The Notebooks
of F. Scott Fitzgerald

(S) Scenes and Situations


“Did you ever read the books of Phillips Oppenheim?”
“I think I’ve read one.”
“He’s one of my favorite American writers,” Tommy said simply. “He writes about the Riviera, you know. I don’t know whether the things he writes about are true but this place is like that.”
Standing before the gate they were suddenly bathed in a small floodlight, quick as a flashlight, that left them blinded for a moment. Then a voice from behind the gate.
“Who’s this, please?”
“Tell Monsieur Irv that it’s Monsieur Tommy. Tell him we can’t come in the house, but can he come out in the garden a minute.”
A section of the gate rumbled open like a safe and they were in a park, following a young Italo-American dandy toward a lighted house. They waited just out of range of the porch light, and presently the door opened and a dark thin man of forty came out and gazed blindly.
“Where you, Tommy?”
“Down here. Don’t come. I have a lady with me who wants to remain anonymous.”
“I’ve got a lady with me who doesn’t want to be seen— like you.”
“Oh, I unestand, I unestand.”
“We want to swim. Anybody on the beach?”
“Nobody, nobody. Go ahead, Tommy. You want suits, towels?”
“All right, some towels. Nodoby’s going to come down, are they?”
“No, no, nobody. Say, did you see Du Pont de Nemours went up—”
“No stock market in the presence of ladies.”
“All right, excuse me, lady. You wait now—Salve will take you down—don’t want you to get in trouble.”
As Irv re-entered the house Tommy said, “Probably he’s phoning the machine gunner to pass us. He was a fellow townsman of yours in Chicago—now he has the best beach on the Riviera.”
Curiously Nicole followed down an intricate path, then through a sliding steel door that operated like a guillotine, out into a roofless cavern of white moonlight, formed by pale boulders about a cup of phosphorescent waters. It faced Monaco and the blur of Mentone beyond. She likes his taste in bringing her here—from the high­handed storming of Mr. Irv’s fortress.
Then, starting back the lane by which they had come Tommy tripped over a wire and a faint buzzer sounded far away.
“My God!” he excalimed, “that a man should have to live like this!”
“Is he afraid of burglars?”
“He’s afraid of your lovely city and came here with a bodyguard of a dozen monkeys—is that the right slang? Maybe Al Capone is after him. Anyhow he has one period between being drunk and being sober when he is very nice.”
He broke off as again they were momentarily bathed in the ubiquitous spotlight. Then amber lamps glowed on the porch of the castellated villa and Mr. Irv, this time supported by the very neat young man, came out unsteadily.
“I kept them off the beach, Tommy,” he announced.
“Thank you, very much.”
“Won’t you both change your minds and come in? In greatest confidence. I have some other ladies here.” He raised his voice as if to address Nicole. “As you are a lady of background you will like ’em.”
“It’s four o’clock,” said Tommy. “We have to get to our background. Good night.”
Irv’s voice followed them.
“You never make a mistake having to do with a lady.”


The soft swaying gowns that for a moment seemed to be the gowns of people that had waited for Jeb Stuart and the gallant Pelham to ride in out of the night; all the people there seemed to have for a moment that real quality which women have when they know that men are going toward death, and maybe will get there, and maybe not.


Sir Francis Elliot, King George, the barley water and champagne.


The big toy banks with candles inside that were really the great fashionable hotels, the lighted clock in the old town, the blurred glow of the Cafe de Paris, the pricked-out points of villa windows rising on slow hills toward the dark sky.
“What is everyone doing there?” she whispered. “It looks as though something gorgeous was going on, but what it is I can’t quite tell.”
“Everyone there is making love,” said Val quietly.


Blind man’s buff and fiancee with no chin.


Then he took a long breath and held it in him for an unnaturally long time. Then, quick and graceful, he died.


Colored woman and dead Jewish baby.


“Nothing to hang on to. No bridle—nothing. I’d like to be able to carry a swagger stick; fans break when you get too nervous.”


The orchestra was playing a Wiener Waltzer, and suddenly she had the sensation that the chords were extending themselves that each bar of three-four time was bending in the middle, dropping a little and thus drawing itself out, until the waltz itself, like a phonograph running down, became a torture.


She feared the black cone hanging from the metal arm, shrilling and shrilling across the sunny room. It stopped for a minute, replaced by her heartbeats; then began again.


She stood there in the middle of an enormous quiet. The pursuing feet that had thundered in her dream had stopped. There was a steady, singing silence.


Scottie presenting the garbage can and her proprietary interest.


The day in Annecy village the first time when Zelda went shopping by herself and I watched from the hotel johnny.


Diabolic death scene: “Give ’em the cigar.” (a high explosive greased time bomb shoved up the rectum mat couldn’t be extracted).


Bunny Burgess episode of glass and wife.


The realization came to her that the tracks of life would never lead anywhere and were like tracks of the airplane; that of their plan no one knew it; if they were tracked with no particular Daniel Boone to hack trees; that the world had to go on and that it wasn’t going to be inside her, there still had to be these tracks. It was an awful lonesome journey.


Perhaps that slate we looked at once that was all the grey blue we’d ever know in life—where the dark brown tide receded, the slate came. It was indescribable as the dress beside him (the color of hours of a long human day)—blue like misery, blue for the shy-away from happiness, “If I could that shade everything would be all right forever...” Touch it? Touch.


The opera singer and the pekinese in the taxi, “I did that.”


For me an unhappy day on the Riviera. 1926
The bouillabaisse.
The Baby gar.
(Marice—the 1st Peter Arno cartoons about Hic and Whoops.)
Who would save the weakest swimmer.
(The quarrel.)
Isolation of two in end of boat.
Gerald and Walker at Ville Franche
Archie and the oar on my eyebrow.
The swim au natural, but not.


Lefty’s psychiatry story: the bars, the barbers, the home, the pool balls, the hair combing, the slugs of vanilla and grain, etc. The printer and Lefty’s being willing to sharpen the axe. The fake escape and coaxing.


