Whose Calling Who a Lost Generation? Excerpts from Hemingway's Paris Years

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WHO’S CALLING WHO A LOST GENERATION? EXCERPTS FROM HEMINGWAY’S PARIS YEARS

I N T R O D U C T I O N III

This book celebrates the migration of Ernest Hemingway during his time as a part of “The Lost Generation” living in Paris in the 1920s. My typographic response is influenced by Hemingway at this time. This book is inspired by the limits that Hemingway’s typewriter would have had. For example, a typewriter can only underline or use UPPERCASE to emphasize text. Therefore, no italics are used within the body text of this book. A typewriter cannot type the number ‘1’ as typewriters needed to save space on the keyboards. Therefore, all number ones are typed as lowercase L’s (l) which is what one had to do with a typewriter. Em dashes (—) did not exist on a typewriter, so two hyphens had to be used instead (--). Ellipsis (…) did not exist on a typewriter, so three periods would have been used (...). A typewriter would only come with one standard point size, so all text is all set in 9pt. Typewriters used black ink, this book is printed in black ink. Coloured paper is used to showcase colour. Different stocks of paper are used depending on the medium of the text. Letters have one stock of paper, novels another, newspapers another, and so on — all based on the texture of the paper that would have been used for these mediums in the 1920s.

Tip-ins are placed throughout the book that follow Hemingway through Paris. These give an extra glimpse into Hemingway’s time in Paris while giving the reader an additional visual to the text. The size of the book is based on Letter sized US paper, as this is the size of paper Hemingway would have been typing on. The book is sized half-letter to mimic the size that novels were printed on in this time period. This book is an anthology, if you will, of Hemingway’s migration to Paris. It focuses on his struggles and triumphs of moving to a new country in response to a war he had been a part of.

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INTRODUCTION III THE SUN ALSO RISES 1 WHEN HEMINGWAY HATED PARIS 13 THE TORONTO STAR WEEKLY 51 BY A FOREIGNER 65 THE SUN ALSO RISES 71 DEAR BUSTEIN 83 THE TORONTO STAR WEEKLY 95 A MOVEABLE FEAST 105 DEAR MOTHER 117 THE SOUL OF SPAIN 125 THE TORONTO STAR WEEKLY 131 A MOVEABLE FEAST 139 INDEX 161

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C H A P T E R

X I I

When I woke in the morning I went to the window and looked out. It had cleared and there were no clouds on the mountains. Outside under the window were some carts and an old diligence, the wood of the roof cracked and split by the weather. It must have been left from the days before the motor-buses. Bill was still sleeping, so I dressed, put on my shoes outside in the hall, and went downstairs. No one was stirring downstairs, so I unbolted the door and went out. It was cool outside in the early morning and the sun had not yet dried the dew that had come when the wind died down. I hunted around in the shed behind the inn and found a sort of mattock, and went down toward the stream to try and dig some worms for bait. The stream was clear and shallow but it did not look trouty. On the grassy bank where it was damp I drove the mattock into the earth and loosened a chunk of sod. There were worms underneath. They slid out of sight as I lifted the sod and I dug carefully and got a good many. Digging at the edge of the damp ground I filled two empty tobacco-tins with worms and sifted dirt onto them. The goats watched me dig. When I went back into the inn the woman was down in the kitchen, and I asked her

The Sun Also Rises to get coffee for us, and that we wanted a lunch. Bill was awake and sitting on the edge of the bed. “I saw you out of the window,” he said. “Didn’t want to interrupt you. What were you doing? Burying your money?” “You lazy bum!” “Been working for the common good? Splendid. I want you to do that every morning.” “Come on,” I said. “Get up.” “What? Get up? I never get up.” He climbed into bed and pulled the sheet up to his chin. “Try and argue me into getting up.” I went on looking for the tackle and putting it all together in the tackle-bag. “Aren’t you interested?” Bill asked. “I’m going down and eat.” “Eat? Why didn’t you say eat? I thought you just wanted me to get up for fun. Eat? Fine. Now you’re reasonable. You go out and dig some more worms and I’ll be right down.” “Oh, go to hell!” “Work for the good of all.” Bill stepped into his underclothes. “Show irony and pity.” I started out of the room with the tacklebag, the nets, and the rod-case. “Hey! come back!” I put my head in the door. “Aren’t you going to show a little irony and pity?” I thumbed my nose. “That’s not irony.” As I went down-stairs I heard Bill singing, “Irony and Pity. When you’re feeling...Oh, Give them Irony and Give them Pity. Oh, give them Irony. When they’re

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Hemingway feeling...Just a little irony. Just a little pity...” He kept on singing until he came down-stairs. The tune was: “The Bells are Ringing for Me and my Gal.” I was reading a week-old Spanish paper. “What’s all this irony and pity?” “What? Don’t you know about Irony and Pity?” “No. Who got it up?” “Everybody. They’re mad about it in New York. It’s just like the Fratellinis used to be.” The girl came in with the coffee and buttered toast. Or, rather, it was bread toasted and buttered. “Ask her if she’s got any jam,” Bill said. “Be ironical with her.” “Have you got any jam?” “That’s not ironical. I wish I could talk Spanish.” The coffee was good and we drank it out of big bowls. The girl brought in a glass dish of raspberry jam. “Thank you.” “Hey! that’s not the way,” Bill said. “Say something ironical. Make some crack about Primo de Rivera.” “I could ask her what kind of a jam they think they’ve gotten into in the Riff.” “Poor,” said Bill. “Very poor. You can’t do it. That’s all. You don’t understand irony. You have no pity. Say something pitiful.” “Robert Cohn.” “Not so bad. That’s better. Now why is Cohn pitiful? Be ironic.” He took a big gulp of coffee. “Aw, hell!” I said. “It’s too early in the

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The Sun Also Rises morning.” “There you go. And you claim you want to be a writer too. You’re only a newspaper man. An expatriated newspaper man. You ought to be ironical the minute you get out of bed. You ought to wake up with your mouth full of pity.” “Go on,” I said. “Who did you get this stuff from?” “Everybody. Don’t you read? Don’t you ever see anybody? You know what you are? You’re an expatriate. Why don’t you live in New York? Then you’d know these things. What do you want me to do? Come over here and tell you every year?” “Take some more coffee,” I said. “Good. Coffee is good for you. It’s the caffeine in it. Caffeine, we are here. Caffeine puts a man on her horse and a woman in his grave. You know what’s the trouble with you? You’re an expatriate. One of the worst type. Haven’t you heard that? Nobody that ever left their own country ever wrote anything worth printing. Not even in the newspapers.” He drank the coffee. “You’re an expatriate. You’ve lost touch with the soil. You get precious. Fake European standards have ruined you. You drink yourself to death. You become obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not working. You are an expatriate, see? You hang around cafés.” “It sounds like a swell life,” I said. “When do I work?” “You don’t work. One group claims women support you. Another group claims you’re impotent.” “No,” I said. “I just had an accident.”

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Hemingway “Never mention that,” Bill said. “That’s the sort of thing that can’t be spoken of. That’s what you ought to work up into a mystery. Like Henry’s bicycle.” He had been going splendidly, but he stopped. I was afraid he thought he had hurt me with that crack about being impotent. I wanted to start him again. “It wasn’t a bicycle,” I said. “He was riding horseback.” “I heard it was a tricycle.” “Well,” I said. “A plane is sort of like a tricycle. The joystick works the same way.” “But you don’t pedal it.” “No,” I said, “I guess you don’t pedal it.” “Let’s lay off that,” Bill said. “All right. I was just standing up for the tricycle.” “I think he’s a good writer, too,” Bill said. “And you’re a hell of a good guy. Anybody ever tell you were a good guy?” “I’m not a good guy.” “Listen. You’re a hell of a good guy, and I’m fonder of you than anybody on earth. I couldn’t tell you that in New York. It’d mean I was a faggot. That was what the Civil War was about. Abraham Lincoln was a faggot. He was in love with General Grant. So was Jefferson Davis. Lincoln just freed the slaves on a bet. The Dred Scott case was framed by the Anti-Saloon League. Sex explains it all. The Colonel’s Lady and Judy O’Grady are Lesbians under their skin.” He stopped. “Want to hear some more?” “Shoot,” I said. “I don’t know any more. Tell you some more at lunch.”

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"You’re an expatriate. you’ve lost touch with the soil. You get precious. Fake European standards have ruined you. you drink yourself to death. You become obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not working. You arean expatriate, see? You hang around cafés."

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WHEN HEMINGWAY HATED PARIS: DIVORCE PROCEEDINGS, CONTEMPLATIONS OF SUICIDE, AND THE DELETED CHAPTERS OF THE SUN ALSO RISES JEFFREY HERLIHY-MERA I do not know what I thought Paris would be like but it was not that way. -The Ernest Hemingway Collection, JFK Library item l86

Literary expatriation had an important role in the development of twentieth-century modernist writing, particularly for Americans in Paris during the interwar years. The critics who study this group tend to focus on similar themes — rejection of conservative mores in America, sexual liberation and alcohol consumption, creative cross-fertilization, and so on — such that the cultural migration to France itself is generally treated as a positive experience. Susan Beegel, editor of The Hemingway Review, notes that “Hemingway criticism has tended to celebrate expatriation” (“Report” l), and due to this inclination, literary scholarship (and work from popular spheres, certainly) has constructed an idealistic image of “Ernest Hemingway in Paris.” Upon close review of the journalism, letters, and fiction he wrote during his residence in France, however, we find an expatriate scene that is sometimes wrought

WHEN HEMINGWAY HATED PARIS with strain, irritability, even contempt. “(I’ve) been in hell now since Christmas” (Selected Letters 2l7), he wrote to F. Scott Fitzgerald in September l926 before enduring several months of despondency, during which he contemplated suicide and drafted a last will. The critical locus of this essay interprets the outcomes of long-term cultural immersion, the consequences of cultural shocks and readjustments, and the implications of social distance — to analyze an important but often neglected dimension of Hemingway’s life in Paris. E X P A T R I A T E C R I T I C I S M : A C E L E B R A T O R Y R E G I S T E R The critical inclinations concerning Ernest Hemingway in Paris likely derive from the tendency to use A Moveable Feast as a definitive resource on the period. The memoir is unreliable on many levels, however, because it was written in Cuba and Idaho thirty years after Hemingway left the city. The nostalgic tones therein imply that Hemingway was enduringly captivated by and happy in the city, but that portrayal is contradicted by many nonfiction texts and letters he wrote while in Paris (which I will soon discuss). These negative aspects of foreign life, nonetheless, tend to be overlooked by Hemingway critics, nearly all of whom read Paris as a positive experience: Robert Gajdusek asserted that “Paris always remained his favorite city” (l0); David Donnell proclaimed without qualification that “Hemingway loved Paris” (56); and Richard Bennet Hovey’s opinion is that “We know that Hemingway preferred being an expatriate”

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HERLIHY-MERA and “that he loved Paris” (69). Hemingway’s relationship with Paris was a succession of high and also very low points, but this is clouded by the glowing nature of much of the critical work on the topic. The demographic of the scholars who study this theme is also an important factor in the discussion. Very few American critics who have written about Hemingway in Paris live and work in France (Katy Masuga and Adam Gopnik are notable exceptions). Many visit Paris — possibly for up to a year or two as a student or visiting lecturer — before commencing their work, but the realities of scholarship in nonUS cultural studies command circumstances local to those subjects. The studies of expatriation (carried out from the US) tend to overlook many critical circumstances about long-term cultural displacement — many of which are negative. Brooke Lindy Blower, for example, spent a year in Paris and returned to the US to write Becoming Americans in Paris: Transatlantic Politics and Culture between the Wars. While she noted that “It is hard to resist such romanticizing” (l) about expatriate life in Paris (see also Benstock 4, Kennedy xi, and Pizer 20, 26), her critical perspectives are dominated by a somewhat unreal positivity of the temporary visitor: “Through American eyes,” she commented, “Paris glimmered, shimmied” (l9). She believes the place has “a seductive atmosphere” and “87,775 trees for lovers to embrace under” (4). While Blower arrived at these judgments through analyses of primary texts and other materials from l9l8 to l939, some of the speculative assumptions on expatriation itself — in particular, her perceptions of the rhythms of everyday life

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WHEN HEMINGWAY HATED PARIS — are at least indirectly interpreted through her personal experience (see Blower viii). As a year or two in Paris is significantly different than a decade or half century, the US-based demography of these critics is at times a limiting factor in the body of scholarship. Moreover, there is also a tendency for the analyses of expatriate writing and life to be carried out from an “American” register, a bent that insinuates those who live abroad have a static sense of collective identity. When a person is immersed in another social context for decades at a time, his or her cultural registers — which is to say, a sense of identity, community, and social kinship are significantly nuanced, but the common critical myth, one that Blower repeats, is that: “Expatriates never stopped thinking about the United States while outside of it” (39; also see Baker 60, Baskett 2l0, Martin 66, McMahon l58, and Young 254). In Hemingway’s case, certainly, the years of separation (a distance that was at once geographic, linguistic, cultural, and social) from the norms of his native society color both his work and his personal expressions of collective identity (see Herlihy). This process of reorientation (whether it be adoptions, rejections, or hybridizations of other cultural spheres) has significant outcomes, many of which are harmful to one’s physical and emotional state (see Maddux and Galinsky l047-6l and Greenstone and Loney ll), and in order to approach some of the overlooked components of Hemingway’s Paris, these harmful consequences of life abroad should be of central importance.

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“The empirical studiess x on the transition from visitor to (SEMI) permanant resident demonstrate that living abroad has profound consequences one’s behavior and mental health. Those who live abroad have higher rates of alcoholism, domestic abuse, admission to psychiatric hospitals, and suicides x compared to their cohort, who remained in the place of origin... These data have profound corollaries for social and cultural studies, and they should nuance our approach to lost generation Paris.¹”

WHEN HEMINGWAY HATED PARIS O N D E P R E S S I O N I N H E M I N G W A Y ’ S P A R I S Cultural migration has recently become a vanguard topic in psychology. While life in the cosmopolitan French capital (in the l920s or today) may be a stimulating concept for many authors and artists, once abroad the expatriate will eventually have a change of sentiment and endure the strains of displacement. The empirical studies on the transition from visitor to (semi) permanent resident demonstrate that living abroad has profound consequences on one’s behavior and mental health. Those who live abroad have higher rates of alcoholism, domestic abuse, admission to psychiatric hospitals, and suicide compared to their cohort, who remained in the place of origin (see Bochner, Furnham, and Ward; Chun, Organista, and Marin; and Castles and Miller). These data have profound corollaries for social and cultural studies, and they should nuance our approach to Lost Generation Paris.¹ Hemingway’s moods in Paris had several distinct phases — and the emotional transitions relate to the stages of his cultural immersion. Upon arrival in a new social context, the mover tends to experience a “honeymoon period” when cultural and social barriers are invigorating rather than problematic. This period has been described as one of “euphoria, enchantment, fascination and enthusiasm” (Eckerman et. al l24). At first the movers are unaware of the negativity related to the realities of life in the new place, and, as Yvett Reisinger has pointed out, “Visitors are open and curious, ready to accept whatever comes. They do not judge anything and suppress minor irritations.

