A Companion to the American Short Story

by Alfred Bendixen

  and the “ last suspiration … sometimes a smart epigram, according to the style of the

  story or the ‘ line ’ expected from the author ” (61). A decade and a half later, Edward

  J. O ’ Brien, editor of the infl uential Best Short Stories series from 1915 to 1941 and an

  early supporter of Hemingway, likewise dismissed the prefabricated story arc in The

  Dance of the Machines: The American Short Story and the Industrial Age (1929), a highly

  idiosyncratic polemic that links the popularity of the fi ve - part plot to the contempo-

  raneous rage for standardization and effi ciency.

  Correspondence reveals that Fitzgerald was familiar with Freytag. While hospital-

  ized in 1930 at Les Rives de Prangins in Nyon, Switzerland, Zelda Fitzgerald

  requested that Scott send her their copy of

  Technique of the Drama

  so she might

  overcome uncertainties of form in her own attempts at writing ( Dear Scott, Dearest

  Zelda 83). Fitzgerald most likely did not study Freytag during his apprenticeship a

  decade earlier, but he did scrutinize popular periodical fi ction, most notably that of

  the Saturday Evening Post . For a dispiriting six months in early 1919, during a period

  of estrangement from his future wife, while living in New York City and eking out

  a meager existence as an advertising copywriter, he collected what he later claimed

  were some 122 rejection slips (Bruccoli 111). His initial breakthrough came not

  with the Post but with H. L. Mencken and George Jean Nathan ’ s The Smart Set , a

  chic, tart

  -

  tongued magazine for sophisticates that purchased fi ve stories between

  September 1919 and February 1920. The range of craft within this quintet suggests

  how thoroughly Fitzgerald had absorbed the structure that Canby dismissed for

  making “ the means of telling the story fi t the ends of story - telling as neatly as hook

  fi ts eye ” (62). The initial two – “ Babes in the Woods ” and “ The Debutante ” – are

  rewrites of stories that Fitzgerald had published in The Nassau Literary Review in

  1917 during his checkered undergraduate career at Princeton University. Not coin-

  cidentally, they are little more than vignettes consisting of one and two scenes

  respectively, both showcases more for repartee than for action. (The fl imsiness of

  their plots further suggests why Fitzgerald could incorporate each as episodes in his

  1920 debut novel, This Side of Paradise , with minimal revision). By contrast, the

  fi nal two

  Smart Set stories – “ Benediction ” and “ Dalyrimple Goes Wrong ” – are

  broader in dramatic scope and more rigorously constructed, with formal section

  breaks demarcating the segmentation of the story into constituent parts. Each intro-

  duces its thematic concern with expository background on its characters, winds its

  driving confl ict to a climax of a moral crisis, and concludes with a coda illustrating

  the consequences of the protagonist ’ s response to that test.

  The stronger of the two, “ Benediction ” – truly one of Fitzgerald ’ s overlooked gems

  – is illustrative. The fi rst section describes a young woman, Lois, visiting her Jesuit

  priest brother, Keith, en route to a sexual rendezvous with a prospective lover. The

  rising action is developed through the estranged siblings ’ conversation, in which Lois

  quizzes her brother on his dedication to his faith, thereby revealing how confl icted

  she is about the imminent loss of her virginity. Her struggle between spirit and fl esh

  climaxes during the titular chapel rite when she is terrifi ed by an ominous image she

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  sees in the fl ickering of the altar candle. After fainting, Lois appears to have decided

  not to meet up with her paramour, falling action substantiated by Keith ’ s insistence

  that her purity of spirit was the reason he entered the seminary ( Flappers and Philoso-

  phers 148). In the fi nal scene, however – narrated from the point of view of two tele-

  graph operators – we learn that she rips up a goodbye note intended for her man,

  implying that at the last minute she goes through with the assignation. Her unex-

  pected reversal returns the reader to the symbol of the candle fl ame in the climactic

  section, whose meaning Fitzgerald cleverly declines to defi ne. Is it a projection of

  Lois ’ s sexual desire or her fear of sensuality? Part of the ingenuity of the story is that

  while it can accommodate contradictory interpretations, its internal architecture is as

  self - evident as an exoskeleton. Indeed, one might argue that the obviousness of its

  structure is essential to the execution of its ambiguity, for without the support the

  Freytag model provides for the draping of the thematic and characterological enigmas,

  Lois

  ’

  s uncertainty about whether she should act upon temptation would remain

  heaped within the dialogue, leaving her to appear merely impulsive and not genuinely

  torn between sex and God.

