Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald (Illustrated) (521 page)
Read Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald (Illustrated) Online
Authors: F. Scott Fitzgerald
Close group shot of the three.
FIRST PONY: Oh, it’s a pool hall. I thought they must do something to keep this place up.
Full shot of a bedroom, large and luxurious like everything else in this house. Soft lighting, everything covered with cloth or canvas.
Nicolas Gilbert is standing in the middle of the floor.
Close shot of Nicolas.
The broadcast we almost heard last September
by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Folks, here’s Poke McFiddle bringing you the big battle in Central Europe. Take it away, Poke.
Good morning, folks — it’s just dawn over here but every body’s up — yes, sir, everybody’s on hand — a cast of twenty million — the greatest ever assembled. Before I begin I want to tell you who’s in this corner. Folks, I’m five miles behind the lines in a dug-out with some of the finest men I ever met. I’ll just introduce you before the boys get going — here’s a delegation of cabinet ministers and half a dozen generals and presidents and a couple of stuffed Kings all just as eager to see the sport as you are, gentlemen — just as near to it as a periscope will let them get.
Set your clocks by that bomb, folks, it’s zero hour minus one minute — and now boy! are they laying down a hot barrage! Here, I’m going to turn’ you over to the heavy artillery for a minute.
BOOM!
That was a big one — sounded like the Fourth, eh? Ha-ha-ha.
While the boys are waiting to go over, everyone of them happy as jack rabbits, I’m going to let you hear this military band swinging the lads into battle. Take it, Tony.
BOOM!
I’m sorry, folks. That band doesn’t exist any more. You see, the enemy are putting down a barrage, too. Incidentally, just before the boys go over, I’m going to turn the mike over to our commercial man who’s got some Big News for you. I’ll be back in a flash with a crash…
Hello, America. This program, the first battle ever broadcast, comes to you through the courtesy of the Jitka Arms Works, who are supplying the ammunition for both sides. You can’t fight battles with duds — you need a Cool Clean Burst. I want to remind you of our little prize contest: you simply buy a package of our cartridges at your sporting store, tear off the top and write your guess at the number of casualties for the day. Whoever is nearest —
Sorry to interrupt, folks, we’ll hear more from Jitka later — about that Clean Cool Burst. But just now the boys are going over — and are they hitting that front line! This
is War!
They’re piling in, and watching them through this periscope is a sight to see. They’re down — they’re up, they’re up — they’re down for good. But that’s only one wave, folks, and they’replenty more. Incidentally, the noise isn’t static, it’s machine-gun fire coming to you courtesy of —
Let me tell you, the men in this dugout are
wild!
They’d give anything to be in there, but they’re too old and they’re needed back here to run things. Or else, how could we be bringing you this fine broadcast, courtesy of A. B. C. and the Jitka Arms Company…
…Folks, the show seems to be over for the day and now we’re going to take you out on the battlefield where all the Red Cross people are doing a fine job picking up some of the boys. Take it, Ned…
Hello, America. I’m going to let one boy speak for twenty thousand of them. Here he is, a fine boy — or he was this morn-ing — and glad and proud he had the chance to do it. Speak up, son, you’re talking to half a billion people.
“Hello. Mother — goodbye, Mother.”
Thanks, son. Oh-oh! That was too much for him. Take it away, Poke.
Folks, we’re having a little champagne dinner back here outside the dugout — and do we need it! But it seems to be getting suddenly misty in this neighborhood, very misty. And it’s beginning to smell funny. I don’t like it — it’s GAS, folks —
GAS!
And I can’t find my mask! Hey, my job is giving it out, not taking it…
…The time is eight o’clock. All you truckers on your toes! Prince Paul Obaloney of Dance Hall Society will give us a lesson in the Slinky-winky Blues.
Editorial:
This sketch was written in 193S. To our knowledge it has never before been published or broadcast.
The Poetry
LIST OF POETRY
MARCHING STREETS (1919 version)
MARCHING STREETS (1945 version)
CLAY FEET
Clear in the morning I can see them sometimes:
Men, gods and ghosts, slim girls and graces —
Then the light grows, noon burns, and soon there come times
When I see but the pale and ravaged places
Their glory long ago adorned. — And seeing
My whole soul falters as an invalid
Too often cheered. Did something in their being
Of worth go from them when my ideal did?
Men, gods and ghosts, cast down by that young damning,
You have no answer; I but heard you say,
“Why, we are weak. We failed a bit in shamming.”
— So I am free! Will freedom always weigh
So much around my heart? For your defection,
Break! You who had me in your keeping, break! Fall
From that great height to this great imperfection!
Yet I must weep. — Yet can I hate you all?
FIRST LOVE
All my ways she wove of light,
Wove them all alive,
Made them warm and beauty bright…
So the trembling ambient air
Clothes the golden waters where
The pearl fishers dive.
When she wept and begged a kiss
Very close I’d hold her,
And I know so well in this
Fine fierce joy of memory
She was very young like me
Though half an aeon older.
