Back to the main theme, Stahr cannot bring himself to marry Thalia. It simply doesn’t seem part of his life. He doesn’t realize that she has become necessary to him. Previously his name has been associated with this or that well-known actress or society personality and Thalia is poor, unfortunate, and tagged with a middle class exterior which doesn’t fit in with the grandeur Stahr demands of life. When she realizes this she leaves him temporarily, leaves him not because he has no legal intentions toward her but because of the hurt of it, the remainder of a vanity from which she had considered herself free.
Stahr is now plunged directly into the fight to keep control of the company. His health breaks down very suddenly while he is on a trip to New York to see the stockholders. He almost dies in New York and comes back to find that Bradogue has seized upon his absence to take steps which Stahr considers unthinkable. He plunges back into work again to straighten things out.
Now, realizing how much he needs Thalia, things are patched up between them. For a day or two they are ideally happy. They are going to marry, but he must make one more trip East to clinch the victory which he has conciliated in the affairs of the company.
Now occurs the final episode which should give the novel its quality—and its unusualness. Do you remember about 1933 when a transport plane was wrecked on a mountain-side in the Southwest, and a Senator was killed?1 The thing that struck me about it was that the country people rifled the bodies of the dead. That is just what happens to this plane which is bearing Stahr from Hollywood. The angle is that of three children who, on a Sunday picnic, are the first to discover the wreckage. Among those killed in the accident besides Stahr are two other characters we have met. (I have not been able to go into the minor characters in this short summary.) Of the three children, two boys and a girl, who find the bodies, one boy rifles Stahr’s possessions; another, the body of a ruined ex-producer; and the girl, those of a moving picture actress. The possessions which the children find, symbolically determine their attitude toward their act of theft. The possessions of the moving picture actress tend the young girl to a selfish possessiveness; those of the unsuccessful producer sway one of the boys toward an irresolute attitude; while the boy who finds Stahr’s briefcase is the one who, after a week, saves and redeems all three by going to a local judge and making full confession.
The story swings once more back to Hollywood for its finale. During the story Thalia has never once been inside a studio. After Stahr’s death as she stands in front of the great plant which he created, she realizes now that she never will. She knows only that he loved her and that he was a great man and that he died for what he believed in.
This is a novel—not even faintly of the propoganda type. Indeed, Thalberg’s opinions were entirely different from mine in many respects that I will not go into. I’ve long chosen him for a hero (this has been in my mind for three years) because he is one of the half-dozen men I have known who were built on the grand scale. That it happens to coincide with a period in which the American Jews are somewhat uncertain in their morale, is for me merely a fortuitous coincidence. The racial angle shall scarcely be touched on at all. Certainly if Ziegfield2 could be made into an epic figure then what about Thalberg who was literally everything that Ziegfield wasn’t?
There’s nothing that worries me in the novel, nothing that seems uncertain. Unlike Tender is the Night it is not the story of deterioration—it is not depressing and not morbid in spite of the tragic ending. If one book could ever be “like” another I should say it is more “like” The Great Gatsby than any other of my books. But I hope it will be entirely different—I hope it will be something new, arouse new emotions perhaps even a new way of looking at certain phenomena. I have set it safely in a period of five years ago to obtain detachment, but now that Europe is tumbling about our ears this also seems to be for the best. It is an escape into a lavish, romantic past that perhaps will not come again into our time. It is certainly a novel I would like to read. Shall I write it?1
* * *
As I said, I would rather do this for a minimum price than continue this in-and-out business with the moving pictures where the rewards are great, but the satisfaction unsatisfactory and the income tax always mopping one up after the battle.
The minimum I would need to do this with peace of mind would be $15,000., payable $3000. in advance and $3000. on the first of November, the first of December, the first of January and the first of February, on delivery of the last installment. For this I would guarantee to do no other work, specifically pictures, to make any changes in the manuscript (but not to having them made for me) and to begin to deliver the copy the first of November, that is to give you fifteen thousand words by that date.