The man addressed took the jug slung from the leader’s belt. But the concussion that Philippe had suffered was clearing. To his horse he whispered in one of those half-heard sentences that can be said only to very young children and to animals—“Don’t fail me now. I’m going to lean against your neck and if you move a foot I fall. I’ll do as much for you sometime.”
The horse stabilized himself and, propped against him Philippe, who drew a breath, could even see; and with a second deep breath he could see as far as the horse’s haunch. Then he could see as far as the nose of the Duke’s horse; then the ribs of the Duke’s horse were interrupted by something that presently became the Duke’s stirrup. His eyes, clinging to it, found their way upward as if they were climbing a rope—found their way to other eyes, as hard and brown as his own.


Didn’t evenings sometimes end on a high note and not fade out vaguely in bars? After ten o’clock every night she felt she was the only real being in a colony of ghosts, that she was surrounded by utterly intangivle figures who retreated whenever she stretched out her hand.


When he gets sober for six months and can’t stand any of the people he’s liked when drunk.


The two young men could only groan and play sentimental music on the phonograph, but presently they departed; the fire leaped up, day went out behind the windows, and Forrest had rum in his tea.


Josephine Baker’s chocolate arabesques. Chorus from her show.


In front of the shops in the Rue de Castiglione, proprietors and patrons were on the sidewalk gazing upward, for the Graf Zeppelin, shining and glorious, symbol of escape and destruction—of escape, if necessary, through destruction—glided in the Paris sky. He heard a woman say in French that it would not her astonish if that commenced to let fall the bombs. (Not funny now—1939)


Why didn’t they back away? Why didn’t they back right up, walking backward down the Rue de Castiglione, across the Rue de Rivole, through the Tuileries Gardens, still walking backward as fast as they could till they grew vague and faded out across the river?


Almost at once Josephine realized that everybody there except herself was crazy. She knew it incontrovertibly, although the only person of outward eccentricity was a robust woman in a frock coat and gray morning trousers. Their frightened eyes lifted to the young girl’s elegent clothes, her confident, beautiful face, and they turned from her rudely in self-protection.


“Well, what do you want do do?”
“Kiss you.”
A spasm of timidity quickly controlled went over her face.
“I’m all dirty.”
“Don’t you kiss people when you’re all dirty?”
“I don’t kiss people. I’m just before that generation. We’ll find you a nice young girl you can kiss.”
“There aren’t any nice young girls—you’re the only one I like.”
“I’m not nice. I’m a hard woman.”


The woman who snatched her children away on the boat just to be exclusive—exclusive from what.


“Tell that Spic to go count his piasters and I’ll talk turkey with you.”
She bestowed upon the puzzled darkling a healing smile.
“You won’t mind, honey, if I sit this out? See you later.”
When he had departed Tommy protested, “ ’Honey!’ Do you call him ’Honey?’ Why don’t you call him ’greasy?’ “
She laughed sweetly.
“Where you been?”
“Skiing. But every time I go away, that doesn’t mean you can go dance with a whole lot of gigolo numbers from Cairo. Why does he hold his hand parallel to the floor when he dances? Does he think he’s stilling the waves? Does he think the floor’s going to swing up and crack him?”
“He’s a Greek, honey.”


A small car, red in color and slung at that proximity to the ground which indicated both speed of motion and speed of life. It was a Blatz Wildcat. Occupying it, in the posture of aloof exhaustion exacted by the sloping seat, was a blond, gay, baby-faced girl.


They floated off, immediately entering upon a long echoing darkness. Somewhere far ahead a group in another boat were singing, their voices now remote and romantic, now nearer and yet more mysterious, as the canal doubled back and the boats passed close to each other with an invisible veil between. The continual bump-bump of the boat against the wooden sides. They slid into a red glow—a stage set of hell, with grinning demons and lurid paper fires—then again into the darkness, with the gently lapping water and the passing of the singing boat now near, now far away.


He paused speculatively to vault the high hydrant in front of the Van Schellinger house, wondering if one did such things in long trousers and if he would ever do it again.


“Do away with yourself,” he demanded, startled, “You? Why on earth—”
“Oh, I’ve almost done it twice. I get the horrors— usually when something goes wrong with my art. Once they said I fell in the bathtub when I only jumped in, and another time somebody closed a window before I could get to it.”
“You ought to be careful.”
“I am careful. I keep a lady with me always—but she couldn’t come East because she was going to be married.”


Laughed with a sudden memory of Hopkins where going to a party he had once tried taking gin by rectum, and the great success it had been until the agony of passing great masses of burned intestine.


Sending orchestra second rate champagne—never, never do it again.


Gerald walking Paris.


Once in his room and reassured by the British stability of them, the ingenuity of the poor asserted itself. He began literally to wind himself up in his clothes. He undressed, put on two suits of underwear and over that four shirts and two suits of clothes, together with two white pique vests. Every pocket he stuffed with ties, socks, studs, gold-backed brushes and a few toilet articles. Panting audibly, he struggled into an overcoat. His derby looked empty, so he filled it with collars and held them in place with some handkerchiefs. Then, rocking a little on his feet, he regarded himself in the mirror
He might possibly manage it—if only a steady stream of perspiration had not started to flow from somewhere up high in the edifice and kept pouring streams of various temperatures down his body, until they were absorbed by the heavy blotting paper of three pairs of socks that crowded his shoes.
Moving cautiously, like Tweedle-dum before the battle, he traversed the hall and rang for the elevator. The boy looked at him curiously, but made no comment, though another passenger made a dry reference to Admiral Byrd. Through the lobby he moved, a gigantic figure of a man. Perhaps the clerks at the desk had a subconscious sense of something being wrong, but he was gone too quickly for them to do anything about it.
“Taxi, sir?” the doorman inquired, solicitous at Val’s pale face.
Unable to answer, Val tried to shake his head, but this also proving impossible, he emitted a low negative groan. The sun was attracted to his bulk as lightning is attracted to metal, as he staggered out toward a bus. Up on top, he thought; it would be cooler up on top.
His training as a hall-room boy stood him in good stead now; he fought his way up the winding stair as if it had been the social ladder. Then, drenched and suffocating, he sank down upon a bench, the bourgeois blood of many Mr. Joneses pumping strong in his heart. Not for Val to sit upon a trunk and kick his heels and wait for the end; there was fight in him yet.


