{"id":138768,"date":"2019-08-15T12:13:57","date_gmt":"2019-08-15T16:13:57","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=138768"},"modified":"2019-08-15T12:32:12","modified_gmt":"2019-08-15T16:32:12","slug":"three-letters-from-switzerland","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/08\/15\/three-letters-from-switzerland\/","title":{"rendered":"Three Letters from Switzerland"},"content":{"rendered":"

Between June 1930 and August 1931, after a series of mental health episodes had whittled away at her career, her marriage, and her overall well-being, Zelda Fitzgerald was a patient at Les Rives de Prangins, a clinic in Nyon, Switzerland, where she wasn\u2019t allowed visitors until her treatment had been established. The experience, as one could imagine, was tremendously isolating: once at the center of a lively and glamorous scene, she now found herself utterly alone with her thoughts. Her husband, F. Scott Fitzgerald, sent short notes and flowers every other day. She wrote long letters in reply, tracing the contours of her mind, expressing both love for and frustration with Scott, and detailing, in luscious, iridescent prose, the nonevents of her days.<\/em>\u00a0Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda<\/a> collects more than three hundred of the couple\u2019s letters to each other.<\/em> Three of Zelda\u2019s letters from Les Rives de Prangins\u2014carefully transcribed with an eye for accuracy, misspellings and all\u2014appear below.<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Zelda Fitzgerald. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.<\/p><\/div>\n

[Fall 1930]<\/p>\n

Dearest, my Darling\u2014<\/p>\n

Living is cold and technical without you, a death mask of itself.<\/p>\n

At seven o:clock I had a bath but you were not in the next room to make it a baptisme of all I was thinking.<\/p>\n

At eight o:clock I went to gymnastics but you were not there to turn moving into a harvesting of breezes.<\/p>\n

At nine o:clock I went to the tissage and an old man in a white stock [smock?] chanted incantations but you were not there to make his imploring voice seem religious.<\/p>\n

At noon I played bridge and watched Dr. Forels profile dissecting the sky, contre jour\u2014 <\/p>\n

All afternoon I\u2019ve been writing soggy words in the rain and feeling dank inside, and thinking of you\u2014When a person crosses your high forehead and slides down into the pleasant valleys about your dear mouth its like Hannibal crossing the Alps\u2014I love you, dear. You do not walk like a person plowing a storm but like a person very surprised at their means of locomotion, hardly touching the earth, as if each step were experimental\u2014<\/p>\n

And you are a darling and it must be awful to have a person always trying to creep inside you the way I do\u2014<\/p>\n

Good-night, my Sweet Love<\/p>\n

Zelda<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

[Fall 1930]<\/p>\n

Goofy, my darling, hasn\u2019t it been a lovely day? I woke up this morning and the sun was lying like a birth-day parcel on my table so I opened it up and so many happy things went fluttering into the air: love to Doo-do and the remembered feel of our skins cool against each other in other mornings like a school-mistress. And you \u2019phoned and said I had written something that pleased you and so I don\u2019t believe I\u2019ve ever been so heavy with happiness. The moon slips into the mountains like a lost penny and the fields are black and punguent and I want you near so that I could touch you in the autumn stillness even a little bit like the last echo of summer. The horizon lies over the road to Lausanne and the succulent fields like a guillotine and the moon bleeds over the water and you are not so far away that I can\u2019t smell your hair in the drying breeze. Darling\u2014I love these velvet nights. I\u2019ve never been able to decide whether the night was a bitter enemie or a \u201cgrand patron\u201d\u2014or whether I love you most in the eternal classic half-lights where it blends with day or in the full religious fan-fare of mid-night or perhaps in the lux of noon. Anyway, I love you most and you \u2019phoned me just because you \u2019phoned me tonight\u2014I walked on those telephone wires for two hours after holding your love like a parasol to balance me. My dear\u2014<\/p>\n

I\u2019m so glad you finished your story\u2014Please let me read it Friday. And I will be very sad if we have to have two rooms. Please.<\/p>\n

Dear. Are you sort of feeling aimless, surprised, and looking rather reproachful that no melo-drama comes to pass when your work is over\u2014as if you [had] ridden very hard with a message to save your army and found the enemy had decided not to attack\u2014the way you sometimes feel\u2014or are you just a darling little boy with a holiday on his hands in the middle of the week\u2014the way you sometimes are\u2014or are you organizing and dynamic and mending things\u2014the way you sometimes are\u2014<\/p>\n

I love you\u2014the way you always are.<\/p>\n

Dear\u2014<\/p>\n

Good-night\u2014<\/p>\n

Dear-dear dear dear dear dear dear<\/p>\n

Dear dear dear dear dear dear dear<\/p>\n

Dear dear dear dear dear dear<\/p>\n

Dear dear dear dear dear dear<\/p>\n

Dear dear dear dear dear dear<\/p>\n

Dear dear dear dear dear dear<\/p>\n

dear dear dear dear dear dear<\/p>\n

dear dear dear dear dear dear<\/p>\n

dear dear dear dear dear dear<\/p>\n

dear dear dear dear dear dear<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

[Spring 1931]<\/p>\n

Dear heart, my darling love,<\/p>\n

This is no good\u2014but nothing matters because after to-morrow I\u2019m going to see you again\u2014<\/p>\n

What a dreary rain\u2014I rowed on the lake. It was like being on a slate roof. When the boat is not pointed into the waves it goes up with them and you keep waiting for the bump of coming down but it doesn\u2019t come so you just slide from one to another and have no sense of direction like being on one of those oily tin platforms at Luna
\nParc\u2014<\/p>\n

I can\u2019t write. I tried all afternoon\u2014and I just twisted the pencil round and round churning between my teeth, and I love you. You are a darling. When you can\u2019t write you sit on the bed and look so woebegone like a person who\u2019s got to a store and can\u2019t remember what they wanted to buy\u2014<\/p>\n

Good-night, dear. If you were in my bed it might be the back of your head I was touching where the hair is short and mossy or it might be up in the front where it make[s] little caves above your forehead, but wherever it was it would be the sweetest place, the sweetest place<\/p>\n

Darling<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Zelda Fitzgerald was born in Montgomery, Alabama, in 1900. She and Scott Fitzgerald married in 1920, and the following year she gave birth to their daughter, Frances \u201cScottie\u201d Fitzgerald. The couple became a fixture of the Jazz Age and quickly became known for their wild behavior. Throughout their marriage, Zelda and her diaries were inspiration for Scott\u2019s novels and their characters. Zelda is the author of several short stories and novels, including <\/em>Save the Waltz. She died at age forty-seven.<\/em><\/p>\n

Excerpted from <\/em>Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda: The Love Letters of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald<\/a>. Copyright \u00a9 2002 by Jackson R. Bryer and Cathy W. Barks. Excerpted with permission by Scribner, a Division of Simon and Schuster, Inc.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

While she was a patient at Les Rives de Prangins, Zelda Fitzgerald wrote letters to F. Scott Fitzgerald detailing the nonevents of her days.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1024,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1900],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-138768","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-correspondence"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThree Letters from Switzerland by Zelda Fitzgerald<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"While she was a patient at Les Rives de Prangins, Zelda Fitzgerald wrote letters to F. 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