In 1918, Zelda Sayre, later Zelda Fitzgerald, won a prize
for this story...published in the Sidney Lanier High School Literary Journal.
The story was recently unearthed, and the Fitzgerald estate was surprised to learn of its existence.
Read it in full below. The New Yorker preserved most of the original spelling and typographical errors.)
Cornelia gazed out of the window and sighed, not because she was
particularly unhappy, but because she had mortified her parents and
disappointed her friends. Her two sisters, younger than she, were
married and established for life long ago; yet here she remained at
thirty years of age, like a belated apple or a faded bachelor’s button,
either forgotten or not deemed worth the picking. Her father did not
scold. He kindly suggested that perhaps Neilie would do more for
herself if the rest of the family would leave her alone. Her brother
said, “Cornie’s a fine girl and good looking enough, but she’s got no
magnetism. A fellow might as well try to tackle an iceberg.” For all
that, the family cat found her responsive enough, and the little
fox-terrier fairly adored her, to say nothing of a blue jay that
insisted upon a friendly dispute every time she stole to her retreat in
the old-fashioned Southern garden. Her mother said, “Cornelia is not
sympathetic. She looks at a man with her thoughts a thousand miles away,
and no man’s vanity will stand for that. What good are beautiful
clothes and musical genius if humanity is left out? No! No! Cornelia
will never marry, Cornelia is my despair.”
Now Cornelia sometimes grew weary of
disapproval and resented it. “Mother,” she would say, “is marriage the
end and aim of life? Is there nothing else on which a woman might spend
her energy? Sister Nettie is tied to a clerical man, and, between
caring for the baby and making ends meet, looks older than I. Sister
Blanche finds so little comfort in a worked-down husband that she has
taken to foreign missions and suffrage for diversion. If I’m an
economic proposition, I’ll turn to business.”
So, without more ado, she secretly took a course at business college,
and taught the fingers that had rippled over Chopin and Chaminade to be
equally dexterous on the typewriter. Her eyes seemed to grow larger
and more luminous as she puzzled over the hieroglyphics of stenography.
“That Miss Holton is a wonder,” said the manager of the college.
“Yes, she’s a social failure, but she bids fair to be a business
success,” agreed a young man who had once fallen into her indifferent
keeping.
Just then the phone rang. “At once, you say! Wait a moment, I’ll
see.” Proceeding softly to her desk, he said, “Miss Holton, I consider
you quite efficient as a pupil. Do you care to answer an emergency
call? The firm of Gimbel, Brown and Company wishes a stenographer at
once. What do you say to the place?”
“What do I say? Why, it just hits the spot. Let me get my hat and I’m off.”
“Well,” said the manager, “I do like a girl who knows what she wants.”
If her mother could only have heard that! Perhaps, after all,
Cornelia had always known what she wanted—and failed to find it.
Perhaps, after all, a social equation in trousers had not been just what
Cornelia craved. Perhaps, after all, Cornelia was seeking
self-expression. At any rate, she lost no time in finding Gimbel, Brown
and company, and was not the least aghast that this was the mighty
multi-millionaire Gimbel who needed her services.
“Miss Holton, you say? Cornelia Holton, the daughter of my old
friend, Dan Holton? Why bless your heart, have a seat! This is so
sudden! When did you enter the business arena, pray?”
Cornelia was not abashed. With her usual straight-forward
earnestness, she said, “Yes, I’m Cornelia Holton, and I’m in business to
stay. If the arena is full of Bulls and Bears, I’m here to wrestle.
What can I do for you, Mr. Gimble?”
With a twinkle in his eye and a queer little smile, he pushed toward
her the pile of snowy paper and began to dictate. North, South, East,
and West the messages flew, and Cornelia’s fingers flew with them.
White, slender, and shapely, they graced the machine as they had the
piano, and, when lunch hour came, her face had flushed, and the little
brown curls clung to her forehead with a slight moisture of effort.
Cornelia was beautiful over her first conquest of the typewriter!
As she rose to go, she blushed, and stammered, “Mr. Gimble, I’ll
thank you not to tell my parents of this. They have no knowledge of my
business enterprise and would be quite horrified. You know, nothing
succeeds like success. I have been a failure long enough.” And she
smiled as she left, the old grace of the distasteful ball-room clinging
to her in spite of her steady resolve.
“Well, by jove!” exclaimed Mr. Gimble. “By Jove!” he reiterated,
“who’d a thought a Holton woman would go into business! Why, that
girl’s mother was the greatest belle that this city ever produced.
Well, she couldn’t get married, maybe.” So he too, went his way
thinking of the little wife that had died years ago and of the great
emptiness that had taken her place and that he had tried to fill with
money.
Several months flew by. The Holton’s had their shock when Cornelia
announced her business success, and were again in the normal path of
life. The cat said, “I told you so! I knew she had the element of
success in her!” The little dog barked, “Doggone her! I always knew I
didn’t wag my tail for nothing.” The blue jay noisily called, “Aw, come
on now and let’s finish our dispute. You can build a nest if I can,
and you can hatch a family, too, if you try. Aw go awn!” But that was
nothing to what the society world said when Cornelia Holton and James G.
Gimble walked quietly to the study of the Reverend Devoted Divine and
were made one, eve: to the millions and the famous homestead was also a
palace of art and aesthetic refinement.
Mrs. Holton fainted over her coffee-cup when she unfolded the morning
paper and beheld the head-lines, side-by-side with, and quite as large
as the war news. Mr. Holton chuckled, as he emptied the water-bottle
over her most expensive negligee. “I always said Cornelia had something
up her sleeve.” “Well, the old girl must have warmed up at last,”
added her brother.
The front door opened and in walked the disheveled sisters,
screaming, “Mamma, mamma—Cornelia, the old maid—she has out-married us
all!”
___________________
© The Fitzgerald Estate
___________________
Also, in 1918, Zelda Sayre met a soldier
named Scott Fitzgerald...
And our world would never be the same.
______________________________________________________________________________________
Footnotes
This is the eleventh GoodFather page about Scott & Zelda. The first one is here
but there are also numerous GodFather of Math pages about Scott & Zelda.
The next quote from Scott Fitzgerald appears on the bottom of this page.
______________________________________________________________________________________
___________________
© The Fitzgerald Estate
___________________
Also, in 1918, Zelda Sayre met a soldier
named Scott Fitzgerald...
And our world would never be the same.
______________________________________________________________________________________
Footnotes
This is the eleventh GoodFather page about Scott & Zelda. The first one is here
but there are also numerous GodFather of Math pages about Scott & Zelda.
The next quote from Scott Fitzgerald appears on the bottom of this page.
______________________________________________________________________________________
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