Unless these advances are compatible with your economy, Kenneth, the deal would be financially impossible for me under the present line up. Four months of sickness completely stripped me and until your telegram came I had counted on a buildup of many months work here before I could consider beginning the novel. Once again a telegram would help tremendously, as I am naturally on my toes and
TO: Zelda Fitzgerald
CC, 1 p. Princeton University
October
6
1939
Dearest Zelda:—
Living in the flotsam of the international situation as we all are,2 work has been difficult. I am almost penniless—I’ve done stories for Esquire because I’ve had no time for anything else with $100. bank balances. You will remember it took me an average of six weeks to get the mood of a Saturday Evening Post story.
But everything may be all right tomorrow. As I wrote you—or did I—friends sent Scottie back to college. That seemed more important than any pleasure for you or me. There is still two hundred dollars owing on her tuition—and I think I will probably manage to find it somewhere.
After her, you are my next consideration; I was properly moved by your mother’s attempt to send for you—but not enough to go overboard. For you to go on your first excursion without a nurse, without money, without even enough to pay your fare back, when Dr. Carroll is backing you, and when Scottie and I are almost equally as helpless in the press of circumstances as you—well, it is the ruse of a clever old lady whom I respect and admire and who loves you dearly but not wisely.
None of you are taking this very well. Rosalind and Newman who wouldn’t lend Scottie a few hundred for Vassar entrance, when, in 1925, I lent him five hundred—and you and I were living on a bank margin of less than I lent! It would, according to Rosalind, behind whom he hid, inconvenience them. I borrowed to lend him the money when his life-insurance policy lapsed! Live and learn. Gerald and Sar did lend me the money!—and as gracefully as always.
I ask only this of you—leave me in peace with my hemorrhages and my hopes, and what eventually will fight through as the right to save you, the permission to give you a chance.
Your life has been a disappointment, as mine has been too. But we haven’t gone through this sweat for nothing. Scottie has got to survive and this is the most important year of her life.
With Dearest Love Always,
5521 Amestoy Avenue
Encino, California
TO: Harold Ober
TLS, 1 p. Lilly Library
October 7 1939
Dear Harold:—
Thanks for your letter. Thanks for taking care of Scottie. And your saying that you had written me several letters and torn them up did something to clarify what I had begun to interpret as some sadistic desire to punish me. I sent the stories to Collier’s for the simple reason that it seemed difficult to deal with someone who treats you with dead silence. Against silence you can do nothing but fret and wonder. Your disinclination to back me is, of course, your own business, but representing me without communication (such as returning a story to me without even an airmail stamp) is pretty close to saying you were through with me.
I communicated directly with Collier’s and wrote a series of pieces for Esquire because we have to l
ive and eat and nothing can interfere with that. Can’t you regard this trouble as a question of a man who has had a bad break and leave out the moral problem as to whether or not, or how much it is his own fault? And if you think I can’t write, read these stories. They brought just two hundred and fifty apiece from Esquire, because I couldn’t wait to hear from you, because I had bank balances of five, ten and fifteen dollars.
Anyhow I have “lived dangerously” and I may quite possibly have to pay for it, but there are plenty of other people to tell me that and it doesn’t seem as if it should be you.
I don’t think there is any chance of fixing up that other story. It just isn’t good.
Sincerely,
Scott
P.S. Could you mail me back these stories? I have no copies. Don’t you agree that they are worth more than $250. ? One of them was offered to Collier’s in desperation—the first Pat Hobby story but Littauer wired that it “wasn’t a story” Who’s right?
