Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  We chose a doll with very long legs and hair like watch-springs— a delectable creature with a wild incredulous stare who joins us at Christmas. Her only fault is she has no sense of humor. There were some sweet baby dolls—Deo, we really do need a baby. The window-panes dripped and the toy-shop was dim as Hoffman’s tales and the toys seemed unobtainable the way they ought. It was very Victorian. There were many pretty things and I chose Scottie with her hair twisting about her cheeks like thumb-prints in the tea-time butter and the rain in ecstacies in her eyes. I am having our ritualistic kimonas made for our Mothers since there’s nothing of the reminiscent-of-the-frivolous in the shops.

  The tree things have lost their sex appeal being stored so long and it will be like putting on old clothes for Easter to use them but they are all un-broken and we have enough so I won’t buy more—though there’s nothing so beautiful as shining red balls dangling like the evolution of a jewel before your eyes. I s’pose thats why savages like things like that: they are both at the same level.

  I’m so glad and proud that the picture’s good and that you did it. It must be very satisfactory to manoeuver scenes about and arrive at last at a sustained tone. I don’t see how anybody but a technical virtuoso author could ever produce a movie, since the visual sense is reduced to half and exclamatory shots can no longer be counted on to preserve the tempo: “O isn’t that lovely” scenes inserted so that audience’s tension doesn’t fall while

  My love, my love, my love—I love you so. I want you home in my arms. I love you.

    Zelda

  Although MGM did not use Scott’s script for Red-headed Woman, he did return with more money in the bank than he had had in some time, as well as the material for a story about which he was enthusiastic. He wrote to Harold Ober in late December, saying, “I’m not sorry I went because I’ve got a fine story about Hollywood which will be along in several days” (As Ever, Scott Fitz— 181). American Mercury bought this story—“Crazy Sunday”—for just two hundred dollars, but it proved to be one of his best. He also wrote confidently to Maxwell Perkins in mid-January 1932: “At last for the first time in two years + 1/2 I am going to spend five consecutive months on my novel. I am actually six thousand dollars ahead” (Life in Letters 208).

  Scott and Zelda were convinced that Zelda was still showing every sign of improvement. After Christmas, they vacationed in St. Petersburg, Florida, swimming and sunbathing. But Zelda quickly began to deteriorate. She found Scott’s whiskey flask and drank it. Her asthma and eczema returned, as did her hysteria. Scott, miserable to see Zelda slipping from him again, and knowing that the money and the five months he had counted on to finish his novel would vanish if she were hospitalized again, took her to Baltimore and placed her under the care of Dr. Adolf Meyer and Dr. Mildred Squires at the Henry Phipps Psychiatric Clinic of Johns Hopkins University.

  Second Breakdown

  THE HENRY PHIPPS PSYCHIATRIC CLINIC OF JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND, FEBRUARY–APRIL 1932

  Zelda entered the Phipps Clinic on February 12. Scott returned to Montgomery to stay at Felder Street until the lease was up, thus allowing Scottie to finish the school year, but he stayed in steady contact with Zelda and Drs. Meyer and Squires, who immediately established a balanced routine for Zelda. Her schedule allowed her to go on outings in Baltimore, such as art exhibits, movies, lunches, and window-shopping. Although Zelda politely evaded the doctors’ attempts to engage her in cognitive therapy, she nevertheless accomplished an astonishing feat of self-analysis. On March 9, less than one month after she entered the clinic, Zelda completed the autobiographical novel she had barely started in Montgomery just three months earlier. Save Me the Waltz presents the major events of Zelda’s own life through the fictional screen of a protagonist named Alabama Beggs: Zelda’s/Alabama’s childhood, her courtship and marriage to Scott (David Knight in the novel), their years in France, her breakdown (disguised in the novel as a physical collapse), her subsequent return to her hometown, and the death of her father. The novel ends with the protagonist’s acquiescence to middle age; and it conservatively suggests that her father’s world, Judge Sayre’s/Beggs’s world—which she depicts as ordered and moral—is the best, and that evading established traditions had been her own and her generation’s downfall.