  With a modest circulation of 20,000, The Smart Set could only afford to pay a paltry

  $40 for a story, roughly one - tenth of what the slicks paid. Thanks to fellow St. Paul,

  Minnesota, writer Grace Flandrau, Fitzgerald secured the services of literary agent

  Paul Revere Reynolds, whose agency ’ s forte was commercial fi ction. After placing the

  farcical romance “ Head and Shoulders ” with the Saturday Evening Post for $400 in late

  1919, Reynolds assigned Fitzgerald ’ s manuscripts to partner Harold Ober, inaugurat-

  ing an initially profi table eighteen - year relationship that would only end when Ober

  could no longer afford to fl oat his impecunious author loans. Throughout early 1920,

  Ober brokered the sale of fi ve 5,000 - to 7,000 - word efforts to the Post that include

  some of the most memorable fl apper tales Fitzgerald would ever write: “ Myra Meets

  His Family, ” “ The Camel ’ s Back, ” “ Bernice Bobs Her Hair, ” “ The Ice Palace, ” and

  “ The Offshore Pirate. ” While the success of these works is often attributed to their

  coy depictions of young love, their infectiousness owes an unappreciated due to the

  Freytagian scheme. The Post ’s marked preference for incorporating section breaks into

  the text perfectly served Fitzgerald ’ s imagination, allowing him to conceive his tales

  in the magazine ’ s customary fi ve or six parts. This framework in turn provides the

  grounding necessary to prevent their fantastic scenarios and rhapsodic excursuses from

  fl oating off into sheer airiness. In each case, the opening exposition allows Fitzgerald

  to luxuriate in lyricism, to set a jazzy tone, and introduce colorful dramatis personae,

  including the

  “

  baby vamp

  ”

  character he was credited with popularizing, if not

  creating.

  For rising action, Fitzgerald would then rely upon dialogue, his characters verbally

  parrying and thrusting over the meaning of modern love and its sustainability in

  marriage. The one thematic exception to this is “ Bernice Bobs Her Hair, ” which is

  more concerned with female propriety and the initiation rituals of the rising genera-

  tion. Despite this difference, “ Bernice ” is comparable to the other fruits of this heady

  period of su
ccess in its exalting in snazzy one - liners and slang. The snappy patter and

  F. Scott Fitzgerald

  301

  droll humor refl ect the pep and panache by which Fitzgerald enunciates his themes,

  as when snobby Marjorie Harvey dresses down her dowdy titular cousin: “ Girls like

  you are responsible for all the tiresome colorless marriages; all those ghastly ineffi cien-

  cies that pass as feminine qualities ” ( Short Stories 34).

  However adept Fitzgerald was at dialogue, his real strength lay in the relationship

  between climax and denouement. The dramatic peaks of these early Post stories are

  vivid because they involve unexpected twists that stop just short of courting incre-

  dulity. They pivot upon either the unmasking of a disguise (Curtis Carlyle, Ardita

  Farnam ’ s kidnapper in “ The Offshore Pirate, ” turns out to be spurned suitor Toby