Hannan married into a family of boarding house aristocrats in Charleston and they didn’t like him. But outside of Charleston their prestige depended on him so that they took it out in mild abuse. There was a coast guard officer in the family that was always going to jump down his throat with a loaded revolver. When his wife broke down the father used to go to the hospital and after getting his prestige with the doctors from poor Hannan’s shows he’d tear into him. Hannan ducking around Europe at the time sleeping with chambermaids and raising hell on the quiet generally. Jesus Christ, he used to say, they climb up on your shoulders and then pull your nose.


Ernest taking me to that bum restaurant. Change of station implied.


Doll from window.


A lot of young girls together is a romantic secret thing like the first sight of wild ducks at dawn (enlarge— Hotel Don Cesare at pink dawn—the gulf.)


Kiddies’ Children Hour—Kiddies, I’d be the last one to ask you to begin smoking before say, six, but remember we are in the depths of a depression—depth of a gepression from four to six through the courtesy of Amer. Cig. Co.—and you represent a potential market of forty million smokers.


Moving picture scene where he infuriates people on beach trying to take picture after they’ve persuaded him to do it.


The city had been merely an unfamiliar rhythm persisting outside the windows of an American Express Hotel, with days composed of such casual punctuation marks as going for the mail or taking auto rides that did not go back and forth but always in a circle.


The rejection slips


Soviet meeting
Looking at apartment—wife drops in from next room


Mr. Slade and my father


Dogs appraising buildings


runs into again and again without ever being able to remember his name.


A taxi tipping over on a nervous night.


Throwing away jewelry, burning clothes.


Hypochronia—man thinks of thing at last moment— ostensibly an extra thing—yet that settles an affair that otherwise would have wrecked the whole thing.


Jack Straw carried off screaming “I didn’t want to sing the damn thing anyhow.” (amateur theatricals)


Dog ate up Buttercup’s sausages (amateur theatricals)


Beanpole as Buttercup (amateur theatricals)


The pathos of “Now I am Complete.”


Unable to raise hands to fight.


The stout man registered from Warsaw bent over a copy of the “Zuricher Nachrichten;” the big young American with the long pompadour and the flashing eyes spied him from the elevator and after a moment of thought, during which his eyes became almost imperceptible, came boldly over to the periodical table. He pawed through the magazines as if looking for something and meanwhile kept muttering aloud but as if to himself.
“Mr. Goldgarten from Warsaw. Huh! Maybe.” He spoke the name reproachfully and insultingly but the stout man, though he was scarcely five feet away and couldn’t have helped hearing, bent over his magazine as phlegmatically as a house detective. For a moment Frank Forrester was stumped and then driven on by the resourceful character which had probably accrued to his name “Frank Forrester in a Velicopter,” “Frank Forrester in a Chinese Junk” during the eighteen years of his life, took a more determined step. Staring at a copy of the Tatler he said in a loud clear voice:
“We’re getting a little tired of spies and we think we’ve seen that face before.”
Still not a word from Mr. Goldgarten, commercial traveller from Warsaw. For a moment Frank Forrester— “Frank Forrester on the Matterhorn,” Frank Forrester with Byrd at the South Pole,”—contemplated a further and even bolder step but at this point his cousin Emily, accompanied by that fellow McLane, came in the hotel door. Frank went over to them.


She told him a wonderful plot she had for a “scenario,” and then repeated to him the outline of The Miracle Man. He gave her the address of Joe Gibney in Hollywood as someone who might be interested. Joe was the studio bootlegger. Perhaps she suspected his evasion for now she cast him an angry glance and whispered to her companions. She would go to his next six pictures to see if he had stolen her idea.


Reformation of Hutchins


The Jew in the Meadowbrook Club


Grande Poisson scene.


In the corner a huge American negro with his arms around a lovely French tart, roared a song to her in a rich beautiful voive and suddenly Melarky’s Tennessee instincts were remembered and aroused.


Phone ringing at Emily’s.


Memory of taking a a pee commencement night


The heart Burst


They had passed the time in making a collection of sticks and stones that “would do for things.” They had found a stick somewhat like a comb and another one somewhat like a toothbrush. They had two stones that would make a nice book rack if they had only had books, and a stone that would dplendidly as an ash tray, when they had some ashes. They had also created a china closet by laying out fifty odd sections of cocoanuts in even rows.
Donald regarded the exhibit impatiently and took out his notebook.
“We’ve got to get some system. We’ll make a list of things in the order of their importance. Now the first thing is—”
“A good inexpensive brush and comb,” suggested Vivian.
“If I could have a doll,” said Kitty, hopefully.


The missing raft hurried desolately before a light wind with its sail tied, until the rotten canvas suddenly split and shred away. When night came it went off on its own again, speeding along the dark tide as if driven by a ghostly propeller.


Scene equivalent to my last afternoon with Gerald, for benefit of two women. Portentousness.


Man fascinated by girl finds she’s showing off for someone else.


Chauffer trying vainly to photo and preserve that group, his triumph


Then Frances Daniels—Anna Biggs lack of taste on my part in referring to dead child.


How I scared away a customer from the Hotel de la Paix


Use about playing old tunes only at dance


Bootlegger and pas de bure


Scene at dinner when Frenchman, pretending to criticize American life in general is really critisizing Francis, who repeats experiences of race.


The problem as to whether it was a duty or a favor when she helped the English nurse down the steps with the perambulator. The English nurse always said “Please,” and “Thanks very much,” but Dolores hated her and would have liked without any special excitement to beat her insensible. Like most Latins under the stiumlus of American life, she had irresistible impulses toward violence.


suddenly contemplated having a love affair with him. She looked at herself several times in the pantry mirror and stood close to him as she poured his coffee, but he read the paper and she saw that that was all for the morning.


Jules had dark circles under his eyes. Yesterday he had closed out the greatest problem of his life by settling with his ex-wife for two hundred thousand dollars. He had married too young and the former slavey from the Quebec slums had taken to drugs upon her failure to rise with him. Yesterday, in the presence of lawyers, her final gesture had been to smash his finger with the base of a telephone.