5521 Amestoy Avenue
Encino, California
TO: Maxwell Perkins
October 1939
Wire. Princeton University
Encinco, California
PLEASE LUNCH IF YOU CAN WITH KENNETH LITTAUR OF COLLIERS IN RELATION TO SERIAL OF WHICH HE HAS THE OUTLINE. OBER TO BE ABSOLUTELY EXCLUDED FROM PRESENT STATE OF NEGOTIATIONS I HAD MY LAST DRINK LAST JUNE IF THAT MATTERS TELL LITTAUR THAT I FOOLISHLY TURNED DOWN LITERARY GUILD OFFER FOR TENDER. NIGHTLETTER ME IF YOU CAN. NOVEL OUTLINED ABSOLUTELY CONFIDENTIAL AS EVEN A HINT OF IT WOULD BE PLAGIARIZED OUT HERE EVER YOURS =
SCOTT FITZGERALD..
TO: Maxwell Perkins
October 14, 1939
Wire. Princeton University
Van Nuys, California
PLEASE DO GET IN TOUCH WITH LITTAUER HAVE OUTLINED EVERY SCENE AND SITUATION AND I THINK I CAN WRITE THIS BOOK AS IF IT WAS A BIOGRAPHY BECAUSE I KNOW THE CHARACTER OF THIS MAN EVER YOURS =
SCOTT FITZGERALD.
TO: Arnold Gingrich
TLS, 1 p. University of Michigan
October
14
1939
Dear Arnold:
Again the old ache of money. Again will you wire me, if you like it.1 Again will you wire the money to my Maginot Line: The Bank of America, Culver City.
Ever yours,
F Scott Fitzgerald
5521 Amestoy Avenue
Encino, California
TO: Arnold Gingrich
October 16, 1939
Wire. University of Michigan
Encino, California
THIS REQUEST SHOULD HAVE BEEN INCLOSED WITH PAT HOBBY’S CHRISTMAS WISH WHICH IS THREE THOUSAND WORDS LONG IF YOU CANT GO UP BY $150 I WILL HAVE TO SEND IT EAST I HATE TO SWITCH THIS SERIES BUT CANT AFFORD TO LOSE SO MUCH PLEASE WIRE ME =2
SCOTT.
TO: Maxwell Perkins
TLS, 1 p. Princeton University
October
20
1939
Dear Max:—
I have your telegram but meanwhile I found that Collier’s proposition was less liberal than I had expected. They want to pay $15,000. for the serial. But (without taking such steps as reneging on my income tax, letting go my life insurance for its surrender value, taking Scottie from college and putting Zelda in a public asylum) I couldn’t last four months on that. Certain debts have been run up so that the larger part of the $15,000. has been, so to speak, spent already. A contraction of my own living expenses to the barest minimum, that is to say a room in a boarding house, abandonment of all medical attention (I still see a doctor once a week) would still leave me at the end not merely penniless but even more in debt than I am now. Of course, I would have a property at the end, maybe. But I thought that I would have a property when I finished “Tender Is The Night”! On the other hand, if I, so to speak, go bankrupt, at least there will not be very much accumulating overhead.
However, if Collier’s would pay more it would give the necessary margin of security and it would give me $2,000. in hand when I finish the novel in February. I feel quite sure that if I wasn’t in such a tight spot Collier’s would not figure that $20,000. was exorbitant for such a serial.
The further complication of money to get started with—to take me through the first ten thousand words, was something I hope you might be able to work out between you. Certainly there is no use approaching Harold with it in any way. I would have to pay the piper in the end by paying him a cut on a deal on which he has done nothing. He is a stupid hard-headed man and has a highly erroneous idea of how I live; moreover he has made it a noble duty to piously depress me at every possible opportunity. I don’t want him to know anything about the subject of the novel.
Meanwhile I have sold in the last few months ten short stories to Esquire, at the munificent sum of $250. a piece. Only two of these were offered to another magazine because when you’re poor you sell things for a quarter of their value to realize quickly—otherwise there wouldn’t be any auctioneers.
Have you talked to Charlie Scribner or mulled over the question further? If you come to any decision which is possibly favorable, would you put it in the form of a night letter? I am enclosing a letter to Kenneth Littauer which will keep you up with the situation at present.
