Francis Scott Fitzgerald - Winter Dreams

Winter Dreams Fitzgerald, Francis Scott Published: 1922 Categorie(s): Fiction, Short Stories Source: http://gutenberg.net.au 1 About Fitzgerald: Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald (September 24, 1896 – December 21, 1940) was an American Jazz Age author of novels and short stories. He is re- garded as one of the greatest twentieth century writers. Fitzgerald was of the self-styled "Lost Generation," Americans born in the 1890s who came of age during World War I. He finished four novels, left a fifth unfin- ished, and wrote dozens of short stories that treat themes of youth, des- pair, and age. Also available on Feedbooks for Fitzgerald: • The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (1922) • The Great Gatsby (1925) • The Great Gatsby (1925) • This Side of Paradise (1920) • The Beautiful and the Damned (1922) • Tender is the Night (1933) • "I Didn't Get Over" (1936) • The Rich Boy (1926) • Jacob's Ladder (1927) • "The Sensible Thing" (1924) Copyright: This work is available for countries where copyright is Life+70 and in the USA. Note: This book is brought to you by Feedbooks http://www.feedbooks.com Strictly for personal use, do not use this file for commercial purposes. 2 Chapter 1 Some of the caddies were poor as sin and lived in one-room houses with a neurasthenic cow in the front yard, but Dexter Green's father owned the second best grocery-store in Black Bear—the best one was "The Hub," patronized by the wealthy people from Sherry Island—and Dexter cad- died only for pocket-money. In the fall when the days became crisp and gray, and the long Min- nesota winter shut down like the white lid of a box, Dexter's skis moved over the snow that hid the fairways of the golf course. At these times the country gave him a feeling of profound melancholy—it offended him that the links should lie in enforced fallowness, haunted by ragged spar- rows for the long season. It was dreary, too, that on the tees where the gay colors fluttered in summer there were now only the desolate sand- boxes knee-deep in crusted ice. When he crossed the hills the wind blew cold as misery, and if the sun was out he tramped with his eyes squinted up against the hard dimensionless glare. In April the winter ceased abruptly. The snow ran down into Black Bear Lake scarcely tarrying for the early golfers to brave the season with red and black balls. Without elation, without an interval of moist glory, the cold was gone. Dexter knew that there was something dismal about this Northern spring, just as he knew there was something gorgeous about the fall. Fall made him clinch his hands and tremble and repeat idiotic sentences to himself, and make brisk abrupt gestures of command to imaginary audi- ences and armies. October filled him with hope which November raised to a sort of ecstatic triumph, and in this mood the fleeting brilliant im- pressions of the summer at Sherry Island were ready grist to his mill. He became a golf champion and defeated Mr. T. A. Hedrick in a marvellous match played a hundred times over the fairways of his imagination, a match each detail of which he changed about untiringly—sometimes he won with almost laughable ease, sometimes he came up magnificently from behind. Again, stepping from a Pierce-Arrow automobile, like Mr. Mortimer Jones, he strolled frigidly into the lounge of the Sherry Island 3 Golf Club—or perhaps, surrounded by an admiring crowd, he gave an exhibition of fancy diving from the spring-board of the club raft… . Among those who watched him in open-mouthed wonder was Mr. Mor- timer Jones. And one day it came to pass that Mr. Jones—himself and not his ghost—came up to Dexter with tears in his eyes and said that Dexter was the —— best caddy in the club, and wouldn't he decide not to quit if Mr. Jones made it worth his while, because every other —— caddy in the club lost one ball a hole for him—regularly— "No, sir," said Dexter decisively, "I don't want to caddy any more." Then, after a pause: "I'm too old." "You're not more than fourteen. Why the devil did you decide just this morning that you wanted to quit? You promised that next week you'd go over to the State tournament with me." "I decided I was too old." Dexter handed in his "A Class" badge, collected what money was due him from the caddy master, and walked home to Black Bear Village. "The best —— caddy I ever saw," shouted Mr. Mortimer Jones over a drink that afternoon. "Never lost a ball! Willing! Intelligent! Quiet! Hon- est! Grateful!" The little girl who had done this was eleven—beautifully ugly as little girls are apt to be who are destined after a few years to be inexpressibly lovely and bring no end of misery to a great number of men. The spark, however, was perceptible. There was a general ungodliness in the way her lips twisted down at the corners when she smiled, and in the—Heaven help us!