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They concentrate on nice things...such as the food, landscape, people, and country” (2l7). In l9l8 an eighteen-year-old Hemingway saw Paris for the first time during a twoday stopover on his way to Milan, where he would volunteer with the Red Cross as an ambulance driver. He spent nearly a year in Italy; not long after arrival, he was severely wounded by a mortar on the Austrian front, an event that was followed by several months in convalescence. Following the armistice Hemingway returned to North America where he remained from l9l9 to l92l. In December l92l, three months after his marriage to Hadley Richardson, the newlyweds moved to the French capital; Hemingway would reside semi permanently in the city until l928. In l9l8 and again in l92l Hemingway went through honeymoon periods, and his first textual impressions are colored by the positivity of a temporary visitor. On his second day there in l9l8, he would write to his parents: “Ted and Jenks and I are having Le Grand Time. Tonight we went to the Follies Bergert [sic]” (qtd. in Kennedy 79). Hemingway’s l92l return to the city triggered similar sentiments — and his first letters were full of enthusiasm about the low cost of living, the liberal presence of alcohol, and the other enchantments of foreign life. We find verbose and exaggerated anecdotes on consuming wine and rum, eating baguettes, and fishing within the city limits. “Well here we are. And we sit outside the Dome Café, opposite the Rotunde that’s being redecorated, warmed up against one of those charcoal brazziers [sic] and it’s so damned cold outside and the brazier makes it so warm and we drink rum punch, hot, and the rhum

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O N D E P R E S S I O N I N H E M I N G W A Y ’ S P A R I S Cultural migration has recently become a vanguard topic in psychology. While life in the cosmopolitan French capital (in the l920s or today) may be a stimulating concept for many authors and artists, once abroad the expatriate will eventually have a change of sentiment and endure the strains of displacement. The empirical studies on the transition from visitor to (semi) permanent resident Love.that Looking back uponhas hisprofound life, Ernest demonstrate living abroad Hemingway said behavior that Paris the city he consequences on one’s andwas mental loved best in all the world. He wrote that health. Those who live abroad have higher rates when he and Hadleyabuse, were young there,to nothing of alcoholism, domestic admission was as simple as and it had seemed. He believed psychiatric hospitals, suicide compared nothing–not beinginpoor, not having to theirthat cohort, who remained the place of sudden money, Furnham, not the moonlight, right origin (see Bochner, and Ward; not Chun, or wrong, not even the breathing of someone Organista, and Marin; and Castles and Miller). who have lay profound beside you in the moonlight–was These data corollaries for social simplestudies, in the City of Light. the end, and cultural and they should In nuance Hemingway found himself alone there. Alone our approach to Lost Generation Paris.¹ in the city he and were once Hemingway’s moodswhere in Paris hadHadley several love with where they distinctinphases — andone the another, emotionaland transitions were happy. relate to thevery stages of his cultural immersion. Upon arrival in a new social context, the mover tends to experience a “honeymoon period” when cultural and social barriers are invigorating rather than problematic. This period has been described as one of “euphoria, enchantment, fascination and enthusiasm” (Eckerman et. al l24). At first the movers are unaware of the negativity related to the realities of life in the new place, and, as Yvett Reisinger has pointed out, “Visitors are open and curious, ready to accept whatever comes. They do not judge anything and suppress minor irritations.

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HERLIHY-MERA They concentrate on nice things...such as the food, landscape, people, and country” (2l7). In l9l8 an eighteen-year-old Hemingway saw Paris for the first time during a twoday stopover on his way to Milan, where he would volunteer with the Red Cross as an ambulance driver. He spent nearly a year in Italy; not long after arrival, he was severely wounded by a mortar on the Austrian front, an event that was followed by several months in convalescence. Following the armistice Hemingway returned to North America where he remained from l9l9 to l92l. In December l92l, three months after his marriage to Hadley Richardson, the newlyweds moved to the French capital; Hemingway would reside semi permanently in the city until l928. In l9l8 and again in l92l Hemingway went through honeymoon periods, and his first textual impressions are colored by the positivity of a temporary visitor. On his second day there in l9l8, he would write to his parents: “Ted and Jenks and I are having Le Grand Time. Tonight we went to the Follies Bergert [sic]” (qtd. in Kennedy 79). Hemingway’s l92l return to the city triggered similar sentiments — and his first letters were full of enthusiasm about the low cost of living, the liberal presence of alcohol, and the other enchantments of foreign life. We find verbose and exaggerated anecdotes on consuming wine and rum, eating baguettes, and fishing within the city limits. “Well here we are. And we sit outside the Dome Café, opposite the Rotunde that’s being redecorated, warmed up against one of those charcoal brazziers [sic] and it’s so damned cold outside and the brazier makes it so warm and we drink rum punch, hot, and the rhum

22

WHEN HEMINGWAY HATED PARIS enters us like the Holy Spirit” (Selected Letters 59). The newly expatriated Hemingway would begin comparing France to his homeland, America being (at first) the inferior place: “What’s the use of trying to live in such a goddam place as America when there is Paris and Switzerland and Italy. My gawd the fun a man has. When people lie to you and say America is as beautiful, or as much fun to live in, give them the razz” (qtd. in Lynn l57). The superficial delights still outweighed the bad weather and small troubles that would later cause Hemingway serious grief. He noted, “Paris is cold and damp but crowded, jolly and beautiful” (Selected Letters 60). After several months, these impressions would fade, and Hemingway’s journalistic reports document his changing sentiments on life in Paris with remarkable frankness. Hemingway would endure recurring epochs of serious despair around the holidays, and he dedicated an article, “Christmas on the Roof of the World” from the Star Weekly, to this topic. The negativity of the piece is palpable. One year he and Hadley were joined by their friend Charles Dorman-Smith for the holiday season and, because of his presence, “[f]or the first time in years it seemed like Christmas” (Dateline 42l, my emphasis). But even then, after midday on December 25, “there [was] no place to go except down” (By-Line l27). The final interlude of the article recounts one of Ernest and Hadley’s Christmas dinners in Paris; musing on their distance from home and isolation immersed in a culture that is not their own, Hadley begins to cry, saying: “I didn’t know Paris was [going to be] like this” (By-Line l3l). The article ends with

23

“You do not know what christmas is until you lose it in some foriegn xx land.� foreign

WHEN HEMINGWAY HATED PARIS the insightful words: “You do not know what Christmas is until you lose it in some foreign land” (By-Line l3l). An ill-fated event at Gare de Lyon would forever scar Hemingway’s relationship with Paris. To surprise her husband, Hadley put his box of working papers (including all the carbon copies of the same material) into a suitcase to bring on vacation to Switzerland. The valise was stolen from the luggage compartment on the train when she got off for a drink of water. All the manuscripts he had composed since boyhood were gone, save two short stories, or about thirteen pages of text. “You, naturally, would say ‘Good,’” he would write to Ezra Pound about the incident. “Don’t say it to me. I ain’t yet reached that mood. 3 years on the damned stuff’ (Selected Letters 77). That damned stuff included “what was going to be my first novel” and the work that was saved (due to being in the mail at the time) included “My Old Man” and “Up in Michigan,” two stories that are among his most famous. James Mellow noted, “Neither Hemingway nor Hadley would ever forget the episode” (2ll). After just over a year in Paris, Hemingway’s day-to-day life had become a source of stress, a reality that surfaces repeatedly in his letters. In contrast to the inspirational changes in weather we read about in A Moveable Feast, the letters he wrote from Paris from the l920s describe the climate as “rotten,” “damned cold,” “rainy,” and “awful” (Selected Letters 66, 59, 66, 72). Moreover, living without heat for the first time, on several occasions Hemingway fell to incapacitating illnesses, one of which prohibited him from writing during a significant period of l923

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HERLIHY-MERA (Lynn l77). Additionally, several newspaper articles Hemingway wrote during this period articulate a melancholic attitude about daily life in France, expressing annoyance with other expatriates, Parisians, and the nuisances of public transportation. It seems some other Americans were enjoying artistic success while he was not, and this fact seriously embittered the young writer. He writes, “An American girl was recently billed at the Paris music halls as ‘America’s best known and best loved dancer,'” however, “[n]one of the recent arrivals in Paris from the States had ever heard of her” (Dateline ll9). Hemingway, whose fiction was as yet unpublished, criticizes “how easy it is to become a ‘champion’ abroad. The only rule seems to be that you must choose to be a champion of some very distant country and then stay away from that country” (Dateline l20). Hemingway blames “the extreme provinciality of the French people” for the poor judgment of talent (Dateline ll9). Moreover, an article titled “Parisian Boorishness” in Star Weekly describes the irritation that is everyday life in Paris: if you offer a seat to a woman on a bus, “a walrus-mustached Frenchman [will] plop into it, leaving you and the lady standing,” and if you object, “he will roar” (Dateline l36). Hemingway goes on to complain about cabdrivers; interactions with Frenchmen on the subway, in parks, and in museums; and gives particular attention to bureaucrats, who he feels offer “the worst offense to courtesy” (Dateline l37). Hemingway concludes this article saying, “Those are samples of the type of thing one encounters daily in Paris” (Dateline l37). These impressions are diametric oppositions to the glazed Parisian environment we read

26

WHEN HEMINGWAY HATED PARIS about in A Moveable Feast. These complications associated with daily life abroad, coupled with other looming personal issues that I will soon discuss, drove Hemingway into periods of desolation and possibly the seeds of his lifelong alcoholism. According to an acquaintance, “even the beauties of Paris in the spring failed to lift him out of his depression,” and it was not until he was headed to Spain for the bullfights that he was “able to smile again” (qtd. in Lynn 203). Disappointment with life in Paris also resonates through much of his personal correspondence with people back in the United States. As James Watson points out, letters home from abroad can serve as a pacifying mechanism that attempt to “reconstitut[e] the temporarily forfeited home as an element in a seamless history and, by reconnecting the letter writer’s future to his past, heals the present rupture in his life. Personal letters are generated by such absences, which they attempt to overcome” (l2). In some of Hemingway’s letters home from France, the strain is seldom veiled. He wrote to Sherwood Anderson, who had recently returned from Paris, “I envy you the fall. It must be awfully grand. I am so homesick for America evry [sic] I fall that I get into awful shape” (Selected Letters 2l8). The separation was dissolving the relationship he had with his parents, sisters, and brother, and nostalgia for family ceremonies echoes through correspondence: “I felt terribly not to get back this fall and to miss hunting with Dad” (Selected Letters 233). Some letters Hemingway wrote from Paris plead for his friends in the US to visit him in Europe. Between l923 and l925 he corresponded

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HERLIHY-MERA regularly with Howell Jenkins, an old friend with whom he had fished in Michigan as a young man. One of the first begins, “Look, Carper. The play is for you to come over here next summer. Start saving your seeds now, you can come over for next to nothing, put up with us here in Paris” (Selected Letters l30). Hemingway goes on to describe in superlatives the idea of spending an imaginary spring in Paris and summer in Spain with Jenkins. He repeats, “What we want is for you to come over here,” and further, “We are going to get a Ford for l,000 francs a month with Insurance and drive down [to Spain] from here. You are going to drive... We’ll camp in at the headwaters of the Irati for a week and then go back to Burguete, get in the car and drive through the pass down to Pamplona and the bull fights” (Selected Letters l30). While allusions to American themes, such as renting a Ford car and fly-fishing, may appear innocuous, the culture Hemingway left behind is an uneasy undercurrent. Coupled with hyperbolic requests for Jenkins to visit — “For Christ sake come on”(Selected Letters l3l) — the content of the letters is a testament of his loneliness and isolation (see also Capellân ll). One particular correspondence is replete with American cultural references and has five pleas for Jenkins to visit; he writes: “You’ve got to come” and “I wish the hell you were here right now. It’s fall, gray smoky days, good and cold, regular foot ball weather. That’s the only thing I miss” (Selected Letters l32). Jenkins did not visit. The letter Hemingway wrote him the following year has a significantly different tone and does not include a single invitation; it also has fewer

28

WHEN HEMINGWAY HATED PARIS colloquial references and playful nicknaming, marking the disappearing familiarity between Hemingway and this friend (Selected Letters l48-50). One person from the US who did visit the Hemingways in Paris was Bill Smith — and some argue that he became a model for Bill Gorton in The Sun Also Rises (Sarason l5l). Smith’s decision to go to Europe, though, is rather astonishing, as he and Hemingway had had a severe falling out before Hemingway left the US. In a letter to Hemingway a few years earlier, Smith remarked that their friendship had “undergone profound and very unwelcome changes” and that Hemingway had changed so much that “I can only hope time will show equal changes in a reverse direction” (qtd. in Selected Letters 66). Once he returned to the US, Smith would explain that the reason he went to Paris in the first place was not because he had reconciled with Hemingway (which he had not; they remained on bad terms) but because he was broke, desperate, and Hemingway had arranged a job for him. The job, not the friendship, he would explain, was “why I was with them” (qtd. in Sarason l56). Due to these problems with Parisian life, Hemingway left the city whenever possible — he spent just five months per year there during the span of his residence — and by the mid l920s Paris was a place Hemingway wanted to avoid. He planned to return to the US permanently in September l926, a move “I had hoped and counted on tremendously” (Selected Letters 2ll-l2). But likely due to tax and financial complications², he could not abandon France as a primary residence. Moving back to the US, he wrote from Paris, “was what I wanted to do more than anything” (qtd. in

29

HERLIHY-MERA Reynolds 73). A crucial literary dialogue that has been all but unnoticed, then, concerns the period when Hemingway suffered in Paris, when he intended to quit the city but could not, and when his spiritual axis dropped into contemplations of suicide. l 9 2 6 : L O V E A F F A I R S , D I S T A N C E , A N D D O W N F A L L Hemingway met Pauline Pfeiffer, a woman from Arkansas — and their friendship would lead to an affair and Hemingway’s separation from Hadley. Hemingway would request divorce, and for that, Richardson required Hemingway and Pauline to be apart for one hundred days. The compulsory separation was to begin in September l926. Hemingway suddenly had no income (the pending divorce disconnected him from Hadley’s family funds, which had financed his residence there) and he was forced to live alone for the first time. He stayed in a small studio that was lent to him by Gerald Murphy, a trust-fund socialite; Murphy also gave Hemingway $400 for living expenses. The studio was tiny, and the starkness of this change in affairs, as Peter Griffin remarked, “made Ernest feel like a monk” (l50). Once Hemingway was installed in the apartment, Pauline returned to the US and he did not see Hadley with any regularity. On one occasion, they happened into one another at a café; the meeting ended with her slapping him twice in the face. “Each day that Ernest lived alone,” Griffin noted, “he felt he lost his defenses” (l5l). He took to excessive physical exercise, sleeping as long as he could, abnormally long writing sessions, and drinking excessively to balance the ordeal³.

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WHEN HEMINGWAY HATED PARIS There was no positive news coming from home that fall. Hemingway’s father had been planning to move the family to Florida, but in September the Great Miami Hurricane struck. The storm caused over 2,500 fatalities and twice the monetary damage of Hurricane Katrina in 2005; it also ruined his father’s real estate investments. Three weeks later Hemingway’s grandfather died suddenly. In one of the only letters he wrote home that season, he expressed regret for missing the funeral and made no mention of what was occurring in his personal life. The stress the man was under is visible through his handwriting in this text, which was almost illegible (Griffin l54). Separation from his native culture and language would have compounded this distress, which is an unseen and often overlooked component of this depression. Dealing with these events alone in a foreign country without money or familial support eventually overwhelmed the stability he had constructed, and so too went his mental state. In the empirical fields foreignness is increasingly being treated as a condition that characterizes our psychological, cultural, and emotional states (see Adler and Gielen, Berry et al, and Saunders), and its implications influence the writer’s craft in thematic and therapeutic senses. Regular contact with family and financial stability have both been shown to alleviate the frequency of mental illness in people living abroad (see Berry), and it was precisely during these months when Hemingway was isolated in Paris without daily contact from his wife, family, or lover, and had access to very little money, that his behavior became self-destructive. What is more, Hemingway was

31

HERLIHY-MERA also likely burdened by survivor guilt from the Great War and related post traumatic stress, and it is generally understood that he suffered from bipolar and major depression disorder throughout his life, conditions to which he had a genetic predisposition (four family members also committed suicide). For Hemingway in l926, the pending divorce from Richardson was the charge that set off a cocktail of circumstances that pushed him to the brink of the act he would ultimately commit in l96l. Some critics have denied that Hemingway was suicidal during this period. Griffin, one, is wrote this in Charlie for there no of future anything. hope you agree. period that “Ernest would Inot think about That isatwhy I not like it at a suicide for himself, least directly” war. Every dayReynolds and every night (l52), and similarly, Michael asserted therewas is not a strong possibility that his intention “to commit suicide; thatit”you will killed and only think about (6). Some get of Hemingway’s not period, have to write. I have to letters from the however, contradict write to be happy whether I these claims. The National Institute of Health get paid for it or not. But notes that when people are suicidal, “they it is a hell a are disease often mistakenly believe thatof they doing to be born with. I like to do their friends and relatives a favor by taking it. Which is even worse. That themselves out of the world. These irrational it from a disease into beliefs often makes drive their behavior” (“Suicide a vice. Then I want to do it and Suicidal Behavior” l). “I can’t stand it,” better than anybody has ever Hemingway writes in a letter to Pauline during done it all which into that fall, “evidently I canmakes do is it remove an obsession. An obsession the sin out of your life and avoid Hadley the is terrible. Hope you haven’t necessity of divorce — and compliment Hadley — gotten any. That’s the only by killing myself’ (Selected Letters 222). The one I’ve got left. several weeks’ delay in written correspondence with Pauline in the US must have intensified this stress, and he thought that life itself was “all out of control” (Selected Letters 222) as he began to draft a will (228). The man had little recourse to confront what he understood as great problems. As he explained to F. Scott

