Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald UK (Illustrated)

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  December. Cool winds at night now, and damp, chilly mornings on the drill-grounds. As the heat faded, Anthony found himself increasingly glad to be alive. Renewed strangely through his body, he worried little and existed in the present with a sort of animal content. It was not that Gloria or the life that Gloria represented was less often in his thoughts — it was simply that she became, day by day, less real, less vivid. For a week they had corresponded passionately, almost hysterically — then by an unwritten agreement they had ceased to write more than twice, and then once, a week. She was bored, she said; if his brigade was to be there a long time she was coming down to join him. Mr. Haight was going to be able to submit a stronger brief than he had expected, but doubted that the appealed case would come up until late spring. Muriel was in the city doing Red Cross work, and they went out together rather often. What would Anthony think if she went into the Red Cross? Trouble was she had heard that she might have to bathe negroes in alcohol, and after that she hadn’t felt so patriotic. The city was full of soldiers and she’d seen a lot of boys she hadn’t laid eyes on for years….

  Anthony did not want her to come South. He told himself that this was for many reasons — he needed a rest from her and she from him. She would be bored beyond measure in town, and she would be able to see Anthony for only a few hours each day. But in his heart he feared that it was because he was attracted to Dorothy. As a matter of fact he lived in terror that Gloria should learn by some chance or intention of the relation he had formed. By the end of a fortnight the entanglement began to give him moments of misery at his own faithlessness. Nevertheless, as each day ended he was unable to withstand the lure that would draw him irresistibly out of his tent and over to the telephone at the Y.M.C.A.

  “Dot.”

  “Yes?”

  “I may be able to get in to-night.”

  “I’m so glad.”

  “Do you want to listen to my splendid eloquence for a few starry hours?”

  “Oh, you funny — “ For an instant he had a memory of five years before — of Geraldine. Then —

  “I’ll arrive about eight.”

  At seven he would be in a jitney bound for the city, where hundreds of little Southern girls were waiting on moonlit porches for their lovers. He would be excited already for her warm retarded kisses, for the amazed quietude of the glances she gave him — glances nearer to worship than any he had ever inspired. Gloria and he had been equals, giving without thought of thanks or obligation. To this girl his very caresses were an inestimable boon. Crying quietly she had confessed to him that he was not the first man in her life; there had been one other — he gathered that the affair had no sooner commenced than it had been over.

  Indeed, so far as she was concerned, she spoke the truth. She had forgotten the clerk, the naval officer, the clothier’s son, forgotten her vividness of emotion, which is true forgetting. She knew that in some opaque and shadowy existence some one had taken her — it was as though it had occurred in sleep.

  Almost every night Anthony came to town. It was too cool now for the porch, so her mother surrendered to them the tiny sitting room, with its dozens of cheaply framed chromos, its yard upon yard of decorative fringe, and its thick atmosphere of several decades in the proximity of the kitchen. They would build a fire — then, happily, inexhaustibly, she would go about the business of love. Each evening at ten she would walk with him to the door, her black hair in disarray, her face pale without cosmetics, paler still under the whiteness of the moon. As a rule it would be bright and silver outside; now and then there was a slow warm rain, too indolent, almost, to reach the ground.

  “Say you love me,” she would whisper.

  “Why, of course, you sweet baby.”

  “Am I a baby?” This almost wistfully.

  “Just a little baby.”

  She knew vaguely of Gloria. It gave her pain to think of it, so she imagined her to be haughty and proud and cold. She had decided that Gloria must be older than Anthony, and that there was no love between husband and wife. Sometimes she let herself dream that after the war Anthony would get a divorce and they would be married — but she never mentioned this to Anthony, she scarcely knew why. She shared his company’s idea that he was a sort of bank clerk — she thought that he was respectable and poor. She would say:

  “If I had some money, darlin’, I’d give ev’y bit of it to you…. I’d like to have about fifty thousand dollars.”

  “I suppose that’d be plenty,” agreed Anthony.

