Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald UK (Illustrated)

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  THE HUMAN SHELL

  At two-thirty this afternoon

  the Countess of Frejus will

  be fired out of this cannon.

  A crowd of intellectuals was already inspecting the enormous piece of ordinance but Dr. Wilkinson stationed himself beside the net which was to catch the living bullet at the end of its trajectory.

  In a few minutes a little group approached the cannon and Dr. Wilkinson’s heart put-putted like a motor boat. There, not a hundred feet away, dressed in the costume of an aviatrix, stood the girl whose life he had followed in the headlines. For him this was the high point of a somewhat humdrum and defeated life — he felt a great excitement, almost a reverence, in the face of the moment.

  There was a sudden deep booming sound and a great pull of smoke from the mouth of the cannon; on the instant the form of the Countess of Frejus, nee Gwendolyn Davies, arched gracefully into the air, described a perfect parabola and plumped gently into the net beside which he stood. In a moment she had clambered out and the doctor advanced toward her.

  “Good afternoon,” he said and introduced himself as a doctor who had once attended her.

  “So it was you,” she said politely. “I’m afraid 1 must have seemed ungracious in leaving the hospital so quickly.”

  “But I understand.” he assured her. “In fact I have been greatly interested in your career.”

  “You’re not a reporter too.”

  “No indeed. My interest is personal. I do want to ask you a few questions.”

  Her lovely face clouded.

  “I hate questions,” she said.

  “But I have wailed so long. Come. Countess — I simply want you to explain certain remarks you made here and there. For instance when you ran away from Delphis you said you ‘did not want to raise the roof,’ and when you got married you said you had ‘always really belonged to Mr. Hasbrouk.’ But you neer said anything about why you jumped out the window or off the boat. Couldn’t you give me a little clue for my own satisfaction?”

  She looked at him closely.

  “And if I won’t tell you?”

  He had his trump in reserve.

  “Then, Countess, I shall be forced to give information to the police of Delphis and collect the reward for information leading to your whereabouts. While I have conceived a great admiration for you, there are others who might judge otherwise. It would be a salutory story for prospective runaways to find you ending up as an artificial shell.”

  She gave a little laugh.

  “But I’m not an artificial shell,” she said. “The joke’s on you — I’m full of dynamite so I always thought I’d go off.”

  Even as this explanation issued from her lips she exploded with a tremendous hang, which was heard as tar as New York City.

  There were headlines in all the papers but Dr. Wilkinson was unfortunately killed by the concussion and did not see them. And so another glamor girl passes into history.

  SHAGGY’S MORNING

  I woke up after a lousy dream, and as soon as the old beezer came alive I went around the yard trying to pick up something interesting, but the wind was too strong.

  There was an old biscuit in my dish and if there’s anything gloomier than one dead biscuit on a windy morning I don’t know about it.

  The Brain came downstairs early like she usually does ever since she began staying away all day long. I gave her a rush, and I meant it, too. I’m not one of these diggities that think their boss is a god, even if he’s an old nigger that smells like everybody that gave him his clothes — but really anybody would have to hand it to the Brain.

  Since I grew up and got the idea that they don’t go in much for any perfumes except their own, I never had any trouble with her — except the time I brought her that bone in the middle of the night and she hit me in the eye with it.

  I was hoping it was about the right day to go out in the country and swim, but nothing doing — she got into her moving room at the usual time and shoved off, and I had to amuse myself. It wasn’t the first time I wished I had something regular to do.

  My friend across the street was waiting for his chow, which he gets in the morning, so I had a workout with the little squirt next door. He came tearing over, cursing and threatening, because he knew I never hurt him.

  “You big, clumsy tub of hair, I could run rings around you, and I’m out to prove it!”

  “Yeah?” I said, kind of amused, because he talks as if he meant it, and we went through a routine with a lot of false starts, charges, leg and throat holds, rollaways, and escapes. It was all right, and after, while we were panting plenty, but I don’t get much of a workout with him, because he uses up so much time dodging and doing circles. I like a dog to go in and take it. Even a little fellow like him. Once he let a tooth slip and nipped me, and I gave him hell.

  “Don’t take advantage, or I’ll tear your coat off.”

  “Aw, don’t get sore.”

  “Then don’t let that tooth slip again.”

  While we were resting he said: “What are you doing this morning?”

  “What’s on your mind? You won’t get me out after some cat again. Some dogs never grow up.”

  “It’s no cat.”

  “Then what is it? Meat — or girls?”

  “I’ll take you there and you can see for yourself.”

  “You’re generous all of a sudden. How big’s the dog that’s there now?”

  While we waited for my friend we did some barking — or rather the squirt did most of it. These little tykes can yelp all day without getting hoarse. He made some circles around a bunch of kids heading for school, and I had a laugh when he got a kick in the ribs and gave out a real yelp. I only barked a little in the base to stretch my throat — I’m not one of the kind always shooting off their mouth.