32

There was no positive news coming from home that fall. Hemingway’s father had been planning to move the family to Florida, but in September the Great Miami Hurricane struck. The storm caused over 2,500 fatalities and twice the monetary damage of Hurricane Katrina in 2005; it also ruined his father’s real estate investments. Three weeks later Hemingway’s grandfather died suddenly. In one of the only letters he wrote home that season, he expressed regret for missing the funeral and made no mention of what was occurring in his personal life. The stress the man was under is visible through his handwriting in this text, which was almost illegible (Griffin l54). Separation from his native culture and language would have compounded this distress, which is an unseen and often overlooked component of this depression. Dealing with these events alone in a foreign country without money or familial support eventually overwhelmed the stability he had constructed, and so too went his mental state. In the empirical fields foreignness is increasingly being treated as a condition that characterizes our psychological, cultural, and emotional states (see Adler and Gielen, Berry et al, and Saunders), and its implications influence the writer’s craft in thematic and therapeutic senses. Regular contact with family and financial stability have both been shown to alleviate the frequency of mental illness in people living abroad (see Berry), and it was precisely during these months when Hemingway was isolated in Paris without daily contact from his wife, family, or lover, and had access to very little money, that his behavior became self-destructive. What is more, Hemingway was

31

HERLIHY-MERA also likely burdened by survivor guilt from the Great War and related post traumatic stress, and it is generally understood that he suffered from bipolar and major depression disorder throughout his life, conditions to which he had a genetic predisposition (four family members also committed suicide). For Hemingway in l926, the pending divorce from Richardson was the charge that set off a cocktail of circumstances that pushed him to the brink of the act he would ultimately commit in l96l. Some critics have denied that Hemingway was suicidal during this period. Griffin, for one, wrote of this period that “Ernest would not think about suicide for himself, at least not directly” (l52), and similarly, Michael Reynolds asserted that his intention was not “to commit suicide; only think about it” (6). Some of Hemingway’s letters from the period, however, contradict these claims. The National Institute of Health notes that when people are suicidal, “they often mistakenly believe that they are doing their friends and relatives a favor by taking themselves out of the world. These irrational beliefs often drive their behavior” (“Suicide and Suicidal Behavior” l). “I can’t stand it,” Hemingway writes in a letter to Pauline during that fall, “evidently all I can do is remove the sin out of your life and avoid Hadley the necessity of divorce — and compliment Hadley — by killing myself’ (Selected Letters 222). The several weeks’ delay in written correspondence with Pauline in the US must have intensified this stress, and he thought that life itself was “all out of control” (Selected Letters 222) as he began to draft a will (228). The man had little recourse to confront what he understood as great problems. As he explained to F. Scott

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WHEN HEMINGWAY HATED PARIS Fitzgerald, it was a struggle to refrain from “turnings on of the gas or slitting of the wrists” (Selected Letters 232). Hemingway’s suicidal tendencies later in his life are often attributed to a downfall from the concussions he incurred in Africa, but the circumstances surrounding the divorce from Hadley, his displacement in Europe, and isolation from his relatives brought him to a similar point in l926: “Last fall I said perfectly calmly and not bluffingly...I would kill myself" (Selected Letters 222). Hadley’s lingering presence in Paris also troubled Hemingway — and he was openly encouraging her to go back to the US: “[W] hat you could do is go to America and have a look around,” he remarks. “[It] would be a very good way to see how things were over there — both on the coast and in N.Y. You might take one of the very comfortable dollar line boats” (Selected Letters 227). Hadley did not go, however, and even before their divorce was finalized, she had taken up the company of Paul Mowrer, the man who would become her second husband. The tension amongst the social circle Hemingway had shared with Hadley was also problematic because, as Michael Reynolds noted in Homecoming, “a good many of [their] old friends were siding with Hadley” (75). Paris had become a toxic place in Hemingway’s life — and he attempted to flee the city for the south of France, but he had no money for the train and rideshares repeatedly fell through (Selected Letters 225, 23l). Finally, after receiving a publishing advance, he wrote to Max Perkins: “I am leaving Paris on Christmas night [l926] — perhaps for several months” (Selected Letters 240). Spending Christmas night alone

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“The principalexpatriate feeling in Paris is not romance but contempt. The only jolly people are the drunks and tehy xx they eventually get depressed. The germans too seem happy, but that is perhaps because they can only get two week visas to visit. The most regular residents perhaps are the scandinavians: they are not gay either. The quarter characters are not happy.�

WHEN HEMINGWAY HATED PARIS on a train, alcohol most likely saturated the festivity. W R I T I N G

P A R I S I A N

G L O O M

In addition to the gloomy portrayals of Parisian life that we have seen in his journalism and letters, Hemingway’s fiction and poetry from l925 to l926 in particular depict the French capital with a pointedly negative slant. In a notebook, he wrote, “Now that I know I am going to die none of it seems to make much difference” (qtd. in Reynolds 67). And this level of desperation surfaces in his poetry: You have gone and it is all gone with you The wind blows in the fall and it is all over. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death (qtd. in Reynolds 65) The first chapters of The Sun Also Rises, which were removed before the book went to press, are perhaps the most communicative accounts about the negative contexts of expatriate Paris. Hemingway had lived six years in Paris when he began the novel, and the text is a unique reflection on the transitions of his novelistic opinions of the place itself. In this early version, Hemingway used first names. Jake Barnes was “Hemingway” or “Hem” or “Wemedge”; Brett Ashely was “Duff”; and Robert Cohn was “Gerald” (JFK MS l94). “Hem” explains to the reader that to understand the rest of the novel, “you have to understand Paris,” a phrase that announces the relevance of this prologue, situating the novel itself through the importance of setting. “[This is] I not the

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HERLIHY-MERA Paris of Victor Hugo, or Munger or of l9l4-l9l9 or the Paris of France” (JFK MS l94, 9), the narrator remarks, using “the Quarter” as point of reference rather than “Paris” or “France,” emphasizing that the expatriates — not the native residents — are the subject of focus. Hem begins, precisely, with the transformation of Paris in his imagination since he arrived there: “I am a newspaperman living in Paris. I used to think Paris was the most wonderful place in the world. I have lived in it now for six years, or however long it is since l920” (qtd. in Kennedy l00). The chapters go on to reframe life in Paris from a disapproving register, one that is not an idealistic locale of intellectual exchange but a place where “Everybody in the quarter loathes almost everybody else and the quarter itself’ (qtd. in Kennedy l0l). The negativity Hem feels taints even the visual aesthetics of the neighborhood, as he notes, “there is nothing romantic about the Quarter and very little that is beautiful” (JFK MS l94,l0). Expatriate depression is the fundamental message in this unpublished text. Hem repeats contemptuous feelings toward the city of Paris and the expatriate community four times in three notebook pages of the manuscript (JFK MS l94 l0, lla, lib, ll-l2). It is the narrator’s scorn that dominates his descriptions of the Latin Quarter itself, which he claims is “really more a state of mind than a geographical area. The state of mind is contempt,” and the text continues:

The principal expatriate feeling in Paris is not romance but contempt. The only jolly people are the drunks and

36

WHEN HEMINGWAY HATED PARIS

37

“Paris was a fine place to be quite young in and it is xxxxxxxxx necessary part a nececsary of a mans education. We all loved it once and we lie if we say we didn’t...I now love something else”

HERLIHY-MERA

they eventually get depressed. The Germans too seem happy, but that is perhaps because they can only get two week visas to visit. The most regular residents perhaps are the Scandinavians: they are not gay either. The quarter characters are not happy. (JFK MS l94, l0-l2)

When we muse on the causes of this imagined community’s depression, or its perceived depression, the general critical response concerns the modern emptiness of spirit, the loss of meaning and virtue, and a sense of existential disorientation. Modernism as exile, and exile as a modern state, is a thesis with significant critical currency — and we should also note here that as he composed the text Hemingway was considering ending his own life amid the modern emptiness. Expatriate writers explore foreign cities in their minds as they compose a textual consciousness; they mine their physical and social experiences of the city — their arrested or energetic acculturation — and their relational “I” is transposed through newness, otherness, distance, and experience. To extract Hemingway’s relationship with Paris, his divorce proceedings, and his status as a cultural other from this discussion of The Sun Also Rises — as the New Critics might desire — disengages a rich interpretation of expatriate Paris. The darker sides of the French capital, so seldom treated by critics, were the seeds of Hemingway’s first full-length text, and though what we read in the published version has the aforecited passages excised, the chapters are a creative interaction with the man’s past

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WHEN HEMINGWAY HATED PARIS and present senses of his cultural reality, interpreted through “Hem” and, later, Jake Barnes. The negativity itself seems to have been a creative boon for the man, as he allowed it to drive his energies and to direct his creative rudder. Hemingway had been in France from age twenty-two to age twenty-seven when he wrote these passages for The Sun Also Rises; the idealistic notions of expatriation had worn off, and his writing paints not a romantic but an ironic conception of Paris. The writer himself, at least during this period, had similar sentiments about Paris. In a letter to Fitzgerald, he said that he avoided the Latin Quarter altogether in l926, spending just one night there in the entire year (Selected Letters 262). In addition to the complicated situation with his ex-wife, the novelist had created several enemies around the Quarter when The Sun Also Rises was published. Moreover, his family back in Oak Park would not (or perhaps could not) recognize the vision of his novel — nor would they even read it; his father returned it in the mail unwrapped and his mother said the book ought to be burned. And two years later, just days before he boarded a ship with all his belongings, leaving Paris as a resident for the last time, he reflected: “I should have gone [back] to America two years ago when I planned. I was through with Europe [then] and needed to go” (Selected Letters 274). And indeed, after moving away from Paris, with the exception of A Moveable Feast, his nonfiction portrayals of the city are harsh. On a l934 visit he would write, “we are in Paris and it is a big mistake. If you want a Paris letter full of spice and detail

41

HERLIHY-MERA and funny cracks you will have to get someone else to write it. All I do is go out and get depressed and wish I were somewhere else. It is only for three weeks but it is very gloomy” (By-line l55). The city “was a fine place to be quite young in and it is a necessary part of a man’s education. We all loved it once and we lie if we say we didn’t...I now love something else” (By-line l58). And it was in l928, when Hemingway was on a ship crossing the Atlantic with all his belongings, that he articulated a solution. He wrote to his new wife, Pauline, “I have often wondered what I should do with the rest of my life and now I know — I shall try and reach Cuba...Let’s hurry and get to Havana” (Selected Letters 275). UNIVERSITY OF PUERTO RICO N O T E S ¹ While there are many factors that correspond to depression, alcoholism, and the triggers of suicidal episodes, many artists fell to mental illness or suicide, or both, after moving to Paris. In the last century, we find Olive Thomas, Ivar Kreuger, Alexandre Stravinsky, Daul Kim, Lucy Gordon, Kat Mckenzie, Hermann Guthmann, Henry Collett, Max Under, Jane Peters, Sadeq Hedayat, Ernest Hemingway, and Zelda Fitzgerald. There were also several notable Paris suicides among those with local backgrounds; such was the case of André Breton, Jaques Rigaut, and Jeanne Hébuterne. In l922, Hemingway wrote a poem, “Montparnasse,” on suicide in the City of Light:

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GNIHTEMOS

I NOW LOVE ELSE

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GNIHTEMOS

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I NOW LOVE ELSE

WHEN HEMINGWAY HATED PARIS

There are never any suicides in the quarter among people one knows No successful suicides. A Chinese boy kills himself and is dead. (they continue to place his mail in the letter rack at the Dome) A Norwegian boy kills himself and is dead. (no one knows where the other Norwegian boy has gone) They find a model dead alone in bed and very dead. (Complete Poems 50)

² Hemingway remarks that “the financial situation [being] so rotten” (Selected Letters 2ll) was the reason they stayed in Paris that fall. Congress implemented a foreign earned income exclusion in l926, a loophole that allowed expatriates to protect an unlimited amount of income from US taxes, provided that they remained abroad until the end of the fiscal year in l927. This was a boon for Hemingway and Hadley, but it also would force them to continue a French residence when the couple — Ernest, at any rate — wanted to move back to the US (“History of Citizenship Based Taxation” l). ³ He wrote prodigiously during the fall of l926, which might have been an endeavor to become financially independent and/ or to alleviate the stresses of isolation. He produced “A Canary for One,” “In Another Country,” “Now I Lay Me,” “A Simple Enquiry,” “A Pursuit Race,” “My Own Life”; several poems; the final galleys for The Sun Also Rises; and the first passages of A Farewell to Arms (see Reynolds 66).

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C I T E D 46

Adler, Leonore Loeb, and Uwe Peter Gielen. Migration: Immigration and Emigration in International Perspective. Westport, CT: Greenwood, 2003. Baker, Carlos. Ernest Hemingway: The Writer as an Artist. Princeton: Princeton UP,l963. Baskett, Sam S. “Beyond Native Grounds: American Literary Expatriation.” Centennial Review 3l (Spring l987): l92-2ll. Beegel, Susan. “Report.” Informe de Tesis: Universität Pompeu Fabra (6 June 2008). Benstock, Shari. Women of the Left Bank. Paris, l900-l940. Austin: U of Texas P, l986. Berry, John W., et al. Cross-Cultural Psychology: Research and Applications. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 20ll. Berry, J. W. “Acculturation and Adaptation in a New Society.” International Migration 30.l (l992): 69-84. Blower, Brooke Lindy. Becoming Americans in Paris: Transatlantic Politics and Culture Between the Wars. Oxford: Oxford UP, 20l0. Bochner, Stephen, Adrian Furnham, and Collen Ward The Psychology of Culture Shock. East Sussex: Routledge, 200l. Capellán, Ángel. Hemingway and the Hispanic World. Ann Arbor: UMI Research P, l985. Castles, Stephen, and Mark J.Miller. The Age of Migration: International Population Movements in the Modern World. New York: Macmillan, l993. Chun, Kevin M., Pamela Balls Organista, and Gerardo Marin, eds. Acculturation: Advances in Theory, Measurement, and Applied Research. Washington: American

WHEN HEMINGWAY HATED PARIS Psychological Association, 2003. l39-6l. Donnell, David. Hemingway in Toronto: A Postmodern Tribute. Windsor: l982. Eckerman, Ann-Katrin, Toni Dowd, Ena Chong, Lynette Nixon, Roy Gray, and Sally Johnson. Binan Goonj: Bridging Cultures in Aboriginal Health. Chatswood, Australia: Elsevier, 20l0. Gajdusek, Robert. Hemingway’s Paris. New York: Scribner’s, l978. Greenstone, Michael and Adam Loney. “Policy Memo: Ten Facts About Immigration.” The Hamilton Project. September 20l0. Online. Griffin, Peter. Less Than a Treason. New York: Oxford UP, l990. Hemingway, Ernest. Byline Ernest Hemingway. Ed. William White. New York: Scribner’s, l984. —. Complete Poems. Lincoln: U of Nebraska P, l983. —. Dateline: Toronto. Ed. William White. New York: Scribner’s, l985. —. The Ernest Hemingway Collection. John F. Kennedy Library. Boston, MA. —. A Moveable Feast. New York: Scribner’s, l964. —. Selected Letters l9l7-l96l. Ed. Carlos Baker. New York: Scribner’s, l98l. Herlihy, Jeffrey. In Paris or Paname: Hemingway’s Expatriate Nationalism Amsterdam: Rodopi, 20ll. Hovey, Richard Bennet. Hemingway: The Inward Terrain. Seattle: U of Washington P, l968. Kennedy, J. Gerald. Imagining Paris: Exile, Writing, and American Identity. New Haven: Yale UP, l993. Lynn, Kenneth S. Hemingway. New York: Simon and Schuster, l987. Maddux, William M., and Adam D. Galinsky.