—in the almost passionate quality of her eyes. Vit- ality is born early in such women. It was utterly in evidence now, shin- ing through her thin frame in a sort of glow. She had come eagerly out on to the course at nine o'clock with a white linen nurse and five small new golf-clubs in a white canvas bag which the nurse was carrying. When Dexter first saw her she was standing by the caddy house, rather ill at ease and trying to conceal the fact by enga- ging her nurse in an obviously unnatural conversation graced by start- ling and irrelevant grimaces from herself. "Well, it's certainly a nice day, Hilda," Dexter heard her say. She drew down the corners of her mouth, smiled, and glanced furtively around, her eyes in transit falling for an instant on Dexter. Then to the nurse: "Well, I guess there aren't very many people out here this morning, are there?" 4 The smile again—radiant, blatantly artificial—convincing. "I don't know what we're supposed to do now," said the nurse, looking nowhere in particular. "Oh, that's all right. I'll fix it up." Dexter stood perfectly still, his mouth slightly ajar. He knew that if he moved forward a step his stare would be in her line of vision—if he moved backward he would lose his full view of her face. For a moment he had not realized how young she was. Now he remembered having seen her several times the year before—in bloomers. Suddenly, involuntarily, he laughed, a short abrupt laugh—then, startled by himself, he turned and began to walk quickly away. "Boy!" Dexter stopped. "Boy—" Beyond question he was addressed. Not only that, but he was treated to that absurd smile, that preposterous smile—the memory of which at least a dozen men were to carry into middle age. "Boy, do you know where the golf teacher is?" "He's giving a lesson." "Well, do you know where the caddy-master is?" "He isn't here yet this morning." "Oh." For a moment this baffled her. She stood alternately on her right and left foot. "We'd like to get a caddy," said the nurse. "Mrs. Mortimer Jones sent us out to play golf, and we don't know how without we get a caddy." Here she was stopped by an ominous glance from Miss Jones, fol- lowed immediately by the smile. "There aren't any caddies here except me," said Dexter to the nurse, "and I got to stay here in charge until the caddy-master gets here." "Oh." Miss Jones and her retinue now withdrew, and at a proper distance from Dexter became involved in a heated conversation, which was con- cluded by Miss Jones taking one of the clubs and hitting it on the ground with violence. For further emphasis she raised it again and was about to bring it down smartly upon the nurse's bosom, when the nurse seized the club and twisted it from her hands. "You damn little mean old thing!" cried Miss Jones wildly. Another argument ensued. Realizing that the elements of the comedy were implied in the scene, Dexter several times began to laugh, but each time restrained the laugh before it reached audibility. He could not resist 5 the monstrous conviction that the little girl was justified in beating the nurse. The situation was resolved by the fortuitous appearance of the caddy- master, who was appealed to immediately by the nurse. "Miss Jones is to have a little caddy, and this one says he can't go." "Mr. McKenna said I was to wait here till you came," said Dexter quickly. "Well, he's here now." Miss Jones smiled cheerfully at the caddy-mas- ter. Then she dropped her bag and set off at a haughty mince toward the first tee. "Well?" The caddy-master turned to Dexter. "What you standing there like a dummy for? Go pick up the young lady's clubs." "I don't think I'll go out to-day," said Dexter. "You don't—" "I think I'll quit." The enormity of his decision frightened him. He was a favorite caddy, and the thirty dollars a month he earned through the summer were not to be made elsewhere around the lake. But he had received a strong emo- tional shock, and his perturbation required a violent and immediate outlet. It is not so simple as that, either. As so frequently would be the case in the future, Dexter was unconsciously dictated to by his winter dreams. 6 Chapter 2 Now, of course, the quality and the seasonability of these winter dreams varied, but the stuff of them remained. They persuaded Dexter several years later to pass up a business course at the State university—his fath- er, prospering now, would have paid his way—for the precarious ad- vantage of attending an older and more famous university in the East, where he was bothered by his scanty funds. But do not get the impres- sion, because his winter dreams happened to be concerned at first with musings on the rich, that there was anything merely snobbish in the boy. He wanted not association with glittering things and glittering people—he wanted the glittering things themselves. Often he reached out for the best without knowing why he wanted it—and sometimes he ran up against the mysterious denials and prohibitions in which life in- dulges. It is with one of those denials and not with