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Before he gained wide fame as a novelist, Ernest Hemingway established his literary reputation with his short stories. This collection, The Short Stories, originally published in 1938, is definitive. Among these forty-nine short stories are Hemingway's earliest efforts, written when he was a young foreign correspondent in Paris, and such masterpieces as "Hills Like White Elephants," "The Killers," "The Short, Happy Life of Francis Macomber," and "The Snows of Kilimanjaro." Set in the varied landscapes of Spain, ...
Before he gained wide fame as a novelist, Ernest Hemingway established his literary reputation with his short stories. This collection, The Short Stories, originally published in 1938, is definitive. Among these forty-nine short stories are Hemingway's earliest efforts, written when he was a young foreign correspondent in Paris, and such masterpieces as "Hills Like White Elephants," "The Killers," "The Short, Happy Life of Francis Macomber," and "The Snows of Kilimanjaro." Set in the varied landscapes of Spain, Africa, and the American Midwest, this collection traces the development and maturation of Hemingway's distinct and revolutionary storytelling style — from the plain, bald language of his first story, "Up in Michigan," to the seamless prose and spare, eloquent pathos of "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place" to the expansive solitude of the Big Two-Hearted River stories. These stories showcase the singular talent of a master, the most important American writer of the twentieth century.
As a Spanish cafGe closes for the night, two waiters and a lonely customer confront the concept of nothingness.
The first four stories are the last ones I have written. The others follow in the order in which they were originally published.
The first one I wrote was Up in Michigan, written in Paris in 1921. The last was Old Man at the Bridge cabled from Barcelona in April of 1938.
Beside The Fifth Column, I wrote The Killers, Today Is Friday, Ten Indians, part of The Sun Also Rises and the first third of To Have and Have Not in Madrid. It was always a good place for working. So was Paris, and so were Key West, Florida, in the cool months; the ranch, near Cooke City, Montana; Kansas City; Chicago; Toronto, and Havana, Cuba.
Some other places were not so good but maybe we were not so good when we were in them.
There are many kinds of stories in this book. I hope that you will find some that you like. Reading them over, the ones I liked the best, outside of those that have achieved some notoriety so that school teachers include them in story collections that their pupils have to buy in story courses, and you are always faintly embarrassed to read them and wonder whether you really wrote them or did you maybe hear them somewhere, are The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber, In Another Country, Hills Like White Elephants, A Way You'll Never Be, The Snows of Kilimanjaro, A Clean Well-Lighted Place, and a story called The Light of the World which nobody else ever liked. There are some others too. Because if you did not like them you would not publish them.
In going where you have to go, and doing what you have to do, and seeing what you have to see, you dull and blunt the instrument you write with. But I would rather have it bent and dull and know I had to put it on the grindstone again and hammer it into shape and put a whetstone to it, and know that I had something to write about, than to have it bright and shining and nothing to say, or smooth and well-oiled in the closet, but unused.
Now it is necessary to get to the grindstone again. I would like to live long enough to write three more novels and twenty-five more stories. I know some pretty good ones.
"The Battler"; "Big Two-Hearted River: Part I"; "Big Two-Hearted River: Part II"; "Cat in the Rain"; "Cross-Country Snow"; "The Doctor and the Doctor's Wife"; "The End of Something"; "Indian Camp"; "Mr. and Mrs. Elliot"; "My Old Man"; "Out of Season";
"The Revolutionist"; "Soldier's Home"; "The Three-Day Blow";
"A Very Short Story"; copyright © 1925 Charles Scribner's Sons;
renewal copyright © 1953 Ernest Hemingway
"Banal Story"; "A Canary for One"; "Hills Like White Elephants"; "In Another Country"; "The Killers"; "Now I Lay Me"; "A Pursuit Race"; "A Simple Enquiry"; "Ten Indians"; "Today Is Friday"; "The Undefeated"; copyright © 1927 Charles Scribner's Sons; renewal copyright © 1955 Ernest Hemingway
"The Alpine Idyll" copyright © 1927 The Macaulay Company;
renewal copyright © 1955 Ernest Hemingway
"Che Ti Dice Patria?" and "Fifty Grand' copyright © 1927 Ernest Hemingway; renewal copyright © 1955
"On the Quai at Smyrna" and "Wine of Wyoming" copyright © 1930 Charles Scribner's Sons; renewal copyright © 1958 Ernest Hemingway
"A Natural History of the Dead" copyright © 1932, 1933 Charles Scribner's Sons; renewal copyright © 1960 Ernest Hemingway; © 1961 Mary Hemingway
"After the Storm" copyright © 1932 Ernest Hemingway; renewal copyright © 1960
"A Clean, Well-Lighted Place"; "A Day's Wait"; "Fathers and Sons"; "The Gambler, the Nun, and the Radio"; "Homage to Switzerland"; "The Light of the World"; "The Mother of a Queen"; "One Reader Writes"; "The Sea Change"; "A Way You'll Never Be" copyright © 1933 Charles Scribner's Sons;
renewal copyright © 1961 Mary Hemingway
"God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen" copyright © 1933 Ernest Hemingway; renewal copyright © 1961 Mary Hemingway
"The Capital of the World"; "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber"; "The Snows of Kilimanjaro" copyright © 1936 Ernest Hemingway;
renewal copyright © 1964 Mary Hemingway
"Old Man at the Bridge" and "Up in Michigan" copyright © 1938 Ernest Hemingway; renewal copyright © 1966 Mary Hemingway
"Capital of the World" was first published under the title "The Horns of the Bull."
