nation be understood.

Perhaps no other American writer has felt himself as inextricably tied to the history of his country as F. Scott Fitzgerald . Born in 1896, at the end of an era of unprecedented national growth, he lived to see the traditions that had guided his parents’ generation and his own childhood cast aside; indeed, he was said by his contemporaries to have precipitated the upheaval in manners and morals that accompanied the end of World War I. Never as ‘‘lost’’ as the members of his generation described in Paris by Gertrude Stein, Fitzgerald nevertheless experienced and even personified the ‘‘boom’’ of the 1920s and the ‘‘bust’’ of the 1930s. America had sloughed off its past and headed for, as Fitzgerald said, the ‘‘greatest, gaudiest spree in history’’; when it was over, he realized that the nation had been living on borrowed time, ‘‘a short and precious time— for when the mist rises . . . one finds that the very best is over.’’

The elegiac note that characterizes his reminiscences of the1920s is typical of Fitzgerald’s writing; its origins were in his early childhood and struggling adolescence. He felt himself always to be an outsider—from the elite society of the St. Paul, Minnesota, of his boyhood, from the spectacular achievements of the athletes of his school days, from the glittering social world of his young manhood, from the wealth and power of the American aristocracy, and even, at the end, from the literary life of his nation.

Fitzgerald’s sense of estrangement was rooted in his family background. He never forgot that he was related, however distantly, to Francis Scott Key, a name that conjured up images of America’s heroic past. He listened attentively to the tales his father, Edward Fitzgerald, told of the family’s Confederate past. He noted the connection between his father’s family and, through marriage, Mary Surratt, hanged as a conspirator in Lincoln’s assassination. And on the side of his mother, Molly McQuillan, although the ancestry was not as patrician as his father’s, he could point to the vitality of his grandfather, an Irishman who epitomized the self-made American merchants in the decades immediately following the Civil War. Fitzgerald admitted in 1933 in a letter to John O’Hara, ‘‘I am half black Irish and half old American stock with the usual exaggerated ancestral pretensions. The black Irish half of the family had the money and looked down upon the Maryland side of the family who had, and really had, that . . . series of reticences and obligations that go under the poor old shattered word ‘breeding.’’’ When his own father experienced serious business failures during Fitzgerald’s childhood, the boy was distraught. He experienced such severe anxieties that he expected the family to be taken to the poorhouse, and his later financial insecurity reinforced these childhood traumas. His life suggests that perhaps unconsciously he had to live on a financial brink.

The Fitzgerald family became increasingly dependent on the mother’s relatives in St. Paul after moves to Buffalo, Syracuse, and back to Buffalo, with several different residences in each city. They moved several times in St. Paul, too, but always lived in rented houses or apartments in the Summit Avenue neighborhood where railroad tycoon James J. Hill kept his residence. The years of Fitzgerald’s childhood and early youth were marked in his memory indelibly: he was the outsider, the poor relation, dependent on his grandmother and his aunt, admitted to but never really part of the social center of St. Paul life. That sense of estrangement so characteristic of his formative years marks much of his fiction, from the first short stories, written when he was about thirteen, to his last efforts in Hollywood. Similarly, despite his father’s weaknesses and failures Fitzgerald was never to relinquish his loyalty to him and to the traditions he represented.

Fitzgerald was admitted to the St. Paul Academy, a private high school, in 1908, where he remained for three years. It was there, from 1909 to 1911, that he published his first short stories, in the school literary magazine Now and Then. In the late 1920s he re-created these years in the Basil Duke Lee stories, which depict the painful rejections Fitzgerald experienced at St. Paul Academy where he was disliked and socially unsuccessful. He attempted to use sports as a path to acceptance, but he did not have the physique for football stardom. His most cherished memories of the St. Paul experience were those connected with the stage. Fitzgerald always loved drama, and his earliest writing efforts were either in the form of short plays or stories with strong theatrical elements. When his poor grades at St. Paul Academy necessitated his changing schools, he was enrolled at the Newman School in Hackensack, New Jersey, where he could indulge his taste for the theater with a few thrilling trips to New York City, less than an hour away. Here he felt the glamour and excitement he had dreamed about in St. Paul. For the rest of his life New York City would hold a special magic for Fitzgerald: success, vitality, and enchantment.

His popularity improved slowly at Newman, but his opportunities to escape from an unpleasant reality were greater than they had ever been. And it was perhaps the color and excitement of the Broadway theater, particularly the musicals, that so captured Fitzgerald’s imagination that he aspired throughout his life to achieve fame as a playwright or librettist. He continued to write short stories at Newman, where the school magazine, the Newman News, published three of his efforts. His Newman career was not the failure that the St. Paul Academy had been. At the beginning of his second year he met the person who would become the most influential figure in his early life, both creatively and personally, Father Sigourney Fay, who would become director of the school. Father Fay was a sophisticated, lively esthete, a friend of many well-known figures in arts and letters, including writer Shane Leslie. Fay revealed to Fitzgerald a far more attractive Catholicism than he had ever known and opened a world to him that suggested the beauty and richness of experience he would always try to capture in his writing.

Fitzgerald entered Princeton University in 1913, and although he never graduated, his years there were the most important to his development as a writer. He never lost his interest in sports, but knowing that he could not succeed as a participant, he sought other roads to success and the popularity he would always crave. His major activities at Princeton were in the Triangle Club, the Tiger, and the Nassau Literary Magazine.

In the first of the two periods he spent at Princeton (he left in his junior year as a result of poor grades and illness, returning the following year only to enlist in the army after the United States entered World War I) he contributed the plot and lyrics to a Triangle show and the lyrics to another, and he wrote a one-act play and a short story, ‘‘The Ordeal’’ (Nassau Literary Magazine, June 1915). In 1917, when he returned to Princeton, he wrote five stories and one short play as well as one Triangle show. The stories from this period reveal a growing maturity in the author. Three were later revised for publication in H. L. Mencken’s Smart Set, two were incorporated into Fitzgerald’s first novel, This Side of Paradise, and one, ‘‘Tarquin of Cheapside’’ (Nassau Literary Magazine, April 1917), later appeared in his second collection of stories, Tales of the Jazz Age (1922). Clearly these years were of major importance to his development as a writer.

At Princeton he expanded his literary horizons considerably, largely through his friendships with John Peale Bishop, who introduced him to poetry, particularly that of John Keats, and with Edmund Wilson, who would become the ‘‘intellectual conscience’’ of his life. He admired Christian Gauss, the teacher who recognized the unique quality of Fitzgerald’s prose. In the richest intellectual environment he had ever experienced he read Oscar Wilde, Ernest Dowson, Algernon Charles Swinburne, and Compton Mackenzie, whose Sinister Street (1913–1914) made a marked impression on him. Later at Princeton he read Bernard Shaw, Rupert Brooke, and H. G. Wells and dabbled in socialist theory. His social life broadened, too. He was elected to the Cottage, one of the most elite Princeton clubs, largely because his standing among his classmates was enhanced by his successes with the Triangle productions.

And it was while at Princeton that Fitzgerald met the girl who would become the prototype for so many of the beautiful but elusive women who appear in his stories and novels, Ginevra King. His meeting with Ginevra was so important that he used it, and his memories of her, in the Basil and Josephine stories over a decade later.

After receiving his army commission, Fitzgerald was stationed in Montgomery, Alabama, where he met the girl who was to become the single most important person in his life, Zelda Sayre. Like Ginevra, Zelda appears throughout Fitzgerald’s fictional world. She is Sally Carrol in ‘‘The Ice Palace’’ (Saturday Evening Post, 22 May 1920; collected in Flappers and Philosophers,’ 1920), the heroine of ‘‘The Last of the Belles’’ (Saturday Evening Post, 2 March 1929; collected in Taps at Reveille, 1935), and Jonquil in ‘‘The Sensible Thing’’ (Liberty, 5 July 1924; collected in All the Sad Young Men, 1926); she is the model for most of the women in his stories and novels until the late 1930s. Zelda was the most popular, daring, and vital girl in Montgomery. For Fitzgerald she represented the glamour of the unattainable, and he fell deeply in love with her. In the ledger that he kept until 1937 (published as F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Ledger, 1973) Fitzgerald reported that his twenty-second year was ‘‘The most important year of life. Every emotion and my life work decided. Miserable and ecstatic but a great success.’’ In the entry for September of that year he notes, ‘‘Fell in love on the 7th.’’ Fitzgerald also wrote the first version of This Side of Paradise while in the army.

Much has been written about the relationship between Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. It was stormy, passionate, fierce, often ugly. Despite their quarrels and mutual self-destructiveness, the bond between them was so strong that long after her mental illness had kept them apart he could not divorce her, even when he fell in love with Sheilah Graham during his last years in Hollywood. Zelda lacked any principle of order; she threw herself into the heady celebrations that marked her husband’s early success. She competed with him; she goaded him; she joined him in showing the world how an attractive and successful young American couple could defy convention and live for the thrill of the moment.

Zelda wrote many poignant letters after her illness, and, indeed, she has emerged as a pitiable figure. particularly in recent years when she has come to be regarded as a casualty of the American system of marriage—a woman who needed artistic fulfillment of her own, struggling against the domination of a male-oriented society. That kind of conclusion is simplistic; the truth of the relationship cannot really be known. Zelda Fitzgerald, whatever anguish she experienced and caused in those around her, is inseparable from her husband’s career. His initial struggle for literary success in 1920 was caused by Zelda’s refusal to marry him because he did not have enough money to support them. Subsequently, he kept on writing the short stories that would provide the money for them to maintain the style of life they desired, to maintain her throughout years of medical care and hospitalization, and to pay for their daughter, Scottie’s, care and education.

Fitzgerald wrote nineteen short stories in the spring of 1919, all of them rejected by magazines. In June Smart Set bought ‘‘Babes in the Woods,’’ first published in the Nassau Literary Magazine in May 1917, for thirty dollars. (It appeared in the September 1919 Smart Set and was later incorporated into This Side of Paradise.) Fitzgerald was living in New York, working in advertising, and struggling to finish his novel.

In the summer of 1919 Fitzgerald left New York City for St. Paul, where he finished This Side of Paradise and resubmitted it to Scribners, who had previously rejected it but now accepted it for publication in the spring of 1920. While waiting, he sold six stories to the Smart Set for $215 in October and two more in November for $300. His big break came when his new agent, Harold Ober, sold ‘‘Head and Shoulders’’ to the Saturday Evening Post, where it appeared in the 21 February 1920 issue, for $400. Ober later sold the film rights to the story for $2,500. In the early months of 1920, soon after the publication of This Side of Paradise, Fitzgerald wrote one of his best stories, ‘‘May Day,’’ which was rejected by the Post but admired by Mencken, who included it in the July 1920 Smart Set. On 3 April 1920 Scott and Zelda were married in New York.

Scribners followed publication of the novel with Fitzgerald’s first collection of short stories, Flappers and Philosophers. Although only three of the stories may be considered among his best (‘‘The Ice Palace,’’ ‘‘The Offshore Pirate’’ [Saturday Evening Post, 29 May 1920], and ‘‘Bernice Bobs Her Hair’’ [Saturday Evening Post, 1 May 1920]), the volume appealed to the audience that had embraced his novel. The collection sold 15,325 copies by 1922, with six printings. The reviews were not as enthusiastic as those for This Side of Paradise; indeed, Mencken made note of the two-sidedness of Fitzgerald’s creative life—the serious writer and the popular entertainer. This view of Fitzgerald was to characterize critical judgments of his fiction, particularly in relation to the short stories, from the 1920s to the present day. From this point in his life short stories would provide Fitzgerald’s major income. He never made much money from his novels, including This Side of Paradise which, despite its success, never achieved the sales of a best-seller. During the next twelve years the Saturday Evening Post was Fitzgerald’s main outlet for short stories, his fees increasing to $4,000 per story for the years 1929 through 1932.

There is a popular conception about Fitzgerald’s work for the Post—that his stories were written to slick-magazine specifications, and therefore they represent the commercial side of his talent. It is a common belief that Fitzgerald bartered his gifts by writing short stories acceptable to the Post, which was edited from 1899 to 1936 by George H. Lorimer. Lorimer demanded an unusually high standard from his Post writers, allowing them wide latitude in choice of subject and form. There were certainly standards of commercial acceptability to which he subscribed, but they depended on professional smoothness, readability, and verve. The Post encouraged, but did not demand, strong plots, leisurely narrative, a good mixture of dialogue and action, and vivid characters. These requirements, while not stimulating radical departures from convention, also did not necessarily constrict or hamper creative instincts. And they were characteristics of Fitzgerald’s fiction long before the Post ever accepted one of his stories. Happy endings were not prescribed, as proved by the publication in the Post of ‘‘Babylon Revisited’’ (21 February 1931; collected in Taps at Reveille), ‘‘The Rough Crossing’’ (8 June 1929), ‘‘Two Wrongs’’ (18 January 1930; collected in Taps at Reveille), and ‘‘One Trip Abroad’’ (11 October 1930).

Fitzgerald’s letters underscore his independence as well as his dedication to his work. Although commercial writing is, he admitted in a 1940 letter to Zelda, a ‘‘definite trick,’’ he felt he brought to it the ‘‘intelligence and good writing’’ to which a sensitive editor like Lorimer might respond. In Wesley W. Stout, Lorimer’s successor, ‘‘an up and coming young Republican who gives not a damn about literature,’’ he placed the blame for the plethora of ‘‘escape stories about the brave frontiersmen . . . or fishing, or football captains, nothing that would even faintly shock or disturb the reactionary bourgeois.’’ He conceded that he had tried but could not write such stories. ‘‘As soon as I feel I am writing to a cheap specification my pen freezes and my talent vanishes over the hill. . . .’’ To Harold Ober he confessed that he was unable to ‘‘rush things. Even in years like ’24, ’28, ’29, ’30, all devoted to short stories, I could not turn out more than 8-9 top price stories a year. It simply is impossible—all my stories are conceived like novels, require a special emotion, a special experience—so that my readers . . . know that each time it’ll be something new, not in form but in substance.’’

After their marriage the Fitzgeralds rarely remained in one place more than six months to a year. After a whirlwind descent on New York City, they retreated to Westport, Connecticut, and then to Europe. Back in America, they lived briefly in St. Paul where Fitzgerald revised his novel The Beautiful and Damned (1922) and put together Tales of the Jazz Age, in which only two pieces, ‘‘The Diamond as Big as the Ritz’’ (Smart Set, June 1922) and ‘‘Two for a Cent’’ (Metropolitan Magazine, April 1922), had been written after 1920.

The collection contained eleven stories, divided into three sections: ‘‘My Last Flappers,’’ ‘‘Fantasies,’’ and ‘‘Unclassified Masterpieces.’’ The John Held cartoon cover and Fitzgerald’s annotated table of contents made it an attractive volume. Sales were good: eight thousand copies sold in the first printing, followed by two more printings in the same year. Readers liked the collection more than the critics did; most of them regarded the stories as diversions and failed to recognize the merit of ‘‘May Day’’ or ‘‘The Diamond as Big as the Ritz.’’

During the next few years the Fitzgeralds moved frequently: from Great Neck to France, to Italy, to Delaware, and even to Hollywood, where Fitzgerald was invited to try his hand at screen writing. He was, at the same time, writing the major novels for which he received critical acclaim, The Great Gatsby and Tender Is the Night (1934). During these years Fitzgerald was at the top of his form as a short-story writer not only in the quantity but also in the quality of the fiction he produced. Because he needed money to finance the writing of The Great Gatsby, he produced eleven short stories in just four months.

He was able to put together another collection in 1926, and this one, All the Sad Young Men, contained some of his finest work: ‘‘The Rich Boy’’ (Redbook, January, February 1926), ‘‘Winter Dreams’’ (Metropolitan Magazine, December 1922), ‘‘Absolution’’ (American Mercury, June 1924), and ‘‘The Sensible Thing.’’ As was his practice, he meticulously edited the magazine versions, careful to remove passages that he had ‘‘stripped’’ from them for use in The Great Gatsby. It was characteristic of Fitzgerald to mine his stories for particularly felicitous passages which could be used in the novels.) This volume, too, was relatively successful, considering that short-story collections rarely sold well. It went into three printings, totaling 16,170 copies in 1926. The critics were decidedly more impressed with this collection than either of the two that had appeared earlier, yet in retrospect it is clear that few recognized its level of artistry.

Just as his months in Europe had provided Fitzgerald with new friendships and influences— Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Gerald and Sara Murphy—his two-month sojourn in Hollywood in early 1927 introduced him to a world to which he would return in fiction and in reality many times before his death. In ‘‘Jacob’s Ladder’’ (Saturday Evening Post, 20 August 1927) the young heroine is clearly patterned after actress Lois Moran, whom Fitzgerald met in Hollywood. As he would continue to do for the rest of his life, Fitzgerald used his own personal experience, particularly his marriage, as subject matter for his stories and novels. Zelda Fitzgerald’s mental breakdown did not allow Fitzgerald to suspend his short story writing to take care of her. Instead, he combined visits to her in various sanatoriums with bouts of writing that would provide the funds necessary for her care and treatment.

During the worst years of economic and emotional crisis Fitzgerald wrote some of his most eloquent stories. As Zelda moved in and out of clinics and he struggled to meet his responsibilities to her and to his daughter, he wrote the Basil Duke Lee stories (1928–1929), the Josephine Perry stories (1930–1931), and the story which is today regarded as an unqualified masterpiece, ‘‘Babylon Revisited.’’ The stories from this period are retrospective, meditative, elegiac, certainly sadder than those he had written for the Post during the previous ten years, and the Post editors did not like them.

By the early 1930s Fitzgerald had lost his taste for writing the stories of young love which had brought him to the top of the magazine pay scale by 1929. Of the forty-two stories written in the six years from 1929 to 1935, eight (the Basil and Josephine stories) draw on autobiographical events and cultural attitudes that reflect the years from World War I through the 1920s. Five of the remaining stories are so trivial as to demand only wonder that they managed to find their way into print. (‘‘The Passionate Eskimo’’ [Liberty, June 1935] and ‘‘Zone of Accident,’’ [Saturday Evening Post, 13 July 1935] are among them.) But the other twenty-nine provide important insight into Fitzgerald’s artistic crisis, when his subjects were as serious as his and the nation’s trials demanded, but his plots were outworn, stale, mechanical—unintentional parodies of the exuberant accounts of young love and romantic longing that so captivated audiences during the boom years. These stories show Fitzgerald groping with painful subjects and achieving only intermittent success but on at least two occasions, with ‘‘Babylon Revisited’’ and ‘‘Crazy Sunday’’ (American Mercury, October 1932), producing masterpieces that incorporate the matter, if not the manner, of his more commercial contemporary work. In these two stories and in those that began to appear in Esquire in the mid-1930s, Fitzgerald was able to resolve his problems with plot and style, and to find a form suitable to the serious subjects that now interested him.

By 1934 Fitzgerald was writing one story a month and drinking excessively, until finally he collapsed. At this low point (he had been disappointed by the poor sales, despite critical praise, of Tender Is the Night, which had been published in April) he suggested to his editor at Scribners, Maxwell Perkins, a new collection of short stories, Taps at Reveille. The volume contained eighteen stories, including such Basil Duke Lee stories as ‘‘The Freshest Boy’’ (Saturday Evening Post, 28 July 1928) and ‘‘He Thinks He’s Wonderful’’(Saturday Evening Post, 29 September 1928), the Josephine Perry stories ‘‘First Blood’’ (Saturday Evening Post, 5 April 1930) and ‘‘A Woman with a Past’’ (Saturday Evening Post, 6 September 1930), and other first-rate examples of his art: ‘‘Crazy Sunday,’’ ‘‘The Last of the Belles,’’ and ‘‘Babylon Revisited.’’ The first printing was 5,100 copies, and the reviews were generally good, but short story collections at any time were luxuries, and in the Depression, with a $2.50 cover price, the volume did not attract a wide readership. Fitzgerald’s Post price had dropped to $3,000 per story, and of the nine he wrote in 1935, the magazine accepted only three. His primary outlet in the late 1930s was Esquire, whose editor, Arnold Gingrich, encouraged Fitzgerald, agreeing to accept anything he wrote. The stringent space limitations of the magazine coincided with Fitzgerald’s search for a new form and a new style, but its low fees ($250 per story) were insufficient to support him. In 1936 he wrote nine stories, semi-fictional sketches, and articles for Esquire, including ‘‘Afternoon of an Author’’ (August 1936) and ‘‘Author’s House’’ (July 1936), but they brought him only $2,250. These were Fitzgerald’s most anguished years: Zelda was hopelessly ill; his own health had deteriorated badly; his income had shrunk to $10,000 by 1937; and he suffered a serious breakdown, physically and emotionally.

In 1937 Ober secured a contract for Fitzgerald as a screenwriter for M-G-M studios. Although he worked on many films and screenplays, only Three Comrades (1937) gives him screen credit (as co-writer). Nevertheless, these last years were among Fitzgerald’s most artistically creative and personally satisfying. Despite his family problems and his poor health, he found personal happiness in his relationship with Hollywood gossip columnist Sheilah Graham. In addition to the uncompleted novel The Last Tycoon (1941), Fitzgerald wrote a series of stories for Esquire about a Hollywood hack writer, Pat Hobby. Fitzgerald had a heart attack in November 1940 and died on 21 December after suffering a second attack. In his hand was the Princeton Alumni Weekly. At his death he was almost forgotten as a writer; his royalty statement for the summer of 1940 was $13.13. Since the 1950s his reputation has grown steadily, and today he is ranked among the most important writers of the century. And the short stories, long neglected or undervalued, are at last receiving the kind of serious attention they have always deserved. But Fitzgerald always knew their value: ‘‘I have asked a lot of my emotions—one hundred and twenty stories. The price was high, right up with Kipling, because there was one little drop of something— not blood, not a tear, not my seed, but me more intimately than these, in every story, it was the extra I had.’’

Fitzgerald did not have a notably idiosyncratic linguistic style, as did Hemingway or William Faulkner, but a Fitzgerald story is recognizable by its romantic rhetoric, characters, settings, and social concerns. Fitzgerald experimented frequently with plots, subjects, and characters. The late stories are markedly different from the early group; both in style and substance they are innovative and experimental. For example, from Hollywood and his experience as a scriptwriter, Fitzgerald borrowed techniques, such as fade-outs and the camera angle as point of view.

The stories reveal a pattern of development and fall into three groups: the early tales about golden flappers and idealistic philosophers; the middle, embarrassingly sentimental, often mawkish stories; and finally, the late works, marked by new techniques—ellipsis, compression, suggestion— curiously enervated, yet deeply moving. Similar to these, yet distinctly separate, stand the Pat Hobby stories, where the old vitality had become corrosive bitterness in a literature of humiliation.

Most of his stories employ standard fictional techniques used in the novels: central complication, descriptive passages, dramatic climaxes and confrontations, reversals of fortune. And like the novels, the stories rarely turn on one action; more often, even in the shortest, slightest story, there are several actions of equal weight. His major problem is with plot; Fitzgerald will often begin with a good idea, create dramatic scenes, and then let the story limply peter out, or resolve the complications mechanically. An ending technique he used often was to blanket the resolution in lyrical prose, thus concealing the weakness of the story’s resolution. Another weakness in the stories is related to point of view and distance, particularly in relation to the protagonists.

Fitzgerald is most successful when his central character is both a participant and an observer of the action, weakest when the protagonist is simply a member of the upper class or an outsider.

Fitzgerald’s gifts as a writer were primarily lyric and poetic; lapses in plot and characterization did not concern him nearly as much as using the wrong word. His revisions show that he edited primarily for phrase or rhythm in a sentence. Thus, his stories, whatever their plots, are almost always notable for the grace and lyricism of his rhetoric. His descriptive gifts are strikingly apparent; with a few selected details, usually in atmosphere or decor, he creates a mood against which the dramatic situation stands out in relief. In ‘‘News of Paris,’’ a late sketch (probably written in 1940, published posthumously in Furioso in 1947), merely two lines, ‘‘It was quiet in the room. The peacocks in the draperies stirred in the April wind,’’ provide the background for a brief but haunting retrospective account of dissolution, apathy, and tired sexuality in the pre- Depression boom.

Through language Fitzgerald created another world in his stories, a fairy-tale world replete with its own conventions and milieus, free of the tensions in his own all-too-depressingly familiar environment; he projected his imagination through the rhetoric of nostalgia into the past, creating a never-never land of beauty, stupefying luxury, and fulfillment. Fitzgerald’s other world is a refuge from fear and anxiety, satiety and void; it is his answer to death and deterioration.

Through a profusion of words, images—especially the sights, sounds, smells of luxury—perhaps existence itself might take on new meaning and possibility. The words themselves, for Fitzgerald, may have provided refuge from the storms of his own life. His infusions of charged rhetoric throughout the stories offer unshakable evidence of his belief in and commitment to that other world beyond his own, a world of possibility, hope, and beauty. Through imagery, through sensory appeals, through the evocative re-creation of an idealized past and a fabulous future, Fitzgerald’s stories as a whole have the effect of lifting and transporting the reader past the restrictions of his own world. Fitzgerald was not simply playing on the facile sensibilities of his readers. The stories testify to his abiding faith in the possibility, somewhere, of living a graceful life. That this life might be made up of questionable values—of riches, of Hollywood-like romance, of tinselly fairgrounds and gilded mansions—is less important than that Fitzgerald asks his readers to share, perhaps ingenuously, his dedication to a dream.

His prose is filled with imagery, sensory in the Keatsian manner. He describes bridges, ‘‘like dancers holding hands in a row, with heads as tall as cities, and skirts of cable strand’’ (‘‘The Sensible Thing’’); trees, ‘‘like tall languid ladies with feather fans coquetting airily with the ugly roof of the monastery . . . delicate lace on the hems of many yellow fields’’ (‘‘Benediction,’’ Smart Set, February 1920; collected in Flappers and Philosophers); and moonlight, ‘‘That stream of silver that waved like a wide strand of curly hair toward the moon’’ (‘‘Love in the Night,’’ Saturday Evening Post, 14 March 1925). And his stories are filled with colors, bright blue and gold, white and silver, occasionally coalescing in a symbol that evokes a range of meanings beyond the purely decorative. In ‘‘May Day’’ the ‘‘great plate-glass front had turned to a deep creamy blue, the color of a Maxfield Parrish moonlight—a blue that seemed to press close upon the pane as if to crowd its way into the restaurant. Dawn had come up in Columbus Circle, magical, breathless dawn, silhouetting the great statue of the immortal Christopher, and mingling in a curious and uncanny manner with the fading yellow electric light inside.’’

The world of Fitzgerald’s stories is most frequently the world of the very rich. The milieus and manners constitute the backdrop against which a rags-to-riches story may unfold, a struggling young man is rescued by a benevolent tycoon, or a beautiful Cinderella meets her handsome, wealthy prince. Even in the more somber stories, manners and milieu are as important as the plot or the characters.

Although most of the stories can be classified as stories of manners, there are several that fall into the category of fantasy, using supernatural devices, suspense and mystery, and fabulous, fabricated milieus as critical elements of plot. In ‘‘The Adjuster’’ (Redbook, September 1925; collected in All the Sad Young Men) Fitzgerald combines a realistic surface, homiletic intention, and supernatural agent in a unique, yet not entirely successful, mixture. Dr. Moon, the supernatural figure, is introduced purely as a deus ex machina in a story which is concerned with the growth of maturity and responsibility in a selfish young married woman. Dr. Moon is a strange amalgam, half-psychiatrist, half fortuneteller. He appears at regular intervals when the plot begins to falter, reordering the events. Thus he prevents the woman, Luella, from deserting her sick husband; he compels her to take up the irksome, neglected role of wife, mother, and housekeeper; and he rewards her at the end by confessing that he has never really existed: she has merely grown up, and he symbolizes her growth. He is on hand, also, to deliver to her a final homily on performing one’s duties unselfishly. In a portentous declamation at the end he reveals, ‘‘Who am I? I am five years.’’

Similarly, in another morality tale, ‘‘One Trip Abroad,’’ the supernatural element again enters the plot, but here it is worked more closely into the fabric of the story. In this Dorian Gray-like situation a young couple, Nicole and Nelson Kelly, on the path of dissolution and degeneration, see themselves at crucial moments in the process of their decay in the guise of another young couple. The dissipation of which they are unaware in themselves they notice in their doubles. The most vivid scene occurs at the end, where in one horrifying moment the Kellys recognize themselves in the other couple. What adds to the impressiveness of this story is the suggestion of supernatural elements functioning in the background. All nature seems to reflect the tumult and disorder of the Kellys’ lives, suggests, in fact, a primordial force surrounding and eventually engulfing them. It follows them through the pleasure haunts of Europe, where nature is majestic and threatening; and in a powerful storm the two supernatural elements, the other couple and the malign forces which seem to have been released into the universe, meet—and in their meeting, the Kellys realize at last that they have lost not only ‘‘peace and love and health’’ but their souls as well.

Whatever the form of the story, Fitzgerald’s range of subjects is wide and varied. Within the larger themes of life, love, death, and the American myth of success there are incalculable shades and variations. Many of his later subjects are adumbrated in his juvenilia, collected as The Apprentice Fiction of F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1909– 1917 (1965). ‘‘A Debt of Honor’’ (Now and Then, March 1910) is a young boy’s exploration of the meaning of heroism as embodied in conventional notions of self-sacrifice and military glory. ‘‘Reade, Substitute Right-Half’’ (Now and Then, February 1910) is a classic wish-fulfillment sketch of an underdog who makes good on the football field, whose speed and dexterity outclass his teammates’ greater brawn. ‘‘Sentiment— and the Use of Rouge’’ (Nassau Literary Magazine, June 1917) contrasts the new, relaxed wartime morality with older, tested values. It touches on the breakdown of sexual codes, on personal morality, on religion and belief, and on the boredom and ritualistic emptiness of upper-class life. In ‘‘Shadow Laurels’’ (Nassau Literary Magazine, April 1915) Fitzgerald mourns the unlived life and celebrates the power of the romantic imagination; in ‘‘The Spire and the Gargoyle’’ (Nassau Literary Magazine, February 1917) he regrets wasted opportunity and unfulfilled potential. ‘‘The Ordeal’’ (later revised and published as ‘‘Benediction’’) presents a spiritual conflict in the soul of a novitiate between the call of ‘‘the world . . . gloriously apparent’’ and ‘‘the monastery vaguely impotent.’’ ‘‘The Debutante’’ (Nassau Literary Magazine, January 1917) and ‘‘Babes in the Woods’’ treat class distinctions, young love, manners, morals, and the generation gap. In ‘‘The Pierian Springs and the Last Straw’’ (Nassau Literary Magazine, October 1917) the themes are the artist’s source of inspiration and the cruelty and hatred that can accompany love.

Most of the stories are brief; the themes are suggested or superficially explored. In ‘‘Sentiment—and the Use of Rouge,’’ however, Fitzgerald develops his theme with fictional sophistication. ‘‘Sentiment’’ is about Clay Harrington Syneforth, a soldier in World War I who returns to his home in England for a two day leave. What he encounters on his visit forms the core of the story. The central theme is change: between the England Clay knew, was raised in, and loved and the new world to which he returns, its looser morals, neglect of conventions, and disillusion with the old ideals of heroism and love, a world totally committed to the present moment and dedicated to pleasure and momentary satisfactions. The war has created a new sexual license; the women who cannot be the wives of the soldiers must discard conventional morality and be as much as they can to the soldiers in the little time they have.

But Clay does not understand. In the last section of the story, on the battlefield, Flaherty, an Irish-Catholic soldier, brings up the question of faith. Flaherty excoriates the English talent for prettying up reality. ‘‘Blood on an Englishman always calls rouge to me mind.’’ The English, he says, see death as a game, but ‘‘the Irish take death damn serious.’’ Fitzgerald is saying at the end that Clay’s devotion to outward forms and conventions prevents him from perceiving what is really important in life. Because he lives and worships the surface symbols of a bygone era, he is incapable of recognizing that underneath the rouge, people have been genuinely and profoundly moved by the events behind the big, important words. Thus he dies uncomprehending, bewildered, frightened—of sex and sexual license, of the new morality, of the unexpected depths of feeling in his contemporaries—more afraid of life than of the death which awaits him on the battlefield.

There are many flaws in the story, particularly its schoolboy seriousness and its consciously ‘‘arty’’ narrative. But it is a very early example of Fitzgerald’s concern with a major theme—social change and the accompanying dislocation of values—which he treats memorably years later in ‘‘Babylon Revisited.’’

The major subjects of Fitzgerald’s short stories are the sadness of the unfulfilled life and the unrecapturable moment of bliss, the romantic imagination and its power to transform reality, love, courtship and marriage, problems in marriage, the plight of the poor outsider seeking to enter the world of the very rich, the cruelty of beautiful and rich young women, the generation gap, the moral life, manners and mores of class society, heroism in ordinary life, emotional bankruptcy and the drift to death, the South and its legendary past, and the meaning of America in the lives of individuals and in modern history. To these subjects which intrigued him from adolescence, he added Hollywood, where the American dream seemed to so many of his generation to have reached its apotheosis.

Many of Fitzgerald’s finest stories date from the early 1920s. ‘‘Bernice Bobs Her Hair’’ is an early story, slight in intent but animated by an authentic and minute representation of manners and social milieu in which newly emancipated young American women live. It was the kind of story that Fitzgerald came to be associated with, for it typified the changes overtaking the new postwar generation. The central action is the transformation of a socially inept, unpopular girl, Bernice, into a much-sought-after, socially sophisticated ‘‘flapper.’’ In the course of Bernice’s education, Fitzgerald reveals the intricate system of manners on which social success depends. The plot hinges on Bernice’s daring threat to bob her hair and invite her whole crowd to witness the momentous event. In the relationship between Bernice and her cousin Marjorie, Fitzgerald exposes the cruelty underlying the social conventions of young people, the competition for popularity which impels Marjorie to jibe at and cruelly taunt Bernice until she must carry out the threat Marjorie knows she had initially made as a joke. But Marjorie herself is an example of the newly emancipated woman who desires only to shake free from the limitations imposed upon her by society and to face life courageously, unhampered and unfettered. In a short, fervent speech she confesses to Bernice her abhorrence of society’s hypocritical expectations of women and exhorts her cousin to relinquish the morals of a defunct generation. In this spirited story Fitzgerald sums up more accurately than any sociological analysis the rebelliousness and determination of the new generation and, particularly, of the new heroine.

Ardita Farnham, the heroine of ‘‘The Offshore Pirate,’’ is the prize wealthy young Toby Moreland seeks because she possesses courage and independence, the most valuable attributes of Fitzgerald’s flappers and philosophers. The story traces Toby’s disguise as a jazz bandleader, Curtis Carlyle, who pirates the Farnham yacht with Ardita on board. A bored, spoiled debutante, she longs for someone with ‘‘imagination and the courage of his convictions.’’ She refuses to meet anyone her family proposes and intends to run off with an older playboy. Toby’s ruse works; he and Ardita fall in love on the ship, moored in a cavernous alcove, while ‘‘Curtis’s’’ band plays music that enchances the romantic possibilities of the tropical paradise. The story seems bathed in the blue, silver, and gold of the sky and sun, and hero and heroine’s paeans to courage, conviction, and the possibilities of the romantic imagination seem appropriate to the mood and milieu established by the opening lines:

This unlikely story begins on a sea that was a blue dream, as colorful as blue-silk stockings, and beneath a sky as blue as the irises of children’s eyes. From the western half of the sky the sun was shying little golden disks at the sea—if you gazed intently enough you could see them skip from wave tip to wave tip until they joined a broad collar of golden coin that was collecting half a mile out and would eventually be a dazzling sunset.

Fitzgerald sustains both rhetoric and idea— the power of the romantic imagination—throughout in a story that is among the best of his early works. Curtis Carlyle’s tale of lost illusions parallels Fitzgerald’s exploration of the meaning of natural aristocracy. The conflict within Fitzgerald between rival claims—aristocracy of the spirit versus aristocracy of wealth—is omnipresent throughout the stories. In his disillusionment he seeks to replace the values common to his society with a completely personal ethical standard; he ultimately exchanges moribund social values for a personal brand of heroism—in itself an aristocracy of the spirit.

Among the early stories, ‘‘The Diamond as Big as the Ritz’’ is notable not only because of the fine writing and historical resonances but because Fitzgerald’s gift for fantasy is at its best. John Unger, a middle-class boy, is invited by his classmate, Percy Washington, to spend his vacation at the latter’s home ‘‘in the West.’’ En route, Percy reveals that his father has a diamond ‘‘bigger than the Ritz-Carlton Hotel.’’ John falls in love with Percy’s sister, discovers the secret of the Washington wealth, and is almost killed before he can escape from a lavish and terrifying world. In this story Fitzgerald does not contain his subject and theme within a realistic setting. Here is an American West bigger and more extravagant than in the wildest Western tall story it subtly parodies. As the reader willingly suspends disbelief, the world of Fitzgerald’s imagination takes on the colorations of the Oriental kingdom belonging to ‘‘some Tartar Khan.’’ The Washington chateau is very like the pleasure dome of Kubla Khan, and the sights, smells, and sounds of luxury assault and ultimately deaden the senses until the lavish phantasmagoria moves as in a waking dream.

Remarkably, Fitzgerald sustains this geographic flight from the opening in Hades, ‘‘a small town on the Mississippi River,’’ to St. Midas School near Boston, to the twelve wizened old men in the wasteland town of Fish, Montana, to the diamond mountain retreat of Braddock Washington. Yet the action, which departs wildly from probability, is so rooted in the familiar, recognizable patterns of human behavior that after the initial shock has receded and the reader has accepted the fanciful premise, he is forced to make invidious comparisons between the rise of American big business in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries and the growth of Braddock Washington’s fortune.

Just as Fitzgerald used the American West in ‘‘The Diamond as Big as the Ritz’’ to explore American values in the context of American history, Fitzgerald used the American South to express the need for tradition, as embodied in his own father’s values and manners. ‘‘The Ice Palace’’ is about the differences between the South—which stands for warmth, carelessness and generosity, feeling, tradition, and life—and the North—cold, hard materialism, selfishness, and death. The action involves heroine Sally Carrol Happer’s desire for something more than the swimming, dancing, and playing that fill up her languid, somnolent, lazy summer days.

The opening of the story establishes the mood of the South, and at the end of part two, as Sally Carrol walks with her northern suitor, Harry Bellamy, through a Confederate graveyard, she defines the tradition she treasures:

I’ve tried in a way to live up to those past standards of noblesse oblige—there’s just the last remnants of it, you know, like the roses of an old garden dying all round us—streaks of strange courtliness and chivalry in some of these boys an’ stories I used to hear from a Confederate soldier who lived next door. . . . Oh, Harry, there was something, there was something!

The tempo of the story quickens with the introduction of the northern element, Harry Bellamy, ‘‘tall, broad, and brisk.’’ The warm summer is over; it is November and time for the serious business of life. Sally Carrol becomes engaged to Harry, and they plan to go North to meet his family. From the first line in part three—‘‘All night in the Pullman it was very cold’’—and for all the scenes laid in the North, it is penetratingly cold. There is no relief for Sally Carrol who cannot, for as long as she remains in the alien environment of Harry’s home, get warm. The icy weather symbolizes a way of life: no sense of play, no social badinage, no graciousness, no heritage of manners and style, only a chilling obedience to the forms of life. Even the people are gray and desiccated. Harry’s ‘‘cold lips’’ kissing her reinforce the pervasive, unrelenting chill.

In the next part the relationship between Sally Carrol and Harry hardens after a quarrel at dinner when Harry refers to southerners as ‘‘lazy and shiftless,’’ and later when the vaudeville orchestra plays ‘‘Dixie,’’ she is painfully reminded of what she has left behind. Part five again takes up the motif of iciness, and the action builds to an apocalyptic climax as Sally Carrol loses her way in the glittering cavernous maze of the ‘‘ice palace, like a damp vault connecting empty tombs.’’ Here, ice, snow, and palace are symbolically linked as death. As she falls down in the palace, she dreams of rejoining the dead Margery Lee, at whose grave she had sat and pondered the southern past back in Tarleton, her home town. The ice palace itself functions brilliantly as a symbol of the imminent death of the spirit, the inevitable accompaniment to life in a new, raw, mercantile northern city.

The last section returns to the original scene; it is April in Sally Carrol’s southern town, and ‘‘the wealth of golden sunlight poured a quite enervating yet oddly comforting heat over the house where day long it faced the dusty stretch of road.’’ Sally Carrol has experienced a purgatory in ice; chastened, contented, even indolent, she takes up her old life. There is much in the texture of the story that adds to its effectiveness: the decor, like the new but charmless library in Harry’s house; dialogue, at the dinner-party where Sally Carrol first experiences disappointment and disillusionment with Harry; characters, the men—hard, brisk, athletic, and the women—faded, dull, apathetic; social position, shades and nuances of class distinction and throughout, wealth of goods going hand in hand with poverty of spirit, death and snow versus life and lilacs.

One of Fitzgerald’s most effective and popular stories in which the primary emphasis is on social criticism is ‘‘May Day,’’ yet he never wrote another story quite like it. Although the main character’s story is characteristically Fitzgerald, the social / political criticism, developed in a subplot, is more overt than in most of his stories. He did salvage several structural and technical devices from the story—contrasting and parallel episodes, kaleidoscopic impressions, shifting rhetorical patterns—for use in other short stories but turned to the more expansive novel form to develop the multilevel plot.

Fitzgerald often opens a story with a philosophical passage that sets the tone and adumbrates the theme. In ‘‘May Day’’ the opening lines are heavily ironic, measured, musical, and solemn, with unmistakably biblical overtones.

There had been a war fought and won and the great city of the conquering people was crossed with triumphal arches. . . . Never had there been such splendor in the great city, for the victorious war had brought plenty in its pain, and the merchants had flocked thither from the South and West with their households to taste of all the luscious feasts and witness the lavish entertainments prepared—and to buy for their women furs against the next winter and bags of golden mesh and varicolored slippers of silk and silver and rose satins and cloth of gold.

The passage serves to unify under a common subject the diverse episodes which follow. And, by offering moral commentary which is supported by the ensuing action, it raises that action to a level beyond its immediate significance.

The opening scenes of this story establish the setting and introduce the characters and major action—Gordon Sterrett’s drift to death. The action is constructed around a series of contrasts between Gordon and a former Yale classmate, Philip Dean. Dean’s social world, to which Gordon tries frantically to cling, is epitomized in expensive clothes and bodily well-being, the ‘‘trinkets and slippers,’’ the ‘‘splendor’’ and ‘‘wine of excitement’’ of the invocation. Gordon asks Dean for a three-hundred-dollar loan that will enable him to extricate himself from the demands of a lower-class young woman with whom he has become involved. Dean, paying careful attention to his body and his wardrobe, listens to Gordon and refuses the loan. Gordon, like so many other poor young men whose dreams have been betrayed by a fiercely competitive system, is unprepared for the cold New York City which tosses people like him to their deaths.

His plight, made more poignant by beautiful Edith Braden’s initial interest and subsequent rejection, is contrasted with that of two war veterans, unintentionally caught up in a socialist protest rally in the crowded streets. One of the soldiers, Carrol Key, whose name suggests that ‘‘in his veins, however thinly diluted by generations of degeneration, ran blood of some potentiality,’’ is accidentally killed when he is swept up in the embattled crowd determined to put the Bolsheviks to rout. The last part of the story turns into a kind of social parable. The action moves from the Biltmore Hotel to Child’s 59th Street restaurant, and to the Biltmore elevator, where the ascent of Mr. In and Mr. Out serves as an ironic counterpoint to the descent of Gordon Sterrett and Carrol Key—and possibly to the struggle upward for success in America.

‘‘Winter Dreams’’ was written three years before The Great Gatsby, ‘‘The Rich Boy’’ immediately after. Both stories are among Fitzgerald’s best, and both plots turn on conflicts between the very rich and a representative of the middle class—a contrast explored in the minutiae of social gestures, moods, conventions, and customs. In the former, Dexter Green is the protagonist of the story. In the latter, Anson Hunter is ‘‘the rich boy,’’ the subject of the story, which is narrated by an observer-participant in the action, a friend of Anson’s who all his life has lived among the rich.

In ‘‘Winter Dreams’’ Dexter Green is a golf caddy at the luxurious club patronized by the wealthy inhabitants of Sherry Island. He meets Judy Jones, from one of the club’s leading families, and she and her summer world become the focus of his winter dreams. Judy Jones epitomizes the very rich. She is beautiful, cold, imperious, and maddening. Dexter pursues her, but she eludes him; the struggle to attain Judy Jones becomes for him the struggle to realize his dream of entering the glittering world of those enchanted summers. But the world of Judy Jones—who comes to symbolize both the beauty and the meretriciousness of Dexter’s dreams—is clearly revealed as cruelly, coldly destructive. Dexter, listening to the music wafting over the lake at Sherry Island, felt ‘‘magnificently attuned to life.’’ His winter dream, simply, was to recapture the ecstasy of that golden moment: the sensation that ‘‘everything about him was radiating a brightness and a glamour he might never know again.’’

The story is richly evocative, containing some of Fitzgerald’s best writing. The change of seasons throughout the story reflects and coincides with Dexter’s moods; like other Fitzgerald characters, he is extraordinarily sensitive to the natural world, and it is in terms of its effects upon people’s lives that nature fascinates Fitzgerald. Dexter’s spirits soar with the ‘‘gorgeous’’ Minnesota autumn; October ‘‘filled him with hope which November raised to a sort of ecstatic triumph.’’ That ecstasy, linked with the image of Judy Jones, is finally Dexter’s vision of immortality, just as Daisy Buchanan was Gatsby’s. If he could have had Judy he could have preserved his youth and the beauty of a world that seemed to ‘‘withstand all time.’’ When the beauty of Judy Jones fades, his hopes fade with it, and that sense of wonder he cherished over the years is lost ‘‘in the country of illusion . . . where his winter dreams had flourished.’’

‘‘The Rich Boy’’ is the story of Anson Hunter, who lives in a world of ‘‘high finance, high extravagance, divorce and dissipation, of snobbery and privilege.’’ The narrator immediately establishes his relationship to Anson. Brought together by chance as officers in the war, their backgrounds are totally dissimilar. Anson is the easterner, raised without ‘‘idealism or illusion,’’ who accepts without reservation the world into which he was born. The narrator is from the West and thoroughly middle class, but he has lived among the ‘‘brothers’’ of the rich. He is thus capable of observing the nuances of upper-class manners and morals. His famous introduction, ‘‘Let me tell you about the very rich,’’ clearly distinguishes the narrator from Anson and from the reader, thus effecting the necessary separation between subject and point of view which characterizes Fitzgerald’s best stories. As though determined to prove for once that ‘‘the country of the rich’’ need not be ‘‘as unreal as fairyland,’’ the narrator traces with clinical care the events and implications of Anson’s life to their inevitable end.

Following a series of incidents chronicling Anson’s courtship with Paula Legendre, the narrator returns to fill in the events and analyze the changes the last years have wrought in his friend. He is with Anson after the latter had learned of Paula’s death in childbirth, and Anson, ‘‘for the first time in their friendship,’’ says nothing of how he feels, shows no sign of emotion. The narrator wonders why Anson is never happy unless someone is in love with him, promising him something, perhaps ‘‘that there would always be women in the world who would spend their brightest, freshest, rarest hours to nurse and protect that superiority he cherished in his heart.’’

‘‘Absolution’’ is one of the very few Fitzgerald stories that focuses directly on religion. Eleven-year-old Rudolph Miller is forced by his parents to go to confession, where the ‘‘half-crazed priest,’’ Father Schwarz, listens to the boy’s story. It is a tale of a young boy’s fears and passions in an environment of rugged austerity and grim religiosity, ending with a lie in the confessional booth. When the confession is over, the priest’s complete breakdown reinforces the significance of the boy’s story. The pressure of Rudolph’s environment has driven him onto the ‘‘lonely secret road of adolescence.’’ Father Schwarz had once followed that lonely road to the end years ago, suppressing along the way the natural passions aroused by the rustle of Swedish girls along the path by his window and in Romberg’s Drug Store ‘‘when . . . he had found the scent of cheap toilet soap desperately sweet upon the air.’’

Flashback adds dramatic intensity to the encounter by supplying the details leading up to Rudolph’s spiritual crisis and connecting Rudolph’s background with Father Schwarz’s. It also points up the resemblances among apparently dissimilar characters by tying the quality in which Rudolph’s father is deficient, the romantic imagination, to Rudolph’s conviction that ‘‘there was something ineffably gorgeous somewhere that had nothing to do with God,’’ and to Father Schwarz’s dream of an amusement park where ‘‘things go glimmering.’’ But Rudolph’s life is just beginning, and his imagination restores him by providing an outlet for his buried life. He becomes Blatchford Sarnemington, a figure who exists outside of Father Schwarz’s world, far from the confessional. Fitzgerald suggests that in Rudolph’s perception of Father Schwarz’s insanity and in Rudolph’s commitment to his own dreams lie freedom and the possibility of romantic fulfillment.

In 1934 Fitzgerald told a critic that ‘‘Absolution’’ ‘‘was intended to be a picture of [Gatsby’s] early life, but that I cut it because I preferred to preserve the sense of mystery.’’ Fitzgerald told Maxwell Perkins that the story was salvaged from an earlier, discarded version of Gatsby; the 1923 start of the novel included a section on Gatsby’s childhood, so it is likely that Rudolph is a preliminary version of a character who would become Jay Gatsby.

One of the most moving stories of the early 1920s, ‘‘The Sensible Thing’’ draws upon Fitzgerald’s courtship of Zelda Sayre, as he describes George O’Kelly’s rejection by Jonquil Cary because of his poverty and her subsequent acceptance after a year during which he has achieved the success that will now make their marriage possible. Again for Fitzgerald, the glow that first love imparts cannot be recaptured. In her acceptance of conventional advice by her parents, and, indeed, following her own convictions, Jonquil turned away George because he was not financially ready for her at the moment when they realized how much they were in love. Two months later, she tells him, ‘‘now I can’t because it doesn’t seem to be the sensible thing.’’

Although George does win her after a year in which a series of lucky breaks reward him with the success he had found so elusive previously, he learns that something rare and precious has been lost. ‘‘The sensible thing—they had done the sensible thing. He had traded his first youth for strength and carved success out of despair. But with his youth, life had carried away the freshness of his love.’’ Thus, his lament at the end for that loss, ‘‘never again an intangible whisper in the dusk, or on the breeze of night. . . . ,’’ conveys Fitzgerald’s deepest conviction that the golden moment in one’s life comes only once, and that subsequent fulfillment in love or in work can only be second best. Thus he ends the story on a note of both regret and acceptance: ‘‘Well, let it pass. . . . April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice.’’

From 1928 through 1931 Fitzgerald wrote fourteen stories in two series, the first, about Basil Duke Lee (1928–1929), comprising nine stories, one posthumously published, and the second featuring Josephine Perry (1930–1931). The Basil stories, for which Fitzgerald plumbed his own adolescence, take the character from his early school days, age eleven, through his entrance into college. From the beginning, Basil is never wholly accepted by the other youngsters. Because of his sensitivity, intensity, and competitiveness, he differs from them; they know it and resent it. He is frequently the butt of their jokes and recipient of their insults. Fitzgerald handles Basil’s anguish and humiliation by bringing to bear the perspective of the adult on the loneliness and misery of an adolescent. Basil not only endures but even learns from each of his painful experiences: upstaging by Hubert Blair, that paragon of youthful charm and virtuosity; rejection by Imogene Bissel, a juvenile femme fatale; and, more seriously, ostracism and debasement by his prep-school classmates.

Basil’s fatal flaw is his loquacity; he cannot resist pointing out his own superiority and his fellows’ deficiencies. It is a hard lesson, but he finally learns, after years of misery, the value of discretion. He is, however, destined to remain the outsider, ‘‘one of the poorest boys in a rich boys’ school.’’ By adopting Basil’s hyperbolic evaluation of the situation, the narrative forms an ironic but not unkind commentary on the young hero’s driving ambition. Because Fitzgerald understands and takes seriously the problems of adolescence and because he remembers the pain of his own youth, he remains always the detached but totally sympathetic observer.

The central situation in each Basil story is a two-fold struggle, within Basil for mastery over himself and between Basil and society for social acceptance. In each situation, although rebuffed and humiliated by his own fatal penchant for self-advertising and an unwillingness to temper his romantic illusions about others, Basil grows in awareness and perceptivity, particularly of his own character and motives. In ‘‘The Freshest Boy’’ he concludes that ‘‘he had erred at the outset—he had boasted, he had been considered yellow at football, he had pointed out people’s mistakes to them, he had shown off his rather extraordinary fund of general information in class.’’ The Basil Duke Lee stories treat the pain of adolescence without the sentimentality so characteristic of the popular Booth Tarkington stories.

Josephine Perry is an embodiment of the alluring yet cruel flapper, and Fitzgerald manages to convey the tragedy inherent in a totally self-absorbed life. Women like Josephine are doomed, he implies; momentary perception of their tragic destinies impels them to strike out at their world, and particularly at the young men who idolize them.

In ‘‘First Blood’’ Josephine is introduced during an argument with her family. Supremely self-confident in her budding beauty, Josephine sets her sights beyond the limits suggested by age and inexperience. She pursues and captures the most eligible ‘‘older’’ man in her set, only to reject his slavish devotion when it is finally proffered. The object of her desires, once attained, loses its fascination. Josephine must go on to ever more thrilling and elusive conquests.

In the first stories Fitzgerald’s tone is unvaryingly indulgent toward the young woman and her romantic forays. But as the stories continue, Josephine’s successes invariably prove empty. Perpetually seeking new thrills, she longs for the ideal man who she thinks might satisfy once and for all her craving for romance and novelty. In each story, however, the young man disappoints her. She gradually grows numb with satiety (in Fitzgerald’s day promiscuity usually meant only kissing), until a kiss fails to arouse her.

The youthful flirtations of ‘‘A Nice Quiet Place’’ (Saturday Evening Post, 31May 1930; collected in Taps at Reveille) deepen in ‘‘A Woman with a Past’’ into a frantic search for fulfillment in love, but each conquest brings Josephine only boredom and ennui. In ‘‘Emotional Bankruptcy’’ (Saturday Evening Post, 15 August 1931), the saddest and most serious story of the group, by the time Josephine finally meets the perfect man, a war hero, it is too late for her. She no longer has the capacity to feel anything for anyone. She is emotionally bankrupt, no longer appealingly flirtatious and amusing either to the author or the reader, but empty, frozen, slightly repellent. Fitzgerald drops his ironic detachment at the end and moralizes on the human waste which might be tragic were it associated with someone less trivial and self-centered than Josephine Perry.

From the time Fitzgerald made his first trip to Hollywood in the late 1920s, he was fascinated by what he described as ‘‘a tragic city of beautiful girls.’’ By 1940 he reported that there is ‘‘no group, however small, interesting. . . . Everywhere there is . . . either corruption or indifference.’’ Hollywood was to provide Fitzgerald with the subject of some of his important fiction, notably the short story ‘‘Crazy Sunday,’’ based upon his own experience at actress Norma Shearer’s party, and partly inspired by her husband, M-G-M chief Irving Thalberg.

‘‘Crazy Sunday’’ is a story about Hollywood and about one extraordinary man, Miles Calman, as observed by Joel Coles, a young writer. From the outset Hollywood, a ‘‘damn wilderness,’’ vies with Joel and Miles for center stage. Hollywood transcends, compels, structures the plot. The rhythm of the story is the rhythm of Hollywood life, from crazy Sunday, ‘‘not a day, but rather a gap between two other days,’’ to the other six days of frantic irrelevancy in a plastic wasteland.

The action begins and ends in Miles Calman’s house where the ambience promotes the wildly exhibitionist performance which wins Joel instant notoriety. When Joel regards the assemblage, he is driven in a moment of semi-drunken, lavish goodwill to entertain them, and the tensions within him, suggested earlier, become insistent and are released in his outrageous performance.

The focus of the story, however, is the intricate relationship between Miles and Stella Calman which ensnares Joel. The Calmans fight with one another but remain, to the end, self-sufficient, tightly insulated by mutual desire and mutual dependency. Joel can never really matter to them.

The story culminates, after Miles’s death, in the circus-like parade Joel observes at the theater as he waits for Stella. Everything seems tinselly, tawdry, as artificial as a Hollywood B-picture. At the end Joel leaves the Calman house and bitterly takes up his life made empty and futile after the death of ‘‘the only American-born director with both an interesting temperament and an artistic conscience.’’ ‘‘Crazy Sunday’’ is a haunting vignette of Hollywood, and it is measure of Fitzgerald’s artistry that he succeeds despite the flaw of conflicting centers of interest, Miles and Joel. Joel is able both to evaluate and at the same time participate in events, and Fitzgerald’s narration is often indistinct from Joel’s observations. Yet the fascination lies, for Joel and for the reader, in Miles Calman, an early version of Monroe Stohr, the subject of Fitzgerald’s last, incomplete novel, The Last Tycoon.

Many critics and scholars regard ‘‘Babylon Revisited’’ as the best of Fitzgerald’s short stories. Written in 1930, at a particularly low point in his own life, it reflects the meditative sadness of a man looking back, in the Depression, on the waste and dissipation of the boom. More than perhaps any of his stories, it blends personal and historical elements to form a commentary on an era. It is about Charlie Wales, who, through indiscretions resulting in the death of his wife, made himself an outsider to the ‘‘good’’ people, represented by his sister-in-law and her husband, Marion and Lincoln Peters. In order to win back his child, Honoria, from the Peterses, who have been caring for her, he must establish for them his new stability and adherence to their values. The difficulty of his task is compounded by Marion Peters’s dislike and distrust of him. Fitzgerald constructs the plot around a series of contrasts: between Charlie and the Peterses, past and present, illusion and reality, dissipation and steadiness, gaiety and grimness, Paris and America, adults and children. The author’s tone, detached, critical, and ironic, merges with Charlie’s self-critical but not self-pitying awareness, heightening the contrasts and adding meaning to even the briefest observation. ‘‘I spoiled this city for myself. I didn’t realize it, but the days come along one after another, and then two years were gone, and everything was gone, and I was gone.’’