It was a cold winter for Tarleton, Georgia—the coldest in four hundred years. Old Black Great-Uncle Salambo said so and, as he was the only man left alive who had resided in Tarleton in 1524, no one around Tilly’s garage ventured to dispute him.
“Reckon I’ll take my body-servant and run down to Palm Beach for the season. You got any golf sticks?” he remarked after a minute, “an’ couple old golf balls?”
Mrs. Tilly laughed.
“Dan Webster,” he called to his helper, “Jim Powell here wants to practice up on golf. Get him a monkey-wrench and a couple of ball bearings.”
“Got to buy me a parasol,” continued Jim; “You know where I can get me a nice big red and white parasol— so’s I can stick it up in the sand?”


There was a Malay junk with a crew of four men praying for death, that had been blown off the Caroline Islands a week before; it revenged their wretched fate by drifting across the Aeolia’s bow on the night of the first of June. The junk went down in half a minute, the Aeolia, listing slowly to starboard, took well over two hours.


Before her eyes would pass in turn a prodigious, prodigal Latin American, or a lady whose title blazed with history or that almost mythological figure, an international banker, or even a great Hollywood star with her hat pulled down over her face lest it be apparent that no one recognized her—all these being great figures to her—and Dick would say something kind, really kind, about them and they would recede out of the far vista as a stark naked Argentine, a stuffed chemise of the society column, Dinah’s uncle, or an actress pleased to see Seth—when we really possessed him, when he preferred us.


That scene from Bridal Party where Powell accuses man of being unhappy with girl.


English Scene (Bijou)
Brazilian’s departure


“I’m pretty tired,” he said—unfortunately, because this gave her an advantage: she wasn’t tired; while his mind and body moved in a tedious half time like a slow moving picture, her nerves were crowded with feverish traffic. She tried to think of some mischief.


Percy Pyne in the limousine at Meadowbrook, getting as small as the man he was arguing with


Scene toward end of demenagement distressing amount of good, five phonographs, eight pairs of dark glasses, wasteful reduplication, etc.


During the ride the young man held his attention cooly away from his mother, unwilling to follow her eyes in any direction or even to notice his surroundings except when at a revealing turn the sky and sea dropped before them, he said, “It’s hot as hell,” in a decided voice.


She sat down on the water closet with a coquettish smile. Her eyes, glazed a few minutes since, were full of impish malice.


“I did say that, but I explained to you that waiting is just part of the picture business. Everybody’s so much overpaid that when something finally happens you realize that you were making money all the time. The reason it’s slow is because one man’s keeping it all in his head, and fighting the weather and the actors and accidents—”
Francis looked at her, without anger now, but also without pity. She had long lost all power of moving him, yet he responded automatically to old stimuli and now he put his arm around her shoulders.


“I would like to enjoy,” said the man, “but I can only hope and remember. What the hell—leave me my reactions even though they’re faint beside yours. Let me see things my own way.”
“You mean you don’t want me to talk?”
“I mean we come up here and before I can register, before I can realise that this is the Atlantic Ocean, you’ve analyzed it like a chemist, like a chemist who painted, or a painter who studied chemistry, and it’s all diminished and I say ’Yes it does remind me of a delicatessen shop—’”
“Let you alone—”


He lived his life then, as an honored man. But from time to time he would indulge his habit of eating mountain grass in preference to valley grass, a habit formed during those early days outside the herd.
“Oke!” said the herd.
Some of them would watch his curious munching and shake their heads. Some of them, though, grouped together and said: “If we eat that grass that will make us honored like him.”
They tried it and it had the negative result of such follies.


“Why, she’s your wife—I can’t imagine touching your wife.” Having heard this said to a husband ten minutes before the most passionate attempts to maneuver the wife into bed.


He ran a low fever that evening and the mosquito netting bound him down into a little stifling space. But the morning was fresh and fair and he remembered that with a little vigilance there is seldom the necessity of being alone with oneself.


He got up suddenly, stumbling through the shrubbery, and followed an almost obliterated path to the house, starting at the whirring sound of a blackbird which rose out of the grass close by. The front porch sagged dangerously at his step as he pushed open the door. There was no sound inside, except the steady slow throb of silence;


Trip to Virginia

Tuesday—Off for Buffalo. The plan. Aquilla. Harper’s Ferry. The Haynie family. The tourist place any my room. Curtains and drapes. John Haynie. Night at Harrisonburg Hotel (?)
Wednesday—Calling home from Staunton. Rest in Charlottesville. Locating Lee. The garden that night. The campus in afternoon. The President. Impressions of University. Getting liquor. Cashing check. Over the gap in Blue Ridge this this day. The blow-out. The view. The nickel machine.
Thursday— The reporter. Lunch with Lawrence Lee. Phoning him. Another check. The gallant Pelham. My remarks on dif­ference between real and fake writing. J. E. Thomason and old men. Dinner in Warrenton. Calling Mrs. R. Night in Alexandria. The tough people. ?ame
Friday— The Communist. Arrival home.


The Court reporter scene in garden.


“Let’s not talk about such things now. I’ll tell you something funny instead.” Her look was not one of eager anticipation but he continued, “By merely looking around you can review the largest battalion of the Boys I’ve seen collected in one place. This hotel seems to be a clearing house for them—” He returned the nod of a pale and shaky Georgian who sat down at a table across the room, “That young man looks somewhat retired from life. The little devil I came down to see is hopeless. You’d like him—if he comes in I’ll introduce him.”
As he was speaking the flow into the bar began. Nicole’s fatigue accepted Dick’s ill-advised words and mingled with the fantastic Koran that presently appeared. She saw the males gathered down at the bar, the tall gangling ones, the little pert ones with round thin shoulders, the broad ones with the faces of Nero and Oscar Wilde, or of senators—faces that dissolved suddenly into girlish fatuity, or twisted into leers—the nervous ones who hitched and twitched, jerking open their eyes very wide, and laughed hysterically, the handsome, passive and dumb men who turned their profiles this way and that, the pimply stodgy men with delicate gestures; or the raw ones with very red lips and frail curly bodies, their shrill voluble tones piping their favorite word “treacherous” above the hot volume of talk; the ones over-self-conscious who glared with eager politeness toward every noise; among them were English types with great racial self-control. Balkan types, one small cooing Siamese. “I think now,” Nicole said, “I think I’m going to bed.”
“I think so too.”
—Goodby, you unfortunates. Goodby, Hotel of Three Worlds.


She began building up a legend. She was a “gun moll” and the whole trip had been a frame to get Mr. Ives into the hands of the mob.