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HERLIHY-MERA “Cultural Borders and Mental Barriers: The Relationship Between Living Abroad and Creativity.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology XCVI.5 (2009): l047-6l. Martin, Robert A. “The Expatriate Predicament in The Sun Also Rises.” French Connections: Hemingway and Fitzgerald Abroad. Ed. J. Gerald Kennedy and Jackson R. Bryer. London: Macmillan, l998.6l-73. McMahon, Joseph H. “City for Expatriates.” Yale French Studies 32 (l964): l44-l58. Mellow, James. Hemingway: A Life Without Consequence. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, l992. Pizer, Donald. American Expatiate Writing and the Paris Moment: Modernism and Place. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State UP, l997. Reisinger, Yvette. International Tourism: Cultures and Behavior. Burlington: Butterworth Heineman, 2009. Reynolds, Michael. Hemingway: The Homecoming. New York: Norton, l999. Sarason, Bertram D., ed. Hemingway and the Sun Set. Washington: NCR, l972. Saunders, Rebecca, ed. The Concept of the Foreign: An Interdisciplinary Dialogue. Lanham: Lexington Books, 2003. “Suicide and Suicidal Behavior.” MedLine Plus: National Library of Medicine. 3 Mar. 20ll. Online. “History of Citizenship-based Taxation.” Taxes for Expats. 25 Nov. 20ll. Online. Watson, James G. Thinking of Home: William Faulkner’s Letters to His Mother and Father l9l8-l925. New York: Norton, l992. Young, Phillip. Ernest Hemingway: A Reconsideration. University Park: Pennsylvania State UP, l966.

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with the snow falling. Paris with the big charcoal braziers outside the cafes, glowing red. At the cafe tables, men huddled, their coat collars turned up, while they finger glasses of grog Americain and the newsboys shout the evening papers. The buses rumble like green juggernauts through the snow that sifts down in the dusk. White house walls rise through the dusky snow. Snow is never more beautiful than in the city. It is wonderful in Paris to stand on a bridge across the Seine looking up

aris. Dec. 22 — Paris

P

C H R I S T M A S O N T H E R O O F O F T H E W O R L D Ernest Hemingway

THE TORONTO STAR WEEKLY

that seems to include a small taste of meat, a great deal of gristle, and a large piece of bone. “Do you remember the turkey at home?” asks the young girl. “Don’t talk about it,” says the boy. They attack the potatoes which are fried with too much grease. “What do you suppose they’re doing at home?” asks the young girl. “Don’t talk about it,” says the boy. They attack the potatoes which are fried with too much

“I miss the cranberries,” said the young man. They attack the special Christmas dinner. The turkey is cut into a peculiar sort of geometrical formation fact that it was slightly burned. Then they paid the bill and walked downstairs and out into the street. The snow was still falling. And they walked out into the streets of old Paris that had known the prowling of wolves and the hunting of men and the tall old houses that had looked down on it all and were stark and unmoved by Christmas. The boy and the girl were homesick. It was their first Christmas away from their own land. You do not know what Christmas is until you lose it in some foreign land.

“Never mind, honey,” he said. “We’ve been here only three days. Paris will be different. Just you wait.” They ate the dessert, and neither one mentioned the

DECEMBER 22, l923

answered. “Do you suppose we’ll ever be successful artists?” The proprietor entered with the dessert and a small bottle of red wine. “I had forgotten the wine,” he said in French. The girl began to cry. “I didn’t know Paris was like this,” she said. “I thought it was gay and full of light and beautiful.” The boy put his arm around her. At least that was one thing you could do in a Parisian restaurant.

Paris and very lonely at Christmas time. The young man and his girl walk up the Rue Bonaparte from the Quai in the shadow of the tall houses to the brightly lighted little Rue Jacob. In a little second floor restaurant. The Veritable Restaurant of the Third Republic, which has two rooms, four tiny tables and a cat, there is a special Christmas dinner being served. “It isn’t much like Christmas,” said the girl. 54

grease. “What do you suppose they’re doing at home?” says the girl. “I don’t know,” said the boy. “Do you suppose we’ll ever get home?” “I don’t know,” the girl

through the softly curtaining snow past the grey bulk of the Louvre, up the river spanned by many bridges and bordered by the grey houses of old Paris to where Notre Dame squats in the dusk. It is very beautiful in

* You d n

o o

t

know what Christmas is until you lose it in some foreign land You do not know what Christmas is until you lose it in some foreign land You do not know what Christmas is until you lose it in some foreign land You do not know what Christmas is until you lose it in some foreign land You do not know what Christmas is until you lose it in some foreign land You do not know what Christmas is until you lose it in some foreign land You do not know what Christmas is until you lose it in some foreign land You do not know what Christmas is until you lose it in some foreign land You do not know what Christmas is until you lose it in some foreign land You do not know what Christmas is until you lose it in some foreign land You do not know what Christmas is until you lose it in some foreign land You do not know what Christmas is until you lose it in some foreign land You do not know what Christmas is until you lose it in some foreign l a n d

he gimleted the bull with his eyes. Just as the bull was about to hit him, it stopped, stiffening its short legs and plowing up the sand. Until this moment the audience was in a hush of suppressed excitement. They never knew but what the bull might not stop. But the bull always stopped, and with its eyes

would give an involuntary shiver, and the bull would carry through his charge and the human statue would shoot up into the air in a tangle of gory sheeting. The thrill of what might happen gave the Spanish crowd the same thrill that sends people of other nations out to automobile road races and the Grand National Steeplechase. In the end Tancredo’s popularity was lost because of his own perfection. There was no possibility of an accident with Tancredo. Tancredo was too brave.

five-cent cigar. He was once known as the bravest man in the world. And he died in a dingy, sordid room in Madrid, the city where he had enjoyed his greatest triumphs. For many years Tancredo was famous throughout the Latin world. For ten minutes’ work he used to get $5,000. And he worked early and often. But a woman impersonator came along and spoiled the whole game for him. Tancredo’s fame was made in the bullring. He was no bullfighter. But he thrilled the crowds that came to the bullfights as nothing

P

amplona, Spain. Nov. 24 — No. He was neither an opera singer nor a

D E A D

NOVEMBER 24, l923 advantage. They were not one hundred percent effective. Sometimes the bull would halt and back away. Sometimes the eye of the amateur Tancredo would waver or he

T A N C R E D O I S Ernest Hemingway

THE TORONTO STAR WEEKLY

sometimes, and this the Spaniards considered unesthetic and called on the authorities to suppress the act. Tancredos were in operation all over the Spanish peninsula. Some of them were seated in chairs when the bull came out. Some of them would remain standing in the center of the ring throughout the bullfight. Most of them spent a large part of their time in the hospital. And then the woman. Bullfight fans began

stiff pose and walk away across the arena while the crowd thundered applause. The ten-minute appearance was all he had to do, and he could name almost his own price. Never in all his performances was he gored by a bull. His eyes were allpowerful. But imitators sprang up in bullrings all over Spain. Tancredo no longer had a monopoly. He could no longer command his high prices, for the imitators had an added

amid a roar of applause and took his place in the center of the sanded arena, standing like a statue facing the toril from which the bull would be released. The gate of the toril would swing open and the bull dash out into the glare of the bullring. Momentarily blinded by the sunlight, he would then sight Tancredo and charge him. Tancredo never moved. To move would have been fatal. He simply fixed his eyes on the bull. Standing stiff as a statue, 58

Then a woman emulator came along. That was the final straw. According to the New York Herald dispatch announcing Tancredo’s death, Doùa Tancredo was nowhere near perfect. She was thrown

fixed on Tancredo slowly backed away, tossing its head and snorting to make itself believe it was not afraid. Then a torero would vault over the barrera and attract the bull away with his cape, and Tancredo would break his

else could. His name on the posters meant a packed arena. Tancredo appeared after the third bull had been killed. Dressed in white, his head bound in a white cloth, his face covered with flour, he walked out from the barrera

his body remained absolutely rigid. In the exigencies of the bullring there was no time to acquire this rigidity before the bull appeared. He was a dismal failure in bullfighting. For years he was a familiar figure around the cafés of the Puerto del Sol in Madrid and then the disappeared. It takes money to sit in a café. Now he is dead. To the older generation of bullfight fans he is a memory of a thrill they will never have again: the white-sheeted figure with uncanny flourcovered face standing stiff in the hot glare of the

to complain that the old formal sport was being made into a burlesque. “No more Tancredos,” they shouted. So the government passed a law barring the act from

Spain. With it they barred Tancredo’s livelihood. Don Tancredo himself tried to learn to become a matador. But he found himself up against a competitive profession in which his rivals had been trained since they were five years old. He proved slow on his feet and not particularly graceful. While he tried to calm the bull with his eye, he found that it was only possible if

THE TORONTO STAR WEEKLY

There is a new generation of bullfight vaudeville acts. Charley Chaplins in costume who allow themselves to be gored for so much per goring. The feeling is turning against these, too. They are only allowed in the informal bullfights of the dog days where the young matadors get their tryouts on young bulls. Tancredo is dead. Penniless and a failure because he was too perfect.

bullring while the bull that wanted only to kill him backed away, cowed by his eye. To the younger generation he is not even a name.

NOVEMBER 24, l923

60

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C H A P T E R

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That winter Robert Cohn went over to America with his novel, and it was accepted by a fairly good publisher. His going made an awful row I heard, and I think that was where Frances lost him, because several women were nice to him in New York, and when he came back he was quite changed. He was more enthusiastic about America than ever, and he was not so simple, and he was not so nice. The publishers had praised his novel pretty highly and it rather went to his head. Then several women had put themselves out to be nice to him, and his horizons had all shifted. For four years his horizon had been absolutely limited to his wife. For three years, or almost three years, he had never seen beyond Frances. I am sure he had never been in love in his life. He had married on the rebound from the rotten time he had in college, and Frances took him on the rebound from his discovery that he had not been everything to his first wife. He was not in love yet but he realized that he was an attractive quantity to women, and that the fact of a woman caring for him and wanting to live with him was not simply a divine miracle. This changed him so that he was not so pleasant to have around. Also, playing for higher stakes than he could

The Sun Also Rises afford in some rather steep bridge games with his New York connections, he had held cards and won several hundred dollars. It made him rather vain of his bridge game, and he talked several times of how a man could always make a living at bridge if he were ever forced to. Then there was another thing. He had been reading W. H. Hudson. That sounds like an innocent occupation, but Cohn had read and reread “The Purple Land.”“The Purple Land” is a very sinister book if read too late in life. It recounts splendid imaginary amorous adventures of a perfect English gentleman in an intensely romantic land, the scenery of which is very well described. For a man to take it at thirty-four as a guidebook to what life holds is about as safe as it would be for a man of the same age to enter Wall Street direct from a French convent, equipped with a complete set of the more practical Alger books. Cohn, I believe, took every word of “The Purple Land” as literally as though it had been an R. G. Dun report. You understand me, he made some reservations, but on the whole the book to him was sound. It was all that was needed to set him off. I did not realize the extent to which it had set him off until one day he came into my office. “Hello, Robert,” I said. “Did you come in to cheer me up?” “Would you like to go to South America, Jake?” he asked. “No.” “Why not?” “I don’t know. I never wanted to go. Too expensive. You can see all the South Americans you want in Paris anyway.” “They’re not the real South Americans.”

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Hemingway “They look awfully real to me.” I had a boat train to catch with a week’s mail stories, and only half of them written. “Do you know any dirt?” I asked. “No.” “None of your exalted connections getting divorces?” “No; listen, Jake. If I handled both our expenses, would you go to South America with me?” “Why me?” “You can talk Spanish. And it would be more fun with two of us.” “No,” I said, “I like this town and I go to Spain in the summertime.” “All my life I’ve wanted to go on a trip like that,” Cohn said. He sat down. “I’ll be too old before I can ever do it.” “Don’t be a fool,” I said. “You can go anywhere you want. You’ve got plenty of money.” “I know. But I can’t get started.” “Cheer up,” I said. “All countries look just like the moving pictures.” But I felt sorry for him. He had it badly. “I can’t stand it to think my life is going so fast and I’m not really living it.” “Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bullfighters.” “I’m not interested in bull-fighters. That’s an abnormal life. I want to go back in the country in South America. We could have a great trip.” “Did you ever think about going to British East Africa to shoot?” “No, I wouldn’t like that.” “I’d go there with you.” “No; that doesn’t interest me.”

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The Sun Also Rises afford in some rather steep bridge games with his New York connections, he had held cards and won several hundred dollars. It made him rather vain of his bridge game, and he talked several times of how a man could always make a living at bridge if he were ever forced to. Then there was another thing. He had been reading W. H. Hudson. That sounds like an innocent occupation, but Cohn had read and reread “The Purple Land.”“The Purple Land” is a very sinister book if read too late in life. It recounts splendid imaginary amorous adventures of a perfect English gentleman in an intensely romantic land, the scenery of which is very well described. For a man to take it at thirty-four as a guidebook to what life holds is about as safe as it would be for a man of the same age to enter Wall Street direct from a French convent, equipped with a complete set of the more practical Alger books. Cohn, I believe, took every word of “The Purple Land” as literally as though it had been an R. G. Dun report. You understand me, he made some reservations, but on the whole the book to him was sound. It was all that was needed to set him off. I did not realize the extent to which it had set him off until one day he came into my office. “Hello, Robert,” I said. “Did you come in to cheer me up?” “Would you like to go to South America, Jake?” he asked. “No.” “Why not?” “I don’t know. I never wanted to go. Too expensive. You can see all the South Americans you want in Paris anyway.” “They’re not the real South Americans.”

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Hemingway “They look awfully real to me.” I had a boat train to catch with a week’s mail stories, and only half of them written. “Do you know any dirt?” I asked. “No.” “None of your exalted connections getting divorces?” “No; listen, Jake. If I handled both our expenses, would you go to South America with me?” “Why me?” “You can talk Spanish. And it would be more fun with two of us.” “No,” I said, “I like this town and I go to Spain in the summertime.” “All my life I’ve wanted to go on a trip like that,” Cohn said. He sat down. “I’ll be too old before I can ever do it.” “Don’t be a fool,” I said. “You can go anywhere you want. You’ve got plenty of money.” “I know. But I can’t get started.” “Cheer up,” I said. “All countries look just like the moving pictures.” But I felt sorry for him. He had it badly. “I can’t stand it to think my life is going so fast and I’m not really living it.” “Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bullfighters.” “I’m not interested in bull-fighters. That’s an abnormal life. I want to go back in the country in South America. We could have a great trip.” “Did you ever think about going to British East Africa to shoot?” “No, I wouldn’t like that.” “I’d go there with you.” “No; that doesn’t interest me.”

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The Sun Also Rises “That’s because you never read a book about it. Go on and read a book all full of love affairs with the beautiful shiny black princesses.” “I want to go to South America.” He had a hard, Jewish, stubborn streak. “Come on down-stairs and have a drink.” “Aren’t you working?” “No,” I said. We went down the stairs to the café on the ground floor. I had discovered that was the best way to get rid of friends. Once you had a drink all you had to say was: “Well, I’ve got to get back and get off some cables,” and it was done. It is very important to discover graceful exits like that in the newspaper business, where it is such an important part of the ethics that you should never seem to be working. Anyway, we went down-stairs to the bar and had a whiskey and soda. Cohn looked at the bottles in bins around the wall. “This is a good place,” he said. “There’s a lot of liquor,” I agreed. “Listen, Jake,” he leaned forward on the bar. “Don’t you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you’re not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you’ve lived nearly half the time you have to live already?” “Yes, every once in a while.” “Do you know that in about thirty-five years more we’ll be dead?” “What the hell, Robert,” I said. “What the hell.” “I’m serious.” “It’s one thing I don’t worry about,” I said. “You ought to.”

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“Listen, Jake,” he leaned forward on the bar, “don’t you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and youre not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you’ve lived nearly half the time you have to liive already?”