  Ironically, the novel threatened to compete with Scott’s. His own novel, which he had been struggling with for some years and which Zelda’s breakdowns and the consequent expenses kept interrupting, was based on much of the same material—their lives together and Zelda’s illness. Zelda sent her novel off to Maxwell Perkins, Scott’s editor, without letting Scott see it in advance. For all he knew, her manuscript covered the same territory and would make his, when he finally had time to complete it, appear a mere copy of hers—perhaps a more carefully crafted work, but unoriginal. Scott remembered reading her much of what he had done on his novel, and he had no idea to what degree she had consciously or unconsciously used his ideas. He felt that his reputation and true calling as a writer lay with his novels, not his short stories, and he was nearly desperate to prove once again to himself and the literary world that he was a writer of stature, capable of a sustained work of depth, one that would reflect his maturity as a writer. He felt it a slap in the face that while his own novel had been interrupted and delayed at every turn, Zelda, safely secured away and provided for at his expense, had completed hers in less than a month.

  On the other hand, Zelda had just as much at stake as Scott did. She despised the idea of becoming a permanent invalid and passionately desired to become a productive person—to establish herself in a career and to earn money that would allow her to have an independent identity that would make her self-supporting, rather than a constant financial burden. Her completed manuscript provided tangible evidence of this determination: Even though she was seriously ill, she still applied herself, demonstrated great discipline, and was actually able to produce a complete and unified work. In addition, their lives together belonged to both of them equally. How could one of them own the exclusive rights to the material?

  Fitzgerald scholars have examined this conflict often and come to various conclusions, some seeing Scott’s point of view and others seeing Zelda’s. The dilemma was real and caused both of them pain. Yet with so much focus on the conflict, the admirable fact that Scott and Zelda did work it out successfully has been ignored. Scott wired Perkins, asking him not to consider Zelda’s book until he received a revised version. After reading the manuscript, Scott again wired Perkins on March 25, 1932, stating that revisions would be minor, would take only two weeks, and that, in his opinion, it would be a “fine novel” (Correspondence 290).

  When the lease was up on the Montgomery residence at the end of March, Scott left for Baltimore, where he stayed at the Rennert Hotel, collaborated with Zelda on her revisions, and house-hunted. The competition between Scott and Zelda over the question of writing continued and became especially bitter over the next year and a half; however, the outcome of this particular dispute proved to be a happy one. Zelda published Save Me the Waltz in 1932, and Scott published Tender Is the Night in 1934. Although much of the material overlapped, much did not. Each writer created a distinct vision. Despite the disappointing critical and commercial reception of both works, Zelda’s novel continues to be read with interest, and Scott’s is certainly now seen as the mature and deeply poignant work he believed it was. The conflict between the Fitzgeralds resulted in one of the most interesting pair of novels in American literary history. Zelda’s letters from this period reveal not only her continual struggle with a devastating mental illness but also her devotion to Scott, her unrelenting wit, and her determination to stay involved in the cultural scene of her day.

  114. TO SCOTT

  AL, 3 pp., on stationery embossed ZELDA at top left

  [February 1932]

  [Phipps Clinic, Baltimore, Maryland]

  Dearest—

  It seemed very sad to see you go
ing off in your new shoes alone. Little human vanities are somehow the most moving poignant things in people you love—Struggles and deep emotions when you are closely identified with are apt to assume the unconscious epic quality but the little things about people are always so touching—

  I didn’t finish your socks. It seems awful that you should be doing them again. You could easily teach Julia. I’m sure she’d be conscientious about it.

  I have been trying to make myself a picture of you. It’s just one of those usual black faces that look doughy and embryonic. I’d give anything to have my beautiful picture that looks as if you were inventing special heavens to go to on June Sundays.

  I brought the little chess set and the manual—so when you miss them don’t think the social revolutionists have looted the house.

  If Freeman goes to jail it will save you the humanitarian reproaches of having to fire him.