Owning a little of New York by 1815 patent


In a moving automobile sat a southern gentleman accompanied by his body-servant. He was on his way, after a fashion, to New York but he was somewhat hampered by the fact that the upper and lower portions of his automobile were no longer in exact juxtaposition. In fact from time to time the two riders would dismount, shove the body on to the chassis, corner to corner, and then continue onward, vibrating slightly in involuntary unison with the motor.


Only a few apathetic stags gathered one by one in the doorways, and to a close observer it was apparent that the scene did not attain the gayety which was its aspiration. These girls and men had known each other from childhood; and though there were marriages incipient upon the floor tonight, they were marriages of enviornment, of resignation, or even of boredom.


Old woman and lost Atlantis


For drunkard chapter—Variation in rules of courtesy, because people have changed. Bottle not sent out. Can’t call. Gerald and I—the Montgomery boy and I. The man dancing with Scottie.


The “Ickle durl” bored him. She admired him; she was used to clasping her hands together in his wake and heaving audible sighs. When the music stopped he gave her an outrageous compliment to atone for his preoccupation and left her at her table.


As he dressed for dinner he realized that he wanted them both. It was an outrage that he couldn’t have them both. Wouldn’t a girl rather have half of him than all of Harry Whitby, or a whole Spic with a jar of pomade thrown in? Life was so badly arranged—better no women at all than only one woman.


He took them each in one arm, like a man in a musical comedy, and kissed the rouge on their cheeks


The Champ d’asile in Texas 1816 (for Napoleonic veterans)


Zelda and the taxi man’s teeth + Dr Davenport


Vidor at the Luxumberg


Two men stalking each other with deer rifles through Bois de Bologne


Almost a whole chapter on the man’s attempt to educate his children without knowing where he stands himself—amid difficulties.


Horses behind at Pthodomy Club


Boy carried off Titanic by his mother.


A chapter in which their kid comes to him for homosexuality and a consequent long consideration of homosexuality from some such attitude as a Groton father thinking it’s maybe all right for social reasons. Use Groton material from Chateau D’Oex


Coat off in theatre


Tremendous American generosity, without comment


In the shadow of the Pope’s palace at Avignon our Greek guide, an exile from the butcheries in Smyrna, told us with wild enthusiasm of his cousin, a restaurateur and an Elk of Terre Haute, Indiana.
“He wears a high hat and a blue coat with epaulettes and blue braid and green trousers and carries a gold sword in his hand and marches down the main street once a year behind a big band and—”


“Don’t you think that at 104 a man ought to make his will?”
A burst of laughter.
“A hundred and three,” they corrected.
“Well almost a hundred and four. Don’t you think that at a hundred and four a man ought to get his affairs in order?”
“No we don’t,” they said.
I was overwhelmed by their callousness—certainly this grey beard, far from being senile, had common sense.


Meeting Cole Porter in Ritz.


———— abortion on his daughter.


We all went to hear Chaliaplin that night; after the second act he stayed out in the bar talking to the bar maids and then joined us afterwards a tall unsteady figure, pale as the phantom of the opera himself descending the great staircase.


Imagine saying to Bob Cresswell, apropos of his brother’s death: “Well, he must have been an awful Pig”


About me being in the furnace room and running upstairs for Scottie and Andrew


Brawl in lunch room in Charlottesville


Mme. Tussand and girl who did statue (Ask Nora)


“They don’t allow us and the other rich boys to go to anything except comedies and kidnapping and things like that. The comedies are the things I like.”
“Who? Chaplin?”
“Charlie Chaplin.”
Obviously the words failed to record.
“No, the—you know, the comedies.”
“Who do you like?”Bill asked.
“Oh—” The boy considered, “Well, I like Garbo and Dietrich and Constance Bennett.”
“Their things are comedies?”
“They’re the funniest ones.”
“Funniest what?”
“Funniest comedies.”
“Oh, they try to do this passionate stuff all the time.”


“Then somebody told us about ’party girls.’ Business men with clients from out of town sometimes wanted to give them a big time—singing and dancing and champagne, all that sort of thing, make them feel like regular fellows seeing New York. So they’d hire a room in a restaurant and invite a dozen party girls. All it required was to have a good evening dress and to sit next to some middle-aged man for two hours and laugh at his jokes and maybe kiss him goodnight. Sometimes you’d find a fifty dollar bill in your napkin when you sat down at table.”


The engine in the army.


Most Pleasant Trips Most Unleasant Trips
Auto Paris Zurich Auto Zelda and I South
Auto Zelda and Sap and I Around Lake Como
Auto Ernest and I North Mentone
P.L.M. going north 1925 California
Cherbourg-Paris Quebec
Havre-Paris North from Norfolk
South to Norfolk Tom and Ceci
Around Lake Geneva  


They got on the children’s train and made a tour of the zoo and the woodlands and the playing fields. They sat in single file


Remember the day my little marmoset got loose and chased the two ladies.


Scottie’s triumph at the races


The pushing with palms


So horribly (?) unattractive
frightfully (?) unattractive (Sara to Goulding)


“The somewhat nervous little man at the desk” after a long conversation as to whether the celebrity is “just folks”—“just like anybody else,” etc. with the nervous little man caustic and resentful, divulges himself suddenly as the celebrity.


She had never done anything for love before. She didn’t know what it meant. When her hand struck the bulb she still didn’t know it, nor while the shattered glass made a nuisance by the bedside.


The psychology back of this is kidding the matinee idol without losing dignity. You give them a rather disappointing moment at first, appearing with long sheaf of papers and beginning to read
“In the light of—”
(Stage direction, black down)
Your voice in the dark—“In the light of recent developments—”
(Lights on again)
Gable—looking rather annoyed—“In the light of recent—”
(Stage direction, black down)
Gable—in the darkness, in a rather discouraged voice—“It was felt that my public should really see me as I am and not—”
(Lights go onturns to ms.)