Charlie Wales of the Depression is no longer the same young man who coasted along on the joyride of the boom years. The story is about his exploration of the problems of character and responsibility, particularly the power of one’s past to shape and determine his future. Against a background of change and dislocation wrought by social upheaval, the story of Charlie Wales is a search for latent values residing within the individual, values that provide the courage and resiliency to remake a squandered life. And it is all based on character, the ‘‘eternally valuable element.’’ Charlie is left to examine the ruin of the past, to discover what, if anything, is worth the survival. He admits, ‘‘I lost everything I wanted in the boom,’’ and his one hope for the future is continuity of character, as if by passing on to his daughter some lesson from his past, he will thus preserve part of himself in her.

‘‘Babylon Revisited’’ is not a simple morality tale. Charlie is acutely sensitive to himself and to the Peterses, and he is eager to assume responsibility for Honoria’s life and for his own. But ‘‘character’’ does not insure happiness for Charlie Wales. In this story, perhaps his most moving statement on the subject, Fitzgerald indicates that it is strictly a mode of individual survival, that not only may character not bring Charlie happiness along with his newly discovered values, but it may even intensify his despair and corrode his hopes.

In his late works, dating from 1936 to his death in 1940, Fitzgerald’s style was markedly different from the early lyrical prose. The tone becomes flat, almost essayistic; narrative is unemotional and economical, yet strangely haunting in its dry precision. These are brief, autobiographical sketches, semi-fictional attempts to reinterpret his life and his art. In ‘‘Afternoon of an Author’’ the protagonist prepares to go outside for a walk, the first one in many days. His thoughts are of mental and physical fatigue— his own and others. On the bus ride, in the barber shop, he ruminates over what he is now, what he once was, what he might have become, his struggles and especially his weariness and inertia. There are no highs and lows, only a quiet drift toward death. The faint note of self-pity stems from physical debility rather than emotional outrage.

The author in ‘‘Author’s House’’ surveys his youth, his illness, his mistakes and failures, and waits for death. All he has left is despair, knowing he can never dwell again in the turret of his symbolic house, knowing that success has ultimately eluded him.

In ‘‘An Author’s Mother’’ (Esquire, October 1936) the title character, with her ‘‘high-crowned hat,’’ incipient cataracts, and air of hopeless bewilderment, is a touching relic of another era. The modern world is obviously too much for her. She is proud of but cannot understand her son’s success, for she associates ‘‘authors’’ only with Mrs. Humphry Ward, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Edna Ferber, and especially the sentimental poetesses Alice and Phoebe Cary. Uncomplaining and uncomprehending, she, too, retreats from life through the back door of her memories. For her there is nothing left but death.

Fitzgerald’s vitality did burst forth again in his last years with a series of stories about Pat Hobby, a has-been screenwriter. Pat Hobby is among Fitzgerald’s most intriguing characters, perhaps because the author was exorcizing the dark, defeated side of his own nature. Pat is an incompetent, an alcoholic, a petty blackmailer, a dreamer, a would-be lecher, a leech, a whiner, a conniver, a thief, a scab, a coward, an informer, an eternal outsider. He is lazy, ubiquitous, and dishonest. Although he is rigidly excluded from the Hollywood power center, his perverted sense of justice leads him to identify with the producers rather than their hireling writers like himself and the exploited or discarded actors and directors. He aspires to every flashy Hollywood-American success symbol—Filipino servants, swimming pools, liquor, girls, and meals at the Brown Derby. Pat is a firm ally of the status quo, or more properly, the past, into which he seeks to escape the sordid present.

Fitzgerald’s technique in the Pat Hobby stories is to devise situations in which Pat, faced with alternatives, consistently selects the action most likely to degrade him further. In one story after another, Pat sinks to lower and lower levels of activity; trickery and connivance are his tools. But for all his duplicity, Pat is pathetically unsuccessful in his attempts to ‘‘put one over on them.’’

Each situation ends in debacle, humiliation, and further degradation. And yet, for all his faults, he is a strangely moving figure in these stories of the absurd: the eternal fall guy who admits honestly in a moment of painful clarity, ‘‘I’ve been cracked down on plenty.’’ The language of these stories is racy and colloquial, and the tone consistently ironic and detached. The stories were published in Esquire during the last year of Fitzgerald’s life and in 1941, after his death. He worked on them as carefully as he could, often sending Arnold Gingrich telegrams requesting minor revisions even after a story had been set in print. At the same time Fitzgerald was working on his other Hollywood story, The Last Tycoon. It is probable that the Pat Hobby stories served as a release for his black vision of Hollywood and of his own career, allowing a final blossoming of his artistry.

F. Scott Fitzgerald’s reputation as a short story writer has risen considerably since his death, and at least a dozen of his stories rank with the most notable in American literature. And though his reputation as a major American writer rests primarily on his novels, especially The Great Gatsby, in variety, in range, and in stylistic excellence, his short stories are an intrinsic part of his fictional world.

Source: Ruth Prigozy, ‘‘F. Scott Fitzgerald,’’ in Dictionary of Literary Biography, Vol. 86, American Short-Story Writers, 1910–1945, First Series, edited by Bobby Ellen Kimbel, Gale Research, 1989, pp. 99–123.

The Short Stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald

[In the following essay, Bryant Mangum traces the relationship between Fitzgerald's early short stories and his novels, asserting that he used the shorter pieces as a “workshop for subjects, themes, and techniques that he would continue to develop in later stories and novels.”]

In an all-too-brief professional career of approximately twenty years, Fitzgerald wrote 178 short stories, most of them for sale to commercial magazines of the 1920s and 1930s. Thirty-nine of these stories were collected in four separate volumes, one accompanying each of the four novels which Scribners published during Fitzgerald's lifetime: Flappers and Philosophers (1920) was the companion volume for This Side of Paradise (1920); Tales of the Jazz Age (1922) for The Beautiful and Damned (1922); All the Sad Young Men (1926) for The Great Gatsby (1925); and Taps at Reveille (1935) for Tender Is the Night (1934). In addition, he wrote a play, The Vegetable, published by Scribners in 1923, and scores of nonfiction pieces, many of which appeared in commercial magazines during his lifetime. At the time of his death he was working on an elaborately conceived novel, The Last Tycoon, which was published posthumously in 1941 as a fragment with Fitzgerald's own notes. When he was not writing for publication, Fitzgerald wrote about his life and about his observations on life in his ledger and in his notebooks, both of which are now available in book form. In spare moments he wrote letters—letters to Maxwell Perkins, his editor at Scribners; letters to his literary agent Harold Ober; letters to literary acquaintances, friends, and family—letters, often about his writing, which now fill four substantial volumes. Above all else Fitzgerald was a writer, a literary artist, who early shared with Edmund Wilson his immodest goal of becoming “one of the greatest writers who ever lived” (Bruccoli, Some Sort of Epic Grandeur, 70).

By “one of the greatest writers,” Fitzgerald seems at least at the beginning to have meant “one of the greatest novelists,” regarding the writing of short stories as something that he had to do to support himself while he wrote the novels that, as he saw it, would be his main literary legacy and the primary exhibit of his greatness as a writer. In 1925 Fitzgerald explained to Ernest Hemingway that writing short stories for popular magazines was “whoring but that he had to do it as he made his money from the magazines to have money ahead to write decent books” (Hemingway, A Moveable Feast, 153). He soon learned, of course, that short story writing could be quite profitable. As he remarked to Ober in 1922, “By God + Lorimer [editor of the Saturday Evening Post, which published most of Fitzgerald's stories in the twenties], I'm going to make a fortune yet” (As Ever, Scott Fitz, 36), a prediction that in retrospect was not far off the mark. In 1925, for example, he earned over $11,000 from short stories, nearly three times as much as he made from book royalties during that year; in 1930, his income from stories was over $25,000, which accounted for more than 80 percent of his total earnings for the year. His lifetime earnings from the sale of stories to magazines amounted to approximately $250,000, over half the amount of his total earnings from all sources, including royalties and scriptwriting in Hollywood, combined.1 Understandably, he complained off and on all of his life to friends and acquaintances that his “popular” efforts earned such disproportionately high prices in relation to his “serious” fiction.

However, Fitzgerald's public attitude toward his story-writing reflected in comments like those above to Ober and Hemingway was in fact misleading, perhaps deliberately so, in its depreciation of the value of his stories, the writing of which played such an extraordinary role in the development of his talent as a literary artist. Partly because of his attitude, but also because the four story collections that Scribners published as companion volumes to his novels contained stories from slick popular magazines that had paid Fitzgerald handsomely for his contributions, contemporary critics were quick to find weaknesses in his story collections, frequently damning individual stories as potboilers. For example, H. L. Mencken, who often praised Fitzgerald and who published some of his best early stories in the Smart Set, referred to the flapper “confections.”2 A frequent refrain in the reviews of the second collection, Tales of the Jazz Age, was that Fitzgerald had already received high prices for many of the stories contained in the volume, a view expressed in one reviewer's observation that Fitzgerald was making “financial hay while the popular sun is shining.”3 And though the contemporary reception of All the Sad Young Men was much more favorable than that of any preceding Fitzgerald story volume, the litany of such phrases as “uneven,” “popular magazine fiction,” and “money-making” continued to appear, unfairly so, it seems, for this extraordinary collection, particularly in view of the fact that Fitzgerald had taken pains to exclude his most popular stories from the volume. In a similar vein, Taps at Reveille, the final collection of stories, elicited backhanded compliments including one which praised Fitzgerald for being “entertaining … [and] slickly so.”4 With each collection of stories, praise for occasional brilliant performances, as in the case of such stories as “May Day,” “The Ice Palace,” “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz,” “The Rich Boy,” “Winter Dreams,” and “Babylon Revisited,” was typically diluted with criticism of the slickness of other selections. After Fitzgerald's death the myth—originating, among other places, in contemporary reviews of his story volumes—that there was “Fitzgerald A,” who was the serious writer, and “Fitzgerald B,” who brought “home the necessary bacon,” persisted.5 And even a decade after Fitzgerald's death, Arthur Mizener in his The Far Side of Paradise (1951), maintained that the stories were Fitzgerald's inferior output, the creation of which had presented moral conflicts that would “haunt his career from beginning to end” (Mizener, Far Side, 94).

Now, over a century after Fitzgerald's birth and nearly a half-century after Mizener's pioneering critical biography, virtually all of Fitzgerald's 178 stories have been collected in hardbound volumes, six books devoted exclusively to his short fiction have been published, and more than a hundred articles or chapters devoted to the stories have appeared in books and scholarly journals. And whereas Matthew J. Bruccoli could observe accurately in 1979 in his introduction to The Price Was High: The Last Uncollected Stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald that “the role of the stories in Fitzgerald's development as a writer is still not properly understood”;6 and whereas Jackson R. Bryer in his The Short Stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald: New Approaches in Criticism (1982) could properly lament the dearth of scholarly attention that the stories had received to that point (xi), the last decade of Fitzgerald scholarship has established a solid foundation upon which one can begin to make an accurate appraisal of Fitzgerald's short story canon. This relatively brief time of intensified scrutiny of the stories has firmly established a number of well-documented conclusions about the stories, some of them rather predictable, some much less so. First, many of the stories praised in Fitzgerald's lifetime for their artistic brilliance have been shown to be, if anything, more carefully conceived and artfully crafted than they had been thought by Fitzgerald's contemporaries to be. Alice Hall Petry, for example, in her book-length study of the stories collected in the four volumes during Fitzgerald's lifetime, discovers layers of complexity in such stories as “The Ice Palace,” “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz,” and “May Day,” as well as in such well-known, but less often examined ones as “Benediction” and “The Adjuster” (Petry, Fitzgerald's Craft of Short Fiction, xi), complexities like those which John A. Higgins began to explore in his F. Scott Fitzgerald: A Study of the Stories (1971). And in a somewhat different vein, new studies, particularly those contained in Bryer's New Essays on F. Scott Fitzgerald's Neglected Stories, have pointed to underexamined and undervalued performances, among them, “The Spire and the Gargoyle,” “Dalrymple Goes Wrong,” “Benediction,” “Outside the Cabinet Maker's,” and “Jacob's Ladder.”

Also in the course of analyses such as those contained in Bryer's The Short Stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald: New Approaches in Criticism, a number of scholars have begun to examine subtle connections between related stories not obviously connected to each other. While some individual stories were conceived of as part of a series (those in the Basil Duke Lee and Josephine Perry series, or the Pat Hobby series, for example), others are connected less directly, and their connections had for decades after Fitzgerald's death been largely overlooked. Lawrence Buell's study of Fitzgerald's “fantasy stories,” “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz,” “The Adjuster,” “The Curious Case of Benjamin Buttons,” and others, is one of a number of studies which have explored subtle, previously ignored connections between stories, as is C. Hugh Holman's analysis of the Tarleton, Georgia, trilogy, including “The Ice Palace,” “The Jelly-Bean,” and “The Last of the Belles” (Bryer, New Approaches, 23-38; 53-64). And finally, the stories have entered the era of post-structuralist analysis and gender studies, revealing further evidence of their timeless value in documenting the degree to which they address, sometimes with surprisingly post-modernist vision, enduring aspects of the human condition. Susan F. Beegel, for instance, applying to the short stories a perspective used earlier by Sarah Beebe Fryer in her study of the novels, Fitzgerald's New Women: Harbingers of Change, examines the degree to which a story often regarded as simply “humorist” like “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” provides in fact a serious contribution to the discourse in contemporary women's studies (Bryer, New Essays, 58-73).

Any examination of Fitzgerald's short story canon must, of course, take into account those issues referred to above, many of them prompted as they have been by careful analysis undertaken in light of late twentieth-century critical theory; it must acknowledge the richness of Fitzgerald's very best stories; it must search for undiscovered strengths in the neglected stories; it must find connections in those stories not ordinarily connected in an effort to examine tropes that wind through the body of Fitzgerald's fiction, short and long; and it must examine the degree to which Fitzgerald's short fiction, often through subtext, both deconstructs post-World War I values and also speaks to issues that transcend the modern. Any thorough study, however, must also be undertaken with an eye on inclusiveness: it must account for, or at least be able to account for, the place of every single story, the weakest and the strongest, in Fitzgerald's overall development as a professional writer and literary artist. Ultimately it must work toward reconciling the existence of “Fitzgerald A” and “Fitzgerald B,” and finally keep open the possibility that the two Fitzgeralds, the short story writer and the novelist, may finally have been in much closer touch with each other than conventional wisdom has thus far placed them.

It is thus important in considering Fitzgerald's short stories to acknowledge from the beginning that he was a literary artist who was also a professional writer. The relationship between his short story writing and his novel writing in the development of his literary artistry could easily serve as a paradigm for the central dilemma of professional authorship, described by William Charvat in The Profession of Authorship in America in this way:

The terms of professional writing are these: that it provides a living for the author, like any other job; that it is a main and prolonged, rather than intermittent or sporadic, resource for the writer; that it is produced with the hope of extended sale in the open market, like any article of commerce; and that it is written with reference to buyers' tastes and reading habits. The problem of the professional writer is not identical with that of the literary artist; but when a literary artist is also a professional writer, he cannot solve the problems of the one function without reference to the other.

(Charvat, Profession, 3)

Early in his career Fitzgerald grasped the seemingly conflicting demands on the literary artist who is also a professional writer, and he spent much of his life reconciling them.7

Indeed, in a retrospective look at his career immediately preceding the publication of This Side of Paradise, Fitzgerald notes the point at which he recalls becoming aware of the required structure of a professional author's life: “While I waited for the novel to appear, the metamorphosis of amateur into professional began to take place … the stitching together of your life in such a way that the end of one job automatically becomes the beginning of the next” (Crack-Up, 86). In practical terms this meant, for the moment, that Fitzgerald, until This Side of Paradise began earning money, needed to support himself by writing short stories that would pay his bills. With this realization, he began a cycle that would continue until his death: he would write stories to sustain himself and his family between novels—novels, as it turns out, whose royalties rarely provided him more than a brief respite from story writing. On one level, then, throughout his life Fitzgerald continued writing stories, as he told Hemingway, “to have money ahead to write decent books” (Hemingway, Moveable Feast, 153). On another level, he came to what was perhaps the even more important realization that he could use the stories as a workshop for subjects, themes, and techniques that he would continue to develop in later stories and novels. The foundation for this use of the magazines as a workshop for later works was established long before This Side of Paradise went to press in the earliest years of his apprenticeship.

Fitzgerald's apprenticeship began when he was thirteen, with the 1909 publication in St. Paul's Academy's Now and Then of a detective story, “The Mystery of the Raymond Mortgage”; it ended with the 1917 publication in Princeton's Nassau Literary Magazine of what is clearly the most complex of his juvenile pieces, “The Pierian Springs and the Last Straw.” The thirteen stories of Fitzgerald's apprenticeship were scattered among Now and Then, the Newman News (the Newman School's literary magazine), and the Nassau Literary Magazine. Few would argue that there are neglected masterpieces among Fitzgerald's apprenticeship stories though there are clearly brilliant moments in many of them. Nor would one likely suggest that there are startling connections between any single juvenile story and Fitzgerald's best mature work, a point noted by John Kuehl in his introduction to The Apprentice Fiction of F. Scott Fitzgerald: 1909-1917 “The points of similarity … are scattered rather than clustered; no one juvenile work shares themes, characters, and techniques with any single work written during maturity” (Apprentice Fiction [The Apprentice Fiction of F. Scott Fitzgerald: 1909-1917], 15). What one can see by following the apprenticeship stories chronologically, however, is Fitzgerald's intuitive development in rather clear stages of the talent that would reach its high point in The Great Gatsby and Tender Is the Night, as well as in many of the extraordinary stories that cluster around these novels.

The four earliest stories, which appeared in Now and Then, show a young Fitzgerald experimenting with first- and third-person points of view, and managing particularly well in the first-person narratives such as “The Room with the Green Blinds” to approach what Malcolm Cowley referred to as “double vision” (Kazin, F. Scott Fitzgerald: The Man and His Work, 146): his ability to immerse the reader in experience at an emotional and sensory level, while at the same time allowing him to stand back at a distance and criticize the experience intellectually. In the three Newman News stories, on the other hand, Fitzgerald seems less concerned with technical matters than with developing the leisure-class material that will later become his trademark, focusing particularly in two of the stories, “A Luckless Santa Claus” and “The Trail of the Duke,” on the femme fatale, who will figure prominently in This Side of Paradise and in such flapper stories as “The Offshore Pirate” and “Rags Martin-Jones and the Prince of Wales,” to name two of more than a dozen. While all three of the Newman News stories have trivial plots, they are important in marking the point in Fitzgerald's life when he laid claim to what he came to consider his material: youth, wealth, and beauty; and they are noteworthy in pointing ahead to the kind of brilliant prose passages that were the saving grace of even his weakest stories, prose that would lead Dorothy Parker to comment that, though Fitzgerald could write a bad story, he could not write badly. Even the earliest stories of his apprenticeship contain such passages, among them this one from “The Trail of the Duke”: “Inside, through screen, window and door fled the bugs and gathered around the lights like so many humans at a carnival, buzzing, thugging, whirring … In the flats that line upper New York, pianos (sweatting [sic] ebony perspiration) ground out ragtime tunes of last winter and here and there a wan woman sang the air in a hot soprano” (Apprentice Fiction, 54).

Not surprising, of course, is the fact that Fitzgerald's most sophisticated apprenticeship stories are the ones he wrote while an undergraduate at Princeton, those six stories that appeared in the Nassau Literary Magazine, several of which were later revised and published in the Smart Set (e.g., “Tarquin of Cheepside,” “The Ordeal,” “Babes in the Woods”) and some of which were incorporated with changes into This Side of Paradise after their publication in both the Nassau Lit and the Smart Set (e.g., “Babes in the Woods”). Though the Nassau Lit stories reveal a developing writer aware of intricacies of point of view and a writer, by this time, settled already into his leisure-class subject matter, they are perhaps distinguishable from the earlier stories mainly in their possessing a characteristic attitude that Fitzgerald would later take toward his material, an attitude that he would call his “stamp” of “[t]aking things hard”: “That's the stamp that goes into my books so that people can read it blind like Braille,” he later remarked (Bruccoli et al., Romantic Egoists, 27). This stamp is most evident in two of the best of these stories, “The Spire and the Gargoyle” and “Sentiment and the Use of Rouge,” in which main characters “take hard” the lack of money and the transient quality of beauty.

It is, of course, unlikely that Fitzgerald consciously set out during the various phases of his apprenticeship to focus narrowly and systematically on a single aspect of his talent such as experimentation with subtleties of viewpoint; it is furthermore unlikely that he then proceeded to another, such as the claiming of an exclusive domain of material—youth, wealth, and beauty; or that he finally and knowingly marked all that he wrote with his “stamp” of “taking things hard.” It is true, however, that by the time he made the transition from amateur to professional, by the time he sold his first novel to Scribners and his first stories to the Smart Set and the Saturday Evening Post, the foundations of his mature talent—double vision, his material, and his stamp—were in place, granted of course that they would require and receive much refinement in the years to follow. In retrospect Fitzgerald had established with his apprenticeship stories a pattern by which he would develop themes, subjects, and techniques in his short stories that he would later experiment with and refine in novels and other stories.

His extensive borrowing and reworking of earlier material for This Side of Paradise, in fact, led one critic to refer to the novel as “The Collected Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald” (Bryer, Critical Reception, 22). As he became more sophisticated, especially during and after the composition of The Great Gatsby the ‘borrowing’ became more subtle, as in the case of a story like “Winter Dreams,” which he referred to as “A sort of 1st draft of the Gatsby idea” (Dear Scott/Dear Max, 112). Later, as his alcoholism dulled the edge of his ability to compose freshly, particularly in the instance of his numerous revisions of Tender Is the Night, he actually lifted complete passages from the cluster stories and used them unaltered in the novel, a fact which ultimately strengthened the novel as it limited the number of stories that he could consider including in Taps at Reveille, since he did not want to be accused of selling warmed-over fare.

From beginning to end, the relationship between Fitzgerald the short story writer and Fitzgerald the novelist was complex and integral. But about this relationship one is safe in making this general observation: he was at his best as a novelist during the time he was also writing his best short stories, during those periods when solving the problems of the professional writer seemed quite often to coincide with solving the problems of the literary artist. In the months during which Fitzgerald waited for This Side of Paradise to appear, and indeed during the two-year period leading through the publication of the first and second story collections, Flappers and Philosophers and Tales of the Jazz Age, the problems of the one did not seem to coincide with the problems of the other, and Fitzgerald's transition into the profession of authorship was bumpy, a period of uncertainty regarding the audience for which he was writing and about the suitability of various subjects that he wished to explore in his short stories. Clearly he was buoyed up by the sale of his gimmicky flapper story, “Head and Shoulders,” to the Post and even more excited by the sale of its movie rights for $2,500, but he was frustrated by the fact that “The Ice Palace,” the second story bought by the Post and perhaps his best story to date, was delayed in its publication, apparently on hold until the magazine was able to sandwich it between the lighter flapper stories, “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” and “The Offshore Pirate.” He was also baffled that Ober, who had become his agent in November 1919, had difficulty placing such “realistic” stories as “The Smilers” even with serious publications like Scribner's Magazine. His frustration led him to write Ober, asking, “Is there any market at all for the cynical or pessimistic story except the Smart Set or does realism bar a story from any well-paying magazine no matter how cleverly it's done?” (As Ever, Scott Fitz, 7). His difficulty in placing his excellent “realistic” story, “May Day,” which he finally sold to the Smart Set for a mere $200, must have provided a sobering answer, to which would be added the frustration he experienced when Ober had no luck selling the brilliant story, “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” for a good price to a popular magazine like the Post and Fitzgerald virtually had to give it to the Smart Set for $300.

The obvious lesson regarding his short story writing that Fitzgerald was learning during this early period of exploration was that the magazines paying the highest prices for his stories, like the Post, preferred, with some exceptions, his light, entertaining, gimmicky stories, particularly his flapper stories. The more serious stories, especially those that had a naturalistic bent like “May Day” and the weak but deterministic “Dalrymple Goes Wrong,” could be sold, but usually only to low-paying, if more prestigious, publications like the Smart Set; and it was these stories, again with some exceptions, that such magazines preferred. The literary implications of these facts are clear: first, in order to earn money Fitzgerald appropriated subjects and settings with which he had always been comfortable—youth, the wealthy, and the glamorous—and packaged them in stories that would entertain a middle-brow reading audience, stories like “Myra Meets His Family,” “The Camel's Back,” and “The Popular Girl.” But secondly, in order to please the audience he regarded as highbrow, those who might read the Smart Set and not coincidentally Mencken, who edited it, Fitzgerald experimented with literary naturalism, moving toward a “meaninglessness of life” philosophy that he seemed never able to embrace fully. His flirtation with naturalism led him to produce perhaps a half-dozen stories, among them “The Four Fists,” “The Smilers,” “The Lees of Happiness,” and “May Day,” this latter the sole triumph of his experimentation with naturalism. It finally led to what is usually regarded as his weakest novel, The Beautiful and Damned.

Of the thirteen published stories available for inclusion in Flappers and Philosophers, Fitzgerald selected eight that accurately represented the range of stories he had written in the first year of his professional career, and consequently the volume sharply underscored the tension between the popular audience for which he had been writing and the “literary” one. Two of the stories were from the Smart Set: “Benediction,” a reworked version of “The Ordeal” from the Nassau Lit and one of the best stories in the collection; and “Dalrymple Goes Wrong,” a weak naturalistic tale that Fitzgerald, usually a very good judge of the quality of his work, thought of at the time as “the best story I ever wrote” (As Ever, Scott Fitz, 5). Two of the stories, “The Cut Glass Bowl” and “The Four Fists,” were from Scribner's Magazine, and are both serious, but self-consciously symbolic and overly didactic. The remaining four are from the Post: three of them, “Bernice Bobs Her Hair,” “The Offshore Pirate,” and “Head and Shoulders,” are ingenious flapper stories, and at least the first is worthy of the serious critical scrutiny it has, in fact, begun to receive; and finally “The Ice Palace” is a masterful North-South contrast, the first of what will be a trilogy set in Tarleton, Georgia, and unquestionably the best story in the volume.

It is fair to say that Fitzgerald during the year of the publication of This Side of Paradise, the year leading up to Flappers and Philosophers, was more sharply focused on the concern of the professional writer to earn a living than that of the literary artist to create works of lasting merit. As he struggled with the novel that would become The Beautiful and Damned he entered a dark, thankfully brief, period of his story writing, working under the spell of “the meaninglessness of life” philosophy that was for most of 1920 and 1921 the guiding light of his stories and of the novel in progress. “May Day” is the single great artistic triumph of his flirtation with naturalism, which also accounts for such relatively weak stories as “The Lees of Happiness,” “His Russet Witch,” and “Two for a Cent.” Even “The Jelly-Bean,” an underestimated piece and the second of his three Tarleton stories, was weakened by the deterministic philosophy. “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz,” which Fitzgerald wrote “utterly for my own amusement,” escapes the spell of naturalism and stands with “May Day” as the saving grace of the 1920-1 period.

When the moment came to assemble stories for Tales of the Jazz Age he was able to anchor the volume with “May Day” and “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz,” but he was forced to dip into the cache of his undergraduate pieces for “Jemina,” “Tarquin of Cheepside,” and “Porcelain and Pink,” and into the previously uncollected store of his earliest flapper stories, retrieving from it the light, frothy “The Camel's Back,” which he perhaps saw as balancing such darker stories as “The Jelly-Bean,” “His Russet Witch,” and “Two for a Cent” (all written for Metropolitan Magazine under contract), “The Curious Case of Benjamin Buttons” (rejected by Metropolitan and published in Collier's), and “The Lees of Happiness,” a story from the Chicago Tribune which chronicled a popular writer's decline into a vegetable state. The bright side of this bleak period, from which came The Beautiful and Damned and his weakest story collection, Tales of the Jazz Age, is that he had during this time returned to a serious consideration of his role as literary artist, trying out what he regarded as a coherent theory for literary art and human behavior subscribed to by Frank Norris and Theodore Dreiser, among other naturalists admired by Fitzgerald, though as it turned out, this was a theory not well suited to Fitzgerald either artistically or temperamentally. Ironically, by trading on the early popularity of his stories about flappers and young love, he had gained a measure of financial freedom and the security of knowing that Metropolitan would buy a fixed number of his 1920-1 stories before they could know, of course, that these stories were leading Fitzgerald toward a literary dead end. There has been much critical debate about the process that led the author of The Beautiful and Damned and of the stories in Tales of the Jazz Age to make what seems to have been an almost magical leap in three short years to the composition of his masterpiece, The Great Gatsby. Granted there was energy and originality in This Side of Paradise; there were also isolated bursts of virtuosity in stories like “The Ice Palace,” leading up to the first story collection, Flappers and Philosophers; and there were extended works of extraordinary promise from the group of stories that finally worked their way into Tales of the Jazz Age, most notably “May Day” and “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz.” Nevertheless, Fitzgerald's early stories had only been related loosely to his novels, and then primarily in shared general subject, philosophy, and mood. After the publication of Tales of the Jazz Age, he began to reconcile the demands of professional writer and literary artist, skillfully using the stories he wrote for commercial magazines as a proving ground for ideas for novels, and also drawing upon narrative strategies and themes from his novels for subsequent stories, as he does, for example, in the case of “The Rich Boy,” which immediately follows The Great Gatsby and whose point of view and subject matter clearly grow out of the novel. Perhaps the most important story for understanding the leap that Fitzgerald was about to make in the direction of The Great Gatsby after All the Sad Young Men is “Winter Dreams,” written in September 1922 and the final story published under the terms of his contract with Metropolitan before that magazine went into receivership. With this story Fitzgerald began his break from the dark, deterministic stories that surrounded The Beautiful and Damned and began to look forward to The Great Gatsby, which he would complete in 1925. This “1st draft” of The Great Gatsby is a pivotal story in Fitzgerald's use of the popular magazines as a workshop for his novels, demonstrating as it does his growing awareness of the fact that he can experiment with ideas in his stories that will be developed and refined later in longer works.

With few exceptions, the eighteen stories that lie between “Winter Dreams” and “The Rich Boy” show Fitzgerald using the commercial magazines in precisely this way; on the one hand earning from them enough money to carry him through the publication of The Great Gatsby, while on the other using them as a place to experiment with his evolving ideas, particularly those about romantic illusions and the American Dream. For this purpose he used two major short story markets he had cultivated in his first two years as a professional writer: the contract market, which he had discovered through his experience with Metropolitan, and the Saturday Evening Post, which had essentially been outbid by Metropolitan for Fitzgerald's stories and which had not published one of his stories for two years. In December 1922 Fitzgerald signed a contract with the Hearst organization, by which he was paid $1,500 for an option on his 1923 story output with a guarantee that Hearst's would buy at least six stories at $1,875 per story. Of the six stories Fitzgerald wrote under the terms of this contract, the two that most clearly illustrate his working through of ideas he would refine in The Great Gatsby are “Dice, Brassknuckles & Guitar,” and “The Sensible Thing” (bought by Hearst's, but exchanged for another story and finally published in Liberty). In the first of these, Jim Powell of Tarleton, Georgia, embarks on a quixotic quest to rescue Amanthis from what he sees (wrongly as it turns out) as her loneliness, and is told by her at the end that “You're better than all of them put together, Jim” (Price, 63), a comment similar to one that Nick makes to Gatsby near the end of the novel. In the second, “The Sensible Thing,” George must leave Jonquil at what he perceives to be the irrecoverable golden age of their love to earn the money that will let him come back into her life. When he returns, he discovers that the original love is lost, never to be regained, a situation clearly anticipating Fitzgerald's treatment of Gatsby's relationship with Daisy.

Typically, and again with few exceptions, the 1923 stories written with Hearst's in mind are serious ones in which Fitzgerald treats, with varying degrees of success, serious, novel-related topics. In 1924 he returned for the first time in two years to the Saturday Evening Post and published in that magazine four stories dealing with success and American business. In these stories, “Gretchen's Forty Winks,” “The Third Casket,” “The Unspeakable Egg,” and “John Jackson's Arcady,” Fitzgerald became the Post's resident expert on the American Dream, trying out in them ideas that would inform not only Gatsby's experiences in the novel, but also George Wilson's and Mr. Gatz's as well. A third market for the Gatsby cluster stories was the American Mercury, a glossier version of the by-then-defunct Smart Set, which published “Absolution,” one of the most important stories of the period and the one referred to by Fitzgerald as a “prologue” to The Great Gatsby (Piper, F. Scott Fitzgerald: A Critical Portrait, 104). The publication of this story illustrates how committed Fitzgerald had become to the idea of using all of his work-in-progress, in this case a discarded prologue to a very early draft, which does not survive, of the novel that would become The Great Gatsby. The main exceptions to Fitzgerald's advances in reconciling the conflicting demands of professional authorship and literary artistry during this period bounded by Tales of the Jazz Age and All the Sad Young Men come near the end of his completion of the novel, a time during which he reverted to old, tried material and produced such weak stories as “The Pusher in the Face,” “One of My Oldest Friends,” and “Not in the Guidebook” for Woman's Home Companion.

What can be known for certain is that by the end of the crucial 1923-5 period, devoted to the time-consuming writing and producing of his play, The Vegetable, and also writing and publishing some twenty short stories, Fitzgerald had managed also to create his masterpiece, The Great Gatsby. This novel succeeds in large part because he had developed a mastery of his craft far exceeding that in evidence in his first two novels. In The Great Gatsby Fitzgerald constructs a story that operates on many levels and at varying levels of abstraction. On one level it is the simple story of Jay Gatsby's love for Daisy Buchanan, a love story reminiscent of the one in “The Sensible Thing”; on another it is a story of the American Dream, of the infinite promise that with hard work one can achieve the best that America has to offer, a subject he had dealt with in the Post success stories; and on another, it is a story of the ideal quest, which he had worked with earlier in “Winter Dreams.” Through skillful use of narrative point of view Fitzgerald manages in the novel to sustain the tension in the various levels of the story and communicate to the reader the kind of double vision that he himself had. And through his use of unforgettable images such as the eyes of T. J. Eckleburg and the Valley of Ashes he was able through the novel to convey, in Maxwell Perkins's words, a “sort of sense of eternity” (Dear Scott/Dear Max, 84).

There are various schools of thought regarding Fitzgerald's maturation as an artist during this time, particularly regarding the role of the short stories in his progress toward The Great Gatsby. One school, of which James E. Miller is a spokesman, attributes the leap largely to conscious aesthetic considerations such as Fitzgerald's decision to abandon the artistic principle of “saturation” (evidenced in This Side of Paradise and in early, expansive stories) in favor of the Jamesian principle of “selected incident,” or to his absorption of Conradian principles related to point of view (Miller, F. Scott Fitzgerald: His Art and His Technique). Another line of thought articulated by Milton R. Stern, among others, attributes the leap both to Fitzgerald's increased aesthetic awareness and to a growth spurt in Fitzgerald's maturity as well as a general broadening of his vision (Stern, The Golden Moment). This latter argument is elaborated upon with particular application to the short stories by Petry, who focuses sharply on “Fitzgerald's changing perception of his wife and his increasingly astute understanding of his own responsibility for their troubled relationship [which] had a direct and immediate impact on his art” (Petry, Fitzgerald's Craft, 6). This changing perception, as Petry sees it, accounts in large part for the radical improvement in the stories in All the Sad Young Men over those in Tales of the Jazz Age. To these observations must be added another, perhaps in part an extension of the ideas mentioned above, but worth emphasizing in regard to the stories. Fitzgerald, during the 1922-5 period, began for the first time in his professional career to see the demands of the professional writer to be, if not precisely the same as, then at least not entirely incompatible with, those of the literary artist, as the stories selected for inclusion in All the Sad Young Men clearly demonstrate. Four of the stories, “Winter Dreams,” “Absolution,” “‘The Sensible Thing’,” and “The Rich Boy,” have direct ties to The Great Gatsby and are among the strongest of Fitzgerald's 178 stories. Four additional ones, “Hot & Cold Blood,” “Gretchen's Forty Winks,” “The Baby Party,” and “The Adjuster,” though weaker, all deal with serious, Gatsby-related subjects such as lost ideals, strained marriages, and material success. Conspicuously absent from All the Sad Young Men are the gimmicky flapper stories so often singled out for criticism in reviews of earlier volumes, a consideration which no doubt figured in Fitzgerald's decision to omit “Dice, Brassknuckles & Guitar,” an important, though at least on its surface, commercial, Gatsby cluster story, from All the Sad Young Men.

In the years separating this third collection from his fourth and final one, Taps at Reveille—years during which Fitzgerald carried Tender Is the Night through eighteen complete drafts to publication in 1934, during which his wife suffered two major mental breakdowns, and during which Fitzgerald himself battled on and off with alcoholism—he managed to publish an astonishing fifty-six stories, all but eight of them in the Saturday Evening Post, and many of them, including “Babylon Revisited,” among the finest of his career. Having shopped around for markets for his stories in the six years leading up to The Great Gatsby and All the Sad Young Men, Fitzgerald, during the period leading up to Taps at Reveille, settled into a sustained relationship with the Post, which was the mouthpiece of middle America during the 1920s and 1930s. He became, according to Ober, a virtual employee of the Post, primarily because it paid the highest prices for fiction of any magazine in America (As Ever, Scott Fitz, 192). During these years Fitzgerald earned prices ranging from $2,000 to $4,000 per story from the Post, and it came to serve as an ideal, predictable, and lucrative workshop for ideas, characters, and settings that he was developing for Tender Is the Night.

The seventeen Tender Is the Night cluster stories that appeared in the Post indeed reflect the extraordinary complexity of the novel itself, which explores through shifting viewpoints the intersecting stories of the American psychiatrist Dick Diver and his schizophrenic wife Nicole, tracing Dick's tragic decline into emotional bankruptcy as it simultaneously documents Nicole's ascent to greater emotional stability and independence. In five of the stories, “Love in the Night,” “A Penny Spent,” “Majesty,” “The Bridal Party,” and “The Hotel Child,” Fitzgerald develops the European setting, particularly the French Riviera, that will provide the backdrop for much of the novel. In some cases, as in “Love in the Night,” he experiments with specific scenes such as the Privateer yacht scene in the story that he will develop into the T. F. Golding yacht episode in the novel, an important one in which Nicole meets Tommy Barban again for the first time in five years. Eight other stories, “Jacob's Ladder,” “Magnetism,” “The Rough Crossing,” “The Swimmers,” “Two Wrongs,” “One Trip Abroad,” “Indecision,” and “A New Leaf,” are essentially dress rehearsals for characters in Tender Is the Night, in which Fitzgerald explores interactions between characters in the Dick-Nicole-Rosemary and Dick-Nicole-Tommy triangles in the novel. An additional group of four stories, “The Love Boat,” “At Your Age,” “Babylon Revisited,” and “On Schedule,” are close thematically to the novel, sharing particularly, as in “Babylon Revisited,” the novel's mood of loss and regret, and in the other three stories the sadness of lost youth brought into high relief through relationships between older men and younger women, explored in the novel in the Dick-Rosemary relationship.

The Tender Is the Night cluster stories are perhaps the most significant group of stories that Fitzgerald ever wrote when they are considered together and in the context of his uniting in them the concerns of the professional writer and literary artist. They show him in many cases walking a thin line between the demands of contemporary popular readers and discriminating critics, a feat all the more impressive given typical biases of his Post readers in the 1920s and 1930s against frank treatment of such subjects as alcoholism and suicide (“The Swimmers”); expatriation (“Majesty”); disillusionment (“The Love Boat”); and dissipation (“One Trip Abroad”), among others. But Fitzgerald, who had already written in The Great Gatsby one of the strongest indictments of American materialism and who was about to write in Tender Is the Night a poignant prophesy of the decline of Western civilization, had indeed developed by the time of these stories a mastery of the craft that enabled him at least at times in magazine stories like many of these to write honestly, as his artistic conscience dictated, and at the same time to entertain an audience that seems in retrospect a rather unlikely one upon whom to try out his serious Tender Is the Night subjects and themes.

The stories that cluster around Tender Is the Night, of course, account for only seventeen of Fitzgerald's Post contributions in the Taps at Reveille period; and the story of his success with this magazine, which reached a high point around 1930 with “Babylon Revisited,” as well as his gradual loss of it, marked in 1937 by his final Post story, “Trouble,” is complex. In the first several years of the period, during which he was publishing the serious novel-related stories such as “Jacob's Ladder” and “Magnetism” in the Post, Fitzgerald also began working on a group of retrospective stories dealing with the subject of adolescence. Among these are “Presumption,” “The Adolescent Marriage,” “A Short Trip Home,” and “The Bowl.” And though none of them, arguably with the exception of “The Bowl,” ranks high in his story canon, these stories, all containing young protagonists, foreshadow and, in fact, pave the way for the Basil Duke Lee-Josephine Perry stories, which were unquestionably popular successes, and in the cases of several individual stories, artistic triumphs.

The eight Basil Duke Lee stories taken together comprise a novelette of growth, chronicling the social and moral development of a resourceful boy, a romantic hero, not unlike Amory Blaine in This Side of Paradise (or Fitzgerald for that matter) in his adolescence. Typically, Basil's adventures involve a beautiful, rich girl, Basil's arch rival, and usually a situation that leads him to some conclusion about life that he has not thought about before. In one instance from “The Captured Shadow,” for example, Basil knowingly allows a small boy to catch the mumps so that the boy's family—in particular, his attractive sister, who is scheduled to play the lead in one of Basil's plays—will not be able to leave town on vacation; and though Basil is successful with his plotting, he comes through the experience wiser, as he does in virtually all of the stories. Fitzgerald's success in this series comes mainly from his ability to entertain with the ingenious and hilarious situations in which he places Basil. As Ober told him, “I shall never be satisfied until I hear more about Basil, and I think everyone who reads the stories feels the same way” (As Ever, Scott Fitz, 116). But the stories succeed also because Fitzgerald is able to distance himself aesthetically from his subject in a way he had not been able to do with Amory Blaine, whom Basil in superficial ways resembles. Fitzgerald maintains this same kind of ironic stance in relation to Josephine Perry, the adolescent protagonist of five Post stories that chronologically follow the Basil series, though Josephine is by no means simply a female version of Basil. Whereas Basil was largely a sympathetic figure, who progressively endeared himself to the reader as he grew toward self-knowledge in episode after episode, Josephine is a spoiled rich girl who moves step by step toward the condition referred to in the title of the final story of the series, “Emotional Bankruptcy,” a state of emotional depletion which most readers will agree she has earned through her snobbishness and insensitivity to others.

In addition to the unquestionable artistic value of these stories is the fact that they played an important role in Fitzgerald's maintaining the Post as a workshop for his novel. The early adolescence stories were scattered among the early Tender Is the Night cluster stories; the Basil stories, published as they were almost back-to-back in 1928, in effect provide audiences with a one-year break from the dark novel-related stories such as “The Rough Crossing” and “The Swimmers”; and the Josephine stories appear in a kind of alternating pattern with the bleakest of the Tender Is the Night stories such as “One Trip Abroad,” and “A New Leaf.” While there is no correspondence that reveals why Fitzgerald, in the midst of composing Tender Is the Night, suddenly also began writing retrospective stories about adolescence, a partial explanation is that he knew these stories would be acceptable to Post editors because they would be popular with the magazine's readers, a fact that he could not count on with the novel-related stories, which often pushed the limits of what was acceptable for a popular magazine. Thus these adolescence stories gave Fitzgerald a guaranteed income during an important period of the composition of the novel, and they allowed him to practice his craft, particularly that part of it related to narrative viewpoint and aesthetic distance, considerations of great significance in his most ambitious novel, Tender Is the Night.

With the final Josephine story, “Emotional Bankruptcy,” Fitzgerald had begun to blend the serious concept of emotional depletion that is at the heart of Dick Diver's story in the novel with his entertaining narratives about adolescence, and from approximately the time of this story forward he seemed, for whatever combination of reasons, to lose a sense of the tastes of his popular magazine audience that he was never able fully to regain. Between “Emotional Bankruptcy” and the publication of Taps at Reveille, he published twenty more stories in the Post, but virtually all of them lacked the spark of his Tender Is the Night cluster stories and the Basil and Josephine stories. Most of the works of the period of Fitzgerald's declining popularity with the Post are characterized by a retrospective quality that had, even as recently as 1928, worked to Fitzgerald's advantage, as is evidenced by “The Last of the Belles,” in which Fitzgerald reached back into his early Tarleton, Georgia, series (including “The Ice Palace,” “The Jelly-Bean,” and “Dice, Brassknuckles & Guitar”) and retrieved Ailie Calhoun, one of his most memorable heroines. But by 1933, even the best of his retrospective stories such as “More than Just a House,” lack freshness and are characterized by blurred focus and multiple plots, not always clearly related to each other. There is about his stories in the years immediately preceding Tender Is the Night an almost desperate quality that one senses results from Fitzgerald's searching for stories that he once wrote with such seeming effortlessness, stories that he could not now quite find. He attempted, for example, a series of loosely related stories involving the medical profession, including “Her Last Case,” “Zone of Accident,” and “One Interne,” but was unable to sustain it. The Post began rejecting more and more of his submissions, and his prices for individual stories began steadily dropping from $4,000 to $3,500 to $2,500, and finally to $2,000, which was the price he earned for his last Post story.

With the disappointment of his gradual but inevitable loss of the Post and the even more devastating critical reception of Tender Is the Night (published in 1934), Fitzgerald clearly wanted to assemble the strongest possible story collection to serve as a companion volume for the novel. The Fitzgerald-Perkins correspondence outlines several alternatives for constructing what would become Taps at Reveille, including the possibility that it could be an omnibus volume containing strong selections from the three previous story volumes, supplemented by the best of his work since the last one (Dear Scott/Dear Max, 195-201). Finally, following the precedent set by those three volumes, they agreed to use only stories from the fifty-six published since 1926. Perkins favored a collection consisting primarily of Basil and Josephine stories, an idea that Fitzgerald opposed since he did not want critics to consider the book as his next novel. He also objected to filling the volume with his Tender Is the Night cluster stories, since many of them had been stripped of scenes and passages that had been included in the novel, and would, if included, leave him open to criticism that he was recycling material. The two finally agreed on a volume that would include some of the Basil and Josephine stories (to be scattered through the volume rather than run as units), a few Tender Is the Night cluster stories, and assorted selections representing the magazine work that Fitzgerald had done outside those two groups since All the Sad Young Men.

The volume that was finally published contained four Tender Is the Night cluster stories: “Babylon Revisited,” which was unquestionably the strongest story in the collection; and “Majesty,” “Two Wrongs,” and “Crazy Sunday,” the last of these a strong story with ties both to Tender Is the Night and The Last Tycoon. Interestingly, “Majesty” and “Two Wrongs” are among the weakest of the novel-related stories, and there is no question that the inclusion of “One Trip Abroad,” “The Swimmers,” or “The Rough Crossing,” all too clearly linked to Tender Is the Night in Fitzgerald's eyes, in the place of either of them would have strengthened the volume. Five of the eight Basil stories were included, as were three of the five Josephine stories, which meant that they occupied more than half the volume. Outside of these groups Fitzgerald understandably chose “The Last of the Belles,” his beautifully nostalgic farewell to the South.

The remaining choices, however, are curious: “One Interne,” from the aborted series of Post stories about the medical profession; “Family in the Wind,” one of the long rambling stories that manifests the lack of focus and disjointedness that caused Fitzgerald to lose the Post; “A Short Trip Home,” one of the adolescence stories which precedes the Basil and Josephine stories and weaker than “The Bowl,” which might have replaced it; and finally, “The Night Before Chancellorsville” and “The Fiend,” two relatively short pieces that had appeared in Esquire, for which Fitzgerald had just begun to write—stories exhibiting what would become known as his sparser, more economical “new manner,” but nevertheless stories weaker than numerous ones whose place they took in Taps at Reveille.

Whether by accident or design Fitzgerald had assembled each of his short story volumes in such a way that it would be representative of the various kinds of stories he had been writing since the volume that preceded it. In this, Taps at Reveille clearly is no exception; it does, however, differ from earlier volumes in foreshadowing, perhaps eerily so, the direction that his short story writing career would take in the years leading up to his death in December 1940.Taps at Reveille had been published in March 1935. As it went to press, Fitzgerald completed work on “Zone of Accident,” which would be the dead end of his series about the medical profession, represented in Taps at Reveille by “One Interne.” Also, while the collection was in press, he devoted two months to writing “The Passionate Eskimo” and “The Intimate Strangers,” the first two of what would become a group of stories written for the Post but rejected because of weaknesses evident in such Taps at Reveille stories as “Family in the Wind” and published finally in slick magazines such as McCall's, Liberty and Collier's, generally considered a step down from the Post. Then in December, he tried to launch a new series of stories about Gwen Bowers, a young girl approximately his own daughter's age, a series clearly inspired by his success with the Josephine Perry stories. The Post bought the first two stories but rejected the third, in effect ending the series. His last success with the Post was bittersweet, a pilot for a series of stories about a nurse whose nickname, “Trouble,” provided the title for the first story and with sad irony predicted the series' fate. There would be no sequel to this story, which earned for Fitzgerald only his 1925 price of $2,000; and though he would try many times after “‘Trouble’” to regain his favorite popular audience, he was never again able to write a story the Post would accept.

The two Esquire selections in Taps at Reveille (“The Fiend” and “The Night Before Chancellorsville”) point to what would emerge as the dominant force in Fitzgerald's career as a short story writer in the last years of his life. Fitzgerald had sent these two stories to Esquire after its editor, Arnold Gingrich, had accepted a collaborative essay, largely the work of Zelda Fitzgerald, in early 1934. And Gingrich, who had long been an admirer of Fitzgerald's work, encouraged him to send virtually anything he wrote for publication in Esquire. He would pay Fitzgerald “[$]200-250 for a mere appearance (1,000 to 2,000 words in any genre),” Fitzgerald reported to Ober (As Ever, Scott Fitz, 291). In the years that followed, Fitzgerald's work would appear in Esquire forty-five times, thirty-six of these in the form of what could loosely be called short stories. All of these stories were written in Fitzgerald's “later style,” which was characterized by pared-down prose, uncomplicated story lines, and generally sparser description—in essence all of those things that his Post stories had not been. While the Post stories, for example, had averaged 6,000 words, the Esquire stories were typically 2,000 words. And while the Post stories were heavily plotted and neatly resolved at the end, the Esquire stories were often built around a single, simple episode which was often left unresolved. In effect, Fitzgerald was able in the stories that he wrote with Esquire in mind to write as he chose to, knowing that his work would be published. The final effect of this latitude on Fitzgerald's artistic development is debatable, but some of the immediate results were positive. In one of the shorter of these sketches, the 1,200-word “The Lost Decade,” Fitzgerald artfully captures his main character's feeling of disorientation after he has come back from being “every-which-way drunk” for a decade by rendering his sensory experience of feeling a building's granite and the texture of his own coat. In the longer “Design in Plaster,” he focuses on a single night in the life of Martin Harris, whose extraordinary frustrations in life are brought into high relief by the immediate dilemma of his having a broken shoulder. Thus with these two stories, to which can be added two others, “Financing Finnegan” and the later Pat Hobby story, “A Patriotic Short,” Fitzgerald added good stories to the body of his work. Unfortunately these strong stories are the exception, and far more of the Esquire sketches lack redeeming value, as in the case of one of the weakest, “Shaggy's Morning,” a stream of consciousness narration from a dog's point of view which fails utterly to make it clear why his reflections are worth reading about.

In the final year of his life Fitzgerald conceived of the idea of writing a series of stories about a “scenario hack” named Pat Hobby, whose sad predicament represented a caricature of what Fitzgerald feared he himself might become. The seventeen stories he developed in this series probably stand, if considered together, as Fitzgerald's most worthwhile artistic achievement to emerge from his Esquire contributions. The individual Pat Hobby stories typically follow a pattern in which Pat starts at a low point in his life, finds an angle that seems worth pursuing to improve his plight, and then sinks again into failure. In a characteristic story, “Pat Hobby's Secret,” for example, Pat comes close to success when he becomes the only one who knows the secret ending for a script whose writer has just been murdered; but his success is undermined when he develops amnesia, in part because he has witnessed the murder of the writer, and thus he loses the contract that he would have had if he had recalled the ending. In the strongest story of the Pat Hobby series and one of the best of his Esquire pieces, “A Patriotic Short,” Fitzgerald uncharacteristically gives Pat a past, which effectively draws the reader into his character much more deeply than usual, and in the process hints at what Fitzgerald might have done with this series if he had not been so reliant on turning the stories out quickly for the $250 that he seemed always to need so desperately in that last year.

Gingrich, understandably, defended the Pat Hobby stories as evidence that Fitzgerald was turning out “good copy” in the year before his death, and that these stories were his “last word from his last home” (PH [The Pat Hobby Stories], ix-xxiii). There is no question that Esquire provided an outlet for his story writing that he seemed unable to find elsewhere. However, if one takes a broad view of Fitzgerald's twenty-year career, it becomes clear that the close relationship between his short story writing and his novel writing that he had spent his entire professional life developing is absent during the Esquire years. The composition dates of the Pat Hobby stories, after all, coincide with the composition period of The Last Tycoon, which Fitzgerald was laboriously working on when he died. Yet all that the Pat Hobby stories share with the novel is their Hollywood setting, whose particulars never seem to overlap. And clearly, there are no dress rehearsals for Monroe Stahr, Kathleen, or Cecelia Brady in the Esquire stories, as there were many dress rehearsals for Dick and Nicole Diver and Rosemary Hoyt in the stories leading up to Tender Is the Night.

One might reasonably conclude, with only the thirty-six Esquire stories and The Last Tycoon fragment on which to form a judgment, that Fitzgerald himself ultimately gave up on reconciling the roles of professional author and literary artist that seemed for so much of his life to be a primary goal. The Pat Hobby stories, however, do not turn out to be Fitzgerald's only “last word from his last home,” and there is good reason to believe that in that final year, more diligently than he had since his Tender Is the Night cluster stories, Fitzgerald was working to reestablish the popular magazines as his “more orderly writer's notebooks” for The Last Tycoon. Two stories, written in 1939 and 1940 and published posthumously, show him with vintage sparkle shaping for a popular audience other than Esquire his serious material from The Last Tycoon: “Discard,” published by Harper's Bazaar in 1948, presents a convincing study of the corrupt Hollywood that Stahr was to be up against in the novel, and “Last Kiss,” billed by Collier's as a story that “contain[s] the seed that grew into the novel The Last Tycoon, which Fitzgerald was writing when he died,”8 indeed contains counterparts to Stahr and Kathleen, as well as echoes of their lost love. There is no correspondence to suggest how Fitzgerald planned to market “Last Kiss,” but his exchanges with Ober concerning “Discard” indicate that he wrote this story for Collier's, which declined it, and then rewrote it for the Post, which also finally rejected it for the reason, Ober concluded, that it was still too subtle for a popular audience (As Ever, Scott Fitz, 410-16). But, of course, he would continue to work on it, Fitzgerald must have promised, and they would, of course, continue to hope that he might succeed—that he might be at last what he had long ago become, and what even his short stories alone have probably made him, “one of the greatest writers who ever lived.”

Notes

1. All figures related to Fitzgerald's earnings are taken from his Ledger.

2. H. L. Mencken, Smart Set (December 1920), 40. Reprinted in Jackson Bryer, ed., F. Scott Fitzgerald: The Critical Reception, 48.

3. “Too Much Fire Water,” Minneapolis Journal (December 10, 1922), 12. Reprinted in Bryer, ed., The Critical Reception, 162.

4. Arthur Coleman, “Stories by F. Scott Fitzgerald Are Merely Entertaining,” Dallas Morning News, March 24, 1935, 8. Reprinted in Bryer, ed., The Critical Reception, 339.

5. T. S. Matthews, New Republic (April 10, 1935). Reprinted in Alfred Kazin, ed., F. Scott Fitzgerald: The Man and His Work, 108.

6. Page xii. Bruccoli was first to develop the “cluster story” concept and explore it in his The Composition of “Tender Is the Night.”

7. For a full discussion of the role of the popular magazines in Fitzgerald's literary career, see Bryant Mangum, A Fortune Yet: Money in the Art of F. Scott Fitzgerald's Short Stories.

8. “Last Kiss,” Collier's (April 16, 1949), 16.

SOURCE: Mangum, Bryant. “The Short Stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald.” In The Cambridge Companion to F. Scott Fitzgerald, edited by Ruth Prigozy, pp. 57-78. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002.

Contemporary Reception

Proper recognition of Fitzgerald as one of the major and enduring American fiction writers of the twentieth century came only after his death. Most contemporary reviewers judged his first novel, This Side of Paradise, as flawed but also as an auspicious beginning: ambitious, fresh, and exciting. In general, critics treated the succeeding novels published in Fitzgerald’s lifetime—The Beautiful and Damned, The Great Gatsby, and Tender Is the Night— with respect, though they also tended to agree that the works fell short of their author’s promise. In most cases reviewers praised Fitzgerald’s final, unfinished novel—posthumously published under the title The Last Tycoon— though its incomplete state once more supported their contention that he had not fulfilled his talent. Fitzgerald’s rather precarious contemporary reputation may have resulted in part from Scribners’ publication of a collection of his short stories following each of the novels that appeared while he was living.

Although reviewers usually applauded each collection, they often focused upon the purely commercial rather than the serious short fiction, thereby obscuring one of the writer’s major achievements and confirming the suspicion that he was merely a skillful popular entertainer. Two more factors may have impaired Fitzgerald’s contemporary critical reputation, though they were never directly raised by his reviewers: his image as a dissipated playboy of the 1920s destroyed by his own weaknesses in the 1930s, and the contrasting model of his friend and rival Ernest Hemingway, who, despite—or perhaps because of—his involvement in wars, African safaris, deep-sea fishing, and serial marriages, exuded artistic discipline and personal integrity.

