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The Diamond as Big as the Ritz and Other Stories
F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Diamond as Big as the Ritz and Other Stories
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The Diamond as Big as the Ritz and Other Stories
F. Scott Fitzgerald
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This page copyright © 2000 Blackmask Online.
The Diamond as Big as the Ritz
JOHN T. UNGER came from a family that had been well known in Hades−−a small town on the Mississippi
River−−for several generations.
John's father had held the amateur golf championship through many a heated contest; Mrs. Unger was known
"from hot−box to hot−bed," as the local phrase went, for her political addresses; and young John T. Unger,
who had just turned sixteen, had danced all the latest dances from New York before he put on long trousers.
And now, for a certain time, he was to be away from home. That respect for a New England education which
is the bane of all provincial places, which drains them yearly of their most promising young men, had seized
upon his parents. Nothing would suit them but that he should go to St. Midas' School near Boston−− Hades
was too small to hold their darling and gifted son.
Now in Hades−−as you know if you ever have been there−−the names of the more fashionable preparatory
schools and colleges mean very little. The inhabitants have been so long out of the world that, though they
make a show of keeping up to date in dress and manners and literature, they depend to a great extent on
hearsay, and a function that in Hades would be considered elaborate would doubtless be hailed by a Chicago
beef−princess as "perhaps a little tacky."
John T. Unger was on the eve of departure. Mrs. Unger, with maternal fatuity, packed his trunks full of linen
suits and electric fans, and Mr. Unger presented his son with an asbestos pocket−book stuffed with money.
"Remember, you are always welcome here," he said. "You can be sure boy, that we'll keep the home fires
burning."
"I know," answered John huskily.
"Don't forget who you are and where you come from," continued his father proudly, "and you can do nothing
to harm you. You are an Unger−−from Hades."
So the old man and the young shook hands and John walked away with tears streaming from his eyes. Ten
minutes later he had passed outside the city limits, and he stopped to glance back for the last time. Over the
gates the old−fashioned Victorian motto seemed strangely attractive to him. His father had tried time and
The Diamond as Big as the Ritz and Other Stories
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   The Diamond as Big as the Ritz and Other Stories
time again to have it changed to something with a little more push and verve about it, such as "Hades−−Your
Opportunity," or else a plain "Welcome" sign set over a hearty handshake pricked out in electric lights. The
old motto was a little depressing, Mr. Unger had thought−−but now....
So John took his look and then set his face resolutely toward his destination. And, as he turned away, the
lights of Hades against the sky seemed full of a warm and passionate beauty.
St. Midas' School is half an hour from Boston in a Rolls−Pierce motorcar. The actual distance will never be
known, for no one, except John T. Unger, had ever arrived there save in a Rolls−Pierce and probably no one
ever will again. St. Midas' is the most expensive and the most exclusive boys' preparatory school in the
world.
John's first two years there passed pleasantly. The fathers of all the boys were money−kings and John spent
his summers visiting at fashionable resorts. While he was very fond of all the boys he visited, their fathers
struck him as being much of a piece, and in his boyish way he often wondered at their exceeding sameness.
When he told them where his home was they would ask jovially, "Pretty hot down there?" and John would
muster a faint smile and answer, "It certainly is." His response would have been heartier had they not all
made this joke−−at best varying it with, "Is it hot enough for you down there?" which he hated just as much.
In the middle of his second year at school, a quiet, handsome boy named Percy Washington had been put in
John's form. The newcomer was pleasant in his manner and exceedingly well dressed even for St. Midas', but
for some reason he kept aloof from the other boys. The only person with whom he was intimate was John T.
Unger, but even to John he was entirely uncommunicative concerning his home or his family. That he was
wealthy went without saying, but beyond a few such deductions John knew little of his friend, so it promised
rich confectionery for his curiosity when Percy invited him to spend the summer at his home "in the West."
He accepted, without hesitation.
It was only when they were in the train that Percy became, for the first time, rather communicative. One day
while they were eating lunch in the dining−car and discussing the imperfect characters of several of the boys
at school, Percy suddenly changed his tone and made an abrupt remark.
"My father," he said, "is by far the richest man in the world."
