The Paris Wife

the new model of a wife, and I was the outdated, provincial variety.

It was ironic to think that nearly all of the women I knew now were direct benefactors of the suffragette work my mother did decades ago, right in our own parlor, while I curled up with a book and tried to be invisible. It was possible that I was never going to catch up with the truly modern woman, but did I have to hide my head so willfully? Couldn’t I experiment just a little to see what else might feel right, especially when I had good friends who loved me, as Pauline had pointed out, and wanted me to succeed?

In time, Pauline introduced us to many of her finer, Right Bank crowd, like Gerald and Sara Murphy. Gerald was a painter, but more than this, he was an icon of good taste and the good life. He and Sara had come to Paris in 1921, and though they had a beautiful apartment on the Quai des Grands-Augustins, they were gradually migrating to the South of France, where they were building an estate on the Riviera, at Antibes. Gerald had studied architecture and the estate, Villa America, would be the Murphys’ joint opus, the most beautiful thing they could imagine and afford-and they could afford a great deal. Pauline also introduced us to the poet Archibald MacLeish and his lovely wife, Ada, who sang well, professionally even, and wore the most beautifully beaded dresses I’d ever seen.

I was surprised at how tolerant Ernest seemed of these new acquaintances. In private he snidely called them “the rich,” but he couldn’t help but respond to the attention he got from them just the same. In Our Time came out in the States in early October, and not long after, copies could be found at bookshops all over town. The reviews were all tremendously positive, calling Ernest the young writer to watch. His prospects seemed brighter and brighter, but these new friends weren’t simply hangers-on. They wouldn’t be content warming their hands at the edge of Ernest’s success; they wanted to fan the fire.

In the meantime, Pauline began coming to the sawmill for dinner several nights a week, and sometimes Ernest would meet her in one or other of the cafes. I was so relieved that the relationship felt natural and mutual. I’d never liked fighting with Ernest about Kitty, but he wouldn’t budge. She was and would always be “that gold-plated bitch” to him, but Pauline brought out his kinder, more fraternal side. He began to call her Pfife, and so did I. To Bumby, she was Tante Pfife and she had nicknames for us, too. Ernest was Papa or Drum, and I was Hash or Dulla. Together we were her adorables, her cherishables.

As fall turned to winter, and the Paris damp seeped in through the windows and under the doors, Ernest made a decision to put the Pamplona novel away.

“I can’t see it at all anymore. I don’t know what’s good or where I’m failing. It has to simmer on its own awhile.” He sighed and scratched his mustache, which had gotten thick and unruly lately, handsomely uncivilized. “I’ve been thinking about starting something wholly different. Something funny.”

“Funny seems to suit Don and Harold, but I’m not sure it’s the thing for you.”

“The first thing you ever saw of mine was funny. You’re saying that wasn’t any good?”

“Not at all. Only that your work has more of a spark when it’s dramatic.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said, and began working immediately. I had no idea what he really had in mind, or how quickly he would cast it off. Within two weeks he had an entire draft of The Torrents of Spring, a parody-satire of Sherwood Anderson’s latest book, Dark Laughter. But having written the thing didn’t make the next step any easier. He wasn’t sure what he had or whom to let in on it. Someone might get the wrong idea and think it mean-spirited.

“I’d love to read it,” I said. “I can keep an open mind.”

“Sorry, Tatie. I’m not sure you can.”

“Is it that bad?”

“I can’t say. I’m going to show it to Scott and maybe Dos, too.”

Unfortunately, they weren’t at all keen on the project and told him to leave well enough alone. Anderson’s book might well be silly and sentimental, they agreed, but he was a great talent and had done so much to secure Ernest’s future, it wouldn’t be fair to lambaste the man. What would be the point?

“The point,” Ernest said, “is that his book is rotten and deserves to be harpooned, and if someone’s going to do it, why not a friend?”

“That’s a damned funny way to see it,” Scott said. “I tell you, lay off.”

Undeterred, Ernest had taken the manuscript over to the Murphys’ apartment and read it aloud while Gerald tried very hard not to be shocked, and Sara fell asleep sitting straight up on the sofa in a pale silk dressing gown. I listened with slow-growing dread. When Ernest finished, Gerald cleared his throat several times and, ever the diplomat, said, “It’s not for me, but someone might think it’s just the thing.”

“You’re killing me,” Ernest said.

Gerald turned to me. “What do you think, Hadley? You’ve a good head on your shoulders.”

“Well,” I hedged. “It’s not entirely kind.”

“Right,” Gerald said.

“It’s not meant to be kind,” Ernest said. “It’s meant to be funny.”

“Right,” Gerald said again.

I had a secret theory that Ernest had really written the book to distance himself from Sherwood and come out from under his shadow. Friends and reviewers both were often comparing Ernest’s prose to Anderson’s, and this made Ernest crazy. He didn’t want to be lined up against anyone, especially not a good friend and champion of his work. He was grateful for Sherwood’s help, he swore he was, but not indebted to him. Not indentured. His work was his own, and he would prove it once and for all.

Desperate to get someone to agree with him about The Torrents of Spring, Ernest finally went to Gertrude, but things hadn’t been good with those two for some time and this was the last straw. When he told me how it had gone, I felt heartbroken. She nearly threw him out of her flat, saying, “It’s detestable, Hem, and you should know better.”

“Should I?” He tried to laugh it off.

“I thought so once. You used to be committed to your craft. Now you’re mean and hard and only care about positioning yourself and about money.”

“Don’t be such a hypocrite. You’d love to be rich.”

“I’d love to be rich,” she agreed. “But I won’t do all the things it takes to get that way.”

“Like cutting down your friends, you mean?”

She was silent then.

“I get it. You’ve painted a real nice picture of me here.”

He stormed out, and when he came home he wouldn’t even talk about it at first. But he shut the book away in a drawer and I was relieved to see him done with it.

It was nearly Christmas by this time. We were preparing to return to Schruns and stay through until spring, and Ernest put all his energy into making plans.

“Why don’t we ask Pauline to join us,” he suggested. “It will be so much nicer for you if she’s there.”

“I’d love that. Aren’t you sweet to think of me?”

We invited Jinny, too, because the two sisters often came as a matched set, but Pauline assured us that Jinny would go to Nimes with other friends. She herself was delighted to come. She couldn’t wait.

THIRTY-FOUR

Pfife came off the train looking pink and well. There had been two feet of snow the week before, but the weather had grown steadily warmer and it was all soft now, impossible for skiing. Ernest had promised to teach her to ski, and she carried her skis awkwardly when we met her on the platform, but didn’t seem disappointed when we pointed out the thaw.

“It will be enough to be near you two pets,” she said. “And Bumby, of course.”

Bumby stood holding my hand. He wore his winter togs and looked like a proper Austrian baby and was very brave about the train, which thrilled and terrified him.

“Say hello to Tante Pfife,” Ernest said to Bumby, who hid behind my skirt and peeked curiously out again, making us all laugh.

Pauline seemed charmed by Schruns and by her room at the Taube, which stood at the end of the long hall, just