  The row of brick houses from the window at night present a friendly conspiracy to convince us of the warmth and pleasantness of life—but its cold here and there is no communication yet between the swept chilly pavements and the sky—

  Sunday we went to a museum and I saw some directoire wall lights with stars that would be perfect for the house that we’ll never have—

  You are my darling, darling, darling one and I love you so, D. O. Think of me. If my room is as empty to you as yours was when you were away you will find yourself living in an ether dream—as if there was a veil between you and reality—

   D. O—I love you—

  115. TO SCOTT

  ALS, 1 p.

  [February 1932]

  [Phipps Clinic, Baltimore, Maryland]

  Dearest Sweetheart:

  Just a note of apology about lunch: I’m terribly sorry I arrived so cross and worn-out. I do not seem to be strong enough to stand much strain at present and rather than have another string of unhappy times behind us, I’d rather just stay here until I’m quite well. We have been so close this last year and have so many pleasant memories of things we’ve done that I’d hate to spoil it in any way. I think we’re all agreed that your role is not be that of a doctor and in my present condition you have to mother me and bear with a lot of unpleasantness36 which is not part of how I feel towards you at all but the result of my health, simply—

  I love you dear heart—and it makes me miserable when I’ve ruined any time that we’ve shared. So please try to understand—how much I want you to love me—and forgive me again

   Zelda

  116. TO SCOTT

  ALS, 4 pp., on stationery embossed ZELDA at top left

  [February 1932]

  [Phipps Clinic, Baltimore, Maryland]

  Dearest:

  Thanks for the chess. It made me very lonely for you seeing our scores in the back. However, we are both such triumphant victors and such ignominious losers that it’s just as well that we abandoned the emotional up-heaval of our tournaments. I shall return a shark, after having worked out all the attacks in the book.

  Dearest:

  Do you think that comprehension is a latent ability to execute, or would we have to allow for our miscomprehensions of the possible content of pictures or music? I mean, I feel as if I could do so many of the anatomical drawings in the museum here and I wondered if that feeling is a message from un-tried unexplored powers to try art school. There are two Rodin drawings that show how the monkey felt who bore the first man. And there is a beautiful El Greco full of the mystery of weightless mass—though I have never quite appreciated your enthusiasm for him—outside the immensity of all primitives, serving up their souls in the boxes of an almost verbal emotion.

  I went again to Boléro—Sacriledge! Ida Reubenstein!37 That music was not meant to be danced but played on drums-heads made from the stretched skin of Spanish intestines. The threatening echoes of Audorran chasms and the massachistic trances of the Voo-doos ground to a chaff the spiritual membranes.

  Dearest:

  Out of half-a-week, I do not seemed to have gleaned the material for a letter. I have closed my ears to the music of the spheres apparently and am totally uninspired. Help! Tell me the most interesting thing that has happened since Capernicus, tell me the latest delusion of myself and my fellows, tell me the dope, and the words to a popular song and above all tell me that you love me—

  Dearest:

  Tell me that you love me

  Dearest:

  You were very kind and thoughtful to help Mamma move. The obscure balances of compensation will swing in your favor. I know Rosalind will have made it attractive.

  I feel almost constantly like those people in the flood pictures of the Bible and imagine myself with streaming hair and poignant cheekbones. Then I look in the mirror and am very sad to find only my own countenance instead of some diabolic manifestation of so much introspection to confront with my plagaries from the sorrows of man.

  You and Scotty are probably perfect people. Does Julia give you biscuits and stuffed tomatoes on a Sunday? And do the animals play at domesticity in the evenings.

  The Baltimore wharves are very Whistlerian—The afternoons and [are] soft and sweet. The audience at the concert was the most representative lot of old American faces—Lovely, really. I felt proud of coming from that sort of stock. There’s so little of it left.

  If you are coming here I will of cource wait and go with you to Tudor Hall.38 If not I want to try to arrange a trip—before I leave Maryland. Dearest:

  This is a Spartan world; but I suppose there is no luxe like the self indulgence of the lame and the halt.

   Dearest:

    Dearest,

     Dearest.