“Pick up the phone and say ’Hello,’ “ directed Schroeder.
“Don’t say who you are.”
“Hello,” said Hannaford obediantly.
“Who is this?” asked a girl’s voice.
Hannaford put his hand over the mouthpiece. “What am I supposed to do?”
Schroeder snickered and Hannaford hesitated, smiling and suspicious.
“Who do you want to speak to?” he temporized into the phone.
“To George Hannaford, I want to speak to. Is this him?”
“Oh, George, it’s me.”
“Me—Gwen. I had an awful time finding you. They told me—”
“Gwen who?”
“Gwen—can’t you hear? From San Francisco—last Thursday night.”
“I’m sorry,” objected George. “Must be some mistake.”
“Is this George Hannaford?”
The voice grew slightly tart: “Well, this is Gwen Becker you spent last Thursday evening with in San Francisco. There’s no use pretending you don’t know who I am, because you do.”
Schroeder took the apparatus from George and hung up the receiver.




Little boy of seven:
“Mister, are you drunk?”
“No why? What made you think that?”
“I noticed you had a stick”
“Does everybody who—”
(exit little boy on velocepede)


Turning on Mrs. Lyons and Virginia and W. Virginia in reference to Charlestown


Yale Banjo Club men drunk and asleep on stage


Man hides by playing drum in orchestra


A bitch dripping milk over a black dress at a formal party.


Rose Marie’s Husband


Man showing some children vanishing coin, accidentally intercepts coin from passer-by. Serves ice cream cones made out of snow.


Roscoe at the information booth like Chaplin on the street car. Information taps his fingers with a hammer.


Hunts for job in barber shop and is lathered by mistake. Lather is taken off and put back in cup. He lathers customer interminably and latter protests he wants shave instead of scour. Starts to shave but razor shakes.


Becomes barker for Fifth Avenue clothing store. Rival barker pulls clothes over his head. The professor as an act of villainy tips tired mother.


For baggage he has one tooth-brush. While his only shirt is washed in laundry he wears a woman’s camisole. Tough boy gives him his business by tearing collar from his neck. He picks up woman on edge of laundry cart.


Burglar uses eating utensils out of his bag. Adds to stock.


Kidnapper gives baby revolver to play with.


Crooks put scrap iron in his pocket to sink him. When rescued he has trouble in walking. Kids bob up and down around him in final close-up with girl.


Animated illustrations in book.


The mind reader called in to help at a third degree shouts out suddenly that the criminal is escaping. “No, its all right. Go on,” says the chief detective. “That was just Inspector Harrigan leaving the room.”


Respectful frisking of bellboys at Plaza—nervous collapse of head waiter at restaurant where they dined.


Blackstone’s man with the gun in Wilmington


Piercing the ear—not the pain but the irreparability of it.


Woman who deposited own check in safety deposit


Dean and sedative


Crook in next room—that case in northern New York where they carried off three probationers as booty. The only one they tortured was the one who took care of her.


Dusk along the Boulevard. I’m the King of Sweden.


Duck Notes—Kinds—Mallard, Blackhead, Canvasback, smaller kind that makes good eating. —Pintails (?) Squeal of the gull, the dog that ate five partridges (coveys of three) and the letter—I forgot to tell you. The shack at five, the gun, the blinds, the clothes. The decoys, sunrise on the Potomac, calm weather and south wind, Wash. monument, Alexandria and Mount Vernon. The stoves. Geo (Mad Athony Wayne) and the sailor (Henry) Mark left circling flight, swarms overhead. Aeroplane formation, gulls, buzzards, crowd. The three dogs, Chesapeake Bay retrievers. Dogs in and out of blinds, killing three at once, the poor decoys. Henry at breakfast, wounded and living ducks, two triggers at once, Henry on what people will do for you, the boatman after the ducks, the furry feel of the breast, gulls eating each other, beautiful sunrise and different sorts of ducks, pictures, sleep, two triggers, migration, the line through glasses, the calling, suddenness, my two lost opportunities, dog had dry coat. Growing darker (4.30) No results, the white mist, the sunset over Virginia, the quiet, the sounds far away, waiting, they fly at you looking large as eagles, the Kentucky humanitarian, the dog diving for duck, the extreme cold, dog licking blood of wounded duck, hanging up duck, cooking duck, the curious mongrel duck, the its cover. Fish eaters, Indian celery bed.


A Dream: Pariale. Betty Foster at party. Her house. Discussion with Asa Bushnell of Football, Oregon, Caulkins, various swells in Empty Toy Store. Downtown, leaving car. Larry Noyes. Losing him, men on bicycles Buying ginger snaps that became trick rings. Deportation. The line of people, struggle in corner. The marine fear. His kick and fall in areaway. (Remember bayonet dream)


His son went down the toilet of the XXXX hotel after Dr. X—Pills


During the Indian attack she rushed about in the center of a blank cartridge bedlam, waving her arms and pointing here and there at the circling redskins as if to indicate startling tactical dispositions.


Perhaps a duck scene


The Sport Roadster

When I was a boy I dreamed that I sat always at the wheel of a magnificent Stutz—in those days the Stutz was the stamp of the romantic life—a Stutz as low as a snake and as red as an Indiana barn. But in point of fact, the best I could manage was the intermittent use of the family car. If I were willing to endure the most unaristocratic groanings and vibrations I could torture it up to fifty miles an hour.
But no matter how passionately I slouched down in the seat, I couldn’t make it look like a Stutz. One day I lowered the top and opened the windshield, and with the car thus pathetically jazzed up, took my mother and another lady down town shopping.
It was a scorching day. The sun blazed down upon us, the molten air blew like the breath of a furnace into our faces—through the open windshield. I could literally feel the sunburn deepening on me, block by block. It was appalling.
The two ladies fanned themselves uneasily. I don’t believe either of them quite realized what the trouble was. But I, even with the perspiration pouring into my eyes, found sight to envy the owner of a peagreen cut-down flivver which oozed by us through the heat.
My passengers visited a series of stores. I waited in the sun, still slouched down, and with that sort of half-sneer on my face which I had noted was peculiar to drivers of racing cars. The heat continued to be terrific.
Finally my mother’s friend came out of the store and I helped her into the car. She sank down into the seat—then sank quickly up again.
“Ah!” she said wildly.
She had burned herself.
When we reached home I offered—most unusually—to take them both for a long ride—anywhere they wished to go. They said politely that they were going for a little walk to cool off!