When This Side of Paradise was published in March 1920, it was greeted with high praise—and some moral outrage. H. L. Mencken in The Smart Set proclaimed it the “best American novel that I have seen of late... a truly amazing first novel—original in structure, extremely sophisticated in manner, and adorned with a brilliancy that is as rare in American writing as honesty is in American statecraft.” John Black in the Brooklyn Daily Eagle declared, “This Side of Paradise’ is the most independent, daring and challenging adventure in American fiction since Dreiser’s early days.” Yet, many reviewers correctly perceived that the novel lacked controlled structure and style: the writer for the Philadelphia Sunday Press found it “surcharged with a tremendous vitality, as yet not sufficiently restrained within the limits of a sure artistry” Robert C. Benchley in the New York Morning World offered Fitzgerald “a crown of something very expensive” in spite of his novel’s “immaturity, its ingenuousness and its many false notes”; and Edwin Francis Edgett in the Boston Evening Transcript noted the work’ s “boisterous exhibition of youthful though somewhat unregulated genius.” Still other reviewers focused on its portrait of college men and their young women. Writers for campus magazines and newspapers—The Harvard Crimson, The Dartmouth, and The Hamilton Literary Magazine—provided firsthand support for Fitzgerald’s vision of university life, and The New York Times Book Review called This Side of Paradise a “nearly perfect” picture of the experiences of college-age people with “the sexes... well-matched.” Nevertheless, Heywood Broun in the New York Tribune complained that though the novel’s portrayal of college men might be accurate, “the type is not interesting,” and the reviewer for The Independent warned that the book’s “picture of modern youth is so obviously founded on solid fact that Victorian mamas are likely to be quite upset by it.” Indeed, the commentator for the Roman Catholic journal America provided the strongest expression of the conservative point of view: “The novel’s central figure is an egotistic, unprincipled philandering youth, who seems to be a fair example of our non-Catholic college’s output.... If the parties to Amory’s various love-affairs are faithful portraits of the modern American girl, the country is going to the dogs rapidly.”

Many contemporary commentators on This Side of Paradise, including Burton Rascoe in the Chicago Daily Tribune and an unidentified writer for The Nation, concurred with the St. Louis Post-Dispatch reviewer that Fitzgerald was “an author of whom great things can be expected,” yet by the time his first story collection, Flappers and Philosophers, appeared in September 1920, the young writer’s reputation was under assault. Although Fanny Butcher in the Chicago Sunday Tribune predicted that “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” and “The Ice Palace” were “going to be classics some day” and Heywood Broun in the New York Tribune offered grudging admiration for “The Ice Palace,” the majority of the reviewers defined the collection as diverting but unimportant. Sibyl Vane in Publishers’ Weekly saw the stories as “clever light fiction done crisp”; the critic for the San Francisco Chronicle felt they were “the work of an artisan rather than an artist”; and the reviewer for The New York Times Book Review and Magazine regarded them as “the triumph of form over matter.” Mencken asked in The Smart Set: “Will [Fitzgerald] proceed via the first part of ‘This Side of Paradise’ to the cold groves of beautiful letters, or will he proceed via ‘Head and Shoulders’ into the sunshine that warms [popular writers] Robert W. Chambers and Harold MacGrath? “The Nation concluded that he had already “proceeded to cultivate [dross] and to sell it to the Saturday Evening Post”; C. B. in the Baltimore Evening Sun wrote that “after the promise of ‘This Side of Paradise’[the stories] are a terrible come down”; and I. W. L. in the Boston Evening Transcript declared that “the Fitzgerald vogue will pass.”

The Beautiful and Damned, published in March 1922, was the most widely reviewed of Fitzgerald’s books because of the interest generated by This Side of Paradise two years before. Critics were sharply divided over whether this partially naturalistic story of Anthony and Gloria Patch, a young married couple who lead a life of dissipation while awaiting an inheritance, represented an advance over Fitzgerald’s first novel. Reviewers who attacked the book charged that its ideas were either confused or simpleminded (Edwin Francis Edgett in the Boston Evening Transcript, Carl Van Doren in The Nation, and Burton Rascoe in The Bookman, for example) and that it lacked structure, design, and artistic control (Gilbert Seldes in The Dial and Phil A. Kinsley in the Philadelphia Record). Even those critics who admired the novel conceded its flaws: Harry Hansen in the Chicago Daily News praised its development of theme but also called it “at times superficial, ironical, grotesque, careless, disorderly”, Mencken in The Smart Set found in the novel signs that Fitzgerald had begun “to come into his maturity,” though he also judged the book “not a complete success”; and Henry Seidel Canby in the Literary Review of the New York Evening Post noted “evidences of great and growing artistic power” and concluded, “[W]hen he is not showing off in pseudo-wit, or trying to shock the bourgeoisie, or discovering profound truths of philosophy which get muddled before he can grasp them, how this novelist can write!” Most contemporary reviewers were disappointed by Fitzgerald’s writing in The Beautiful and Damned, though at least one, John V. A. Weaver in the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, predicted, “[W]hen he finally finds himself... he is going to be one of the really great figures of our native literature.”

Tales of the Jazz Age, published in September 1922, included eleven stories, a contents page with tongue-in-cheek annotations by Fitzgerald, and a dust jacket by popular cartoonist John Held Jr. The reviews were mostly favorable, though an unidentified writer for the Minneapolis Journal declared: “There is not a well conceived story in the volume; not one that has any depth; and throughout the collection silliness is mistaken for comedy.” Both John Farrar in the New York Herald and Edmund Wilson in Vanity Fair praised “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz,” though Farrar compared it to work by Chambers, and Wilson evoked another “slick” writer, Frank Stockton. The reviewer for the Philadelphia Evening Public Ledger declared that “Diamond” “miss[ed] fire ” and that Fitzgerald’s other fine novelette in the collection, “May Day,” was “readable without being wholly gripping”; Stephen Vincent Benet in the New York Evening Post Literary Review found the two novelettes neither “interesting” nor “superb.” Mencken gave the collection only a brief notice in The Smart Set but observed that “The spread between Fitzgerald’s best work and his worst is extraordinarily wide.”

Most reviewers of The Great Gatsby, published on 10 April 1925, regarded the novel as evidence of Fitzgerald’s increasing artistic maturity but not as a masterpiece. Isabel Paterson in the New York Herald Tribune Books described The Great Gatsby as “beautifully and delicately balanced” but also as “neither profound nor durable... a book of the season only.” The reviewer for the St. Paul Pioneer Press, while calling the novel “a distinct advance in the author’s command of his medium,” concluded that “the work in itself is not of the greatest importance.” Mencken in the Baltimore Evening Sun praised “the charm and beauty of the writing” but labeled the story “unimportant,” “a glorified anecdote.” While commending the “sincerity of feeling” and the “delicacy of irony” in the novel, Laurence Stallings in the New York World confessed, “I do not think for one moment in reading this book that ‘here is a great novel’ or even, that ‘here is a fine book.’” On the utterly negative side, Ruth Hale in the Brooklyn Daily Eagle could not find “one chemical trace of magic, life, irony, romance or mysticism” in The Great Gatsby, and Harvey Eagleton in the Dallas Morning News denounced the “characteristically unnecessary two-page list of the visitors to the Gatsby Long Island estate.” On the other hand, in his Saturday Review of Literature essay, William Rose Benet praised not only the “thoroughly matured craftsmanship” but also the thematic profundity of the novel. Moreover, in a Dial review of writer and novel that perhaps most fully anticipated their standing in the late 1990s, Gilbert Seldes declared: “The question [of what Fitzgerald would do with his gifts as an author] has been answered in one of the finest of contemporary novels. Fitzgerald has more than matured; he has mastered his talents and gone soaring in a beautiful flight, leaving behind him everything dubious and tricky in his earlier work, and leaving even farther behind all the men of his own generation and most of his elders.“

All the Sad Young Men, now generally regarded as Fitzgerald’s strongest short-story collection, was published in February 1926. Among the volume’s nine stories were four major works: “The Rich Boy,” “Winter Dreams,” “Absolution,” and “‘The Sensible Thing.’” Although the unidentified reviewer for The Dial regarded the mood of the serious stories as strained and unbelievable, both Harry Hansen in the Chicago Daily News and E. C. Beckwith in the Literary Review of the New York Evening Post praised these works. Hansen and an unnamed writer for The New York Times Book Review also admired the variety of stories in the collection, and The Bookman provided a rave review: “As F. Scott Fitzgerald continues to publish books, it becomes apparent that he is head and shoulders better than any writer of his generation. ‘All the Sad Young Men’ contains several stories of compelling fineness, along with more conventional pieces of storytelling that are sufficiently amusing with the old Fitzgerald talent.... ’All the Sad Young Men’ is, it seems to me, by far the best book of short stories he has given us, and it contains some of his very best work.“

Tender Is the Night, Fitzgerald’s fourth novel, was published in April 1934, nine years after The Great Gatsby and in the midst of the Great Depression. It has often been assumed that this story of wealthy American expatriates living on the Riviera in the 1920s was a critical failure in its time because it was attacked by leftist critics. Among major reviewers, however, only Philip Rahv in the Marxist newspaper The Daily Worker condemned it and its author for its alleged support of capitalism: “The truth is that Nicole [Diver] can be understood as a symbol of the entire crazy social system to which Fitzgerald has long been playing Dick Diver.... Dear Mr. Fitzgerald, you can’t hide from a hurricane under a beach umbrella.” Nor did critics complain about the novel’s flashback structure. Instead, its very mixed reviews most frequently resulted from readers’ high expectations for a book that had required such a long gestation period. Horace Gregory in the New York Herald Tribune Books described it as “not all that it should have been”; J. Donald Adams in The New York Times Book Review labeled it “a disappointment”; Hal Borland in the Philadelphia Public Ledger called it “not the important novel I had expected it to be”; and Clifton Fadiman in The New Yorker pronounced it not “the first-rate work of fiction we have been expecting from F. Scott Fitzgerald.” At the heart of Fadiman’s criticism were what he regarded as the “unconvincing” causes of Dr. Richard Diver’s decline: “The events of the narrative, tragic as they are, are insufficient to motivate his downfall.” Whether or not Diver’s collapse was believable became the central issue for contemporary reviewers: Henry Seidel Canby in The Saturday Review of Literature and William Troy in The Nation found too many reasons for his decline; Adams in The New York Times Book Review regarded his fall as “contrived”; and an unnamed reviewer for the Milwaukee Journal lamented Diver’s “all too sudden... physical, mental and moral disintegration.” Nonetheless, John Chamberlain, who within a three-day period twice favorably reviewed the novel for The New York Times, defended Fitzgerald’s handling of Diver’s decline—“Compared to the motivation in Faulkner, it is logic personified”—and an unidentified writer for the Journal of Nervous and Mental Disease warmly recommended the novel to students of “the psychobiological sources of human behavior.” Other reviewers found additional praiseworthy qualities in Tender Is the Night. Malcolm Cowley in The New Republic admired the novel’s “richness of meaning and emotion”; the critic for the Milwaukee Journal called it Fitzgerald’s “most mature work”; and Cameron Rogers in the San Francisco Chronicle viewed it as “a profoundly moving, beautifully written story, [which] should assure Fitzgerald’s stature as an American writer.” Most enthusiastically, Gilbert Seldes in the New York Evening Journal called Tender Is the Night Fitzgerald’s “great novel” and declared that the author had “stepped again to his natural place at the head of the American writers of our time.”

Published in March 1935, Taps at Reveille, Fitzgerald’s final collection to appear during his lifetime, included eighteen stories, five of them from his Basil Duke Lee series of 1928 and 1929 and three from his Josephine Perry series of 1930 and 1931. The volume also collected two of his acknowledged masterpieces, “The Last of the Belles” and “Babylon Revisited,” neither of which drew particular attention from the reviewers, although Elizabeth Hart in New York Herald Tribune Books called the latter story “superb.” Most of the contemporary critics, however, concurred with Edith H. Walton, who wrote in The New York Times Book Review that “Fitzgerald’s material is rarely worthy of his talents” but who praised his “mastery of style” and “technical competence.” T. S. Matthew in The New Republic accused the short-story writer of lack of depth—“His heroes have grown older but not riper”— and William Troy in The Nation declared that his moral vision was “vague and immature.” John Chamberlain again played defender of Fitzgerald, arguing in The New York Times that his material and vision were at least as consequential as William Faulkner’s, Marcel Proust’s, Gustave Flaubert’s, or Sinclair Lewis’s.

“The Last Tycoon is..., even in its imperfect state, Fitzgerald’s most mature piece of work. It is marked off also from his other novels by the fact that it is the first to deal seriously with any profession or business.... Monroe Stahr, unlike any other of Scott Fitzgerald’s heroes, is inextricably involved with an industry of which he has been one of the creators, and its fate will be implied by his tragedy. The moving-picture business in America has here been observed at a close range, studied with a careful attention and dramatized with a sharp wit such as are not to be found in combination in any of the other novels on the subject. The Last Tycoon is far and away the best novel we have had about Hollywood, and it is the only one which takes us inside.”

Edmund Wilson

From the foreword to The Last Tycoon, edited by Wilson (New York: Scribners, 1941), p. x.

The Last Tycoon, Fitzgerald’s final, unfinished novel, was published in October 1941, ten months after his death. Edited by Edmund Wilson, the volume included not only The Last Tycoon but also Fitzgerald’s notes for the novel, five of his best-known short stories, and The Great Gatsby. Reviewers generally attempted to assess both the incomplete novel and Fitzgerald’s career as a whole. W. M. R. in the Kansas City Star and John T. Appleby of the Washington Post saw little to praise in either the book or the reputation: Appleby, for example, declared that The Last Tycoon “demonstrate[d] conclusively the shallowness and the limitations of Fitzgerald’s abilities.”

Even reviewers who admired the book and who felt that its author had abundant talent tended in many cases to doubt that Fitzgerald was much more than a writer bound by his times: J. Donald Adams in his front-page New York Times Book Review article guessed that the fiction writer would “be remembered [only] in his generation.” Milton Rugoff in New York Herald Tribune Books more optimistically predicted that the best of Fitzgerald’s work was “rich and rewarding enough to warrant the attention of another generation besides his own.” Several reviewers—including Rugoff, Edward Weeks of The Atlantic Monthly, and Louis Nicholas of The Philadelphia Record— declared that Fitzgerald’s portrait of movie producer Monroe Stahr and his Hollywood environment was superior to anything the author had produced before. Rugoff felt that “it held promise of being his best book”; Weeks called it “a book of great power, clarity, and characterization”; and Nicholas thought that it revealed Fitzgerald “on the verge of a new literary awakening.” However, only Stephen Vincent Benet, writing in the Saturday Review of Literature, ventured an assessment of the book and of its author’s career that approaches the judgment of readers and critics in the late 1990s. Of The Last Tycoon Benét wrote: “Had Fitzgerald been permitted to finish the book, I think there is no doubt that it would have added a major character and a major novel to American fiction.” Of Fitzgerald as a writer, Benet declared: “... the evidence is in. You can take off your hats now, gentlemen, and 1 think perhaps you had better. This is not a legend, this is a reputation— and, seen in perspective, it may well be one of the most secure reputations of our time.“

Revival

The legend is that when Fitzgerald died in December 1940, all of his books were out of print. The truth is even more bitter. Six of his titles—The Great Gatsby, Tender Is the Night, Flappers and Philosophers, Tales of the Jazz Age, All the Sad Young Men, and Taps at Reveille— were in stock at Scribners but were not selling. Fitzgerald’s final royalty statement in August 1940 showed total sales of forty copies of his books, including seven of The Great Gatsby and nine of Tender Is the Night. He earned $13.13 in royalties on these sales.

Fitzgerald’s resurrection from forgotten writer to major literary figure is one of the great American success stories, though since it was a posthumous development, it carries a Fitzgeraldian poignancy. The revival began because of the efforts of writers who had known Fitzgerald and who recognized his brilliance, among them Edmund Wilson, John O’Hara, Dorothy Parker, Budd Schulberg, and Malcolm Cowley. The volumes that they produced attracted, first of all, a new and enthusiastic readership for Fitzgerald and, later, the attention of teachers and of literary scholars and critics. By 1960 Fitzgerald was ranked among the greatest American writers, and sales of his titles that year totaled 177,849 copies. In the late 1990s roughly 300,000 copies of The Great Gatsby were purchased each year, and in the years since Fitzgerald’s death, at least fifteen million copies of his books have been sold by Scribners.

Wilson, who had been a friend of Fitzgerald’s in college, was the key figure in the first stage of the revival. He edited Fitzgerald’s unfinished last novel, which was published in 1941 as The Last Tycoon together with The Great Gatsby and five stories. Wilson also assembled the tributes to Fitzgerald by John Dos Passos, Glenway Wescott, John O’Hara, Budd Schulberg, and John Peale Bishop for the 17 February and 3 March 1941 issues of The New Republic. Though these publishing events were generally regarded as sentimental gestures, they were signs that other writers were not going to allow Fitzgerald’s work to die.

In 1945, a key year for the revival, Wilson published The Crack-Up, which collected ten of Fitzgerald’s autobiographical essays, selections from his notebooks and previously unpublished letters, and letters and tributes to him by such distinguished literary figures as Gertrude Stein, Edith Wharton, T. S. Eliot, Thomas Wolfe, John Dos Passos, and John Peale Bishop. The Crack-Up, which had a strong appeal for readers, has never gone out of print. Also during 1945 The Great Gatsby and other works by Fitzgerald became widely available and widely read: the Armed Services Editions distributed 150,000 copies each of The Great Gatsby and of another volume, “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” and Other Stories, to Americans in service during World War II. That same year the first group of Bantam paperbacks included The Great Gatsby priced at twenty-five cents. The Portable F. Scott Fitzgerald, selected by Dorothy Parker and with an introduction by O’Hara, provided The Great Gatsby, Tender Is the Night, and nine stories.

In 1950 Fitzgerald’s daughter, Scottie, donated his papers to Princeton, a gift that stimulated Fitzgerald scholarship. The following year Arthur Mizener published the first book-length biography, The Far Side of Paradise, which, together with Schulberg’s novel based on Fitzgerald, The Disenchanted (1950), aroused interest in the writer’s life. In 1951 literary historian Malcolm Cowley published an influential collection of twenty-eight Fitzgerald short stories and produced the so-called “Author’s Final Version” of Tender Is the Night, which brought new readers to that masterpiece. Also in 1951 Alfred Kazin edited F. Scott Fitzgerald: The Man and His Work, the first major collection of critical essays on Fitzgerald by various authors. That same year Bantam added the original version of Tender Is the Night to its paperback line. The English publisher Penguin printed The Great Gatsby in paperback in 1950, adding the revised Tender Is the Night to its imprint in 1954 and The Last Tycoon in 1960. By the mid-1950s the Fitzgerald revival was well under way.

Fitzgerald’s reputation continued to rise as his works, especially The Great Gatsby, became classroom standards and he achieved classic status. In 1957 Scribners produced its Student’s Edition of The Great Gatsby, which was incorporated into the Scribner’s Library editions in 1960 and thereafter became the most widely reprinted trade paperback among twentieth-century novels. During the 1960s and later, Fitzgerald scholarship and research resulted in major primary and secondary bibliographies; two journals (The Fitzgerald Newsletter, 1958–1968, and The Fitzgerald-Hemingway Journal, 1969–1979); more than twenty biographies; and in excess of fifty book-length critical studies. The Modern Language Association annual bibliography lists more than 1,300 entries, mostly articles and essays, published between 1963 and 1999. Since 1951, twenty-one collections of critical essays on Fitzgerald’s life and work have been assembled. Since his death sixty-plus volumes of previously uncollected Fitzgerald writings—including five collections of his letters, seven volumes of his stories, his Ledger, his Notebooks, and facsimiles of his manuscripts, typescripts, and galley proofs—have been published.

Fitzgerald’s work continues to attract diverse audiences: scholars, teachers, students, and readers for pleasure. For generation after generation of readers, his emotional intensity, warmth, style, and mastery of the storyteller’s art have earned him a secure place among writers of genius.

Art Imitating Life

Great fiction is often autobiographical since authors write most effectively about what they know. More than most other writers, Fitzgerald drew upon his own feelings and experiences for his novels and short stories. Yet, his fiction was never just thinly disguised autobiography; it was instead transmuted autobiography. None of the protagonists of his novels—Amory Blaine, Anthony Patch, Jay Gatsby, Dick Diver, or Monroe Stahr—can be fully identified with Fitzgerald, though he clearly assigned certain of his own emotions and experiences to them. In his best work, fictional elements provide artistic form and moral order that life rarely yields; autobiographical elements invest the work with an intensely “felt” quality, perhaps the most notable mark of Fitzgerald’s greatest writing. Again and again he emphasized that his fiction had its origins in his feelings: “Taking things hard—from Genevra to Joe Mank—: That’s stamp that goes into my books so that people can read it blind like brail,” or “Whether it’s something that happened twenty years ago or only yesterday, I must start out with an emotion—one that’s close to me and that I can understand.”

Fitzgerald never wrote a roman a clef (a novel with a key), in which real people and events are slightly fictionalized, and much of the pleasure for readers comes through their ability to identify the prototypes for the characters and actions and to share what purports to be an insider’s view of them. Fitzgerald drew upon his life, family, friends, and favorite locales for his novels and stories, but his purpose in doing so was not to expose real people and events but to re-create them in fictional forms capable of conveying truths as he saw them. Scottie Fitzgerald was the model for Honoria Wales in “Babylon Revisited,” but the character is not simply a portrait of Scottie as an intelligent and charming child but is rather a vivid representation of all that her father, Charlie Wales, has lost through his irresponsible behavior.

This Side of Paradise—as is frequently the case with first novels—is the most autobiographical of Fitzgerald’s major works. Many of Amory Blaine’s experiences are drawn from Fitzgerald’s life. Amory spends part of his teenage years in Minneapolis/St. Paul, where Fitzgerald grew up. (Fitzgerald also called on childhood memories of St. Paul and of prep school for his eight Basil Duke Lee stories.) Amory, like his creator, attends prep school and Princeton (Ha-Ha Hortense! clearly echoes Fitzgerald’s first Triangle Club musical, Fie! Fie! Fi-Fi!, and Amory’s friend Thomas Parke D’Invilliers is based on Fitzgerald’s friend John Peale Bishop). Amory’s influential relationship with Monsignor Thayer Darcy recalls Fitzgerald’s relationship with Father Cyril Sigourney Webster Fay (the young novelist, in fact, drew heavily on Fay’s letters for Darcy’s letter that appears in the Interlude between Book I and Book II of This Side of Paradise). Amory’s unhappy romance with Isa-belle Borge parallels Fitzgerald’s unsuccessful courtship of Ginevra King, and the protagonist’s more serious involvement with and loss of Rosalind Connage is based on Fitzgerald’s relationship with Zelda Sayre, whose unwillingness to commit herself to him before he achieved success both caused him distress and inspired him to finish This Side of Paradise. (Zelda recognized herself in Rosalind and admired the character. In a 1923 interview she remarked, “I love Scott’s books and heroines. I like the ones that are like me! That’s why I love Rosalind.... I love [the heroines’] courage, their recklessness and spend-thriftness.” Most important, Amory’s extraordinary ambitions replicate Fitzgerald’s own.

The strongest autobiographical elements in Fitzgerald’s second novel, The Beautiful and Damned, lie in its portrayal of a marriage both defined and strained by endless parties in New York City and its environs. Although Fitzgerald told Scottie in a 14 June 1940 letter that her mother was, in fact, a much more admirable person than Gloria Gilbert Patch, the novel’s major female character, Gloria and Zelda clearly shared a tendency toward reckless, irresponsible, selfish behavior. Anthony Patch reflects Fitzgerald’s growing concern in the early 1920s that he was slipping into a life of dissipation, just as Richard Caramel illustrates Fitzgerald’s fear that he was compromising his reputation as a serious artist by producing apparently unimportant popular literature. The Patches’ cynical friend, Maury Noble, who late in the novel snubs Anthony, was based on the Fitzgeralds’ friend George Jean Nathan, an influential drama critic and magazine editor.

Between October 1922 and May 1924, the Fitzgeralds rented a house in Great Neck, Long Island, where they met and partied with well-to-do people, many of them in show business, and where Fitzgerald became a close friend of writer Ring Lardner. Lardner may have supplied a model for the enigmatic party guest Owl Eyes; Great Neck certainly provided the West Egg setting for Gatsby’s extravagant parties, just as the Corona dump in the borough of Queens provided the valley of ashes setting for Wilson’s garage. Gatsby’s gambler friend Meyer Wolfshiem was loosely based on racketeer and gambler Arnold Rothstein, and Jordan Baker was modeled on amateur golf champion Edith Cummings, who had gone to school with Ginevra King. In his “romantic readiness” and his belief in the American dream, Gatsby reflects his creator. But Fitzgerald drew some biographical data for the character from a Long Island neighbor, Max Gerlach, who was apparently a bootlegger and who, in a note to Fitzgerald on a newspaper clipping, used Gatsby’s defining expression, “old sport.” Much of the material of Gatsby’s life with Dan Cody was provided by Great Neck resident Robert Kerr, who in his youth had had a similar experience with a yachtsman benefactor. Fitzgerald’s courtship of Zelda during the war and his desperation when she broke their engagement inspired Gatsby’s feelings about Daisy, and Zelda’s betrayal of Fitzgerald with Edouard Jozan during the summer of 1924 when the novel was being written fueled the sense of lost illusions in the novel.

The French and Swiss settings for Tender Is the Night were provided by the Fitzgeralds’ extended stays in Paris, on the Riviera, and in Switzerland between May 1924 and September 1931. In the novel’s earliest versions, the characters who ultimately evolved into Dick and Nicole Diver were based on Gerald and Sara Murphy, whose affluence, social grace, and charm were retained in the Divers. Finally, however, Dick became a reflection of Fitzgerald himself, as the writer examined both his growing sense of his emotional bankruptcy and his feelings about his wife’s insanity, which is reflected in Nicole Diver. (There is, however, no evidence that Zelda had been a victim of incest, as was Nicole.) Abe North, the Divers’ alcoholic composer friend, was drawn from Lardner, whose death and unfulfilled career Fitzgerald mourned.61 Rosemary Hoyt was in part inspired by the young actress Lois Moran, whom the Fitzgeralds had met in Hollywood in 1927; the couple quarreled over Fitzgerald’s attraction to Moran, who was a star of the 1925 silent movie Stella Dallas, on which Rosemary’s movie Daddy’s Girl was based. Tommy Barban was developed from several sources, among them Jozan, polo player and aviator Tommy Hitchcock, and, possibly, Ernest Hemingway.

The Love of the Last Tycoon is set in Hollywood, where Fitzgerald lived and worked between July 1937 and his death in December 1940. The novel’s protagonist, Monroe Stahr, was based on the legendary movie producer Irving Thalberg, who was known for his quality movies, who opposed the leftist Screen Writers Guild, and who died young. More important, Stahr also emerged as a kind of wish-fulfillment for Fitzgerald himself: the failed screenwriter projecting himself into the role of movie mogul. This identification is supported by obvious parallels between Stahr’s life and Fitzgerald’s: Stahr’s dead wife, Minna Davis, reflects Zelda, who was by the late 1930s permanently lost to Fitzgerald, and the producer’s new love, Kathleen Moore, is drawn from Sheilah Graham, Fitzgerald’s companion in Hollywood. Cecelia Brady, the college girl/Hollywood insider who narrates The Love of the Last Tycoon, combined Scottie Fitzgerald with young screenwriter Budd Schulberg, who had been raised in Hollywood. Pat Brady, Cecelia’s father and Stahr’s duplicitous partner at the studio, was partially based on Louis B. Mayer, Thalberg’s boss and competitor at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer; George Boxley, English novelist turned screenwriter, was drawn from English novelist Aldous Huxley; and many of the other minor characters in the novel had their sources in actual Hollywood figures. Yet, the novel does not develop into a roman à clef since Stahr’s personal life is different from Thalberg’s and because the action of the novel is invented, not historical fact. It is important to note, also, that Pat Hobby, the protagonist of the seventeen Hollywood stories written by Fitzgerald for Esquire in 1939 and 1940, is in no way an autobiographical character. Fitzgerald was never a dishonest, illiterate hack like Hobby.

Studying Fitzgerald

Social Realism

Fitzgerald is thought of as a romantic—meaning an imaginative and emotional—writer, but he combined these qualities with realism, meaning accuracy of observation and characterization. This Side of Paradise was read as a realistic account of Princeton undergraduate experience. Tender Is the Night, subtitled “A Romance,” provides a convincing account of expatriate life and a profound examination of character deterioration.

Fitzgerald properly belongs with the American social realists and social historians, the line that extends from Wharton, Dreiser, Tarkington, and Norris through Lewis, O’Hara, James Gould Cozzens, and the proletarian writers. He was one of the few American novelists who wrote seriously about the effects of money on character. To the requirement of telling truthfully what happened, Fitzgerald added his defining qualities of lyricism and sensitivity in order to evoke how life felt at that place and at that moment. He was the poet of time. He explicated the function and purpose of social realism in a letter to his daughter, Scottie: “But when in a freak moment you will want to give the low-down, not the scandal, not the merely reported but the profound essence of what happened at a prom or after it, perhaps that honesty will come to you—and then you will under-stand how it is possible to make even a forlorn Laplander feel the importance of a trip to Carders!”

Fitzgerald recorded social history by means of selected evocative details, usually in descriptions of place: Chicago’s Union Station, the Paris Ritz, or the Princeton campus, for example. He did not load his fiction with documentation or reportage, as did Dreiser. Fitzgerald tried to get the details right, even though he committed factual blunders: his Manhattan and Paris geography is shaky; in The Great Gatsby the Queensboro Bridge incorrectly links Manhattan and Astoria. Fitzgerald also knew when to omit details. The make of Gatsby’s gorgeous car is not provided because no actual car would do: it was a Gatsbymobile.

John O’Hara, the master of depicting social stratification in fiction, explicated the function of Fitzgerald’s technique to produce verisimilitude:

He always knew what he was writing about, which is so, so untrue of so, so many writers. It may not seem like much in 1945, when it is done all the time, but twenty-five years ago it was delightful to find a writer who would come right out and say Loco-mobile instead of high-powered motor car, Shanley’s instead of gay cabaret, and George, instead of Francois, the chasseur at the Paris Ritz. These touches guaranteed that the writer knew what he was talking about and was not getting his information from Mr. Carnegie’s local contribution to culture.... Scott Fitzgerald had the correct impressions because, quite apart from his gifts, the impressions were not those of a man who’s never been there. As we used to say, he knew the forks.

Fitzgerald’s type of social realism focusing on the American upper classes became unfashionable in the 1930s. The lower classes and proletarian causes did not move him, and he did not try to write about them.

Fitzgerald’s reputation, readership, and earnings declined sharply during the Depression as he came to be regarded as an anachronism after the tastemakers and opinion-makers underwent conversions to the political Left. Fitzgerald observed in his Notebooks that “In thirty-four and thirty-five the party line crept into everything except the Sears Roebuck Catalogue.” Nonetheless, he was aware of the political movements of his time and made a study of marxism. In the planning stages of Tender Is the Night, Fitzgerald considered having Diver send his son to the U.S.S.R. for his education. Fitzgerald’s only novel set in the 1930s, The Love of the Last Tycoon, portrays an heroic business figure—a movie producer with taste and artistic standards—who opposes the unionization of Hollywood writers.

The proletarian writers were social novelists. John Dos Passos had been a radical in the 1920s. His U.S.A. trilogy(The 42nd Parallel, 1930; 1919, 1932;The Big Money, 1936) was deservedly admired in the early 1930s, but his reputation was downgraded after he turned against communism. Steinbeck was highly praised for his treatment of dispossessed and victimized characters in Of Mice and Men (1937) and The Grapes of Wrath (1939). Fitzgerald, who rarely attacked other writers, expressed strong antipathy to Steinbeck’s work. In a Spring 1939 letter to John Biggs, Fitzgerald called Steinbeck a “cheap blatant imitation of D. H. Lawrence. A book club return of the public to its own vomit.” Writing to his “intellectual conscience,” Edmund Wilson, in 1940, Fitzgerald characterized Steinbeck as “a rather cagey cribber” from Frank Norris:

Most of us begin as imitators but it is something else for a man of his years and reputation to steal a whole scene as he did in “Mice and Men”.... I’ve always encouraged young writers—I put Max Perkins on to Caldwell, Callaghan and God knows how many others but Steinbeck bothers me. I suppose he cribs for the glory of the party.

The hard-boiled or tough-guy writers who wrote crime fiction were allied with the proletarian school. These crime writers originally wrote for the pulp magazines of the 1920s and achieved literary status with the emergence of Dashiell Hammett as a novelist in 1929. They included James M. Cain, Horace McCoy, and Raymond Chandler. Fitzgerald was on friendly terms with Hammett and McCoy in Hollywood, but he provided no critical observations on their work. It appears that his unsuccessful “Count of Darkness” stories, written in 1935–1936, were attempts to place hard-boiled speech in a medieval setting.

At one time O’Hara was mispositioned among the hard-boiled writers because of his objectivity-and accurate use of American speech. He and Fitzgerald became friends when O’Hara was writing Appointment in Samarra (1934) and Fitzgerald was writing Tender Is the Night. Fitzgerald recognized O’Hara’s literary gifts but had reservations about his “glooms.” In his Notebooks Fitzgerald observed that “The queer slanting effect of the substantive, the future imperfect, a matter of intuition or ear to O’Hara, is unknown to careful writers like Bunny [Wilson] and John [Peale Bishop].”  But he also observed that “John O’Hara is in a perpetual state of just having discovered that it’s a lousy world.” Fitzgerald provided an endorsement for Appointment in Samarra: “John O’Hara’s novel indicates the tremendous strides that American writers have taken since the war.” Reviewers detected Fitzgerald’s influence on Apointment in Samarra. Fitzgerald pasted several of these reviews in his scrapbook, captioned “The Cross of John O’Hara.”

The Material of American Fiction

Fitzgerald’s comments on writing—his own and other writers’—merit close attention. He did not practice literary criticism as such and wrote few book reviews. Most of his comments on his contemporaries are in letters. His review of Hemingway’s In Our Time (1925), headed “How to Waste Material—A Note on My Generation,” addresses the matter of writers’ finding authentic American subjects and characters: “For one Dreiser who made a single minded and irreproachable choice there have been a dozen like Henry James who have stupid-got with worry over the matter, and yet another dozen who, blinded by the fading tail of Walt Whitman’s comet, have botched their books by the insincere compulsion to write ’significantly’ about America.”

Fitzgerald’s fullest attack on the revival of the American farm novel came in his letter to Maxwell Perkins responding to Thomas Boyd’s novel Samuel Drummond (1925):

All this is preparatory to saying that his new book sounds utterly lowsy—Shiela Kaye-Smith has used the stuff about the farmer having girls instead of boys and being broken up about it. The characters you mention have every one, become stock-props in the last ten years—“Christy, the quaint old hired man” after a season in such stuff as Owen Davis’ Ice Bound18 must be almost ready for the burlesque circuit.

History of the Simple Inarticulate Farmer and his Hired Man Christy

(Both guaranteed to be utterly full of the Feel of the Soil)

1st Period

1855—English Peasant discovered by Geo. Elliot in Mill on the Floss, Silas Marner etc.

1888—Given intellectual interpretation by Hardy in Jude and Tess

1890—Found in France by Zola in Germinal

1900—Crowds of Scandanavians, Hamsun, Bojer etc., tear him bodily from the Russian, and after a peep at Hardy, Hamlin Garland finds him in the middle west.

Most of that, however, was literature. It was something pulled by the individual out of life, and only partly with the aid of models in other literatures.

2nd Period

1914—Shiela Kaye-Smith frankly imitates Hardy, produces two good books + then begins to imitate herself.

1915—Brett Young discovers him in the coal country

1916—Robert Frost discovers him in New England

1917—Sherwood Anderson discovers him in Ohio

1918—Willa Cather turns him Swede

1920—Eugene O’Niell puts him on the boards in Different + Beyond Horizon

1922—Ruth Suckow gets in before the door closes

These people were all good second raters (except Anderson) Each of them brought something to the business—but they exhausted the ground, the type was set. All was over.

3rd Period

The Cheapskates discover him—Bad critics and novelists etc.

1923 Homer Croy writes West of the Water Tower

1924 Edna Ferber turns from her flip Jewish saleswoman for a strong silent earthy carrot grower and—the Great Soul of Charley Towne thrills to her passionately. Real and Earthy Struggle

1924 Ice Bound by the author of Nellie the Beautiful Cloak Model wins Pulitzer Prize

The Able Mcgloughlins wins $10,000 prize + is forgotten the following wk.

1925 The Apple of the Eye pronounced a masterpiece

1226—TOM, BOYD, WRITES, NOVEL, ABOUT, INARTICULATE, FARMER WHO, IS, CLOSE, TO SOIL, AND, HIS, HIRED, MAN CHRISTY!

“STRONG! VITAL! REAL!”

As a matter of fact the American peasant as “real” material scarcely exists. He is scarcely 10% of the population, isn’t bound to the soil at all as the English + Russian peasants were—and, if has any sensitivity whatsoever (except a most sentimental conception of himself, which our writers persistently shut their eyes to) he is in the towns before he’s twenty. Either Lewis, Lardner and myself have been badly fooled, or else using him as typical American material is simply a stubborn seeking for the static in a world that for almost a hundred years has simply not been static. Isn’t it a 4th rate imagination that can find only that old property farmer in all this amazing time and land? And anything that ten people a year can do well enough to pass muster has become so easy that it isn’t worth the doing.

Modernism

Because of Fitzgerald’s residence in France during the 1920s he is usually grouped with the American expatriates who flourished in Paris and experimented with the literary techniques classified as modernism. Yet he did not participate in the expatriate literary life—apart from his discovery of Hemingway—and did not write for the Paris-based little magazines and small presses. Fitzgerald was an established and successful writer before he went to France for financial reasons and remained for social reasons. The expatriates left America as an expression of their rejection of American culture. Fitzgerald remained intensely American. He was an American writer living abroad, not an expatriate. The Great Gatsby was written in Southern France in 1924, but it was not an experimental work and owed nothing to France.

The now-legendary American expatriates in Paris—Gertrude Stein, Ezra Pound, and Hemingway—fostered the movement that came to be called modernism. These writers experimented with new forms of literature, new uses of language, new ways of rendering experience; they experimented with the presentation of time and consciousness. Fitzgerald became a twentieth-century novelist with his third novel, The Great Gatsby, in which he mastered point of view and the techniques of reordering time and structuring narrative. The technical advances in the novel were influenced by the work of Conrad, not by the Paris expatriate crowd. Fitzgerald eschewed experiments with language, speech, sentence structure, or typography. There are no Joycean compounds and neologisms in Fitzgerald. Many writers embraced the stream-of-consciousness technique after Joyce’s Ulysses, but Fitzgerald did not make significant use of it until Tender Is the Night, where Nicole Diver’s internal monologue in Book II, chapter 10, bridges present-time narrative and flashback time. He inscribed a copy of The Great Gatsby to modernist poet T. S. Eliot as “the greatest of living poets” and probably took the symbolic name “Valley of Ashes” from Eliot’s The Waste Land(1922).

Although he was on friendly terms with Stein and hailed the genius of Joyce, Fitzgerald was not influenced by modernism because his style and technique were formed before he arrived in France. Not even his admiration for Hemingway altered Fitzgerald’s writing. Nonetheless, Fitzgerald’s residence in Europe provided him with material. He wrote brilliantly about Paris and Americans abroad in “Babylon Revisited,” “One Trip Abroad,” and Tender Is the Night. Yet Fitzgerald does not extol the virtues of expatriation: his Americans undergo a process of deterioration in Europe. Unlike Henry James’s Americans, who are corrupted or defeated by European values, Fitzgerald’s characters are spoiled by their own idleness and their choice of Europe as a place where money buys more than it does in America.

Fitzgerald rejected the concept of a postwar “lost generation” of war survivors given currency by Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises (1926) and generally espoused by the expatriates. According to this notion, the people who had experienced World War I—male and female—were permanent casualties unable to return to postwar life. In his 1929 story “The

Swimmers” Fitzgerald redefines “lost generation” and proclaims the moral worth of America:

...he had a sense of overwhelming gratitude and of gladness that America was there, that under the ugly debris of industry the rich land still pushed up, incorrigibly lavish and fertile, and that in the heart of the leaderless people the old generosities and devotions fought on, breaking out sometimes in fanaticism and excess, but indomitable and undefeated. There was a lost generation in the saddle at the moment, but it seemed to him that the men coming on, the men of the war, were better; and all his old feeling that America was a bizarre accident, a sort of historical sport, had gone forever. The best of America was the best of the world.

Fitzgerald’s best stories set in Europe are anti-expatriatism stories.

The Diamond as Big as the Ritz

Introduction

F. Scott Fitzgerald’s story “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” first appeared in the June 1922 issue of The Smart Set, a popular magazine of the 1920s. Fitzgerald had attempted to sell it to the Saturday Evening Post, which had published many of his other stories, but its harsh anticapitalistic message was rejected by the conservative magazine. In September 1922, the story appeared in his second collection, Tales of the Jazz Age.

The story was inspired by Fitzgerald’s 1915 visit to the Montana home of a Princeton classmate, Charles Donahoe, and was one of Fitzgerald’s few forays into the realm of fantasy. It tells of young John Unger, who is invited to visit a classmate at his impossibly lavish home in Montana. Gradually, Unger learns the sinister origins of his host’s wealth and the frightening lengths to which he will go to preserve it.

In this story, Fitzgerald begins to explore many of the themes he used later when writing his best-known work, The Great Gatsby. The carelessness and immorality of the vastly wealthy and the American fascination with wealth are personified by Braddock Washington and his narcississtic family, who seem to believe that all others have been put on Earth for their amusement. The cataclysmic ending, in which the family and their home are destroyed, shows the result of their single-minded pursuit.

Summary (1)

As “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” opens, sixteen-year-old John T. Unger is leaving the small middle-class town of Hades to attend St. Midas School near Boston, “the most expensive and the most exclusive boys’ preparatory school in the world.” His mother packs his trunk, his father gives him money, and after a tearful goodbye, John T. Unger is off to attend school with boys from the country’s wealthiest families.

In his second year at St. Midas, John meets Percy Washington. Well-dressed and reserved,

Percy has little to say about his home or family, until he invites John to spend the summer at his family’s home in Montana. On the train ride to Percy’s home, Percy tells John that his father is “the richest man in the world” and that he has a diamond “bigger than the Ritz-Carlton Hotel.”

The train stops in the dismal village of Fish, inhabited by twelve men who gape at the wealthy travelers. From here John and Percy take a buggy to another location, where an elaborate, luxurious car (which Percy dismisses as “an old junk”) awaits them. At one point two black servants attach cables to the car, and it is hoisted over a rocky passage and set down on the other side. Percy tells John that his father has managed to prevent his land from ever being surveyed, and the only thing that could ever be used to find them is “aeroplanes”; fortunately, his father has anti-aircraft guns at the ready.

John is taken aback at this information until the sight of the Washingtons’ impossibly lavish home sweeps all other concerns aside. As they walk through the halls, John discovers some are carpeted with fur, and some are made of crystal with tropical fish swimming beneath; at dinner, the family and their guest eat off plates made of solid diamond.

The next morning at breakfast, Percy tells John his family’s history. Percy’s grandfather, a direct descendant of George Washington, discovered the mountain-sized diamond when he went west to start his own ranch, just after the Civil War ended. He realized that if he tried to sell such a diamond, the bottom would fall out of the market. So after gathering a workforce of black slaves, whom he fooled into believing that the South won the Civil War, he set out to sell his diamonds in secret to assorted kings, princes, and other dignitaries. His son Braddock continued his work, and when he had amassed enough wealth to keep his family living in luxury for generations, he sealed up the mine.

After breakfast, John takes a walk on the property and runs into Kismine, Percy’s younger sister, with whom he falls in love instantly. She tells him she likes him, as well. They walk back to the house together.

Later Percy and his father show John around the property. Mr. Washington shows him the slaves’ quarters, housing descendants of his grandfather’s original slaves. The current slaves still do not know that slavery has been abolished. He also points out the golf course, which is entirely a green, “no fairway, no rough, no hazards.” Finally, they come to a deep pit, covered with an iron grating. Down in the pit, two dozen men are imprisoned. Mr. Washington tells John their crime: they are aviators who accidentally discovered the diamond mine and now must be prevented, at all costs, from revealing the Washingtons’ secret.

As the end of summer nears, John and Kismine decide that they will elope the following June, since her father will never allow her to marry someone from John’s lowly social and financial status. Kismine casually mentions some visitors she and her sister had. When John inquires further about these visitors, Kismine admits that her father had them murdered at the end of their visits, so they could not reveal the Washingtons’ secret; she also admits that the same fate awaits John. Outraged, John tells Kismine they are not in love anymore and announces his intention to escape over the mountains before Mr. Washington can have him killed. Kismine tells him she wants to go with him, and John softens, realizing she must really love him. They plan to escape the next night.

Later that same evening, however, John is awakened by a noise, and thinking it is someone sent to kill him, he gets up and goes into the hall. He hears Mr. Washington urgently summoning his servants and realizes some crisis has occurred. He goes to Kismine’s room; she tells him that there are at least a dozen airplanes over the property and that her father is going to open fire on them with his anti-aircraft guns. John and Kismine waken Jasmine, Kismine’s older sister, and the three of them flee to a wooded area where they watch the battle.

By four in the morning, the planes have destroyed much of the Washingtons’ property. John, watching from a distance, hears footsteps. Curious, he follows the sound and sees Braddock Washington on the mountain with two of his slaves, who are carrying an enormous diamond. Washington begins speaking, and John realizes he is talking to God—offering him the diamond as a bribe. He will give God the diamond if God will restore his life and property to its former glory.

The bribe does not work; the planes descend, and Washington and his wife flee underground, beneath the diamond mountain. When John tells Kismine and Jasmine this, the sisters scream. “The mountain is wired!” Kismine sobs. A few moments later, the mountain glows a brilliant yellow, and the Washingtons’ lavish home explodes. Both the Washingtons and their riches are gone.

After fleeing to a distance safely remote from the scene of the battle, John asks Kismine to show him what jewels she has brought with her, to support them in the luxury to which she has become accustomed. After showing him the jewelry she brought with her, Kismine realizes she accidentally brought rhinestones she received from one of their ill-fated visitors. John gloomily tells her they will have to live in Hades. Thinking of their poor future, they go to sleep under the stars.

Summary (2)

At St. Midas’s School, John T. Unger befriends a new boy, Percy Washington, who invites him to spend the summer on the family estate in the Montana Rockies. Percy’s boast that his father owns a diamond as big as the Ritz-Carlton Hotel seems preposterous, but on arrival John learns that the Washingtons’ family chateau actually does sit atop a five-cubic-mile flawless diamond.

The next morning, Percy sketches the family history for his friend. In 1866, his grandfather Fitz-Norman, a “direct descendant” of George Washington and Lord Baltimore, left the defeated Confederacy accompanied by a group of faithful slaves to start a ranch in the West. The venture failed within a month. Then, while hunting for food, Fitz-Norman noticed a brilliant stone drop from a squirrel’s mouth—a perfect diamond worth one hundred thousand dollars. Returning to the site with his employees the following day, Fitz-Norman soon filled his saddlebags with diamonds. When the sale of a few of these gems in New York City loosed a wave of wild rumors, he realized that he would have to operate clandestinely lest the government seize his diamond mine and establish a monopoly to avert financial panic. Accordingly, he poured his gems into two trunks and peddled them to the courts of Europe and Asia. Later, his son Braddock (Percy’s father) sealed the mine and devoted himself to protecting the family’s incalculable fortune—and its secret.

The more complex of the story’s two strands unwinds from this effort at concealment. Fitz-Norman had corrupted the government surveyors and arranged for omission of the estate from official maps; Braddock, resorting to more elaborate measures, created an artificial magnetic field, tinkered with the surveyors’ instruments, and altered the area’s geographic features. The advent of the airplane, however, has made discovery of the Washington domain inevitable. At the time of John Unger’s visit, about two dozen aviators who have been brought down by Washington antiaircraft fire are being kept prisoner in a glass-lined pit; one of this group has recently escaped, however, and soon a squadron of American planes arrives and begins shelling the mountain in preparation for an invasion. Braddock, realizing that only divine intervention can preserve his family’s treasure and privilege, tries to bribe God with a diamond so huge that it requires two slaves to lift it. When the bribe is apparently refused and the planes land on the chateau’s lawn, Braddock sets off an explosion that reduces the entire mountain to dust.

Anchored in John’s role as protagonist, the plot’s other strand develops his romance with Percy’s sister Kismine. It crosses the story’s baseline at only two points: first, when, after falling in love with Kismine, John surmises that the Washingtons cannot risk allowing him to leave their El Dorado alive; and again in the ironic coda, when he learns that Kismine mistook the only rhinestones at the chateau for diamonds while hastily filling her pocket as they fled from the mountain’s apocalyptic destruction. However, even though the relationship between the young lovers weaves no web of significant actions, F. Scott Fitzgerald treats it as the central element; whatever the story’s resolved meaning may be, its focus is certainly not on Braddock Washington’s failure to escape retribution for his hubris; rather, it is on John’s recognition that, for some unspecified reason, he has lost his illusions. (In the torrent of philosophizing that serves as conclusion, it is John who pronounces two of Fitzgerald’s most quoted sentences: “Everybody’s youth is a dream, a form of chemical madness” and “His was a great sin who first invented consciousness.”)

Summary (3)

“The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” is Fitzgerald’s most successful fantasy story, a genre in which he worked mainly during the early phase of his career. While it contains what might be read as a happy ending, the story carries many of the tragic elements inherent in Fitzgerald’s most enduring theme: how a young man is destroyed by the wealth of the woman he loves.

The plot of “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” is relatively simple. John T. Unger, a young man from the small midwestern town of Hades, is sent by his ambitious parents to the exclusive eastern school of St. Midas. There he makes friends with Percy Washington and is invited to spend the summer at the Washington estate in the far West. Unger learns that the Washingtons are literally the richest family in the world, because they own a flawless diamond that is as large as the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. There is also a darker side to this fortune: To protect it, the Washingtons have made their estate a fortress, completely isolated from the outside world, and intruders are held captive in a giant cage.

While in this strange combination of luxury and prison, Unger meets and falls in love with Kismine, Percy’s sixteen-year-old sister. From Kismine, Unger learns that all invited visitors to the Washington estate are murdered before they can leave. As Unger and Kismine flee, the place is attacked by airplanes, led there by one of the prisoners who managed to escape. The fabulous estate is destroyed as Unger and Kismine discover they have fled with worthless rhinestones instead of diamonds; they are free but penniless.

“The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” is a story full of symbolic and allegorical touches, many of them dealing with the soul-destroying potential of wealth. The hero, named Unger, is avid for more than his hometown can offer, and he seems to find it in Kismine Washington: young, beautiful, and heiress to a great fortune. The Washington fortune has become a prison for the family, however: They are isolated from the world, guarded by blacks who have been tricked into believing that slavery still exists. There is an obvious parallel between the two kinds of bondage, a parallel ironically emphasized by the family name of Washington, so closely associated with American freedom.

Wealth is also destructive in a religious sense. The train that carries Unger and Percy stops at the town of Fish, which has a population of only twelve men, who await the arrival of the train as a mystical event directed by the “Great Brakeman.” (The fish was an early Christian symbol for Jesus, who urged his followers to renounce wealth, often in extremely pointed terms.) Yet these twelve have no real belief: By mere proximity to the Washingtons, these counterparts to the twelve Apostles have been drained of all faith.

Even more emphatic are the baneful effects of incalculable wealth on the family. Their land is literally nowhere, as they have taken extraordinary measures to keep it off even official government maps. To protect their secret, the Washingtons are ready to perpetuate slavery, imprison the innocent, and even commit murder, including fratricide. When the estate is about to be overrun, Percy’s father offers a bribe to God—an enormous gem, backed by promises of human sacrifice—and then destroys his estate himself, rather than submit.

These various elements, which do not quite fit together in a consistently coherent fashion, are united by Fitzgerald’s use of both fantasy and realistic descriptions, which allow the reader to accept the fairy-tale premises of the story. In a sense, “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” is a magical counterpart to the more realistic The Great Gatsby, and the two explore many of the same themes and concerns.

Themes and Meanings

Published near the beginning of his career (Fitzgerald wrote it in either 1921 or, at the very latest, early January, 1922), “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” shows a constellation of the motifs that would persist throughout the author’s career. Despite the fantastic trappings, it tells a radically autobiographical tale. Fitzgerald situates Hades, the Ungers’ hometown, on the Mississippi—like his own St. Paul—and devotes the story’s initial pages to ridiculing its pretensions. (Even a Chicago beef-princess, the author sneers, would judge the most sophisticated social functions in Hades to be “perhaps a little tacky.”) John Unger reflects the self-congratulatory boosterism of his provincial upbringing, and in this respect he is a target of satire. John also, however, evokes sympathy as a young man daunted by an unshakable sense of his unworthiness among the aristocratic rich. The model is unmistakable. In a letter to John O’Hara in 1933, Fitzgerald described himself as having “a two cylinder inferiority complex. So if I were elected King of Scotland tomorrow after graduating from Eton, Magdelene the Guards, with an embryonic history which tied me to the Plantagenets, I would still be a parvenue [sic]. I spent my youth in alternately crawling in front of the kitchen maids and insulting the great.”

Fitzgerald attributed his problem, in the same letter, to the tensions inherent in being “half black Irish and half old American stock with the usual exaggerated ancestral pretensions” (his paternal forebears included Francis Scott Key, after whom he was named). Precisely this personal conflict constitutes the story’s subtext. As midwestern burghers, the Ungers suggest his mother’s side of the family: Grandfather McQuillan rose from poor immigrant to wealthy merchant through the wholesale grocery business in St. Paul. The Washingtons, whose breeding stands in conspicuous contrast to the Ungers’ tackiness, clearly represent the Fitzgeralds (an association emphasized by the name Fitz-Norman), and in particular his father, Edward, a gentleman with southern grace characterized by his son as “one of the generation of the colonies and the revolution.”

The biographical reference of St. Midas’s is still more apparent. Like Basil Lee’s search for acceptance in “The Freshest Boy,” John Unger’s need to adjust to living among social superiors harks back to Fitzgerald’s painful entrance into the prep school world. However, a simple identification of the mythical prep school on the outskirts of Boston as a vast exaggeration of the Newman School, the Roman Catholic academy in New Jersey attended by the author, seems not to reach nearly far enough. The story’s dreamlike quality calls for psychological analysis, and from this perspective, the significance of St. Midas’s relates to its position within the “dream’s” structure: midway, in effect, between the Unger and Washington families. Essentially, “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” traces a boy’s transformation into a man. The pivotal moment in that process (which is set in motion by his departure from the “maternal fatuity” of Hades) is the encounter with his alter ego, Percy, at the school appropriately named for King Midas—in a manner of speaking, the “patron saint” of transmutation. As a result of the friendship with his “dream self,” John virtually becomes a Washington, emerges as an heir of sorts to the “father” he has presumably wished dead in his fantasies, and confirms the meaning of his passage through adolescence by spending a symbolically nuptial night with Kismine.

That interpretation, however, strikes to the design written on the story’s underside; what Fitzgerald presents at the surface seems to obey no corresponding intent. Indeed, he shifts direction so often that one infers that the fable is obedient to no conscious plan at all. Until well past the introductory sections, Fitzgerald makes a target of snobbery, fixing expectations that the plot will somehow produce a complementary moral. By the midpoint, however, the energy of this attack is spent, and snobbery does not affect the combination of events that brings the story to its climax. Nor, for that matter, does John Unger, who is relegated to the role of spectator while Braddock Washington is being defeated by the United States government and rejected by God. Then, in the final section, Fitzgerald not only reestablishes John at the center but also assigns him a closing soliloquy about youth and illusion that has no discernible connection with either society’s vanities or the destruction of the Washington empire.

Immorality of the Wealthy

A common theme in Fitzgerald’s work is that extreme wealth often leads to immoral behavior. In the case of the Washingtons, this effect is compounded by their near complete isolation from the rest of the world. Percy, Kismine, and Jasmine were brought up to believe they are better than all others by virtue of their fortune, and they were sheltered from anyone who might challenge this notion.

Imprisoning or killing visitors who might divulge their secrets has become a routine business tactic for Braddock Washington. Kismine finds this mildly upsetting, but her own distorted moral views are revealed when John asks her when her father has summer visitors murdered: “In August usually—or early in September. It’s only natural for us to get all the pleasure out of them that we can first.” Braddock Washington shares this belief that others are intended to be enjoyed or used by his family. Percy tells John that to design the Washingtons’ chateau and grounds, his father simply kidnapped a number of design professionals and put them to work.

Does the acquisition of wealth lead to immoral behavior or is it that the people who pursue great wealth are already morally bankrupt? While Fitzgerald does not answer this question, he does illustrate how selfishness and delusions of self-importance are passed on from one generation to the next.

Freedom and Imprisonment

While most people equate greater wealth with greater freedom, this is not the case in “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz.” Braddock Washington’s prison is a luxurious one, to be sure, but it still isolates him from the rest of the world. He has no friends or colleagues, only slaves. He views others with suspicion. His children’s visitors must be killed when their visit is over—certainly an impediment to their forming lasting friendships outside the family. His entire family is imprisoned by the diamond mountain they must protect at all costs.

There are numerous examples of imprisonment in the story. The most literal example is that of the aviators trapped under the Washingtons’ golf course. Why does Braddock Washington imprison rather than kill the aviators? He seems to enjoy verbally sparring with them. Perhaps Washington, at some level, is so desperate for some peers of his own, some basic human connection, that he keeps them alive to fulfill that need.