Once she kissed me very long,
Tiptoed out the door,
Left me, took her light along,
Faded as a music fades…
Then I saw the changing shades,
Color-blind no more.
FOOTBALL
Now they’re ready, now they’re waiting,
Now he’s going to place the ball.
There, you hear the referee’s whistle,
As of old the baton’s fall.
See him crouching. Yes, he’s got it;
Now he’s off around the end.
Will the interference save him?
Will the charging line now bend?
Good he’free; no, see that halfback
Gaining up behind him slow.
Crash! they’re down; he threw him nicely, —
Classy tackle, hard and low.
Watch that line, now crouching waiting,
In their jerseys white and black;
Now they’re off and charging, making
Passage for the plunging back.
Buck your fiercest, run your fastest,
Let the straight arm do the rest.
Oh, they got him; never mind, though,
He could only do his best.
What is this? A new formation.
Look! their end acts like an ass.
See, he’s beckoning for assistance,
Maybe it’s a forward pass.
Yes, the ball is shot to fullback,
He, as calmly as you please,
Gets it, throws it to the end; he
Pulls the pigskin down with ease.
Now they’ve got him. No, they haven’t.
See him straight-arm all those fools.
Look, he’s clear. Oh, gee! don’t stumble.
Faster, faster, for the school.
There’s the goal, now right before you,
Ten yards, five yards, bless your name!
Oh! you Newman, 1911,
You know how to play the game.
FOR A LONG ILLNESS
Where did we store the summer of our love?
Come here and help me find it.
Search as I may there is no trove,
Only a dusty last year’s calendar.
Without your breath in my ear,
Your light in my eye to blind it,
I cannot see in the dark.
Oh, tender
Was your touch in spring, your barefoot voice —
In August we should find graver music and rejoice.
A long Provence of time we saw
For the end — to march together
Through the white dust.
The wines are raw —
Still that we will drink
In the groves by the old walls in the old weather.
Two who were hurt in the first dawn
Of battle; first to be whole again (let’s think)
If the wars grow faint, sweep over…
Come, we will rest in the shade of the Invalides, the lawn
Where there is luck only in three-leaf clover.
FRAGMENT
Every time I blow my nose I think of you
And the mellow noise it makes
Says I’ll be true —
With beers and wines
With Gertrude Steins,
With all of that
I’m through —
‘Cause every time I blow my no-o-ose
I — think — of — you.
MARCHING STREETS (1919 version)
Death slays the moon and the long dark deepens,
Hastens to the city, to the drear stone-heaps,
Films all eyes and whispers on the corners,
Whispers to the corners that the last soul sleeps.
Gay grow the streets now torched by yellow lamplight,
March all directions with a long sure tread.
East, west they wander through the blinded city,
Rattle on the windows like the wan-faced dead.
Ears full of throbbing, a babe awakens startled,
Sends a tiny whimper to the still gaunt room.
Arms of the mother tighten round it gently,
Deaf to the patter in the far-flung gloom.
Old streets hoary with dear, dead foot-steps
Loud with the tumbrils of a gold old age
Young streets sand-white still unheeled and soulless,
Virgin with the pallor of the fresh-cut page.
Black streets and alleys, evil girl and tearless,
Creeping leaden footed each in thin, torn coat,
Wine-stained and miry, mire choked and winding,
Wind like choking fingers on a white, full throat.
White lanes and pink lanes, strung with purpled roses,
Dance along the distance weaving o’er the hills,
Beckoning the dull streets with stray smiles wanton,
Strung with purpled roses that the stray dawn chills.
Here now they meet tiptoe on the corner,
Kiss behind the silence of the curtained dark;
Then half unwilling run between the houses,
Tracing through the pattern that the dim lamps mark.
Steps break steps and murmur into running,
Death upon the corner spills the edge of dawn
Dull the torches waver and the streets stand breathless;
Silent fades the marching and the night-noon’s gone.
MARCHING STREETS (1945 version)
Death shrouds the moon and the long dark deepens,
Hastens to the city, to the great stone heaps,
Blinds all eyes and lingers on the corners,
Whispers on the corners that the last soul sleeps.
Gay grow the streets now, torched by yellow lamp-light,
March all directions with a staid, slow tread;
East West they wander through the sodden city,
Rattle on the windows like the wan-faced dead.
Ears full of throbbing, a babe awakens startled,
Lends a tiny whimper to the still, dark doom;
Arms of the mother tighten round it gently,
Deaf to the marching in the far-flung gloom.
Old streets hoary with dead men’s footsteps,
Scarred with the coach-wheels of a gold old age;
Young streets, sand-white, fresh-cemented, soulless,
Virgin with the pallor of the fresh-cut page.
Black mews and alleys, stealthy-eyed and tearless,
Shoes patched and coats torn, torn and dirty old;
Mire-stained and winding, poor streets and weary,
Trudge along with curses, harsh as icy cold.