As they turned into Crest Avenue the new cathedral, immense and unfinished in imitation of a cathedral left unfinished, by accident in some little Flemish town, squatted just across the way like a plump white bulldog on its haunches. The ghost of four moonlit apostles looked down at them wanly from wall niches still littered with the white dusty trash of the builders. The cathedral inaugurated Crest Avenue. After it came the great brownstone mass built by R. R. Comerford, the flower king, followed by a half mile of pretentious stone houses built in the gloomy 90’s. These were adorned with monstrous driveways and porte-cocheres which had once echoed to the hoofs of good horses and with high circular windows that corseted the second stories.
The continuity of these mausoleums was broken by a small park, a triangle of grass where Nathan Hale stood ten feet tall with his hands bound behind his back by stone cord and stared over a great bluff at the slow Mississippi. Crest Avenue ran along the bluff, but neither faced it nor seemed aware of it, for all the houses fronted inward toward the street. Beyond the first half mile it became newer, essayed ventures in terraced lawns, in concoctions of stucco or in granite mansions which imitated through a variety of gradual refinements the marble contours of the Petit Trianon. The houses of this phase rushed by the roadster for a succession of minutes; then the way turned and the car was headed directly into the moonlight which swept toward it like the lamp of some gigantic motorcycle far up the avenue.
Past the low Corinthian lines of the Christian Science Temple, past a block of dark frame horrors, a deserted row of grim red brick—an unfortunate experi­ment of the late 90’s—then new houses again, bright binding flowery lawns. These swept by, faded, passed, enjoying their moment of grandeur; then waiting there in the moonlight to be outmoded as had the frame, cupoloed mansions of lower town and the brownstone piles of older Crest Avenue in their turn.
The roofs lowered suddenly, the lots narrowed, the houses shrank up in size and shaded off into bungalows. These held the street for the last mile, to the bend in the river which terminated the prideful avenue at the statue of Chelsea Arbuthnot. Arbuthnot was the first governor— and almost the last of Anglo-Saxon blood.
All the way thus far Yanci had not spoken, absorbed still in the annoyance of the evening, yet soothed somehow by the fresh air of Northern November that rushed by them. She must take he fur coat out of storage next day, she thought.
“Where are we now?”
As they slowed down Scott looked up curiously at the pompous stone figure, clear in the crisp moonlight, with one hand on a book and the forefinger of the other pointing, as though with reproachful symbolism, directly at some construction work going on in the street.
“This is the end of Crest Avenue,” said Yanci, turning to him. This is our show street.”
“A museum of American architectural failures.”


It was a large luxurious boudoir, panelled, like the lower hall, in dark Ebglish oak and bathed by several lamps in a mellow orange glow that blurred its every outline into misty amber. In a great armchair piled high with cushions and draped with a curiously figured cloth of silk reclined a very sturdy old lady with bright hair, heavy features, and an air about her of having been there for many years. She lay somnolently against the cushions, her eyes half closed, her great bust rising and falling under her black negligee.
But it was something else that made the room remarkable and Myra’s eyes scarcely rested on the woman, so engrossed was she in another feature of her surroundings. On the carpet, on the chairs and sofas, on the great canopied bed and on the soft Angora rug in front of the fire sat and sprawled and slept a great army of white poodle dogs. There must have been almost two dozen of them with curly hair twisting in front of their wistful eyes and wide yellow bows flaunting from their necks. As Myra and Knowleton entered a stir went over the dogs; they raised one and twenty cold black noses in the air and from one-and-twnety little throats went up a great clatter of staccato barks until the room was filled with such an uproar that Myra stepped back in alarm.
But at the din the somnolent fat lady’s eyes trembled open and in a low husky voice that was in itself oddly like a bark she snapped out: “Hush that racket!” and the clatter instantly ceased. The two or three poodles around the fire turned their silky eyes on each other reproachfully, and lying down with little sighs faded out on the white Angora rug; The tousled ball on the lady’s lap dug his nose into the crook of an elbow and went back to sleep, and except for the patches of white wool scattered about the room Myra would have thought it all a dream.
“Child!” she said—and Myra started, for again the voice was like a low sort of growl—“you want to marry my son, Knowleton?”
Myra felt that this was putting the tonneau before the radiator but she nodded.
“Yes, Mrs. Whitney.”
Myra was not certain whether this last ejaculation was conversation or merely a groan, so she did not answer.
“You’ll excuse me if I don’t appear downstairs,” continued Mrs. Whitney, “but when we’re in the East I seldom leave this room and my dear little doggies.”
“Good night, mother,” said Knowleton.
“Night!” barked Mrs. Whitney drowsily, and her eyes sealed gradually up as her head receded back again into the cushions.
Knowleton held open the door and Myra feeling a bit blank left the room. As they walked down the corridor she heard a burst of furious sound behind them, the noise of the closing door had again roused the poodle dogs.


Once upon a time Princeton was a leafy campus where the students went in for understatement and if they had earned a P wore it on the inside of the sweater, displaying only the orange seams as if the letter were only faintly deserved. The professors were patient men who prudently kept their daughters out of contact with the students. Half a dozen great estates ringed the township which was inhabited by townsmen and darkies—these latter the avowed descendants of body servants brought north by southerners before the civil war.
Nowadays Princeton is an “advantageous residential vicinity”—in consequence of which young ladies dressed in riding habits with fashionable manners may be encountered lounging in the students’ clubs on Prospect Avenue. The local society no longer has a professional, almost military homogenuity—it is leavened with many frivolous people, and has “sets” and antennae extending to New York and Philadelphia.


