In our Fall 1983 issue, The Paris Review published twenty years’ worth of Zelda Fitzgerald’s letters to her husband, Scott. This selection comprises her correspondence between the spring of 1919 and Easter Sunday, 1920, the day Zelda and Scott married. Zelda Fitzgerald was born this month in 1900. Note: Zelda was known for her quirks in punctuation (she was a particularly fond of the em dash), and these are retained in the text. As in the original printing, asterisks denote substantial editorial deletions and ellipses are used to indicate minor omissions. Each letter is addressed to Scott Fitzgerald. —C.L.
Montgomery, 1919
Mrs. Francesca—who never heard of you—got a message from Ouija for me. Nobody’s hands were on it—but hers—and it told us to be married—that we were soul-mates. Theosophists think that two souls are incarnated together—not necessarily at the same time, but are mated—since the time when people were bisexual; so you see “soul-mate” isn’t exactly snappy-stylish; after all: I can’t get messages but it really worked for me last night—only it couldn’t say anything, but “dead,”—so, of course I got scared and quit. It’s really most remarkable, even if you do scoff. I wish you wouldn’t, it’s so easy, and believing is much more intelligent.
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There’s no Christmas in the air—and I’m so distressed because I have a tremendous fondness for streets lined with fireworks and holly strands—and loads of candles and big bundles. Nobody seems to care whether it’s Christmas or Lincoln’s birthday down here ***
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I hope I’ll never get ambitious enough to try anything. It’s so much nicer to be damned sure I could 6.0 it better than other people—and I might not if I tried. That of course would break my heart—***
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*** To-day seems like Easter and I wish we were together walking slow thru the sunshine and the crowds from Church. Everything smells so good and warm and your ring shines so white in the sun—like one of the church lilies with a little yellow dust on it. We ought to be together this Spring. It seems made for us to love in. You can’t imagine what havoc the ting wrought—a whole dance was completely upset last night. Everybody thinks it’s lovely—and I am so proud to be your girl—***
The Ohio troops have started a wild and heated correspondence with Montgomery damsels. From all I can gather, the whole 37th Division will be down in May. Then I guess the butterflies will flitter a trifle more. It seems dreadfully peculiar not to be worried over the prospects of the return of at least three or four fiancées. ***
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Our fairy tale is almost ended, and we’re going to marry and live happily ever after just like the princess in her tower who worried you so much—and made me so very cross by her constant recurrence. I’m so sorry for all the times I’ve been mean and hateful—for all the miserable moments I’ve caused you when we could have been so happy. You deserve so much—so very much— … And I do want to marry you—even if you do think I “dread” it. I wish you hadn’t said that—I’m not afraid of anything. To be afraid a person has either to be a coward or very great and big. I am neither. Besides, I know you can take much better care of me than I can, and I’ll always be very, very happy with you—except sometimes when we engage in our weekly debates—and even then I rather enjoy myself. I like being very calm and masterful, while you become emotional and sulky. I don’t care whether you think so or not—I do.
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Darling, I nearly sat it off in the Strand today and all because T.E. Lawrence of the Movies is your physical counter-part. So I was informed by half a dozen girls before I could slam on a hat and see for myself. He made me so homesick. I thought at first waiting would grow easier later—but every day I need you more. All these soft, warm nights going to waste when I ought to be lying in your arms under the moon—the dearest arms in all the world—darling arms that I love so to feel around me. How much longer—before they’ll be there to stay? ***
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*** It’s funny but I like being “pink and helpless.” When I know I seem that way, I feel terribly competent—and superior. I keep thinking, “how those men think I’m purely decorative and they’re just fools for not knowing better”—and I love being rather unfathomable. You are the only person on earth, Lover, who has ever known and loved all of me. Men love me cause I’m pretty—and they’re always afraid of mental wickedness—and men love me cause I’m clever and they’re always afraid of my prettiness. One or two have even loved me cause I’m loveable, and then, of course, I was acting. But you just do, darling—and I do—***
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*** I don’t want you to see me growing old and ugly—I know you’ll be a beautiful old man-romantic and dreamy—and I’ll probably be most prosaic and wrinkled. We will just have to die when we’re thirty. ***
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*** It’s awfully hard to do everything by a foot-ball schedule, but I’ve been making a frantic effort at it for the last month. Between the games and my piano lessons, I’ll probably be a mere shadow of the girl I once was by the time you come—***
I’m just recovering from a wholesome amour with Auburn’s “starting quarter-back” so my disposition is excellent as well as my health. Mentally, you’ll find me dreadfully deteriorated. But you never seem to know when I was stupid or when I wasn’t anyway.
Please bring me a quart of gin—I haven’t had a drink all summer and you’re already ruined along alcoholic lines with Mrs. Sayre. After you left, every comer the nigger started cleaning was occupied by a bottle (or bottles). Tootsie1 of course, is largely responsible but it was just one of those incidents that just can’t be explained. She thought you drank at least 12 qts. in two days—***
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*** I’m expending all my energy on gum—I’ve started a continuous chew again—your disapproval used to put me on the wagon, but now I’ve got the habit again—***
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*** Don’t please accumulate a lot of furniture. Really. Scott, I’d just as soon live anywhere. Can’t we find a bed ready-made? Someday, you know we’ll want rugs and wicker furniture and a home—I’m terribly afraid I’ll just be in the way now—I wish New York were a little tiny town. I haven’t the remotest idea of what it’s like—***
*** The map of New York might just as well be … China—All I saw was the dot where we could live—I couldn’t help wondering over the fact that two rooms and bath took up the same space as Washington Square and Statue of Liberty—Thank God I’m marrying you and not New York—***
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I’ve spent to-day in the grave-yard … It’s all washed and covered with weepy, watery blue flowers that might have grown from dead eyes—sticky to touch with a sickening odor. The boys wanted to get in to test my nerve to-night—I wanted to feel “William Wreford, 1864.” Why shouid graves make people feel in vain? … Somehow I can’t find anything hopeless in having lived— … and in an hundred years I think I shall like having young people speculate on whether my eyes were brown or blue— … Isn’t it funny how, out of a row of confederate soldiers two or three will make you think of dead lovers and dead loves— … Old death is so beautiful—so very beautiful—we will die together—I know—Sweetheart—
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*** How can you think deliberately of life without me. If you should die-oh. Darling darling Scott—it’d be like going blind … I’d have no purpose in life—just a pretty decoration. Don’t you think I was made for you? I feel like you had me ordered, and I was delivered to you to be worn. I want you to wear me like a watch charm or a button hole bouquet. And then, when we’re alone, I want to help-to know that you can’t do anything without me—***
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*** Look at this communication from Mamma—all on account of a wine-stained dress—
Zelda;
If you have added whiskey to your tobacco you can subtract your mother … If you prefer the habits of a prostitute don’t try to mix them with gentility. OJ and water do not mix.
—Darhng heart-I won’t drink any if you object. Sometimes I get so bored and sick for you. It helps then—and afterwards, I’m just more bored and sicker for you—and ashamed—***
*** I don’t see how you can carry around as much love as I’ve given you—***
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