Days passed without a response from his beloved, but Scott never lost heart, dutifully making the journey to the postal outlet each day, until the gruff old man who ran it came to know him by name, shaking his head slightly each morning when he saw Scott approaching, to tell him that no letters had arrived. Finally, the day came when he didn’t shake his head, and Scott’s face broke into a wide grin, the aspiring novelist elated to learn that his luck had finally changed, and his dearest Zelda hadn’t forgotten him after all. Only … the envelope the surly Englishman handed him wasn’t marked with the Sayre’s return address, but instead with the address of Scribner’s publishing house. It was a big envelope, containing the entirety of the typed manuscript of Scott’s first novel, along with a letter from the publisher.
Scott got so far as Dear Mr. Fitzgerald, we regret to inform you … before he couldn’t bear to read any further, crumpling the letter up and shoving it into the trash bin and leaving the postal outlet without another word. When he got back to the barracks, he threw himself onto his cot, completely wretched. How would he ever break this news to Zelda? Would she even WANT him, now that he was a failure? He could hardly expect her to marry him if he couldn’t provide for her! And a girl like Zelda … she’d be used to an EXTRAVAGANT lifestyle, wouldn’t she? Full of parties and travel. All things Scott had promised her she could have, once he was a famed novelist.
It was another two days before Zelda’s letter actually did arrive at last, and while it cheered Scott to hear from her – he actually smiled, for the first time in DAYS, upon reading her fanciful theories about what had become of the postman, and at her delight over his ring – but he wasn’t fool enough to think her hints about her exploits with the men of Montgomery were as innocent as they seemed. They were, however, completely unnecessary. He knew very well that she had OPTIONS, any number of suitors waiting to steal her heart away from him. Suitors with their feet planted firmly on the ground, no doubt, none of them with their heads in the clouds like him, and all of them with more than pennies to their names.
My Dearest Zelda,
No letter has ever pained me so in the writing. Scribner’s has rejected my manuscript, and I am undone. Your mother will find you a suitable husband, and I will live out my days as a never-was, surviving off my meagre military salary and imagining my princess in her tower, being saved by another prince – you have so many princes, and all of them eager and waiting to give you the restorative kiss that will wake you from your enchanted slumber – while I have proven myself to be no prince at all, but a mere pauper.
I only ever wished for a seat at the princes’ table, and my writing was supposed to get me there. My father used to tell me that in America, you can invent your way to the top, but when I opened that letter, when I saw my entire future torn to shreds by a few simple words typed onto official letterhead – Zelda, I have never fallen so low. They call it cave darkness, a darkness so deep that you can feel it like a sensation on your skin, so deep that you can see neither before you nor behind you, and you begin to fear that you only ever imagined the sun, and to doubt that you will ever feel its warmth again.
This, my dear girl, is the end of a dream.
Yours even in misery,
Scott
in reading her dear scott’s most recent letter — that was so very DIFFERENT in both feeling && tone from his last — it felt as though zelda had been struck by lightning ; as if the words, so cruel as they were, had torn the breath from her still young ( though she would proclaim over and over that eighteen was no longer young ) lungs. it was true, the blonde socialite kept a string of suitors under her thumb ... but when she’d professed her love to the military man, who’d so quickly come into her life, the words she’d spoken were indeed also the truth. she imagined she could feel his pain, as she was reading his letter ; could feel the sense of hopelessness washing over her like a summer storm, settling itself deep inside her heart until it was all she too could feel. grasping a pen tight in her hands, she began her response ...
you are the only person on earth, lover, who has ever known and loved all of me — men love me because I’m pretty — and they’re always afraid of mental wickedness — and men love me because I’m clever, and they’re always afraid of my prettiness — one or two have even loved me because I’m lovable, and then of course I was acting — but you just do, darling — and I do love you too — very, very, very much.
and in loving me — and in my loving you — I should not allow you to give up so easily. they have rejected your manuscript now, but who besides god himself knows if they will reject it again? you claim to love me, and I believe in my heart, as much as I believe in superstition and that fairies live amongst the leaves and flowers in the meadows ( and I do, very much ) that you do, but then why do you give up so easily? father knows a man who knows a man who works in an advertising firm in new york city, I have asked — and by asked, I mean stomped my feet, and screamed at the top of my lungs, and cried, and begged him until he agreed — him to speak to his friend for you.
you promised to come back to me, if I wrote to you, and I will hold you to those words, as I have not stopped writing to you as soon as your letters arrive. ( did you smell the perfume I sprayed onto my last reply? you did not mention it, so I will spray this letter with my perfume too, in hopes it inspires you to remember what it was like to hold me )
ps. fritz fell asleep curled up at the foot of my bed last night, and it was just darling.
pps. I still wear your ring every day.
ppps. my darling best friend tallulah — you remember her, don’t you? — is moving away from me, to be an actress! imagine that! and I am conflicted. I am happy for her, but I will miss her so. my heart is shattered from the absence of you both. is it cruel of me to wish that she does not become a wonderful and famously renowned actress, as I know she will be, so that at least one of you comes home to me?
days passed slowly, after her letter was sent, sealed with a kiss and a hint of perfume as promised ... the news became wildly interesting, to a girl who hardly paid attention to the news at all ; whispers of an ending war became the talk of the town && zelda immersed herself in the thick of it, eager for any confirmation that the rumours were indeed true. when they FINALLY came, the whole of montgomery danced in the streets — save zelda ; who stood at the post office with a pen and a piece of scrap paper, scribbling out the most hastily written letter she’d ever wrote.
it is the eleventh of november, and I am overjoyed! the whole of montgomery dances until dawn, but I can only think of you! have you received my last correspondence? where are you headed now? please update.
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