  — In her letter that day Gloria had written: “I suppose if we could settle for a million it would be better to tell Mr. Haight to go ahead and settle. But it’d seem a pity….”

  … “We could have an automobile,” exclaimed Dot, in a final burst of triumph.

  AN IMPRESSIVE OCCASION

  Captain Dunning prided himself on being a great reader of character. Half an hour after meeting a man he was accustomed to place him in one of a number of astonishing categories — fine man, good man, smart fellow, theorizer, poet, and “worthless.” One day early in February he caused Anthony to be summoned to his presence in the orderly tent.

  “Patch,” he said sententiously, “I’ve had my eye on you for several weeks.”

  Anthony stood erect and motionless.

  “And I think you’ve got the makings of a good soldier.”

  He waited for the warm glow, which this would naturally arouse, to cool — and then continued:

  “This is no child’s play,” he said, narrowing his brows.

  Anthony agreed with a melancholy “No, sir.”

  “It’s a man’s game — and we need leaders.” Then the climax, swift, sure, and electric: “Patch, I’m going to make you a corporal.”

  At this point Anthony should have staggered slightly backward, overwhelmed. He was to be one of the quarter million selected for that consummate trust. He was going to be able to shout the technical phrase, “Follow me!” to seven other frightened men.

  “You seem to be a man of some education,” said Captain Dunning.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “That’s good, that’s good. Education’s a great thing, but don’t let it go to your head. Keep on the way you’re doing and you’ll be a good soldier.”

  With these parting words lingering in his ears, Corporal Patch saluted, executed a right about face, and left the tent.

  Though the conversation amused Anthony, it did generate the idea that life would be more amusing as a sergeant or, should he find a less exacting medical examiner, as an officer. He was little interested in the work, which seemed to belie the army’s boasted gallantry. At the inspections one did not dress up to look well, one dressed up to keep from looking badly.

  But as winter wore away — the short, snowless winter marked by damp nights and cool, rainy days — he marvelled at how quickly the system had grasped him. He was a soldier — all who were not soldiers were civilians. The world was divided primarily into those two classifications.

  It occurred to him that all strongly accentuated classes, such as the military, divided men into two kinds: their own kind — and those without. To the clergyman there were clergy and laity, to the Catholic there were Catholics and non-Catholics, to the negro there were blacks and whites, to the prisoner there were the imprisoned and the free, and to the sick man there were the sick and the well…. So, without thinking of it once in his lifetime, he had been a civilian, a layman, a non-Catholic, a Gentile, white, free, and well….

  As the American troops were poured into the French and British trenches he began to find the names of many Harvard men among the casualties recorded in the Army and Navy Journal. But for all the sweat and blood the situation appeared unchanged, and he saw no prospect of the war’s ending in the perceptible future. In the old chronicles the right wing of one army always defeated the left wing of the other, the left wing being, meanwhile, vanquished by the enemy’s right. After that the mercenaries fled. It had been so simple, in those days, almost as
if prearranged….

  Gloria wrote that she was reading a great deal. What a mess they had made of their affairs, she said. She had so little to do now that she spent her time imagining how differently things might have turned out. Her whole environment appeared insecure — and a few years back she had seemed to hold all the strings in her own little hand….

  In June her letters grew hurried and less frequent. She suddenly ceased to write about coming South.

  DEFEAT

  March in the country around was rare with jasmine and jonquils and patches of violets in the warming grass. Afterward he remembered especially one afternoon of such a fresh and magic glamour that as he stood in the rifle-pit marking targets he recited “Atalanta in Calydon” to an uncomprehending Pole, his voice mingling with the rip, sing, and splatter of the bullets overhead.

  “When the hounds of spring …”

  Spang!