"The Gambler, the Nun, and the Radio" was first published under the title "Give Us A Prescription, Doctor."
from The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber
It was now lunch time and they were all sitting under the double green fly of the dining tent pretending that nothing had happened.
"Will you have lime juice or lemon squash?" Macomber asked.
"I'll have a gimlet," Robert Wilson told him.
"I'll have a gimlet too. I need something," Macomber's wife said.
"I suppose it's the thing to do," Macomber agreed. "Tell him to make three gimlets."
The mess boy had started them already, lifting the bottles out of the canvas cooling bags that sweated wet in the wind that blew through the trees that shaded the tents.
"What had I ought to give them?" Macomber asked.
"A quid would be plenty," Wilson told him. "You don't want to spoil them."
"Will the headman distribute it?"
Francis Macomber had, half an hour before, been carried to his tent from the edge of the camp in triumph on the arms and shoulders of the cook, the personal boys, the skinner and the porters. The gun-bearers had taken no part in the demonstration. When the native boys put him down at the door of his tent, he had shaken all their hands, received their congratulations, and then gone into the tent and sat on the bed until his wife came in. She did not speak to him when she came in and he left the tent at once to wash his face and hands in the portable wash basin outside and go over to the dining tent to sit in a comfortable canvas chair in the breeze and the shade.
"You've got your lion," Robert Wilson said to him, "and a damned fine one too."
Mrs. Macomber looked at Wilson quickly. She was an extremely handsome and well-kept woman of the beauty and social position which had, five years before, commanded five thousand dollars as the price of endorsing, with photographs, a beauty product which she had never used. She had been married to Francis Macomber for eleven years.
"He is a good lion, isn't he?" Macomber said. His wife looked at him now. She looked at both these men as though she had never seen them before.
One, Wilson, the white hunter, she knew she had never truly seen before. He was about middle height with sandy hair, a stubby mustache, a very red face and extremely cold blue eyes with faint white wrinkles at the corners that grooved merrily when he smiled. He smiled at her now and she looked away from his face at the way his shoulders sloped in the loose tunic he wore with the four big cartridges held in loops where the left breast pocket should have been, at his big brown hands, his old slacks, his very dirty boots and back to his red face again. She noticed where the baked red of his face stopped in a white line that marked the circle left by his Stetson hat that hung now from one of the pegs of the tent pole.
"Well, here's to the lion," Robert Wilson said. He smiled at her again and, not smiling, she looked curiously at her husband.
Francis Macomber was very tall, very well built if you did not mind that length of bone, dark, his hair cropped like an oarsman, rather thin-lipped, and was considered handsome. He was dressed in the same sort of safari clothes that Wilson wore except that his were new, he was thirty-five years old, kept himself very fit, was good at court games, had a number of big-game fishing records, and had just shown himself, very publicly, to be a coward.
"Here's to the lion," he said. "I can't ever thank you for what you did."
Margaret, his wife, looked away from him and back to Wilson.
"Let's not talk about the lion," she said.
Wilson looked over at her without smiling and now she smiled at him.
"It's been a very strange day," she said. "Hadn't you ought to put your hat on even under the canvas at noon? You told me that, you know."
"Might put it on," said Wilson.
"You know you have a very red face, Mr. Wilson," she told him and smiled again.
"Drink," said Wilson.
"I don't think so," she said. "Francis drinks a great deal, but his face is never red."