The Sun Also Rises “I’ve had plenty to worry about one time or other. I’m through worrying.” “Well, I want to go to South America.” “Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn’t make any difference. I’ve tried all that. You can’t get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There’s nothing to that.” “But you’ve never been to South America.” “South America hell! If you went there the way you feel now it would be exactly the same. This is a good town. Why don’t you start living your life in Paris?” “I’m sick of Paris, and I’m sick of the Quarter.” “Stay away from the Quarter. Cruise around by yourself and see what happens to you.” “Nothing happens to me. I walked alone all one night and nothing happened except a bicycle cop stopped me and asked to see my papers.” “Wasn’t the town nice at night?” “I don’t care for Paris.” So there you were. I was sorry for him, but it was not a thing you could do anything about, because right away you ran up against the two stubbornnesses: South America could fix it and he did not like Paris. He got the first idea out of a book, and I suppose the second came out of a book too. “Well,” I said, “I’ve got to go up-stairs and get off some cables.” “Do you really have to go?” “Yes, I’ve got to get these cables off.” “Do you mind if I come up and sit around the office?” “No, come on up.” He sat in the outer room and read the

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Hemingway papers, and the Editor and Publisher and I worked hard for two hours. Then I sorted out the carbons, stamped on a by-line, put the stuff in a couple of big manila envelopes and rang for a boy to take them to the Gare St. Lazare. I went out into the other room and there was Robert Cohn asleep in the big chair. He was asleep with his head on his arms. I did not like to wake him up, but I wanted to lock the office and shove off. I put my hand on his shoulder. He shook his head. “I can’t do it,” he said, and put his head deeper into his arms. “I can’t do it. Nothing will make me do it.” “Robert,” I said, and shook him by the shoulder. He looked up. He smiled and blinked. “Did I talk out loud just then?” “Something. But it wasn’t clear.” “God, what a rotten dream!” “Did the typewriter put you to sleep?” “Guess so. I didn’t sleep all last night.” “What was the matter?” “Talking,” he said. I could picture it. I have a rotten habit of picturing the bedroom scenes of my friends. We went out to the Café Napolitain to have an aperitif and watch the evening crowd on the Boulevard.

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"You can't get away from yourself by moving from one pkace x xxxx pace place one place to another. Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nothing to that."

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27 JANUARY l922 TO KATHARINE FOSTER SMITH Dear Bustein- Here are the bare facts. We have an apartment in Paris at 74 Rue du Cardinal Lemoine for which we pay 250 francs a month. It is on the top of a tall hill in the oldest part of Paris and directly above a fine place called the Bal au printemps which is a french Frau Kuntz’s. The noise of the accordion they dance to you can hear if you listen for it, but it doesn't intrude. We have a Femme du Menage whom I call a feminine menagerie who comes in and gets breakfast and cleans and empties in the morning and then goes away and comes back and cooks and serves dinner at night. She can cook the best meals you ever put into your mouth and I make out the menus, me and Bones, from all the things we’ve ever heard of or eaten and she does them all wonderfully. W got her on the recommendation that her husband is a great gourmet and gourmond too I believe. The apartment is larger than ours was in Chicago and very comfortable with an open fire place, an enorm[o]us french bed, nice dinging room, dressing room, and a kitchen with 3,000 shiny pots and pans on the walls. But we aren’t there. We’re in Switzerland for the winter sports. Suisse is a wonderful country, see my articles in the Toronto Star, and we’ve been hawbnawbing with English Lawds and rating the most wonderful bobsled running you ever thought of. The roads are like iron with two feet of packed snow and you shoot down with a shreik, can go down half the day, dummy train service hauls you and the bob back up again. We have a two

January man bob with a steering wheel and two brakes and when you put on the brakes and lean way out you go around the turns in a slither of ice dust. Gaw. The country is as wooded as the big ridges and sweeps out on the barrens and is all high mountains with great blotches of forest on their flanks. Hash has become Binney, through Bones, and is become healthy and strong as a goat. The bob’s name is Theodore and we take turns steering. We live at a chalet run by an english speaking Swiss named Gangwisch and have breakfast in bed and two enormous meals besides, Mrs. is a high grade cook and we rate meals like roast beef, creamed cauliflower, fried potatoes, soup before and blueberries with whipped cream after for two seeds a day. It isn nawthing to make a man cry the army and navy forever three cheers for the red white and blue! I haven’t heard from Bill allthough I have wrote him four letters altogether without answer. If he wants to make it permanent I wish he would let me without answer. If he wants to make it permanent I wish he would let me know in some way so that I can start forgetting him. As it is he is my best male friend and there isn’t any one to take his place. We’ve been here ten days and are going back any time now. It’s an all day ride to Paris and we’re going to take it in day time so we can watch the country. I’m begginning to get a little lonesome for Paris and will be glad to get back. Have had a wonderful time here through, but this town of Paris bites into a man’s blood. Don’yt get to thinking I can’t spell, I can ‘but this is an accursed French typer and the key board is rotten to work.

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l922 You’d be nutty about this country, it seems the only place fit for a male to live in. Seems so funny, our wailing about the jews coming and ruining the bay and here is country that has the bay lashed to the mast. Enormous forests, good trout streams, wonderful roads, and thousands of places to go instead of Boyne and the Voix. If the men were here, any three of them, we could make this place absolutely epic. Yesterday Binney and I took a hike way up the mountain through tall pine woods, like aisles in a cathedral, they were as big and as bare of underbrush as the woods used to be just after you crossed the Sturgeon on the way [t] o the Black. When we were way up the mountain side we rolled boulders down; they would start jumping down like rabbits and then take great bounding leaps and then smash against the railroad at the bottom. We hoped we’d busted the tracks. There are deer and wolves in the woods and all sorts of strange birds. All new birds to me except great big ravens that teeter on the top of the pines and watch everything you do. Funny little brown and grey birds too. All the swiss birds seem sort of mumpbacked. Binnes and I refer to each other as the male and the female Binney. A favourite saying is that the female binney protects its young. You are known as the Little Binney’s Aunt Katherine and Harrison Williams as the Little Binney’s Uncle Harrison. We have a hell of a lot of fun together and you ought to see the female binney. Steer the bob down from the col du Sonloup. Gaw she is a swell steerer. We go down to Montreux, the town where the Chateau Chillon is, to have big liquor tea and go to the movies and yesterday we went to a movie of skiiers and they were all silhouetted

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January in black and th[e] female Binney says “I wish I could see their faces so I would know whether I am personally interested in them.” and I says, “Can’t you see their legs?” And the female says, “Yes but one nose can often spell two legs.” I just stuck that in to sort of give you the atmospehere of our stuff. Dear old Butstein, wish to hell you were here. You must have all this before you die. There’s no living in the States. Poison the Unc and come over here, poison the Madame and come over with Smith. Gaw I can just see the way he would be all the time. It would be wonderful. What’s the use of trying to live in such a goddam place as America when there is Paris and Switzerland and Italy. My gawd the fun a man has. When people lie to you and say America is as beautiful or as much fun to live in give them the razz. It is so beautiful here that it hurts in a numb sort of way all the time, only when you’re wit somebody you’re lovers wit the beauty gets to be jost sort of a tremendous happiness. It’s so damn beautiful, Butstein, and we have so damn much fun. Write me. I aint heard from you. I’ll send you some of my stuff if you want; if you’ll write me, that is. Please write a man. Aint I your best friend? Or aint I? Who’s fonder of you than I am anyway? So Long, Love as ever Wemedge

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“What’s the use of trying to live in such a x dgoddam place as America whent there is Paris and Switzerland and Italy. My gawd the fun a man has. When people lie to you and say America is as beautfiul or as muchfun to live in give them the razz. It is so beautiful here that it hurts in a numbe sort of way all the time, only when you’re wit somebody you’re lovers wit the beauty gets to be jost sort of a tremendous happiness.”

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aris. Feb. 4 — Paris in the winter is rainy, cold, beautiful and cheap. It is also noisy, jostling, crowded and cheap. It is anything you want—and cheap. The dollar, either Canadian or American, is the key to Paris. With the U.S. dollar worth twelve and a half francs and the Canadian dollar quoted at something over eleven francs, it is a very effective key. At the present rate of exchange, a Canadian with

P

Ernest Hemingway

A $ C C E I

THE TORONTO STAR WEEKLY

and three or four cents. At the corner of the Rue Bonaparte and the Rue Jacob there is a splendid restaurant where the prices are à la carte. Soup costs sixty centimes and a fish is l.20 francs. The meals are roast beef, veal cutlet, lamb, mutton and thick steaks served with potatoes prepared as only the French can cook them. These cost 2.40 francs an order. Brussels sprouts in butter, creamed spinach, beans, sifted peas, and cauliflower vary in price

cheap, however, for the big hotels located around the Opera and the Madeleine are more expensive than ever. We ran into two girls from New York the other day in the Luxembourg Gardens. All of us crossed on the same boat, and they had gone to one of the big, highly advertised hotels. Their rooms were costing them sixty francs a day apiece, and other charges in proportion. For two days and three nights at their hotel they received a bill for five hundred francs, or

FEBRUARY 4, l922

Two of us are living in a comfortable hotel in the Rue Jacob. It is just back of the Academy of the Beaux Arts and a few minutesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; walk from the Tuileries. Our room costs twelve francs a day for two. It is clean, light, well heated, has hot and cold running water and a bathroom on the same floor. That makes a cost for rent of thirty dollars a month. Breakfast costs us both two francs and a half. That totals seventy-five francs a month, or about six dollars

an income of one thousand dollars a year can live comfortably and enjoyably in Paris. If exchange were normal the same Canadian would starve to death. Exchange is a wonderful thing. two weeks instead of two days, and are as comfortable as they were at the tourist hotel. It is from tourists who stop at the large hotels that the reports come that living in Paris is very high. The big hotelkeepers charge all they think the traffic can bear. But there are several hundred small hotels in all parts of Paris where an American or Canadian can live comfortably, eat at attractive restaurants and find amusement for a total expenditure of two and one half to three dollars a day.

sometimes as much as a franc. Red wine is sixty centimes a bottle and beer is forty centimes a glass. My wife and I have an excellent meal there, equal in cooking and quality of food to the best restaurants in America, for fifty cents apiece. After dinner you can go anywhere on the subway for four cents in American money or take a bus to the farthest part of the city for the same amount. It sounds unbelievable but it is simply a case of prices not having advanced in proportion to the increased value of the dollar. All of Paris is not so 98

forty-two dollars. They are now located in a hotel on the left bank of the Seine, where five hundred francs will last

from forty to eighty-five centimes. Salad is sixty centimes. Desserts are seventy-five centimes and

all striven so hard for a careless individuality of clothing that they have achieved a sort of uniformity of eccentricity. A first look into the smoky, highceilingcd, table-crammed interior of the Rotonde gives you the same feeling that hits you as you step into the bird-house at the zoo. There seems to be a tremendous, raucous, manypitched squawking going on, broken up by many waiters who fly around through the smoke like so many black and

aris. Mar. 25 — The scum of Greenwich Village, New York, has been skimmed off and deposited in large ladles on that section of Paris adjacent to the Cafe Rotondc. New scum, of course, has risen to take the place of the old, but the oldest scum, the thickest scum and the scummiest scum has come across the ocean, somehow, and with its afternoon and evening levees has made the Rotonde the leading Latin Quarter showplace

P

for tourists in search of atmosphere. It is a strange-acting and strange-looking breed that crowd the tables of the Cafe Rotonde. They have

A M E R I C A N B O H E M I A N S I N P A R I S A W E I R D L O T Ernest Hemingway

THE TORONTO STAR WEEKLY

another black and white waiter pivots between tables toward the door and, having shouted your order at his disappearing back, you look around you at individual people. You can only see a certain number of individuals at the Rotonde on one night. When you have reached your quota you are quite aware that you must go. There is a perfectly definite moment when you know you have seen enough of the Rotonde’s inmates and must leave. If you want to know

white magpies. The tables are full— they are always full— someone is moved down and crowded together, something is knocked over, more people come in at the swinging door,

MARCH 25, l923

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wearing a picture hat of the â&#x20AC;&#x153;Merry Widowâ&#x20AC;? period and is making jokes and laughing hysterically. The three young men laugh whenever she does. The waiter brings the bill, the big woman pays it, settles her hat on her head with slightly unsteady hands, and she and the three young men go out together. She is laughing again as she goes out of the door. Three years ago she came to Paris with her husband from a little town in Connecticut, where they had lived and he had painted with increasing success for ten years. Last year he went back to America alone. Those are two of the twelve hundred people who jam the Rotonde. You can find anything you are looking for

how definite it is, try and eat your way through a jug of soured molasses. To some people the feeling that you cannot go on will come at the first mouthful. Others are

hardier. But there is a limit for all normal people. For the people who crowd together around the tables of the Cafe Rotonde do something very definite to that premier seat of the emotions, the stomach. For the first dose of Rotonde individuals you might observe a short, dumpy woman with newly blond hair, cut Old-Dutch-Cleanser fashion, face like a pink enameled ham and fat fingers that reach out of the long blue silk sleeves of a Chinese-looking smock. She is sitting hunched forward over the table, smoking a cigarette in a two-

THE TORONTO STAR WEEKLY

work. That is very pleasant, of course, but they insist upon posing as artists. Since the good old days when Charles Baudelaire led a purple lobster on a leash through the same old Latin Quarter, there has not been much good poetry written in cafes. Even then I suspect that Baudelaire parked the lobster with the concierge down on the first floor, put the chloroform bottle corked on the washstand and sweated and carved at the Fleurs du Mal alone with his ideas and his paper as all artists have worked before and since. But

do and condemning the work of all artists who have gained any degree of recognition. By talking about art they obtain the same satisfaction that the real artist does in his

MARCH 25, l923

very public manner, for the artists of Paris who are turning out creditable work resent and loathe the Rotonde crowd. The fact that there are twelve francs for a dollar brought over the Rotonders, along with a good many other people, and if the exchange ever gets back to normal they will all have to go back to America. They are nearly all loafers expending the energy that an artist puts into his creative work in talking about what they are going to

Rotondeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s salon for customers only. Her masterpiece looks like a red mince pie descending the stairs, and the adoring, though expressionless, painter spends every afternoon and evening seated at the table before it in a devout attitude. After you have finished looking at the painter and her work you can turn your head a little and see a big, light-haired woman sitting at a table with three young men. The big woman is 102

at the Rotondeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;except serious artists. The trouble is that people who go on a tour of the Latin Quarter look in at the Rotonde and think they are seeing an assembly of the great artists of Paris. I want to correct that in a

foot holder, and her flat face is absolutely devoid of any expression. She is looking flatly at her masterpiece that is hung on the white plaster wall of the cafe, along with some 3,000 others, as part of the

the gang that congregates at the corner of the Boulevard Montparnasse and the Boulevard Raspail have no time to work at anything else; they put in a full day at the Rotonde.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;The fact that there are twelve francs for a dollar brought over the rotonders along with a good many other people and if the exchange ever getsback to normal they will all have to go back to America. They are all nearly loafers expending the energy that an artist puts into his creativework in talking about what they are going to do and condemning the work of all artists who have gained any degree of recognition. By talking about art they obtain the same satisfaction that the true xxxx real artist does in his work. That is very pleasant, of course but they insist upon posing as artists.â&#x20AC;?

