Hemingway Remembers Paris

If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.

These words, written by Ernest Hemingway to a friend in 1950, appear at the start of A Moveable Feast, which was completed in 1960, but tells of the time he lived in Paris with his first wife, Hadley, between 1921 and 1926.

His memories of that period are captured in 20 short essays: each stands alone, and there is no overall storyline or theme, beyond that of the city itself, but this slender book conjures an image of Paris that is almost tangible. The smells, tastes, sights and sounds of Paris spring off the pages, and the people breathe again as they laugh and love and quarrel and drink and smoke and work and dream. All human life is here: raffish Bohemian artists, avante garde writers and poets, drunks, bartenders, fishermen, street cleaners, booksellers, waiters...

There are glimpses of those who later became well known, alongside others who were already famous. There is Gertude Stein looking, says Hemingway, like a peasant woman rather than the Roman emperor she later resembled; James Joyce, who drank sherry, not  wine, and kindly Sylvia Beach from Shakespeare and Company, who ran a lending library for ex-pats, and provided a refuge when they needed it. Hemingway recounts his friendship with Scott and Zelda Fitgerald, locked into their mutually destructive relationship – and paints a distinctly unsympathetic portrait of Zelda, who I had always thought of as something of a victim. He is far kinder in his portrayal of Ezra Pound, who comes across as being nicer and gentler than I imagined, but my perception of the poet is coloured by his later espousal of Nazism in Italy, and his somewhat irregular domestic arrangements.

And you see the young author learning his craft as a writer, trying to form one true sentence that will carry his story forward. Sometimes words pour out of him, at others he struggles to find the language that expresses his thoughts. Writing about writing he says:

The blue-backed notebooks, the two pencils and the pencil sharpener (a pocket knife was too wasteful), the marble-topped tables, the smell of early morning, sweeping out and mopping, and luck were all you needed. For luck you carried a horse chestnut and a rabbit’s foot in your right pocket. The fur had been worn off the rabbit’s foot long ago an the bones and the sinews were polished by wear. The claws scratched in the lining of your pocket and you knew your luck was still there.

Some days it went so well that you could make the country so that you could walk into it through the timber to come into it through the timber to come out into the clearing and work up onto the high ground and see the hills beyond the arm of the lake.

He spends a lot of time hungry, because he and Hadley have very little cash, but he believes lack of food sharpens his perceptions (I have to say I found this rather disturbing). And when he does have money he seems to spend it on food and drink for himself, with never a though for Hadley and their baby son.

Ernest Hemingway in 1918, three
years before he went to Paris.

The book provided source material for Paula McLain, who gave a voice to Hadley in her excellent novel, ‘The Paris Wife’, where Hemingway is charming and charismatic, but a bit of a sod. ‘A Moveavle Feast’ does nothing to dispel that view.

To some extent I think Hemingway has been overshadowed by his own myth – all that machismo stuff about bull fighting, and hunting, and fishing. I always forget how good a writer he was, and it was at this point in his life that he himself realised he really could write, and he gave up regular work as a journalist (although he still did odd articles from time to time) and moved to Paris, determined to write fiction.

In many ways it’s a magical time, but it ends with the appearance of another woman.  Hemingway makes no excuses for what happens – although he seems to put the blame on that other woman, who became his second wife. But he is nostalgic for the past, and for Hadley. “I wish had died before I ever loved anyone but her,” he says. He finishes as he starts, with a tribute to the city.

There is never any ending to Paris and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs to that of any other. We always returned to it no matter ho 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 was how Paris was in the early days when we were very poor and very happy.

Paris with a Dashing Dish

Ernest, Hadley, and Bumby
in Austria, in 1926,

Ernest Hemingway must, I think, have been a bit of a sod. Incredibly charismatic, yes. Talented, yes. But a sod, nevertheless. I base this opinion upon ‘The Paris Wife’, a novel in which author Paula McLain gives voice to Hemingway’s first wife, Hadley Richardson, with whom he lived in Paris during the early 1920s.