"It's red today," Macomber tried a joke.
"No," said Margaret. "It's mine that's red today. But Mr. Wilson's is always red."
"Must be racial," said Wilson. "I say, you wouldn't like to drop my beauty as a topic, would you?"
"I've just started on it."
"Let's chuck it," said Wilson.
"Conversation is going to be so difficult," Margaret said.
"Don't be silly, Margot," her husband said.
"No difficulty," Wilson said. "Got a damn fine lion."
Margot looked at them both and they both saw that she was going to cry. Wilson had seen it coming for a long time and he dreaded it. Macomber was past dreading it.
"I wish it hadn't happened. Oh, I wish it hadn't happened," she said and started for her tent. She made no noise of crying but they could see that her shoulders were shaking under the rose-colored, sun-proofed shirt she wore.
"Women upset," said Wilson to the tall man. "Amounts to nothing. Strain on the nerves and one thing'n another."
"No," said Macomber. "I suppose that I rate that for the rest of my life now."
"Nonsense. Let's have a spot of the giant killer," said Wilson. "Forget the whole thing. Nothing to it anyway."
"We might try," said Macomber. "I won't forget what you did for me though."
"Nothing," said Wilson. "All nonsense."
So they sat there in the shade where the camp was pitched under some wide-topped acacia trees with a boulder-strewn cliff behind them, and a stretch of grass that ran to the bank of a boulder-filled stream in front with forest beyond it, and drank their just-cool lime drinks and avoided one another's eyes while the boys set the table for lunch. Wilson could tell that the boys all knew about it now and when he saw Macomber's personal boy looking curiously at his master while he was putting dishes on the table he snapped at him in Swahili. The boy turned away with his face blank.
"What were you telling him?" Macomber asked.
"Nothing. Told him to look alive or I'd see he got about fifteen of the best."
"What's that? Lashes?"
"It's quite illegal," Wilson said. "You're supposed to fine them."
"Do you still have them whipped?"
"Oh, yes. They could raise a row if they chose to complain. But they don't. They prefer it to the fines."
"How strange!" said Macomber.
"Not strange, really," Wilson said. "Which would you rather do? Take a good birching or lose your pay?"
Then he felt embarrassed at asking it and before Macomber could answer he went on, "We all take a beating every day, you know, one way or another."
This was no better. "Good God," he thought. "I am a diplomat, aren't I?"
"Yes, we take a beating," said Macomber, still not looking at him. "I'm awfully sorry about that lion business. It doesn't have to go any further, does it? I mean no one will hear about it, will they?"
"You mean will I tell it at the Mathaiga Club?" Wilson looked at him now coldly. He had not expected this. So he's a bloody four-letter man as well as a bloody coward, he thought. I rather liked him too until today. But how is one to know about an American?
"No," said Wilson. "I'm a professional hunter. We never talk about our clients. You can be quite easy on that. It's supposed to be bad form to ask us not to talk though."
He had decided now that to break would be much easier. He would eat, then, by himself and could read a book with his meals. They would eat by themselves. He would see them through the safari on a very formal basis — what was it the French called it? Distinguished consideration — and it would be a damn sight easier than having to go through this emotional trash. He'd insult him and make a good clean break. Then he could read a book with his meals and he'd still be drinking their whisky. That was the phrase for it when a safari went bad. You ran into another white hunter and you asked, "How is everything going?" and he answered, "Oh, I'm still drinking their whisky," and you knew everything had gone to pot.
"I'm sorry," Macomber said and looked at him with his American face that would stay adolescent until it became middle-aged, and Wilson noted his crew-cropped hair, fine eyes only faintly shifty, good nose, thin lips and handsome jaw. "I'm sorry I didn't realize that. There are lots of things I don't know."
So what could he do, Wilson thought. He was all ready to break it off quickly and neatly and here the beggar was apologizing after he had just insulted him. He made one more attempt. "Don't worry about me talking," he said. "I have a living to make. You know in Africa no woman ever misses her lion and no white man ever bolts."
"I bolted like a rabbit," Macomber said.
Now what in hell were you going to do about a man who talked like that, Wilson wondered.
Wilson looked at Macomber with his flat, blue, machine-gunner's eyes and the other smiled back at him. He had a pleasant smile if you did not notice how his eyes showed when he was hurt.
"Maybe I can fix it up on buffalo," he said. "We're after them next, aren't we?"