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I I I

It was easy to get into the habit of stopping in at 27 rue de Fleurus late in the afternoon for the warmth and the great pictures and the conversation. Often Miss Stein would have no guests and she was always very friendly and for a long time she was affectionate. When I had come back from trips that I had made to the different political conferences or to the Near East or Germany for the Canadian paper and the news services that I worked for she wanted me to tell her about all the amusing details. There were funny parts always and she liked them and also what the Germans call gallows-humour stories. She wanted to know the gay part of how the world was going; never the real, never the bad. I was young and not gloomy and there were always strange and comic things that happened in the worst time and Miss Stein liked to hear these. The other things I did not talk of and wrote by myself. When I had not come back from any trips and would stop in at the rue de Fleurus after working I would try sometimes to get Miss Stein to talk about books. When I was writing, it was necessary for me to read after I had written. If you kept thinking about it, you would lose the thing that you were writing before you could go on with it the next day. It was necessary to get

A Moveable Feast exercise, to be tired in the body, and it was very good to make love with whom you loved. That was better than anything. But afterwards, when you were empty, it was necessary to read in order not to think or worry about your work until you could do it again. I had learned already never to empty the well of my writing, but always stop when there was still something there in the deep part of the well, and let it refill at night from the springs that fed it. To keep my mind off writing sometimes after I had worked I would read writers who were writing then, such as Aldous Huxley, D. H. Lawrence or any who had books published that I could get from Sylvia Beach's library or find along the quais. “Huxley is a dead man,” Miss Stein said. “Why do you want to read a dead man? Can't you see he is dead?” I could not see, then, that he was a dead man and I said that his books amused me and kept me from thinking. “You should only read what is truly good or what is frankly bad.” “I've been reading truly good books all winter and all last winter and I'll read them next winter, and I don't like frankly bad books.” “Why do you read this trash? It is inflated trash, Hemingway. By a dead man.” “I like to see what they are writing,” I said. “And it keeps my mind off me doing it.” “Who else do you read now?” “D. H. Lawrence,” I said. “He wrote some very good short stories, one called The Prussian Officer.” “I tried to read his novels. He's

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Hemingway impossible. He's pathetic and preposterous. He writes like a sick man.” “I liked Sons and Lovers and The White Peacock” I said. “Maybe that not so well. I couldn't read Women in Love.” “If you don't want to read what is bad, and want to read something that will hold your interest and is marvellous in its own way, you should read Marie Belloc Lowndes.” I had never heard of her, and Miss Stein loaned me The Lodger, that marvellous story of Jack the Ripper and another book about murder at a place outside Paris that could only be Enghien-les-Bains. They were both splendid after-work books, the people credible and the action and the terror never false. They were perfect for reading after you had worked and I read all the Mrs Belloc Lowndes that there was. But there was only so much and none as good as the first two and I never found anything as good for that empty time of day or night until the first fine Simenon books came out. I think Miss Stein would have liked the good Simenons -- the first one I read was either L'Ecluse Nume'ro I, or La Maison du Canal -- but I am not sure because when I knew Miss Stein she did not like to read French although she loved to speak it. Janet Planner gave me the first two Simenons I ever read. She loved to read French and she had read Simenon when he was a crime reporter. In the three or four years that we were good friends I cannot remember Gertrude Stein ever speaking well of any writer who had not written favourably about her work or done something to advance her career except for Ronald Firbank and, later, Scott

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A Moveable Feast Fitzgerald. When I first met her she did not speak of Sherwood Anderson as a writer but spoke glowingly of him as a man and of his great, beautiful, warm Italian eyes and of his kindness and his charm. I did not care about his great beautiful warm Italian eyes but I liked some of his short stories very much. They were simply written and sometimes beautifully written and he knew the people he was writing about and cared deeply for them. Miss Stein did not want to talk about his stories but always about him as a person. â&#x20AC;&#x153;What about his novels?â&#x20AC;? I asked her. She did not want to talk about Anderson's works any more than she would talk about Joyce. If you brought up Joyce twice, you would not be invited back. It was like mentioning one general favourably to another general. You learned not to do it the first time you made the mistake. You could always mention a general, though, that the general you were talking to had beaten. The general you were talking to would praise the beaten general greatly and go happily into detail on how he had beaten him. Anderson's stories were too good to make happy conversation. I was prepared to tell Miss Stein how strangely poor his novels were, but this would have been bad too because it was criticizing one of her most loyal supporters. When he wrote a novel finally called Dark Laughter, so terribly bad, silly and affected that I could not keep from criticizing it in a parody,* Miss Stein was very angry. I had attacked someone that was a part of her apparatus. But for a long time before that she was not angry. She, herself, began to praise Sherwood lavishly

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Hemingway after he had cracked up as a writer. [*The Torrents of Spring.] She was angry at Ezra Pound because he had sat down too quickly on a small, fragile and, doubtless, uncomfortable chair, that it is quite possible he had been given on purpose, and had either cracked or broken it. That he was a great poet and a gentle and generous man and could have accommodated himself in a normal-size chair was not considered. The reasons for her dislike of Ezra, skilfully and maliciously put, were invented years later. It was when we had come back from Canada and were living in the rue Notre-DamedesChamps and Miss Stein and I were still good friends that Miss Stein made the remark about the lost generation. She had some ignition trouble with the old Model T Ford she then drove and the young man who worked in the garage and had served in the last year of the war had not been adept, or perhaps had not broken the priority of other vehicles, in repairing Miss Stein's Ford. Anyway he had not been serieux and had been corrected severely by the patron of the garage after Miss Stein's protest. The patron had said to him, “You are all a generation perdue.” “That's what you are. That's what you all are,” Miss Stein said. “All of you young people who served in the war. You are a lost generation.” “Really?” I said. “You are,” she insisted. “You have no respect for anything. You drink yourselves to death...” “Was the young mechanic drunk?” I asked. “Of course not.”

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A Moveable Feast “Have you ever seen me drunk?” “No. But your friends are drunk.” “I've been drunk,” I said. “But I don't come here drunk.” “Of course not. I didn't say that.” “The boy's patron was probably drunk by eleven o'clock in the morning,” I said. “That's why he makes such lovely phrases.” “Don't argue with me, Hemingway,” Miss Stein said. “It does no good at all. You're all a lost generation, exactly as the garage keeper said.” Later when I wrote my first novel I tried to balance Miss Stein's quotation from the garage keeper with one from Ecclesiastes. But that night walking home I thought about the boy in the garage and if he had ever been hauled in one of those vehicles when they were converted to ambulances. I remembered how they used to burn out their brakes going down the mountain roads with a full load of wounded and braking in low and finally using the reverse, and how the last ones were driven over the mountainside empty, so they could be replaced by big Fiats with a good H-shift and metal-to-metal brakes. I thought of Miss Stein and Sherwood Anderson and egotism and mental laziness versus discipline and I thought who is calling who a lost generation? Then as I was getting up to the Closerie des Lilas with the light on my old friend, the statue of Marshal Ney with his sword out and the shadows of the trees on the bronze, and he alone there and nobody behind him and what a fiasco he'd made of Waterloo, I thought that all generations were lost by something and always had been and always would be and I stopped at the Lilas

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Hemingway to keep the statue company and drank a cold beer before going home to the flat over the sawmill. But sitting there with the beer, watching the statue and remembering how many days Ney had fought, personally, with the rearguard on the retreat from Moscow that Napoleon had ridden away from in the coach with Caulaincourt, I thought of what a warm and affectionate friend Miss Stein had been and how beautifully she had spoken of Apollinaire and of his death on the day of the Armistice in l9l8 with the crowd shouting 'a bas Guillaume' and Apollinaire, in his delirium, thinking they were crying against him, and I thought, I will do my best to serve her and see she gets justice for the good work she had done as long as I can, so help me God and Mike Ney. But the hell with her lost generation talk and all the dirty, easy labels. When I got home and into the courtyard and upstairs and saw my wife and my son and his cat, F. Puss, all of them happy and a fire in the fireplace, I said to my wife, “You know, Gertrude is nice, anyway.” “Of course, Tatie.” “But she does talk a lot of rot sometimes.” “I never hear her,” my wife said. “I'm a wife. It's her friend that talks to me.”

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;I XXXXXXX THOUGHT thought who is calling who a lost generation? Then as I was getting up to the Closerie des Lilas with the light on my old friend, the statue of marshal ney with his sword out and the shadows of the trees on the bronze, and he alone there and nobody behind him and what a fiasco he'd made of Waterloo, I thought taht all generations were lost by something and always had been and always would be and i stopped at the Lilas to keep the statue company and drank a cold beer before going home to the flat overt x thesawmill.â&#x20AC;?

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l4 AND l5 FEBRUARY l922 TO GRACE HALL HEMINGWAY Dear Mother- Dads letter of Feb 2 came today--a very fast crossing. It must have made the Awuitania. What boat a letter comes on makes any amount of difference in the time we get it. Hash had a lovely letter from you that she is going to answer soon. She’s in a great spell of working on the piano now and isnt writing at all. She is very well and strong and healthy. Lately I’ve had a rotten cold and have been feeling very foul but as soon as we get some spring here it will clear up. We know a good batch of people now in Paris and if we allowed it would have all our time taken up socially; but I am working very hard and we keep plenty of time to ourselves. It is fun living in this oldest quarter of Paris and we have a wonderful time. Paris is so very beautiful that it satisfies something in you that is always hungry in America. I have such a cold in my head that it is quite impossible to think or write consecutively. That stuffed out moist but stupid feeling you know. Gertrude Stein who wrote Three Lives and a number of other good things was here to dinner last night and stayed till mid-night[.] She is about 55 I guess and very large and nice. She is very keen about my poetry--My Corona typewriter is being repaired. The femme de menage knocked off my writing table while she was cleaning and I dont get it until tomorrow Next day--Madame came in yesterday while I was writing to clean the room and so I had to stop. Got the typewriter today again...Tomorrow I’m

January getting four stories off to the Star and will have to work hard all day. Hash, who is now called Binney, is going shopping for a spring hat and a fur piece for her neck to we[a]r in the spring eith a suit and dresses as soon as she leaves off her coat. Tell Dessie and Nubbins that we are living just two blocks away from the Jardin des Plantes which has th largest zoological gardens in the world. There are hundreds of animals and birds Oinbones has never seen before. Mountain goats from the Atlas mountains with horns that are curl three feet long and funny whiskers on their front legs. All sorts of hawks and eagles from South America and Africa and all sorts of South African animals. There is a big cage too full of Condors that have awful naked heads and red eyes and black wings twelve feet wide. It is the most wonderful collection of birds and animals I have ever seen and all thr cages are outdoors. There is a snake house that is as big as the largest building in the Lincoln Park Zoo. Friday we are going to tea at Ezra Pounds. He has asked me to do an article on the present literary state of America for the Little Review. Binney is reading Lytton Strachey’s Queen Victoria while I am writing this. You will enjoy it if you have not read it already. I am sorry to write such dull letters, but I get such full expression in my articles and the otehr work I am doing that I am quite pumped out and exhausted from a writing stand point and so my letters are very common-place. If I wrote nothing but letters all of that would go into them. You know what Flaubert said, “The artist must live like a bourgeois and think like a demi-god.”

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1922 l922 I hope you are very well and haveing a good time. Give my love to Dad and all the kids and the family. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m writing Dad shortly. The stamps on this are for Carol with my love. Ever so much love, Ernie

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;It is fun living in this oldest quarter of Paris and we have a wonderful. time. Paris is so very beautiful that it satisfies something in you that's always hungry in America.â&#x20AC;?

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t. the shi Ezra is y 129 a s y The Ezra. nice. o s t i t a n r e z onum But E ild a m t us bu e l t. e m o C monumen ry nice e v a d Goo cely that ni You did her? do anot Can you o one. nd do y and d r t e m r try a ne. Let e corne nd do o h a t y n r o t ere all over th Let us e girl l t t i l Let the one. girl. little Come on a. for Ezr Do one . hildren ssful c e c c Good. u s een . e all b mess up You hav ean the l c s Proust. u ent to m Now let u n o m a l does o Ezra. The Dia ument t n o m a nts. done hat cou ent. We have thing t a monum e s h i t t f n e it o A monum he spir it is t l l a r Afte -e.h.

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Gaston are over. French politeness has gone the way of absinthe, pre-war prices and other legendary things. It has become so bad that French newspapers have carried columns of discussion on the question of how the French can regain the position they once held as the politest people in the world. There is such pushing in the Pans subway, cheating women of their seats in the crowded buses, violent rows over prices, barefaced demands for tips in the once polite city that the person

aris. April l5 — The days of Alphonse and

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F R E N C H P O L I T E N E S S Ernest Hemingway

THE TORONTO STAR WEEKLY

cab. The Paris buses provide the worst instances of the new rudeness. You rise in a bus to offer a lady your seat and a walrus-mustached Frenchman plops into it, leaving you and the lady standing. If you say anything to him, he will roar something like this at you: “Eject me if you dare. Try it! Lay just one finger on me and I will have you before the police!” As a matter of fact, h is in a strongly entrenched position. No matter what the provocation, a foreigner must keep his temper in France.

his destination cursing and raving that he has been cheated. It is simply a case of the cabdriver having found that there is as much money in doing that as in driving a “Is the reptile house closed?” I asked. “Ferme!” the guard said. “Why is it closed at this hour?” I asked. “Ferme!” shouted the guard. “Can you tell me when it will be open?” I queried, still polite. The guard gave me a snarl and said nothing. “Can you tell me when it will be open?” I asked again. “What business is that of

of the reptile house when I went up to it. It was placarded as being open from eleven to three o’clock. It was twelve o’clock when I tried to enter.

APRIL l5, l922

a term running upward from six months. Next to the buses and subways, the minor government officials give the most offense to courtesy. These are the men in parks and museums, not the police; for the police, through the most trying times, have remained courteous, polite and obliging. For instance, there is the reptile house in the Jardin des Plantes, the great Paris zoological gardens. People were coming out of the door

kind attention. Cabdrivers, of course, always have been discourteous. They are so because they expect never to see their fares again, in a city of tens of thousands of drifting cabs, and have one object: to see how much they can get out of their trip. It is a safe generalization that no non-French-speaking person ever paid the fare shown on the cab meter and supplemented it with a ten percent tip without having the cabby follow him into 134

The French engage in some terrific battles with each other, but they are entirely verbal. Once you put a finger on a man, no matter how aggravating the circumstances, you are guilty of assault and go to jail for

who knew Paris in the days before the war would turn away in horror. It is a very different Paris from the old days when the French people enjoyed a world reputation for pleasant gentleness, affability, and instinctive

sufficiently gracious,” he says, after deploring the present state of politeness in France. “Three centuries of civilization and of the spirit of the salon are not to be lost in four or five years. Nothing good is done without trouble. Observe the fashion in which, except in the homes of the newly rich, one introduces the son of a celebrity! One never says in a breath, ‘Monsieur So and So, son of the illustrious Monsieur So and So,’ as if

large sign on the wall saying employees are paid and that it is forbidden to tip them. The visa costs two francs forty centimes. I gave the clerk, back of the long board counter, five francs. He made no move to give me any change and when I stood there he sneered at me and said, “Oh. You want the change, do you?” and slammed it down on the counter angrily. Those are all samples of the type of thing one encounters daily in Paris. Marcel Boulanger, writing in 135

the Figaro, holds out hope for the future. “But I believe that the soul of good society is still fine enough and at bottom— clear at the bottom, alas—

yours?” said the guard, and slammed the door. Then there is the office where you go to get your passports stamped in order to leave Paris. There is a

THE TORONTO STAR WEEKLY

and So,’ says one. Then, after an instant, and smiling gently: ‘Monsieur So and So is the son of the illustrious Monsieur So and So.’ Thanks to the pause, the remark takes on the air of a courtesy between you, as if you were congratulating the father on having such a son. “A thousand precautions of taste still arc part of the current conversation and may be reinstated. They form a powerful arm which in ordinary times a man carries against wretchedness.”

the only reason the son had to exist were to carry the name of his famous father. On the contrary, one shades the introduction in spite of himself: ‘Monsieur So

APRIL l5, l922

N I G H T

M U S I C

aris. March 25 — After the cork has popped on the third bottle and the jazz band has brayed the American suit- and cloakbuyer into such a state of exaltation that he begins to sway slightly with the glory of it all, he is liable to remark thickly and profoundly: “So this is Paris!” There is some truth in the remark. It is Paris. It is a Paris bounded by the buyer’s hotel, the Folies Bergere and the Olympia, traversed by the Grands Boulevards,

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O F P A R I S M A K E S V I S I T O R F E E L A M A N O F T H E W O R L D Ernest Hemingway

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THE TORONTO STAR WEEKLY

the So-Different, and thickly blotched with the nightlife resorts of Montmartre. It is an artificial and feverish Paris operated at great profit for the entertainment of the buyer and his like who are willing to pay any prices for anything after a few drinks. The buyer demands “that Paris be a super-Sodom and a grander Gomorrah” and once alcohol loosens his strong racial grasp on his pocketbook he is willing to pay for his ideal. He does pay for it too, for the prices charged at the various Parisian resorts that begin to liven up around midnight are such that only a war profiteer, a

monumented with Maxim’s and American on a spree can pay. Champagne, that can be bought anywhere in the afternoon for l8 francs a bottle, automatically increases in price after ten o’clock to 85 to l50 francs. Other prices are in proportion. An evening at a fashionable dancing cafe will cut into a foreigner’s pocketbook to the extent of at least 800 francs. If the pleasure-seeker includes a supper in his program he will be lucky to get out without spending a thousand francs. And the people he is with will do it all so gracefully that he will, after the first bottle, consider it a privilege until the next