  117. TO SCOTT

  AL, 4 pp., on stationery embossed ZELDA at top left

  [February/March 1932]

  [Phipps Clinic, Baltimore, Maryland]

  Dearest:

  Do go into my room. Then it would be nicer when I get back. I’ve always tried to make you use things first and get into strange beds before me because any place you’ve been is a good place and anything you’ve touched is desirable. Perhaps you could wear that unfriendly bon-bon touch off my walls—I wish we had a house, dear. I found some material here with the stars on it that I searched so hard to find for “Ellerslie.”39 I feel very constructive. When you come up we must go to Tudor Hall. It would be convenient to get our furniture from Wilmington.

  If Trouble40 bites just rub his nose in it and give him a lump of sugar and recite the book of Esther to him. He will soon subside— though he may be a thorough-bred remember his is a proletariat race. He was really getting very obedient before I left. Why don’t you asked Rosalind to train him. Madamoiselle will try out her nursery military tactics on the poor beast until I would not blame him if he bit her in two. She’d probably taste like possum, anyway. Or let Uncle Bob do it. He treats the dog as if he were the scion of an ancient dynasty and Trouble follows him about very pertly with an air of tolerant superiority. Anyway, do not sacrifice the dog because I love him dearly. He’s crazy about Scottie and will probably bring us many burgulars, being just the sort of dog they adore.

  I love Baltimore. The shops are very sophisticated and their is amusement without end if you were here and we could amuse ourselves without bothering about cures. I have been reading about a thing called the “Lorraine glass” which old masters used for reducing the value of light. Sometimes I would be content to apply the thing to life and live in a world minus Chinese whites—it takes so long to get all your high-spots into the line of vision once they’re dispersed over the canvas. Incidentally, the thing accounts for the dark corners in the École Flamande.

  How is your work? Poor D. O. What do you do instead of coming in to see what I’m doing? When you were away I thought of myself as a chatelaine of all your effects which leant me a vast importance in my own eyes and made details seem more significant. Then, too, I cried a good deal and the reactions before and after kept me interested. And, Goofo, I loved you always and do now and I can
’t help thinking we will be happy if only the Lord will anoint me with some heavenly blessing of less questionable illumination than he has so far—My dear, my dear. I wish I could feel your fuzzy neck and watch you put on your finest shirt and pretend to be a worldly author of renown. Your things, when they smell of you, smell so warm and friendly like a clean open fire in a peasant mountain cottage.

  The money arrived—for which I thank you. I am getting an obsession about money. I don’t feel that I have a right to buy anything it’s so tragic to see respectable middle-aged men with clerical faces and independent expressions selling candy and apples.41

  I am glad you and Scottie are getting some time with each other. She feels very alone when you and I are to-gether. Being so close, we must move ectoplasmicly across a great many people’s visions like visitations from another world. I’m sure my family secretly thinks that you’re the crazy one: they’ve read stories like that, about incarcerated wive[s]. Your mother, of cource, thinks we are both in the Russian secret service and prefer bombs to June strawberries for breakfast—Love my darling. Please love me. I love you so; you would if you knew.

  118. TO SCOTT

  AL, 4 pp., on stationery embossed THE JOHNS HOPKINS HOSPITAL at top center

  [February/March 1932]

  [Phipps Clinic, Baltimore, Maryland]

  Dearest:

  The[re] was the most blinding exhibition of modernism here—a Matisse nude that makes your tongue hang out from a sense of opaque blue Mediterranean heat enclosed in a shuttered room—a consciously barbaric over-estimated Van Dongen of an African Prince— an immense Picasso, full of an attempt at mad detachment by a calculating and intellectual power. The more I see of his work, the more I am sure that Gertrude Stein has the only ones worth having and that his work is an idea, not a painting. Some beautiful things of Marquet that just escaped being purely illustrative, two wonderful Vlamincks full of a large and serious spirit and lit for a ghostly folk-tale. Sir William Orpen paraded his fashionable impotence and there were two compromises between a lyric sonlauda critical mind by Forain and a few jokes by the more esoteric of the French wags. I missed you so. We always have such fun pricking each others aesthetic pompousities, which we pretend to take very seriously. Sometimes I almost believe that our fundamental attraction is an intellectual suspicion as profound as Troubles propensities to perform on the parlor rug or the cat’s fascination for the Chinese lillies—Anyway, I am very lonely for you.