"In the morning if you like," Wilson told him. Perhaps he had been wrong. This was certainly the way to take it. You most certainly could not tell a damned thing about an American. He was all for Macomber again. If you could forget the morning. But, of course, you couldn't. The morning had been about as bad as they come.
"Here comes the Memsahib," he said. She was walking over from her tent looking refreshed and cheerful and quite lovely. She had a very perfect oval face, so perfect that you expected her to be stupid. But she wasn't stupid, Wilson thought, no, not stupid.
"How is the beautiful red-faced Mr. Wilson? Are you feeling better, Francis, my pearl?"
"Oh, much," said Macomber.
"I've dropped the whole thing," she said, sitting down at the table. "What importance is there to whether Francis is any good at killing lions? That's not his trade. That's Mr. Wilson's trade. Mr. Wilson is really very impressive killing anything. You do kill anything, don't you?"
"Oh, anything," said Wilson. "Simply anything." They are, he thought, the hardest in the world; the hardest, the cruelest, the most predatory and the most attractive and their men have softened or gone to pieces nervously as they have hardened. Or is it that they pick men they can handle? They can't know that much at the age they marry, he thought. He was grateful that he had gone through his education on American women before now because this was a very attractive one.
"We're going after buff in the morning," he told her.
"I'm coming," she said.
"No, you're not."
"Oh, yes, I am. Mayn't I, Francis?"
"Why not stay in camp?"
"Not for anything," she said. "I wouldn't miss something like today for anything."
When she left, Wilson was thinking, when she went off to cry, she seemed a hell of a fine woman. She seemed to understand, to realize, to be hurt for him and for herself and to know how things really stood. She is away for twenty minutes and now she is back, simply enamelled in that American female cruelty. They are the damnedest women. Really the damnedest.
"We'll put on another show for you tomorrow," Francis Macomber said.
"You're not coming," Wilson said.
"You're very mistaken," she told him. "And I want so to see you perform again. You were lovely this morning. That is if blowing things' heads off is lovely."
"Here's the lunch," said Wilson. "You're very merry, aren't you?"
"Why not? I didn't come out here to be dull."
"Well, it hasn't been dull," Wilson said. He could see the boulders in the river and the high bank beyond with the trees and he remembered the morning.
"Oh, no," she said. "It's been charming. And tomorrow. You don't know how I look forward to tomorrow."
"That's eland he's offering you," Wilson said.
"They're the big cowy things that jump like hares, aren't they?"
"I suppose that describes them," Wilson said.
"It's very good meat," Macomber said.
"Did you shoot it, Francis?" she asked.
"They're not dangerous, are they?"
"Only if they fall on you," Wilson told her.
"I'm so glad."
"Why not let up on the bitchery just a little, Margot," Macomber said, cutting the eland steak and putting some mashed potato, gravy and carrot on the down-turned fork that tined through the piece of meat.
"I suppose I could," she said, "since you put it so prettily."
"Tonight we'll have champagne for the lion," Wilson said.
"It's a bit too hot at noon."
"Oh, the lion," Margot said. "I'd forgotten the lion!"
So, Robert Wilson thought to himself, she is giving him a ride, isn't she? Or do you suppose that's her idea of putting up a good show? How should a woman act when she discovers her husband is a bloody coward? She's damn cruel but they're all cruel. They govern, of course, and to govern one has to be cruel sometimes. Still, I've seen enough of their damn terrorism.
"Have some more eland," he said to her politely.
That afternoon, late, Wilson and Macomber went out in the motor car with the native driver and the two gun-bearers. Mrs. Macomber stayed in the camp. It was too hot to go out, she said, and she was going with them in the early morning. As they drove off Wilson saw her standing under the big tree, looking pretty rather than beautiful in her faintly rosy khaki, her dark hair drawn back off her forehead and gathered in a knot low on her neck, her face as fresh, he thought, as though she were in England. She waved to them as the car went off through the swale of high grass and curved around through the trees into the small hills of orchard bush.
In the orchard bush they found a herd of impala, and leaving the car they stalked one old ram with long, wide-spread horns and Macomber killed it with a very creditable shot that knocked the buck down at a good two hundred yards and sent the herd off bounding wildly and leaping over one another's backs in long, leg-drawn-up leaps as unbelievable and as floating as those one makes sometimes in dreams.
"That was a good shot," Wilson said. "They're a small target."
"Is it a worth-while head?" Macomber asked.
"It's excellent," Wilson told him. "You shoot like that and you'll have no trouble."
"Do you think we'll find buffalo tomorrow?"
"There's a good chance of it. They feed out early in the morning and with luck we may catch them in the open."