Another example is the black slaves whom the Washingtons have tricked into believing that slavery was never abolished and that the South won the Civil War. Ironically, Washington’s behavior towards the slaves, other than his obvious racism, is not much different than his behavior towards outsiders; since he views all people as commodities, it is not surprising he finds slave labor a sensible option.

When John and Kismine plan their escape from the Washingtons’ property, Kismine is delighted at the prospect of being “free and poor.” John tells her, “It’s impossible to be both together.” While there may be truth in this statement, it is also true that great wealth, for the Washingtons, has not resulted in complete freedom. The conclusion is that freedom is not a function of wealth or poverty at all, but rather a state of mind, a state of mind which, with their dependence on wealth and status, none of these characters has achieved.

American Idolatry of Wealth

John T. Unger personifies the fascination that the American middle class has with wealth and the wealthy. John quotes statistics about the number of millionaires in the United States, prattles on about the jewels owned by the Schnlitzer-Murphys, and sets aside his few reservations about the morals of the Washingtons when he sees their opulent home. According to Fitzgerald, John has been trained to feel this awe for wealth by his family and his hometown: “The simple piety prevalent in Hades has the earnest worship and respect for riches as the first article of its creed—had John felt otherwise than radiantly humble before them, his parents would have turned away in horror at the blasphemy.” In the early 2000s, one can see the same fascination with the rich evinced by the success of tabloids that doggedly pursue rich celebrities, seeking to expose intimate details of their lives. One can imagine that John T. Unger would have been a big fan of the television show Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.

The primary theme of this story by Fitzgerald is the quest for wealth and what people are willing to do to keep their wealth. John comes from a town where wealth is worshipped, and this has shaped his view that one cannot be both "free and poor". Fitzgerald aptly names John's home town Hades, a name for hell,  alluding that "the love of money is the root of all evil". Braddock Washington has allowed his love of his wealth to make prisoners out of his family; any visitors his children bring home must be killed, so none of them can never have true friends or prolonged contact with the outside world. But even worse, Washington has lied to his black slaves in order to keep them enslaved. He has no qualms about kidnapping and killing anyone who threatens his lifestyle. There's no doubt about Fitzgerald's theme when everything is destroyed at the end of the story.

Characters

The Prisoners

Underneath his all-green golf course, Braddock Washington has imprisoned two dozen aviators who had the misfortune to discover his property. They are a spirited bunch, shouting curses and defiant insults at Washington when he stops by for a visit but also trying to talk him into releasing them. When they hear that one of their number managed to escape, they dance and sing in celebration.

John T. Unger

John T. Unger is a young man from the town of Hades, “a small town on the Mississippi River.” His family is affluent, but not as fabulously wealthy as the other families whose sons attend the exclusive St. Midas School.

He is more sentimental than the ultra-narcissistic Washingtons (when he parts with his father to leave for school, there are “tears streaming from his eyes,”) but his blind adoration of wealth and the wealthy reveal him to be almost as shallow. The few early misgivings he has about the Washingtons are quickly swept away by his hedonistic enjoyment of their riches.

He tells Percy, “The richer a fella is, the better I like him.” He repeatedly brings up the Schnlitzer-Murphys, a very wealthy family he visited one Easter, describing their jewels and quoting Mr. Schnlitzer-Murphy. When John falls in love with Kismine, their relationship has all the maturity of two ten-year-olds at play. John’s love for Kismine is based on her physical perfection: “He was critical about women. A single defect—a thick ankle, a hoarse voice, a glass eye—was enough to make him utterly indifferent.”

Even after seeing the men Braddock Washington has imprisoned, John does not seem overly concerned. It is not until he learns that he himself will be murdered to prevent his revealing the Washingtons’ secrets that John becomes outraged.

Braddock Washington

The patriarch of the Washington family and the most extreme example of its arrogance and self-importance, Braddock Washington is a cold, unfeeling man who is “utterly uninterested in any ideas or opinions except his own.” He views people as either assets or liabilities, calculating what use can be made of them or what obstacle they might present. The most extreme example of this is his continued use of slave labor. Kismine echoes her father’s attitude when the attacking aircraft destroy the slaves’ quarters: “There go fifty thousand dollars’ worth of slaves . . . at pre-war prices.”

The pinnacle of Braddock Washington’s arrogance comes near the end of the story when, with his home under attack, he climbs up the mountain along with two slaves carrying an enormous diamond, and offers the diamond to God as a bribe. In return, he requests that his life be restored to its former state. Even when speaking to God, Braddock is not humble; instead, he speaks with “a quality of monstrous condescension.” Washington’s idea of how life for himself and his family should progress is summed up in the design of his own golf course: “It’s all a green, you see—no fairway, no rough, no hazards.”

Jasmine Washington

Unlike Percy and Kismine, Jasmine shows small signs of being interested in people and events beyond herself. She had hoped to become “a canteen expert” during World War I, and near the end of the story, when it becomes clear that she, her sister, and John will all be poor, she volunteers to work as a washerwoman and support them all. However, the fact that she continues to invite guests to the Washington home, knowing their ultimate fate, and her great disappointment that the war ended before she could fulfill her “canteen expert” dream, indicate that Jasmine has not fully grasped the concept of compassion.

Kismine Washington

Percy’s sister Kismine, who is about sixteen, is a curious combination of childlike innocence and callow self-absorption. Fitzgerald notes that both she and her brother “seemed to have inherited the arrogant attitude in all its harsh magnificence from their father. A chaste and consistent selfishness ran like a pattern through their every idea.” While Kismine expresses sincere regret over the fate of visitors to the Washington home, her empathy is limited; she tells John she had not wanted to tell him about his impending assassination, because she knew it would make things “sort of depressing” for him.

Kismine’s lack of empathy is somewhat understandable, however, given her complete ignorance of the world beyond her own home. She is clearly unfamiliar with the concepts of poverty and suffering; when John tells her they must flee her home to get away from the attacking airplanes, she cries, “We’ll be poor, won’t we? Like people in books . . . Free and poor! What fun!”

Percy Washington

Percy, John’s friend from school, is much like the rest of the Washingtons: shallow, boastful, and arrogant. The first words he speaks in the story are: “My father . . . is by far the richest man in the world.” He is fawned upon by his mother, who has little interest in her two daughters.

Style and Technique

The thematic uncertainty of “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” is reflected in the story’s style as well. Having identified no urgent, shaping idea for what is presumptively an allegory, Fitzgerald allows himself to be seduced into conceits that develop no coherent metaphoric pattern. For example: John rides the last miles of his journey to the Washingtons’ celestial estate in a huge automobile made of precious metals; the train has taken him only as far as the village of Fish, populated by twelve “sombre and inexplicable souls who sucked a lean milk from the almost literally bare rock on which a mysterious populatory force had begotten them.” “Fish” points to “ichthus,” the emblem of Jesus the Savior, the village’s dozen inhabitants patently represent the apostles. The meaning seems clear: The magnitude of the Washingtons’ opulence sets them beyond the pale of Christian teaching. However, why invent an extravagant metaphor to introduce an idea that will quickly become self-evident on John’s arrival at the chateau? Why, having gone to such lengths, subsequently neglect to elaborate the implications of an existence without moral stricture or to link that philosophical issue to any of the several other themes, including the one grandly paraded in the ending? In this instance, as in others, Fitzgerald apparently became infatuated with his own cleverness: Once he had created the image of the twelve men of Fish nursing at the ungenerous breast of St. Peter’s church, he could not surrender it, even though it engages no broader purpose.

A similar self-indulgence is manifest in the story’s sophomoric humor. The many puns on “Hades” show no wit. For example, Mr. Unger, on saying farewell to his son, assures him that “we’ll keep the home fires burning”—and their coy naughtiness is wearing. Still more annoying is the smirky sexual innuendo that stretches from start to finish. Exactly what information the author is pretending to convey in describing Mrs. Unger as famous for “political addresses” delivered “from hot-box to hot-bed” is unclear, but no one can mistake the covert message. The names Fitzgerald produces are in the same vein. The repeated use of the middle initial stresses that John T. Unger is susceptible to being read “John Tonguer.” Kismine is plainly “kiss mine,” and the imperative in her sister’s name, Jasmine, is only slightly less obvious (“jazz” before it came to mean the kind of music played in black brothels, meant “to copulate”). Most egregious of all, Fitzgerald names the personal servant who assists John at his bath Gygsum—one of several variants of “jism,” slang for semen.

Finally, however, “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” is larger than the sum of its deeply flawed parts. Though immature and crudely executed, it displays a profligate talent, a poetic genius that has not yet learned to respect itself or to value the importance of discipline. In conceiving a symbol of wealth so stupendous as to be beyond valuation, Fitzgerald was not imaging a yearning for luxury or power; rather, the diamond reifies the impossible dream of escape from all humiliating restraint. If, at this stage of his development, the expression of that idea is amateurishly clumsy, one nevertheless responds to the energy the idea is generating as it presses outward from the core of the writer’s mind. Two years later, Fitzgerald would complete his masterpiece, The Great Gatsby. In James Gatz’s transformation into Jay Gatsby, the “Platonic conception of himself,” one sees the refinement of John Unger’s fantasy.

Point of View

“The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” is told from the third person point of view, from the perspective of John T. Unger. Through Unger's perspective, Fitzgerald condemns not just the Washingtons’ amoral lifestyle, but also the middle-class attitude towards wealth that makes their lifestyle possible. The reader waits in vain for Unger to speak out, to express some outrage or horror at the Washingtons’ way of life, but until his own life is threatened, Unger seems willing to overlook almost anything to continue enjoying the luxuries and pleasures of their home. Because Unger is not as wealthy as his classmates at St. Midas, he is even more easily seduced by their lifestyle, and his astonishment at the home’s extravagance is more in line with what the average reader might feel.

Mythical Allusions

Many references to myths and fables make the story seem more like a fable itself. On the first page, when the reader learns that John is from Hades—the underworld of the dead in Greek myth—the story veers from the path of realism into the realm of fantasy. Characters in the story repeatedly make reference to how hot it is in Hades (“Is it hot enough for you down there?”), and when John leaves to go to St. Midas—another reference to a fable—his father assures him that “we’ll keep the home fires burning.”

Other references to historical and mythical figures abound. When Percy and John near the Washingtons’ property, John muses, “What desperate transaction lay hidden here? What a moral expedient of a bizarre Croesus?” Croesus was a Greek king known for his great riches. More than once, the Washingtons’ property is referred to as “El Dorado,” the name of a mythical South American kingdom fabled to be rich with gold. Finally, when Braddock Washington is offering his diamond bribe to God, Fitzgerald writes, “Prometheus Enriched was calling to witness forgotten sacrifices, forgotten rituals, prayers obsolete before the birth of Christ.” This is a reference to Prometheus Bound, a drama based on myth by the Greek writer Aeschylus. Prometheus was a mythological character who defended men from the Greek god Zeus; Zeus punished him by chaining him to a rock and having an eagle endlessly eat his liver.

All these references to legend and myth cause the reader to think of the story as a symbolic fable, rather than a realistic story. Moreover, they suggest that the themes in this story are universal and ageless.

Hyperbole

Fitzgerald’s use of hyperbole, or extreme exaggeration, increases the feeling of fantasy, and his descriptions of the Washingtons’ home have a surreal quality. By making the chateau impossibly luxurious, Fitzgerald lets the reader know, once again, that this is not a literal or realistic story:

There was a room where the solid, soft gold of the walls yielded to the pressure of his hand, and a room that was like a platonic conception of the ultimate prison—ceiling, floor, and all, it was lined with an unbroken mass of diamonds, diamonds of every size and shape, until, lit with tall violet lamps in the corners, it dazzled the eyes with a whiteness that could be

compared only with itself, beyond human wish or dream.

A diamond as big as an entire mountain, a clear crystal bathtub with tropical fish swimming beneath the glass, hallways lined with fur, dinner plates of solid diamond, a car interior upholstered in tapestries, gold and precious gems—all these extravagant, surreal elements add to the otherworldly character of the Washingtons’ property. Furthermore, they seemed to suggest a sense that too much is indeed too much. The overkill is distasteful, even grotesque.

Religious Imagery

Fitzgerald uses religious images throughout the story to illustrate, among other things, the absolute corruption of the Washingtons, and to a lesser extent, the corruption of John Unger. From his hometown of Hades (Hell), John’s parents send him to St. Midas School. It is easy to guess the priorities of a school that would elevate the mythical King Midas to sainthood and the priorities of the parents whose sons attend it. From there John goes on to the Washingtons’ home, stopping on his way at the village of Fish, inhabited only by twelve men. The fish, of course, is a symbol of Christianity, and the twelve men recall Jesus’ apostles. The twelve men of Fish, however, are “beyond all religion.” They all turn out to watch the train come in and the wealthy passengers disembark. In this context, even the apostles are spellbound by wealth.

The Washingtons’ chateau and property are described as a paradise rivaled only by Heaven itself:

The many towers, the slender tracery of the sloping parapets, the chiseled wonder of a thousand yellow windows with their oblongs and hexagons and triangles of golden light, the shattered softness of the intersecting planes of star-shine and blue shade, all trembled on John’s spirit like a chord of music.

And, as with Heaven, John discovers that once he has arrived there, he cannot return to the mortal world, thanks to Braddock Washington, reigning god of this Eden. The climactic scene, in which Washington offers his bribe to God, illustrates that Braddock sees himself as God’s equal, or even superior: “He, Braddock Washington, Emperor of Diamonds, king and priest of the age of gold, arbiter of splendor and luxury, would offer up a treasure such as princes before him had never dreamed of, offer it up not in suppliance, but in pride.” When he finishes his proposal, he lifts his head up to the heavens “like a prophet of old.” This perversion may be an allusion to Moses who in devotion goes up onto the mountain to receive the Ten Commandments.

These distorted, corrupted images of religion—apostles with no religion, a Heaven one can enter living but must die to leave, praying without supplication but with arrogance—are symbolic of the way the Washingtons’ morals and values have become twisted by their own greed and materialism.

Compare and Contrast

• 1920s: Though more women are joining the workforce (21 percent of women aged sixteen and over—though most of them hold clerical, domestic, or factory jobs), women are still generally discouraged from working, especially if they are mothers. Therefore, most women’s standard of living depends solely on the income of their husbands, and fathers (such as Braddock Washington) are reluctant to allow their daughters to marry men with unimpressive incomes. The average age for a woman to marry is twenty. (Zelda Sayre first refuses Fitzgerald and agrees to marry him only after he achieves some success with his writing.)

Today: Over 60 percent of women aged sixteen and over are part of the U.S. workforce, and in over half of the country’s married couples with children, both parents work outside the home. The average age for a woman to marry is about twenty-five.

• 1920s: Following World War I, the United States retreats into isolationism. Congress votes against joining the League of Nations, paranoia about communism is rampant, and immigration is restricted.

Today: Advances in communication technologies and global business trade make a policy of isolationism virtually impossible. In the latter half of the twentieth century and in the early 2000s, U.S. intervention in the affairs of other countries is common (though not always popular). One recent example of such intervention is the U.S. invasion of Iraq in 2003.

• 1920s: In 1920, the yearly tuition at Phillips Exeter Academy in New Hampshire, one of the country’s most exclusive prep schools, is two hundred and fifty dollars. In the story, John T. Unger attends St. Midas School, “the most expensive and the most exclusive boys’ preparatory school in the world.”

Today: The yearly tuition for day students at Phillips Exeter Academy is over twenty-five thousand dollars a year; boarding students pay nearly thirty-five thousand dollars a year.

Critical Overview

“The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” appeared in Fitzgerald’s second volume of short stories, titled Tales of the Jazz Age (1922). Reviews of this collection were mixed, though many reviewers found it a definite improvement over his first collection, Flappers and Philosophers. In a review in the St. Paul Daily News, Woodward Boyd calls the collection “a better assemblage, on the whole, than Flappers and Philosophers.” Hildegarde Hawthorne of the New York Times Book Review, writes that “There is plenty of variety in the new collection, more than in the Flappers and Philosophers.”

However, many critics found the collection to be somewhat haphazard, featuring many lesser stories thrown in with a few of higher quality. A reviewer from the Times Literary Supplement notes, “none of the diverse elements in his book—fantastic, serious, or farcical—has been really mastered or drawn together.” In agreement is a reviewer in the Baltimore Evening Sun, as quoted by Jackson Bryer in The Critical Reputation of F. Scott Fitzgerald, who writes that the stories “give the impression of being tossed off in rather debonair manner to show how easy it all is.”

“The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” fared poorly with many critics. In her 1989 book, Fitzgerald’s Craft of Short Fiction: The Collected Stories 1920–1935, Alice Hall Petry writes: “So excoriating were the reactions to “Diamond” that one feels only relief that Fitzgerald did not use it as the title of the collection as he had briefly wished.” Some of the critics were less harsh, however. As quoted in F. Scott Fitzgerald in His Own Time: A Miscellany, a 1922 article in the Minneapolis Journal, entitled “The Future of Fitzgerald,” states, “‘The Diamond as Big as the Ritz’ is not perfect, but it is remarkable” and goes on to assert that Fitzgerald’s strength lies in these imaginative types of stories, rather than in realism.

In hindsight, the story seems to occupy a more favorable light. First of all, attacking materialism, the American way of life, was unlikely to draw favorable reactions just a few short years after World War I. In addition, when seen in the context of Fitzgerald’s entire career, “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” stands out as a turning point in the development of a more mature style. James Miller, in his book F. Scott Fitzgerald: His Art and his Technique, explains: “‘May Day’ and ‘The Diamond as Big as the Ritz’ mark important steps in the development of Fitzgerald’s fictional technique . . . he was using experimental techniques, and these experiments . . . were to prove valuable to him in his longer works.”

Whatever the critics’ reactions in 1922, the story remained a favorite of readers in the years following, and it was anthologized in numerous collections of Fitzgerald’s work.

An Allegory for Political Events in Fitzgerald’s Time

Because F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” is written so like a fable, it is natural for the reader to try and ferret out a moral, a lesson to be learned. Is it a cautionary tale against greed and materialism? An indictment of the entire capitalist system? Or an allegory for something else entirely?

The time period in which this story was written (the early 1920s) was an eventful one in U.S. history. If Americans had materialistic tendencies, as the story would suggest, then the postwar boom of the time would have made these tendencies more obvious than ever. The end of World War I in 1918 helped boost the economy, women had just been given the right to vote (in 1920), and average wages increased, putting the country in the mood to celebrate. This made the restrictions of Prohibition (the Eighteenth Amendment, which made the consumption of alcoholic beverages illegal beginning in 1920) even more chafing to those who, like Fitzgerald, enjoyed high living.

While the economy was booming, the political climate was one of isolationism and suspicion. In 1917 in Russia, communist revolutionaries called Bolsheviks overthrew the Russian government, and in 1918, they executed Czar Nicholas II and his family. In the United States, this action generated a so-called Red Scare, paranoia over communism that led to even more restrictions on Americans’ freedom of expression. In addition, immigration restrictions drastically reduced the number of immigrants allowed into the United States. The country had become a moral dichotomy: On the one hand, there were the irreverent flappers, speakeasies, and wild behavior associated with the Jazz Age, but on the other hand, a puritanical segment sought to impose a rigid moral code on the country through Prohibition and other restrictions.

Read in the light of these historical events, “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” can be interpreted as a political allegory in which the theme of imprisonment becomes more important than the indictment of materialism and greed. In such an interpretation, Braddock Washington’s hidden Montana empire represents the United States and capitalism. Washington himself seems to consider his land a country unto itself; when they reach the property, Percy tells John, “This is where the United States ends, father says.” Logically, John asks if they have reached Canada, but Percy tells him they are in the Montana Rockies, on “the only five square miles of land in the country that’s never been surveyed.” Washington’s country has its own anti-aircraft defense system, political prisoners (the aviators), even the capability to start war. (When Jasmine is disappointed that World War I ends before she can become a “canteen expert,” Washington takes steps “to promote a new war in the Balkans” for her benefit.) This country even has its own languages; the Washingtons’ slaves, so long isolated from the rest of the world, have developed their own extreme version of their original southern dialect, which only they can understand.

Like the United States, Washington’s country has beautiful vistas, great natural resources, and wealthy citizens. This fictional country has taken isolationism to its most extreme: anyone who dares enter must be killed or imprisoned. Obviously, the United States had not gone to such literal extremes in the 1920s, but this could be a symbolic representation of the increasingly restrictive immigration quota acts of the decade. Different nationalities and races are represented in the story: Mrs. Washington is Spanish, the teacher who escapes and brings on the Washingtons’ downfall is Italian, and one of the imprisoned aviators offers to teach Washington’s daughters Chinese. As in the United States, however, the power lies in the hands of the Anglo-Saxon majority. A proponent of the Immigration Act of 1924, Senator Ellison D. Smith of South Carolina, said, “Thank God we have in America perhaps the largest percentage of any country in the world of the pure, unadulterated Anglo-Saxon stock; certainly the greatest of any nation in the Nordic breed. . . . let us shut the door and assimilate what we have, and let us breed pure American citizens and develop our own American resources.” Braddock Washington offers up his own blatant racism when he explains to John that he discontinued private baths for his slaves because “Water is not good for certain races—except as a beverage.”

The exaggerated narcissism of the Washingtons could represent the U.S. refusal to become involved with the rest of the world, as when it declined to join the League of Nations or ratify the Treaty of Versailles. The country further isolated itself by placing tariffs on foreign goods, which greatly restricted foreign trade. The Washingtons are isolated not only geographically, but also by their wealth. Kismine shows how completely out of touch she is with the rest of the world when she says, “Think of the millions and millions of people in the world, laborers and all, who get along with only two maids.”

Visitors to the Washington property must be killed, because they might talk; in the United States, the right of free speech had been seriously compromised during World War I by the Sedition Act of 1918 (which remained in effect until 1921).

Even as a political allegory, the story is still a cautionary tale against materialism and the idolization of wealth. As is often the case in his work, Fitzgerald seems to be cautioning against the very vices to which he had fallen victim. Fitzgerald and his wife were notorious for living well beyond their means, fraternizing with the types of people he negatively portrayed in his work, people like the Washingtons. Like John T. Unger, Fitzgerald was aware of the flaws in these people and their way of life but could not resist the magnetism of wealth. Ironically, this attraction is what led many immigrants to the United States in the first place, and it was a desire to retain that wealth, in part, that motivated the immigration restrictions. While Senator Ellison D. Smith spoke of preserving “Anglo-Saxon stock,” he also expressed the fear that the waves of new immigrants entering the country would deplete U.S. resources, leaving less property for the current population. In other words, the more people, the less wealth to go around. The idea that a more diversified population would also give the country greater intellectual and creative resources was not considered by Smith, though even Braddock Washington acknowledges the necessity of new ideas, by kidnapping “a landscape gardener, an architect, a designer of state settings, and a French decadent poet,” to help him design his chateau and grounds.

Fitzgerald usually took great pains to write stories that would be commercially viable, because with his way of life, he was frequently in debt. The irony of his writing “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” (which was one of his personal favorites) was that because it so harshly criticized the capitalist system, Fitzgerald was unable to make much money from it; it was rejected by the conservative Saturday Evening Post, which had bought many of his stories, and instead Fitzgerald had to settle for three hundred dollars from The Smart Set, a lesser magazine.

Whether interpreted as political allegory or cautionary fable, the story clearly reflects a discontent with the American philosophy of life that was shared by many artists during this time; many left the country to live in Europe. High living and materialism was to be short lived, however, as in a few years the stock market would crash and plunge the United States into the Great Depression.

Source: Laura Pryor, Critical Essay on “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz,” in Short Stories for Students, Thomson Gale, 2007.

The Concept of Being an Outsider

Discussions of expatriate United States writers of the early twentieth century generally include both Richard Wright and F. Scott Fitzgerald. However, the literary works of Wright and Fitzgerald are rarely compared directly. Fitzgerald is compared to Ernest Hemingway; Wright is discussed in terms of Langston Hughes or Dostoevsky. In referring to Richard Wright’s story ‘‘The Man Who Lived Underground,’’ for instance, Abraham Chapman sees an ‘‘obvious allusion in the title to the Dostoyevskyan Underground.’’ Nevertheless, as writers, Fitzgerald and Wright have much in common.

Although their perspectives may have differed, both Fitzgerald and Wright saw themselves as cultural and political outsiders. Fitzgerald’s attitude toward the wealthy, for example, was noted by Malcolm Cowley, who says of Fitzgerald:

His mixture of feelings toward the very rich, which included curiosity and admiration as well as distrust, is revealed in his treatment of a basic situation that reappears in many of his stories: . . . a rising young man of the middle class in love with the daughter of a very rich family.

Considered through the concept of the insider/outsider, Wright may be closer to Fitzgerald than to Dostoevsky, as Michel Fabre observes concerning Wright’s story ‘‘The Man Who Lived Underground’’:

As for the situation of the man underground symbolizing that of the Negro in American society . . . [Wright] has painted it in a perspective which is exactly opposed to Dostoevsky’s: rather than brooding over past humiliations, he sees his exclusion more as an opportunity to scrutinize his culture from the outside. Therefore, the underground rather clearly represents the marginal character of the black man’s existence and his ambiguous rapport with American civilization.

Culture and race are typically seen to have produced Wright’s feelings of alienation whereas social and economic class and culture are thought to have motivated Fitzgerald’s views. Yet, political affiliations affected them both in ways that brought their fiction closer in structure and message. In the case of Wright, Katherine Fishburn asserts that there are several forces affecting the character Cross Damon in Wright’s novel The Outsider:

Cross Damon is the double helix of American innocence and European nihilism. He is more alienated than his American predecessors and more influenced by his environment than his European contemporaries. Like Bigger Thomas [Native Son] before him, he is the result of a complicated battle among the forces of naturalism, Marxism, Freudianism, and existentialism.

Wright was a known Communist—for a time—but, interestingly, the word Marxism has also been associated with Fitzgerald. Living in France, Fitzgerald could hardly have escaped some exposure to Marxist theories; however, Ronald Gervais asserts that Fitzgerald ‘‘developed in his work an attitude toward Marxism that was neither embrace nor rejection.’’ Such an ambivalent perspective, combined with Fitzgerald’s desire to be a part of the wealthy elite produced fiction with political and social statements similar to those in the later works of Wright. Gervais says the following of Fitzgerald’s politics:

Fitzgerald uses Marxism as an outlet for his ideals and frustrations; his qualified sympathy for it represents his most extreme protest against the excesses and failings of the haute bourgeois class which he describes so charmingly and judges so scathingly, and to which he felt his loyalty pledged—even if it seemed to him that the class was historically doomed.

Although Fitzgerald’s birth and initial success predates Wright’s by about a decade, they are essentially of the same generation, and at least two of their short stories manifest their varied feelings of isolation in similar literary themes and structures. ‘‘The Diamond As Big As the Ritz,’’ published by Fitzgerald in 1922, and ‘‘The Man Who Lived Underground,’’ first published by Wright in 1942, show similarities in form, imagery, and theme, all related to the same concept of the outsider.

Both stories present protagonists who enter worlds different from their own. In both cases, the protagonist is a naive outsider who must learn some moral truth that has, as its basis, the politics of wealth. Fitzgerald’s story opens with John T. Unger, who ‘‘came from a family that had been well known in Hades—a small town on the Mississippi River—for several generations.’’ The syntactic structure of the sentence, with its hyphenated appositive, initially suggests at least two things. First is that Unger’s family enjoys a certain amount of social status in the town of Hades. The second suggestion undermines the first, however, in the naming of Hades as a small Mississippi town. The effect is to make the Unger family seem like big fish in a little pond, an effect confirmed in the last sentence of the first paragraph: ‘‘Nothing would suit [John’s parents] but that he should go to St. Midas’ School near Boston—Hades was too small to hold their darling and gifted son.’’ John Unger then begins his journey.

Events of the next two pages, including the ‘‘asbestos pocket-book stuffed with money,’’ suggest that the Unger family, while comfortable financially, is definitely not part of the power and money elite. In the preparatory school, therefore, John becomes the outsider who aspires to become a member of the group. He responds naively to his friend Percy Washington upon learning details of his family’s fabulous wealth: ‘‘‘He must be very rich,’ said John simply. ‘I’m glad. I like very rich people.’’’ What Unger must learn through the story is that Percy Washington’s father is ‘‘a rampant capitalist who illustrates the ugliness of placing money and luxury above what Fitzgerald called ‘the old values’: moral integrity, self-discipline, love for one’s family, and regard for one’s fellow human beings.’’ John Unger must learn to see the corruption beneath the facade.

Similarly, in Wright’s story, Fred Daniels leaves one world for another of which he is unfamiliar. The narrative hook, ‘‘I’ve got to hide, he told himself,’’ introduces a conflict between the protagonist and his society, stronger but not unlike the conflict in Fitzgerald’s story. Both stories introduce a character who, for one reason or another, no longer belongs in his society and seeks another. John Unger seeks social and economic advancement; Fred Daniels seeks physical safety and escape as indicated by Wright’s lines: ‘‘Either he had to find a place to hide, or he had to surrender.’’ Unger leaves the comfort of his small town, ironically named Hades, for the disguised corrupted world of the wealthy, and Daniels leaves the dangerous, corrupt world above ground for the security of the sewer, ‘‘Wright’s metaphor for the black ghetto,’’ according to Susan Mayberry.

Both protagonists are, therefore, outsiders who must learn, but Wright’s story differs in that his protagonist must, as an outsider, look back and become aware of the corruption in the society he has left. For both protagonists, however, little of their world is as it seems. Mayberry says that in Wright’s story, ‘‘[t]he sewer water is described as warm, pulsing, womblike. Entering it, Man regresses to a world that offers both security and ignorance out of which he must finally climb.’’ Daniels must climb out of his ignorance of the corrupted underbelly of society as must Unger. A superficial reading may suggest different sources of corruption in the stories: money in Fitzgerald’s and racism in Wright’s. Although the two concepts intertwine in both stories, the source of corruption in each case is wealth with its attendant power. Fred Daniel’s fate, according to Patricia D. Watkins, is not primarily the result of his race:

Racial identity does not directly determine what happens to Fred Daniels. Rather, environment— specifically, economic and social forces—seems to be a more important determinant of Daniels’ fortunes. Before his arrest Daniels worked at the home of Mrs. Wooten, presumably as a servant. Hence, Daniels is at the lower end of the economic and social scale, like the white night watchman who shares his fate.

It is interesting that Fitzgerald also sets Unger at the lower end of the social and economic scale at the St. Midas Preparatory School. This position seems typical—albeit not exclusive— for the position of outsider in the works of both authors. Such is the position of Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby and Bigger Thomas in Native Son.

In ‘‘The Diamond As Big As the Ritz’’ and ‘‘The Man Who Lived Underground,’’ wealth not only initiates corruption, but it also provides the means of concealing it, leading to similar ironic juxtapositions by both Wright and Fitzgerald. Connotations associated with rising and descending, as well as those associated with light and darkness, are reversed. This technique is illustrated most strongly in Wright’s oxymoron: ‘‘dark sunshine’’, Fitzgerald’s ironic use of ‘‘Hades’’ for the name of Unger’s home town and ‘‘Washington’’ for the name of the most corrupt and immoral—and richest—man in the world. In religious terms, one rises to Heaven and descends to hell or Hades. Yet in Fitzgerald’s story, the bright god-like figure above Washington is evil. In Wright’s story, the bright light from above means danger.

Other religious symbols appear in both stories, usually but not always in an ironic sense. Typically, for instance, the corrupt underworld is dark, and the pure world above displays a bright light. Yet in Wright’s story, the light shining from above ironically represents the corrupt, violent society from which Daniels escapes, and in Fitzgerald’s story Unger rises in an almost religious sense to the murderously corrupt Washington retreat:

At a resounding ‘‘Hey-yah!’’ John felt the car being lifted slowly from the ground—up and up—clear of the tallest rocks on both sides— then higher, until he could see a wavy, moonlit valley stretched out before him in sharp contrast to the quagmire of rocks that they had just left.

Unger and Percy Washington arrive at the estate to more images of rising, light and darkness: ‘‘Full in the light of the stars, an exquisite chateau rose from the borders of the lake, climbed in marble radiance half the height of an adjoining mountain, then melted in grace, in perfect symmetry . . . ’’ The twelve men of Fish who Percy and Unger encounter on their way to the estate present another religious image. They are, however, described by Marius Bewley as something other than ironic:

The Christian implications of the fish symbol are certainly intended by Fitzgerald, and these are enforced by the twelve solitary men who are apostles ‘‘beyond all religion.’’ These grotesque and distorted Christian connotations are strengthened by their dream-like relation to Hades on the Mississippi where John was born. What we are given in these paragraphs is a queerly restless and troubled sense of a religion that is sick and expressing itself in disjointed images and associations, as if it were delirious.

A similar disjointed, delirious religious image appears in Fred Daniels’ dream in the Wright story. In the dream, Daniels walks on water to rescue a drowning woman’s baby. The dream is a realistic representation of his concern for the dead baby in the sewer and his feelings of helplessness in helping it, but the dream also reflects Watkins’ observation: ‘‘As he sheds his aboveground identity, Fred Daniels acquires a godlike identity.’’

The Fred Daniels god-like image does, in certain contexts, resemble the Braddock Washington god-like image in Fitzgerald’s story. Both men create their own world and seek to make changes in it. Both reject values and morals of the society they left. Daniels no longer values the exchange function of money and jewels; Washington no longer values human life and freedom. The two authors present their god-like characters in different ways, however.

Fitzgerald uses narrative techniques to show Washington as a god-like figure. His character is rarely seen, but his control is always felt. When seen, he dominates absolutely. Representative is the scene with the captured aviators. They argue with and appeal to Braddock Washington, high above, as if to a powerful Roman god. Washington responds in kind:

‘‘I’ve offered to have all or any of you painlessly executed if you wish. I’ve offered to have your wives, sweethearts, children, and mothers kidnapped and brought out here. I’ll enlarge your place down there and feed and clothe you the rest of your lives.’’

Later Washington appears like an all-knowing god along the path where John Unger and Kismine are talking: ‘‘Footsteps were coming along the path in their direction, and a moment later the rose bushes were parted displaying Braddock Washington, whose intelligent eyes . . . were peering in at them.’’

Wright, on the other hand, chooses both narration and symbols to show Daniels’ godlike qualities. It is through Wright’s narration of Daniels’ god-like change that Daniels becomes the outsider: ‘‘Near the end of his second day underground, Daniels takes the first step toward creating himself and his world and hence becoming his own god: He begins rejecting his aboveground values and identity.’’ The values he rejects are money and time, possibly the two things most valued by a capitalistic society.

Much has been made of Wright’s affiliation with the Communist Party and his departure from the United States to live in Paris. For instance, Abraham Chapman notes: ‘‘His first writing was published in the Communist press, and for a while he was Harlem correspondent of The Daily Worker.’’ Wright later left the Communist Party; nevertheless, that experience may have inspired the focus on money in ‘‘The Man Who Lived Underground’’ and Daniels’ significant rejection of it in the story. Daniels comes to treat money and other forms of wealth with contempt from the dime payment he casts aside in the grocery store to the hundred dollar bills he casually uses as wallpaper in his cave. Patricia Watkins says, ‘‘His rejection of the valuation of money above ground is a liberating act.’’ Watkins also notes that he rejects time in like fashion: ‘‘Daniels’ enslavement to time ends when he prepares to nail valuable watches onto the same dirt wall on which he has just pasted the hundred dollar bills.’’ These acts free Daniels from the entrapments of wealth. They also show him as god-like in his ability to remake his world and as such make him an outsider to the world aboveground.

As interesting, however, is the similarity that the message of his rejection has to Fitzgerald’s story ‘‘The Diamond As Big As the Ritz.’’ Fitzgerald creates two outsiders, John Unger and Braddock Washington, made such by the corrupting influence of excessive wealth. Unger, of course, is the admiring outsider to the wealthy elite. Washington is the self-imposed outsider to society who—in a god-like way similar to Daniels—has created his own world. Unlike Daniels, however, he has embraced wealth to an insane degree. While Fitzgerald is not telling a story that condemns wealth and power per se, he does, in his examination of their excesses, show the corrupting effects in a way similar to Wright. Bewley notes that ‘‘[t]he major part of [Fitzgerald’s] story is concerned with giving us a series of glimpses of life in this American dream—a fantasy on the theme of material possibilities run wild.’’ Daniels’ rejection of corrupt, aboveground values and Washington’s rejection of the moral values of society make both characters appear god-like

in a similar way and deliver the same moral message to the reader.

In addition to narrative structures, Wright employs symbols heavily to make Daniels appear god-like. The first occurs after the movie theater scene when Daniels ‘‘went back to the basement and stood in the red darkness.’’ The scene leads to a symbolic rendering of the washing of the hands by the priest at mass and the changing of the water and wine to Christ’s blood. The ceremony is a re-creation of Christ’s actions at the last supper, with Daniels’ experience a corrupted version of the same:

He went to the sink and turned the faucet and the water flowed in a smooth silent stream that looked like a spout of blood. He brushed the mad image from his mind and began to wash his hands leisurely, looking about for the usual bar of soap.

The symbolism is carried further with the previously discussed dream in which Daniels walks on water. Both symbols occur immediately following events that further alienate Daniels from the world above, pushing him more into the role of outsider. The movie theater scene, in which Daniels experiences a renewed awakening to the world’s corruption and in which he encounters the usher, leads into the washing of the hands. The walking on water dream is preceded by Daniels’ eating the stolen sandwiches, his first meal and so the first sign of his self-sufficiency underground.

After Daniels hangs the watches and scatters the diamonds, signs of his rejection of aboveground values, he turns the radio on and subsequently has a god-like illusion:

A melancholy piece of music rose. Brooding over the diamonds on the floor was like looking up into a sky full of restless stars; then the illusion turned into its opposite: he was high up in the air looking down at the twinkling lights of a sprawling city. The music ended and a man recited news events. In the same attitude in which he had contemplated the city, so now . . . he looked down upon land and sea as men fought, as cities were razed, as planes scattered death upon open towns, as long lines of trenches wavered and broke.

The juxtaposition of high and low continues with the comparison of the diamonds to stars as well as Daniels’ imagined and god-like position high above mankind. The symbolism parallels Fitzgerald’s depiction of the boys ascending above the town of Fish and being lifted over the rock barricade before entering the valley of the estate. Also similar is Washington’s stance above the imprisoned aviators.

Such god-like representation in both stories favors the outsider interpretation of the characters. The true nature of an outsider may not be known to the group. According to the Bible, Christ’s true nature on Earth went unseen or disbelieved by many; the job of the Apostles was to open peoples’ eyes. The analogy becomes clear in close comparison between Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway. For example, the truth of Jake Barnes’ true bitterness goes unseen to his fellow expatriates—most notably, Brett—who see him as a happy friend to everyone in Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises. Likewise, in Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, many of Jay Gatsby’s freeloading guests know little about him, and he allows them to create their own myths. Nick Carraway takes on the role of apostle, trying to open the eyes of the reader.

In ‘‘The Diamond As Big As the Ritz,’’ Percy relates the almost biblical tale of his father’s lineage to John Unger, yet neither Percy nor his sisters see the evil behind the god-like figure of Braddock Washington for what it truly is. Braddock Washington is a god-like outsider to a nation that does not know that his world exists. John Unger is an outsider to the wealth and power elite as well as to the truth of his intended fate. Fred Daniels is an outsider not only to his fate but also to most of the people of the aboveground society.

In Wright’s story, the theater usher gives Daniels his first experience as an outsider from the aboveground perspective. By the time he enters the theater, Daniels has begun to awaken to the corruption that exists beneath society’s facade, but the usher, who acknowledges Daniels’ presence, is blind to his true nature. Wright symbolizes the usher’s blindness through his innocuous question and directions: ‘‘‘Looking for the men’s room, sir?’ the man asked, and, without waiting for an answer, he turned and pointed. ‘This way, sir. The first door to your right.’’’ The usher treats Daniels like any other movie theater patron, unable to see—or smell—the obvious signs of Daniels’ time in the sewer, including ‘‘his shoes, wet with sewer slime.’’ The usher is unable to note the condition of Daniels’ clothing because the sewer foulness on his clothes symbolizes the corruption of his society, which he, like the rest of society, cannot see. That symbolic blindness then represents such a strong difference in perspective as to make Daniels a complete outsider. At this point, however, Daniels has not yet achieved his full awakening or, as Watkins describes it, his ‘‘godlike identity.’’ Daniels simply dismisses the usher with the comment, ‘‘What a funny fellow!’’

Daniels’ realization really begins in the meat market. There the circumstance repeats when the white couple mistake him for a cashier, again failing to note the distinctive trappings of the sewer displayed by Daniels. Not surprisingly, money forms the catalyst for Daniels’ irrevocable rejection of the world above and the formation of his new identity. In the story, the woman pays for the grapes with a dime, and, after some civilities, the couple leaves Daniels standing in the doorway: ‘‘When they were out of sight, he burst out laughing and crying. A trolley car rolled noisily past and he controlled himself quickly. He flung the dime to the pavement with a gesture of contempt and stepped into the warm night air.’’

However, Daniels’ laughter signals a less-than-total awakening, Mayberry notes that this laughter recurs and reveals a growing awakening:

This laughter occurs throughout the story at every significant event or lesson in Man’s process of enlightenment. It marks his growing awareness of the vulnerable human condition and the universal human culpability that renders human life and love highest absolutes. Thus it becomes the ultimate signifier of the distance between these real values and the symbols substituted for them by members of society.

These symbols are, of course, the same as those used by Fitzgerald: money, jewels, and other blatant signs of wealth, all of which Daniels rejects in his awakening, and the characters in Fitzgerald’s story lose.

Not only does Daniels laugh at certain painfully partial points of awakening, but others laugh as well. Wright uses laughter, joy and song ironically in the story to show ignorance or a gradual sense of awakening. The first instance occurs early in the story when Daniels comes upon the people happily singing at the church service. His first impulse on seeing them through the wall is to laugh, but guilt stops him. He is in the earliest stages of awakening and realizes only that something is wrong:

They oughtn’t to do that, he thought. But he could think of no reason why they should not do it. Just singing with the air of the sewer blowing in on them. . . . He felt that he was gazing upon something abysmally obscene, yet he could not bring himself to leave.

The laughter of the theater patrons has a similar effect on Daniels, and his own laughter is uneasy, guilty. At that point, Daniels has not yet come to terms with his new, developing identity, and, as Mayberry suggests, a feeling of superiority accompanies the laughter.

Fitzgerald uses the same technique, albeit not as often and with a bit more subtlety. The reason probably rests in the nature of the story. John Unger acquires his realization not by degrees like Daniels, but abruptly through Kismine’s slip of information. His reaction is, therefore, different: ‘‘‘And so,’ cried John accusingly, ‘and so you were letting me make love to you and pretending to return it, and talking about marriage, all the time knowing perfectly well that I’d never get out of here alive.’’’ Also in Fitzgerald’s story, in addition to more abrupt awakenings, characters typically undergo relatively less of a personality change.

The first significant instance of expressed joy or laughter parallels the church service scene in Wright’s story. During Percy’s narrative of the family history, the elder Fitz-Norman Washington deceives his slaves into believing that the Southern armies have won the war: ‘‘The negroes believed him implicitly. They passed a vote declaring it a good thing and held revival services immediately.’’ Fitzgerald’s tone and direction suggest an intuition sufficient to intend an implication similar to Daniels’ response to the church singing he witnesses: ‘‘Pain throbbed in his legs and a deeper pain, induced by the sight of those black people groveling and begging for something they could never get, churned in him.’’ The second instance in the story, also regarding the slaves, suggests the conclusion to the first. It occurs when Braddock and Percy Washington show John Unger the slave quarters. Braddock Washington makes a racist statement to which John Unger reacts:

‘‘I discontinued the baths for quite another reason. Several of [the slaves] caught cold and died. Water is not good for certain races— except as a beverage.’’

John laughed, and then decided to nod his head in sober agreement. Braddock Washington made him uncomfortable.

Unger’s mixed reaction reflects the higher moral, and less racist, character of his family clashing with his desire as an outsider to fit in with the Washingtons.

The next instance occurs when Washington tells the trapped aviators of the man who escaped. This instance signifies an important turning point in the story. Up to this point, the chaos in the characters’ lives in both Fitzgerald’s and Wright’s stories has been shown in large measure by ironic reversals of the signifiers of symbols: up leads to corruption and down leads to enlightenment; light is corrupt and evil, and darkness is soothing and safe; laughter reflects pain and ignorance. Washington, intending to manipulate and deceive, tells his captives that one of their number has escaped. They react as expected: ‘‘A wild yell of jubilation went up suddenly from two dozen throats and a pandemonium of joy ensued. The prisoners clog-danced and cheered and yodled and wrestled with one another in a sudden uprush of animal spirits.’’ In Washington’s mind, the prisoners laugh in ignorance; however, subsequent events show their rejoicing to be genuine, for the Italian really had escaped.

Both Fitzgerald and Wright employ this double reversal, a strange kind of return to normalcy, to signal the story’s turning point. Another turning point occurs with the coming of the air attack; once again, that which is high above is seen as good. When things look bad for the survival of his hidden empire, Braddock Washington prays, offering the ridiculous bribe to God. He is no longer god-like; he has reverted to the human appealing to God above. Finally, the evil Washington and his family go below into the mountain in a symbolic descent into hell. At the turning point of Wright’s story, ‘‘the world above ground acquires the quality of darkness, and the world underground acquires the quality of light.’’ This happens when Daniels rigs the electric lighting in the cave. That signifies his moment of psychological illumination. These respective literary turning points then lead to an inevitable confrontation of an outsider with society, bringing Braddock Washington and Fred Daniels to the same end as Jay Gatsby and Bigger Thomas.

Their endings seem quite different, with Wright’s heavy message in the form of Lawson and Fitzgerald’s almost lighthearted and certainly happy ending with Kismine grabbing the wrong jewels. Fitzgerald may be seen as reflecting the modernism of the Jazz Age, whereas Wright’s antihero Daniels may be seen to nudge his story into post-modernism. Nevertheless, the awakening of Daniels and John Unger to the truth of their societies is similar. It seems, therefore, that the structure and techniques of the two writers are close enough to suggest the possibility that Fitzgerald could have influenced Wright’s work in a positive way.

Wright began to write seriously in 1925, the same year that Fitzgerald published The Great Gatsby. Wright was a self-educated man, widely read, and it is improbable that he did not read Fitzgerald’s work. He definitely read Dreiser, Sherwood Anderson, and Edgar Allan Poe. Also, as already mentioned, the lives of Wright and Fitzgerald took certain parallel tracks. It is therefore not unreasonable to conclude that Wright saw a model in Fitzgerald as did both Fitzgerald and Hemingway in Gertrude Stein, Sherwood Anderson, and Jack London. Then, as with the other writers, Wright incorporated Fitzgerald’s influence into his own maturing style and voice.

Source: William E. Rand, ‘‘The Structure of the Outsider in the Short Fiction of Richard Wright and F. Scott Fitzgerald,’’ in CLA Journal, Vol. 40,No. 2,December 1996, pp. 230–45.

Blog Essays

The Diamond As Big As The Ritz – Braddock Washington

First published in 1922, “The Diamond As Big As The Ritz” is the story of John Unger from Hades, Mississippi. John is studying at a private boarding school near Boston when he meets a fellow student named Percy Washington, who he spends the summer after his sophomore year with.  On the train ride to Montana, where Percy’s home is located, Percy confides in John that his father is “by far the richest man in the world” and the owner of “a diamond bigger than the Ritz-Carlton Hotel” (Fitzgerald, Babylon Revisited and Other Stories 77). John’s response to this thought, although he is doubtful a diamond that large can truly exist, is, “I like very rich people. The richer a fella is, the better I like him” (Fitzgerald 77). John Unger belongs to the middle class, but he is surrounded by many people who are economically superior to him. He desperately searches for the American dream; he desires to be wealthy, like many of his classmates, and he believes that material wealth will bring him happiness. While John initially believes that material wealth is the key to happiness, he soon learns from the Washington family, especially Braddock Washington, that false needs may not fulfill their promise of contentment.

While some of the first images of the Washington family’s immense wealth is depicted in dreamlike descriptions of the Washington house and family, the very first depiction of Braddock Washington departs from these dreamlike descriptions. Braddock is not initially characterized as an evil man, but rather as an ordinary wealthy man: “The elder man was about forty with a proud, vacuous face, intelligent eyes, and a robust figure. In the mornings he smelt of horses—the best horses. He carried a plain walking-stick of gray birch with a single large opal for a grip” (Fitzgerald 92). If removed from the context of the story one would imagine Braddock to look like any normal, upper-class man, but readers quickly learn that he is far from ordinary.

Braddock Washington will do anything to protect his fortune, the diamond, which is what makes him “by far the richest” man in the world (Fitzgerald 77).  Instilled with the idea that his happiness and identity is a direct result of his diamond, Braddock brutally treats humans in the same way he treats all material objects—as a commodity which he is entitled to use, consume, and dispose of at his discretion. Fitzgerald uses Braddock Washington to identify “power, money, and amorality as the roots of progress and civilization” in regards to the American dream (Lena). Braddock believes he is superior to all other men because of his power and money, but he also seems to believe that he is an advanced member of society, especially when he boasts about being able to fool the government surveyors, because of his immense wealth He is a very self-assured man who questions neither his money nor his power. . His attitude of superiority is demonstrated in the commodification of the slaves on his property.

Historically, African Americans have been enslaved and treated as commodities, but Braddock Washington’s father lies to them in order to keep them enslaved, and Braddock continues to lie to them about the abolishment of slavery. Throughout the story none of the slaves seem to leave the mountain, other than to pick up Percy from the train station, and they seem to be unaware of a world beyond the mountain. Braddock continues to commodify a group of humans who should be free for two reasons: to protect his secret, he would have to kill them if they tried to escape the mountain, and he would lose all of the people who maintain and care for the mountain. The commodification of the Washington’s slaves is also demonstrated when Braddock is talking to John and Percy:

In my youth I was distracted for a while from the business of life by a period of absurd idealism. During that time they lived in luxury. For instance, I equipped every one of their rooms with a tile bath…My slaves did not keep coal in their bathtubs. They had orders to bathe every day, and they did. If they hadn’t I might have ordered a sulphuric acid shampoo. I discontinued the baths for quite another reason. Several of them caught cold and died. Water is not good for certain races–except as a beverage” (Fitzgerald 92).

Braddock reflects on his decision to provide “luxury” for his slaves and believes that he was acting “absurd.” The slaves serve a specific purpose as his possessions and Braddock doesn’t treat them as he would treat someone belonging to his social class, which are realistically only his family members. In addition to reiterate his power over the slaves, Braddock is concerned about his slaves’ appearance because, like most objects, they reflect who he is, which is why he demands they bathe every day. Braddock makes the implication that if his property doesn’t obey him then he would brutally injure, and possibly, kill them; sulphuric acid is known for causing terrible chemical burns. Braddock not only commodifies humans, but also severely mistreats these people he objectifies in order to keep his diamond and wealth a secret.

Shortly after his conversation with Percy and John Unger about his slaves, Braddock reveals that he has another group of humans in his possession. He holds captured pilots prisoner in “the cage” so they will not have the opportunity to expose the Washington family’s secret (Fitzgerald 93). The cage is depicted as “a large cavity in the earth…covered by a strong iron grating” (93). The narrator points out that the voices of the men seem to belong to “middle-class Americans,” which is an interesting observation, considering that there are no other characteristics of these men that would suggest their economic status, made in order to suggest their inferiority in relation to the Washington’s (Fitzgerald 94). Fitzgerald illustrates Braddock immorally exercising power over the lower-class, which Braddock believes is rightly his. Excessive wealth and power creates an attitude of entitlement for men like Braddock, which allows him to implicitly dehumanize the pilots by associating them with a use-value similar to the use-value of an object like a school text book.

Braddock imprisons the pilots to protect his secret, but also avers one of their use-values as the ability to teach his children something. The exchange-value for the pilot’s abilities is temporary “freedom” from the cage. Percy refers to one man who escaped as, “that Italian teacher,” and Braddock mentions without any remorse or sadness, “there’s a good chance that we may have got him. Perhaps he fell somewhere in the woods or stumbled over a cliff” (Fitzgerald 93). The nameless man was only valued for his use-value therefore making him false commodity to Braddock and nothing more. His value as a human, the fact he may have a family or hopes and dreams,  is non-existent, or at least indifferent, to Braddock Washington. Braddock believes he is superior to everyone; he has no respect for anyone socioeconomically below him. There isn’t anyone for him to financially compete with, which, for men like Braddock, eliminates any and all forms of competition. He demonstrates his superior nature as the pilots beg to be released from imprisonment.

As all of the imprisoned men beg Braddock to release them, he reminds them of why he cannot let them go: “any time that you can think of a way out which protects me and my interests I’ll be glad to consider it” (Fitzgerald 94). His “interests” are hoarding his wealth by keeping the diamond a secret and ensuring that no other person experiences the wealth. Further evidence of Braddock’s blatant disrespect for people socioeconomically below him and his objectification of men is demonstrated when he states, “How could a man of my position be fair-minded toward you? You might as well speak of a Spaniard being fair-minded toward a piece of steak” (Fitzgerald 95). He cares nothing for these imprisoned, “middle-class” men; his emphasis on the words “my” and then “you” signifies the belief that he is higher than them in every aspect possible. His attitude towards these objectified men is also evident in the way that Braddock is physically above the prisoners; the jail allows him to always be elevated in comparison to the prisoners. While still arguing with one of the prisoners, Braddock explains to them that “cruelty doesn’t exist where self-preservation is involved” (Fitzgerald 95). A problem with the American dream is that it tends to create attitudes of self-preservation. Driven by self-preservation and the desire for false needs, one will do whatever they need to in order to secure their own wealth in a consumer society regardless of the immorality associated with a decision.

An amoral Braddock Washington justifies his cruelty by using self-preservation as an excuse even though losing his diamond wouldn’t truly prevent him from “preservation”. The diamond itself is a false need not only because it is the foundation of their mansion, but because of the value Braddock associated with it; he believes losing the diamond will result in the loss of everything that he is. He has been raised in a world where the diamond, the wellspring of the Washington’s wealth, is considered to be the single most important possession of the Washington family. The diamond is the Washington’s identity, just as the diamond’s material value is enormous, the members of the Braddock family believe their worth, as humans rather than objects, is equally enormous. The diamond is truly the source of their power and as the three men are walking away from the prison the narrator shows one more time just how objectified these prisoners are: “But Mr. Washington, followed by the two boys, was already strolling on toward the ninth hole of the golf course, as though the pit and its contents were no more than a hazard over which his facile iron had triumphed with ease” (Fitzgerald 96). Braddock cares for nothing but the preservation of his wealth, which he clearly allows to identify him; he will do anything he possibly has to, including enslaving or imprisoning a group of people, to make sure that no one discovers the diamond he believes he possesses.

The Self Made Man and the Pursuit of Happiness: “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz”

Posted on March 13, 2011by Samuel Wood

F. Scott Fitzgerald’s story “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” was published in 1922 in the collection Tales of the Jazz Age. This “extravaganza”, to use Fitzgerald’s description, is the youthful adventure of John T. Unger’s summer holiday at the Montana-home of his school friend, Percy Washington. Unger is something of an innocent, coming from the backwater of Hades, Mississippi. On their journey from their Boston prep school, St. Midas’, Washington confides that his “father is by far the richest man in the world”. Other plutocrats are mentioned, including the Schnlitzer-Murphys who have diamonds as big as walnuts. Both boys love jewels; Washington collects them instead of stamps, but the diamonds of the Schnlitzer-Murphys’ are as nothing when compared to those of Washington senior who is the owner of a diamond as big as the Ritz-Carlton hotel.

This is something of a problem and knowledge of diamond mountain on which the Washington home stands has to be guarded against. This secrecy is not entirely self-serving and has basis in the logic of supply and demand.

…if it [the diamond] were offered for sale not only would the bottom fall out of the market, but also, if the value should vary with its size in the usual arithmetical progression, there would not be enough gold in the world to buy a tenth part of it. And what could any one do with a diamond that size?

This leaves everyone in a predicament. Washington grandpére, the discoverer of the mountain, is, “in one sense, the richest man that ever lived–and yet was he worth anything at all?” The only way to secure his wealth, and the stability of the world economy, is to sell some of the mountain little by little in the courts of Europe and use some of that wealth to keep the mountain secret from the government. Thus, Washington marks an early stand against the Federal Government and its interference with the individual liberty so proudly proclaimed in the Declaration. The young Unger, on the other hand, struggles with the question of how to escape the nauseating luxury of a privatized Area 51 and make his way back to Hades. Love, laughter, and electrocution follow.

If the basis of the Washington family’s wealth seems preposterous, it need only be set against that of the likes of the oil tycoon Rockefeller, the steel baron, Carnegie, and the banker, Morgan. The story of their rise to power is parodied in Fitzgerald’s account of the Washington family’s exploitation of American labour, through continued slavery, and of the nation’s mineral resources. There is also something prescient in Fitzgerald’s economic analysis; the basis of American wealth was to proven to be catastrophically unsound seven years after the publication of his story in the Wall Street Crash of 1929.

But Fitzgerald’s story is not simply an economic parable, and, amidst the daring-do and callous hilarity, he interrogates the soul of America. Most obviously this is in the names of places and characters – Unger is from Hades, attends a school called St. Midas, where he meets the resonantly named Washington, descendant of George, who introduces him to his sister, Kismine. In the story’s crisis, Percy’s father attempts to bribe God, but He, his seat above, and the other place, so easily confused with John’s native Hades, were all “abolished long ago”. Money is the new American religion, and the old God holds no sway.

Not even the poor escape this vision of America as none are out of Hades and all are presented as being without religion in what may be understood as a bleak retelling of the parable of the sower (Mark 4:1-20). Having become a race apart, the poor are obsessed with the movements of the wealthy. In one of the best passages in the story, the arrival of Unger and Washington by the Trans-Continental Express is witnessed in cultic reverence by the twelve men of Fish, the desolate village nearest the mountain.