  After my friend came out we went with the squirt to see what he’d found. Just like I thought, it was nothing — a garbage can with a lid you could nose off. I got a whiff of some perfume, too, that bucked me up for a minute, but it was yesterday’s, so my friend and I roughed up the squirt for wasting our time and went off on our own.

  We followed a tall lady for a while — no particular reason except she had a parcel with meat in it — we knew we wouldn’t get any, but you never can tell. Sometimes I just feel like shutting my nose and just following somebody pretending they’re yours, or that they’re taking you somewhere. After a couple of streets I picked up a new perfume.

  “There’s some romance,” I said.

  “Say you got a nose.” He tried for it, but didn’t get anything.

  “I must be getting old. I can always remember shapes, but I get mixed up on perfume.”

  “Shucks, it’s just the wind,” I said, to make him feel all right, but he has got a weak nose. Now me, I got a fine nose, but I’m weak on shapes. In a minute, though, he got it, and we left the lady and started back down the street at a trot.

  Say we must have followed a mile, both of us getting more and more disgusted.

  “What’s the use?” my friend said. “Either I’m crazy or we’re not following one scent, but about ten.”

  “I get about twenty.”

  “What say we quit?”

  “Well, we’re pretty near now.”

  We got up on a hill presently and looked down — and, say, I haven’t seen so many curs since the dog show.

  “Sold,” I says, and we started home.

  The Brain wasn’t there yet, but the Beard was. He got out that damn pole and tried to kid me again, holding it out and jabbering — a long time ago I figured out that his object is to see if I’m fool enough to jump over it. But Idon’t bite, just walk round it. Then he tried the trick they all do — held my paws and tried to balance me up on the end of my spine. I never could figure out the point of that one.

  He started the music-box, that tune that makes my ear hum and starts me howling — so I lammed it out and down the street. A dog passed me carrying a newspaper looking all pleased w
ith himself — but the one time I tried that racket I forgot what it was I was carrying and started to bury it, and when the Beard saw me, was he sore!

  Pretty soon I saw my friend coming down the street. He was a fine big dog. He stopped and visited for a minute, with a child he knew, and then he saw me, and came running in my direction. What happened next I couldn’t see. It was noon, and there were lots of moving rooms at the cross street — the first thing I knew was that one of them had stopped and then another, and that several people had gotten out. I hurried over with some men.

  It was my friend, lying on his side and bleeding out of his mouth; his eyes were open, but his breathing was wrong. Everybody was excited, and they pulled him up on the lawn: by and by his little boy and girl ran out of their house and came over and began to cry. I and another dog that knew him well went up to him, and I wanted to lick him, but when I came really close he snarled, “Scram!” and got half up on his haunches. He thought I was going to eat him just because he was down.

  The little boy said, “Get away, you!” and it made me feel bad because I’ve never eaten a dog in my life, and would not unless I was very hungry. But of course, I went away so as not to worry him, and waited until they carried him away on a blanket. After that we sniffed at the blood in the street and one dog licked it.

  In the front yard I howled. I don’t know why — then I went to look for the Brain. When I didn’t find her I began to figure that maybe something had happened to her, too, and she wouldn’t be back any more. I went up on the porch and waited, but she didn’t come, so I scratched on the screen and went in and howled a little at the Beard, who gave me a head scratch.

  Presently I went to the door, and there was the Brain, getting out of her moving room — I made a rush for her anyhow, and put my nose in her hand and almost tripped her going upstairs. It was good to know she was home. She gave me dinner — the ground beef again and biscuit and milk and a good bone. I picked out the meat first; then I drank the milk and licked the biscuits, but didn’t eat them; then I polished my teeth on the bone and buried it shallow — I must have a hundred bones around here, and I don’t know why I save them. I never find them again unless accidentally, but I just can’t stand leaving them around.

  Afterwards I started to go over and see my friend, but there was nobody around except the little girl sitting in the swing and crying.

  THREE ACTS OF MUSIC

  They could hardly hear it for awhile. It was a slow gleam of pale blue and creamy pink. Then there was a tall room where there were many young people and finally they began to feel it and hear it.

  What were they — no. This is about music.

  He went to the band-stand; the piano player let him lean over his shoulder to read:

  “From No, No, Nanette by Vincent Youmans.”

  “Thank you,” he said, “I’d like to drop something in the horn but when an interne has a dollar bill and two coins in the world he might get married instead.”

  “Never mind, doctor. That’s about what I had when I got married last winter.”

  When he came back to the table she said:

  “Did you find out who wrote that thing?”

  “No! When do we go from here?”

  “When they stop playing ‘Tea for Two.’”

  Later as she came out of the women’s dressing room, she asked the man: “Who played it?”

  “My God, how do I know. The band played it.”

  It dripped out the door now:

  Tea … two

  Two … tea

  “We can never get married. I’m not even a nurse yet.”

  “Well, let’s kill the idea — let’s spend the rest of our lives going around and listening to tunes. What did you say that writer’s name was?”