Brazilian millionaire, or an

MARCH 25, l922

either North or South, from in front of a fashionable hotel, to the last waiter in the last place he visits who has no change under five francs, the study of rooking the rich foreigner in search of pleasure has been reduced to a fine art. The trouble is that no matter how much he pays for it, the tourist is not seeing what he really wants. He wants to see the nightlife of Paris and what he does see is a special performance by a number of bored but well-paid people of a drama that has run many

morning when he contemplates the damaged bankroll. From the taxi-driver who automatically cranks up five francs on his meter as soon as he picks up an American,

THE TORONTO STAR WEEKLY

the Bal Musette do not need to have the artificial stimulant of the jazz band

just left. The two kids look around down the street to see if there is a policeman in

MARCH 25, l922

thinks he is seeing, hang out with their girls, sit at long benches in the little smoky room, and dance to the music of a man with an accordion who keeps time with the stamping of his boots. On gala nights, there is a drummer at the Bal Musette, but the accordion player wears a string of bells around his ankle and these, with the stamping of his boots as he sits swaying on a dais above the dancing floor, give the accent to the rhythm. The people that go to

thousands of nights and is entitled “Fooling the Tourist.” While he is buying champagne and listening to a jazz band, around the corner somewhere there is a little Bal Musette where the apaches, the people he

“The Red Mill holds him up worse than we did, not so, my old?” “But yes. And he would have a headache tomorrow morning anyway,” says Jean. “Come on back to the Bal.”

the quiet hill along some lonely street in a champagne haze about two o’clock in the morning, he sees a pair of hard-faced kids come out of an alley. They are nothing like the sleek people he has 138

sight and then close in on the night-walking tourist. Their closing in and a sudden dreadful jar are all that he remembers. It is a chop back of the ear with a piece of lead pipe wrapped in Le Matin that does the trick and the tourist has at last made contact with the real nightlife he has spent so much money in seeking. “Two hundred francs? The pig!” Jean says in the darkness of the basement lit by the match which Georges struck to look at the contents of the wallet.

to force them to dance. They dance for the fun of it and they occasionally hold someone up for the fun of it, and because it is easy and exciting and pays well. Because they are young and tough and enjoy life, without respecting it, they sometimes hit too hard, or shoot too quick, and then life becomes a very grim matter with an upright machine that casts a thin shadow and is called a guillotine at the end of it. Occasionally the tourist does come in contact with the real nightlife. Walking down

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C H A P T E R

X X

When there were the three of us instead of just the two, it was the cold and the weather that finally drove us out of Paris in the winter time. Alone there was no problem when you got used to it. I could always go to a cafe to write and could work all morning over a cafe creme while the waiters cleaned and swept out the cafe and it gradually grew warmer. My wife could go to work at the piano in a cold place and with enough sweaters keep warm playing and come home to nurse Bumby. It was wrong to take a baby to a cafe in the winter though; even a baby that never cried and watched everything that happened and was never bored. There were no baby-sitters then and Bumby would stay happy in his tall cage bed with his big, loving cat named F. Puss. There were people who said that it was dangerous to leave a cat with a baby. The most ignorant and prejudiced said that a cat would suck a baby's breath and kill him. Others said that a cat would lie on a baby and the cat's weight would smother him. F. Puss lay beside Bumby in the tall cage bed and watched the door with his big yellow eyes, and would let no one come near him when

A Moveable Feast we were out and Marie, the femme de menage, had to be away. There was no need for babysitters. F. Puss was the baby-sitter. But when you are poor, and we were really poor when I had given up all journalism when we came back from Canada, and could sell no stories at all, it was too rough with a baby in Paris in the winter. At three months Mr Bumby had crossed the North Atlantic on a twelve-day small Cunarder that sailed from New York via Halifax in January. He never cried on the trip and laughed happily when he would be barricaded in a bunk so he could not fall out when we were in heavy weather. But our Paris was too cold for him. We went to Schruns in the Vorarlberg in Austria. After going through Switzerland you came to the Austrian frontier at Feldkirch. The train went through Liechtenstein and stopped at Bludenz where there was a small branch line that ran along a pebbly trout river through a valley of farms and forest to Schruns, which was a sunny market town with sawmills, stores, inns and a good, yeararound hotel called the Taube where we lived. The rooms at the Taube were large and comfortable with big stoves, big windows and big beds with good blankets and feather coverlets. The meals were simple and excellent and the dining-room and the woodplanked public bar were well heated and friendly. The valley was wide and open so there was good sun. The pension was about two dollars a day for the three of us, and as the Austrian schilling went down with inflation, our room and food were less all the time. There was no desperate inflation and poverty as there had been in Germany. The schilling

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Hemingway went up and down, but its longer course was down. There were no ski-lifts from Schruns and no funiculars, but there were logging trails and cattle trails that led up different mountain valleys to the high mountain country. You climbed on foot carrying your skis and higher up, where the snow was too deep, you climbed on sealskins that you attached to the bottoms of the skis. At the tops of mountain valleys there were the big Alpine Club huts for summer climbers where you could sleep and leave payment for any wood you used. In some you had to pack up your own wood, or if you were going on a long tour in the high mountains and the glaciers, you hired someone to pack wood and supplies up with you, and established a base. The most famous of these high base huts were the Lindauer-Hutte, the Madlener-Haus and the Wiesbadener-Hutte. In back of the Taube there was a sort of practice slope where you ran through orchards and fields and there was another good slope behind Tschagguns across the valley where there was a beautiful inn with an excellent collection of chamois horns on the walls of the drinking-room. It was from behind the lumber village of Tschagguns, which was on the far edge of the valley, that the good skiing went all the way up until you could eventually cross the mountains and get over the Silvretta into the Klosters area. Schruns was a healthy place for Bumby who had a dark-haired beautiful gkl to take him out in the sun in his sleigh and look after him, and Hadley and I had all the new country to learn and the new villages, and the people

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A Moveable Feast of the town were very friendly. Herr Walther Lent who was a pioneer high-mountain skier and at one time had been a partner with Hannes Schneider, the great Arlberg skier, making ski-waxes for climbing and all snow conditions, was starting a school for Alpine skiing and we both enrolled. Walther Lent's system was to get his pupils off the practice slopes as soon as possible and into the high mountains on trips. Skiing was not the way it is now, the spiral fracture had not become common then, and no one could afford a broken leg. There were no ski patrols. Anything you ran down from, you had to climb up. That gave you legs that were fit to run down with. Walther Lent believed the fun of skiing was to get up into the highest mountain country where there was no one else and where the snow was untracked and then travel from one high Alpine Club hut to another over the top passes and glaciers of the Alps. You must not have a binding that could break your leg if you fell. The ski should come off before it broke your leg. What he really loved was unroped glacier skiing, but for that we had to wait until spring when the crevasses were sufficiently covered. Hadley and I had loved skiing since we had first tried it together in Switzerland and later at Cortina d'Ampezzo in the Dolomites when Bumby was going to be born and the doctor in Milan had given her permission to continue to ski if I would promise that she would not fall down. This took a very careful selection of terrain and of runs and absolutely controlled running, but she had beautiful, wonderfully strong legs and fine

145

Hemingway control of her skis, and she did not fall. We all knew the different snow conditions and everyone knew how to run in deep powder snow. We loved the Vorarlberg and we loved Schruns. We would go there about Thanksgiving time and stay until nearly Easter. There was always skiing even though Schruns was not high enough for a ski resort except in a winter of heavy snow. But climbing was fun and no one minded it in those days. You set a certain pace well under the speed at which you could climb, and it was easy and your heart felt good and you were proud of the weight of your rucksack. Part of the climb up to the Madlener-Haus was steep and very tough. But the second time you made that climb it was easier, and finally you made it easily with double the weight you had carried at first. We were always hungry and every mealtime was a great event. We drank light or dark beer and new wines and wines that were a year old sometimes. The white wines were the best. For other drinks there was kirsch made in the valley and Enzian schnapps distilled from mountain gentian. Sometimes for dinner there would be jugged hare with a rich red wine sauce, and sometimes venison with chestnut sauce. We would drink red wine with these even though it was more expensive than white wine, and the very best cost twenty cents a litre. Ordinary red wine was much cheaper and we packed it up in kegs to the Madlener-Haus. We had a store of books that Sylvia Beach had let us take for the winter and we could bowl with the people of the town in the alley that gave onto the summer garden of the hotel. Once or twice a week there was a poker

146

A Moveable Feast of the town were very friendly. Herr Walther Lent who was a pioneer high-mountain skier and at one time had been a partner with Hannes Schneider, the great Arlberg skier, making ski-waxes for climbing and all snow conditions, was starting a school for Alpine skiing and we both enrolled. Walther Lent's system was to get his pupils off the practice slopes as soon as possible and into the high mountains on trips. Skiing was not the way it is now, the spiral fracture had not become common then, and no one could afford a broken leg. There were no ski patrols. Anything you ran down from, you had to climb up. That gave you legs that were fit to run down with. Walther Lent believed the fun of skiing was to get up into the highest mountain country where there was no one else and where the snow was untracked and then travel from one high Alpine Club hut to another over the top passes and glaciers of the Alps. You must not have a binding that could break your leg if you fell. The ski should come off before it broke your leg. What he really loved was unroped glacier skiing, but for that we had to wait until spring when the crevasses were sufficiently covered. Hadley and I had loved skiing since we had first tried it together in Switzerland and later at Cortina d'Ampezzo in the Dolomites when Bumby was going to be born and the doctor in Milan had given her permission to continue to ski if I would promise that she would not fall down. This took a very careful selection of terrain and of runs and absolutely controlled running, but she had beautiful, wonderfully strong legs and fine

145

Hemingway control of her skis, and she did not fall. We all knew the different snow conditions and everyone knew how to run in deep powder snow. We loved the Vorarlberg and we loved Schruns. We would go there about Thanksgiving time and stay until nearly Easter. There was always skiing even though Schruns was not high enough for a ski resort except in a winter of heavy snow. But climbing was fun and no one minded it in those days. You set a certain pace well under the speed at which you could climb, and it was easy and your heart felt good and you were proud of the weight of your rucksack. Part of the climb up to the Madlener-Haus was steep and very tough. But the second time you made that climb it was easier, and finally you made it easily with double the weight you had carried at first. We were always hungry and every mealtime was a great event. We drank light or dark beer and new wines and wines that were a year old sometimes. The white wines were the best. For other drinks there was kirsch made in the valley and Enzian schnapps distilled from mountain gentian. Sometimes for dinner there would be jugged hare with a rich red wine sauce, and sometimes venison with chestnut sauce. We would drink red wine with these even though it was more expensive than white wine, and the very best cost twenty cents a litre. Ordinary red wine was much cheaper and we packed it up in kegs to the Madlener-Haus. We had a store of books that Sylvia Beach had let us take for the winter and we could bowl with the people of the town in the alley that gave onto the summer garden of the hotel. Once or twice a week there was a poker

146

A Moveable Feast game in the dining-room of the hotel with all the windows shuttered and the door locked. Gambling was forbidden in Austria then and I played with Herr Nels, the hotel keeper, Herr Lent of the Alpine ski school, a banker of the town, the public prosecutor and the captain of Gendarmerie. It was a stiff game and they were all good poker players except that Herr Lent played too wildly because the ski school was not making any money. The captain of Gendarmerie would raise his finger to his ear when he would hear the pair of gendarmes stop outside the door when they made their rounds, and we would be silent until they had gone on. In the cold of the morning as soon as it was light the maid would come into the room and shut the windows and make a fire in the big porcelain stove. Then the room was warm there was breakfast of fresh bread or toast with delicious fruit preserves and big bowls of coffee, fresh eggs and good ham if you wanted it. There was a dog named Schnautz that slept on the foot of the bed who loved to go on ski trips and to ride on my back or over my shoulder when I ran downhill. He was Mr Bumby's friend too and would go for walks with him and his nurse beside the small sleigh. Schruns was a good place to work. I know because I did the most difficult job of rewriting I have ever done there in the winter of l925 and l926, when I had to take the first draft of The Sun Also Rises which I had written in one sprint of six weeks and make it into a novel. I cannot remember what stories I wrote there. There were several though that turned out well.

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Hemingway I remember the snow on the road to the village squeaking at night when we walked home in the cold with our skis and ski poles on our shoulders, watching the lights and then finally seeing the buildings, and how everyone on the road said 'Gruss Gott'. There were always country men in the Weinstube with nailed boots and mountain clothes and the air was smoky and the wooden floors were scarred by the nails. Many of the young men had served in Austrian Alpine regiments and one named Hans, who worked in the sawmill, was a famous hunter and we were good friends because we had been in the same part of the mountains in Italy. We drank together and we all sang mountain songs. I remember the trails up through the orchards and the fields of the hillside farms above the village and the warm farmhouses with their great stoves and the huge wood piles in the snow. The women worked in the kitchens carding and spinning wool into grey and black yarn. The spinning wheels worked by a foot treadle and the yarn was not dyed. The black yarn was from the wool of black sheep. The wool was natural and the fat had not been removed, and the caps and sweaters and long scarves that Hadley knitted from it never became wet in the snow. One Christmas there was a play by Hans Sachs that the schoolmaster directed. It was a good play and I wrote a review of it for the provincial paper that the hotel keeper translated. Another year a former German naval officer with a shaven head and scars came to give a lecture on the Battle of Jutland. The lantern slides showed the movements of the two battle fleets and the

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A Moveable Feast naval officer used a billiard cue for a pointer when he pointed out the cowardice of Jellicoe, and sometimes he became so angry that his voice broke. The schoolmaster was afraid that he would stab the billiard cue through the screen. Afterwards the former naval officer could not quiet himself down and everyone was ill at ease in the Weinstube. Only the public prosecutor and the banker drank with him, and they were at a separate table. Herr Lent, who was a Rhinelander, would not attend the lecture. There was a couple from Vienna who had come for the skiing but who did not want to go to the high mountains and so were leaving for Zurs where, I heard, they were killed in an avalanche. The man said the lecturer was the type of swine who had ruined Germany and in twenty years they would do it again. The woman with him told him to shut up in French and said this is a small place and you never know. That was the year that so many people were killed in avalanches. The first big loss was over the mountains from our valley in Lech in the Arlberg. A party of Germans wanted to come and ski with Herr Lent on their Christmas vacations. Snow was late that year and the hills and mountain slopes were still warm from the sun when a great snowfall came. The snow was deep and powdery and it was not bound to the earth at all. Conditions for skiing could not be more dangerous and Herr Lent had wired the Berliners not to come. But it was their vacation time and they were ignorant and had no fear of avalanches. They arrived at Lech and Herr Lent refused to take them out. One man called him a coward

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Hemingway and they said they would ski by themselves. Finally he took them to the safest slope he could find. He crossed it himself and then they followed and the whole hillside came down in a rush, rising over them as a tidal wave rises. Thirteen were dug out and nine of them were dead. The Alpine ski school had not prospered before this, and afterwards we were almost the only members. We became great students of avalanches, the different types of avalanches, how to avoid them and how to behave if you were caught in one. Most of the writing that I did that year was in avalanche time. The worst thing I remember of that avalanche winter was one man who was dug out. He had squatted down and made a box with his arms in front of his head, as we had been taught to do, so that there would be air to breathe as the snow rose up over you. It was a huge avalanche and it took a long time to dig everyone out, and this man was the last to be found. He had not been dead long and his neck was worn through so that the tendons and the bone were visible. He had been turning his head from side to side against the pressure of the snow. In this avalanche there must have been some old, packed snow mixed in with the new light snow that had slipped. We could not decide whether he had done it on purpose or if he had been out of his head. He was refused burial in consecrated ground by the local priest anyway, since there was no proof he was a Catholic. When we lived in Schruns we used to make a long trip up the valley to the inn where