But the men of Fish were beyond all religion–the barest and most savage tenets of even Christianity could gain no foothold on that barren rock–so there was no altar, no priest, no sacrifice; only each night at seven the silent concourse by the shanty depot, a congregation who lifted up a prayer of dim, anaemic wonder.

On this June night, the Great Brakeman, whom, had they deified any one, they might well have chosen as their celestial protagonist, had ordained that the seven o’clock train should leave its human (or inhuman) deposit at Fish. At two minutes after seven Percy Washington and John T. Unger disembarked, hurried past the spellbound, the agape, the fearsome eyes of the twelve men of Fish, mounted into a buggy which had obviously appeared from nowhere, and drove away.

This ruthlessly unsentimental treatment of the poor, “suck[ing] a lean milk from the almost literally bare rock”, is one of Fitzgerald’s most profound images of America. There is no point in calling the poor the salt of the earth when nothing will come of salty earth. Indeed, any sentimentality for poverty is the preserve of the parodied wealthy of the story.  But they it turns out are not so different. Like Nick, Daisy, and Jay in The Great Gatsby, the rich boys are swept through a desolate landscape and both they and the twelve me of Fish live under a sunset “like a gigantic bruise from which dark arteries spread themselves over a poisoned sky”. Neither rich nor poor have anything but their rocks. Those of the rich may be clearer, but they are as equally barren and inhospitable.

The Diamond as Big as the Ritz - Fitzgerald’s use of language

Section pages

I 7 – 8 ironic humour: ‘Hades, St Midas, so long out of the world, little tacky, Don’t forget who you are and where you came from, Hades … seemed full of a warm and passionate beauty’.

8 – 10 contrast to ‘warm and passionate beauty’: superlatives: ‘most expensive / most exclusive school in the world, richest man in the world / by far the richest & comparative: ‘diamond bigger than the Ritz’ (connotes wealth & power).

II 10 – 11 lexis: the narrative becomes a mixture of the ordinary narrative style of: ‘so the old man and the young shook hands’ (8) and the hyperbolic language style of the description of Fish (10 – 11). The many negative modifiers here creates a bleak contrast to the St Midas & Percy’s presentation of home (8 – 10) and with the following descriptions of Washington’s world, chateau etc. The dark & sinister portrayal of Fish introduces a contrast to the glitter of chateau’s luxury and introduces the theme that beneath the sparkling surface of the Washington’s diamond valley lies a dark, horrific immorality which is also ‘beyond all religion’ like Fish (11). As the narrative develops this parallel becomes increasingly clear.

11 – 14 similar contrast of ‘Negro’ & the description of the car – the value of people is being set against the value of wealth – a theme which develops and is the main point of the story. This leads us to a change in the lexis: ‘corruption, deaths, great many prisoners’ (14) and Fitzgerald’s technique of understatement: ‘but it upsets mother and the girls’ to create humour and position the reader against the values and attitudes of the Washingtons. The writer uses dark, ironic humour to present a contrast to the luxury of Washington’s ‘paradise’.

15 – 17 lexis: the modification, nouns & verbs present a fairy tale style description of the chateau (15) which John seems completely taken in by: ‘John remembered that first night as a daze’ (15) and ‘it dazzled the eyes’ (16). Hyperbolic style of language is continued e.g. ‘beyond human wish or dream’ (16) It is ‘honeyed luxury’ (16) and John wonders ‘Is it a bed or a cloud’ (17). This introduces the theme of illusion and dream ~ note the inter-textual reference to Titania from Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream (16). John is asleep (naïve) and in a dream (mesmerised by wealth, beauty and luxury). Our view is guided by the irony of the triadic structure: ‘One diamond, one cubic mile without a flaw’ but John ‘had again fallen asleep’. This causes us to start wondering: what is the ‘dream’ ?

III 18 – 19 John’s ‘dream’ continues: John has his own manservant & note the modifiers and nouns of luxury / fantasy

IV 19 – 21 lexical development: the nouns ‘blacks, darkies’ and the adjective ‘coloured’ plus the noun ‘slavery’ develop the theme of wealth which is founded on moral corruption (anaphoric link to p14) and selfishness (cataphoric link to p.33)

22 this presentation of the immoral values and attitudes of the Washingtons is continued by the narrative technique of ironic humour in the understatement explaining John’s grandfather’s who had: ‘due to a series of unfortunate complications, to murder his brother’ – the tone is sinister and chilling which contrasts the descriptions of the luxurious lifestyle

23 note the syntactical parallel structure: ‘This was the family / This was the story.’ The narrative voice addresses the audience directly, pointing out the absurdity of the situation John is in as he is beguiled by ‘his sliver-walled living-room’. The deictic ‘This’ creates a tone of accusation which focuses on John and helps us see the reality of the situation which he hasn’t realised – yet. Why not? (see V)

V 23 – 24 John is mesmerised by his surroundings: ‘golden haze’ (23); ‘pink nymph-skin & greenest of the green leaves’ (24) which give him ‘cool hope’ (24). The nouns and modifiers connote John’s naive view of the situation. This leads him to his vision of Kismine ~ note the romantic presentation of Kismine on page 24: superlative most beautiful; verbs cried, exclaimed (she’s quite dramatic); modifiers about her voice ‘soft, softly, & her charming blue’ eyes. This leads to John’s reaction to her as ‘the incarnation of physical perfection’ (25). This kind of description is similar to earlier descriptions of the chateau etc and develops the idea that John is falling for superficial beauty against the evidence of what lies beneath the surface (corruption, slaves, prisoners, death). John’s ‘I’m from Hades’ (25) is an ironic contrast to the Washingtons and their world because he doesn’t realise that he is in a kind of immoral hell now.

26 Kismine is presented as pure and innocent: ‘I’m going to cry, her lip was trembling, & sweetly but she has a still-born tear’ (26) which is ironic and sinister because it connotes barren / deadly.

VI 27 - 30 Fitzgerald reveals Braddock Washington’s (BW) attitudes & values through his own speech here: ‘ the slaves’,(noun) ‘these Negroes’ (deictic & noun) ‘them ‘(pronoun) & his declarative’ water is not good for suit certain races’ all connote his arrogant superiority and racist views.

31 The narrative continues to present the theme of John being in a kind of dream land: ‘blanket nights and warm, glowing days’ (cohesive link to cool hope (24)) ~ despite all he has heard. The connotation is that John’s Hades attitude of ‘worship and respect for riches’ (12) has bedazzled him like the diamonds have bedazzled the Washingtons and everyone else. The implication is that John is corrupt too.

VIII 32 – 33 The modification used about Mr & Mrs W. develops the grim view of them as people:’ exacting, uninterested, aloof, reserved, indifferent, entirely absorbed’ (32). Jasmine is described in a comical manner (bow-legged, terminated in large hands and feet). This leads to the ironic humour in the understatement about her detachment from reality: ‘Jasmine had never recovered from the shock and disappointment caused her by the termination of the World War’. Gradually we are being made aware of the ‘mad’ nature (46) of ‘this family’ (23). The narrative technique of using modifiers and nouns to present a view of the W.s continues on p. 33: they have an ‘arrogant attitude’ and the interesting pairing of: ‘chaste and consistent selfishness’ (33). ‘chaste’ denotes ‘pure’ but here the link with ‘selfishness’ presents a sinister connotation like the collocation ‘pure evil’ does.

Contrast to this: ‘John was enchanted by the wonders’ (33). The tension of the narrative is beginning to build because the audience knows he is in serious trouble even if he doesn’t!

The absurdity of BW’s world is further developed by the narrative, conveyed by the matter-of-fact tone in the understatement: ‘BW had caused to be kidnapped’ (33). The use of the passive verb form ‘had caused to be kidnapped’ connotes BW’s cold, calculating behaviour. The humour of the following description of events with the four unfortunate experts going ‘mad’ emphasises the absurdity but also the evil nature of the actions of BW.

34 - 37 When John finally grasps the truth the lexical change creates a more serious tone: ‘terror’, (34) dark suspicion, horror, murdered’ (35). The absurd humour of John and Kismine’s dialogue here, ending with: ‘ You said I kissed a corpse!’ emphasises the writer’s positioning of the reader’s view: our sense of reality and moral values contrasts the unreal situation and lack of moral values in the Washington world. We can’t help but judge John here because only when he realises he is also a victim is he shocked by what they do: ‘murdered’. Though he was tricked into coming to the valley of death, he didn’t make any moral decision or act ~ he is a victim of his ‘cool hope’ and the materialistic attitude of Hades. His moral indignation causes Kismine to say: ‘You’ve spoiled it all.’ And we appreciate the irony.

IX – XI 38 – 50 The modifiers indicate the change in the situation and John’s view of it: ‘appalled by the silent splendour’ (39). ‘appalled’ denotes his view but ‘silent’ significantly contrasts the descriptions earlier of the sounds of music which are just one feature of the chateau , and connotes danger as it links to ‘professional executioners’ and BW’s command ‘Quick as hell!’. (39) The portrayal of the chateau and the valley as hell is now explicit (clear).

We are reminded of the theme of self-deception and the Washington’s bizarre reality when John tells Kismine of the ‘eve of my murder’ but Kismine says ‘I can’t hear you!’ - the exclamative emphasises her refusal to face up to reality. This produces ironic humour when the slave quarters are destroyed and she declares ‘So few Americans have any respect for property’. (41) The respect for property (wealth) instead of human life and morals is the main theme of the story.

The irony of the narrative continues in the use of modifiers: ‘the dark and glittering reign’ (43). The juxtaposition of opposites here sums up the writer’s use of description throughout the story. ‘dark’ connotes sinister and evil and ‘glittering’ connotes the theme of appearance and wealth (diamonds). The noun ‘reign’ connotes power and control and this leads to the final absurd scene where BW attempts to ‘bribe’ (44) God.

BW’s address to God sums up his attitude to the world: ‘You there’ is the language we would expect him to use to his slaves. The narrative is more direct in its judgement now, we are told this is ‘monstrous’ – BW is the monster. The contrast between love of self and wealth, materialistic values and spiritual, moral values is emphasised by the description of BW as ‘the king and priest of gold’ which is a paradox and reminds us of the stupidity of Midas – the school where John meets Percy. The conclusion is that the ‘worship of riches’ (12) is hell, not paradise and so BW is ‘magnificently mad’ (46) for believing the opposite. The alliteration here and the oxymoron emphasise the purpose of the story to show that what appears to be magnificent – wealth and power – is actually false and empty if it depends on cruelty and corruption. John’s reply to Kismine’s question on the final page asks the reader to make up their mind: ‘Why should he go to Hades?’ (50) – we now know the answer.

It’s interesting that right at the end of the story John falls asleep. He has been asleep metaphorically for much of the story and he has been in a dream which has proved to be an illusion. On this metaphorical level the story is about the American Dream and the danger that wealth and power can become obsessive motives. BW’s chilling declarative statement: ‘Cruelty doesn’t exist where self-preservation is involved’ (30) was, in 1922, a warning to 20th century America – do not be ‘magnificently mad’ and lose your sense of reality and human values.

For you to consider …

Could Fitzgerald really have had this view of things in early America? Did he really see the danger of blind belief in your own sense of what is right despite what everybody else believes? To decide this for yourself, consider why the family is called Washington ~ what does that name represent? Is it significant that the Washingtons are ‘direct descendants’(19) of George Washington, the first president of the United States?

Bernice Bobs Her Hair

Summary

Published in 1920 in the Saturday Evening Post, a popular magazine of the day, "Bernice Bobs Her Hair" deals with a favorite theme of F. Scott Fitzgerald's: the desire for popularity in the shallow, appearance-obsessed social climate of the famous "Roaring 20s."

A Saturday night dance in summer is the setting. The story opens in the social hubbub of a club ballroom. The two sides of the social set are defined by the middle-aged ladies “with sharp eyes and icy hearts” observing the “dangerous” youth. The narrator explains that the reader needs to be within the throng of the occasion to appreciate “the drama of the shifting, semicruel world of adolescence.” The reader is then led through the crowd.

The omniscient narrator draws the attention of the audience to the individuals present. They are described collectively: “a medley of faces and voices,” then the narrator focuses on individual young men, finally resting on Warren McIntyre. He is “one of the unfortunate stags.” Seeing himself as superior to others as he had “gone East” to college, Warren was still captivated by the girls of his city, and was “crazy about” Marjorie Harvey.

Marjorie Harvey is a fairylike individual with a “bewildering tongue.” She is celebrated for turning five cartwheels in succession at a previous gathering. Marjorie has informed Warren that she does not love him, as “when she was away from him she forgot him and had affairs with other boys.” She pushes him into dancing with Bernice, her cousin, whose gaucheness and nervousness make her irritating.

Bernice observes that Marjorie is very different from her, having “very few… blessedly feminine” qualities. At home, Mrs Harvey tries to convince Marjorie that popularity is not everything, but Marjorie is fiercely sure that it is. Marjorie blames Bernice’s “Indian blood” for the reason she is so socially backward. Unfortunately, Bernice overhears the conversation.

Bernice tries to bluff that she will leave. Marjorie is unmoved by her sanctimonious approach. She says Bernice epitomizes “a weak, whining, cowardly mass of affectations!” Marjorie and Bernice calm down, and Marjorie agrees to coach Bernice in the social necessities. She tells Bernice to pay attention to the “sad birds” – the less popular men – to get her noticed by the more desirable people. Bernice does want to be popular like Marjorie, and accepts Marjorie’s suggestions with innocent gratitude. When Bernice suggests “common kindness,” Marjorie is quick to condemn her for quoting Little Women – “What modern girl could live like those inane females?”

At a dinner-dance the following week, Bernice suggests that she may have her hair bobbed, and that she would “charge admission.” The crowd are excited at this dramatic idea: even the handsome and revered G. Reece Stoddard shows an interest. Lots of men dance with her, including Warren McIntyre, whose name is on Bernice’s lips as she falls asleep that night.

The social experiment works, and Bernice’s self-confidence increases along with her popularity. Warren McIntyre is spending time with Bernice, and Marjorie feigns disinterest. However, she calls Bernice out on her suggestion of having her hair cut. Bernice realizes that she has to go through with the deed, “to walk unchallenged in the starry heaven of popular girls.”

The haircut is not a success. The cut is unflattering – “ugly as sin.” Bernice’s “Madonna-like simplicity” has gone and she now looks “frightfully mediocre.” Bernice has no confidence in herself and her look, so the crowd is unimpressed and dismissive, including Warren.

Marjorie has set an “outrageous trap” as she was aware that the next function the girls were to attend is the Deyos’ party. Bobbed hair is Mrs Deyo’s “pet abomination” and Bernice will be further humiliated and uncomfortable at this occasion. Marjorie herself has “long blond braids” and as the girls prepare to retire, she brushes and plaits her hair “like a delicate painting of A Saxon princess.” As she lay in her bed, “something snapped” in Bernice. She gets up and packs her bag, then she cuts off Marjorie’s braids. She leaves the Harvey household and throws the braids onto Warren’s front porch. Bernice refers back to Marjorie’s comments about her Indian heritage “Huh!” she giggled wildly, “Scalp the selfish thing!”

Analysis

The inspiration for “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” came from a letter Fitzgerald wrote to his sister, Annabel, in 1915. He was advising her on the ways to succeed socially, which are explored in Bernice’s developments with Marjorie’s intervention in the story. There has been much comparison made with elements of Louisa May Alcott’s “Little Women”, implying that Fitzgerald was utilizing elements of the traditional code for young women and subverting them for the modern reader. Reference to the text is made in the story itself, but as this is the modern age, young women are able to negotiate problems in new and challenging ways. Fitzgerald critic Susan Beegel observes that there are subtle differences in the way that the women from each text act and react. Both women cut their hair, but with different purposes and effects: “Jo cuts her hair out of altruism…Bernice bobs her hair out of narcissism.”

There is a contrast between young and old in the story, and Fitzgerald alludes to the new social ease with which the young could attain privacy for their liaisons. Some couples will be kissing in “the parked limousines”: the irony of the situation is made apparent in that the cars used by the romancing couples were for the most part owned by the generation that most disapproved of the liberty the vehicle afforded.

Bernice, in contrast to the cultured youth who are adept at the artifice of the social scene, is sensitive and vulnerable. The overheard conversation between Mrs. Harvey and Marjorie has an almost physical effect on her. Fitzgerald’s use of metaphor emphasizes the directness of the event - “the thread of the conversation going on inside pierced her consciousness sharply as if it had been drawn through with a needle.” Bernice is wounded by the betrayal, but her spirit is not broken. The fact that the girls are cousins is the only commonality between them. Neither girl understands the other, although Bernice is more willing to get to know her cousin. Marjorie is a schemer: much more than just the lively socialite, she is a cruel manipulator. When Bernice suggests “common kindness,” Marjorie is quick to condemn her for the source of her advice. Bernice does want to be popular like Marjorie, and accepts Marjorie’s suggestions with innocent gratitude. Bernice is willing to learn from Marjorie, but not vice versa. Both girls will end up wearing the evidence of their association, however.

When Marjorie attributes Bernice’s lack of social graces as her ‘’crazy Indian blood’’, the comment foreshadows Bernice’s revenge at the end of the story where she says: “Scalp the selfish thing!” Part of Bernice’s strength is in her individuality, and in the passion that she keeps suppressed until the end of the story. There is an element of Fitzgerald’s unique style of nostalgic reflection on the excesses and energy of youth and its transience over time.

Warren is captivated by Marjorie, but unsure of how to talk to Bernice: she is good looking, but her gauche actions make him feel uneasy in her presence. His attempts to win over Marjorie are described as approaching a “labyrinth.” The allusion gives Marjorie a mythical quality. As she continues to “disappear” with other men, Warren turns his attentions to Bernice. Warren uses Bernice as a diversion from Marjorie’s lack of commitment. Bernice is captivated by Warren and is enjoying the excitement of first love. She is beginning to conform to the social codes of Marjorie’s group. She has lost her honesty, innocence and timidity.

When the crowd is unimpressed with the haircut, Bernice’s confidence is dashed. Warren does not have the confidence or ability to see beyond the haircut – or more likely, the group’s reaction to it. He appears to exist to be on the arm of the popular girl: first Marjorie when she was the belle of the ball, then Bernice as she emerged as the new fashion. He stays with Marjorie, though she is clearly unfaithful, in order to be important in the social circle. At the destruction of Bernice – when she leaves the barber's – he returns to Marjorie’s side, looking as “coldly” as the other disappointed bystanders.

Fitzgerald describes the luxury of Marjorie’s braids as “like restive snakes,” a simile that gives Marjorie Gorgon-like qualities. Bernice realizes that Marjorie’s hair symbolizes power. There is a play on the story of Little Women: as Jo in the novel cut off her hair to raise money for the family, so Bernice sacrificed her hair to be accepted by Marjorie. There is also the allusion to the Biblical story of Samson. Bernice, in cutting Marjorie’s plaits off, “scalps” her like an Indian. Throwing the plaits on Warren’s porch symbolises Bernice’s rejection of him, and her glee is in “spoiling” Marjorie.

Characters

G. Reece Stoddard

A desirable and distinguished Harvard law graduate, keen to see Bernice cut her hair.

Marjorie Harvey

Bernice's cousin. Cruel and beautiful, she provokes Bernice in to cutting her hair and ends up paying with her own flaxen plaits.

Bernice

A naive and dull girl, Bernice tries to fit in with the lively society of her cousin, Marjorie, and follows her tutorage in achieving popularity. Bernice finally realizes that Marjorie's actions are born of malice rather than support, and she leaves her cousin's home after cutting off Marjorie's hair in revenge.

Mrs Deyo

It is her party Bernice and Marjorie are due to attend after Bernice has her hair cut. Bobbed hair is her 'pet abomination'.

Critical Overview

The Starry Heaven of Popular Girls: Fitzgerald's BERNICE BOBS HER HAIR and Catullus's COMA BERENICES

F. Scott Fitzgerald's short story "Bernice Bobs Her Hair" concerns a young woman who, when visiting her more sophisticated relations in St. Paul, is talked into having her hair cut. The narrator reports Bernice's regrets as she leaves the barber's chair: "Her hair was not curly, and now it lay in lank lifeless blocks on both sides of her suddenly pale face. It was ugly as sin-she had known it would be ugly as sin" (Flappers 129). At the story's end, she exacts revenge on her calculating cousin Marjorie by cutting off her braids as she sleeps. First appearing in the Saturday Evening Post in May 1920 and published in the collection Flappers and Philosophers later that same year, the story presents a compelling snapshot of society at the start of the Roaring Twenties and the ways in which women's identities were in flux at that time.1 However, although "Bernice" is undeniably a tableau of contemporary mores, the title character's name may in fact signal an engagement with a more ancient tradition.

Unsurprisingly, names in F. Scott Fitzgerald's fiction are meaningful, no more so in the novels than in the short stories. Robert Gale writes of "Fitzgerald's ebullient skill in his onomastic endeavors" and notes that 238 male first names (out of a total 340 male characters in the Fitzgerald corpus) are never repeated, and 141 out of a total of 236 female first names are used only once (177). In a recent article, "Fitzgerald's French," Michael Hollington has maintained that Bernice is named for Racine's Bérénice, the tragedy based on the doomed affaire de coeur between the Judaean queen Berenice and the Roman emperor Titus in 79 AD, related by the historian Suetonius (127).

If there is in fact any classical source for the name of Fitzgerald's heroine, however, it is far more likely to have been Queen Berenice II of Egypt. In a story recounted by the Hellenistic poet Callimachus and famously translated into Latin by Catullus (Poem 66; Quinn 62-64), the queen cut off one of her locks in fulfillment of a vow for the success in battle of her husband, Ptolemy III, in 246 BC. According to legend, the lock was stolen from the temple in which it had been dedicated, causing uproar in the court until the royal astronomer, Conon, discovered a new constellation in the sky that, even today, is known as the coma Berenices or "Berenice's Lock." The poem is told from the perspective of the catasterized lock, which intones with regret, Inuita, o regina, tuo de uertice cessi, / inuita, ("Unwillingly, O Queen, I departed from your head unwillingly") (lines 39-40).2

Fitzgerald had a great fondness for the classics, of course. In this regard, one has only to recall that the original title of The Great Gatsby had been Trimalchio in West Egg after the character in the Satyricon.3 It has been argued that Nick Carraway, too, is named for a Petronian figure (Drennan 145-46). But, in truth, Fitzgerald was not much of a classicist, once writing, "I knew in my heart that I had missed something by being a poor Latin scholar, like a blessed evening with a lovely girl. It was a great human experience I had rejected through laziness, through having sown painful seed" (qtd. in MacKendrick 307). Fitzgerald's high school Latin grades certainly bear this out-an "E" in Caesar, a "D" in Virgil, and a "C" in Cicero (Eble 37)-but a lack of proficiency in the language certainly need not imply a lack of engagement with the literature.

Together with Caesar, Virgil, and Cicero, Catullus was often read in the traditional Latin curriculum of the early twentieth century, and the American student edition of the poet's (expurgated) work by Elmer Merrill had been available since 1893. The passionate verse of Catullus had perennial appeal, although the teaching of his work could be dry: many surely agreed with Yeats, who scoffed in "The Scholar" from 1919, "Lord, what would they say / Did their Catullus walk that way?" (11-12). Although no direct evidence of Fitzgerald studying Catullus has been found, it is noteworthy that Horace Tarbox, the protagonist of the short story "Head and Shoulders" (which also appeared in the Saturday Evening Post and was gathered in Flappers and Philosophers), boasts, "Anyway, while my generation was laboring through Uncle Remus I was honestly enjoying Catullus in the original" (Flappers 66).

That Fitzgerald's Bernice and Catullus's Berenice both had their hair cut with some remorse may be little more than a coincidence, of course, but given Fitzgerald's penchant for classical allusion, more seems to be at stake in the naming. A final piece of internal evidence from the story may make this argument somewhat more persuasive. As she is led off for her fateful encounter with the barber, we are told that Bernice feels like Marie Antoinette on her way to the guillotine. And then Fitzgerald continues:

Vaguely she wondered why she did not cry out that it was all a mistake. It was all she could do to keep from clutching her hair with both hands to protect it from the suddenly hostile world. Yet she did neither. Even the thought of her mother was no deterrent now. This was the test supreme of her sportsmanship; her right to walk unchallenged in the starry heaven of popular girls. (Flappers 128)

Just as Berenice's lock had unwillingly left the queen's head to become a constellation, so Bernice bobs her hair in the hopes, too, of finding her place in the firmament.4

Footnotes

1. The basis of the story, according to Fitzgerald himself, was a letter he had written in 1915 to his younger sister, Annabel, containing advice on how she might make herself more attractive to young men (now reproduced as appendix 1 of West's recent edition of Flappers and Philosophers [387-92]). Even in this detail, there is some connection to the classical tradition: in book 3 of the ancient guidebook to seduction, the Ars Amatoria (Gibson 51), the Roman poet Ovid had written, Femina praecipiam quo sit amanda modo ("I will instruct how it is that a woman might be loved") (3.27), going on at length with instructions about hair, make-up, dress, conversation, and so on.

2. This line is borrowed by Virgil in the Aeneid, of Aeneas leaving Dido (6.458-460) (Mynors 241) on which see Lyne.

3. See MacKendrick. This has recently been published as Trimalchio: An Early Version of The Great Gatsby (2000). On this connection, see Briggs.

4. It is worth pointing out where in the heavens the coma Berenices had been set by the gods, according to Catullus: Virginis et saeui contingens namque Leonis /?lumina ("between the constellations Virgo and savage Leo") (lines 65-66). Fitzgerald's story is set "as August waned" (Flappers 110), when these Zodiac signs are in their ascendant.

Source: "The Starry Heaven of Popular Girls": Fitzgerald's BERNICE BOBS HER HAIR and Catullus's COMA BERENICES, McDonough, Chris. The Explicator[pic]65.4[pic] (Summer 2007): 226-229.

Bernice Bobs Her Hair: Fitzgerald's Jazz Elegy for Little Women.

[In the following essay, Beegel contends that Fitzgerald borrows the key plot elements and thematic concerns for his story “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” from Louisa May Alcott's Little Women.]

In 1915 nineteen-year-old F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote a remarkable letter to his younger sister Annabel, criticizing her social deportment and arguing that a successful debutante's popularity is composed of a concerted appeal to male egotism (“Boys like to talk about themselves … always pay close attention to the man.”) and accomplished acting (“Your natural laugh is good, but your artificial one is bum.”) Abandoning the traditional role of elder brother as protector of innocence, he both instructs Annabel in the rudiments of sex appeal and endeavors to inoculate her with cynicism: “Learn to be worldly. Remember that in society nine girls out of ten marry for money and nine men out of ten are fools.” Fitzgerald saved the letter and between November 1919 and February 1920 transformed it into a short story for the Saturday Evening Post—“Bernice Bobs Her Hair.” Lest anyone doubt the short story's origin, Fitzgerald scribbled “Basis of Bernice” on the letter to Annabel.1

Published in the Post on May 1, 1920, and gathered almost immediately into Fitzgerald's first collection of short stories, Flappers and Philosophers, “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” has since received little critical attention and less respect. Writing to H. L. Mencken, Fitzgerald labeled the story “trash.”2 Many critics, while admiring its lively plot development, sharply drawn characters, Wilde-like dialogue, whimsical imagery, and comic denouement, appear to accept Fitzgerald's disparaging estimate of “Bernice Bobs Her Hair.” Matthew J. Bruccoli has called it “not one of Fitzgerald's greatest short stories,” “obviously commercial,” “written as an entertainment.” Henry Dan Piper allots the story two sentences in a book-length study of Fitzgerald's work. John A. Higgins ranks it as “juvenilia.” Brian Way views “Bernice” [“Bernice Bobs Her Hair”] as “marred by immaturities of style and a sentimental ending.” Sergio Perosa dismisses it as “purely humorous.” Bryant Mangum labels the story “light.” And John Kuehl, who believes that Fitzgerald “underrated” “Bernice Bobs Her Hair,” nevertheless has little to say about it. Only Alice Hall Petry has called “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” “excellent.”3

Yet Fitzgerald's valuation of “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” as “trash” was almost certainly insincere, an attempt to appease Mencken, then editor of The Smart Set and interested in more self-consciously “literary” fiction. In 1935 Fitzgerald expressed an entirely different opinion of “Bernice” when he suggested that Chatto and Windus include it in a collection of his best stories. It must be noted that the critics accepting Fitzgerald's remark to Mencken are exclusively male and perhaps ill-equipped to appreciate a short story about the gender socialization of young women, written for the predominantly female market of the Saturday Evening Post.4

Neglect of “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” may be reinforced by the story's rich structure of allusion to a source unacknowledged by Fitzgerald and still unrecognized by critics—a classic novel traditionally handed down from mother to daughter in American culture, seldom or never read by males of any age, and undoubtedly borrowed by Fitzgerald from Annabel's shelf—Louisa May Alcott's Little Women. In This Side of Paradise, Fitzgerald lists the books his autobiographical hero Amory Blaine has read in his childhood. There, among such boyish favorites as For the Honor of the School, Dangerous Dan McGrew, and The Police Gazette, Little Women is conspicuous as a book Amory has read not once, but twice. When, in “Bernice Bobs Her Hair,” Fitzgerald has Bernice quote Alcott, one suspects that he too read Little Women more than once. Indeed, comparison of the short story and the novel reveals that Fitzgerald borrowed his major plot elements and themes from Little Women, turning them upside down in a Jazz Age revision of what Amory Blaine calls “the dull literature of female virtue.”5

Fitzgerald mentions Little Women directly only once in his short story, when Marjorie urges her burdensome cousin, Bernice, to go home, and Bernice tries to make Marjorie see her rudeness:

“Don't you think that common kindness … ?”

“Oh, please don't quote Little Women!” cried Marjorie impatiently. “That's out of style.”

“You think so?”

“Heavens, yes! What modern girl could live like those inane females?”

“They were the models for our mothers.”

Marjorie laughed.

“Yes, they were … not! Besides, our mothers were all very well in their way, but they know very little about their daughters' problems.”6

Marjorie and Bernice do experience problems (how to be popular, how to attract an eligible suitor, how to compete with other girls in the marriage market) experienced by their mothers and by all adolescent women before them. Yet “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” demonstrates that modern girls, whatever their mothers might have done, no longer solve such problems by emulating Little Women.7

“Bernice Bobs Her Hair” begins with two minor but significant allusions to Alcott's novel. In the story's opening paragraphs, middle-aged ladies with “sharp eyes and icy hearts” watch the country-club dances and postulate “that every young man with a large income leads the life of a hunted partridge.”8 In Little Women, when Meg considers marriage to an impoverished tutor, another middle-aged lady with sharp eyes and an icy heart, Aunt March, puts forth the same postulate: “You ought to marry well and help your family. It's your duty to make a rich match and it ought to be impressed upon you.”9 “Marmee,” mother of Little Women's four female protagonists, sounds the novel's moral keynote by overruling Aunt March's advice: “I'd rather see you poor men's wives, if you were happy, beloved, contented, than queens on thrones without self-respect and peace” (LW, 116).

A second borrowing from Little Women is the three-year engagement of Fitzgerald's Jim Strain and Ethel Demorest. In Alcott's novel, Meg consents to a three-year engagement in which she and the poor tutor, her beloved John Brooke, work to afford marriage. After doing his duty “manfully” in the Civil War, John devotes himself to “preparing for business, and earning a home for Meg,” while she spends the three years “in working as well as waiting, growing womanly in character, wise in housewifely arts, and prettier than ever, for love is a great beautifier” (LW, 268). Alcott's characters contrast sharply with Fitzgerald's “… Jim Strain and Ethel Demorest, who had been privately engaged for three years. Everyone knew that as soon as Jim managed to hold a job for more than two months she would marry him. Yet how bored they both looked, and how wearily Ethel regarded Jim, as if she wondered why she had trained the vines of her affection on such a wind-shaken poplar” (“BBHH” [“Bernice Bobs Her Hair”], 117).

One Victorian ideal, then, that Fitzgerald intends to shatter by revising Little Women as “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” is the notion of “love in a cottage,” of sentimental poverty. The middle-aged ladies with their “hunted partridge” postulate prove Marjorie's point that their mothers were never so unworldly as their lip service to Alcott's novel might suggest. Fitzgerald's modern girl appreciates the inestimable advantage of a large income in sustaining married bliss. Even Bernice, reared on Little Women, has nothing but contempt for Jim and Ethel, “mooning around for years without a red penny” (“BBHH,” 120).

Fitzgerald drew a large portion of his plot from chapter 9 of Little Women, “Meg Goes to Vanity Fair,” where unspoiled and innocent Meg goes to stay for a fortnight with her sophisticated friend Annie Moffat, just as gauche and unworldly Bernice goes to visit her worldly wise cousin Marjorie Harvey. Meg overhears the Moffat girls and their mother discussing her dowdy clothes and inability to capture a desirable suitor, just as Bernice overhears Marjorie and Mrs. Harvey discussing her social shortcomings and unpopularity. Humiliated, Meg allows herself to be “made over” by Belle Moffat and her French maid, Hortense:

They crimped and curled her hair, they polished her neck and arms with some fragrant powder, touched her lips with coralline salve, to make them redder, and Hortense would have added “a soupçon of rouge,” if Meg had not rebelled. They laced her into a sky-blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly breathe, and so low in the neck that modest Meg blushed to see herself in the mirror. … A laced handkerchief, a plumy fan, and a bouquet in a silver holder finished her off; and Miss Belle surveyed her with the satisfaction of a little girl with a newly dressed doll.

(LW, 106-7)

Bernice, too, allows herself to be “made over.” Marjorie chooses a dark red dress to set off Bernice's “shadowy eyes and high coloring,” arranges her cousin's hair, and sets it glistening with brilliantine (“BBHH,” 130). Just as the Moffat girls “drill” Meg on the proper management of her skirt and “those French heels,” so Marjorie coaches Bernice on graceful deportment, instructing her not to lean on a man when she dances and to develop more “ease of manner” (LW, 107; “BBHH,” 126-27).

Meg is a social success in her borrowed finery. Several young ladies, who have not noticed her before, become “very affectionate all of a sudden,” while several young gentlemen, who have hitherto only stared, ask “to be introduced,” and say “all manner of agreeable but foolish things” (LW, 108). Meg's normally modest demeanor dissolves. She drinks champagne, dances and flirts, chatters and giggles, and “romps” in a scandalizing way. “I'm not Meg tonight,” she tells a friend. “I'm a ‘doll’ who does all sorts of crazy things” (LW, 112). Meg in her new persona inspires her good friend Sallie Gardiner's jealousy by attaching the affections of Sallie's beau, Ned Moffat.

Like Meg, Fitzgerald's Bernice scores a social success by “follow[ing] instructions exactly,” and is cut in on so frequently that she is “danced tired” for the first time in her life (“BBHH,” 131). Bernice, who in Marjorie's view is “no case for sensible things,” also behaves crazily. In her new persona, Bernice inspires her cousin's jealousy by attaching the affections of Warren McIntyre, “Miss Marjorie's best fella” (“BBHH,” 132).

Here the similarities between “Meg Goes to Vanity Fair” and “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” end. After her makeover, Meg fails to have a “good time” (LW, 112). The champagne gives her a “splitting headache,” and two men she admires, the dignified Major Lincoln and the charming Teddy Laurence, disapprove of her “fuss and feathers” (LW, 109, 113). Meg feels “uncomfortable and ashamed” and wishes she had been “sensible” (LW, 109). After being sick all the next day, Meg returns home and confesses all to Marmee, who draws a moral from Meg's unhappy experiment in vanity: “[Enjoying praise and admiration] is perfectly natural, if the liking does not become a passion and lead one to do foolish or unmaidenly things. Learn to know and value the praise which is worth having, and to excite the admiration of worthy people by being modest as well as pretty, Meg” (LW, 115). Alcott makes it clear that Meg is more happy and attractive at a “small party” she attends before her makeover. Clad in her shabby but spotless white tarlatan, adorned solely by flowers from Teddy, Meg dances “to her heart's content”; receives three compliments from worthy admirers on her fine voice, fresh appearance, and lively dancing; and enjoys herself “very much,” achieving an inner contentment she cannot find when preening “like the jackdaw in the fable” (LW, 107).

Unlike Meg, Bernice is “sorta dopeless” before her metamorphosis into a “society vampire” (“BBHH,” 118, 129). Despite her “dark hair and high color,” Bernice's dresses are “frights” and her “straggly” eyebrows are a blemish (“BBHH,” 123). She never says “anything to a boy except that it's hot or the floor's crowded or that she's going to school in New York next year,” and “turns an ungraceful red,” exclaiming “Fresh!” when Warren McIntyre tells her that she has “an awfully kissable mouth” (“BBHH,” 119-20, 122). Marjorie must coax her own beaux to dance with the “lame-duck visitor,” and Bernice, feeling “a vague pain that she is not … popular,” has “a bum time” (“BBHH,” 121, 122).

Under Marjorie's tutelage, Bernice, like Meg at Vanity Fair, becomes “‘a doll’ who does all sorts of crazy things” (LW,112). Adopting Oscar Wilde's principle that “you've either got to amuse people or feed 'em or shock 'em,” Bernice amuses men with invitations to a fictitious bobbing (“Of course I'm charging admission, but if you'll come down and encourage me I'll issue passes for the inside seats” [“BBHH,” 129]), feeds them with flattery (“I want to ask your opinion of several people. I imagine you're a wonderful judge of character” [“BBHH,” 129]), and shocks them with sexual suggestion (“I always fix my hair first and powder my face and put on my hat; then I get into the bathtub and dress afterwards. Don't you think that's the best plan?” [“BBHH,” 132]).

Meg learns that virtuous and modest behavior is its own reward; Bernice learns that “foolish and unmaidenly” antics pay enormous dividends in popularity, which is “everything when you're eighteen” (“BBHH,” 121). Exchanging Louisa May Alcott's mores for Oscar Wilde's, Bernice finds herself a “gardenia girl” like Marjorie, with “three or four men in love with her,” cut in on “every few feet” (“BBHH,” 122). Glowing with gratified vanity, Bernice becomes attractive and genuinely enjoys herself: “Yes, she was pretty, distinctly pretty; and tonight her face seemed really vivacious. She had that look that no woman, however histrionically proficient, can successfully counterfeit—she looked as if she were having a good time” (“BBHH,” 130).

Fitzgerald inverts Little Women in “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” in part to portray a generation adrift without moral guidance. In his country-club world, where parents are socially ambitious for their children, the moral destiny of little women who “give their hearts into their mother's keeping” is ambiguous at best (LW, 268). Meg, in a moral or social quandary, turns to her mother for advice. Even when Meg cannot “cry and rush home to tell her troubles,” her mother's influence is omnipresent—Meg carries a note from Marmee in her pocket as a “talisman against envy, vanity, and false pride” (LW, 103). Bernice, on the other hand, has no intention of rushing home and telling her troubles. Meg visits the worldly Moffats in spite of her mother's misgivings; Bernice's visit with her cousin is “parent-arranged” (“BBHH,” 120). Instead of longing for maternal advice, Bernice fears her mother's reaction to her social disgrace: “‘You're my cousin,’ sobbed Bernice. ‘I'm v-v-visiting you. I was to stay a month, and if I go home my mother will know and she'll wah-wonder …’” (“BBHH,” 124).

Young men, as well as mothers, can be sources of moral guidance in Little Women. Meg is especially devastated by Teddy's disapproval of her tight, low-cut dress and gaudy makeup. He is handsome, charming, and rich—a boy whose good opinion even a Fitzgerald flapper might value. In Fitzgerald's world, however, young men who offer moral guidance to debutantes are priggish figures of fun. Draycott Deyo, studying for the ministry, cuts in on Bernice because he thinks she is a “quiet, reserved girl” (“BBHH,” 131-32). Bernice earns his disapproval by treating him “to the line which began ‘Hello, Shell Shock,’” and to her story about doing her hair before getting into the bathtub: “Though Draycott Deyo was in the throes of difficulties concerning baptism by immersion and might possibly have seen a connection, it must be admitted that he did not. He considered feminine bathing an immoral subject, and gave her some of his ideas on the depravity of modern society” (“BBHH,” 132). Draycott Deyo is no Teddy Laurence. To Bernice, his disapproval is merely an “unfortunate occurrence,” more than offset by her “signal successes” with desirable young men like the Harvard lawyer G. Reece Stoddard (“BBHH,” 132).

In Alcott's fictional world, active resistance against “envy, vanity, and false pride” ensures young women not only present happiness, but also future success in the marriage market. While Marmee warns her daughters that they had “better be old maids than unhappy wives, or unmaidenly girls, running about to find husbands,” she also assures them that “poverty seldom daunts a sincere lover. Some of the best and most honored women I know were poor girls, but so love-worthy that they were not allowed to become old maids” (LW, 116). The novel bears her out as Meg, Amy, and Jo each find husbands attracted by their “love-worthiness,” their ability to fulfill “woman's special mission” of “drying tears and bearing burdens” (LW, 531).10

In “Bernice Bobs Her Hair,” the world in which women were married for “mysterious womanly qualities, always mentioned but never displayed,” is a thing of the past (“BBHH,” 121). While Mrs. Harvey remembers that “when she was a girl all young ladies who belonged to nice families had glorious times,” her daughter pronounces that “these days it's every girl for herself” and sneers at Bernice's reliance on Little Women as a moral guidebook: “‘The womanly woman!’ continued Marjorie. ‘Her whole early life is occupied in whining criticisms of girls like me who really do have a good time’” (“BBHH,” 122, 125).

In addition to Alcott's “Vanity Fair” scenario, Fitzgerald borrowed the central episode of “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” fromLittle Women. In both works, a young girl impetuously visits a barber shop and orders her long hair cut off. Jo March's decision comes in chapter 15 of Little Women, when Marmee receives a telegram informing her that her husband, a chaplain in the Union Army, lies dangerously ill in a Washington hospital. The family is too poor to purchase a train ticket, and Marmee, who is “not too proud to beg for Father,” humbles herself to borrow money from a grudging Aunt March (LW, 180-82).

Jo, who identifies strongly with her mother's proud hatred of borrowing, finds herself “wild to do something for Father” and “bound to have some money, if I sold the nose off my face to get it.” Sent out to buy nursing supplies, she passes a barber shop with “tails of hair with prices marked” displayed in the window. Here she encounters a shrewd and miserly barber: “He rather stared at first, as if he wasn't used to having girls bounce into his shop and ask him to buy their hair. He said he didn't care about mine, it wasn't the fashionable color, and he never paid much for it in the first place. … I begged him to take it, and told him why I was in such a hurry” (LW, 185). Jo finally sells her hair for twenty-five dollars.

After her makeover, Bernice's “line about the bobbing of her hair” is “the best known and most universally approved element” of her conversation, though her “tonsorial intentions” are strictly dishonorable (“BBHH,” 132). Marjorie, outraged by Warren McIntyre's sudden interest in her cousin, publicly calls Bernice's bluff, hoping to expose her as a fraud without title to either Warren or popularity (“BBHH,” 133). Bernice tries to save face by reaffirming her intentions of bobbing her hair, but Marjorie and her friends demand immediate proof of sincerity. Bernice accepts their challenge:

Out of the group came Marjorie's voice, very clear and contemptuous.

“Don't worry—she'll back out.”

“Come on, Bernice!” cried Otis, starting toward the door.

Four eyes—Warren's and Marjorie's—stared at her, challenged her, defied her. For another second she wavered wildly.

“All right,” she said swiftly, “I don't care if I do.”

(“BBHH,” 135)

Jo's decision to sell her hair to help her family is a conquest of personal vanity as well as an exercise in humility. The least attractive of the four March sisters, Jo is thoroughly unfeminine in person. “Very tall, thin, and brown,” she resembles “a colt,” and has “round shoulders,” “big hands and feet,” and “long limbs which were very much in her way” (LW, 14). Her “long, thick hair” is “her one beauty” (LW, 188). Jo does shed a tear for her shorn hair, but proclaims “it will be good for my vanity, I was getting too proud of my wig” (LW, 184). Her mother congratulates her on sacrificing her “vanity … to her love” (LW, 184).

Jo cuts her hair out of altruism, imitating her mother and swallowing her pride to assist her beloved father. Bernice bobs her hair out of narcissism, braving maternal disapproval (“Even the thought of her mother was no deterrent now” [“BBHH,” 133]) to salvage her pride. While hitherto Bernice has justified Marjorie's contempt for “the womanly woman” by whining and taking refuge in her mother's opinions when criticized, she stands firm when Marjorie makes her sincerity about bobbing her hair a public question. Viewing Marjorie's thrown gauntlet as “the test supreme of her sportsmanship, her right to walk unchallenged in the starry heaven of popular girls,” Bernice undergoes her bobbing with lifted chin and clenched fists (“BBHH,” 135).

Jo sacrifices her vanity to her love when she cuts her hair; Bernice sacrifices her vanity to her pride. Both sacrifices are considerable, for both girls dread the mutilation of their looks as they would physical dismemberment. When Jo sees “the dear old hair laid out on the table,” she feels “as if I'd had an arm or leg cut off” (LW, 187). Fitzgerald borrows an even stronger image from Little Women to describe Bernice's dread—Jo's sister Amy is particularly horrified because she “would as soon have thought of cutting off her head as her pretty hair” (LW, 223). Bernice also equates the bobbing of her hair with decapitation: “It was a guillotine indeed, and the hangman was the first barber, who, attired in a white coat and smoking a cigarette, leaned nonchalantly against the first chair. … Would they blind-fold her? No, but they would tie a white cloth round her neck lest any of her blood—nonsense—hair—should get on her clothes” (“BBHH,” 135). Fitzgerald embellishes and extends Alcott's decapitation imagery for his own purposes. Bound for the barbershop in Warren's car, Bernice has “all the sensations of Marie Antoinette bound for the guillotine in a tumbrel” (“BBHH,” 135). As Marie Antoinette, last queen of a doomed aristocracy, was dragged to her execution by savage rebels of the new republic, so Bernice, the last “quiet, reserved girl” raised on Little Women, is dragged to her bobbing by the cruel adolescents of the “jazz-nourished generation” (“BBHH,” 117, 132, 121). When Bernice bobs her hair, a “little woman” dies in the barber's chair and a flapper is born.

For Alcott, long hair worn elaborately restrained is a badge of mature womanhood, which the wearer must strive to merit through equally restrained behavior. In Victorian times, little girls wore their long hair loose or in pigtails; young women who were “out” wore their long hair bound in nets or snoods, or braided and pinned atop their heads. In the opening chapter of Little Women, Meg chides Jo for whistling when she is old enough to wear her hair “turned up” in a net, and Jo responds by unleashing both her bundled-up hair and her pent-up frustration with the behavioral restraint expected of her as she approaches womanhood: “I hate to think I've got to grow up, and be Miss March, and wear long gowns, and be as prim as a China aster! It's bad enough to be a girl” (LW, 13).

Alcott treats Jo's decision to cut her hair as her initiation into the womanhood she has rebelled against. When her father returns home from the war, he congratulates Jo on her new “womanliness,” a state of feminine virtue she has attained not merely by binding up her hair, but by cutting it off altogether. Along with her chestnut mane, Jo has sacrificed her tomboyish demeanor:

“I see a young lady who pins her collar straight, laces her boots neatly, and neither whistles, talks slang, nor lies on the rug as she used to do. Her face is rather thin and pale just now, with watching and anxiety, but I like to look at it, for it has grown gentler, and her voice is lower; she doesn't bounce, but moves quietly, and takes care of a certain little person [Beth, recovering from scarlet fever,] in a motherly way which delights me.”

(LW, 250)

“Womanliness” for Alcott is an asexual and subdued condition. Jo is most “womanly” when she has divested herself of her long, thick, beautiful hair, the emblem of her sex. “Womanliness” also involves conformity to societal norms of virtuous feminine behavior: Unlike young men, young ladies must pin their collars straight and lace their boots neatly; they must not whistle or talk slang. In Little Women, femininity is a ruthless suppression of sexual and personal identity.

In 1920, when Fitzgerald composed his short story, American attitudes toward women—and their hair—were in transition. Although popular dancer Irene Castle began the vogue for bobbed hair in 1918, short hair for women was not generally accepted until 1924. In 1920 “young ladies who belonged to nice families” still had long hair, worn atop their heads in the Victorian manner if they were “out” (“BBHH,” 122). Fitzgerald lets us know that “little Madeleine Hogue” is very young by remarking that her hair “still feels strange and uncomfortable on top of her head,” but the rage for bobbed hair is spreading—Mrs. Deyo devotes fifteen minutes to the subject in her speech on “The Foibles of the Younger Generation” (“BBHH,” 116, 137). Yet not even the fearless and unsentimental Marjorie can number herself among the avant-garde young women who dared to bob their hair in 1920. When Bernice bobs her hair, then, she severs herself symbolically from the Victorian ideal of womanliness that Alcott reluctantly espoused.

When Jo cuts her hair, she exchanges her one physical beauty for spiritual beauty. Bernice exchanges an illusion of spiritual beauty for physical ugliness. The hair that once “hung in a dark brown glory down her back” now lies shorn in “lank, lifeless blocks on both sides of her suddenly pale face.” The “Madonna-like simplicity” of her appearance gone, Bernice looks “well, frightfully mediocre—not stagy; only ridiculous, like a Greenwich Villager who had left her spectacles at home” (“BBHH,” 136).11 Neither poet nor reformer, Bernice has abandoned the pretty, virginal appearance of a “little woman” for the hard, experienced appearance of a New Woman. Her bobbed hair is “ugly as sin”—a phrase Fitzgerald repeats twice to underscore his misgivings about the flapper's moral destiny (“BBHH,” 136).

Revenge is one of the first evils Jo rejects in Little Women, long before she cuts her hair. When, after a quarrel, Amy burns the sole manuscript of Jo's book, Jo refuses to accept an apology and deliberately does not warn her sister when she skates onto thin ice in the middle of a river: “The little demon [Jo] was harboring said in her ear … ‘let her take care of herself’” (LW, 94). Amy does fall through the ice and is rescued unharmed, but Jo is overcome with remorse and confesses all to her mother. Marmee offers her usual sympathetic counsel, and Jo struggles from that day forward to hold her substantial temper in check. For Alcott, the ability to suppress anger is an important step toward womanliness.

By contrast, when Bernice cuts off the hair that is the emblem of “appropriately and blessedly feminine” qualities she once admired, her capacity for vengeance is unleashed (“BBHH,” 120). For a short time, Bernice silently endures injury after injury—the bobbing has made her ugly, Marjorie wears a mocking smile, Warren deserts her, her aunt and uncle reproach her, she burns her hair and fingers in an unsuccessful attempt to repair her looks with a curling iron. Bernice's gathering rage spills over when Marjorie comes into her room to prepare for bed:

Bernice winced as Marjorie tossed her own hair over her shoulders and began to twist it slowly into two long blond braids until in her cream-colored negligee she looked like a delicate painting of some Saxon princess. Fascinated, Bernice watched the braids grow. Heavy and luxurious they were, moving under the supple fingers like restive snakes—and to Bernice remained this relic and a curling iron and a tomorrow full of eyes. … Marjorie had made a fool of her.

(“BBHH,” 138)

“Something” in Bernice—perhaps the last restraint of her Victorian upbringing—“snaps” at the sight of Marjorie braiding her hair. An expression flashes into Bernice's eyes “that a practiced character reader might have connected vaguely with the set look she had worn in the barber's chair—somehow a development of it. It was a new look for Bernice and it carried consequences” (“BBHH,” 139). After packing her clothes for flight, she creeps into her sleeping cousin's room and “amputate[s]” Marjorie's braids. Escaping into the night, Bernice flings the severed remains of his “crush's” beauty onto the fickle Warren's front porch. Unlike Jo, Bernice feels no remorse for her act of vengeance. After disfiguring Marjorie, she is “oddly happy and exuberant,” and, having conceived Warren's punishment, she must “shut her mouth hard to keep from emitting an absolute peal” of laughter (“BBHH,” 139-40).

Formerly able only to imitate Alcott's idea of a “little woman” or Marjorie's notion of a “modern girl,” Bernice now makes decisions of her own without regard for convention. Before her bobbing, she dreaded the idea of returning home early and making explanations to her mother. Now, with only a note to her aunt and no thought of her mother's reaction, she leaves secretly and unescorted, catching a taxi at the Marlborough Hotel and departing on a 1:00 A.M. train. Bernice has lost the “dark brown glory” of her hair but has gained a new independence of thought and action. The bobbing releases her essential nature. Earlier, Marjorie attributes Bernice's unpopularity to her reputed American Indian ancestry: “I think it's that crazy Indian blood. … Maybe she's a reversion to type. Indian women all just sat around and never said anything” (“BBHH,” 122). After her barbershop trauma, Bernice does indeed revert to type and goes on the warpath. Running down the moonlit street, Bernice is never more like a savage: “‘Huh!’ she giggled wildly. ‘Scalp the selfish thing!’” (“BBHH,” 140).

Despite their differences, what Little Women and “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” have most in common is their intense ambivalence about the gender socialization of young women. Modeling her novel on Pilgrim's Progress, Alcott intended each incident in Little Women to illustrate a moral lesson. Yet the metaphors surrounding Jo's hair express Alcott's uncertainty about the “womanly woman” that Fitzgerald's Marjorie derides. In chapter 1, Jo is a “colt” with a free-flowing chestnut “mane,” a wild animal rebelling against restraint, reveling in liberty (LW, 13). After her visit to the oily little barber, Jo is a shorn “black sheep,” humiliatingly bereft of the fleece that endowed her with a separate identity (LW, 250). Her new “womanliness” seems a regrettable taming, a sad domestication. Patricia Meyer Spacks points out that Jo's “fictional vitality” stems from “her deep awareness of how the limitations of feminine possibility make it difficult to express what's in her.”12Little Women is a classic precisely because generations of female readers have identified with Jo's suppressed rage against the behavioral restraints imposed on women.

Jo March, who wrote sensational stories like “The Phantom Hand” and “The Curse of the Coventrys” for pulp magazines titled the Weekly Volcano and the Blarneystone Banner, would have exulted guiltily over the Saturday Evening Post conclusion of “Bernice Bobs Her Hair,” which sees Bernice transformed from silent, passive squaw into whooping warrior. As Bernice avenges herself by chopping off Marjorie's braids and flinging them on Warren's porch, as she dashes giggling into the moonlight, readers gloat over her unholy triumph for the same reason that they agonize over Jo March's sacrifice—Bernice has broken the yoke that Jo has determined to shoulder.

Like Jo March, Louisa May Alcott herself, using the pseudonym A. M. Barnard, wrote romantic thrillers such as “Behind a Mask” and “Pauline's Passion and Punishment” for pulp weeklies, including Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper and the Flag of Our Union. Nearly all these stories, recently recovered by Madeleine Stern, feature wicked heroines who wreak vengeance on various oppressors while masquerading as virtuous women.13 Behind the mask of A. M. Barnard, Alcott could express a feminist rage imperfectly suppressed in Little Women. Instead of automatically denigrating Fitzgerald's attempts at commercial fiction, scholars might well ask whether pulp formulae permitted him certain kinds of expression forbidden the serious novelist.

Fitzgerald's very choice of Little Women as an allusive subtext for “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” suggests his own ambivalence about the gender socialization of the 1920s' debutantes. Only superficially comic, the short story does little to conceal profound misgivings about a world where popular girls are “dangerous,” young men are “stags” and “partridges” to be hunted, and couples with “artificial, effortless smiles” and “the very worst intentions” dance “weird barbaric interludes” to “African rhythm[s]” (“BBHH,” 116-17). Marjorie Harvey, hard and selfish and without a feminine quality, reigns supreme in this “shifting, semi-cruel world” (“BBHH,” 116), and each of Fitzgerald's allusions to Little Women underscores its sinister features. We cheer Bernice as much for counting coup on the individuals who would make her a “doll” and a sex object as we do for casting off her lame-duck dullness.

Finally, Fitzgerald combined a fatal obsession with glamour and an unbending morality worthy of Bronson Alcott. His mothlike attraction to and moral revulsion from alluring, convention-flouting women is the source of “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” 's dialogue with Little Women. While Bernice has freed herself from the mores of Louisa May Alcott, readers cannot know where she is going as she dashes recklessly into the night. Her new freedom is merely license. Bernice has exchanged dullness for glamour, but she has nothing to replace the past's “prosy morals.” She is not so much running free as running wild. This ambivalence of Fitzgerald's makes “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” his jazz elegy for Little Women, for the passing of Victorian womanhood, regretted and not regretted. The adolescent savagery of this early work has not yet gone trending into the senseless violence of The Great Gatsby; its sparkling zaniness has not yet become the dark insanity of Tender Is the Night. But the seeds have been sown, making “Bernice Bobs Her Hair,” written on the eve of Fitzgerald's tragic marriage to Zelda Sayre, something more than “purely humorous.”

Notes

1. Matthew J. Bruccoli and Margaret M. Duggan, eds., Correspondence of F. Scott Fitzgerald, 15-18; Matthew J. Bruccoli, Some Sort of Epic Grandeur: The Life of F. Scott Fitzgerald, 112.

2. Bruccoli and Duggan, eds., Correspondence, 68.

3. Matthew J. Bruccoli, “On F. Scott Fitzgerald and ‘Bernice Bobs Her Hair,’” 217-23; Henry Dan Piper, F. Scott Fitzgerald: A Critical Portrait, 67; John A. Higgins, F. Scott Fitzgerald: A Study of the Stories, 23; Brian Way, F. Scott Fitzgerald and the Art of Social Fiction, 57; Sergio Perosa, The Art of F. Scott Fitzgerald, 31; Bryant Mangum, A Fortune Yet: Money in the Art of F. Scott Fitzgerald's Short Stories, 35; John Kuehl, F. Scott Fitzgerald: A Study of the Short Fiction, 33; Alice Hall Petry, Fitzgerald's Craft of Short Fiction: The Collected Stories—1920-1935, 10. Significantly, Petry, the story's lone female critic, is the only one to note Fitzgerald's reference in “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” to Annie Fellows Johnston and Louisa May Alcott (19). However, Petry misses the importance of Fitzgerald's allusion to Alcott by dismissing her work as “saccharine.”

