I began The Paris Wife in 2011 when it came out and decided it wasn’t for me, in spite of the fact that I live in Hemingway’s Oak Park, where the annual Hemingway Festival had everyone aflutter reading it. Hemingstein! Hadley! Bumby! I knew the story, and was a little intrigued, as with the myths of other famous and supposedly misogynist Oak Park men, such as Frank Lloyd Wright—to hear of that time in Paris finally from the (fictional) perspective of the woman who was his first wife, his Paris wife, his starter wife, the one who “got the best of him,” when things were still relatively pure and when love, for a time, was strong and uncomplicated.
I finally finished this work of historical fiction because I had reread The Sun Also Rises and a book self-described by the author as “the true” story of how that novel had been lived and written, Everybody Behaving Badly by Leslie Blume. Hadley is notoriously left out of Sun, though she lived through it; Hemingway explained to her that as he had seen it, she lived “above” those events, in a way, separate from all of the people he admitted were indeed behaving badly. The central figure in Hemingway’s account of the Pamplona fiesta is Lady Duff Twysden, a kind of femme fatale party girl in Hem’s conception whom Hem may never have actually slept with but most people thought wanted to. In Sun Hem has his noble hero Jake Barnes as one of the only men who never slept with her, since he is given the excuse of a war injury instead of the excuse of rejection, or the excuse that he was--as Hem was at the time--actually married to Hadley--which would have been a less acceptable version of emasculation for Mr. Macho. Interestingly complicated, yes?
The Paris Wife has a few challenges; first and foremost is that it is written from the perspective of the non-writer in the Hemingway family, a (once) 29 year-old virgin and genuinely nice and traditionally supportive wife who is rather in-over-her-head when the two midwesterners land in Paris. McLain depicts her as a hen among peacocks, a Henry James reader and good and faithful monogamist in a time of experimental explosion and LOTS of people behaving badly: Many famous husbands (such as Ford Maddox Ford) openly have girlfriends in addition to wives. There’s lots of booze and drugs, though the Hems are just drinkers. Mores are changing, it’s the summer of free love in the Paris twenties, forty years before San Francisco's hippie love fest. So how does a nice non-writer outsider wife tell a first person, interesting story of a famous philandering writer? And how does a historical fiction writer like MacLain write of Hemingway, one of the key prose stylists of the twentieth century?
I would say this has a lot of romantic clichés in it, and the dialogue is largely unremarkable:
“Did you ever think it could be like this?” “I can do anything if I have you with me.”
but is overall solidly written, a “good read” version of a story pretty well known to Hemingway fans, a conventionally written historical fiction “biography” that only a fraction of folks would read if it weren’t a woman’s view of a famous macho writer. And it’s a not surprisingly a persuasively sympathetic view of Hadley, a kind of victim who manages to recover, but who was nevertheless permanently damaged as so many were by Ernest.
As MacLain has it, Hadley is a product of another time and place, who is swept off her feet by the dashing gorgeous ambitious man eight years her junior, who REALLY loves and supports him, and who has her husband of five years stolen from her by a rich heiress, Pauline Pfeiffer (herself dumped by Hem six years later), who barged into their lives, attempted a threesome arrangement with them the likes of which other famous couples seemed to tolerate at the time, but something Hadley couldn’t handle. Hadley represents most readers, I think, who couldn’t have gone to Paris and accepted this arrangement and wanted out just as soon as Hem revealed his mean streak against most of his friends, and his over-drinking, and his woman-chasing. But she had Bumby, and she still loved him, so she hung on longer than most of us would have, maybe.
MacLain actually attempts to create a pretty balanced approach to Hem, whom she admits is both dashing and self-absorbed, talented and a jerk; truly in love with Hadley AND sleeping with the usurper Pauline--she of the endless money and sleek clothes and (gulp) chipmunk fur coat (!). As with other biographies of Hemingway, including Hotchner’s Hemingway in Love, Pauline is seen as stealing Hemingway from Hadley. Hem supposedly at one point confesses to Hadley that he “ruined everything,” but it is generally seen as Pauline’s “fault” in Blume, and in Hotchner’s biographies, where Hem and Hotch discuss her as single-mindedly focused on possessing Hem.
MacLain is also pretty soft on Hem vs. Pauline, because she thinks the almost never angry Hadley would have ultimately been softer on him, over time. She also acknowledges Hem's--even then--suicidal tendencies (both Hadley's and Ernest's fathers committed suicide with shotguns; they both had domineering mothers), making way for recent views about Hemingway's possibly being bipolar. It would help explain his manic writing and partying, and his fits of anger and depression. Hadley in this book rides this rollercoaster of Hem's emotions more than most might, especially today, but that was 100 years ago, too. But it's an old question: Do we excuse people with mental issues for being jerks?
I say it took three for that Tango. Hem, who also would dump Pauline after 6 years, behaved badly and made bad choices, clearly. And Hadley made bad choices, too, not to act more strongly on her own behalf (though MacLain suggests he would have done what he would do, anyway, and she is probably right). MacLain sides with Hadley against Hem and Pauline in this one and not surprisingly, she is persuasive and probably no one disagrees. Hem is arrogant, drinks too much, destroys the support of most of his friends (Sherwood Anderson, Gertrude Stein, Harold Loeb and SO many others), spends too much time falling for the beautiful women who flutter around him constantly to the detriment of his relationship to his wife (such an old-fashioned concept, in Paris twenties, to be a wife! And horrors, to have a child [Pound wouldn't allow Bumby in his apartment, he so hated kids!]).
And MacLain acknowledges Hem was a genius writer, who put himself and his writing above all else, even the woman who loved him most. You either accept that if you like his writing, and keep reading him, or you turn away from him altogether. I choose to continue to read him, without excusing his bad behavior. And I came to really like Hadley, my fellow Midwesterner, who got married to Hem in Petoskey, Michigan (where there's a great Historical Museum that has a lot of Hemingway artifacts in it as he summered there as he grew up). In the end, they were a long way from that simple, idyllic place.
Hem was gracious in the break-up: Hadley is “everything good and straight and fine and true,” and he's right.
Of Hem, she says he is “fine and strong and weak and cruel. An incomparable friend and a son of a bitch” and she's right. So if we already knew this going in, why read it? Maybe it's because Hemingway lives on as literary great and she is gone; can we rescue her, a nice person, one of us, and give her some approximation of a voice?
"It was sometimes painful for me to think that to those who followed his life with interest, I was just the early wife, the Paris wife. But that was probably vanity, wanting to stand out in a long line of women. In truth, it didn't matter what others saw. We knew what we had and what it meant, and though so much had happened since for both of us, there was nothing like those years in Paris, after the war. Life was painfully pure and simple and good, and I believe Ernest was his best self then. I got the very best of him. We got the best of each other."