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A Moveable Feast we slept before setting out on the climb to the Madlener-Haus. It was a very beautiful old inn and the wood of the walls of the room where we ate and drank were silky with the years of polishing. So were the table and chairs. We slept close together in the big bed under the feather quilt with the window open and the stars close and very bright. In the morning after breakfast we all loaded to go up the road and started the climb in the dark with the stars close and very bright, carrying our skis on our shoulders. The porters' skis were short and they carried heavy loads. We competed among ourselves as to who could climb with the heaviest loads, but no one could compete with the porters, squat sullen peasants who spoke only Montafon dialect, climbed steadily like pack-horses and at the top, where the Alpine Club hut was built on a shelf beside the snow-covered glacier, shed their loads against the stone wall of the hut, asked for more money than the agreed price, and, when they had obtained a compromise, shot down and away on their short skis like gnomes. One of our friends was a German girl who skied with us. She was a great mountain skier, small and beautifully built, who could carry as heavy a rucksack as I could and carry it longer. “Those porters always look at us as though they looked forward to bringing us down as bodies,” she said. “They set the price for the climb and I've never known them not to ask for more.” In the winter in Schruns I wore a beard against the sun that burned my face so badly on the high snow, and did not bother having

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Hemingway a haircut. Late one evening running on skis down the logging trails Herr Lent told me that peasants I passed on those roads above Shruns called me 'the Black Christ'. He said some, when they came to the Weinstube, called me 'the Black Kirsch-drinking Christ'. But to the peasants at the far upper end of the Montafon where we hired porters to go up to the Madlener-Haus, we were all foreign devils who went into the high mountains when people should stay out of them. That we started before daylight in order not to pass avalanche places when the sun could make them dangerous was not to our credit. It only proved we were tricky as all foreign devils are. I remember the smell of the pines and the sleeping on the mattresses of beech leaves in the woodcutters' huts and the skiing through the forest following the tracks of hares and of foxes. In the high mountains above the tree line I remember following the track of a fox until I came in sight of him and watching him stand with his right forefoot raised and then go carefully to stop and then pounce, and the whiteness and the clutter of a ptarmigan bursting out of the snow and flying away and over the ridge. I remember all the kinds of snow that the wind could make and their different treacheries when you were on skis. Then there were the blizzards when you were in the high Alpine hut and the strange world that they would make where we had to make our route as carefully as though we had never seen the country. We had not, either, as it all was new. Finally towards spring there was the great glacier run, smooth and straight,

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A Moveable Feast forever straight if our legs could hold it, our ankles locked, we running so low, leaning into the speed, dropping forever and forever in the silent hiss of the crisp powder. It was better than any flying or anything else, and we built the ability to do it and to have it with the long climbs carrying the heavy rucksacks. We could not buy the trip up nor take a ticket to the top. It was the end we worked for all winter, and all the winter built to make it possible. During our last year in the mountains new people came deep into our lives and nothing was ever the same again. The winter of the avalanches was like a happy and innocent winter in childhood compared to the next winter, a nightmare winter disguised as the greatest fun of all, and the murderous summer that was to follow. It was that year that the rich showed up. The rich have a sort of pilot fish who goes ahead of them, sometimes a little deaf, sometimes a little blind, but always smelling affable and hesitant ahead of them. The pilot fish talks like this: “Well I dont know. No of course not really. But I like them. I like them both. Yes, by God, Hem; I do like them. I see what you mean but I do like them truly and there's something damned fine about her.” (He gives her name and pronounces it lovingly.) “No, Hem, don't be silly and don't be difficult. I like them truly. Both of them I swear it. You'll like him” (using his babytalk nickname) “when you know him. I like them both, truly.” Then you have the rich and nothing is ever as it was again. The pilot fish leaves of course. He is always going somewhere, or

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Hemingway coming from somewhere, and he is never around for very long. He enters and leaves politics or the theatre in the same way as he enters and leaves countries and people's lives in his early days. He is never caught and he is not caught by the rich. Nothing ever catches him and it is only those who trust him who are caught and killed. He has the irreplaceable early training of the bastard and a latent and long-denied love of money. He ends up rich himself, having moved one dollar's width to the right with every dollar that he made. These rich loved and trusted him because he was shy, comic, elusive, already in production, and because he was an unerring pilot fish. When you have two people who love each other, are happy and gay and really good work is being done by one or both of them, people are drawn to them as surely as migrating birds are drawn at night to a powerful beacon. If the two people were as solidly constructed as the beacon there would be little damage except to the birds. Those who attract people by their happiness and their performance are usually inexperienced. They do not know how not to be overrun and how to go away. They do not always learn about the good, the attractive, the charming, the soonbeloved, the generous, the understanding rich who have no bad qualities and who give each day the quality of a festival and who, when they have passed and taken the nourishment they needed, leave everything deader than the roots of any grass Attila's horses' hooves have ever scoured. The rich came led by the pilot fish. A

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A Moveable Feast year before they would never have come. There was no certainty then. The work was as good and the happiness was greater but no novel had been written, so they could not be sure. They never wasted their time nor their charm on something that was not sure. Why should they? Picasso was sure and of course had been before they had ever heard of painting. They were very sure of another painter. Many others. But this year they were sure and they had the word from the pilot fish who turned up too so we would not feel that they were outlanders and that I would not be difficult. The pilot fish was our friend of course. In those days I trusted the pilot fish as I would trust the Corrected Hydrographic Office Sailing Directions for the Mediterranean, say, or the tables in Brown's Nautical Almanac. Under the charm of these rich I was as trusting and as stupid as a bird dog who wants to go out with any man with a gun, or a trained pig in a circus who has finally found someone who loves and appreciates him for himself alone. That every day should be a fiesta seemed to me a marvellous discovery. I even read aloud the part of the novel that I had rewritten, which is about as low as a writer can get and much more dangerous for him as a writer than glacier skiing unroped before the full winter snowfall has set over the crevices. When they said, “It's great, Ernest. Truly it's great. You cannot know the thing it has,” I wagged my tail in pleasure and plunged into the fiesta concept of life to see if I could not bring some fine attractive stick back, instead of thinking, “If these bastards like it what is wrong with it?”

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Hemingway That was what I would think if I had been functioning as a professional although, if I had been functioning as a professional, I would never have read it to them. Before these rich had come we had already been infiltrated by another rich using the oldest trick there is. It is that an unmarried young woman becomes the temporary best friend of another young woman who is married, goes to live with the husband and wife and then unknowingly, innocently and unrelentingly sets out to marry the husband. When the husband is a writer and doing difficult work so that he is occupied much of the time and is not a good companion or partner to his wife for a big part of the day, the arrangement has advantages until you know how it works out. The husband has two attractive girls around when he has finished work. One is new and strange and if he has bad luck he gets to love them both. Then, instead of the two of them and their child, there are three of them. First it is stimulating and fun and it goes on that way for a while. All things truly wicked start from an innocence. So you live day by day and enjoy what you have and do not worry. You lie and hate it and it destroys you and every day is more dangerous, but you live day to day as in a war. It was necessary that I leave Schruns and go to New York to rearrange publishers. I did my business in New York and when I got back to Paris I should have caught the first train from the Gare de l'Est that would take me down to Austria. But the girl I was in love with was in Paris then, and I did not take the first train, or the second or the third.

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A Moveable Feast When I saw my wife again standing by the tracks as the train came in by the piled logs at the station, I wished I had died before I ever loved anyone but her. She was smiling, the sun on her lovely face tanned by the snow and sun, beautifully built, her hair red gold in the sun, grown out all winter awkwardly and beautifully, and Mr. Bumby standing with her, blond and chunky and with winter cheeks, looking like a good Vorarlberg boy. “Oh Tatie,” she said, when I was holding her in my arms, “you're back and you made such a fine successful trip. I love you and we've missed you so.” I loved her and I loved no one else and we had a lovely magic time while we were alone. I worked well and we made great trips, and I thought we were invulnerable again, and it wasn't until we were out of the mountains in late spring, and back in Paris, that the other thing started again. That was the end of the first part of Paris. Paris was never to be the same again although it was always Paris and you changed as it changed. We never went back to the Vorarlberg and neither did the rich. There is never any ending to Paris and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other. We always returned to it no matter who we were or how it was changed or with what difficulties, or ease, it could be reached. Paris was always worth it and you received return for whatever you brought to it. But this is how Paris was in the early days when we were very poor and very happy.

worth it and you received return for whatever you brought to it. But this is how Paris was in the early days when we were poor and happy.â&#x20AC;?

â&#x20AC;&#x153;There is never any end xxx ending to Paris and the memery of each person who has lived in it differsfrom that of any other. We always xxxx came back xxxx returned to it no matter who we were or how it was changed or with what difficulties or ease, it could be reached paris was always

H A D L E Y

A Moveable Feast When I saw my wife again standing by the tracks as the train came in by the piled logs at the station, I wished I had died before I ever loved anyone but her. She was smiling, the sun on her lovely face tanned by the snow and sun, beautifully built, her hair red gold in the sun, grown out all winter awkwardly and beautifully, and Mr. Bumby standing with her, blond and chunky and with winter cheeks, looking like a good Vorarlberg boy. “Oh Tatie,” she said, when I was holding her in my arms, “you're back and you made hadley such a fine successful trip. I love you and hadley we've missed you so.” I loved her and I hadley loved no one else hadley and we had a lovely magic time while we werehadley alone. I worked well and we made great trips, and I thought we were hadley hadley invulnerable again, and it wasn't until we hadley in late spring, and were out of the mountains hadley back in Paris, that the other thing started hadley again. hadley That was the end of the first part of hadley Paris. Paris was never hadleyto be the same again although it was always hadleyParis and you changed as it changed. We hadley never went back to the hadley Vorarlberg and neither hadleydid the rich. There is never hadley any ending to Paris and hadley hadley the memory of eachhadley person who has lived in hadley hadley it differs from that of any other. We always hadley returned to it no hadley matter who we were or how hadley it was changed or hadley with what difficulties, or hadley hadley ease, it could be hadley reached. Paris was always hadley return for whatever worth it and you received hadley hadley I wished I had before I ever loved you brought to it. Butdied this is how Paris was anyone hadley in the early days hadley when we were very poor and very happy. hadley

hadley hadley hadley hadley hadley

but her.

worth it and you received return for whatever you brought to it. But this is how Paris was in the early days when we were poor and happy.â&#x20AC;?

â&#x20AC;&#x153;There is never any end xxx ending to Paris and the memery of each person who has lived in it differsfrom that of any other. We always xxxx came back xxxx returned to it no matter who we were or how it was changed or with what difficulties or ease, it could be reached paris was always

INDEX 1-11 Hemingway, Ernest. The Sun Also Rises. Scribner's, 1926. 12 Hemingway, Ernest. The Letters of Ernest Hemingway 1907-1922, edited by Sandra Spanier & Robert W. Trogdon, vol. 2, Cambridge University Press, 2013, pp. 3. 13-49 Herlihy-Mera, Jeffrey. “WHEN HEMINGWAY HATED PARIS: DIVORCE PROCEEDINGS, CONTEMPLATIONS OF SUICIDE, AND THE DELETED CHAPTERS OF ‘THE SUN ALSO RISES.’” Studies in the Novel, vol. 44, no. 1, 2012, pp. 49–61. 50 Hemingway, Ernest. The Letters of Ernest Hemingway 1907-1922, edited by Sandra Spanier & Robert W. Trogdon, vol. 2, Cambridge University Press, 2013, pp. 52. 53-56 Hemingway, Ernest. “Christmas on the Roof of the World.” The Toronto Star Weekly, 22 December 1923. 57-63 Hemingway, Ernest. “Tancredo is Dead.” The Toronto Star Weekly, 24 Novemvber 1923. 64 Hemingway, Ernest. The Letters of Ernest Hemingway 1907-1922, edited by Sandra Spanier & Robert W. Trogdon, vol. 2, Cambridge University Press, 2013, pp. 53.

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INDEX 67 Hemingway, Ernest. "I Like Americans." The Toronto Star Weekly, 1923. 68-69 Hemingway, Ernest. “I Like Canadians.” The Toronto Star Weekly, 1923. 70 Hemingway, Ernest. The Letters of Ernest Hemingway 1907-1922, edited by Sandra Spanier & Robert W. Trogdon, vol. 2, Cambridge University Press, 2013, pp. 120-121. 71-81 Hemingway, Ernest. The Sun Also Rises. Scribner's, 1926. 82 Hemingway, Ernest. The Letters of Ernest Hemingway 1907-1922, edited by Sandra Spanier & Robert W. Trogdon, vol. 2, Cambridge University Press, 2013, pp. 272. 83-93 Hemingway, Ernest. The Letters of Ernest Hemingway 1907-1922, edited by Sandra Spanier & Robert W. Trogdon, vol. 1, Cambridge University Press, 2011, pp. 323–325. 94 Hemingway, Ernest. The Letters of Ernest Hemingway 1907-1922, edited by Sandra Spanier & Robert W. Trogdon, vol. 2, Cambridge University Press, 2013, pp. 272.

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INDEX 97-98 Hemingway, Ernest. “A Canadian with $1,000 a year can live very comfortably and enjoyably in Paris.” The Toronto Star Weekly, 4 February, 1922. 99-103 Hemingway, Ernest. “American Bohemians in Paris a Weird Lot.” The Toronto Star Weekly, 25 March, 1923. 104 Hemingway, Ernest. The Letters of Ernest Hemingway 1907-1922, edited by Sandra Spanier & Robert W. Trogdon, vol. 2, Cambridge University Press, 2013, pp. 330. 105-116 Hemingway, Ernest. A Moveable Feast. Scribner's, 1964. 117-124 Hemingway, Ernest. The Letters of Ernest Hemingway 1907-1922, edited by Sandra Spanier & Robert W. Trogdon, vol. 1, Cambridge University Press, 2011, pp. 327–329. 125-130 Hemingway, Ernest. Complete Poems, edited by Nicholas Gerogiannis. Bison Books; Revised edition, 1983. 133-135 Hemingway, Ernest. “French Politeness.” The Toronto Star Weekly, 15 April, 1922.

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INDEX 136-138 Hemingway, Ernest. “Wild night music of Paris makes visitor feel a man of the world.” The Toronto Star Weekly, 25 March, 1922. 152-173 Hemingway, Ernest. A Moveable Feast. Scribner's, 1964.

NEWSPAPER PHOTOS 54, 57, 97, 100, 134 Ernest Hemingway Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston. 60, 102, 137 MessyNessy. “Inside Ernest Hemingway’s Private Photo Album &amp; Scrapbook.” Messy Nessy Cabinet of Chic Curiosities, 21 July 2017, www.messynessychic.com/2015/07/21/ inside-ernest-hemingways-private-photo-albumscrapbook/.

TIP INS: 22 PHOTO: MessyNessy. “Inside Ernest Hemingway’s Private Photo Album &amp; Scrapbook.” Messy Nessy Cabinet of Chic Curiosities, 21 July 2017, www.messynessychic.com/2015/07/21/ inside-ernest-hemingways-private-photo-albumscrapbook/.

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INDEX TEXT: Wheeler, Robert. Hemingway's Paris: A Writer's City in Words and Images. Yucca Publishing, 2015. 32 PHOTO: Ernest Hemingway Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston. TEXT: Rodenberg, H., 2014. The Making Of Ernest Hemingway. ZuÌ&#x2C6;rich: LIT Verlag. 44 PHOTO: Ernest Hemingway Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston. 62 PHOTO: Ernest Hemingway Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston. 76 PHOTO: Ernest Hemingway Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston. TEXT: Vaill, A., 1998. Everybody Was So Young. New York: Houghton Mifflin Company. 130 PHOTO: (FRONT)Ernest Hemingway Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston.

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INDEX (BACK) MessyNessy. “Inside Ernest Hemingway’s Private Photo Album &amp; Scrapbook.” Messy Nessy Cabinet of Chic Curiosities, 21 July 2017, www.messynessychic.com/2015/07/21/ inside-ernest-hemingways-private-photo-albumscrapbook/. TEXT: Blume, L., 2016. Everybody Behaves Badly. New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. 146 PHOTO: Ernest Hemingway Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston. TEXT: Vaill, A., 1998. Everybody Was So Young. New York: Houghton Mifflin Company. 158 PHOTO: Ernest Hemingway Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston. TEXT: Hemingway, Ernest. A Moveable Feast. Scribner’s, 1964.

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