Ever yours,
Scott
5521 Amestoy Avenue
Encino, California
TO: Kenneth Littauer
CC, 2 pp. Princeton University
October
20
1939
Dear Kenneth:—
I was disappointed in our conversation the other day—I am no good on long distance and should have had notes in my hand.
I want to make plain how my proposition differs from yours. First there is the question of the total payment; second, the terms of payment, which would enable me to finish it in these straightened circumstances.
In any case I shall probably attack the novel. I have about decided to make a last liquidation of assets, put my wife in a public place, and my daughter to work and concentrate on it—simply take a furnished room and live on canned goods.
But writing it under such conditions I should want to market it with the chance of getting a higher price for it.
It was to avoid doing all this, that I took you up on the idea of writing it on installments. I too had figured on the same price per installment you had paid for a story, but I had no idea that you would want to pack more into an installment than your five thousand word maximum for a story. So the fifty thousand words at $2500. for each 5000 word installment would have come to $25,000. In addition, I had figured that a consecutive story is easier rather than harder to write than the same number of words divided into short stories because the characters and settings are determined in advance, so my idea had been to ask you $20,000. for the whole job. But $15,000.—that would be too marginal. It would be better to write the whole thing in poverty and freedom of movement with the finished product. Fifteen thousand would leave me in more debt than I am now.
On the question of the terms of payment, my proposition was to include the exact amount which you offer in your letter only I had divided it, so that the money would come in batches of $3000. every four weeks, or something like that.
When we had our first phone conversation the fact that I did not have enough to start on, further complicated the matter; I have hoped that perhaps that’s where Scribner’s would come in. A telegram from Max told me he was going to see you again but I’ve heard nothing further.
I hope that this will at least clear up any ambiguity. If the proposition is all off, I am very sorry. I regret now that I did not go on with the novel last April when I had some money, instead of floundering around with a lot of disassociated ideas that were half-heartedly attempted and did not really come to anything. I know you are really interested, and thank you for the trouble you have taken.
Ever Yours Gratefully
P.S. Whether the matter is dead or just dangling I still don’t want Ober t
o have anything to do with the negotiation. For five years I feel he has been going around thinking of me as a lost soul, and conveying that impression to others. It makes me gloomy when I see his name on an envelope.
5521 Amestoy Avenue
Encino, California
TO: Dr. Robert S. Carroll
TL, 2 pp.—draft with holograph revisions Princeton University
October
20
1939
Dear Dr. Carroll: (or Dr. Suitt)
I have been in bed for ten days with a slight flare-up of T.B. Regularly three mornings a week, come letters such as these from Zelda. I blew up the other day and wired her sister in Montgomery that Zelda could leave the hospital only on condition that I can not be responsible for setting loose a woman who, at any time may relapse into total insanity. A divorce would have to be obtained first.
It is the old story down there—that the only thing that counts is the peace of mind of an old lady of eighty. Unless you could assure me (and I know from your letters that you can’t) that Zelda is 80% certain of holding her ground outside and not becoming a general menace or a private charge, I don’t see how I can ask you to release her—except on the aforesaid basis of an agreed-upon divorce.
My daughter is of age now and can probably manage to keep out of her mother’s way, so if the Sayres want to take over they are welcome. But I do not want a maniac at large with any legal claims upon me. She has cost me everything a woman can cost a man—his health, his work, his money. Mrs. Brinson and Mrs. Sayre have made fragmentary attempts to act impartially, but on the whole, have behaved badly, from the moment their first horrible accusation in 1932 that I put Zelda away for ulterior purposes. Mrs. Smith is simply a fool. I wish none of them any harm and I think Mrs Brinson has tried intermittently to execercise some of her Father’s sense of justice but in these ten years I feel that every fragment of obligation on my part has been gradually washed out.
A Life in Letters Page 49