4. Bruccoli and Duggan, eds., Correspondence, 401. According to Mangum in Fortune Yet, magazine president Cyrus Curtis founded the Post on the financial success of the Ladies' Home Journal (29). Curtis was adept at appealing to the middle-class morality and domestic values of the wives and mothers who purchased theSaturday Evening Post for family reading, and the magazine's female readership should be considered largely responsible for its rise from a circulation of two thousand in 1899 to three million in 1937.

5. F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise, 17. See also Tender Is the Night, 71, where Rosemary notices that the sinister women in Cardinal de Retz's palace appear to be “fashioned by Louisa May Alcott.”

6. F. Scott Fitzgerald, Flappers and Philosophers, 125. All subsequent page references to “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” (“BBHH”) are to the 1920 edition and will appear parenthetically in the text.

7. Marjorie's mother, Mrs. Harvey, is named Josephine, perhaps for the protagonist of Little Women (137).

8. Of course, Fitzgerald is paraphrasing the famous opening sentence of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice: “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”

9. Louisa May Alcott, Little Women, 116. All subsequent page references to Little Women (LW) are to the 1962 reprint edition and will appear parenthetically in the text.

10. The saintly Beth meets a different bridegroom by dying young.

11. In 1920, Greenwich Village was a flourishing center of Bohemianism, whose notable women included (or had recently included) Emma Goldman, proponent of birth control, pacifism, and anarchy; Mabel Dodge, critic of New York's high society and leader of intellectual and aesthetic movements; and Edna St. Vincent Millay, cynical poet and playwright. From a Victorian moral standpoint, these women paid the unthinkable price of promiscuity, divorce, and alcoholism for their independence and substantial achievements.

12. Patricia Meyer Spacks, The Female Imagination, 99-100.

13. Madeleine B. Stern, ed., Behind a Mask: The Unknown Thrillers of Louisa May Alcott.

SOURCE: Beegel, Susan F. “‘Bernice Bobs Her Hair’: Fitzgerald's Jazz Elegy for Little Women.” In New Essays on F. Scott Fitzgerald's Neglected Stories, edited by Jackson R. Bryer, pp. 58-73. Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1996.

Blog Essay: Literary Critique – Bernice Bobs Her Hair

It is fair to say that the players may change but the game stays the same. That is proved in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s, “Bernice Bobs her Hair,” a classic tale of adolescent life in the roaring twenties. Although it was never determined which city, the short story takes place near or in a city on the East Coast, mainly in the ritzy country club. It is about a girl named Bernice, a simple yet elegant young lady from Eau Claire, Wisconsin who comes to visit her cousin Marjorie, a gorgeous, popular girl with flapper ideals later confirmed in Chapter seven. When she realizes that she doesn’t fit in with Marjorie and these light hearted, modern, new teenagers of the day, she seeks advice from her cousin. Before Marjorie knows it, her advice on how to be popular worked so well for Bernice that she became even more popular than her. With jealousy on her side, Marjorie sets up a trap for Bernice to bob her hair hence the title “Bernice Bobs her Hair.” However, Bernice does get her sweet revenge on Marjorie; I am sure that anyone could guess what Bernice did (Chapter 7.) Fitzgerald’s simple masterpiece, “Bernice Bobs her Hair,” is a powerful depiction of the clashing values of Americans living in the country versus the city and generation versus generation, the new found freedoms and roles of women in society, as well as  the perfect read for those readers out there who find old fashioned nostalgic writing of the twenties to be very intriguing.

Fitzgerald vividly describes the growing conflicts among Americans do to the different generations and geography of the nation. Before the twenties, children were simply not a part of society; they were to be seen not heard. Once one reached his teenage years, he or she would already be at work supporting his or her family. The concept of being the teenager we recognize today is a role in society that came to be in the twenties. Marjorie was, in the short story, part of the first generation that experienced modern teenhood. Marjorie and girls like her in this era had to constantly battle their parents’ generation and the old fashioned, Protestant based values that tied their society together. Unlike teens today that have parents who went through these teenage years themselves, the idea of behaving how teens were starting to in the twenties was almost horrific to their parents because they had no concept of this new adolescent culture. Marjorie makes sense of this generation clash with her own mother when she says that, “People over forty can seldom be permanently convinced of anything.” Also, there was a huge cultural split occurring in the twenties between rural and urban areas. For the first time in America, more people were living in the city versus the countryside. This major conflict was very well developed in Fitzgerald’s short story. The differences in values from Bernice and Marjorie were quite diverse. Bernice being from Eau Claire, Wisconsin believed in Protestant moral values like relationships leading to sacred marriage versus casual dating becoming more popular with girls like Marjorie and men like Warren McIntyre, long hair being a sign of feminism and beauty against the new fashion of women bobbing their hair, and women being respected and adored by men based on having a wealthy and successful family instead of one’s beauty and personal accomplishments. One could probably imagine the tension that could bring to two girls with such different beliefs living under the same roof. Fitzgerald nailed this topic perfectly behind the scenes of teen drama, love, and jealousy.

In addition to the two main cultural splits challenging America and the characters in “Bernice Bobs her Hair,” the role of women, especially young women in society was drastically changing. With the right to vote, consumer based culture, leisure time, and modernism, women who followed these new practices and ideals created the flapper image of the roaring twenties we know today. In Fitzgerald’s story he describes Marjorie as almost a flapper wannabe. She had almost every iconic element of a flapper besides the bobbed hair, but she loved to party, dance to jazz music, was cut-in every few feet on the dance floor, was always wearing the latest fashions, and was all over casual dating. With this new flashy and flirtatious attitude and charm that young women had, the older women of that era had to find ways to control these flapper girls. One way that Fitzgerald showed older women controlling the teen girls was by standing above on the balcony at the country club and overlooking the youngsters dancing to see if they were dancing in the proper fashion, which was a critical duty as adults. Fitzgerald uses a personified the balcony itself as the one looking over the dance floor when in fact it was actually the older ladies of the country club I found that to be really funny because today’s high school dances like homecoming are much worse than jazz dancing. People must have been very modest back then. No wonder the new modernism movement for women was such a great challenge for America at the time as displayed in “Bernice Bobs her Hair.”

Besides the amazing conflicts and plot of “Bernice Bobs her Hair,” Fitzgerald’s writing style alone is so comforting. Before the twenties good writing meant flowery and long words, but in this era of artistic change, writing became simpler. The amazing thing is that even though the words are simple in Fitzgerald’s short story, the power in symbolism and messages of what was going on at the time is immense and intense. My favorite piece of symbolism was the bobbed hair. This image is the main allusion in this short story, hence the name of the title. Bobbed hair in this story and in the world of the twenties in general symbolized youth, independence, and a new view of beauty and feminism in the eyes of girls. However, for the older generation, it was a symbol of recklessness, defiance, rebelliousness, and godlessness. Such strong symbols tied in with short hair on women. I also found Fitzgerald’s wording and set up of the plot to be very comforting. I suppose that is because the writing style reminded me of that from the Nancy Drew series which I read all of the time as a little girl; I find that things that remind me of my younger years give me a warm feeling inside. For readers who love twenties style writing alone, I highly recommend “Bernice Bobs her Hair.”

Anyone will do anything to be popular just as Fitzgerald shows in his short story, and that is how it always been before that and since then. With Fitzgerald’s emotions of popularity and jealousy, real world conflicts, and nostalgic writing styles, I do not know any person with the love of reading who would not want to read this story over and over again or a better book to understand the social uproars sweeping the nation in the roaring twenties. Clearly, “Bernice Bobs her Hair” is a classic short story of life in the twenties that should be read at least once by every student studying the jazz age.

Bernice Bobs Her Hair - Fitzgerald’s Use of Language

|Section |Pages | |

|I |51 |The lexis of the opening narrative, with the use of noun phrases “golf-course”, |

| | |“country-club” and the nouns “caddies” and “chauffeurs” connotes wealth and a high |

| | |social status and sets the social scene as one which revolves around wealth |

| | |The semantic field of the theatre is used, “gallery”, “circle”, “balcony” and “actors” |

| | |to connote the idea that everybody on this social scene is playing a part, appearing to |

| | |be something, which in reality they are not. This idea is furthered throughout the rest|

| | |of the story. |

| | |Contrast is set up from the start of this story between the older generation and the |

| | |younger generation. The Negative modification and parallel structure used to describe |

| | |the older women of the social scene, “a great babel of middle aged ladies with sharp |

| | |eyes and icy hearts”, is used to position the reader against their outdated and |

| | |“critical” values and attitudes and make us side and identify with the “younger set”. |

| | |However, ironically, we later on realise that all of the characters in the story, except|

| | |Bernice share these same values and attitudes. |

| | |Humour and hyperbole are used to represent the “younger set” from the older generation |

| | |as the narrative states, “it is well known among ladies over thirty-five that when the |

| | |younger set dance in the summer-time it is with the worst intentions in the world”, |

| | |dancing “weird barbaric interludes”. This contrast between the older and younger |

| | |generations relates back to Fitzgerald’s preoccupation with the conflict between old |

| | |Victorian values and attitudes and the new, modern values and attitudes of the 1920s. |

| |52 |The semantic field of the theatre is further employed to connote the key essence of the |

| | |story, “the drama of the shifting, semi-cruel world of adolescence” and much of the rest|

| | |of the section introduces the reader to the ‘key players’ within this ‘drama’. |

| | |The theme of superficial appearances is apparent in the triadic structure “the couples |

| | |exchange artificial, effortless smiles, facetiously repeat ‘la-de-da-da dum-dum’ and |

| | |then the clatter of young feminine voices soars over the burst of clapping”. The |

| | |negative modifiers “artificial” and “facetiously”, are a cohesive link to the couples |

| | |who express themselves with “vague words” and “hazy laughter” and represent a younger |

| | |generation who are bound by social convention, like their older counterparts. They |

| | |strive to fit in on the social scene, yet are essentially false and superficial. The |

| | |phrase “clatter of young feminine voices” is an anaphoric reference to the “babel of |

| | |middle aged ladies” suggesting that the women of this town aren’t as different as they |

| | |assume they are. |

| |53 |The narrative describes Warren as condescending and “rather pitying” “with those of his |

| | |friends who hadn’t gone East to college”, although ironically he only “casually attended|

| | |Yale”. The modifier casually connotes a sense that Warren is relatively ineffectual, an|

| | |idea that Fitzgerald explores in many of his stories. |

| | |The first description we have of Marjorie Harvey is from the viewpoint of Warren. |

| | |Fitzgerald uses the alliterative simile “fairylike face” and contrasting modification |

| | |“dazzling bewildering tongue” to convey her appearance. What Fitzgerald seems to be |

| | |concerned with here is suggesting the reasons as to why young people gain popularity, |

| | |namely physical appearance and the ‘lines’ people say. |

| | |The further descriptions of Marjorie in the narrative connote a cold and uncaring |

| | |character, where she flirts and teases Warren, “sometimes she seemed to reciprocate his |

| | |feeling” but at other times “she informed him gravely that she did not love him”. The |

| | |formalism of the narrative here positions Marjorie as a character who is overly |

| | |concerned about relationships with men, and is a clear contrast to the values and |

| | |attitudes that Bernice has at the start of the story. |

| | |Interestingly, the first description we have of Bernice is also from Warren’s viewpoint.|

| | |Fitzgerald uses the contracted statement “sorta dopeless” and the negative phrase “no |

| | |fun on a party”, which suggests that the younger set “had never been anything but bored |

| | |in her company”. These descriptions contrast with the positive triadic structure, “she |

| | |was pretty, with dark hair and high colour” to suggest that she has some redeeming |

| | |features to Warren and that she has a natural beauty, which contrasts with the |

| | |artificial “fairylike” beauty of Marjorie. |

| |54 |The discourse between Otis, Warren and the rest of the male younger set, reflect their |

| | |dislike of Bernice and their misogynistic values and attitudes, as Otis says in his |

| | |deictic declarative statement when waiting for Bernice, “this is a club. When she comes|

| | |out I’ll hit her on the head and knock her in again”. |

| |55 |The narrative furthers the idea of the ‘semi-cruel world of adolescence’ when discussing|

| | |the etiquette of dances. The negative declarative statements “no matter how beautiful |

| | |or brilliant a girl may be…not being frequently cut in on makes her position at a dance |

| | |unfortunate” and “the idea of fox-trotting more than one full fox trot with the same |

| | |girl is distasteful, not to say odious” suggest that young women gain popularity through|

| | |the men they are with, and contrasts with the idea of women gaining independence and |

| | |freedom in the jazz age. |

| | |Bernice’s lack of presence is further emphasised in the humorous contrasting parallel |

| | |structure describing Warren’s views “He wondered idly whether she was a poor |

| | |conversationalist because she got no attention or got no attention because she was a |

| | |poor conversationalist”. At this present time we as readers don’t particularly like |

| | |Bernice and are forced to take on board the dominant values and attitudes of the social |

| | |circle. |

| |55 - 56 |The discourse between Warren and Bernice reflects a clash in values and attitudes. The |

| | |verbs “disgust” and “annoyed” reflect Warren’s changing attitude towards Bernice, an |

| | |attitude that has been brought on by Bernice putting Warren in his place, with the |

| | |exclamative utterance “Fresh!”, about his behaviour and the tag question concerning Jim |

| | |Strain and Ethel Demorest “I hear they’ve been mooning around for years…Isn’t it silly?”|

| | |What seems evident is that a woman asserting herself and showing her dominance annoys |

| | |Warren. |

|II |56 - 57 |The narrative starts to draw out the key contrasts between Marjorie and Bernice and the |

| | |key contrasts between the different types of women in the jazz age: old fashioned and |

| | |traditional or modern. |

| | |Bernice seems to reflect the old Victorian values and attitudes of how women should be |

| | |as the narrative suggests with the superlative statement, “Like most girls she had been |

| | |brought up on the warm milk prepared by Annie Fellows Johnston” The reference to the |

| | |Victorian authoress suggests that the values and attitudes that Bernice has as to how |

| | |women should be are grounded in Victorian morality. |

| |57 - 58 |The opening of Marjorie’s discourse to her mother seemingly positions her as a modern |

| | |and outspoken young woman, in sharp contrast to Bernice. The use of the intensifier |

| | |within the exclamative “She’s absolutely hopeless!” and triadic structure “What of it? |

| | |She has a bum time. Men don’t like her” to describe Bernice, suggests she feels she has|

| | |no constraints about how she should act and talk, but also reflects her cold and rude |

| | |nature. The fact the triadic structure ends with the declarative statement, “men don’t |

| | |like her” suggests that popularity is conferred upon women by men, which is something |

| | |Marjorie ascribes to and this brings into question her role as a modern ‘gardenia girl’.|

| | | |

| | |Marjorie’s existence seems to be based around gaining popularity as the declarative |

| | |statement about popularity to her mother suggests, “It’s everything when you’re |

| | |eighteen”. This idea is furthered in her discourse where she places having “men in love|

| | |with her” and being “cut in on every few feet at dances” above “education”. Ironically |

| | |everything she holds in esteem revolves around men, and brings into question her |

| | |so-called independent nature and modern attitudes and values. In contrast, Bernice has |

| | |all the trappings of a modern woman, being from the “wealthiest family”, and having a |

| | |“car of her own” but is perceived as old fashioned |

| |58 |Marjorie’s racist values and attitudes towards Bernice are highlighted in her discourse |

| | |through the triadic structure, “I think it’s that crazy Indian blood in Bernice…Maybe |

| | |she’s a reversion to type. Indian women all just sat around and never said anything” |

| | |The figurative parallel structure used to convey Marjorie’s thoughts about the older and|

| | |younger generations, “At eighteen our convictions are hills from which we look; at |

| | |forty-five they are caves in which we hide”, suggests that she views the older |

| | |generation as being conservative and stuck in their ways and the younger generation as |

| | |being more liberal (this statement is also an anaphoric reference to the “critical” |

| | |“babel of middle aged ladies”). Ironically, the younger generation in this story are |

| | |also shown to be stuck in their ways and are not as liberal as Marjorie perceives them |

| | |to be. |

|III |59 - 61 |Bernice and Marjorie’s argument reflects the contrasting natures of the two girls. |

| | |Bernice attempts to use declaratives to manipulate her cousin into feeling guilty, “No |

| | |one ever visited me and got such treatment” but ends up losing control of the discourse,|

| | |resorting to short and incomplete utterances “I’m v-v visiting you…if I go home my |

| | |mother will…wah-wonder-” reflecting her overly emotional and stereotypically feminine |

| | |nature. The formalism of her discourse reflects these typically, traditional feminine |

| | |values and attitudes. This is in stark contrast to Marjorie, who speaks in concise |

| | |declaratives and uses a contrasting parallel structure, “I said it was better to wear a |

| | |dress three times straight than to alternate it with two frights”. Her rude and |

| | |patronising tone towards Bernice helps her win the argument and is yet another |

| | |reflection on her cold, blunt and abrupt character. |

| |61 - 62 |The contrasts between the modern and traditional woman are further explored through |

| | |Marjorie and Bernice’s discourse. Marjorie uses negative modification to refer to |

| | |traditional women, “inane females”, and continues her rude and patronising tone towards |

| | |Bernice, with the intentionally patronising endearment, “You little nut!” and the rude |

| | |declarative” Girls like you are responsible for all the tiresome colourless marriages; |

| | |all those ghastly inefficiencies that pass as feminine qualities.” Marjorie uses the |

| | |alliterative statement “beautiful bundle of clothes” to suggest that women like Bernice |

| | |lack substance and will disappoint men. |

| | |Marjorie is preoccupied with superficial appearances and physical appearance as she says|

| | |using the declarative statement, “If I’d been irretrievably ugly I’d never have forgiven|

| | |my parents for bringing me into the world”. This contradicts her earlier statements |

| | |about girls like Bernice and suggests that she lacks substance too. |

| |63 - 65 |Humour is created in the final discourse between Bernice and Marjorie, through the |

| | |understatement, “I’ll just give you a few examples now” about what Bernice should do to |

| | |change her. |

| | |The numerous examples that follow are quite pedantic and all relate to Bernice’s |

| | |“personal appearance” and how she should go about impressing men. This reflects |

| | |Marjorie’s contradictory views as expressed through her declarative utterance, “I hate |

| | |dainty minds…But a girl has to be dainty in person”. Rather than being yourself, |

| | |Marjorie feels that you have to play roles to be accepted and gain social status, social|

| | |status that is conferred by men. Her further declarative utterance suggests this, “the |

| | |man…he’s the one that counts”. |

| | |Marjorie mentions the notion of Bernice bobbing her hair through the technique of |

| | |understatement, “Oh, I wasn’t thinking that. I was considering whether we hadn’t better|

| | |bob your hair”, which leads to the reader to think that this is relatively |

| | |insignificant, when it clearly leads to all of the competition and rivalry which is yet |

| | |to unfold. |

|IV |65 - 66 |Bernice begins to play the role that Marjorie has given her as is evident through her |

| | |change in discourse through the use of blunt interrogatives “Do you think I ought to bob|

| | |my hair Mr Charley Paulson?” and her declarative utterance, “It’s such a sure and easy |

| | |way of attracting attention”. Bernice uses the noun phrase “society vampire” to suggest|

| | |this new and daring side to her. She ‘plays’ to her audience by “rising her voice |

| | |slightly” and using her newfound line about bobbing her hair. Her use of elision in the|

| | |triadic structure “But of course, you’ve either got to amuse people or feed ’em’ or |

| | |shock ’em’”, when speaking to G. Reece Stoddard, reflects her transformation and |

| | |suggests her ‘vampire-like’ qualities, feeding off the attention she is getting, which |

| | |sparks yet more extrovert and superficial behaviour. |

| |67 - 68 |The narrative employs a series of asides to describe Warren’s thoughts and his growing |

| | |realisation that he is beginning to like Bernice instead of Marjorie, “an unrelated |

| | |perception began to creep slowly upon him-a perception that Bernice, cousin to Marjorie,|

| | |had been cut in on several times”. This realisation is furthered through the use of |

| | |positive modification to describe Bernice as “distinctly pretty”, having “shadowy eyes |

| | |and high colouring”. In this section Bernice and Marjorie are juxtaposed to emphasise |

| | |that there may be conflict or competition to come as Warren seems confused as to who he |

| | |likes more. |

| |68 |The use of parallel and triadic structures to reflect Bernice’s thoughts at the end of |

| | |the night, “She had not talked about the weather or Eau Claire, or automobiles or her |

| | |school, but had confined her conversation to me, you and us” reflects how she too has |

| | |adopted the superficial values and attitudes of the time. Ironically, her prior topics |

| | |of conversation, would be the sort of subjects that would connote that she actually was |

| | |a proper modern woman of the times. |

| |69 |The use of the triadic structure, “her own voice had said the words, her own lips had |

| | |smiled, her own feet had danced” suggests a competitive streak within Bernice to gain |

| | |more popularity as her negative attitude towards Marjorie through the use of an aside |

| | |shows, “Marjorie nice girl-vain”. The repetition of “Warren” hints to the reader that |

| | |this will be the main source of the rivalry and competition that follows for the rest of|

| | |the story. |

|V |69 - 70 |The narrative further depicts Bernice’s new found popularity and extrovert behaviour |

| | |through the parallel structure, “With the feeling that people really enjoyed looking at |

| | |her came the foundation of self-confidence”, which is emphasised through the discourse |

| | |and the exclamative utterance, “Hello, Shell Shock!” |

| |70 - 71 |The narrative reinforces the social etiquette of the time concerning courtship rituals |

| | |describing Warren’s advances through the use of a triadic structure, “Warren called |

| | |Bernice on the ’phone twice a day, sent her notes, and they were frequently seen in his |

| | |roadster, obviously engrossed in one of those tense, significant conversations as to |

| | |whether or not he was sincere”. The aside here, reflects how superficial Bernice is |

| | |becoming. |

| |71 |Further negative modification is used to describe Marjorie and reflect her jealous |

| | |values and attitudes through the contrasting parallel structure, “Marjorie scornful |

| | |aloof; Bernice astounded, half-angry, half afraid.” The contrast between the two and |

| | |the use of the triadic structure, “Both of them gasped faintly, turned and side by side |

| | |hurried out” suggests they are now rivals and are in competition. This is a rivalry |

| | |Bernice does not want. |

| |72 - 73 |The discourse is dominated here by Marjorie who forces Bernice into submission through |

| | |the use of directives, “Splush!...Admit it!” and interrogatives to force her to bob her |

| | |hair. |

| |73 - 74 |Figurative and Hyperbolic lexis is used to refer to Bernice’s feeling of panic about |

| | |having her hair bobbed, “Bernice had all the sensations of Marie Antoinette bound for |

| | |the guillotine”, “it was a guillotine indeed, and the hangman was the first barber”, |

| | |perhaps a foreshadowing to her ‘social death’ to come. |

| |74 - 75 |The narrative builds up slowly to the climax of the story and the resultant bobbed hair |

| | |cut. The modifier and verb used to describe Bernice’s expression, “there was a curious |

| | |narrowing of her eyes”, suggests a feisty side to Bernice, a side we see at the end of |

| | |the story. |

| |75 |Negative modification, nouns verbs and figurative lexis are used to describe Bernice’s |

| | |opinion of her hair cut, “it lay in lank, lifeless blocks”, “it was as ugly as sin”, |

| | |“she was…frightfully mediocre”. These opinions are shared by the rest of the younger |

| | |social set, which is suggested through the narrative and the discourse in the negative |

| | |responses from others, especially the intensifier and negative modification is used to |

| | |describe Warren’s feelings, “Warren’s eyes were suddenly very cold”. |

| | |All of the younger social set have proved to be extremely conservative in their views. |

| | |While they appear to be modern, they contradict themselves by disliking lots of the |

| | |trappings of modern society, as epitomised in the bobbed hair cut. |

|VI |76 |The narrative states that Bernice bobbing her hair was an “outrageous trap” set by |

| | |Marjorie, which connotes Marjorie’s petty, jealous and nasty nature, and that all her |

| | |values and attitudes revolve around being popular in the eyes of men, and nothing will |

| | |get in her way of this pursuit. This is an anaphoric reference to the earlier |

| | |conversation with her mother where she uses the declarative, “these days it’s every girl|

| | |for herself” and reflects her selfish values and attitudes. |

| |77 |Marjorie teases Bernice as the narrative suggests through the use of verbs and similes, |

| | |“Marjorie tossed her own hair over her shoulders and began to twist it slowly into two |

| | |long braids…until she looked like a delicate painting of some Saxon princess”. This is |

| | |an anaphoric reference to Marjorie’s “fairylike face” and further reflects her |

| | |artificial behaviour here. Also, the reference to the noun phrase “Saxon princess” |

| | |connotes just how old fashioned and traditional Marjorie is. |

| |78 - 79 |The rhythm of the passage speeds up to reflect Bernice’s quick departure from the Harvey|

| | |household. The narrative furthers the feisty values and attitudes of Bernice as it |

| | |states, “suddenly she drew in her breath sharply and an expression flashed in her |

| | |eyes…she had worn in the barber’s chair…It was quite a new look for Bernice – and it |

| | |carried consequences”. This aside implies the idea of the revenge act to come. |

| |79 |At the end of the story, Bernice seems to have developed into a fully rounded character,|

| | |who no longer puts on an act. The modifier, “exuberant” and her exclamative “Scalp the |

| | |selfish thing!”, being a reference to her Amerindian background, reflects a confident |

| | |and independent woman, and a transgression into a truly modern woman of the times. |

| | |What Fitzgerald seems concerned with in this story is making the audience aware of the |

| | |superficiality of the times and contradictions of modern society, especially in terms of|

| | |the changing positions of men and women and also the dangers of chasing popularity above|

| | |all else. |

The Ice Palace

Summary

The story opens in the languor of a Southern summer afternoon when Sally Carrol lazily greets her friend Clark, and agrees to go for a swim with him and some friends. They are concerned that Sally Carrol is “getting engaged to a Yankee.” She says that although she loves her friends it is unlikely she will stay in sleepy Tarleton. Sally Carrol reveals that she wants “to live where things happen on a grand scale.” She explains that she has “two sides” – a “sleepy old side” and the side which she is driven by “a sort of energy…the part of me that may be useful somewhere,” which may prove to give her purpose and value when her beauty fades.

Her beau, Harry Bellamy, visits Sally Carrol. They go for a walk to one of her favorite places, the cemetery. She romanticizes the life of Margery Lee, a young woman who died in 1873. Harry supports her in her idealistic portrayal of Margery. When they reach the graves of the Confederate soldiers, Sally Carrol is overwhelmed, proclaiming that “they died for the most beautiful thing in the world.” She explains that though tragic, she derives strength from acknowledging their sacrifice.

Sally Carrol and Harry discuss her visiting him in the North in January. Harry tells her it will be “like fairy-land.” Sally Carrol is concerned about the cold as she is a “summer child.”

The train journey is cold and uncomfortable for Sally Carrol. Harry and his family welcome her. Sally Carrol notices the contrast of the Bellamy library and the one at her home. Harry tries to counsel her in how different the North is, as they do not have the family histories of the South. She is affronted when he implies that she may make unwelcome comments. Sally Carrol is confused, and does not feel at home.

She talks with Roger Patton at dinner and likes him – nicknaming him Dangerous Dan McGrew. He can see that she finds the whole atmosphere cold. She shares her theory of categorizing people as feline or canine, and he shares his opinion on the Northerners becoming increasingly Scandinavian.

Sally Carrol realizes that the winter pastimes she enjoys are all activities for children and that the Bellamy crowd is just humoring her. She feels out of place, seeing the North and its people as “innately hostile to strangers.” She is offended that Mrs. Bellamy will not use her full first name, and that she disapproves of her bobbed hair and smoking.

Sally Carrol has a falling out with Harry after he criticizes Southern men as “lazy and shiftless.” Sally Carrol suggests they get married immediately to avoid other such quarrels, but Harry advises that they stick to their planned date.

After a cold night and a breaking storm, Sally Carrol and Harry visit the ice palace; she immediately feels oppressed and tense. She becomes separated from Harry and panic sets in. Sally Carrol is terrified and afraid she will die and be frozen in the ice. She reminisces about her friends and the warm, hospitable South. Sally Carrol then sees the ghost of Margery Lee and is comforted by her presence. She returns to full consciousness when Roger Patton finds her. Hysterical, she screams to be taken home.

The concluding sequence shows Sally Carrol back in the golden, dusty South. In a scene similar to the opening of the story, Clark’s ancient Ford rattles up to Sally Carrol’s home to invite her to go for a swim.

Analysis

The title of the story seems incongruous with the opening of the tale. The setting is the sun-drenched, golden, sleepy South. There is a languid, relaxed quality to both the description and the affected dialogue in this first sequence. Sally Carrol Harper seems like a typical Southern belle, but she has the bobbed hair and the high ideals of a modern girl.

Harry Bellamy is as brisk as the Northern climate from which he hails. He indulges Sally Carrol’s desire to visit the cemetery, and her creation of the image of Margery Lee – however he does not share her fantasy. As they look over the Confederate graves, the irony of Sally Carrol acknowledging their sacrifice in the Civil War, and wanting to live “where things happen on a grand scale” is seen. The discussion of Sally Carrol visiting the North immediately changes the feel of the story. Sally Carrol is apprehensive of the cold, and a sense of foreboding enters the sunny tale.

The tone of the story becomes uncomfortable with the train journey through the night. Sally Carrol is immediately at odds with her new environment. The contrast between the Bellamy’s library and Sally Carrol’s recollection of the Harper’s library serves to illustrate further the differences between the Southern and Northern culture. The Bellamy library is “simply a room with a lot of fairly expensive things in it that all looked about fifteen years old.” Sally Carrol is used to medical-books, “oil paintings of her three great-uncles” and an “old couch that had been mended up for forty-five years and was still luxurious.” It is clearly a sensitive point for Harry, as he crudely advises her against making “unfortunate” comments about family histories, as he lives in “a three generation town.”

Cracks in the relationship begin to appear from this point, with Sally Carrol noting that they are not in “a kissable climate.” Sally Carrol already feels like an outsider, and is relieved when she meets Roger Patton at dinner who, curiously, seems to be the only person Harry does not introduce to her. She christens him Dangerous Dan McGrew in reference to the doomed prospector from a 1907 narrative poem. As a literature professor he is amused, but aware of her reference to popular fiction, and says he was “not supposed” to read such things – an idea mocking the “Dangerous” epithet he has just been given.

Further damage to Harry and Sally Carrol’s relationship is described in a vivid metaphor “she and Harry hovered on the edge of a dangerously steep quarrel.” The issue is as much the “sweepin’ generalities” of Harry’s comments about Southern men as the negative terms in which he describes them. The music at the end of the sequence - Away down South in Dixie – is another herald calling Sally Carrol back.

Another cold night, and a breaking storm add an atmosphere of foreboding to the awaited visit to the ice palace. Sally Carrol is already in a negative frame of mind, her thoughts filled with the past and spirits of the past. The metaphor “Ice was a ghost” illustrates this. She sees the ice palace as a primitive, heathen place – “the North offering sacrifice on some mighty altar to the gray pagan God of Snow. She is fearfully overwhelmed when lost in the palace, experiencing “some deep terror far greater than any fear of being lost”. She feels that she will die in this coldness, as emphasized in the personification in the rhyming phrase “an icy breath of death.” We can see echoes of Zelda's mental difficulties in the acute observations Fitzgerald makes of Sally Carrol's paranoia, reminiscent of Nicole Diver in Tender is the Night.

The story comes full circle as Sally Carrol returns to her home, eating fruit at her window as the golden sunlight surrounds her. The ice palace was almost a fairy tale: or a bad dream.

"The Ice Palace" - An Overview

A deep sense of place plays the key role in this tale, with the principal conflict developing between the warm and "soft" South and the cold and harsh North. The two principal characters, Sally Carrol Happer (in typical Southern fashion, always addressed by her first two names by her friends) and Harry Bellamy, probably represent Zelda Fitzgerald (from Montgomery, Alabama) and Fitzgerald himself (from St. Paul). The plot is simply the story of how these young people, affianced at the opening of the story, fall out over the clash between their home grounds.

A visit to St. Paul, which is the unnamed city where Harry lives, by Sally Carrol (from Tarleton, Georgia) creates the rift. Even before she leaves for the visit, her friend Clark says, "Don't marry a Yankee, Sally Carrol. We need you round here." This urging sets the tone for the rest of the text. It is emphasized by Harry's ill-thought ejaculation, "Those damn Southerners!" — a remark whose humor escapes Sally Carrol and which irritates her.

The climax of the plot develops when Harry insists on taking Sally Carrol through a large ice structure (of which there was one in St. Paul in earlier times), where she becomes lost, frightened, and finally near collapse. She cannot wait to return home, where she is finally heard (in a fine piece of dialogue) speaking with Clark while eating: "What you doin'?" She blissfully replies, "Eatin' green peach. 'Spect to die any minute." She is home, and she is happy.

The theme of what could be termed a geographical/cultural conflict is represented not only by the plot but also by Fitzgerald's fine depiction of two key scenes. The first is in a cemetery filled with the graves of Confederate soldiers, a place where Sally Carrol tenderly feels her Southern heritage (also a scene reminiscent of the one in Henry James's The Bostonians, 1886, in which a Civil War memorial is visited by the two main characters). The other is the depiction of St. Paul in the winter and, especially, the imposing but (at least to Sally Carrol) forbidding edifice of ice. Seldom in a work of short fiction has the ambience of place been so clearly and forcefully set forth — perhaps, as is often the case, the intensity of the clash derives from the author's personal experience with these two areas.

Characters

Sally Carrol Harper

Southern beauty Sally Carrol becomes engaged to Harry Bellamy, a Northerner. She realizes on her visit to the North that it is a cold, threatening place and she returns to the warmth and languor of the South.

Clark Darrow

Clark is a well-off and popular Southern boy who has grown up in Tarleton with Sally Carrol. He is perplexed by her plan to marry a Northern man.

Harry Bellamy

Harry is Sally' Carrol's Northern fiancée. He is baffled by her dislike of the Northern climate and loses her affections after criticizing Southern men.

Margery Lee

The young woman whose gravestone Sally Carrol romanticizes over, imagining her to have been a beautiful woman. Sally Carrol is apparently visited by Margery Lee's ghost when she is lost in the ice palace.

Roger Patton

Roger Patton is the only person in the North with whom Sally Carrol feels comfortable. He is a literature professor, originally from Philadelphia. Having jokingly been christened "Dangerous Dan McGrew" by Sally Carrol, it is fitting that he rescues her from the terror of the ice palace.

Mrs. Bellamy

Mrs. Bellamy is Harry Bellamy's mother. Sally Carrol feels she does not like guests. Mrs Bellamy is described as an "egg," who disapproves of Sally Carrol's bobbed hair and smoking habits.

The Ice Palace - A Critical Overview

Fitzgerald's ‘The Ice Palace’

[In the following essay, Drushell investigates the role of earth, air, fire, and water in “The Ice Palace.”]

In “The Ice Palace,” F. Scott Fitzgerald's interest in the lasting influence of birthplace on his characters1 is manifested in the central conflict of the story: Can the protagonist, Sally Carrol Happer, from Tarleton, Georgia, go through with her marriage to the northerner Harry Bellemy? She yearns to escape the “lazy days and nights” of the South and to embrace the “energy” of the North, where “things happen on a big scale.”2 But Fitzgerald's descriptions of the earth, air, fire, and water of the two locations, as Sally Carrol perceives them, preclude any possibility of the proposed nuptials.

Though earth and air in Georgia are “dusty” (113), the “tangled growths of bright-green coppice and grass and tall trees” bring cool comfort, as does the “savoury breeze” (117). Over the “soft grass” (120) where Sally Carrol and Harry sit on his visit to Tarleton, the evening air is “flower-filled” and dotted with fireflies (115). And the southern heat is “never hostile, only comforting, like a great warm nourishing bosom” (118). Quite different is the atmosphere of Harry's native St. Paul, Minnesota, during Sally Carrol's trip there the following January. Gentle breezes are gone, replaced by “howling wind” (129), and skies are obliterated by “a dark, ominous tent” of snow. The earth is just as disturbing, with soft southern grass only a memory on the “frosted … streets” (122) of the North, with every footstep treacherous on the hard, slick surface (137).

Even the sun is seen as a very different ball of fire in the two parts of the country. The opening words of the story depict southern sunlight dripping over Sally Carrol's house “like golden paint over an art jar,” providing a glorious “bath of light” (113). The only two words used to describe the sun in the North, however, are “pale” and “yellow” (129, 139). Indeed, Sally Carrol “scarcely recognized it” (131). Another kind of fire in the story is the “glowing open” one that Sally Carrol and Harry sit before in the Happer parlor during the romantic interlude that seals their engagement. In contrast, man-made fire in the North appears at the winter carnival as “a phantasmagoria of torches waving in great banks of fire … a solid flag of flame” (136). Sally Carrol is less than charmed by this spectacle—“she sat very quiet” (136) throughout the procession.

Also strikingly dissimilar are Fitzgerald's portrayals of water in the two regions. Water in the North is only snow or ice. But far from being part of the “fairy-land” (120) that Harry promised, the snow seems to Sally Carrol “just as if somethin' dead was movin'” (127). Even the magnificent winter palace, made from “blocks of the clearest ice … on a tremendous scale” (124), the kind of scale Sally Carrol once longed for (116), looms before her in “vivid glaring green,” and her first reaction is one of “oppression” (134-35). This frozen water of the North, like the walls of the ice palace, keeps people apart: Sally Carrol comments on her arrival, “I don't guess this is a very kissable climate” (125). The girls she meets sit in “haughty and expensive aloofness” (125), and the men treat her with “conscious precision” and a hands-off attitude (126). Quite opposite is the effect of the “muddy” (118) water of Sally Carrol's hometown swimming hole, so different from the crystal blocks of the ice palace, chosen for their “purity and clearness” (135). Rather than separating, southern water brings the local inhabitants together in “half-affectionate badinage and flattery” (126).

At the end of the story, Sally Carrol seems to realize that the four basic elements of life—earth, air, fire, and water—exist in forms so foreign in the North that they are unable to sustain her life. For when she collapses in the ice palace, a symbol for the North in general, she envisions her own death: “It was getting darker now and darker—all those tombstones …” (139). Thus is her conflict resolved. She cannot marry a northerner. Heaven and earth and all the elements have conspired against such a match. To survive she needs her native “golden sunlight … dust … heat …” and swimming water “warm as a kettla steam” (140).

Notes

1. Richard Lehan discusses this topic in “The Romantic Self and the Uses of Place in the Stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald,” in The Stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald, ed. Jackson Bryer (Madison: U of Wisconsin P, 1982) 6.

2. F. Scott Fitzgerald, “The Ice Palace,” The Bodley Head Scott Fitzgerald, ed. Malcolm Cowley, 6 vols. (London: The Bodley Head Ltd., 1963) 5:116-7. All text references are to this edition.

SOURCE: Drushell, Barbara. “Fitzgerald's ‘The Ice Palace’.” The Explicator 49, no. 4 (summer 1991): 237-38.

Blog Essay - Identity and Symbols in Fitzgerald’s “The Ice Palace”

F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short story “The Ice Palace” deconstructs the assumptions, ideals, and tropes of contemporary society through symbols and parallelism. Specifically, the two geographies of South versus North symbolize stagnation versus progress, respectively, for both Sally Carrol Happer and Harry Bellamy. The two characters’ romance proves misfated, however, not because of any natural or inherent difference, but because of romanticized views on the part of each.

“The Ice Palace” appeared in the May 1920 edition of The Saturday Evening Post, and represents an early Fitzgerald work. Here, the protagonist, Sally Carrol, is courted by Harry Bellamy to move from her town in “southernmost Georgia” to his “Northern city” as part of their eventual marriage. She is optimistic about life in the North, which she associates with intellectualism and personal/societal progress:

Clark stared straight in front of him at a bolt on the clattering windowshield.

“Sally Carrol,” he said with a curious intensity, “don’t you like us?”

“What?”

“Us down here?”

“Why, Clark, you know I do. I adore all you boys.”

“Then why you gettin’ engaged to a Yankee?”

“Clark, I don’t know. I’m not sure what I’ll do, but—well, I want to go places and see people. I want my mind to grow. I want to live where things happen on a big scale.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, Clark, I love you, and I love Joe here, and Ben Arrot, and you-all, but you’ll—you’ll—

“We’ll be failures?”

“Yes. I don’t mean only money failures, but just sort of—of ineffectual and sad, and—oh, how can I tell you?”

“You mean because we stay here in Tarleton?”

“Yes, Clark; and because you like it and never want to change things or think or go ahead.”

[pic]

“The Ice Palace” as it appeared in The Saturday Evening Post. Photo courtesy of The University of South Carolina Web site: .

The first line of the story sets up the South as an antithesis (in line with popular assumptions about such things) to the North, and the ice palace, a physical construct which Harry Bellamy and his like-minded northerners seem to worship: “The sunlight dripped over the house like golden paint over an art jar, and the freckling shadows here and there only intensified the rigor of the bath of light.” This description of Sally Carrol’s environ as a geographical and visual opposite to the North is complicated by the graveyard, however, which serves—like the Ice Palace—as a historical/cultural ideal for the corresponding denizen:

“Margery Lee”, she read; “1844-1873. Wasn’t she nice? She died when she was twenty-nine. Dear Margery Lee,” she added softly.

…

“Oh, she was sweet, Harry! And she was the sort of girl born to stand on a wide, pillared porch and welcome folks in. I think perhaps a lot of men went away to war meanin’ to come back to her; but maybe none of ‘em ever did.”

He stooped down close to the stone, hunting for any record of marriage.

“There’s nothing here to show.”

“Of course not. How could there be anything there better than just ‘Margery Lee’ and that eloquent date?”

Here, Sally Carrol’s romanticization of the Old South is achieved through reminiscences of the Civil War, images of the setting that women held during that time, and the subsequent absence of men in the idealized Margery Lee’s life. The comparison between Lee and Sally Carrol is obvious: “You’re beautiful now, so I know she must have been”, Harry Bellamy claims. Regarding the unmarked graves, she comments, “…they died for the most beautiful thing in the world—the dead South.”

And so the two eventually rendezvous up North, where the climate (physically and socially is conducive to building ice palaces, “…the first they’ve had since eighty-five. Built out of blocks of the clearest ice they could find—on a tremendous scale.” The palace, as well as the North itself, is presented as industrious, bold, and building things “on a tremendous scale.” This is partly what Sally Carrol grasps in her initial assumptions of the place, though she underestimates the level to which the palace (and that which it represents) is adored by Harry Bellamy and company.

Thus, the misunderstandings and misconceptions ensue. In a definitive Sally Carrol moment, Fitzgerald hints that a separation between the two is taking place in the subtext of the story:

“I’ll tell you,” he said softly, “if you just tell me you’re glad to be here.”

“Glad—just awful glad!” She whispered, insinuating herself into his arms in her own peculiar way. “Where you are is home for me, Harry.”

And as she said this she had the feeling for almost the first time in her life that she was acting a part.

Leading into the climax of the story, the pair approaches the ice palace on a dark, snowy night. Sally Carrol “found herself repeating over and over two lines from ‘Kubla Khan’: ‘It was a miracle of rare device, / A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!’” The palace is the object of the Northerners’ blind worship, so I think that the allusion to Kubla Kahn is noteworthy in its adding to the dazed sensibilities that seem to overcome them during the moment when Sally Carrol becomes lost in the labyrinth of the building and traumatized. As the commotion grows…

“Harry!”

Still no answer. The sound she made bounced mockingly down to the end of the passage.

Then on an instant the lights went out, and she was in complete darkness. She gave a small, frightened cry, and sank down into a cold little heap on the ice. She felt her left knee do something as she fell. But she scarcely noticed it as some deep terror far greater than any fear of being lost settled upon her.

…

With a furious, despairing energy she rose again and started blindly down the darkness. She must get out.

Throughout, there is reference to sounds, scenes, and the psychological effects of war, no doubt taking scenes from The Great War in Europe, another way in which Sally Carrol is linked to Margery Lee and her experience during the Civil War: “… chant of marching clubs.”; “… keeping time…”; “…a long column of gray-mackinawed figures… torches soaring and flickering as their voices rose along the great walls.”; “then came a long platoon of blue and white, of green, of white, of brown and yellow.” (A variety of colors here brings thoughts of the varying nation-states’ uniforms.)

This is amplified by the earlier quote of Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s “Kubla Kahn.” In his 1816 poem, the narrator describes the hallucinatory sense of being amidst an awesome yet brooding force. Here is some context for the quote:

…Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,

Then reached the caverns measureless to man,

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:

And ‘mid this tumult Kubla heard from far

Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure

Floated midway on the waves;

Where was heard the mingled measure

From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

Ultimately, Sally Carrol returns home, and the final scene, back in Georgia, has so many parallels to the first—the laziness and seeming contentment and with the status quo—that the story seems to have either a really simple message, or a similarly complex one, requiring analysis of the deeper-than-skin components of the story’s structure. Commenting on the idea of the ending of “The Ice Palace” as expressing a complex ending (courtesy of Fitzgerald’s insight regarding the subtleties of cultural commentary, David W. Ullrich writes:

Fitzgerald encourages his Post readers to identify with Sally Carrol’s credo of enfranchisement through utility and her recognition that beauty is transitory. Such sentiments espouse a potent mix of Puritanism and industriousness endorsed by mainstream America in 1920. As such, Sally Carrol’s anticipated marriage would be read as uniting the separate economic mythologies and geographic regions of the agrarian Old South and industrial Gilded North. However, Fitzgerald’s social criticism states explicitly that, although Sally Carrol desired to incorporate these mythologies, neither geographic region offers her participation in these cultural practices. Her willingness to assimilate both local economic structures actually exacerbates her historical position as a modern woman, alienating her from the South/past and fostering naive fantasies about the North/future. In fact, Sally Carrol discovers that the material forces of culture operating in the North are almost identical to those of the South, and equally repressive.

I think this analysis accurately reflects the meaning at the end of the story. My instinct is to assume that Sally Carrol, as she stands at that same windowsill as is mentioned on the first page, is the same Sally Carrol as appears on that page. Ullrich puts forth—and I agree—that Sally Carrol is the 1920s every-woman; she is a person locked between the two worlds of past/stagnation and future/movement. Here, the protagonist has a desire to actuate the noble ideal, but is kept down by the realization (perhaps overstated, in that the ice palace experience was so traumatizing that she could not return and was compelled to sever ties to the North, including those with the person who purportedly convinced her there, Harry Bellamy) that she does not belong in that environment. Similarly, while Sally Carrol had her misconceptions about her present environment as it relates to her ideal one, so too had Harry Bellamy created an amnesia-inducing social construct.

The notion of paralysis (on both the individual and societal level) which so summarizes James Joyce’s collection of short stories, Dubliners, here is powerful; however, I sense that there is a difference between paralysis as experienced by Eveline & company and the “not belonging” experience by Sally Carrol, perhaps only as simple as the fact that Fitzgerald is to early-century America what Joyce is to early-century Ireland. I look forward to exploring this comparison in the future.

Sally Carrol’s search for identity—complicated by romanticized notions—represents a larger theme which I know Fitzgerald to have explored in other works such as The Great Gatsby. What does the 1910s and 1920s mean for a country traumatized by war and just around the corner from more hardship? Embracing (or shunning) technology, engaging in the “modern” lifestyle, and exploring the concept of self advancement (by women, minorities, social classes, etc.) as a reaction to contemporary events are themes in this early Fitzgerald short story.

REFERENCES

1. Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. “Kubla Khan”. The Norton Anthology of English Literature: The Romantic Period. Ed. S. Greenblatt. New York: W W Norton & Company, 2006; 446-8.

2. Fitzgerald, F.S. “The Ice Palace”. Babylon Revisited and Other Stories. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1960.

3. Ullrich, David W. Memorials and monuments: historical method and the construction of memory in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “The Ice Palace”. Studies in Short Fiction 1999; 417-37.

Ice Palace - Fitzgerald’s Use of Language

|Section |Pages | |

|I |80 |Figurative language (similes and metaphors) “The sunlight dripped over the house like golden paint over an art |

| | |jar…freckling shadows…bath of light” connotes the beauty of the southern states of America, a beauty that isn’t seen |

| | |by all the characters. |

| | |Contrast “Sally Carrol Happer rested her nineteen-year-old chin on a fifty-two-year old sill”. The use of the |

| | |parallel structure here is the first of a series of contrasts between the old and the new, and relates back to the |

| | |theme of conflict between tradition and modern attitudes and values. |

| |80 - 81 |Lexis: the nouns, verbs and modifiers connote a slow / lazy pace of life in Tarleton, brought on in part by the |

| | |intense heat, which affects all of the southern characters, especially Sally Carrol “gazed down sleepily”, started to|

| | |yawn” “raised herself with profound inertia”. The narrative further develops this when “she kicked over the painting|

| | |water, said ‘Oh, damn! – but it lay – and left the room’ and connotes that Sally Carrol is spoilt. |

| | |Discourse: the ellipsis, elision and contraction further contrast the southern characters with those from the north, |

| | |and further the sense of the laziness of these characters. |

| | |Lexis: the triadic structure and imagery used to describe the ‘beauty’ of the south gives the narrative a poetic |

| | |quality, “mostly they stayed around in this languid paradise of dreamy skies and firefly evenings and noisy niggery |

| | |street fairs”. The alliterative technique of understatement reflects endemic racist attitudes and values that are |

| | |held by the southern characters. The sense of racism is furthered in the narrative on page 84 “battered Negro |

| | |cabin”, “pickaninnies”, “lazy cotton fields….age old tradition in the golden September fields.” |

| |82 |Personification is used throughout this section to exaggerate the town’s lazy and slow pace of life, with the shops |

| | |“yawning their doors and blinking their windows” in “a state of utter and finite coma.” |

| |84 |Contrast / parallel structure presents Sally Carol to the reader as a character torn between old traditional values |

| | |and a new modern way of life “there’s two sides to me…there’s the sleepy old side…an’ there’s a sort of energy.” |

| | |Sally Carrol is clearly preoccupied with superficial appearances as she says this energy “is the part of me that may |

| | |be useful somewhere, that’ll last when I’m not beautiful anymore”. -cohesive link back to page 81 (superlative |

| | |“foremost” beautiful girl in the town). |

|II |85 |Lexis: the nouns, verbs and modifiers, present a contrast between Harry Bellamy “tall, broad and brisk” and Clark |

| | |Darrow, “dark and lean, and….inclined to stoop” (page 81). The narrative starts to develop the idea of the social |

| | |differences between people from the north and those from the south, differences, which stem from the American Civil |

| | |War. |

| | |The narrative begins to develop the idea that Sally Carrol’s reasons for marriage may be based around money and the |

| | |pursuit of wealth rather than a loving relationship “Harry Bellamy had everything she wanted; and besides, she loved |

| | |him” (link back to page 82 “girls, who were brought up on memories instead of money” and her conversation with Clark,|

| | |page 83, “ ‘Honey you couldn’t support a wife’…. ‘Suppose I love him?’ ”). |

| | | |

| | |Ironic humour is used to present Sally Carrol’s contradictory character, attitudes and values. “She loved him with |

| | |that side of her she kept especially for loving. Sally Carrol had several rather clearly defined sides”. |

| |85 - 88 |Lexis: the nouns, verbs and modifiers used to describe the graveyard have a similar poetic quality to the |

| | |descriptions of the south in section I. The cemetery is “grey-white and golden green under the cheerful late sun” |

| | |and by the end of the day “twilight played at somnolent black-and-white checkers with the end of the day”. |

| | |The lexis used to describe the graveyard connotes beauty and happiness, which seems an ironic way to describe a |

| | |graveyard. Yet, it is reflective of Sally Carrol’s attitudes and values towards the south. (compare to earlier |

| | |narrative descriptions in Section I) |

| | | |

| | |A superlative is used to reflect her views when talking about the death of the Confederate soldiers “they died for |

| | |the most beautiful thing in the world – the dead south”. This superlative links back to the themes of appearance and|

| | |reality. The graveyard is symbolic of the dead south, and the semantic field of death and the past further this. |

| | |While a lot of the “past standards” and “last remnants” of the south are dead, people in the south still “fasten” on |

| | |to it, similar to how girls are brought up on “memories instead of money” (cohesive link page 82), and Sally Carrol |

| | |clearly gets “a sort of strength from it”. |

| | | |

| | |The character of Margery Lee is representative of the dream of the dead south for Sally Carrol. The nouns, verbs and|

| | |modifiers used to describe her connote a romanticised view of the past, something, which Sally Carrol has clearly |

| | |grown up with and “fasten(s) onto”. This becomes increasingly significant throughout the story, especially at the |

| | |climax of the story in section V. |

| | |The theme of racism is further developed through the technique of understatement, which highlights Sally Carrol’s |

| | |inherent racist attitudes and values “a few old darkies”. |

| | |Hyperbolic language is used to describe the kiss “she kissed him until the sky seemed to fade out and all her smiles |

| | |and tears to vanish in an ecstasy of eternal seconds”. Ironically, the only place their love seems to prosper is in |

| | |a graveyard – an early indication that their relationship is doomed to fail. |

| | |The semantic field of weather and the use of antonyms “ ‘I guess I’m a summer child. I don’t like any cold I’ve ever|

| | |seen.’ She broke off and they were both silent for a minute” further highlights the social differences between the |

| | |two (northerners and southerners), differences, which the narrative suggests they are both aware of, and which we |

| | |later realise cannot be bridged. |

|III |88 |The semantic field of weather is further employed to reflect social differences between the north and the south and |

| | |how uncomfortable / out of place Sally Carrol feels in the north. “All night in the Pullman it was very cold”. The |

| | |intensifier and the verbs and modifiers connote this discomfort “tried vainly”, “squeezing down into the bottom of |

| | |her berth”, “doubling back the bedclothes”, “snatch a few hours’ sleep”, “sliding uncomfortably”, and the reader |

| | |begins to gather that Sally Carrol is not going to fit in “up north”. |

| |89 |The negative modifiers used to describe the farmhouse “solitary”, “ugly”, “bleak”, “lone”, that Sally Carrol passes |

| | |on the train offer a stark contrast to the descriptions of the landscape of the south. The “white waste” of the |

| | |north is juxtaposed with the “flowery-filled summer evenings” of the south (page 82), and to Sally Carrol there is |

| | |something ominous and dead about the north. |

| | |The use of the directive in Sally Carrol’s exchange with the porter further reflects her spoilt / rude attitude |

| | |(stereotypes of the Southern Belle) “ ‘I said: “Brush me off”. ” |

| | |The rhythm of the narrative begins to speed up to reflect the fast pace of life in the north. This is furthered |

| | |through the short exclamative sentences used for the discourse of the northern characters. |

| |89 - 90 |Alliteration is used to describe Myra as a “listless lady” who is bound by modern conventions of the north – link to |

| | |how she speaks in “perfunctory listless ‘my dears’”. This connotes Myra as being rather cold and clinical – |

| | |cataphoric reference to Roger Patton’s metaphorical statement about how northerners are “freezing up” (page 95). As |

| | |the story progresses we begin to see just how cold and clinical the people of the north are. |

| | |Contrast – the descriptions of the libraries reflect the differences between Sally Carrol and Harry and take on a |

| | |wider symbolic significance, highlighting the social differences between the north and the south and old and new ways|

| | |of life. The Bellamy library - a symbol of status in itself - has the appearance of wealth; however, the modifiers |

| | |used to describe it make clear to the reader that this is superficial. “It was simply a room with a lot of fairly |

| | |expensive things in it that all looked about fifteen years old”. The nouns, verbs and modifiers used to describe the|

| | |Happer library all connote wealth and luxury. The northern characters seem to be drawn to superficial appearances, a|

| | |theme which is developed as the story progresses. You could also argue that superficial appearances are what have |

| | |led Sally Carrol to be engaged to Harry. |

| | |In a way, she too, adopts a superficial appearance of the happy fiancée, when she pretends to be glad to be in the |

| | |north; “she had the feeling for almost the first time in her life that she was acting a part.” As readers, we begin |

| | |to sense that this engagement won’t last. |

| |92 |Harry’s dominance over Sally Carrol starts to be shown to the audience. The use of exclamative / imperative |

| | |sentences during the exchange about building the snowman reflects his patronising attitude towards Sally Carrol “You |

| | |dream! Come here and kiss me.” |

| | |The use of the parallel structure to describe Sally Carrol’s initial impressions of the dance reflects a contrast |

| | |between the social roles of the men and women in the north and the south. “That night…where the men seemed to do |

| | |most of the talking, while the women sat in a haughty and expensive aloofness”. The negative modifiers used to |

| | |describe the women are typical of Sally Carrol’s reaction to all of the women in the north. Ironically, while the |

| | |north is supposed to be seen as modern, this town still holds traditional values where men are dominant and women are|

| | |passive. |

| | |Harry is clearly preoccupied by appearances and is expectant that Sally Carrol should share his attitudes and values.|

| | |His tag question “ ‘They’re a good looking crowd, don’t you think?’ He demanded” and his deictic statement: “This is |

| | |a man’s country” reflect his dominance and sexist attitudes and values. |

| |94 |Further contrasts are offered between the northerners and the southerners through the antonyms of “canine” |

| | |(northerners) and “feline” (southerners), which is symbolic of the extreme oppositions between the two, oppositions |

| | |that cannot be bridged. |

| |95 |Roger Patton’s metaphorical statement that the northerners are “freezing up”, alongside the simile that they are |

| | |“growing like Swedes – Ibsenesque” and the negative modifiers used to describe them as “gloomy and melancholy” due to|

| | |“these long winters” connotes that these characters have been literally and figuratively effected by the cold |

| | |weather. They too have become cold and clinical and as such are described as “righteous, narrow and cheerless, |

| | |without infinite possibilities for great sorrow or joy.’ ” |

| |95 - 96 |The use of an abstract noun in the exchange about how southerners are perceived as “tragic” and Roger Patton’s |

| | |declarative that “the Northern races are the tragic races” is reflective of stereotypical views and attitudes towards|

| | |people of the south and misunderstandings about those from the north. Fitzgerald seems to present an overall |

| | |negative picture of the modern jazz age and deconstructs the myth of the so-called modern north. Similarly, while he|

| | |portrays the many flaws of the south, he does not paint it in a completely negative light. What Fitzgerald seems to |

| | |be addressing here is that people from the north and south aren’t that fundamentally different, it is just perceived |

| | |differences, and attitudes and values, which are based on stereotypes which differentiates people socially. |

| |96 |The tone of the narrative changes and becomes quite blunt, when Roger and Sally are talking about the reasons for |

| | |marrying Harry. Both reduce marriage to its material benefits, and wealth is placed above human relationships, |

| | |reflecting not only their values and attitudes, but values and attitudes of the time. |

| | | |

| | | |

|IV |97 |The modern north is presented as clinging on to traditional values, much like how the people of the south “have grown|

| | |up with that dream” of the “dead south”. Sally Carrol’s attitude that “ ‘If those women aren’t beautiful…they’re |

| | |nothing…Men are the centre of every mixed group” is an anaphoric reference to her earlier beliefs that in the north |

| | |she will be “useful” when she’s “not beautiful anymore”. This contradiction reflects how much she is growing to |

| | |“despise” the north and her preconceived attitudes and values are being broken down. |

| | |Humour is used to describe Mrs Bellamy. The nouns, verbs and modifiers used in the metaphorical statement describing|

| | |her being an “egg, with a cracked veiny voice and such an ungracious dumpiness of carriage” position us as readers |

| | |against her and we can begin the see why Sally Carrol “detested” her. |

| | | |

| | |The narrative further develops this sense of conflict between the two women. Sally Carrol Happer is symbolic of a |

| | |modern girl (her name rhymes with flapper, note her “bobbed hair” and that she smokes). These are things, which Mrs |

| | |Bellamy “disapproved of”. Like Harry, she too tries to control Sally Carrol. “She called Sally Carrol ‘Sally,’ and |

| | |could not be persuaded that the double name was anything more that a tedious nickname”. This term of address is |

| | |“like presenting her to the public half clothed. She loved ‘Sally Carrol’; she loathed ‘Sally’ ”. The parallel |

| | |structure here highlights how the Bellamys, and the northern environment are slowly changing Sally Carrol’s identity |

| | |(note how her dialect features have been toned down and now her name is being changed). |

| |98 - 99 |The argument between them about southerners is the turning point in their relationship and lets the reader know that |

| | |their relationship will soon come to an end. Harry’s racist values and attitudes are highlighted through his rude and|

| | |patronising tone and the negative modification to describe his views towards southern people “ ‘They’re sort of |

| | |degenerates – not at all like the old Southerners. They’ve lived down there with all the coloured people that |

| | |they’ve gotten lazy and shiftless.’ ” This also deconstructs the preconception that northerners are liberals. Harry|

| | |seems to hold ‘old southerners’ in high esteem. The narrative suggests that he is fascinated by the “true type of |

| | |Southern aristocrat” seemingly due to their associations with wealth and status and perhaps this is his reason for |

| | |wanting to marry Sally Carrol. |

| |100 |Even after the argument, Harry’s tone of voice is still extremely rude and patronising “ ‘That’d be idiotic. We |

| | |decided on March.’ His use of an endearment “Dear little nut!” and a directive “Come and kiss me and let’s forget” |

| | |further his patronising attitude and dominance over Sally Carrol. |

| | |The use of hyperbolic language to describe the orchestra playing ‘Dixie’ and how Sally Carrol sees “her own old |

| | |ghosts…marching by and on into the darkness” connotes how she is losing her identity as she is compromising herself |

| | |to fit in and match the values and attitudes of those around her. |

|V | |The use of an intensifier in the opening sentence, “It was a particularly cold night” gives the reader a sense that |

| | |this story is reaching its climax. The semantic fields of weather “powdery wraith of loose snow” and war “vast |

| | |approaching army of snowflakes”, and the negative modification and hyperbolic language used to describe the weather |

| | |connote an “ominous” and “chilling” feeling. As readers we anticipate that something bad is about to occur. |

| |101 |This is furthered by the use of the semantic field of death “tombing heaps of sleet”, “snow on her grave”, “even her |

| | |headstone would be a light shadow against light shadows”. Figuratively speaking, Sally Carrol is dying in the north,|

| | |and is losing her identity, it is becoming buried. Her preoccupation with death symbolises this as does the use of |

| | |the parallel structure “she was laying away that spring – afterwards she would lay away that sweetness”. |

| |102 |Allusion / intertextuality – reference to Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s poem ‘Kubla Khan’. In this section Sally Carrol |

| | |is “dazed by the magic of the great crystal walls”; despite having many of her preconceptions of the north shattered,|

| | |she can still be taken in by superficial appearances. From the reference to the poem, we as readers know that |

| | |something much more sinister lies beneath the surface of the Ice Palace. At first it seems odd that the title of the|

| | |story is named the Ice Palace, when it only appears in this section of the story. However, it takes on a wider |

| | |symbolic significance as to how the north is generally (it appears to be something that it is not. On the surface it|

| | |is appealing, but there is a dark undercurrent to northern society, an undercurrent, which Fitzgerald explores in all|

| | |of his stories). |

| |103 |Hyperbolic language / semantic field of war “marching clubs” “platoon” and of religion / death “it was the North |

| | |offering sacrifice on some mighty altar to the grey pagan god of snow” furthers the ominous feeling that was |

| | |initiated at the beginning of the section. |

| |103 - 106 |This is brought to a head, when Harry takes Sally Carrol to the labyrinths beneath the Ice Palace. The allusion to |

| | |Greek mythology here connotes death and this idea is furthered through the simile describing the chambers “like a |

| | |damp vault connecting empty tombs”. The semantic field of death is employed again and is combined with a quick |

| | |rhythmic narrative to connote Sally Carrol’s panic and hysteria, believing she is close to death, and more |

| | |importantly will die in the north. Figuratively Sally Carrol has a near death experience “A long single file of |

| | |minutes went by, and with a great weariness she felt her eyes closing”. It is at the moment that Margery Lee appears|

| | |that the rhythm of the passage begins to slow down and the tone becomes calm. It is clear to the reader now that she|

| | |has realised that the north is “foreign” and is not her, and is made clear by Sally Carrol to Harry at the end of the|

| | |passage. |

|VI |107 |The ending of the story is very similar to the start and suggests that things have come full circle. Similar |

| | |figurative language (personification / metaphor) is employed at the start of the section to describe the beauty of |

| | |the south “The wealth of the golden sunlight poured a quite enervating yet oddly comforting heat over the house”. |

| | |The technique of understatement is used once again to highlight the endemic racism of the south “a coloured woman was|

| | |announcing herself melodiously as a purveyor of strawberries” and a similar contrast / parallel structure is used to |

| | |that at the beginning “Sally Carrol Happer resting her chin on her arm, and her arm on an old window seat” provides a|

| | |similar contrast between the young and old. Fitzgerald also employs ellipsis, elision and contraction in the |

| | |discourse between Sally Carrol and Clark. |

| | | |

| | |While it is clear to the reader that Sally Carrol is obviously comfortable back in the south, there is no sense that |

| | |change has taken place, nor that she has actually learnt from the experience. From the cyclical nature of this |

| | |story, Fitzgerald may be trying to highlight that while people may experience the injustices of social difference, |

| | |this doesn’t actually promote social change. |

May Day

An Overview

Like many of Fitzgerald's stories, this one (perhaps the most grim of the early tales) is divided into sections. In this case, there are eleven of them, adding to the episodic effect of the piece, which some critics find a negative quality. However, Fitzgerald said that his intention was to capture the atmosphere of the events of the spring of 1919 and of the postwar "hysteria" that emerged then, particularly in New York, the setting of the story.

