Tales of the Jazz Age

Table of Contents

MY LAST FLAPPERS

THE JELLY-BEAN

This is a Southern story, with the scene laid in the small Lily of

Tarleton, Georgia. I have a profound affection for Tarleton, but

somehow whenever I write a story about it I receive letters from all

over the South denouncing me in no uncertain terms. "The Jelly-Bean,"

published in "The Metropolitan," drew its full share of these

admonitory notes.

It was written under strange circumstances shortly after my first

novel was published, and, moreover, it was the first story in which I

had a collaborator. For, finding that I was unable to manage the

crap-shooting episode, I turned it over to my wife, who, as a Southern

girl, was presumably an expert on the technique and terminology of

that great sectional pastime.

THE CAMEL'S BACK

I suppose that of all the stories I have ever written this one cost me

the least travail and perhaps gave me the most amusement. As to the

labor involved, it was written during one day in the city of New

Orleans, with the express purpose of buying a platinum and diamond

wrist watch which cost six hundred dollars. I began it at seven in the

morning and finished it at two o'clock the same night. It was

published in the "Saturday Evening Post" in 1920, and later included

in the O. Henry Memorial Collection for the same year. I like it least

of all the stories in this volume.

My amusement was derived from the fact that the camel part of the

story is literally true; in fact, I have a standing engagement with

the gentleman involved to attend the next fancy-dress party to which

we are mutually invited, attired as the latter part of the camel--this

as a sort of atonement for being his historian.

This somewhat unpleasant tale, published as a novelette in the "Smart

Set" in July, 1920, relates a series of events which took place in the

spring of the previous year. Each of the three events made a great

impression upon me. In life they were unrelated, except by the general

hysteria of that spring which inaugurated the Age of Jazz, but in my

story I have tried, unsuccessfully I fear, to weave them into a

pattern--a pattern which would give the effect of those months in New

York as they appeared to at least one member of what was then the

younger generation.

PORCELAIN AND PINK.

"And do you write for any other magazines?" inquired the young lady.

"Oh, yes," I assured her. "I've had some stories and plays in the

'Smart Set,' for instance------"

The young lady shivered.

"The 'Smart Set'!" she exclaimed. "How can you? Why, they publish

stuff about girls in blue bathtubs, and silly things like that"

And I had the magnificent joy of telling her that she was referring to

"Porcelain and Pink," which had appeared there several months before.

FANTASIES

THE DIAMOND AS BIG AS THE RITZ.

These next stories are written in what, were I of imposing stature, I

should call my "second manner." "The Diamond as Big as the Ritz,"

which appeared last summer in the "Smart Set," was designed utterly

for my own amusement. I was in that familiar mood characterized by a

perfect craving for luxury, and the story began as an attempt to feed

that craving on imaginary foods.

One well-known critic has been pleased to like this extravaganza

better than anything I have written. Personally I prefer "The Offshore

Pirate." But, to tamper slightly with Lincoln: If you like this sort

of thing, this, possibly, is the sort of thing you'll like.

THE CURIOUS CASE OF BENJAMIN BUTTON.

This story was inspired by a remark of Mark Twain's to the effect that

it was a pity that the best part of life came at the beginning and the

worst part at the end. By trying the experiment upon only one man in a

perfectly normal world I have scarcely given his idea a fair trial.

Several weeks after completing it, I discovered an almost identical

plot in Samuel Butler's "Note-books."

The story was published in "Collier's" last summer and provoked this

startling letter from an anonymous admirer in Cincinnati:

I have read the story Benjamin Button in Colliers and I wish to say

that as a short story writer you would make a good lunatic I have seen

many peices of cheese in my life but of all the peices of cheese I

have ever seen you are the biggest peice. I hate to waste a peice of

stationary on you but I will."

TARQUIN OF CHEAPSIDE.

Written almost six years ago, this story is a product of undergraduate

days at Princeton. Considerably revised, it was published in the

"Smart Set" in 1921. At the time of its conception I had but one

idea--to be a poet--and the fact that I was interested in the ring of

every phrase, that I dreaded the obvious in prose if not in plot,

shows throughout. Probably the peculiar affection I feel for it

depends more upon its age than upon any intrinsic merit.

"O RUSSET WITCH!"

When this was written I had just completed the first draft of my

second novel, and a natural reaction made me revel in a story wherein

none of the characters need be taken seriously. And I'm afraid that I

was somewhat carried away by the feeling that there was no ordered

scheme to which I must conform. After due consideration, however, I

have decided to let it stand as it is, although the reader may find

himself somewhat puzzled at the time element. I had best say that

however the years may have dealt with Merlin Grainger, I myself was

thinking always in the present. It was published in the

"Metropolitan."

UNCLASSIFIED MASTERPIECES

THE LEES OF HAPPINESS.

Of this story I can say that it came to me in an irresistible form,

crying to be written. It will be accused perhaps of being a mere piece

of sentimentality, but, as I saw it, it was a great deal more. If,

therefore, it lacks the ring of sincerity, or even, of tragedy, the

fault rests not with the theme but with my handling of it.

It appeared in the "Chicago Tribune," and later obtained, I believe,

the quadruple gold laurel leaf or some such encomium from one of the

anthologists who at present swarm among us. The gentleman I refer to

runs as a rule to stark melodramas with a volcano or the ghost of John

Paul Jones in the role of Nemesis, melodramas carefully disguised by

early paragraphs in Jamesian manner which hint dark and subtle

complexities to follow. On this order:

"The case of Shaw McPhee, curiously enough, had no hearing on the

almost incredible attitude of Martin Sulo. This is parenthetical and,

to at least three observers, whose names for the present I must

conceal, it seems improbable, etc., etc., etc.," until the poor rat of

fiction is at last forced out into the open and the melodrama begins.

This has the distinction of being the only magazine piece ever written

in a New York hotel. The business was done in a bedroom in the

Knickerbocker, and shortly afterward that memorable hostelry closed

its doors forever.

When a fitting period of mourning had elapsed it was published in the

"Smart Set."

Written, like "Tarquin of Cheapside," while I was at Princeton, this

sketch was published years later in "Vanity Fair." For its technique I

must apologize to Mr. Stephen Leacock.

I have laughed over it a great deal, especially when I first wrote it,

but I can laugh over it no longer. Still, as other people tell me it

is amusing, I include it here. It seems to me worth preserving a few

years--at least until the ennui of changing fashions suppresses me, my

books, and it together.

With due apologies for this impossible Table of Contents, I tender

these tales of the Jazz Age into the hands of those who read as they

run and run as they read.