"I'd like to clear away that lion business," Macomber said. "It's not very pleasant to have your wife see you do something like that."
I should think it would be even more unpleasant to do it, Wilson thought, wife or no wife, or to talk about it having done it. But he said, "I wouldn't think about that any more. Any one could be upset by his first lion. That's all over."
But that night after dinner and a whisky and soda by the fire before going to bed, as Francis Macomber lay on his cot with the mosquito bar over him and listened to the night noises it was not all over. It was neither all over nor was it beginning. It was there exactly as it happened with some parts of it indelibly emphasized and he was miserably ashamed at it. But more than shame he felt cold, hollow fear in him. The fear was still there like a cold slimy hollow in all the emptiness where once his confidence had been and it made him feel sick. It was still there with him now.
It had started the night before when he had wakened and heard the lion roaring somewhere up along the river. It was a deep sound and at the end there were sort of coughing grunts that made him seem just outside the tent, and when Francis Macomber woke in the night to hear it he was afraid. He could hear his wife breathing quietly, asleep. There was no one to tell he was afraid, nor to be afraid with him, and, lying alone, he did not know the Somali proverb that says a brave man is always frightened three times by a lion; when he first sees his track, when he first hears him roar and when he first confronts him. Then while they were eating breakfast by lantern light out in the dining tent, before the sun was up, the lion roared again and Francis thought he was just at the edge of camp.
"The Capital of the World"; "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber"; "The Snows of Kilimanjaro" copyright © 1936 Ernest Hemingway;
renewal copyright © 1964 Mary Hemingway
THE SHORT HAPPY LIFE OF FRANCIS MACOMBER
THE CAPITAL OF THE WORLD
THE SNOWS OF KILIMANJARO
OLD MAN AT THE BRIDGE
UP IN MICHIGAN
ON THE QUAI AT SMYRNA
THE DOCTOR AND THE DOCTOR'S WIFE
THE END OF SOMETHING
THE THREE-DAY BLOW
A VERY SHORT STORY
MR. AND MRS. ELLIOT
CAT IN THE RAIN
OUT OF SEASON
MY OLD MAN
BIG TWO-HEARTED RIVER: PART I
BIG TWO-HEARTED RIVER: PART II
IN ANOTHER COUNTRY
HILLS LIKE WHITE ELEPHANTS
CHE TI DICE LA PATRIA?
A SIMPLE ENQUIRY
A CANARY FOR ONE
AN ALPINE IDYLL
A PURSUIT RACE
TODAY IS FRIDAY
NOW I LAY ME
AFTER THE STORM
A CLEAN, WELL-LIGHTED PLACE
THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD
GOD REST YOU MERRY, GENTLEMEN
THE SEA CHANGE
A WAY YOU'LL NEVER BE
THE MOTHER OF A QUEEN
ONE READER WRITES
HOMAGE TO SWITZERLAND
A DAY'S WAIT
A NATURAL HISTORY OF THE DEAD
WINE OF WYOMING
THE GAMBLER, THE NUN, AND THE RADIO
FATHERS AND SONS
There has long been a need for a complete and up-to-date edition of the shortstories of Ernest Hemingway. Until now the only such volume was the omnibuscollection of the first forty-nine stories published in 1938 together withHemingway's play The Fifth Column. That was a fertile period ofHemingway's writing and a number of stories based on his experiences in Cubaand Spain were appearing in magazines, but too late to have been included in"The First Forty-nine."
In 1939 Hemingway was already considering a new collection of stories thatwould take its place beside the earlier books In Our Time, Men WithoutWomen, and Winner Take Nothing. On February 7 he wrote from his homein Key West to his editor Maxwell Perkins at Scribners suggesting such a book.At that time he had already completed five stories: "The Denunciation," "TheButterfly and the Tank," "Night Before Battle," "Nobody Ever Dies," and"Landscape with Figures," which is published here for the first time. A sixthstory, "Under the Ridge," would appear shortly in the March 1939 edition ofCosmopolitan.