  Moreland); the debunking of a hoax (Myra Harper in “ Myra Meets His Family ” dis-

  covers that fi anc é Knowleton Whitney ’ s eccentric parents are actors hired to scare her

  away from his inheritance); or a faint - inducing vision such as Lois ’ s in “ Benediction ”

  that dramatizes the protagonist

  ’

  s confl icted emotional state (Southern belle Sally

  Carrol Happer in “ The Ice Palace ” collapses after becoming separated from her Yankee

  boyfriend in a gelid Minnesota labyrinth). Just when readers are prepared to roll their

  eyes at the near chutzpah of outlandishness, Fitzgerald provides a conclusion that

  commonly includes a reversal that effectively brings the stories back from the preci-

  pice of melodrama. Far from expressing anger over her mock abduction, for example,

  Ardita embraces Toby

  ’

  s trick as proof of commitment to the spicy adventure of

  romance, while Myra plays her own trick on Knowleton by arranging a fake marriage

  and then abandoning him on the way to the honeymoon. Perhaps the most famous

  of these reversals takes place in “ Bernice ” : when the heroine discovers that Marjorie

  has duped her into bobbing her hair – not to boost her popularity but to humiliate

  her – Bernice sneaks into her cousin ’ s room and snips off the snobby debutante ’ s

  prized pigtails.

  As structurally prescriptive as Freytag ’ s Pyramid might seem, it actually proved a

  malleable form in Fitzgerald ’ s hands. He could adapt it to longer works with inter-

  woven storylines such as “ May Day ” (1920), which explores class confl ict between

  spoiled Ivy Leaguers and demobilized soldiers during the anti - socialist riots of 1919,

  and to character - driven romances like “ The Popular Girl, ” whose build - up and rever-

  sals simply could not fi t within the standard 7,000 word limit. (For the only time in

  its association with Fitzgerald, the Post printed the story across two consecutive issues).

  The structure also enabled him to experiment across genres, including fantasies such

  as “ The Curious Case of Benjamin Button ” and “ The Diamond as Big as the Ritz ”

  (both 1922) and didactic parables like “ The Cut - Glass Bowl ” and “ The Four Fists ”

  (both of which appeared in the more lesson

  -

  oriented

  Scribner ’ s Magazine

  in 1920

  instead of in the Post ). When fi nancially necessary, the form even allowed him to

  expediently recycle scenarios: what Bruccoli rather dismissively calls the “ concealed

  identity gimmick ” in “ The Offshore Pirate ” was reemployed not once but twice in

  1924 (and within two months of each other, no less) in “ Rags Martin - Jones and The

  Pr - nce of W - les ” and “ The Unspeakable Egg ” ( The Price 126). There are certainly

  instances in which these climaxes and reversals can feel perfunctory. In Fitzgerald ’ s

  fi rst attempt to assess the national mood during the early months of the Depression,

  302

  Kirk Curnutt

  for example – “ The Bridal Party ” (1930) – the rising and falling action involves so

  many lost and regained fortunes between rival suitors Michael Curly and Hamilton

  Rutherford that Fitzgerald seems to be positioning his characters for their eventual

  outcomes rather than assaying the era ’ s economic instability. The same is true of “ The

  Rubber Check ” (1932), in which a young man mistakenly accused of fi nancial impro-

  priety ends up falling in love with the daughter of the family that besmirches his

  reputation. And once readers are familiar enough with Fitzgerald ’ s plot strategies,

  they can see the denouement of some less inventive efforts coming from a mile away.

  Especially in love stories such as “ Presumption ” (1926), “ The Adolescent Marriage ”

  (1926), and “ The Love Boat ” (1927), the characteristic themes of entrepreneurial

  ambition and the struggle for maturity follow a wholly predictable pattern in which

  estranged lovers are reunited. The only question in each case is what contrived stroke

  of luck – a coincidence, a chance encounter, an unexpected windfall, or a mistaken

  identity – will prove the fortuitous agency of the resolution.

