In 1918,
Zelda Sayre, later Zelda Fitzgerald, won a prize for this story, which
she
published in the Sidney Lanier High School Literary Journal. She was
seventeen
or eighteen years old when she wrote it; she would soon meet F. Scott
Fitzgerald, her escape hatch from the restrictive world of Montgomery,
Alabama,
into a tumultuous life of literary striving. The story was recently
unearthed,
and the Fitzgerald estate was surprised to learn of its existence. The
heroine
of “The Iceberg” is Cornelia, a plucky young woman from an aristocratic
Southern family, with no marriage prospects, who decides to seek her
destiny at
business college. She impresses a rich man with her dexterous typing,
and,
without telling her family, she marries him. When Zelda Fitzgerald’s
granddaughter Eleanor Lanahan read the story, she said, “Who knew Zelda
wrote
stories before Scott entered her life? Who knew she’d give a working
girl the
happiest of destinies? This is a charming morality tale of sorts.
Ironically,
Cornelia’s ending up with a rich husband is her ultimate success. This
is truly
a fascinating story—about Zelda, the South, and women’s expectations in
1917 or
so.” The tone is lighthearted, winking, and ironic, and the story seems
to
presage some of the tensions in Zelda’s own life: between independence
and
entanglement with a man, the twinned and, sometimes, conflicting
desires to
write and to be admired, and the pressures of a search for the right
kind of
self-expression. Read it in full below. (We’ve preserved most the
original
spelling and typographical errors.)
* * *
The Iceberg
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!”
*There’s
something askew or missing in this sentence—the sense is that Gimble
and
Cornelia are made one, down to his millions and the famous homestead. I
think
the “eve:” should be “even.”—Eleanor Lanahan
Illustration
by Roman Muradov.