“Been looking all over the ship for you for two days.”
The speaker was an ageless Jew, wrapped in a polo coat, and tied with a belt—his nose was a finger pressing down his compressed lips which shuffled under it as he mulled and valued, his eyes were beautiful and mean. The two men each recapitulated to himself the many dealings they had had in the past or were likely to have in the future.
“Where did you keep yourself, Lew?” asked the Jew, Bowman, “I thought I’d see you at the Captain’s table.”
“We heard you were on board so we stayed in our cabin,” Lew answered gravely.
Bowman’s face fell, not at the harshness of pleasantry ’ but because he usually looked forward to a few minutes of formal cordiality before people commenced the abuse which he subconsciously demanded.
“That was a wise thing for you to marry a lady. There’s nothing like a lady. I’ve always been glad I married a lady myself.”
“Do you call that broad of yours a lady?” asked Lew.
“Bowman looked at him.
“You don’t feel in a good humor today.”
“Yes, I do,” said Lew. He had resented the implication that he and Bowman were upstarts and with sadistic cruelty he prolonged the moment; then he laughed, “Hell, George, I’m kidding you. If you had any self-respect you’d have socked me. Of course Edith’s a lady, one of the finest ladies I know.” Anyhow half the word was true, so he’d heard.
“You’re all right, Lew,” said Bowman meditatively, “All you need is every-once-in-a-while a good swift kick in the—”
“Sure, that’s right, and to make up for that I’ll come to your lowsy party.”
“You don’t need to come to my party. You, a Yale man, talking like that. No one would ever know it.” He went Jewish suddenly, “But come to the party.”
“Sure I will.” He put his hand in a friendly way on Bowman’s arm.
He was thinking of her—he knew now that his abstraction had hurt her, for it was always after he had hurt her that she seemed most beautiful, unattainable and serene.
He found her in the cabin, just standing, thinking. He was afraid of her when she thought, knowing that in the part of her most removed from him, there was taking place a tireless ratiocination, the synthesis of which was always a calm sense of the injustice and unsatisfactions of life. He knew with which her mind worked, but he was always surprised that it brought forth in the end protests that were purely abstract, and in which he figured only as an element as driven and succourless as herself. This made him more afraid than if she said, “It was your fault,” as she frequently did—for by it she seemed to lift the situation and its interpretation out of his grasp. In that region his mind was more feminine than hers—he felt light, and off his balance—and a little like the Dickens’ character who accused his wife of praying against him.


“Well, Cassandra,” he said.
Her grey eyes moved over him as if she was checking up on something she had formulated in her mind. But: “Who was Cassandra?” she asked.
“She was a prophetess. Listen, darlo, you thought I didn’t want you to walk with me, didn’t you?”
She shook her head slowly.
“I was thinking of those curtains. I’d like a room with just stars in it.”
He put his arms around her, enclosing her completely as if he didn’t want even the intangible to escape, but even as she came close to him he felt something fly off into the salty air of the cabin. Simultaneously he had a sense of change, of a new rhythm that in a moment became a great silence. Far off in it there were voices calling.
He stepped back, shaking his head like a wet dog.
The engine’s stopped,” he said, “Something’s happened.”
On the deck people walking, reading, loafing, exercising, were all hurrying toward the stern.


The constant endeavor of trained nurses in a patient’s room is to get all moveable articles out before the doctor arrives approximating as closely as possible the stripped look of an operating chamber. The result is like that obtained in the case of a dog baring a bone. It is the burying that matters; not the bone—in the meantime after the nurses’ departure, missed or forgotten objects turn up in the corners of strange drawers and escritoires. The hanging of trousers is another matter in which technique must be part of the nurses’ course. From the decorums of Hopkins to the casualness of the Pacific they are seized by both cuffs, twisted several times in reverse, placed in the corner of the hanger and left to dangle rather like a man hanged. That same nurse may go home and put away a pair of slacks in perfect shape for future wearing, but no man ever left a hospital with the same crease that he had when he went in.


They had been run into by a school bus which lay, burning from the mouth, half on its side against a tall bank of the road, with the little girls screaming as they stumbled out the back.


“You know”, he said to Miss Hapgood, “I was about nine years old when they had that war flu in 1918—and that was the kind of disease to have. We lived near a camp and I got it. That was a real bug. I was playing cops and robbers and one mintue I was behind a tree yelling something and one minute later I was trying to hang on to some garden furniture and asking another boy to tell my father I was sick. When it hit you either you woke up dead or you woke up with somebody bringing in bacon and eggs—and not enough of them. You know—like the Bubonic Plague.”


A young man phoned from a city far off, then from a city near by, then from downtown informing me that he was coming to call, though he had never seen me. He arrived eventually with a great ripping up of garden borders, a four ply rip in a new lawn, a watch pointing accurately and unforgivably at three. . But he was prepared to disarm me with the force of his compliment, the intensity of the impulse that had brought him to my door. “Here I am at last,” he said teetering triumphantly. “I had to see you. I feel I owe you more than I can say. I feel that you formed my life.”


Singer flashing light


Man met Cab Calloway and Eddie Duchin under the impression that they were Yale Football stars.


Hearing Hitler’s speech while going down Sunset Blvd. in a car.


The Selwynn-Rothstein mixup.


“You frozen?”
“No—but I will be eventually. So I think I’ll get married this spring, when the winds are warm on Long Island and I find someone with an open car.”
“That sounds good,” he said pensively but in the vista of pungent darkness that stretched suddenly before his mind’s eye he saw Jill’s hair flying. “Spring—what a big word. It’s almost everything.”
“No,” she said. “There’s summer, if you’ve planted the proper trees.”



Down Pennsyvania avenue, past the gibbering dinges on the sidewalks and the fat profiteers in the stands, marched the sweated labor of farm and factory, now entilted “The Army of the Potomac”.
In his raw grave, Lincoln shifted his position wearily, glad at any rate to be away from his horrible wife. It was all pretty lousy.


Miss Cuba at Rhodadendron Festival.


Man, by subterfuge, gets his own natural children adopted and brought up by childless wife.


Nora’s Day
Engaged to two. The Band of Four arrive—Mumble-de-peg.
The proposals. The father.
All night. The hammock. The freezer—Bump heels—hands. Sent to Europe.


Part of the wall gives way at the pressure of a button and a bar slides into view. A muted radio begins to whisper Star Dust into the room,] and Mr. Deere orders things on the phone. It is girls he is ordering— three—four—
“—and if you can’t get her get Miss Lindsay. But Miss Crane sure, if you’ve got to trace her all around town...”
It is five now and the room seems full of girls, all very young and new under an alternate set of shaded lights. From behind another panel rolls a little piano with four octaves and a tall thin man goes ravenously to work on it while the smoke thickens and white coated waiters serve hors d’oevres and champagne and a young woman melodiously confronts the monied men with the enigma of why she was born. Hopkins from Topeka will have a tale to tell back home.


Barbara’s coat that the moths ate except buttons.

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