  That said, in Fitzgerald ’ s most compelling stories, the Freytag structure provides

  a framework for the characterological concern at which the author excelled: the testing

  of moral fi ber. In “ Babylon Revisited, ” Charlie Wales ’ s ambivalence toward the new-

  found sobriety and fi nancial responsibility imposed upon him after the death of his

  wife, Helen, and his own nervous breakdown is conveyed in the rising action through

  counterpoint. Scenes in which the fallen stockbroker attempts to regain custodianship

  of his daughter, Honoria, alternate with his nostalgic excursions to the Parisian hot-

  spots where he and Helen drank before the onset of the Depression. Although Charlie

  chastises himself for his profl igacy and dissipation, he cannot belie how enamored he

  remains with the endless fetes and drunken displays. The structural ingenuity of the

  story rests in the subtlety with which Fitzgerald stages the inevitable consequence of

  this hero ’ s fatal fl aw, which only becomes apparent in retrospect. In the opening scene,

  set in the Ritz Bar, Charlie leaves a note containing the address of his wife ’ s sister

  and brother - in - law, Marion and Lincoln Peters, for a former pair of fellow carousers,

  Duncan Schaeffer and Lorraine Quarrels. These debauchees subsequently burst upon

  the scene just as Charlie pleads his case to Marion and Lincoln for reclaiming the

  daughter, Honoria, for whom they serve as guardians. The Peters are not persuaded

  that Helen ’ s husband has reformed his ways, and Charlie returns alone to the Ritz

  Bar, self - piteously lamenting how he lost all he desired not in the bust but in the

  boom ( Short Stories 633). While Charlie ’ s inability to acknowledge how he sabotaged

  his own hopes for reuniting with Honoria suggests he has yet to come to grips fully

  with his failings, Fitzgerald ’ s skill in setting into motion the eventual climax so early

  in the story suggests how intuitively he could work out the inner mechanics of plot

  logic. The result is a marvelously confl icted character whose downfall – his self -

  destructiveness – isn ’ t merely a theme but a complicating action that drives the drama

  in a fully rationalized m
anner.

  If Freytag ’ s pyramid allowed Fitzgerald to conceive fully - formed plots so effort-

  lessly through the early 1930s, it is equally worth noting that the diffi culties he

  subsequently suffered with completing salable short efforts refl ected a growing

  F. Scott Fitzgerald

  303

  inability to utilize the schema. Had it been conceived a decade earlier, “ Image on the

  Heart, ” from 1935 – 6, would likely have proved as easy to produce as, say, “ ‘ The

  Sensible Thing,

  ’

  ”

  one of that cluster of semi

  -

  autobiographical love stories that

  Fitzgerald cranked out over the winter of 1923 – 4 to fi nance the writing of The Great

  Gatsby . After all, “ Image ” makes use of material thoroughly mined in the love triangle

  plots of both Gatsby and Tender Is the Night (1934) – namely, Zelda Fitzgerald ’ s adul-

  terous infatuation with French aviator Edouard Jozan during the fabled Riviera

  summer of 1924. And yet, as the author wrote Harold Ober in early September 1935,

  he found himself stymied by three false starts and a constricted word count of roughly

  4,000 words ( As Ever, Scott Fitz — 224). Reading the story alongside a successful

  application of Freytag such as “ Benediction ” demonstrates how Fitzgerald was indeed

  struggling to fi nd the organic form that had once come to him intuitively, for “ Image

  on the Heart

  ”

  suffers from a lack of proportionality. The complicated backstory

  requires excess exposition: the young heroine, Tudy, is preparing to marry the much

  older Tom, who comforted her after her husband died one week into their marriage,

  and yet she has also developed feelings for a French aviator named Riccard. Addition-

  ally, the rivalry between suitors that constitutes the rising action is stretched across

  too many encounters, diluting the power of what should be a powerful, pivotal scene:

  as Tom accompanies Tudy on a drive through Provence, Riccard fl ies his plane past

  them, a gesture that for Tudy is romantic but which Tom interprets as recklessly

  braggadocious ( The Price 670). While the pathos of the climax is effective (Tom dis-

  covers Tudy and Riccard have met in Paris to say their fi nal goodbyes), the drama is

  too attenuated to deliver the characters to some satisfying insight into their fl aws. In