his career as a whole that this story deals. He made money. It was rather amazing. After college he went to the city from which Black Bear Lake draws its wealthy patrons. When he was only twenty-three and had been there not quite two years, there were already people who liked to say: "Now there's a boy—" All about him rich men's sons were peddling bonds precariously, or investing pat- rimonies precariously, or plodding through the two dozen volumes of the "George Washington Commercial Course," but Dexter borrowed a thousand dollars on his college degree and his confident mouth, and bought a partnership in a laundry. It was a small laundry when he went into it but Dexter made a spe- cialty of learning how the English washed fine woollen golf-stockings without shrinking them, and within a year he was catering to the trade that wore knickerbockers. Men were insisting that their Shetland hose and sweaters go to his laundry just as they had insisted on a caddy who could find golf-balls. A little later he was doing their wives' lingerie as well—and running five branches in different parts of the city. Before he was twenty-seven he owned the largest string of laundries in his section of the country. It was then that he sold out and went to New York. But 7 the part of his story that concerns us goes back to the days when he was making his first big success. When he was twenty-three Mr. Hart—one of the gray-haired men who like to say "Now there's a boy"—gave him a guest card to the Sherry Is- land Golf Club for a week-end. So he signed his name one day on the re- gister, and that afternoon played golf in a foursome with Mr. Hart and Mr. Sandwood and Mr. T. A. Hedrick. He did not consider it necessary to remark that he had once carried Mr. Hart's bag over this same links, and that he knew every trap and gully with his eyes shut—but he found himself glancing at the four caddies who trailed them, trying to catch a gleam or gesture that would remind him of himself, that would lessen the gap which lay between his present and his past. It was a curious day, slashed abruptly with fleeting, familiar impres- sions. One minute he had the sense of being a trespasser—in the next he was impressed by the tremendous superiority he felt toward Mr. T. A. Hedrick, who was a bore and not even a good golfer any more. Then, because of a ball Mr. Hart lost near the fifteenth green, an enormous thing happened. While they were searching the stiff grasses of the rough there was a clear call of "Fore!" from behind a hill in their rear. And as they all turned abruptly from their search a bright new ball sliced abruptly over the hill and caught Mr. T. A. Hedrick in the abdomen. "By Gad!" cried Mr. T. A. Hedrick, "they ought to put some of these crazy women off the course. It's getting to be outrageous." A head and a voice came up together over the hill: "Do you mind if we go through?" "You hit me in the stomach!" declared Mr. Hedrick wildly. "Did I?" The girl approached the group of men. "I'm sorry. I yelled 'Fore!'" Her glance fell casually on each of the men—then scanned the fairway for her ball. "Did I bounce into the rough?" It was impossible to determine whether this question was ingenuous or malicious. In a moment, however, she left no doubt, for as her partner came up over the hill she called cheerfully: "Here I am! I'd have gone on the green except that I hit something." As she took her stance for a short mashie shot, Dexter looked at her closely. She wore a blue gingham dress, rimmed at throat and shoulders with a white edging that accentuated her tan. The quality of exaggera- tion, of thinness, which had made her passionate eyes and down-turning mouth absurd at eleven, was gone now. She was arrestingly beautiful. 8 The color in her cheeks was centered like the color in a picture—it was not a "high" color, but a son of fluctuating and feverish warmth, so shaded that it seemed at any moment it would recede and disappear. This color and the mobility of her mouth gave a continual impression of flux, of intense life, of passionate vitality—balanced only partially by the sad luxury of her eyes. She swung her mashie impatiently and without interest, pitching the ball into a sand-pit on the other side of the green. With a quick, insincere smile and a careless "Thank you!" she went on after it. "That Judy Jones!" remarked Mr. Hedrick on the next tee, as they waited—some moments—for her to play on ahead. "All she needs is to be turned up and spanked for six months and then to be married off to an old-fashioned cavalry captain." "My God, she's good-looking!" said Mr. Sandwood, who was just over thirty. "Good-looking!" cried Mr. Hedrick contemptuously, "she always looks as if she wanted to be kissed! Turning those big cow-eyes on every calf in town!" It was doubtful if Mr. Hedrick intended a reference to the maternal instinct. "She'd play pretty good golf if she'd try," said Mr. Sandwood. "She has no form," said Mr. Hedrick solemnly. "She