Arthur Mizener believes this tale to be an "impressionistic" one, and the diversified sets of characters supports this judgment. The plot does have the unity of time; all the events take place within one day. However, the actions of the character groups are unrelated except for chance encounters (sometimes in coincidental form that is difficult to accept as realistic). In this long story (almost reaching the length of a novella), the principal groups are Gordon Sterrett and Philip Dean, two former friends and classmates at college; the recently mustered out veterans Carroll Key and Gus Rose (some critics, like Jeffrey Meyers, comment on the choice of names by Fitzgerald, to the effect that he selected names of people he knew — or, as in the case of Key, his own name — and even chose a title that puns on the term for a call for aid; such speculation is interesting and may be valid); the grasping Jewel Hudson, who is, in effect, blackmailing Gordon Sterrett, and Edith Bradin, a former girlfriend who still likes Gordon; and a group of minor characters who help to advance the plot and react with the main personages.

Fitzgerald once declared that the period of this story marked the opening of the Jazz Age with its chaotic events, from the disorderly mob advancing toward the newspaper office (where suspected German sympathizers are believed to work) and wrecking the office, to the near insanity and finally the suicide of Gordon Sterrett. Certainly the story line of this tale suggests the more unhappy aspects of that period, including the wild party scenes at Delmonico's, at Childs' restaurant, and at the Commodore, where the two friends, Peter Himmel (perhaps a pun on the German word for heaven) and Philip Dean misbehave outrageously. Andrew Turnbull asserts that both the riot (which has been well documented) and the party at Delmonico's and the shenanigans the following day are all based on actual events in New York on that day. Surely, the way that Fitzgerald presents them bears the mark of deep personal experience and understanding.

While many of the episodes are unrelated in any plotlike way, they all tend to advance the theme of disassociation and confusion. The most striking example, apart from the riot (in which Carrol Key is killed by accident), is the decline of Gordon Sterrett, who is the closest thing to a protagonist in the tale. Although the story is quite long, the author depends on a great deal of antecedent information to explain the deplorable state of Gordon's life at the opening of the plot. Many readers have suggested that Gordon's plight — no money, lost job, realization of no talent, and a hounding woman — represents Fitzgerald's fear of poverty and artistic lapse. His suicide, at the end of the story, is believable and moving.

The theme of disillusionment and loss inform the story in other ways, also. Dean's callous refusal to lend Sterrett the money he needs to pay off Jewel Hudson, the confusion and sense of alienation of the two former soldiers, and the almost desperate mood of the partying and the antics of "Mr. In" and "Mr. Out" (taken from signs that Philip and Peter have stolen from a building and based on a real incident that Fitzgerald witnessed), the world-weariness of Jewel Hudson, and the sense of loss in Edith Brad in — all these factors contribute to a picture of an era worn thin by too much passion and too little exercise of common sense — the Jazz Age.

This story employs the May Day rioting of 1919 as the historical reality that impinges on characters existing at different social levels and about to collide. The double plot brings together the privileged and a drab underclass and reflects the multiple standards of an apparent democracy. Irony in this story is always near the surface, but as action mixes levels, judgments are urged increasingly. Romancelike, the story’s plots are interlaced.

The main plot involves a Yale group reunited by an event less important than political unrest, the Gamma Psi dance. Most secured by privilege is Philip Dean, who was graduated immediately before the fight for democracy’s sake. Dean radiates physical comfort, spending his first scene in the story polishing his body and the rest enjoying unfettered self-indulgence. He is rich enough to play at will, callous about others’ needs, and self-righteous.

Near the bottom of this group and slipping fast is Gordon Sterrett. His once expensive suit is shabby now, announcing his need before he does in Dean’s room at the Biltmore. Since returning from France, he has lost a job and has become involved with Jewel Hudson, a common woman whom he cannot love. He needs money to study art and to break from Jewel, to whom he is attached by drunken letters. This whining failure would probably gain no sympathy at all if Dean were less insensitive toward him. Even so, his fall is parody.

Edith Bradin is more interesting. As she nears the end of her May days, accompanied by Peter Himmel, the quintessential awkward undergraduate, she is given the chance to rekindle her affection for Gordon as a love from his better-dressed and less-drunk days. The successful floater through social events cuts herself loose from her clumsy escort and, after an attempt to regain the past, from Gordon, too, hoping only to save some pieces of experience for future lovers. If there were no more to this character, she might be dismissed as mindless; she experiences an anxiousness, however, that leads her to admit to her brother, Henry Bradin, that she sees an incongruity between her party life and his radical causes.

Along the way, a subplot pushes members of the lower orders toward encounters with the privileged. Carrol Key and Gus Rose, two “human beings” temporarily released from service, desert an anti-Socialist mob and prowl for alcohol, which it is illegal to sell to servicemen. They find Carrol’s brother, George Key, a waiter at Delmonico’s, where the Yalies have easily gotten too much alcohol. George, the soldiers’ link to booze, brings them inside the club to a broom closet, the only place for them among the dissipated privileged. When Himmel spots them there, the distance separating social levels is painfully clear, as is the irony of Himmel’s drunken toast, “We’re all Americans! Have another.” From this camaraderie, Himmel can escape whenever he tires of slumming.

Minor foils contribute much to plot and theme. Jewel Hudson, appearing briefly at a crucial moment, sees Edith leave the Biltmore and judges accurately the other’s freedom to move about unimpeded by protective waiters. When Jewel hauls Gordon down and presses her claim, she shows more feeling for him than have his lofty friends; when the marriage he commits with her drives him to despair, the judgment is more against his weakness than her tenacity.

Another important character appearing only briefly is Henry Bradin. Having had the privilege of education and experience as a teacher, he works at social causes. Though he is realistic about the difficulty of effecting change, he has trouble making positive contact with the masses; rather, it is when anti-Socialist soldiers storm his second-story office that the social orders collide, breaking Henry’s leg and forcing soldier Key out the window to his death in the street below.

The chaos moves to Child’s, where the shards of the upper-class partygoers meet in early morning. From there, Dean and Himmel rampage through other restaurants, demanding drink and breakfast and finally arriving at a parody of their high place, “heaven,” atop the Biltmore. On the way, they pass Edith in the company of the “plain stout man” she has picked up at the dance—her form of slumming—and a “puzzled, spellbound” brute of a soldier. The shifting omniscience that glimpses these passings rests finally on Gordon Sterrett as he awakes to marriage and puts a bullet in his head.

Summary

There is a joyous mood as the newly-demobilized troops crowd into town. Gordon Sterrett, a returned soldier who is down on his luck, visits an old college friend, Philip Dean, at the Biltmore Hotel. They discuss Sterrett’s former girlfriend, Edith Bradin, and the fact that she is in town. Sterrett asks Dean for money. He has lost his job and is being blackmailed by a girl called Jewel Hudson. Dean does not even want to hear the story: “He felt vaguely that he was being unfairly saddled with responsibility.” Sterrett plans to make money as an artist but needs $300 to buy off the girl before he can set himself up. Dean is distant and judgmental, telling Sterrett he appears “bankrupt – morally as well as financially.”

Dean is planning to go to a Yale fraternity dance, and to divert the conversation from the vulgar subject of money, he invites Sterrett to breakfast with him. Sterrett agrees, in the hope that he can persuade Dean to lend him the money. Dean tosses Sterrett $5, and “in that instant they suddenly and definitely hated each other.”

The men dine together. Dean reveals he will not lend Sterrett the money, saying he “doesn’t feel he ought to." He gives Sterrett another $75 and says they will see each other at the dance.

There is a change of scene to Sixth Avenue. Carrol Key and Gus Rose are demobilized soldiers, “ugly and ill-nourished”. They have no direction and are overwhelmed with the freedom they have been given. They hear a Jewish man decrying the effects of the war. He is beaten to the ground. A mob begins to amass, heading for Tenth Street. Key and Rose follow the crowd, then decide to track down Key’s brother – a waiter at Delmonico’s. They find George Key and ask him to get the men some alcohol. He deposits Key and Rose in a storeroom, next to the function room set up for the Gamma Psi dance.

Edith is irritated by her escort, Peter Himmel. He ungraciously tried to put his arm around her, then touched her newly styled hair with his elbow. She reminisces about Gordon Sterrett, and finds herself “falling in love with her recollection” of him. She plans what she will say that evening. Edith has decided that she is “a little tired” and therefore ready to get married.

When she sees Sterrett at the dance, Edith feels an “unutterable horror.” She is appalled at his weak and unkempt state. “Revulsion seized her, followed by a faint, surprising boredom.”

Meanwhile, the spurned Peter Himmel drinks himself out of his embarrassment. He sees Key and Rose, who have emerged from the storeroom to steal bottles from the function room. He invites them to stay and they drink together – toasting to the "greatest race in the world! We’re all Americuns!”

Edith is unhappy to find Himmel drunk, and asks another “stag” (man without a date) to take her home. She decides instead to visit her brother Henry at his newspaper office. As she leaves the dance, she passes Jewel Hudson asking a waiter (Key’s brother) to get Sterrett.

Sterrett appears, apologizing that he could not raise the money Jewel wanted. It seems the money was not really her priority. He tells her he is ill and she takes him away.

Edith reaches the paper offices and sees her brother Harry with his colleague Bartholomew. Bartholomew explains about the unrest across the city; “The soldiers don’t know what they want, or what they hate, or what they like.” The soldier mob storms the newspaper offices accusing the journalists of being traitors. The police arrive as one of the soldiers, later identified as Key, is pushed out of the window. Henry’s leg is broken in the chaos.

The location changes to Child’s restaurant where dine a crowd of wealthy revelers from the Gamma Psi dance. There would be a very different clientele in this establishment four hours later. Rose mourns the death of Key.

Sterrett and Dean meet up in the restaurant. Sterrett is with Jewel and Dean goes over to remonstrate with him. Jewel leads Sterrett away. Himmel and Dean threaten a waiter and Himmel throws food until he is ejected from Childs’. The customers are diverted from his scene by the breaking dawn.

“Mr. In and Mr. Out,” otherwise known as Dean and Himmel, set off on a spree of “breakfast and liquor.” The steal the cloakroom door signs from Delmonico’s and put them over their shirts. At the Commodore, they demand champagne and a ham sandwich. They are served but the check is brought swiftly and they move on to the Biltmore. They pass Edith, whose escort moves them out of the way, and a soldier (possibly Rose) is apprehended for breaking Henry’s leg at the newspaper office.

In a small Sixth Avenue hotel, Sterrett wakes drunkenly to the realization that he is “irrevocably married” to Jewel Hudson. He leaves the hotel for his rooms on East Street, buys a revolver on the way and shoots himself in his room, leaning over his drawing materials.

Analysis

The setting of the story is taken from the May Day riots of 1919 in Ohio, which resulted in two deaths and over one hundred arrests. The nature of the riot was political: a dispute arose over the use of the Socialist flag by some protesters. The event was part of the emergence of the fear of Communist infiltration which was to shadow the next few decades of American history.

The three individual stories dovetail into each other to present a scene across the city of New York: the story of Sterrett, the story of the newspaper offices, and the story of Key and Rose. Each scene links carefully with the next, showing in the imaginative skill of the author the careful construction of a script writer, who meshes together disparate scenes to make a cohesive whole. We see across the democratic whole of American society, and are shown the lowest of each class at the hands of the great leveler: alcohol.

George Sterrett is down on his luck. Sadly, in the circles that he moves, this is a fatal condition. Those around him, who would have supported him in his younger, happier, more prosperous times, are revolted, disgusted or just plain bored with him. Deans cannot bring himself to impinge on his own frivolity to support Sterrett’s pathetic demands. It is with irony that he declares Sterrett “morally bankrupt” as he himself is later found disturbing the peace and stealing hotel property.

Edith is a woman in love with the image of Sterrett, presumably as she was endeared to the image of Peter Himmel. Reality is too much for her: she is irritated when Himmel touches her hair, or tries to get close to her. She typifies the idealistic modern woman who seeks perfection and is repelled by anything less.

Rose and Key are seen as lowlifes: Fitzgerald uses the simile of “driftwood” cast out on a sea of uncertainty to express their rootless existence. Death is foreshadowed in the line “they would be tossed as driftwood to their deaths”. The encounter between Rose, Key and Himmel is symbolic in that they toast together being “Americuns.” It is only within the context of alcohol that these three would ever have met or spoken: they would soon go their separate ways. Each of them would cause trouble, but while Himmel’s activities would be seen as larking, Key and Rose would be menacing.

When the mob storms the newspaper offices their desperation, fear, and anger is evident. They are looking for someone to blame, someone to fight now the war is over. Violence is what they know and understand. It is how they communicate.

Sterrett’s death is tragic in its inevitability. He could have been destroyed by alcohol, illness, Jewel’s wrath or Deans’ scorn. It is with his own hand that he finally takes some control back, only to engineer his own end. He is reminiscent of many of Fitzgerald's washed-up protagonists. Parallels can be drawn with Mr. Trimble from “The Lost Decade” and Charlie Wales from “Babylon Revisited.”

Characters

Gordon Sterrett

Sterrett is a returned soldier who is in financial difficulty after losing his job and being pressured for money by Jewel Hudson. He is turned down for a loan by a friend, and is rejected by Edith, his former girlfriend. After marrying Jewel, he shoots himself.

Philip Dean

Dean is a college friend of Gordon Sterrett. Dean turns Sterrett down for a loan but takes him to a party where Gordon's old flame, Edith, sees them. Edith's escort, Peter Himmel, gets drunk with Dean and they steal cloakroom signs before going on a drinking spree.

Edith Bradin

Edith is a former girlfriend of Gordon Sterrett. She romanticizes about meeting Gordon again but is shocked and revolted when she sees him in person. Edith leaves the party to visit her brother in his newspaper office. She witnesses the riot and death there.

Carrol Key

A demobilized soldier and friend of Gus Rose. Key and Rose join a mob of angry soldiers, but get bored and go to find Key's brother, who is a waiter. Key's brother installs them in the store room in Delmonico's, and they drink with Peter Himmel. Key and Rose rejoin the march and storm the newspaper building. Key falls to his death.

Gus Rose

A demobilized soldier and friend of Carrol Key. Rose drinks and joins the attack on the newspaper with Key. He mourns the death of his friend in Child’s cafe, and is picked out later as being responsible for breaking Henry Bradin's leg.

Peter Himmel

The escort of Edith Bradin; Himmel gets drunk when Edith rejects him, and ends up throwing food around the Child's cafe. He goes on a drinking spree with Philip Dean.

George Key

George is a waiter at Delmonico's; brother of Carrol Key.

Jewel Hudson

Jewel is the girlfriend of George Sterrett. He accuses her of blackmailing him, but she is more interested in Sterrett himself than his money.

Themes / Meaning

In much of his fiction, F. Scott Fitzgerald treated the real barriers lying beneath the illusion of access to opportunity. Henry Bradin, the philosophical spokesperson who labors amid New York City’s incongruous mix of glittering fantasies and bleak social realities, tells his sister, “The human race has come a long way . . . but most of us are throwbacks. The soldiers don’t know what they want, or what they hate, or what they like.” Like others in American literature since Mark Twain’s mobs, “They’re used to acting in large bodies, and they seem to have to make demonstrations.”

Fitzgerald understands social categories and knows that the type, “most” who are “throwbacks,” includes not only George Key and Gus Rose but also many near the top and certainly Edith Bradin, the recipient of the lecture. The privileged also move in crowds and demonstrate: Consider Philip Dean and Peter Himmel’s drunken prance, complete with placards—a hollow parody of the upsurging frustrations of society’s servants. Money isolates in their illusions the “most” who have it; only a few, Henry and perhaps Edith, combine some awareness and the power of position. They are potentially tragic. Jewel Hudson, arguably the most abused of all, though intelligent and sensitive, lacks the privilege to rise above the pathetic. Gordon Sterrett cannot bear reality; the others, high and low, have hardly glimpsed it.

Violent dislocation is imminent because all can walk through the marketplace and most can purchase baubles; happiness eludes them, however, and those who have acted as society’s servants are reaching for more in a blind way that does most damage to themselves. As pressure for access builds, however, means will be found to accommodate it, democratic or otherwise, by those who will tell the crowds “what they want” and “what they hate” and “what they like.” Democracy is failing, and renewal seems unlikely because society lacks the critical mass necessary to transform it.

Style and Technique

Sharp contrasts stress social cleavage in an apparent paradise. Most noticeably, Fitzgerald’s spatial rhetoric customarily pushes the lower orders down and out, while the privileged sort roam practically anywhere in any shape. Also underscoring separations are the language levels among the speeches. Drab talk is abbreviated utterance typified by repetition of monosyllables, contractions, and careless stops and endings: A street-orator presses his mob-audience to consider, “What have you got outa the war? . . . Look arounja, look arounja! Are you rich?”; Rose says loosely of Himmel, “He’s sittin’ lookin’”; Key thickly proclaims, “We gotta get another li’l bottle. . . . ”; the police captain belongs to this order, too, as he shows by pleading, “Here now! This is no way! One of your own sojers got shoved out the back window an’ killed hisself!”

These habits join in a brotherhood of sloppy speech some of the elements of revolution, ironically set against themselves. Even Himmel, lowered by alcohol, can sound drab: “A fight?—tha’s stuff . . . Fight ’em all.” Upstairs in Delmonico’s, however, Himmel sets himself above the drab by a mocking interrogation: “May I ask why you gentlemen prefer to lounge away your leisure hours in a room which is chiefly furnished, as far as I can see, with scrubbing brushes,” going on from that to a parody of how “the human race has progressed.” In contrast to this rhetoric, Henry Bradin, the privileged person most concerned with human progress, sounds casual, a fact that supports the idea that he is the best hope for communication across the gaps.

Repeated imagery also teases together what cannot yet stay joined. A series of attempted embraces shows Peter’s clumsiness, Gordon’s spasmodic clutchings, and Jewel’s taking command, with sudden grace, of a love she can hold only briefly, until his weakness reduces their marriage to a one-night stand.

Perhaps the most effective preparation for ironic cleavage is the exuberant fabular style of the beginning. New York appears to be the great city, of any realm, where all the ranks triumphantly celebrate in a vast materialistic binge, accompanied by bands. However, merchants from the outlands capture the furs, the varicolored slippers, and the bags of golden mesh, leaving little for ordinary folk to buy in celebration. The bag that Jewel Hudson carries measures her distance from acceptance by identifying her acceptance of a substitute: It is mesh, plain mesh, and she takes from it a dollar and bribes the drab waiter Key to bring her lover Gordon down to her.

May Day - Fitzgerald’s Use of Language

|Section |Pages | |

|Preface |108 - 109 |Hyperbolic language is used throughout the opening section of the story to connote the sense of |

| | |excess and excitement of the Jazz Age. “The great city” was “vivid with thrown flowers of white, |

| | |red and rose”. The lengthy, complex sentences and lack of punctuation in the second paragraph |

| | |heightens the quick rhythm of the whole of this section, which helps connote the fast pace of |

| | |life of post-war America. Rhyme is also used “bickerings and figurings”, “gaily and noisily” to |

| | |aid the rhythm of the passage. |

| | |Lexis: the nouns, verbs and modifiers, “luscious feasts” “lavish entertainments” the |

| | |metaphorical phrase “drink the wine of excitement”, all connote luxury, wealth, decadence and |

| | |excess, and relates back to the theme of the pursuit of wealth and individualism, which was borne|

| | |out of disillusioned attitudes towards the war and the futility of the war. |

| | |Ironic humour is used to describe the people of the time “the young men were pure and brave, |

| | |sound of tooth and pink of cheek. The women are described in an equally ironic way “the young |

| | |women of the land were virgins and comely both of face and figure”. Both of these parallel |

| | |structures act as contrasts to how we see the characters later (link to theme of appearance and |

| | |reality). |

|I |109 |The setting of this story happens on May Day 1919, in approximately a twenty-four hour period and|

| | |in a year on the cusp of major social change. This is a story mainly concerned with social |

| | |differences, and as such it is fitting that the events take place on May Day. |

| |109 - 110 |Figurative language is used to describe Gordon Sterrett. The oxymoron “well-cut shabby suit” |

| | |begins to give the reader the idea he once had money, but now lacks it. The metaphorical |

| | |statement describing the “blue semi circle of ill health” of his eyes, and the simile of the |

| | |“unnatural glow which coloured his face like a low, incessant fever” contrasts with the |

| | |modification, which suggests that while he is “small, slender and darkly handsome”, he is much |

| | |changed from what he once was. |

| | |This contrast is the first in a series of contrasts, which highlight the theme of social |

| | |difference |

| | |The triadic structure used to describe Philip Dean, “blond ruddy and rugged” and the nouns, verbs|

| | |and modifiers, “radiated fitness and bodily comfort” connote health and well-being, a stark |

| | |contrast to Gordon’s physical state. |

| | |Lexis: nouns, verbs and modifiers used to describe Philip Dean’s clothes “family of thick silk |

| | |shirts”, “impressive neckties” and “soft woollen socks” contrasts with the lexis used to describe|

| | |Gordon’s attire “tie of former glory (cohesive link to “well-cut shabby suit”). |

| |110 - 111 |Further contrasts are offered through the discourse of both characters. Philip Dean speaks in |

| | |exclamative sentences e.g. “Gordy, old boy!” (page 109), a term of address used within college |

| | |circles, which connotes excitement and reflects the quick pace of life of the north. The |

| | |modification used to describe Gordon, “inert”, “spiritless” and the way he speaks “miserably” |

| | |suggests “he is all shot”. While, nothing is overtly stated, as readers we begin to sense that |

| | |this change in Gordon may have occurred “since the war” (page 117). |

| | |The tone of the narrative in this section positions us against Philip Dean. He is usually |

| | |referred to by his surname, which creates a sense of distance between us and the reader. It is |

| | |also clear that Dean is preoccupied with superficial appearances. The verb phrases used |

| | |“polishing his body”; “inspecting his claves and knees” connote this. The negative modification |

| | |used to describe Dean’s feelings, “there was something in this present misery that repelled him |

| | |and hardened him” (page 112), makes us as readers question how true their friendship is, and is |

| | |the first example, of the many superficial relationships (link to the theme of superficial |

| | |appearances) that a number of the characters have with each other. |

| |114 |However, Fitzgerald does not make us warm fully to the character of Gordon either. Figurative |

| | |language (metaphors / semantic field of money) is used to describe Gordon as “bankrupt – morally |

| | |as well as financially”, and as readers we begin to adopt this point of view through Gordon’s |

| | |persistent pestering for money (relate back to Jewel and the abortion). Dramatic modal verb |

| | |statements “It’ll be hell for me if you can’t” combined with the use of rhetorical questions “Do |

| | |you suppose if I wasn’t at the end of my rope I’d come to you like this?” creates the impression |

| | |that Gordon is emotionally blackmailing Dean for money. As readers we begin to question whether |

| | |Gordon actually values Dean as a true friend, or whether he has a superficial bond with him, and |

| | |would rather use him in the pursuit of wealth. |

| | |Ironic Humour is used to further heighten this point. The two have changed status from college |

| | |friends and now “quite suddenly and definitely hated each other”. |

|II |116 |Lexis: the nouns, verbs and modifiers from the personified “wealthy, happy sun” which |

| | |metaphorically “glittered in transient gold” through to the material objects of “gaudy feather |

| | |fans” and “bad paintings”, connote wealth and luxury, no matter how negatively the narrator sees |

| | |it, and suggests that this “great city” is obsessed by wealth, materialism and the status it |

| | |brings. |

| |117 |The triadic structure is employed to reflect the difference in the attitudes and values of Gordon|

| | |and Dean towards the crowd on the streets, and society at the time. “To Dean the struggle was |

| | |significant, young, cheerful; to Gordon it was dismal, meaningless and endless”. Gordon does not|

| | |hold the same values, as his experiences of the war have made him disillusioned. |

| | |Negative modification is also used to describe the conversation of the Gamma Psi Fraternity. |

| | |Gordon sees it as “tiresome and interminable” and at the dance at Delmonico’s we sense this |

| | |further. The conversation, combined with the pace of the narrative and the use of linguistic |

| | |techniques such as phatic interrogatives “Did he think narrow ties were coming back” (page 117) |

| | |creates tension and serves to delay the inevitable response that Dean won’t lend Gordon the |

| | |money. |

| |119 |Lexis: nouns verbs and modification presents Gordon as a tragic character when he is given money |

| | |by Dean, and as readers we begin to feel sympathy towards him “blinded by sudden tears, he |

| | |stumbled clumsily down the Biltmore steps”. (cohesive links back to section I). |

|III |119 |Hyperbolic language is used to describe the characters of Carrol Key and Gus Rose. The negative |

| | |nouns verbs and modifiers “ugly, ill-nourished”, “vermin-ridden, cold and hungry”, connotes the |

| | |poverty of the characters. The simile / parallel structure “tossed as driftwood from their |

| | |births; they would be tossed as driftwood to their deaths” offers a contrast to the characters of|

| | |Dean and Gordon and presents Key and Rose as outcasts. These linguistic techniques are employed |

| | |to reflect social class differences. |

| |119 – 120 |Negative modification is used to describe their appearances. Key’s “long, chinless face”, “dull |

| | |watery eyes” and Rose’s “bandy-legged” stature and “rat eyes” offers a further contrast to the |

| | |appearance of Dean and Gordon, and we as readers succumb to the allure of superficial appearances|

| | |like the other characters, and are positioned against these characters because of the way they |

| | |look. |

| |120 - 121 |Elision, ellipsis and contraction are used to reflect the working class sociolect of the |

| | |soldiers’ discourse. (further contrasts to Dean, Gordon and the other middle class characters) |

| | |The narrative develops the sense that Rose and Key have been institutionalized. While appearing |

| | |anti-authoritarian through “an offended nasal comment…upon the institution”, ironically they |

| | |would have “felt more at home in a prison than in this new-found and unquestionable freedom.” |

| |121 - 122 |These conflicting values and attitudes are developed by the patronizing modification and |

| | |derogatory term of address “the little Jew” reflects the racist attitudes and values of the time.|

| | |These attitudes are further highlighted through the technique of understatement “the hostile |

| | |impact of a fist upon the point of his bearded chin”, “this time he stayed down, breathing |

| | |heavily, blood oozing from his lip”. Ironically, although the Jewish man is of the same social |

| | |class as the soldiers (similar sociolect features) they would rather attack him, than hear |

| | |authority figures being criticised. |

| |125 - 127 |Ironic humour is created by the formalism of the narrative to convey the farcical situation Rose |

| | |and Key end up in, “emerging finally into a room chiefly furnished by piles of pails…and |

| | |illuminated by a single dim electric light”. The simile describing the cupboard as “hot as hell”|

| | |adds to the farce and highlights the lengths these characters will go to for alcohol. So far |

| | |most of the characters have been drunk or want to get drunk. (Link back to the attitudes and |

| | |values towards alcohol at the time - major corruptor – and the theme of excess). |

|IV |127 – 128 |The formalism of the narrative is continued in the presentation of the character of Edith Bradin.|

| | |The alliterative “parlour of politeness”, the superlative phrase “merest commonplace of her |

| | |social existence” and the noun phrase “faux pas” all work together to present Edith as a girl |

| | |bound by social convention and social etiquette. The formalism of the narrative and the use of |

| | |dashes to act as asides also create ironic humour concerning Peter Himmel’s social blunders of |

| | |attempting to kiss Edith and for “faintly” brushing past her hair. |

| |129 |The nouns, verbs and modifiers “bare arms”, “powdered to a creamy white” and the simile “gleam |

| | |like milk” and the metaphor and simile in the statement, “her eyes were delicate, breakable blue,|

| | |like china eyes” gives the reader the impression that she is a “sort of a pretty doll” (page 110 |

| | |– anaphoric reference / cohesive link), a china doll, appearing beautiful on the outside, but |

| | |hollow and empty in the middle. This sense that Edith is a superficial character is furthered |

| | |through her attitudes and behaviour at the Gamma Psi Fraternity dance at Delmonico’s. She is |

| | |concerned by appearances and the triadic structure addressing how she would talk that evening |

| | |“made up of the current expressions, bits of journalese and college slang” further present Edith |

| | |as a girl bound by social convention and etiquette, trying to keep up appearances and fit in with|

| | |her social circle. |

| |130 - 135 |The Deictic triadic structure “There was this evening. This was her evening. All evenings were |

| | |her evenings” (page 130) reflects Edith’s “adolescent mooniness” (page 128) and “adolescent |

| | |idealism” (page 129) concerning her relationship with Gordon (cohesive link to “I smell sweet” |

| | |and “I’m made for love”, page 129 and “she loved him” page 132). However, Edith’s superficiality|

| | |becomes apparent from the phatic “inconsequential chatter” she engages in with the men during the|

| | |dance and her changing view of Gordon. The negative modification and intensifiers used in her |

| | |discourse to describe Gordon “very white and listless” (page 132) and her feelings towards him |

| | |“unutterable horror” (page 133) and “revulsion seized her, followed by a faint surprising |

| | |boredom” brings into question Edith’s ‘love’ for Gordon. This is further compounded through the |

| | |use of ironic humour at the end of the section “Love is fragile, but perhaps the pieces are |

| | |saved…treasured up for the next lover” (page 135 – cohesive link to “adolescent mooniness”). |

|V |135 - 136 |The formalism of the narrative, describing Peter Himmel “being snubbed” creates a sense of ironic|

| | |humour, and seems to be Fitzgerald’s way of satirising the social conventions and social |

| | |etiquette of the middle classes of the time. |

| |137 |Hyperbolic language is used to describe Peter’s drunken state “the monotony of time, the |

| | |turbidity of events sank into a vague background.” The negative modification used to describe |

| | |Edith, suggests that ironically, even though drunk, Peter begins to see Edith as the readers do, |

| | |“a flighty, negligible girl, not to be worried over”. |

| |138 - 139 |While in the background, alcohol and drinking play a major role in the motivations of many of the|

| | |characters and is the thing that unites many of the characters together. The farcical exchange |

| | |between Peter Himmel and Gus Rose and Carrol Key is an example of this. The superfluous |

| | |formalism of Peter’s discourse “Why you choose to rest yourselves on articles intended for the |

| | |transportation of water” contrasts with the “grunt to the conversation” (of Rose and reflects the|

| | |social differences between the two. However, these differences are bridged through drink (note |

| | |the elision used in Peter’s discourse). They are further united through their dislike for |

| | |Socialists (derogatory term of address / exclamative “Kill the Bolshevik!”, and their view that |

| | |“Americuns” are the “greatest race in the world”. The use of the superlative here creates irony |

| | |as we are aware from the events that have taken place so far in the story that the characters are|

| | |flawed. |

|VI |139 - 140 |Hyperbolic / figurative language is used to describe the Jazz band and Edith’s drunken state “her|

| | |partners changed with the unreality of phantoms”. The simile “her senses were lulled to |

| | |trance-like sleep” is contrasted with ironic humour when Peter Himmel cuts in on her drunk “But |

| | |Edith was not nearly so tired to be incapable of moral indignation.” (further reflects Edith’s |

| | |attitudes and values). |

|VII |142 |The negative modification used to describe Jewel Hudson “over-rouged young lady” presents her as |

| | |somebody trying to fit into higher social circles, but who is failing, as she doesn’t have the |

| | |right appearance. Her name is ironic, as she isn’t a jewel, and is seen as promiscuous, as she |

| | |says “I know more college fellas and more of ‘em know me”. The elision and ellipsis used in her |

| | |speech, reflects her social status and further distinguishes her from the crowd at the party to |

| | |which she is trying to enter. |

| |142-144 |She is presented as a manipulative and controlling character. She controls the discourse in her |

| | |argument with Carrol Key and her use of interrogatives “You haven’t been near me for ten days. |

| | |What’s the matter?” and imperatives “come on with me” and modal verbs “well then, you oughtn’t to|

| | |stay her and dance”, in her discourse with Gordon controls him too. However, this does seem to |

| | |be out of a genuine love for Gordon. |

| | |As the story progresses, Gordon is often seen in the background of the events that are going on |

| | |and appears to be more drunk as the night progresses (simile “the liquor seemed to have hardened |

| | |on him like a crust” – page 143). This sense of Gordon’s state deteriorating and him feeling |

| | |trapped in his present situation becomes increasingly more evident as the story progresses. It |

| | |is apparent from Section I that Gordon does not love Jewel. The negative modification used to |

| | |describe Jewel, “this darn girl” (page 112) and her “soft, pulpy lips” makes the reader empathise|

| | |with Gordon’s dislike of Jewel, despite the way he has treated her. |

|VIII |144 |Figurative language is used to describe the city at night. Over the shops’ “doors were drawn |

| | |great iron masks until they were only shadowy tombs of the late day’s splendour”. These |

| | |metaphors set an ominous tone, which becomes more evident as the narrative develops. |

| |147 |The triadic structure used to describe how “the soldiers don’t know what they want, or what they |

| | |hate, or what they like” creates a sense of irony, highlighted by Henry Bradin, “they’re used to |

| | |acting in large bodies and they seem to have to make demonstrations. So it happens to be against|

| | |us.” (cohesive link to feeling at “home in a prison” page 121). |

| | |What Fitzgerald appears to be satirising here is attitudes and values towards the war. Changes |

| | |in traditional values and attitudes and the rise of the Jazz Age, was brought on, in part by the |

| | |experience of the war. For many the war was seen as futile and having many physically and |

| | |psychologically damaging affects on those who experienced it. In this story, it is clear that |

| | |the changes in Gordon have come about from his experiences of the war. Likewise, characters like|

| | |Key and Rose have been effected by the war as they are, figuratively speaking, trying to fight a |

| | |war that doesn’t exist anymore, which is ironic. |

| | |Edith’s discourse raises the social differences between her and her brother. The party she is at|

| | |is described as “incongruous” to Henry’s work. The use of this modifier, combined with her |

| | |deictic statement “me being at a party like that and you over here”, highlights the tensions in |

| | |society between different social groups, tensions, which, interestingly enough, Henry seems to |

| | |dismiss “You’re young, and you’re acting just as you were brought up to act.” |

| |148 - 151 |The rhythm of the passage quickens to connote the pace of events, and the figurative language, |

| | |which employs the semantic field of weather “Edith was conscious that the clamour burst suddenly |

| | |upon the three of them like a cloud of rain, that there was a thunder of many feet on the |

| | |stairs”, creates an ominous tone. |

| | |The technique of understatement is used to describe Carrol Key’s death; he “tottered, was edged |

| | |sideways, and of a sudden disappeared helplessly out of the window”. This death is described in |

| | |a matter a fact way, to reflect the views towards death at the time (cataphoric / cohesive link |

| | |to “Key was dead. He had fallen thirty-five feet and split his skull like a cracked coconut” |

| | |page 153). This death, is just another of many that can be attributed to the war. Also, |

| | |Fitzgerald may be raising concerns about alcohol. Many of the characters in the story drink to |

| | |excess, and it could be argued that this is a key factor that causes Carrol Key’s death. |

|IX |151 |There is a contrast between the “crowd of poor people with sleep in their eyes” who eat at Childs|

| | |at eight in the morning and the “not unrepresentative mixture of the gayest of Broadway and even |

| | |Fifth Avenue”. This superlative statement connotes that the fashion of the time for the young |

| | |middle classes was to ‘slum it’. |

| |152 |Further contrasts are offered through the use of figurative language. Gus Rose is the “drab |

| | |mouse-like figure” who “desperately out of place, watched the butterflies” (the crowd from |

| | |Delmonico’s) “with a weary, puzzled curiosity.” The emphasis on social difference here is |

| | |ironic, as Gus Rose is out of place in a restaurant that is usually inhabited by “a crowd of poor|

| | |people.” |

| | |Figurative language is also used to describe Rose’s view of Childs’ “scene was a colourful circus|

| | |of beauty and riotous pleasure”. The use of the oxymoron offers a contrast to the actual riot |

| | |and further connotes Rose’s violent nature (cohesive link to the parallel structure, “the world |

| | |of snap and snarl, of physical bluff and physical menace, in which he had always lived” (page |

| | |120). |

| | |Lexis: The nouns, verbs and modifiers, describing the social scene’s, “inconsequential chatter” |

| | |and Philip Dean’s actions, “shaking hands indiscriminately” and his “facetious chat” all link |

| | |back to the theme of superficial relationships, and how nobody at Childs, really knows each |

| | |other, despite how much they appear to. |

| |153 |The negative modification used to describe Gordon, “bloodshot” eyes, and “ghoulish and |

| | |repellent”, furthers the sense that Gordon is in a rapid state of decline, the culmination of |

| | |which we see at the end of the story. |

| |153 - 155 |The term of address used by Rose towards Dean, “Prominent Teeth”, is derogatory and marks a shift|

| | |in the narrative. In section I his “prominent teeth” were part of his “rugged” good looks. Now,|

| | |the “prominent teeth” are seen as ugly and suggest that Dean’s character isn’t as pleasant as he |

| | |first appeared to be. This notion is furthered in the argument he has with Gordon and Jewel, and|

| | |the drunken fight he tries to start with the waiters at Childs. |

|X |156 - 163 |The terms of address, Mr In and Mr Out are symbolic of social differences. Mr In, Peter Himmel, |

| | |the college junior and Mr Out, Philip Dean, the college graduate have come together, united by |

| | |alcohol and their drunken states. Throughout the story, there are many instances of alcohol |

| | |uniting people from different social backgrounds. |

| |153 - 154 |Hyperbolic language is used to reflect their extreme drunken state “They were dizzy with the |

| | |extreme maudlin happiness that the morning had awakened in their glowing souls”. |

| |158 |However, their behaviour is far from glowing, as their use of directives / imperatives suggests |

| | |when speaking to the taxi driver “we give orders – you wait” and when demanding Champagne “ |

| | |‘Bring it! Roared Mr In and Mr Out in chorus”. Their superior attitudes and values are made |

| | |evident to the reader here. It is clear from the story and their behaviour that they are used to|

| | |a decadent and excessive lifestyle, a lifestyle, which Fitzgerald frowns upon. |

|XI |163 |Throughout the story, much of the action has taken place on or around Fifth Avenue and Sixth |

| | |Avenue. While the two are parallel streets, it is made clear that these streets are very |

| | |different and they are symbolic of the differences in social class. |

| | |Lexis: the negative nouns, verbs and modifiers used to describe Gordon Sterrett’s hotel room are |

| | |symbolic of his physical and mental state, “dusky grey shadows”, “raw place”, clothes |

| | |disheveled”, “comatose, drugged”. |

| |164 |The technique of understatement is used to present the final tragedy of the story, Gordon’s |

| | |suicide “leaning across the table that held his drawing materials” he “fired a cartridge into his|

| | |head just behind the table”. The tone at the end here is sombre and cold, and shocking, because,|

| | |while this is another death that has been brought on by the experiences of the war, it occurs at |

| | |the very end of the story. |

| | |It is clear from this story, that Fitzgerald is preoccupied with the idea of social differences |

| | |in the 1920s and how detrimental these differences can be. The story has a dark undercurrent to |

| | |it, with Fitzgerald highlighting a side to the war that wasn’t seen much during the time, and by |

| | |highlighting the dangers that an excessive and decadent lifestyle can bring. This can be linked |

| | |to ideas explored in The Diamond as Big as the Ritz, and suggests that, Fitzgerald was somewhat |

| | |prophetic in his outlook on life in the Jazz Age. |

Winter Dreams

Overview

Fitzgerald is best remembered for his spoiled and conflicted Jazz Age characters, including Dexter Green from “Winter Dreams,” who bears a distinct resemblance to Jay Gatsby, the protagonist of The Great Gatsby. Both are self-made men who are eager to rise beyond their station in life, and both find that personal fulfillment and their ideal women are ultimately elusive. “Winter Dreams” first appeared in Metropolitan Magazine in 1922 and later in the collection All the Sad Young Men (1926). The similarities between “Winter Dreams” and The Great Gatsby are not accidental, as Fitzgerald wrote the story while he was developing the ideas that would become the novel.

“Winter Dreams” has a distinct autobiographical bent, and the story traces Fitzgerald’s experiences growing up in a middle-class family in the upper Midwest. Black Bear Lake, where the glitterati spend their summers in the story, is only a partial disguise of White Bear Lake, an exclusive resort area where Saint Paul’s elite would summer. It was a place that Fitzgerald knew well. It is also arguable that Dexter Green bears a resemblance to Fitzgerald himself, a restless and talented young man desperate to advance himself in a singular pursuit of success.

Summary

In winter, Dexter Green, son of the owner of the second-best grocery store in Black Bear, Minnesota, skis across the snowed-in golf course where he caddies in the warmer months to earn his pocket money. In April, the spring thaw begins and the first golfers brave the course. Unlike the dismal spring, the autumn and winter empower Dexter and stimulate his imagination. Dexter imagines beating the golf club’s most esteemed members. At work, he crosses paths with Judy Jones, who, attended by her nurse, asks Dexter to carry her clubs. Dexter can’t leave his post, and Judy throws a tantrum and tries to strike her nurse with her clubs. When the caddy-master promptly returns and Dexter is free to be Judy’s caddy, he quits. Hastily ending his employment as a caddie is the first in a lifelong series of impetuous acts that would be dictated to Dexter by his so-called winter dreams, which drive him to desire material success.

Dexter foregoes state school for a more esteemed eastern university, where his financial resources are stretched. He still longs for luxury, but his desires are often denied. After college, Dexter, articulate and confident, borrows $1,000 off the strength of his degree and buys a partnership in a laundry. By age twenty-seven, he owns the largest chain of laundries in the upper Midwest. He sells the business and moves to New York.

We learn more about a period of time during Dexter’s rise to success. At age twenty-three, Dexter is given a weekend pass to the Sherry Island Golf Club by Mr. Hart, for whom Dexter used to caddy. Dexter feels superior to the other competitors but also that he does not belong in this world. At the fifteenth green, while the group searches for a lost ball, Mr. Hedrick is struck in the stomach by Miss Jones, who wishes to play through and doesn’t realize that she has struck another player. She hits her ball and continues on, as the men alternately praise or criticize her beauty and forward behavior. Later that evening, Dexter swims out to the raft in the club’s lake, stretching out on the springboard and listening to a distant piano. The sound of the tune fills him with delight at his present situation. The peaceful scene is disturbed by the roar of Judy’s motorboat. She has abandoned a date who believes that she is his ideal, and she asks Dexter to drive the boat so that she can water-ski.

Waiting for Judy to arrive for their date the next evening, Dexter imagines all the successful men from esteemed backgrounds who had once loved her. He has acquired polish and sophistication despite his humble origins. Judy arrives in modest clothes, tells the maid that dinner can be served, and informs Dexter that her parents will not be in attendance, which is a relief for Dexter. After dinner, on the sun porch, Judy asks Dexter whether it is all right if she cries. A man she was dating has confessed he is poor. When she asks Dexter what his financial standing is, he tells her that he is most likely the richest young man in the entire region. They kiss, and Dexter’s passion for her increases. Dexter continues his pursuit of Judy, but during a picnic she leaves with another man. She claims that nothing has happened between her and the other man, which Dexter doesn’t believe.

Judy toys with the various men who seek her affections. The summer ends, and Dexter takes up residence at a club in town, showing up at the dances when Judy is in attendance. He still desires her and dreams of taking her to New York to live. He eventually forces himself to accept the fact that he will never possess her in the way he wants. He throws himself into work and becomes engaged to Irene. One night, just before the engagement is to be announced, Irene’s headache forces her to cancel her plans with Dexter. He return to the University Club, where Judy, back from her travels, approaches him. They go for a drive. Judy flirts with him, telling him he should marry her, and they discuss their former passion. She asks to be taken home and begins to cry quietly. She repeats her desire to marry him. She asks him in, and he relents. Later, he does not regret that Judy’s ardor cools after a month, that Irene and her family were deeply hurt by his betrayal, or that his reputation in the city has been compromised. He loves Judy above all. Leaving for the East with the intention of selling his laundries and settling in New York, the outbreak of World War I calls him back west, where he transfers management of his business to a partner. He enters basic training, welcoming the distraction of combat.

In New York seven years later, when Dexter is thirty-two, he is more successful than ever. Devlin, a business associate, informs Dexter that Judy married a friend of his, a man who cheats on her and drinks heavily while Judy stays at home with the children. She has also, according to Devlin, lost her looks. Dexter feels the loss of her beauty and spark personally, because his illusions of Judy are finally and irreparably shattered. He cries, mourning the past and his lost youth, which he will never be able to reclaim.

Historical Context

“Winter Dreams” analyzes the motivations and frustrations of two young people coming of age, but it also examines the historical period that is the backdrop to the on-again, off-again relationship between Dexter and Judy. The action in “Winter Dreams” spans the early decades of the twentieth century, from the middle of the first decade to the early 1920s. The so-called Roaring Twenties, the Jazz Age was for some people a time of unchecked hedonism. Self-gratification ruled the day, and for the affluent, it was an era of opulent parties, fashionable trends, and grand social gestures. One critic intimated of the period that it was a time in which people had little concern for the past and even less regard for the future. The time period saw many young people endorse a reckless embrace of the moment, as America emerged from World War I and entered a new and unprecedented economic boom. Fitzgerald emerged as the laureate of the Jazz Age, capturing the spirit of the decade in his fiction while embodying its hedonistic, freewheeling zeal in his personal life as well.

In “Winter Dreams,” as in his fiction in general, Fitzgerald avoided many of the clichéd images of the period, such as flappers, speakeasies, and gangsters. However, in his hands, a certain type of character emerged. Judy embodies all that is stereotypical of the fickle, selfish, and histrionic rich girl. She is in full possession of her beauty and thrall over men, navigating her way through her social world by the force of her charm. She is all appetite, too embroiled in the moment, with little regard for the larger implications of her changes of heart. Dexter is the convert, the middle-class imposter standing outside the dance in the gymnasium and seduced by the wealth and self-indulgence the dancing couples represent. In Fitzgerald’s world, the pursuit of pleasure alienates those who are unable to indulge in escapist acts, which distract from the essential hollowness and isolation that many of his characters try to avoid. Pleasure for pleasure’s sake was the unofficial motto of the flapper, the jazz babies, and the idle rich who helped the twenties achieve its mystique of hedonism and decadence in the major cities of Europe and the United States. In Dexter and Judy, Fitzgerald subtly indicts Jazz Age decadence.

Characters

Dexter Green -  A successful businessman and the story’s protagonist. Dexter grew up in Keeble, a small Minnesota village, the son of a grocer and Bohemian mother. Ambitious and eager, he works hard to gain the trappings of wealth and status. Dexter both celebrates and denies his humble working-class origins. He feels like a trespasser in the halls of the affluent, but at the same time he feels superior for having worked his way into the upper ranks, a group comprising people for whom he has little respect.

Dexter is desperate to validate his existence through success and status, but he is also critical of his attempts to transcend his humble origins by blindly pursuing wealth and sophistication. Dexter both celebrates and denies his middle-class background, and he himself ultimately becomes the obstacle that stands in the way of the personal happiness he seeks. Dexter is unable to resolve this essential conflict of identity. Having finally achieved guest entrance to the country club, he feels like a trespasser, while at the same time feeling superior to the captains of industry whom he finds boring and lacking in golf skills. This inherent duality in Dexter is evident in his complex history with Judy. Although he is able to convince himself that he does not want her as a partner or wife, he cannot control the ardor her presence in his life triggers.

Dexter deliberately creates obstacles to his own happiness. Afraid of commitment, he prefers a solitary existence, hovering on the edges of a world of carousing and bachelorhood. He once coveted a life of financial ease, but when he finally reaches his goal, he feels like an outsider because he had to work hard for his money. He feels that his newly acquired status has been purchased rather than deserved. The satisfaction he feels at becoming the richest young man in the upper Midwest leads him to pursue unattainable goals, such as the possession of Judy Jones. He is blind to his emotional failings and personal shortcomings, seeing little distinction between the personal and professional. For him, love and money are inextricably linked. Dexter’s fixation on the ideal proves to be the most significant obstacle to his happiness. He persists in believing that Judy is an ideal woman, when in reality she is flawed and human. Her transformation into a homely housewife ultimately shatters Dexter’s illusions and ideals.

Judy Jones -  The daughter of the affluent Mortimer Jones. Glowing with vitality, Judy is aloof, charming, and irresistible to many men, including Dexter. She is alluring, unattainable, and whimsical, concerned only with the gratification of her desires. Judy does not seem to be fully aware of how manipulative she is toward the various suitors who pursue her—or if she is aware, she doesn’t care.

In a way, Judy Jones is shaped by men who view her as the ideal woman, as they must contort her to fit their fantasy of this vision of feminine beauty and grace. Judy depends on these suitors’ attentions to give her life meaning. Just as Dexter seems out of his element when he becomes part of Judy’s world, Judy too suffers from a kind of displacement. As a child, she adopts the stilted, precocious tone of a daughter of prosperity, and her self-confidence and comportment suggest a maturity beyond her years. Although she is older than Dexter, she addresses him as “Boy,” which reflects not their age difference but different stations in life. When Judy enters adulthood, however, the shallow, immature, and cruel side of her nature becomes clear. Judy’s selfishness, willfulness, and impulse-driven behavior are leftovers from the realm of childhood and belie the polish and sophistication that her adult beauty suggests.

Judy’s lack of humility and inner reserves suggest the negative effects of an overly indulged existence in which she was sheltered from the sting of the real world. Just as Dexter equates professional success with personal validation, Judy sees her radiant beauty as a sign that she deserves great happiness. “I’m more beautiful than anybody else,” she brazenly asserts, “why can’t I be happy?” Judy fails to attain the happiness she seeks because she is unaware of what happiness requires and what path will lead her there. Mired in surface impressions and the flattery that her serial dating provides, she is unable to properly articulate her dissatisfaction. She uses her physical attributes as her sole means of engaging with and interpreting the world. Like Dexter’s, the life she inhabits at the end of the story falls far short of the life she had expected. She is the victim of her malformed impressions of the world and inability to independently discover who she truly is.

Mortimer Jones -  A wealthy member of the Sherry Island Gold Club and Judy’s father. In one of Dexter’s fantasies, Mr. Jones watches Dexter amaze the club members with his mastery of the springboard. The real Mr. Jones approaches Dexter one day, with tears in his eyes, proclaiming him the best caddy and exhorting him not to quit.