  “Are on winter’s traces …”

  Whirr-r-r-r! …

  “The mother of months …”

  “Hey! Come to! Mark three-e-e! …”

  In town the streets were in a sleepy dream again, and together Anthony and Dot idled in their own tracks of the previous autumn until he began to feel a drowsy attachment for this South — a South, it seemed, more of Algiers than of Italy, with faded aspirations pointing back over innumerable generations to some warm, primitive Nirvana, without hope or care. Here there was an inflection of cordiality, of comprehension, in every voice. “Life plays the same lovely and agonizing joke on all of us,” they seemed to say in their plaintive pleasant cadence, in the rising inflection terminating on an unresolved minor.

  He liked his barber shop where he was “Hi, corporal!” to a pale, emaciated young man, who shaved him and pushed a cool vibrating machine endlessly over his insatiable head. He liked “Johnston’s Gardens” where they danced, where a tragic negro made yearning, aching music on a saxophone until the garish hall became an enchanted jungle of barbaric rhythms and smoky laughter, where to forget the uneventful passage of time upon Dorothy’s soft sighs and tender whisperings was the consummation of all aspiration, of all content.

  There was an undertone of sadness in her character, a conscious evasion of all except the pleasurable minutiae of life. Her violet eyes would remain for hours apparently insensate as, thoughtless and reckless, she basked like a cat in the sun. He wondered what the tired, spiritless mother thought of them, and whether in her moments of uttermost cynicism she ever guessed at their relationship.

  On Sunday afternoons they walked along the countryside, resting at intervals on the dry moss in the outskirts of a wood. Here the birds had gathered and the clusters of violets and white dogwood; here the hoar trees shone crystalline and cool, oblivious to the intoxicating heat that waited outside; here he would talk, intermittently, in a sleepy monologue, in a conversation of no significance, of no replies.

  July came scorching down. Captain Dunning was ordered to detail one of his men to learn blacksmithing. The regiment was filling up to war strength, and he needed most of his veterans for drill-masters, so he selected the little Italian, Baptiste, whom he could most easily spare. Little Baptiste had never had anything to do with horses. His fear made matters worse. He reappeared in the orderly room one day and told Captain Dunning that he wanted to die if he couldn’t be relieved. The horses kicked at him, he said; he was no good at the work. Finally he fell on his knees and besought Captain Dunning, in a mixture of broken English and scriptural Italian, to get him out of it. He had not slept for three days; monstrous stallions reared and cavorted through his dreams.

  Captain Dunning reproved the company clerk (who had burst out laughing), and told Baptiste he would do what he could. But when he thought it over he decided that he couldn’t spare a better man. Little Baptiste went from bad to worse. The horses seemed to divine his fear and take every advantage of it. Two weeks later a great black mare crushed his skull in with her hoofs while he was trying to lead her from her stall.

  In mid-July came rumors, and then orders, that concerned a change of camp. The brigade was to move to an empty cantonment, a hundred miles farther south, there to be expanded into a division. At first the men thought they were departing for the trenches, and all evening little groups jabbered in the company street, shouting to each other in swaggering exclamations: “Su-u-ure we are!” When the truth leaked out, it was rejected indignantly as a blind to conceal their real destination. They revelled in their own importance. That night they told their girls in town that they were “going to get the Germans.” Anthony circulated for a while among the groups — then, stopping a jitney, rode down to tell Dot that he was going away.

  She was waiting on the dark veranda in a cheap white dress that accentuated the youth and softness of her face.

  “Oh,” she whispered, “I’ve wanted you so, honey. All this day.”

  “I have something to tell you.”

  She drew him down beside her on the swinging seat, not noticing his ominous tone.

  “Tell me.”

  “We’re leaving next week.”

  Her arms seeking his shoulders remained poised upon the dark air, her chin tipped up. When she spoke the softness was gone from her voice.

  “Leaving for France?”

  “No. Less luck than that. Leaving for some darn camp in Mississippi.”

  She shut her eyes and he could see that the lids were trembling.

  “Dear little Dot, life is so damned hard.”

  She was crying upon his shoulder.