"Oh," said John, politely. He could think of no answer to make to this confidence. He considered "That's very
nice," but it sounded hollow and was on the point of saying, "Really?" but refrained since it would seem to
question Percy's statement. And such an astounding statement could scarcely be questioned.
"By far the richest," repeated Percy.
"I was reading in the
World Almanac,
" began John, "that there was one man in America with an income of
over five million a year and four men with incomes of over three million a year, and−−"
"Oh, they're nothing." Percy's mouth was a half−moon of scorn. "Catchpenny capitalists, financial small−fry,
petty merchants and money−lenders. My father could buy them out and not know he'd done it."
"But how does he−−"
"Why haven't they put down
his
income tax? Because he doesn't pay any. At least he pays a little one−−but
he doesn't pay any on his
real
income."
"He must be very rich," said John simply. "I'm glad. I like very rich people.
The Diamond as Big as the Ritz and Other Stories
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The Diamond as Big as the Ritz and Other Stories
"The richer a fella is, the better I like him." There was a look of passionate frankness upon his dark face. "I
visited the Schnlitzer−Murphys last Easter. Vivian Schnlitzer−Murphy had rubies as big as hen's eggs, and
sapphires that were like globes with lights inside them−−"
"I love jewels," agreed Percy enthusiastically. "Of course I wouldn't want any one at school to know about it,
but I've got quite a collection myself I used to collect them instead of stamps."
"And diamonds," continued John eagerly. "The Schnlitzer−Murphys had diamonds as big as walnuts−−"
"That's nothing." Percy had leaned forward and dropped his voice to a low whisper. "That's nothing at all. My
father has a diamond bigger than the Ritz−Carlton Hotel."
II
THE MONTANA sunset lay between two mountains like a gigantic bruise from which dark arteries spread
themselves over a poisoned sky. An immense distance under the sky crouched the village of Fish, minute,
dismal, and forgotten. There were twelve men, so it was said, in the village of Fish, twelve somber and
inexplicable souls who sucked a lean milk from the almost literally bare rock upon which a mysterious
populatory force had begotten them. They had become a race apart, these twelve men of Fish, like some
species developed by an early whim of nature, which on second thought had abandoned them to struggle and
extermination.
Out of the blue−black bruise in the distance crept a long line of moving lights upon the desolation of the land,
and the twelve men of Fish gathered like ghosts at the shanty depot to watch the passing of the seven o'clock
train, the Transcontinental Express from Chicago. Six times or so a year the Transcontinental Express,
through some inconceivable jurisdiction, stopped at the village of Fish, and when this occurred a figure or so
would disembark, mount into a buggy that always appeared from out of the dusk, and drive off toward the
bruised sunset. The observation of this pointless and preposterous phenomenon had become a sort of cult
among the men of Fish. To observe, that was all; there remained in them none of the vital quality of illusion
which would make them wonder or speculate, else a religion might have grown up around these mysterious
visitations. But the men of Fish were beyond all religion−−the barest and most savage tenets of even
Christianity could gain no foothold on that barren rock−−so there was no altar, no priest, no sacrifice; only
each night at seven the silent concourse by the shanty depot, a congregation who lifted up a prayer of dim,
anaemic wonder.
On this June night, the Great Brakeman, whom, had they deified any one, they might well have chosen as
their celestial protagonist, had ordained that the seven o'clock train should leave its human (or inhuman)
deposit at Fish. At two minutes after seven Percy Washington and John T. Unger disembarked, hurried past
the spellbound, the agape, the fearsome eyes of the twelve men of Fish, mounted into a buggy which had
obviously appeared from nowhere, and drove away.
After half an hour, when the twilight had coagulated into dark, the silent negro who was driving the buggy
hailed an opaque body somewhere ahead of them in the gloom. In response to his cry, it turned upon them a
luminous disk which regarded them like a malignant eye out of the unfathomable night. As they came closer,
John saw that it was the tail−light of an immense automobile, larger and more magnificent than any he had
ever seen. Its body was of gleaming metal richer than nickel and lighter than silver, and the hubs of the
wheels were studded with iridescent geometric figures of green and yellow−−John did not dare to guess
whether they were glass or jewel.
Two negroes, dressed in glittering livery such as one sees in pictures of royal processions in London, were
standing at attention beside the car and as the two young men dismounted from the buggy they were greeted
The Diamond as Big as the Ritz
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