T. A. Hedrick -  A pillar of the community. Mr. Hedrick is the man Dexter trounces in his imaginary golf tournaments. Dexter does eventually golf with Mr. Hedrick, who emerges as a bore with few skills as a player. On the course, Mr. Hedrick is hit in the stomach by an errant ball struck by Judy Jones.

Irene Scheerer -  Dexter’s fiancée. Irene is light-haired, sweet, and honorable. Dexter breaks her heart by cheating on her with Judy.

Mrs. Scheerer -  Irene’s mother. A kind presence, Mrs. Scheerer likes Dexter and the idea of him becoming her son-in-law. Dexter’s betrayal of Irene hurts her deeply.

Mr. Hart -  A successful man who admires young Dexter’s drive and work ethic. Mr. Hart gives Dexter a weekend guest pass to the Sherry Island Golf Club.

Mr. Sandwood -  A member of the Sherry Island Golf Club who golfs one day with the twenty-three-year-old Dexter. Mr. Sandwood is captivated by Judy Jones’s beauty.

Devlin -  A businessman from Detroit who visits Dexter in New York. Devlin informs Dexter that Judy married one of Devlin’s best friends, the couple is unhappily married, and Judy has lost her legendary good looks.

Themes and Meanings

In being heralded as the “laureate of the Jazz Age,” Fitzgerald struck in his very American writing a balance between romance and disaster, glitter and delusion. His characters include the petted and popular and rich, who both dream and live recklessly and who have as their biggest enemy time, the time that ages and changes. The aging process is signified by the word “winter” in the title, but “winter” also signifies a transition that is more tragic than physical deterioration; by the end of the story, Dexter’s emotions have become frozen. He has lost the ability to care or to feel. His “dream” of Judy had kept him energetic, passionate, and alive, and now the dream has been taken from him.

The reader cares about Dexter at the beginning of the story and wants him to succeed in career and in love. One myth associated with the American Dream is that even the poor, by spunk and luck, have a chance of making it big, and Dexter, whose mother “talked broken English to the end of her days,” has worked hard to raise himself out of the poor immigrant class to which he was born. However, the dream of material success finally proves unsatisfying to Dexter, who comes to know that money cannot buy his real dream. In contrast, Judy was born into wealth and takes it as much for granted as she does her good looks. Judy, the spoiled little rich girl, gets what she deserves. She has been a merciless flirt, using her attraction to break hearts for sport. When the story reveals that she has become careworn and commonplace, married to a bully who deceives her, it is obvious that the tragedy is not hers but Dexter’s, who most wanted not riches, but a woman he could never have. What is the most tragic of all, the woman was not worth having.

The Dark Side of the American Dream

The “winter dreams” of the story refer to the American Dream that Dexter comes to embody, but success brings a high cost, and social mobility restricts Dexter’s capacity for happiness. Dexter is from humble origins: his mother was an immigrant who constantly struggled with the language of her adopted homeland. The central irony of the story is that realizing the American Dream yields bleak rewards. For example, when Dexter was a young caddy, he dreamed about success and wealth and the happiness they would bring. When he finally beats T. A. Hedrick in a golf tournament, however, the triumph brings him little joy. Dexter is able to transcend middle-class inertia but, despite his tireless efforts to advance his fortunes, forced to accept that money cannot buy happiness.

Dexter has an ambiguous relationship with the bluebloods and idle rich who populate his social world. On one hand, he is proud of his self-made status and has no respect for the men for whom luxury and wealth were a given. Still, the men are emblems of a world to which Dexter wants to belong. In pursuing Judy, he is attempting to validate his claim as a bonafide member of the upper class. Dexter feels that he is a newer, stronger, and more praiseworthy version of the Mortimer Joneses of the world, but he still mimics the rich in gesture and appearance. He pays meticulous attention to his appearance, concerned with small details that only an outsider who was trying to disguise himself as a man of wealth would really notice. Dexter’s position in this world is precarious, and there is no room for error in appearance or etiquette. Through Dexter and the world of earned distinctions that he comes to represent, Fitzgerald exposes the hollowness that comes from the aggressive pursuit of the American Dream. Wealth and social status substitute for strong connections to people, eclipsing the possibility of happiness of emotional fulfillment.

Reality versus Idealism

Reality and fantasy prove to be constantly at odds with each other as Dexter and Judy search for stability and meaning in “Winter Dreams.” Dexter is the victim of his so-called winter dreams, adolescent fantasies that he is never able to fulfill. As he searches for happiness and love, he unwisely focuses his quest exclusively on Judy Jones, making her the sole object of his romantic projections. However, rather than provide fulfillment for Dexter, Judy and her displays of affection simply trigger more yearning. Dexter never sees Judy for who she really is; rather, he sees her as an ideal of womanhood and the embodiment of perfect love. Later, Judy reveals her self-serving nature when she confesses that she is breaking off relations with a man who has pursued her simply because he is not of adequate financial means. Dexter, still blinded by his idealistic view of Judy, cannot digest this information, because it suggests the reality of who Judy is.

Although Dexter recognizes the real threat of harm beneath Judy’s charm and beauty and tries to convince himself that he is no longer in love with her, he cannot fully divorce himself from the romantic, uncontrollable attachment he has to her. Ultimately, Dexter becomes the victim not of Judy’s fickle behavior but of his own stubborn ideals. Time and again, Dexter and Judy struggle with contradictions between reality and fantasy. On their first date, Dexter is disappointed that Judy appears in an average dress and, instead of the pomp and ritual he expected, blandly tells the maid that they are ready to eat. In their ambiguous and protracted courtship, Judy treats him with “interest . . . encouragement . . . malice . . . indifference . . . [and] contempt.” The reality of this relationship is bleak, but the idealistic vision of what it could be enables it to limp along.

Success

Dexter's vision of success involves a pursuit of the American dream of wealth and status. As Fitzgerald traces Dexter's movement toward this goal, he becomes, in essence, a social historian of his generation, chronicling the dreams of the men and women of the 1920s who saw unlimited opportunities in the new century. Even as a teenager, Dexter dreams of success. While working at a local golf course, he fantasizes about becoming a golf champion and winning matches against the wealthy men for whom he caddies, or dazzling them with his expert diving exhibitions. Later, his dreams involve his movement up into the wealthy class where he would be rich enough to marry Judy Jones. She becomes the embodiment of his ‘‘winter dreams’’ of a glittering world with endless glamour and promise.

Dexter eventually gains wealth and status due to two qualities that are inherent in the American character: hard work and confidence. Even as a young man in his first job, Dexter strives to be the best. At the Sherry Island Golf Club, he is the favorite caddy, due to his devotion to learning and helping others excel at the game. He is such a success in his position that one of the men at the club, ‘‘with tears in his eyes,’’ begs him not to quit. But Dexter is too confident in his abilities to stay in a service position, especially when Judy treats him as her inferior.

Later, he turns his confidence and drive to his education, choosing a prestigious Eastern college over a state school that would have been easier to afford. After college, he dives into the business world, where he learns all he can about running a successful laundry. Soon Dexter achieves his goal: he becomes a wealthy businessman and, as such, catches the eye of Judy Jones. Yet, eventually, he discovers the hollowness that exists at the core of his winter dreams.

Hollowness

Dexter soon confronts the reality of the glittering world of which he has become a part. That reality is embodied in the character of Judy Jones, who has become the focus of his dreams of success and happiness. Underneath the beauty and vibrancy, however, Judy's shallowness and destructive character emerge.

Judy's ultimate goal is the gratification of her own desires, without any concern for those she destroys along the way. As she quickly becomes bored with one suitor, she replaces him with another, yet saves the first for future use. When she decides one of her admirers is beginning to lose interest, she pulls him back into her orbit with promises of fidelity, only to discard him again later. Dexter becomes caught up in this destructive game after he decides she has caused him to be ‘‘magnificently attune[d] to life,’’ to envision her world ‘‘radiating a brightness and a glamour he might never know again.’’ After he enters her world, he and the woman to whom he briefly becomes engaged suffer great pain and disillusionment.

Failure

At one point, Judy glimpses the hollowness of her existence when she admits, ‘‘I'm more beautiful than anybody else … why can't I be happy?’’ Her and Dexter's failure to achieve happiness illustrates Fitzgerald's fundamental criticism of the American dream. At the heart of the dream is an illusory world of glitter and glamour that ultimately contains no substance. While Dexter could have found happiness through a satisfying relationship with Judy, she does not have the strength of character to commit herself to him.

By the end of ‘‘Winter Dreams,’’ Dexter has accepted the failure of his relationship with Judy because he still believes in the glittering dream of her and her world. However, when a business acquaintance tells him that she has lost her youthful beauty and has become a passive housewife to an alcoholic, abusive man, his illusions are shattered. As a result, he concludes, ‘‘the gates were closed, the sun was gone down, and there was no beauty but the gray beauty of steel that withstands all time.’’ Ultimately, he grieves not for Judy, but for his lost golden world, ‘‘the country of illusion, of youth, of the richness of life, where his winter dreams had flourished.’’

Analysis

Structure and Narrative Voice

Fitzgerald structures and narrates “Winter Dreams” in a way that reflects his critical view of the world he depicts in the story. Like the sectional dividers in the story, Fitzgerald’s characters lead fractured, incomplete existences as they search for pleasure and wealth. The story is composed of six sections of varying lengths, which suggest the many affections and betrayals that characterize Dexter and Judy’s relationship. In addition, this particular structure suggests that when it comes to issues of identity and self-awareness, there is no coherent core to ground these characters in their search for stability and meaning. Indeed, a clearly defined sense of self is what Dexter lacks. Like this story, which relates aspects of his coming-of-age, he is the product of fragmentary experiences. He attempts to find in Judy the clarity and direction that his life lacks.

Fitzgerald’s view of Dexter’s and Judy’s whirlwind lives and the ways they conduct them is apparent in the way he narrates the story. His technique of addressing the reader directly at several points in the story lends “Winter Dreams” an immediacy and underscores the fact that Fitzgerald is not only telling his story but also selecting specific details from his characters’ lives for a reason. When Dexter returns to the Sherry Island Golf Club, for example, Fitzgerald writes, “But the part of his story that concerns us . . .” an address that suggests that we and Fitzgerald are complicit, looking in on Dexter’s life. Direct address also takes the form of rhetorical questions, which Fitzgerald poses to us to reveal Judy’s propensity for “acting” in the presence of her admirers. Ultimately, Fitzgerald’s structure and narrative voice suggest a purpose to his writing of the story. In a way, he is holding up the travails of Dexter and Judy as a warning to readers who may also be caught up in decadent lives or the romantic whims of another person.

Time and Temporal Shifts

Fitzgerald’s tale moves about in time, spanning just less than two decades in the lives of Dexter Green and Judy Jones, a structural and narrative choice that lends complexity and richness to his portrayal of the gradual wearing away of Dexter’s illusions. By juxtaposing various disembodied episodes in Dexter’s personal and professional lives, Fitzgerald suggests the intricate role the events play in shaping Dexter’s response to Judy and setting up the high cost of his winter dreams. The past is always alive for Dexter. For example, the sting of young Judy’s condescension on the golf course is a looming presence that Fitzgerald conjures to make Dexter’s disillusionment at the end of the story more profound. In an aside to the reader, Fitzgerald writes, “This story is not his biography, remember . . . .” Rather, the tale serves as an emotional history of hopes that are built up and then razed.

Temporal shifts and the passage of the seasons serve as a backdrop to the romantic possession from which Dexter tries to escape over the years. The story begins when Dexter is fourteen and eventually offers a rapid summary of his rise in life—from his college years at a prestigious Eastern university to his owning and eventually selling the largest string of laundries in the upper Midwest. Although the story actually concludes when Dexter is thirty-two, the action immediately flashes back to when Dexter is twenty-three and joining the elite for a round of golf. In just a few paragraphs, Fitzgerald presents an ironic juxtaposition. Dexter goes from a being a caddy to having young caddies carry his clubs for him at the same elite country club where he had once worked. Even then, at this telling moment in his young adult life, Dexter is attempting to “lessen the gap that lay between the present and the past.” Fitzgerald’s fluid sense of time in the story serves to draw more attention to Dexter’s lost youth and the gap that for Dexter will only widen and never close.

Important Quotations Explained

1. Often he reached out for the best without knowing why he did it—and sometimes he ran up against the mysterious denials and prohibitions in which life indulges. It is with one of those denials and not with his career as a whole that this story deals.

This quotation, from part II, underscores the ways in which denial informs the story, as the wealthy characters in “Winter Dreams” are forced to confront the fact that the complexities of happiness are difficult, even impossible, to master. Dexter’s life, as portrayed in the story, spans his mid-teens to early thirties and is marked by a flurry of business activity but little introspection. His winter dreams of money and comfort are as insubstantial as the snow he skis across as a young man, fantasizing about a life of ease and admiration. But Dexter never pauses to examine what motives and desires actually drive his actions. Because Dexter has not analyzed his instinctive grasping for “the best,” the news of Judy’s unhappy marriage and compromised beauty affect him all the more profoundly.

In this quotation, Fitzgerald sets up a dichotomy between the personal realm and public arena, where Dexter makes his most profound mark. Although Fitzgerald is attempting to isolate one aspect of Dexter’s varied life, he is also suggesting that the story’s preoccupation with the rich is merely a ruse, meant to expose the hollow core of a world that is often too obsessed with the material trappings of success. The denial Dexter faces reverberates on many levels, referring not only to Judy’s fickle affections but also to the more profound denial of happiness that emotionally cripples Dexter at the end. Finally, the quotation is noteworthy because it shows that Fitzgerald is assuming an analytical stance that his protagonist does not. Fitzgerald attempts to guide the reader to the wisdom and insight that he was hoping to convey. He acknowledges that his story is exactly that—a story—and that it serves as a cautionary tale for readers.

2. “Who are you, anyhow?”

“I’m nobody,” he announced. “My career is largely a matter of futures.”

This exchange between Judy and Dexter takes place at the end of part III, when the couple is talking on the sun porch. The exchange is seemingly innocuous, but Dexter’s answer reveals his essential failing and the personal obstacle he is never able to overcome as he searches for identity and meaning. As an individual, shorn of class distinction or the mark of worldly success, Dexter has a limited grasp of who he is. His winter dreams primarily concern rising above his station in life, ignoring the intangible aspects of happiness and personal development, which flounder in his drive for wealth. Dexter is a “nobody” who turns to the professional world and his own success for self-definition. However, when it comes to establishing his presence as a fully realized individual, Dexter lingers on the edge of himself, as when he hovers in the shadows of a party held at the club where he lives, watching the dancing couples. He is unable to penetrate the heart of not only this world of frivolity but of himself as well.

Happiness with Judy and then Irene eludes Dexter as he looks to these objects of his desire to define him. Judy in particular is a disastrous choice, a female complement to his persona of a lost wanderer unable to firmly root himself in his life. Judy’s question reveals her often shallow way of relating to those around her. While the question smacks of abstract concerns of identity, Judy is simply slyly asking Dexter whether he is of adequate financial means. Her follow-up question of “Are you poor?” shows the true nature of her inquiry and reveals the extent to which she is interested only in a man who can provide her with material goods. If her partner is devoid of personal character, a state Dexter dangerously flirts with, she doesn’t much care.

A Critical Overview

‘‘Winter Dreams,’’ first published in Metropolitan Magazine in 1922 and later collected in All The Sad Young Men in 1926, earned accolades for its thematic import and its style. Ruth Prigozy, in her article on Fitzgerald for the Dictionary of Literary Biography concludes, ‘‘The story is richly evocative, containing some of Fitzgerald 's best writing.’’ In an overview of ‘‘Winter Dreams,’’ Joseph Flibbert praises Fitzgerald's skillful structuring of the story to highlight its themes.

All The Sad Young Men became Fitzgerald's most popular collection of stories to date. In a review of the collection for Bookman, a reviewer concluded that the stories prove Fitzgerald to be ‘‘head and shoulders better than any writer of his generation.’’ Furthermore, the stories exhibit ‘‘compelling fineness, along with more conventional pieces of storytelling that are sufficiently amusing with the old Fitzgerald talent.’’

Ironically, today Fitzgerald's works have become more popular than they were when they were published. None of his works became bestsellers in his lifetime and toward the end of his career, he was regarded as dated in his portraits of young men and women caught up in the Jazz Age. In the last few decades, however, he has come to be recognized as one of America's most important writers. Few freshman survey courses do not include a reading of The Great Gatsby, and ‘‘Winter Dreams’’ is now considered to be one of his finest short stories.

A Comparison of ‘‘Winter Dreams’’ and The Great Gatsby

Fitzgerald wrote his short story ‘‘Winter Dreams’’ while he was drafting The Great Gatsby, which became one of the most celebrated novels of all time. The two works share several thematic and stylistic elements as they each center on a young man from a modest background who strives to be a part of the exclusive world inhabited by the woman he loves. A close comparison of the two works will reveal that while The Great Gatsby becomes a more complex and penetrating critique of the pursuit of the wealth and status, the short story stands on its own as a compelling portrait of a man who is forced to face the illusory nature of his ‘‘winter dreams.’’

There are strong similarities between Jay Gatsby and Dexter Green. Although Dexter, unlike Gatsby, came from a middle-class background, (his father owned the ‘‘second-best’’ grocery-store in his town), he subscribes to the same American dream as does Gatsby, who grew up in poverty. Both spent their childhood in the Midwest, and from an early age, were determined to gain entry into the glittering and glamorous world of the rich. Through a combination of ambition and hard work, they achieve their goal and become successful businessmen who are accepted into this exclusive world.

The process by which they rise to the top, however, is quite different. Fitzgerald clearly outlines the steps Dexter takes to become successful: he attends a prestigious Eastern university and upon graduation learns everything he can about the laundry business. The knowledge he gains, coupled with his confidence and a small financial investment, guarantees his prosperity. Fitzgerald is not as straightforward about Gatsby's rise. There are suggestions that he may have been involved in a cheating scandal and a bootlegging operation with some shady New York entrepreneurs. Fitzgerald's inclusion of the possibility that Gatsby may have prospered by his involvement in illegal activities highlights the sense of corruption he finds at the heart of American materialism, a theme he develops more completely in his searing portrait of Tom Buchanan, Daisy's fabulously rich and morally corrupt husband.

While both of Fitzgerald's protagonists start out wanting only the status and power that wealth will afford, they shift their focus to a beautiful woman who embodies their dream and with whom they fall in love. Eventually, each finds little satisfaction in purely materialistic gain. Initially Dexter, like Gatsby, is not a snob; he does not want ‘‘association with glittering things and glittering people,’’ but he does want ‘‘the glittering things themselves.’’ Both men amass fortunes, but their wealth ultimately does not fulfill their dream, which focuses on gaining the love of a beautiful woman who expresses the glamour and promise of that exclusive world. At Gatsby's extravagant parties, for example, the host retreats to the study, waiting for Daisy to appear, refusing to participate in the hedonistic atmosphere of the gathering. Likewise, Dexter has no social aspirations and ‘‘rather despised the dancing men who were always on tap for the Thursday or Saturday parties and who filled in at dinners with the younger married set.’’ Neither man is affected by the attitudes of others in his pursuit of his dreams, nor does either bear any malice toward the women who repeatedly scorn them.

Daisy and Judy also are quite similar in character. Each is a shallow, ultimately cold-hearted woman who is entertained, as Fitzgerald describes Judy, ‘‘only by the gratification of her desires and by the direct exercise of her own charm.’’ Like Judy, Daisy enjoys ‘‘the mystery that wealth imprisons and preserves, of the freshness of many clothes ... gleaming like silver, safe and proud above the hot struggles of the poor.’’ The two male characters have their hearts broken by these lovely women who exhibit ‘‘a continual impression of flux, of intense life.’’ Daisy and Judy are ‘‘careless people’’ who ‘‘smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness ... and let other people clean up the mess they had made.’’

Daisy appears to be the crueler of the two, as she allows Gatsby to take the full responsibility for her accidentally running down Myrtle, Tom's mistress, which results in Gatsby's murder by Myrtle's husband. Judy's only crime is breaking hearts. Readers feel a bit sorry for her when she wonders to Dexter, in a broken voice, ‘‘I'm more beautiful than anybody else ... Why can't I be happy?’’ But ultimately, Fitzgerald creates a fuller, more sympathetic character in Daisy.

Through his manipulation of the narrative's chronology, readers are privy to a demonstration of the intense love Daisy had at one point for Gatsby, revealed when she breaks down in the shower, immediately before her marriage to Tom. Jordan notes how Daisy had to be forced into her wedding dress by her parents, who were determined that their daughter marry so well.

Readers also see how she suffers in her relationship with her brutish husband. Fitzgerald portrays Daisy as someone who had the potential for happiness, but was not strong enough to achieve that goal. By the end of the novel, she retreats with Tom into the only world she knows.

Fitzgerald does not develop Judy into a complete character. Readers never know how she became so callous and shallow, and as a result, they have little sympathy for her, even when they discover at the end of the story that her beauty has faded. Like Daisy, Judy has become a passive wife to an abusive husband, but because readers do not see how that process occurred, as they do with Daisy, her character remains undeveloped and not as interesting as her counterpart.

The settings of the two works reveal Fitzgerald's rhetorical brilliance in his poetic descriptions of the landscape. He paints detailed portraits of the landscape that artfully reflect each work's themes. Throughout much of The Great Gatsby, Fitzgerald concentrates on images that illustrate the corruption at the heart of the American dream. His landscapes become the wastelands of garbage heaps and burned-out valleys of ashes. The eyes of Dr. T. J. Eckelberg, a symbol of crass materialism and loss of spirituality, peer down from billboards along the highway. At the end of the novel, however, Fitzgerald presents perhaps the most lyrical passage in literature when he describes Daisy's green light, representing to Gatsby the possibility of an ‘‘orgastic future’’ with Daisy.

Fitzgerald's descriptions in ‘‘Winter Dreams’’ are equally lyrical and resonant. They also reflect the dual nature of the main character's experience. At the beginning of the story, when Dexter can only fantasize about a golden future, the landscape reflects his depression: the long winter ‘‘shut down like the white lid of a box’’ as he skis over the golf course's snow-covered fairways. The narrator notes Dexter's identification with his surroundings when he describes his melancholic response to the links’ ‘‘enforced fallowness, haunted by ragged sparrows for the long season’’ and ‘‘desolate sand-boxes knee-deep in crusted ice.’’ At that period of his life ‘‘the wind blew cold as misery’’ and the sun cast a ‘‘hard dimensionless glare.’’

At the beginning of his relationship with Judy, however, when the world is filled with excitement and promise, the landscape dramatically changes. One afternoon, soon after he has run into Judy on the golf course, the sun sets ‘‘with a riotous swirl of gold and varying blues and scarlets’’ and the water turns ‘‘silver molasses under the harvest-moon.’’

While Fitzgerald ends the two works with each main character losing the woman he loves, he leads the two in different directions, and as a result, creates two distinct and compelling commentaries on the pursuit of the American dream. As each story draws to a close, Fitzgerald delineates important differences between Dexter and Gatsby.

At the end of ‘‘Winter Dreams,’’ Dexter accepts the fact that he has lost Judy, and accepts also ‘‘the deep pain that is reserved only for the strong’’ since he had also, ‘‘tasted for a little while the deep happiness.’’ He does, however, receive a shock at the end that alters his vision of the golden world he experienced for a time. When a business associate tells him that Judy has lost her beauty and her vitality, his dream shatters and he breaks down, overcome by a profound sense of loss. Joseph Flibbert, in his critique of the story in the Reference Guide to Short Fiction, argues, ‘‘As long as he could maintain a vision of Judy as the embodiment of genteel youth and beauty, he could continue to believe in an attainable ideal of power, freedom, and beauty.’’ The world now becomes cold and gray with no point to the accumulation of material objects.

Struggling desperately to regain that vision, Dexter tries to picture ‘‘the waters lapping on Sherry Island and the moonlit veranda, and gingham on the golf-links and the dry sun and the gold color of her neck's soft down,’’ but cannot, insisting, ‘‘these things were no longer in the world! They had existed and they existed no longer.’’ He finally understands that he can never follow the same vision that had compelled him to travel in one direction all of his life. All he is left with now is a sense of emptiness, for ‘‘even the grief he could have borne was left behind in the country of illusion, of youth, of the richness of life, where his winter dreams had flourished.’’

Gatsby, however, dies with his vision of Daisy and the promise of a life with her in tact. He never sees Daisy's beauty fade, nor does he realize that she has returned to the safety of her relationship with Tom. His inability to give up his dream earns Nick's respect and his conclusion that Gatsby was ‘‘worth the whole damn bunch put together.’’ Gatsby becomes a mythic figure in the novel, the tireless pursuer of the American dream—the ‘‘fresh green breast of the New World.’’ Fitzgerald's closing lines reinforce this mythic dimension when Nick notes Gatsby's inability to see through the illusion and so remain devoted to his vision of Daisy. Nick echoes this enduring sense of hope in the novel's last lines as he insists that although happiness eludes people, ‘‘tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther.… So we beat on, boats against the current, bourne back ceaselessly into the past.’’

Fitzgerald's exquisite crafting of these two works has created enduring portraits of characters whose fate expresses a deep resonance of the American experience. Through Dexter Green, Fitzgerald has chronicled the journey of a realist, who forces himself to shatter the illusions he has held for so long. In his creation of Gatsby, Fitzgerald presents the romantic, who refuses to give up his pursuit of the woman he loves, who represents to him, all that is possible in America.

Source: Wendy Perkins, Critical Essay on ‘‘Winter Dreams,’’ in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2002. Perkins is an instructor of English and American literature and film.

Magnificently Attune to Life: The Value of Winter Dreams

Men like Dexter Green do not cry easily; his tears and the language explaining them therefore point either to melodrama or to a complex significance. The difficulty lies in understanding precisely what Dexter has lost and whether its loss justifies the prostration of so strong and hard-minded a man. It seems clear that he is not mourning a new loss of Judy herself, the final extinction of lingering hopes; he had long ago accepted as irrevocable the fact that he could never have her. Nor has he lost the ability to feel deeply, at least not in any general sense: Fitzgerald makes it clear that Dexter has lost only the single and specific ability to respond deeply to images of Judy and of their moments together; and he is certainly able to feel deeply the loss of this response. Similarly, he is not crying over the loss of any illusions of eternal youth or beauty. Given his character, the nature of his dreams, and the history of his striving to achieve them, Dexter is simply not the kind of man to have such illusions. And in the unlikely event that he could somehow entertain them, he is even less the kind of man to weep over the loss of abstractions. Hardly more plausible are the views that he is shocked by a sudden awareness of the destructiveness of time or of the impossibility of repeating the past. Again, it seems unlikely that this man, especially at thirty-two, could have missed the reality of time and the finality of the past.

What is it, then, that Devlin's description of Mrs. Lud Simms has destroyed in Dexter Green? To begin with, Devlin has taken from Dexter's image of Judy the same things he would have lost if he had married her and seen her suddenly ‘‘fade away before his eyes’’: the specific features and qualities that comprised her unparalleled beauty and desirability, her appeal to him as one of the ‘‘glittering things,’’ one of the ‘‘best.’’ These had been the basis of his love for her—not her reflection of eternal youth or beauty but their physical and perishable realities. Once before, in turning from Judy to Irene Scheerer, he had found almost unendurable the loss of these tangible and emotional qualities: ‘‘fire and loveliness were gone, the magic of nights and the wonder of the varying hours and seasons … slender lips, down-turning, dropping to his lips and bearing him up into a heaven of eyes.… The thing was deep in him. He was too strong and alive for it to die lightly.’’ At first glance, thing may seem a strange and imprecise word for Dexter's profound and encompassing love, but it is more consistent and apt than it might appear. His love for Judy is no more Platonic than his other winter dreams; it is sensuous and emotional, and ‘‘thing’’ suggests this tangible reality as well as the nature of what he has lost. Moreover, Fitzgerald's conscious use of the term for these purposes is reflected in his repetition of it nine times in the final passage of the story.

Paradoxically, in finally giving up all hope of Judy and in going to New York, Dexter is able to have her in a way he never could had they married. With the real Judy out of his life, the girl he had dreamed of having can remain alive in his imagination, unchanging in the images of her youthful beauty and desirability. More importantly, these images keep alive in Dexter the ‘‘thing’’ they had his images of Judy Jones no longer create an imaginative present, he loses not only his ability to go on loving her but also something else equally and perhaps even more shattering. Gone, too, is a part of himself, originally so deeply stirred in him—his love for Judy and his dream of having her. It is all this that Devlin kills in Dexter by forcing on him a new and intolerable image of Judy.

In Devlin's description of her as Mrs. Lud Simms, Fitzgerald carefully strips away every feature and every quality of the Judy Jones Dexter had known and still loves in his images of her. His ‘‘great beauty’’ becomes an ordinarily pretty woman; the unique and imperious paragon courted by worshippers becomes a conventional and submissively put-upon housewife; the queen of his love and dreams becomes a rather mousy commoner he could not conceivably love. No wonder Dexter is devastated. Having accepted the loss of the real Judy Jones, he had thought himself safe from further hurt; now, with every word of Devlin's, he finds himself not only losing her again, but what is worse, losing the ability to go on loving her.

As long as Dexter knows little or nothing new about Judy, she can stay alive and immediate in his imagination; thus, the real past continues unchanged as the imaginative present.

Responding to these images of Judy Jones, Dexter can continue to love her as he had in the beginning, when the dream of having this ‘‘glittering thing’’ and the striving for her could still be part of that love. But Devlin destroys the time-suspending equation. When he tells Dexter what has happened to Judy, when he forces him to imagine her as the older and fading Mrs. Lud Simms, then the young and vibrant girl Dexter had loved disappears into the wax museum of the irredeemable past. The real present supplants the imaginative present and forces the past to become only the past.

For Dexter, ‘‘the dream was gone’’; when he tries to recall his images of the earlier Judy, they come to him not as a continuing present but as a completed past, as ‘‘things … no longer in the world, ‘‘things that ‘‘had existed and … existed no longer.’’ Now they are only memories of a girl he had known and loved who has unaccountably become Mrs. Lud Simms, and they no longer have the power to stir his love or his dreams. ‘‘He did not care about mouth and eyes and moving hands. He wanted to care, and he could not care.’’ Dexter wants desperately to care because these images have been the source of his love for Judy Jones and the means of keeping it alive. The end of their power to stir him is therefore the end of that love, and his tears are a bitter mourning for a second and this time total loss of Judy Jones. ‘‘‘Long ago,’ he said, ‘long ago, there was something in me, but now that thing is gone.… That thing will come back no more.’’’

Dexter cries with good reason, then, but he has even more reason to cry. When his images of Judy Jones no longer create an imaginative present, he loses not only his ability to go on loving her but also something else equally and perhaps even more shattering. Gone, too, is a part of himself also deeply associated with and still alive in these images: the fragile moment in time when youth and his winter dreams were making his life richer and sweeter than it would ever be again.

Fitzgerald makes it clear that the story centers on this moment in time and its significance. The story is not Dexter's ‘‘biography … although things creep into it which have nothing to do with those dreams he had when he was young.’’ Specifically, Fitzgerald writes, ‘‘the part of his story that concerns us goes back to the days when he was making his first big success.’’ These are the years between twenty-three and twenty-five, the years just after college and just before New York. ‘‘When he was only twenty-three … there were already people who liked to say: ‘Now there's a boy—.’’’ Already Dexter is making a large amount of money and receiving guest cards to the Sherry Island Golf Club, where he had been a caddy and had indulged his winter dreams. At twenty-four he finds ‘‘himself increasingly in a position to do as he wished,’’ and at twenty-five he is ‘‘beginning to be master of his own time’’ as ‘‘the young and already fabulously successful Dexter Green....’’

This progress towards making his winter dreams come true is not, however, unqualified. Almost from the beginning, disillusion casts strange shadows on Dexter's bright successes. He had dreamed of being a golf champion and defeating Mr. T. A. Hedrick ‘‘in a marvellous match played a hundred times over the fairways of his imagination’’; now, as a guest playing in a foursome on the real fairways of the Sherry Island Golf Club, Dexter is ‘‘impressed by the tremendous superiority he felt toward Mr. T. A. Hedrick, who was a bore and not even a good golfer any more.’’ A year later, ‘‘he joined two clubs in the city and lived at one of them.… He could have gone out socially as much as he liked—he was an eligible young man, now, and popular with the down-town fathers.… But he had no social aspirations and rather despised the dancing men who were always on tap for Thursday or Saturday parties and who filled in at dinners with the younger married set.’’ The farther he moves into the world of his winter dreams, the more he is disillusioned with it.

Significantly, and again reflecting Fitzgerald's central concern with the relationship between reality and the imagination, the only one of Dexter's winter dreams with which he is not ultimately disillusioned is the only one he cannot have in the real world and time—Judy Jones. After quitting his job rather than caddy for her, he doesn't see her again until she plays through his foursome on the afternoon when he is a guest at the Sherry Island Golf Club. That evening they meet again and Fitzgerald carefully creates a scene in which Judy becomes identified with this particular moment in Dexter's life. ‘‘There was a fish jumping and a star shining and the lights around the lake were gleaming.’’ Lying on a raft, Dexter is listening to a piano across the lake playing a popular song, a song he had heard ‘‘at a prom once when he could not afford the luxury of proms, and he had stood outside the gymnasium and listened. The sound of the tune precipitated in him a sort of ecstasy and it was with that ecstasy he viewed what happened to him now. It was a mood of intense appreciation, a sense that, for once, he was magnificently attune to life and that everything about him was radiating a brightness and a glamour he might never know again.’’

For Dexter, the melody drifting over the water fuses the past and the present, the years of struggle just behind and the fulfillment just beginning. This is the magic moment when dreaming and striving reach out to grasp realization, the time of rapture before the fullness of achievement brings its seemingly inevitable disillusion. Suddenly, a motor-boat appears beside the raft, ‘‘drowning out the hot tinkle of the piano in the drone of its spray,’’ and Judy Jones becomes part of this moment in which Dexter is ‘‘magnificently attune to life’’ as he will never be again. She asks him to take her surf-boarding; and highlighting her association with Dexter's ‘‘mood of intense appreciation,’’ Fitzgerald repeats the line with which he had begun the scene. As Dexter joins Judy in the boat, ‘‘there was a fish jumping and a star shining and the lights around the lake were gleaming.’’ When she invites him to dinner on the following night, ‘‘his heart turned over like the flywheel of the boat, and, for the second time, her casual whim gave a new direction to his life.’’

This is the night Dexter realizes he is in love with Judy, and her identification with his sense of being ‘‘magnificently attune to life’’ deepens. ‘‘‘Who are you, anyhow?’’’ she asks him. ‘‘‘I'm nobody,’ he announced. ‘My career is largely a matter of futures.’’’ He is ‘‘‘probably making more money than any man my age in the Northwest’’’; and with all the ‘‘glittering things’’ shining just ahead of him, Dexter realizes that he has wanted Judy since boyhood. She ‘‘communicated her excitement to him,’’ and her youthful beauty thus becomes both a part of his dreams as well as the embodiment of his ‘‘intense appreciation’’ of life at the beginning of their fulfillment.

As the next two years bring him increasing success and his first disillusion with its products, Dexter's love for Judy remains constant. ‘‘No disillusion as to the world in which she had grown up could cure his illusion as to her desirability.’’ Not even her roller-coaster inconstancy can diminish his love for her or disillusion him with her. In Judy, he continues to find the excitement and anticipation that had made the striving for his winter dreams and the threshold of their fulfillment somehow better than their realization was proving to be. When he first loses her and becomes engaged to Irene, he wonders ‘‘that so soon, with so little done, so much of ecstasy had gone from him.’’ And when Judy returns to him, ‘‘all mysterious happenings, all fresh and quickening hopes, had gone away with her, come back with her now.’’ In finally giving up all hope of having her, Dexter is thereafter safe from being disillusioned with Judy and thus can keep imaginatively alive the excitement and anticipation she represents for him not only in herself but also in her identification with his youthful winter dreams.

Against this background, Dexter's tears are even more comprehensible. At thirty-two, he finds that all his winter dreams, except for Judy Jones, have come true, and there are ‘‘no barriers too high for him.’’ But the world he has won has lost the brightness it had had in his dreams; realizing them has cost him the illusions that were their most precious dimension. Now, having long ago accepted the loss of Judy and with his illusions gone, he thinks he has ‘‘nothing else to lose’’ and is therefore ‘‘invulnerable at last.’’ Devlin's detailed picture of Judy as Mrs. Simms strips away this last illusion.

Because Judy Jones and his love for her had become so closely associated with the untarnished richness of his youthful winter dreams, the imaginative present in which she remains alive for Dexter also preserves that youthful richness. When Devlin destroys this imaginative present, Dexter finally and forever loses not only Judy and his love for her but also his ability to keep alive in his imagination the best part of his youth and its winter dreams. He has ‘‘gone away and he could never go back any more.’’ Devlin has wrought a kind of death in Dexter's imagination, and ‘‘even the grief he could have borne was left behind in the country of illusion, of youth, of the richness of life, where his winter dreams had flourished.’’ Dexter's tears are justifiably for himself, then: he has lost even more than his love for Judy Jones. In realizing his winter dreams, he has discovered that their greatest value was in the dreaming; and now he has lost the only way left to preserve that priceless capacity.

In this complex and moving conclusion, ‘‘Winter Dreams’’ becomes a story with many values. In itself, it is an interesting and often profound treatment of the ironic winner-take-nothing theme, the story of a man who gets nearly everything he wants at the cost of nearly everything that made it worth wanting. In its relationship to Fitzgerald's other writing, ‘‘Winter Dreams’’ makes a valuable prologue to The Great Gatsby and reflects several of the themes that characterize Fitzgerald's view of the human condition.

Because of Fitzgerald's explicit linking of the two works, it is common to parallel Dexter Green and Jay Gatsby, but the difference between them are even more instructive than the similarities. Both men have generally similar economic and social backgrounds: Dexter's family is higher on the socio-economic scale than Jimmy Gatz' s shiftless parents, but neither boy starts out anywhere near the wealthy upper class or social elite. Both boys are bright and ambitious, dream of wealth and position, and associate their dreams with a rich and beautiful young girl. Both achieve wealth at an early age, only to find its products strangely disillusioning; each loses the girl he loves and thereafter makes her the center of his imaginative life.

Nevertheless, the differences between Dexter Green and Jay Gatsby are essential and revealing: they not only point up the separate interest of the story but also illuminate by contrast many of the complexities of the novel. Dexter, for example, is from beginning to end Dexter Green; he wants not a different self but a richer life, and his dreams are mundane and specific. Jimmy Gatz, however, rejects Jimmy Gatz in favor of a ‘‘Platonic conception of himself’’; he is ‘‘a son of God,’’ and he dreams of ‘‘a universe of ineffable gaudiness.’’ Similarly, Judy Jones is part of Dexter's dreams, one of the ‘‘glittering things’’ he dreams of having who also embodies his reasons for wanting them. But Daisy is the incarnation of Gatsby's dreams, the ineffable made flesh and therefore no longer ineffable.

Dexter gains his wealth by conventional and respectable means entirely consistent with his dreams and, indeed, largely indistinguishable from them. Gatsby's means are apparently corrupt; but, even if they weren't, no earthly means could be any more consistent with the nature of his dreams than is his incarnation of them in a mortal form. Dexter keeps alive his love for Judy Jones and the brightness of his youthful winter dreams in the only way the past can remain alive—by fixing its images out of time and the real world in an imaginative present. Gatsby tries to recapture the past by regaining the real Daisy and through her repeating in the real world the actual moment in time and the actual situation in which his dreams started to become ‘‘confused and disordered.’’

In effect, then, Dexter Green succeeds in recapturing the past only to lose it when new images from the real world and the real present destroy his imaginative present. Gatsby fails to repeat the past and therefore never loses the illusion that he can; his failure is only a temporary setback making even more necessary and stronger his resolve to regain and thereby reshape the past. In his tears, Dexter realizes what Gatsby never learns—that his dreams are forever ‘‘behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night,’’ back in ‘‘the country of illusion, of youth,’’ where dreaming was still untouched by the bruising fall of coming true. Dexter survives with most of his limited dreams realized but having lost twice and forever the richest dimension of those dreams; primarily, he symbolizes the power and also the tragic fragility of the imaginative present. Gatsby is killed, but he dies with his illimitable dreams apparently intact; ultimately, he symbolizes man's unquenchable and tragic capacity for imagining a perfection he not only can never achieve but also inevitably destroys in pursuing.

Beyond its useful relationship to Fitzgerald's masterpiece, ‘‘Winter Dreams’’ is also valuable in its early reflection of the themes that characterize most of his significant writing. The dream-and-disillusion motif in the story appears in varying forms and degrees from its intermittent emergence in This Side of Paradise to its central exploration in The Last Tycoon; it is Fitzgerald's major theme. Dexter Green's painful recognition that the richest part of dreams is not their fulfillment but the dreaming of and striving for them appears implicitly or explicitly in many other works; related to this theme and even more important in Fitzgerald's thought and art is the central stress of the story on the power and value of imaginative life and time. Taken together, these themes reflect the essentially tragic vision of the human condition working at the core of Fitzgerald's serious writing: his increasing concern with man as a creature whose imagination creates dreams and goals his nature and circumstances combine to doom. For any reader, then, ‘‘Winter Dreams’’ can be a fertile and challenging story; for a student of Fitzgerald, its careful analysis is a rewarding necessity.

Source: Clinton S. Burhans, Jr., ‘‘‘Magnificently Attune to Life’’’: The Value of ‘‘Winter Dreams,’’’ in Studies in Short Fiction, Vol. 6, No. 4, Summer 2000, pp. 401-12.

Tamed or Idealized: Judy Jones's Dilemma in ‘‘Winter Dreams’’

In her first appearance, Judy is a ‘‘beautifully ugly’’ eleven-year-old whose behavior is unpredictable and outrageous (ordering people around, raising a golf club against her nurse). Also in this first scene she is described as ‘‘passionate’’ and ‘‘radiant,’’ and as having ‘‘vitality.’’ When she's next seen, at age twenty, she is again described as having ‘‘passionate vitality’’ (the word ‘‘passionate’’ is used three times in these first two descriptions, and later her ‘‘passionate energy’’ is noted); she gives an impression of ‘‘intense life.’’

And how do the men in the story react to her passionate vitality? ‘‘All she needs,’’ says Mr. T. A. Hedrick, ‘‘is to be turned up and spanked for six months and then to be married off to an old-fashioned cavalry captain.’’ Hedrick echoes the attitude of many other fictional characters, and those in society, who want to tame this New Woman. Dr. Ledsmar in The Damnation of Theron Ware believes that the outspoken and independent Celia Madden should be ‘‘whipped.’’ In The Awakening, Edna Pontellier's father, ‘‘the Colonel,’’ counsels Edna's husband that ‘‘authority, coercion are what is needed’’ to tame the wayward Edna; ‘‘Put your foot down good and hard,’’ the Colonel says; that's ‘‘the only way to manage a wife.’’ And, to cite one more example, a character in Main Street tells Carol's husband, Dr. Kennicott, that ‘‘the way to handle wives, like the fellow says, is to catch ‘em early, treat ‘em rough, and tell ‘em nothing.’’

Vitality and passion, though attractive, threaten the ability of men to contain women, so men like Hedrick want to beat those qualities out of them and render them childish (‘‘spanked’’) in their subservience and docility. In short, they want to tame these new creatures. Women, according to Hedrick, should be passive and silent (and, incidentally, not allowed on golf courses), active only in their service to men and children. Hedrick is perhaps most offended because Judy is a fiery young woman and not a wife-and-mother-in-waiting. "Contemptuously," he points out her propensity for ‘‘turning those big cow-eyes on every calf in town!’’ And the narrator says that ‘‘it was doubtful if Mr. Hedrick intended a reference to the maternal instinct.’’ Dexter has similar thoughts: while trying to convince himself that Judy is unworthy, ‘‘he enumerated her glaring deficiencies as a wife.’’ The irony is that Judy does turn out to be a loyal wife and mother; she loves her husband even though ‘‘he drinks and runs around,’’ and she ‘‘stays at home with her kids.’’ Her married life is admittedly not developed in the story, but it can be tentatively cited as making another point: that vitality and individuality in a woman do not necessarily negate her ability to be a good wife and mother, as Mr. Hedrick and Dexter believe.

But men not only try to tame and control women like Judy; they also, paradoxically, idealize them. On the night that Judy and Dexter go motorboating, Judy introduces herself and explains why she's riding alone on the lake: ‘‘I live in a house over there on the Island, and in that house there is a man waiting for me. When he drove up at the door I drove out of the dock because he says I'm his ideal.’’ This is the most explicit reference to the tendency of men to idealize Judy, but other attempts occur throughout the story and they, along with the attempts to tame Judy, create an intractable dilemma for her. She desperately wants to be treated fairly, not trampled over by ‘‘an old-fashioned cavalry captain’’ and not absurdly idealized, as by the man waiting in her house. But these are the only ways men know how to react to her—either to tame or to idealize.

Olive Chancellor in James's The Bostonians feels a similar frustration, believing that most men can be divided into two groups, ‘‘palterers and bullies.’’ This Scylla-and-Charybdis dilemma also exists for Daisy Buchanan, whose ‘‘choices,’’ as Fetterley writes, ‘‘amount in reality to no more than the choice of which form she wishes her oppression to take.’’ Just as Daisy is trapped between the tamer (Buchanan) and the idealizer (Gatsby), so Judy is caught between the cavalry captain (Hedrick) and the idealizers (the man at her house and others). Therefore, she fights back with the only weapon she has—her beauty. Since ‘‘she was not a girl who could be ‘won’’’ like some trophy, she fights off these men by ‘‘immediately resolv[ing] the affair to a physical basis.’’ She forces them to play ‘‘her game and not their own’’ (emphasis added), and as a result they become frustrated, confused, bitter, and angry. To call her behavior selfish, spoiled, dishonest, irresponsible, or flirtatious is to confuse a counterpunch for a punch. She reacts to the ‘‘youthful lovers’’ and ‘‘youthful’’ love affairs. As the narrator surmises: ‘‘Perhaps from so much youthful love, so many youthful lovers, she had come, in self-defense, to nourish herself wholly from within’’ (emphasis added).

All Judy wants is to find one man who is not ‘‘youthful’’ or immature—she calls men ‘‘children’’ later—and who does not have the urge to tame or idealize her. This explains why ‘‘when a new man came to town every one dropped out’’ and why she has in her young life stepped into so many cars, sat in so many leather seats, rested her elbow on so many doors—‘‘waiting’’ for a man who will not view her and treat her as all previous men have. In addition, it's made clear that she is not just waiting for a rich man. A story she tells Dexter seems to indicate that she is a gold digger (it's the type of label that might be turned against her). She says that her relations with ‘‘a man I cared about’’ ended when ‘‘he told me out of a clear sky that he was poor as a church-mouse. He'd never even hinted it before.’’ But she did not end the relationship because of his poverty—‘‘I've been mad about loads of poor men,’’ she says—but because he tried to conceal it, tried to be something he was not. In short, he was not able to provide what Judy is looking for: a fair, honest, forthright, and mature man who will not try to tame or idealize her, someone with whom she can develop ‘‘individual camaraderie [sic].’’ By lying, this man without money ‘‘didn't start right.’’

It's Dexter's apparent lack of artificiality, especially about his money, that first attracts Judy to him. When Dexter finishes telling her how rich he is, ‘‘There was a pause. Then she smiled.’’ She smiles not for the money but for the frankness. And soon after that the ‘‘unpredictable compound’’ of her lips—not the presumably predictable compound of a tamed or idealized woman's lips—initiates the affair.

The manner in which Judy then seems to ‘‘toy with Dexter,’’ as Cross says, convinces Dexter and most readers that Judy is a heartless flirt (another label that might be used to categorize her). The narrator's comments about Judy seem to support that reading: she has ‘‘the most direct and unprincipled personality with which [Dexter] had ever come in contact’’; ‘‘there was a very little mental side to any of her affairs’’; ‘‘she was entertained only by the gratification of her desires’’; ‘‘she had beckoned … and yawned at [Dexter].’’ Within a week she is running off with another man, and Dexter soon discovers that a dozen men ‘‘circulated about her.’’ Dexter's ‘‘first exhilaration’’ turns into ‘‘restlessness and dissatisfaction.’’ It seems that the sole cause of this dissatisfaction is Judy's inconstant behavior, but again Judy's behavior is being misread; again a counterpunch is seen as a punch, self-defense as attack. For Dexter has, subtly, played the same game that other men have played with Judy. His apparent lack of artificiality is just that—apparent. His frank start had given Judy hope that he would be different, and when he turned out not to be different, her treatment of him is ‘‘revenge for having ever cared for him at all.’’

How is Dexter like all the other men? First, he has the same urge to tame Judy. On that first night of those kisses, the night after the motorboat ride, he feels ‘‘that for the moment he controlled and owned’’ that ‘‘exquisite excitability’’ of Judy. With this feeling, this attempt to own and control a woman who could not be ‘‘won,’’ he too does not start right. He also commits the other sin, namely that of idealizing her. On this first date, he sees that Judy is wearing a casual dress, which makes him ‘‘disappointed at first that she had not put on something more elaborate. This feeling was accentuated when, after a brief greeting, she went to the door of a butler's pantry and pushing it open called: ‘You can serve dinner, Martha.’ He had rather expected that a butler would announce dinner, that there would be a cocktail.’’

Already, in what she wears and how she acts, Dexter senses a gap between what she is and what—as a pretty rich girl from an important family—she should be. And this gap, this failure to be the girl he wants her to be, makes him ‘‘disappointed.’’ While they eat, he grows more disappointed because she does not act like a predictable and tamed beauty. She slips into ‘‘a moody depression,’’ smiles at unconnected things—‘‘at him, at a chicken liver, at nothing’’—and speaks petulantly. And Dexter's reaction is not an increased interest or attraction; rather, he feels an ‘‘uneasiness’’ and becomes ‘‘worried’’ and ‘‘disturbed.’’ She is untamed and does not match Dexter's idealized picture of her; hence he is ‘‘disturbed.’’

Dexter cannot deal with Judy's individuality, unpredictability, and unconventional behavior. Such behavior makes him disappointed, uneasy, worried—all on their first date. And though it is not explicitly stated that Judy senses and reacts to Dexter's ideas and feelings, it is certainly not implausible that she feels Dexter's unease, his idealization and attempt to tame (if not own) her, since she has seen such behavior in every other man she's met. In this light, her subsequent treatment of him is at least partially understandable.

Dexter's unnaturalness, his attempt to be what he is not, is brought up throughout the story and is a trait that Judy might also have perceived. Dexter, like Gatsby, is embarrassed about his past: his mother's name and her origins as ‘‘a Bohemian of the peasant class’’ bother him; he insists on calling his hometown Keble and not Black Bear Village because Keble is not a ‘‘footstool’’ for a fashionable lake. As a successful businessman, he becomes interested in music and books because ‘‘he had a rather priggish notion that he—the young and already fabulously successful Dexter Green—should know more about such things.’’ Since he idealizes himself, tries to fit the complications of his past into a neat contemporary portrait, and even refers to himself in the third person, it is no surprise that he similarly idealizes and compartmentalizes—and hence misunderstands—Judy.

That Judy reacts against Dexter's behavior is revealed at a later meeting when, ‘‘for almost the first time since they had met,’’ he acts naturally with her, does not parrot the things all the men usually say to her: ‘‘he did not ask her to sit out with him or tell her that she was lovely.’’ And she, significantly, ‘‘did not miss these things.’’ She is tired of conventional behavior and words.

At a later meeting, furthermore, he will ‘‘find no casual word with which to profane the hour,’’ and this, in part, leads to a resumption of their affair.

The male characters, to repeat, are bewildered and made miserable by Judy because she cannot be tamed and because she resists idealization; yet, almost unconsciously, they are enormously attracted to her. Her passion and vitality, her ‘‘unpredictable compound,’’ set her off from other women. Her smile is so radiant that ‘‘at least a dozen men were to carry [the memory of it] into middle age’’; her inexpressible loveliness brings ‘‘no end of misery to a great number of men.’’ Men are enraptured by her because the women of their creation—tamed, protected, idealized—are pallid in comparison. Indeed, ‘‘light-haired’’ Irene, the woman Dexter becomes engaged to, is literally pallid.

But though men help to create women like Irene, they don't like them because they're boring, as Dexter's feelings about Irene show. Just four months into his engagement to Irene, he marvels "that so soon, with so little done, so much of ecstasy had gone from him.’’ Imagining his future with her, he ‘‘knew that Irene would be no more than a curtain spread behind him, a hand moving among gleaming teacups, a voice calling to children.’’ Here is the angel in the house, yet what is the result: ‘‘fire and loveliness were gone, the magic of nights and the wonder of the varying hours and seasons.’’ The engagement is to be announced soon, one that ‘‘no one would be surprised at.’’ Dexter is doing the expected thing, following the standard pattern, marrying the ‘‘right’’ girl; there will be no more surprises in his life, no more distracting ‘‘fire’’ and ‘‘magic.’’ In a late scene in the story, while looking at some people dance (he is no longer dancing himself) and thinking of this future, ‘‘he leaned against the door-post, nodded at a man or two—yawned.’’ Then he hears, ‘‘Hello, darling.’’

At the moment that Dexter is yawning into a solid, predictable life of no surprises, Judy appears, slender and golden, and ‘‘he could have wept at the wonder of her return’’ when all weeping and wonder seemed lost from his life. For when Judy left, ‘‘all mysterious happenings, all fresh and quickening hopes, had gone away with her.’’ It is Judy and women like her who provide the compound that make life a mysterious happening, and make Dexter ‘‘magnificently attune to life.’’ Yet the men in the story do all they can to deny and eliminate that mystery, that unpredictable compound, by taming it or making it unreal by idealizing it.

The second act between Dexter and Judy lasts only a month, and once more Fitzgerald implies that Dexter's urge to control and own Judy—and not Judy's mere toying and mindless flirtation—is what dooms the affair. Dexter again starts off wrong by thinking ‘‘this was his girl who was speaking, his own, his beautiful, his pride’’; significantly, the word ‘‘his’’ is used four times in this one sentence. Moreover, during this affair or after (the story does not make this clear), Dexter realizes that ‘‘he did not possess in himself the power to move fundamentally or to hold Judy Jones,’’ implying again that Dexter has tried to control and own a person who refuses to be owned. Other taming and idealizing behavior may also have resurfaced during this month-long second affair, behavior that Judy reacted to. And when this affair ends and he does not ‘‘bear any malice toward her,’’ it's left unsaid whether Judy might have borne any malice toward him for trying again to control and own her, for falling into a predictable pattern of male behavior, for hinting at but not fulfilling the possibility of creating ‘‘a deep and spontaneous mutual attraction,’’ for disappointing her.

Eventually, however, Judy gives up her search. Though it's not told, since this is ostensibly the story of Dexter's lost dreams and not Judy's, it can be deduced that Judy kept looking, kept trying any new man in town (and in her trips to Florida and Hot Springs), and finally discarded her dreams. ‘‘I'm awfully tired of everything,’’ she says late in the story. She's tired of those youthful love affairs and youthful lovers and of those ‘‘idiotic dance[s]’’ filled ‘‘with those children.’’ She's worn out from fighting men who try to tame and idealize her. Dexter at this late point sees her cry for the first time; something, too, has perhaps broken in her. She asks, ‘‘why can't I be happy?’’ So she marries Lud Simms—his name alone indicates a lack of grace, if not a cavalry captain—who ‘‘drinks and runs around,’’ who can be ‘‘particularly outrageous,’’ and who ‘‘treats [Judy] like the devil.’’ Yet, apparently resigned to not realizing her own dreams, she forgives and perhaps even loves him, and stays home with her children. She never finds a life that is not dominated by children.

Thus, at the end of the story, one can say, as the narrator says about Dexter, that Judy Jones—like many other women in Fitzgerald's fiction and in American society at the time (her name has an Every woman aspect to it)—also had something in her long ago, a desire for mature camaraderie, for a man who would not try to tame or idealize her, for a life where her passion and vitality would not be resented and curbed, but that thing is gone, and it will come back no more.

Fitzgerald, as McCay has argued, was a ‘‘chronicler and critic of the world in which he lived,’’ a world ‘‘not entirely of Fitzgerald's fictional making.’’ He was committed, almost to the point of obsession, to transcribing the reality of his times. ‘‘More than any other writer,’’ Malcolm Cowley argues, ‘‘Fitzgerald had the sense of living in history. He tried hard to catch the color of every passing year: its distinctive slang, its dance steps, its songs (he kept making lists of them in his notebooks), its favorite quarterbacks, and the sort of clothes and emotions its people wore. He felt in the beginning that his own life was not merely typical but representative of a new generation.’’

The characterization of Judy Jones, then, is a part of Fitzgerald's attempt to bring a representative figure of his generation into literature, a woman, like many women, caught between contradictory forces. To accuse him of being sexist or misogynist because he portrays male characters as bewildered by and at times antagonistic toward unconventional women, and because he portrays female characters as oftentimes confused and crippled by this society is the logical equivalent of shooting the messenger. Yet this is the thought process of many critics of Fitzgerald (and of other writers of the time) and one that blinds them to the complexity of Fitzgerald's views of women and his sympathy for their plight.

The failure to understand Fitzgerald's view of Judy Jones is linked to the mistaken impression that Fitzgerald is somehow a part of the reactionary forces that were intent on putting down the New Woman, as the Norton editors argue. Fitzgerald has become as misunderstood as Judy Jones herself, and this intellectual sloppiness has resulted in a grievous cheapening and trivialization of one of this country's greatest writers.

Source: Quentin E. Martin, ‘‘Tamed or Idealized: Judy Jones's Dilemma in ‘Winter Dreams,’’’ in F. Scott Fitzgerald: New Perspectives, edited by Jackson R. Bryer, Alan Margolies, and Ruth Prigozy, University of Georgia Press, 2000, pp. 159-72.

APPENDIX

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