  “So damned hard, so damned hard,” he repeated aimlessly; “it just hurts people and hurts people, until finally it hurts them so that they can’t be hurt ever any more. That’s the last and worst thing it does.”

  Frantic, wild with anguish, she strained him to her breast.

  “Oh, God!” she whispered brokenly, “you can’t go way from me. I’d die.”

  He was finding it impossible to pass off his departure as a common, impersonal blow. He was too near to her to do more than repeat “Poor little Dot. Poor little Dot.”

  “And then what?” she demanded wearily.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re my whole life, that’s all. I’d die for you right now if you said so. I’d get a knife and kill myself. You can’t leave me here.”

  Her tone frightened him.

  “These things happen,” he said evenly.

  “Then I’m going with you.” Tears were streaming down her checks. Her mouth was trembling in an ecstasy of grief and fear.

  “Sweet,” he muttered sentimentally, “sweet little girl. Don’t you see we’d just be putting off what’s bound to happen? I’ll be going to France in a few months — “

  She leaned away from him and clinching her fists lifted her face toward the sky.

  “I want to die,” she said, as if moulding each word carefully in her heart.

  “Dot,” he whispered uncomfortably, “you’ll forget. Things are sweeter when they’re lost. I know — because once I wanted something and got it. It was the only thing I ever wanted badly, Dot. And when I got it it turned to dust in my hands.”

  “All right.”

  Absorbed in himself, he continued:

  “I’ve often thought that if I hadn’t got what I wanted things might have been different with me. I might have found something in my mind and enjoyed putting it in circulation. I might have been content with the work of it, and had some sweet vanity out of the success. I suppose that at one time I could have had anything I wanted, within reason, but that was the only thing I ever wanted with any fervor. God! And that taught me you can’t have anything, you can’t have anything at all. Because desire just cheats you. It’s like a sunbeam skipping here and there about a room. It stops and gilds some inconsequential object, and we poor fools try to grasp it — but when we do the sunbeam moves on to something else, and you’ve got the inconsequential part, but the glitter that made you want it is gone — “ He broke off uneasily. She had ris
en and was standing, dry-eyed, picking little leaves from a dark vine.

  “Dot — “

  “Go way,” she said coldly. “What? Why?”

  “I don’t want just words. If that’s all you have for me you’d better go.”

  “Why, Dot — “

  “What’s death to me is just a lot of words to you. You put ‘em together so pretty.”

  “I’m sorry. I was talking about you, Dot.”

  “Go way from here.”

  He approached her with arms outstretched, but she held him away.

  “You don’t want me to go with you,” she said evenly; “maybe you’re going to meet that — that girl — “ She could not bring herself to say wife. “How do I know? Well, then, I reckon you’re not my fellow any more. So go way.”

  For a moment, while conflicting warnings and desires prompted Anthony, it seemed one of those rare times when he would take a step prompted from within. He hesitated. Then a wave of weariness broke against him. It was too late — everything was too late. For years now he had dreamed the world away, basing his decisions upon emotions unstable as water. The little girl in the white dress dominated him, as she approached beauty in the hard symmetry of her desire. The fire blazing in her dark and injured heart seemed to glow around her like a flame. With some profound and uncharted pride she had made herself remote and so achieved her purpose.

  “I didn’t — mean to seem so callous, Dot.”

  “It don’t matter.”

  The fire rolled over Anthony. Something wrenched at his bowels, and he stood there helpless and beaten.

  “Come with me, Dot — little loving Dot. Oh, come with me. I couldn’t leave you now — “

  With a sob she wound her arms around him and let him support her weight while the moon, at its perennial labor of covering the bad complexion of the world, showered its illicit honey over the drowsy street.

  THE CATASTROPHE

  Early September in Camp Boone, Mississippi. The darkness, alive with insects, beat in upon the mosquito-netting, beneath the shelter of which Anthony was trying to write a letter. An intermittent chatter over a poker game was going on in the next tent, and outside a man was strolling up the company street singing a current bit of doggerel about “K-K-K-Katy.”