  “What did you say? You went over and looked, din’t you?”

  “Didn’t you,” he corrected her.

  “You’re so swell all the time.”

  “Well, at least I found out who wrote it.”

  “Who?”

  “Somebody named Vincent Youmans.”

  She hummed it over:

  And you …

  … for me

  And me…

  … for you

  Al — o-o-n-n…

  Their arms went about each other for a moment in the corridor outside the red room.

  “If you lost the dollar bill and the other nickel I’d still marry you,” she said.

  This is now years later but there was still music. There was “All Alone” and “Remember” and “Always” and “Blue Skies” and “How About Me.” He was back from Vienna but it didn’t seem to matter so much as it had before.

  “Wait in here a moment,” she said outside the operating room. “Turn on the radio if you want to.”

  “You’ve got mighty important, haven’t you?”

  He turned on:

  Re-mem-ber the night

  the night you said —

  “Are you high-hatting me?” she inquired, “or did medicine begin and end in Vienna?”

  “No it didn’t,” he said humbly. “I’m impressed — evidently you can supervise the resident or the surgeons — “

  “I’ve got an operation of Doctor Menafee’s coming in and there’s a tonsillectomy that’s got to be postponed. I’m a working girl. I’m supervising the operating room.”

  “But you’ll go out with me tonight — won’t you? We’ll get them to play ‘All Alone.’”

  She paused, regarding him.

  “Yes, I’ve been all alone for a lot of time now. I’m somebody — you don’t seem to realize it. Say who is this Berlin anyhow? He was a singer in a dive, wasn’t he? My brother ran a roadhouse and he gave me money to get started with. But I thought I was away from all that. Who is this Irving Berlin? I hear he’s just married a society girl — “

  “He’s just married — “

  She had to go: “Excuse me. I’ve got to fire an interne before this gets going.”

  “I was an interne once. I understand.”

  They were out at last. She was making three thousand a year now and he was still being of a conservative old Vermont family.

  “This Irving Berlin now. Is he happy with this Mackay girl? Those songs don’t sound — “

  “I guess he is. The point is how happy are you?”

  “Oh, we discussed that so long ago. What do I matter? I matter in a big way — but when I was a little country girl your family decided —

  “Not you,” she said at the alarm in his eyes. “I know you never did.”

  “I knew something else about you. I knew three things — that you were a Yonkers’ girl — and didn’t pronounce the language like I did — “

  “And that I wanted to marry you. Let’s forget it. Your friend Mr. Berlin can talk better than we can. Listen to him.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “No. But lisden, I mean.”

  Not for just a year but —

  “Why do you say my friend Mr. Berlin? I never saw the guy.”

  “I thought maybe you’d met him in Vienna in all these years.”

  “I never saw him.”

  “He married the girl — didn’t he?”

  “What are you crying about?”

  “I’m not crying. I just said he married the girl — didn’t he? Isn’t that all right to say? When you’ve come so far — when — “

  “You are crying,” he said.

  “No, I’m not. Honest. It’s this work. It wears down your eyes. Let’s dance.”

  — o — ver — head

  They were playing.

  Blue skies o —

  — ver head

  She looked up out of his arms suddenly.

  “Do you suppose they’re happy?”

  “Who?”

  “Irving Berlin and the Mackay girl?”

  “How should I know whether they’re happy? I tell you I never knew them — never saw them.”

  A moment later she whispered:

&nb
sp; “We all knew them.”

  This story is about tunes. Perhaps the tunes swing the people or the people the tunes. Anyhow:

  “We’ll never do it,” he remarked with some finality.

  “Smoke gets in your eyes,” said the music.

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re too old. You wouldn’t want to anyhow — you’ve got that job at Duke’s hospital.”

  “I just got it.”

  “Well, you’ve just got it. And it’s going to pay you four thousand.”

  “That’s probably half what you make.”

  “You mean you want to try it anyhow?”

  When your heart’s on fire

  “No. I guess you’re right. It’s too late.”

  “ — Too late for what?”

  “Just too late — like you told me.”

  “But I didn’t mean it.”

  “You were right though… Be quiet:

  Lovely

  to look at

  Romantic to know

  “You’re all those things in the song,” he said passionately.

  “What? Lovely to look at and all that? You should have told me that fifteen years ago. Now I’m superintendent of a woman’s hospital.” She added: “And I’m still a woman.” Then she added: “But I’m not the woman you knew any more. I’m another woman.”

  — lovely to look at, the orchestra repeated.

  “Yes, I was lovely to look at when I was nothing — when I couldn’t even talk plain — “

  “I never knew — “

  “Oh let’s not go over it. Listen to what they’re playing.”

  “It’s called ‘Lovely to Look At.’”

  “Who’s it by?”

  “A man named Jerome Kern.”

  “Did you meet him when you went back to Europe the second time? Is he a friend of yours?”

  “I never saw him. What gives you the impression I met all these big shots? I’m a doctor. Not a musician.”

  She wondered about her own bitterness.