has a nice figure," said Mr. Sandwood. "Better thank the Lord she doesn't drive a swifter ball," said Mr. Hart, winking at Dexter. Later in the afternoon the sun went down with a riotous swirl of gold and varying blues and scarlets, and left the dry, rustling night of Western summer. Dexter watched from the veranda of the Golf Club, watched the even overlap of the waters in the little wind, silver molasses under the harvest-moon. Then the moon held a finger to her lips and the lake became a clear pool, pale and quiet. Dexter put on his bathing-suit and swam out to the farthest raft, where he stretched dripping on the wet canvas of the springboard. There was a fish jumping and a star shining and the lights around the lake were gleaming. Over on a dark peninsula a piano was playing the songs of last summer and of summers before that—songs from "Chin- Chin" and "The Count of Luxemburg" and "The Chocolate Soldier"—and because the sound of a piano over a stretch of water had always seemed beautiful to Dexter he lay perfectly quiet and listened. 9 The tune the piano was playing at that moment had been gay and new five years before when Dexter was a sophomore at college. They had played it at a prom once when he could not afford the luxury of proms, and he had stood outside the gymnasium and listened. The sound of the tune precipitated in him a sort of ecstasy and it was with that ecstasy he viewed what happened to him now. It was a mood of intense appreci- ation, a sense that, for once, he was magnificently attune to life and that everything about him was radiating a brightness and a glamour he might never know again. A low, pale oblong detached itself suddenly from the darkness of the Island, spitting forth the reverberate sound of a racing motor-boat. Two white streamers of cleft water rolled themselves out behind it and almost immediately the boat was beside him, drowning out the hot tinkle of the piano in the drone of its spray. Dexter raising himself on his arms was aware of a figure standing at the wheel, of two dark eyes regarding him over the lengthening space of water—then the boat had gone by and was sweeping in an immense and purposeless circle of spray round and round in the middle of the lake. With equal eccentricity one of the circles flattened out and headed back toward the raft. "Who's that?" she called, shutting off her motor. She was so near now that Dexter could see her bathing-suit, which consisted apparently of pink rompers. The nose of the boat bumped the raft, and as the latter tilted rakishly he was precipitated toward her. With different degrees of interest they recognized each other. "Aren't you one of those men we played through this afternoon?" she demanded. He was. "Well, do you know how to drive a motor-boat? Because if you do I wish you'd drive this one so I can ride on the surf-board behind. My name is Judy Jones"—she favored him with an absurd smirk—rather, what tried to be a smirk, for, twist her mouth as she might, it was not grotesque, it was merely beautiful—"and I live in a house over there on the Island, and in that house there is a man waiting for me. When he drove up at the door I drove out of the dock because he says I'm his ideal." There was a fish jumping and a star shining and the lights around the lake were gleaming. Dexter sat beside Judy Jones and she explained how her boat was driven. Then she was in the water, swimming to the float- ing surfboard with a sinuous crawl. Watching her was without effort to 10 the eye, watching a branch waving or a sea-gull flying. Her arms, burned to butternut, moved sinuously among the dull platinum ripples, elbow appearing first, casting the forearm back with a cadence of falling water, then reaching out and down, stabbing a path ahead. They moved out into the lake; turning, Dexter saw that she was kneel- ing on the low rear of the now uptilted surf-board. "Go faster," she called, "fast as it'll go." Obediently he jammed the lever forward and the white spray moun- ted at the bow. When he looked around again the girl was standing up on the rushing board, her arms spread wide, her eyes lifted toward the moon. "It's awful cold," she shouted. "What's your name?" He told her. "Well, why don't you come to dinner to-morrow night?" His heart turned over like the fly-wheel of the boat, and, for the second time, her casual whim gave a new direction to his life. 11 Chapter 3 Next evening while he waited for her to come down-stairs, Dexter peopled the soft deep summer room and the sun-porch that opened from it with the men who had already loved Judy Jones. He knew the sort of men they were—the men who when he first went to college had entered from the great prep schools with graceful clothes and the deep tan of healthy summers. He had seen that, in one sense, he was better than these men. He was newer and stronger. Yet in acknowledging to himself that he wished his children to be like them he was admitting that he was but the ro