Before I proceed any further can I mention that I recently spent quite some time sitting on the floor in the library perusing a very large volume of a Hemingway biography which seemed to support my view, as well as showing just how well researched McLain’s book is.

Anyway, to return to Hadley. Following a childhood accident (she was injured falling from a window) she led a sheltered life under the thumb of her mother who was, at best, over-protective – or, at worst, very controlling. A college course didn’t work out, and Hadley abandoned hopes of becoming a professional pianist because she felt she was not good enough. She nursed her mother through her final illness and, following her death, visited an old friend in Chicago.

There she met Hemingway and the rest, as they say, is history. Hadley, nearing 30, was eight years older than the young writer, but the attraction between them seems to have been instant and irresistible, and they were married less than a year later, in September 1921, despite disapproval from their friends and families.

Ernest Hemingway in
uniform in Milan in 1918.

Here, as another aside, could I say that the young Hemingway was dashingly dishy, which came as something of a surprise since I had only seen photos of him when he was old and grey, and really rather stout. I know, it’s very frivolous of me to comment on such things when I am supposed to be writing a serious review, but in the book, without ever being too explicit, Hadley makes it clear that the physical chemistry between them is a vital part of their relationship, and that he is a good looking man who is attractive to other women, so I think my observation is justified.

In Paris Hadley and Hemingway (I suppose I should call him Ernest, since that is how he is referred to in the novel) live on her legacy and his meagre salary as a journalist. They love and drink and quarrel and love again, and give each other tender nicknames. They become part of a charmed circle of avante-garde writers and artists, including Ezra Pound and Gertrude Stein.

Their first flat, which echoes with the sound of accordion music, is next to a dance hall, and the cobblestone streets are full of drunks, beggars, tramps and prostitutes. McLain is good on giving a sense of place as she describes cafes, markets, rooftops, the Seine, bare chestnut trees. I loved this little passage:

Fishermen were stringing their lines for gougon and frying them up on the spot. I bought a handful wrapped in newspaper and sat on the wall watching the barges move under Pont Sully. The nest of fish was crisp under a coarse snow of salt and smelled so simple and good I thought they might save my life. Just a little. Just for that moment.

It seems somehow to encapsulate Paris, and Hadley’s time there – for we know the marriage cannot last. And it doesn’t. We follow her and Hemingway as they journey to Italy, Germany, Pamplona (for bull running and bull fights) and Toronto (where their son is born), and watch as Hemingway becomes more successful, quarrels with old friends, acquires new ones, and becomes part of the café society he once despised. Gradually the Hemingways’ marriage falls apart as Ernest embarks on affair with a woman Hadley regards as a friend.

Somehow Hadley is out of tune with the independent Bright Young Things and Bohemian women of the ’twenties. She is actually a very engaging heroine. She is bright, lively, intelligent, naïve, loves music, dotes on her little boy, and cares little about her appearance or what she wears.  She sees herself as a kind of helpmeet, doing all she can to ensure Hemingway is happy and able to work, for she believes in his genius. I think she is totally besotted by him and sees him as a scared boy hidden beneath the macho male who likes to be in control, and loves sport and courting danger – she wants to reassure that scared boy and keep him safe from harm. And she wants him to be happy, even if it means losing him.  I liked her, and I was glad she eventually remarried and found peace and happiness.

There are a few chapters written from Hemingway’s perspective, but I find it difficult to decide if he was scarred by his experiences as an ambulance driver during the First World War, when he was seriously wounded  after just a couple of months, or whether he was shaped by his family (with whom he seems to have been at odds). Or perhaps that’s way the way he was, and there was no reason.

It’s not easy writing a fictional account of people and events from the recent past, because so much has already been written, and so much information is available, but McLain has used the existing data and spun a new tale, filled with emotional intensity, that throws fresh light on Hemingway and places his first wife in the spotlight.