No one understood better than Richardson the dark forces that roiled Hemingway's psyche — similar forces tormented her. Before meeting Hemingway, she had lived at such a low level of emotional intensity that she often felt half alive.
During bouts of severe depression, death seemed to her the perfect escape. When Richardson met Hemingway at an October party in Chicago in, he was 21 and she was a shy, year-old spinster, who'd spent the previous eight years in a state of nervous collapse. Grief-stricken over the death of her eldest sister, who had died in a fire while pregnant with her third child, Richardson had dropped out of Bryn Mawr College and lived at home in St.
Louis with her domineering mother, doing little but reading and practicing the piano, for which she had significant talent. Throughout this period, she flirted with suicide, which haunted her family, as it did Hemingway's. When she was 13, her father, an alcoholic failed businessman, shot himself to death, just as Hemingway's father would in Richardson and Hemingway also each had a brother who would commit suicide. Even after falling in love with Hemingway—a "great explosion into life," as she called it — Richardson occasionally thought of ending her life.
In the summer of , oppressed by the stultifying Midwest heat, she wrote Hemingway about viewing a fierce rainstorm from the porch of her family house: " I watched the foliage whisked into wild shapes by the wind and smelled the drenched cool grasses and let the thunder claps terrify me and the lightning cut me blind and when I went out I didn't see how to go about anything I have to do and wished lazily the lightning might settle the whole shebang for me.
She stayed in France for seven more years, married journalist and political writer Paul Mowrer in , and soon after moved back to the United States. Hadley , a biography by Gioia Diliberto, was published in Born: November 9, , St.
Pauline Pfeiffer was a journalist and the second wife of Ernest Hemingway. A job covering fashion for Vogue took her to Paris, and it was there she first met Ernest Hemingway and his wife, Hadley Richardson. Martha Gellhorn was a novelist, travel writer, journalist, and a pioneering war correspondent who covered most of the major conflicts of the 20th century. She was the third wife of author Ernest Hemingway. Mary Welsh Hemingway was a journalist and author, and the fourth wife of Ernest Hemingway.
Hemingway, how I love you. How exciting you are. Sometime after their return to Paris from Canada, Hemingway met the Pfeiffer sisters. Their marriage disintegrated as Hemingway was writing and revising The Sun Also Rises , [29] although he dedicated the novel to "Hadley and John Hadley Nicanor. Hadley stayed in France until Hadley was especially grateful for Mowrer's warm relationship with Bumby. She continued to receive royalties from The Sun Also Rises , [39] which included the royalties for the film.
Hemingway's memoir A Moveable Feast , not published until , three years after Hemingway's death, captures Hemingway's marriage to Hadley and their life together in Paris during the early to mids.
When Hadley left her marriage to Hemingway, she left the limelight. In July , she and Mowrer ran into him while vacationing in Wyoming, [43] and, according to A. Hotchner , the last time Hemingway reported seeing Hadley was after a brief and spontaneous meeting in Paris.
Hadley died on January 22, in Lakeland, Florida at the age of The book, which is based on extensive research, including the author's exclusive access to a series of taped conversations with Richardson, was reissued in as Paris Without End: The True Story of Hemingway's First Wife.
First wife of Ernest Hemingway. Louis , Missouri, U. Lakeland, Florida , U. Ernest Hemingway. Paul Mowrer. Hadley and Ernest Hemingway in Switzerland, Along with Youth : Hemingway, the Early Years. Hemingway, Jack. Oxford: Oxford University Press. ISBN OCLC Lake Bluff History Museum. Retrieved The New York Times.
Ernest Hemingway, A Life Story. Charles Scribner's Sons. The Paris Wife: A Novel. But the real problem has never been the question, it's the answer. I was not named after someone, I was named after someone's wife. A Wag, in other words, with a name that makes me sound like an investment bank, and not even an investment bank wants to sound like one these days. A wife known for nothing other than having been married to and humiliatingly dumped by Hemingway as soon as he got a lick of fame.
This might reflect worse on Hemingway than on my antecedent, Hadley Richardson, but it hardly felt like an admirable inheritance. Even Hemingway seemed to have held her in low regard. The Sun Also Rises was written not just during their six-year marriage but specifically about that time, and he included anecdotes about their friends, their hangouts, their travels, everything.
Everything, that is, except Richardson, although he did then guiltily stick her in the dedication. The few biographical details I could find about her universally stressed one quality: her devoted support of Hemingway, devotion that was thrown back in her face when he left her for a woman who was part of their Parisian social circle.
If I had to be named after one of Hemingway's four wives, I wished my parents had gone for the third instead of the first, bestowing me with the legacy of Martha Gellhorn , the foreign correspondent who was also ditched by Hemingway but because he couldn't cope with a wife who worked, not — as happened to Richardson — because he ran off with the fashion editor Pauline Pfeiffer. This point brings me to another problem I have with my name: I hate Hemingway.
His gratingly self-conscious style — all brutalised declarative sentences — has, to my ears, the rhythm of a pub bore sounding off. More repugnant than his style is his mentality. He is the literary version of the worst of Bob Dylan, purveying that tired cliche of a man as solitary figure, necessarily selfish and the sole protagonist of his story, for whom women are either spoilt sluts or sweet saints, there to look pretty, subjugate themselves and then, eventually, be left behind so he can find another girl in another town wearing a lace dress.
It's such a boring, sophomoric view, one almost excusable in a twentysomething man, less so in a fiftysomething, and it explains why, in my experience, so many men love Hemingway and Dylan, come to that.
And why I don't. Personally, he sounded even worse.
0コメント