As it turned out, Hemingway's plans for that new book did not pan out. He hadcommitted himself to writing three "very long" stories to round out thecollection two dealing with battles in the Spanish Civil War and one about theCuban fisherman who fought a swordfish for four days and four nights only tolose it to sharks. But once Hemingway got underway on his novel -- later published as For Whom the Bell Tolls -- all other writing projects werelaid aside. We can only speculate on the two war stories he abandoned, but itis probable that much of what they mighthrs in the history of literature, and his stories taken as a whole present a world of experience. In 1918 he signed up for ambulance duty in Italy as a member of an American Field Service unit. It was his first transatlantic journey and he was eighteen at the time. On the day of his arrival in Milan a munitions factory blew up, and with the other volunteers in his contingent Hemingway was assigned to gather up the remains of the dead. Only three months later he was badly wounded in both legsand hospitalized in the American Red Cross hospital in Milan, with subsequentoutpatient treatment. These wartime experiences, including the people he met,provided many details for his novel of World War I, A Farewell to Arms.They also inspired five short story masterpieces.
In the 1920s he revisited Italy several times; sometimes as a professionaljournalist and sometimes for pleasure. His short story about a motor trip witha friend through Mussolini's Italy, "Che Ti Dice La Patria?," succeeds inconveying the harsh atmosphere of a totalitarian regime.
Between 1922 and 1924 Hemingway made several trips to Switzerland to gathermaterial for The Toronto Star. His subjects included economic conditionsand other practical subjects, but also accounts of Swiss winter sports:bobsledding, skiing, and the hazardous luge. As in other fields, Hemingway wasahead of his compatriots in discovering places and pleasures that would becometourist attractions. At the same time, he was storing up ideas for a number ofhis short stories, with themes ranging from the comic to the serious and themacabre.
Hemingway attended his first bullfight, in the company of American friends, in1923, when he made an excursion to Madrid from Paris, where he was living atthe time. From the moment the first bull burst into the ring he was overwhelmedby the experience and left the scene a lifelong fan. For him the spectacle of aman pitted against a wild bull was a tragedy rather than a sport. He wasfascinated by its techniques and conventions, the skill and courage required bythe toreros, and the sheer violence of the bulls. He soon became anacknowledged expert on bullfighting and wrote a famous treatise on the subject,Death in the Afternoon. A number of his stories also have bullfightingthemes.
In time, Hemingway came to love all of Spain -- its customs, its landscapes,its art treasures, and its people. When the Spanish Civil War broke out in thelast week of July 1936, he was a staunch supporter of the Loyalists, helping toprovide support for their cause and covering the war from Madrid as acorrespondent for the North American Newspaper Alliance. Out of the entirety ofhis experiences in Spain during the war he produced seven short stories inaddition to his novel, For Whom the Bell Tolls, and his play, TheFifth Column. It was one of the most prolific and inspired periods of hiswriting career.
In 1933, when his wife Pauline's wealthy uncle Gus Pfeiffer offered to stakethe Hemingways to an African safari, Ernest was totally captivated by theprospect and made endless preparations, including inviting a company of friendsto join them and selecting suitable weapons and other equipment for the trip.
The safari itself lasted about ten weeks, but everything he saw seems to havemade an indelible impression on his mind. Perhaps he regained, as the result ofhis enthusiasm and interest, a childlike capacity to re cord details almostphotographically. It was his first meeting with the famous white hunter PhillipPercival, whom he admired at once for his cool and sometimes cunningprofessionalism. At the end of the safari, Hemingway had filled his mind withimages, incidents, and character studies of unique value for his writings. Asthe harvest of the trip he wrote the nonfiction novel Green Hills ofAfrica, and some of his finest stories. These include "The Short Happy Lifeof Francis Macomber" and "The Snows of Kilimanjaro" as well as "An AfricanStory," which appeared as a story within a story in The Garden of Eden,a novel published posthumously in May 1986.
In spite of the obvious importance of the Paris years on Hemingway'sdevelopment as a writer, few of his short stories have French settings. He wasaware of that fact and in his preface to A Moveable Feast wistfullymentions subjects that he might have written about, some of which might havebecome short stories.
During World War II Hemingway served as a war correspondent covering theNormandy invasions and the liberation of Paris. It seems that he also assembled a group of extramilitary scouts keeping pace with the retreating Germans. The balance between fiction and nonfiction in his stories of the period, including the previously unpublished "Black Ass at the Cross Roads," may never be determined.
Toward the end of his life Hemingway wrote two fables for the child of afriend, "The Good Lion" and "The Faithful Bull," which were published byHoliday in 1951 and are reprinted here. He also published two shortstories in The Atlantic Monthly, "Get a Seeing-Eyed Dog," and "A Man of the World" both December 20, 1957.
We have g rouped seven previously unpublished works of fiction at the back ofthe book. Four of these represent completed short stories; the other threecomprise extended scenes from unpublished, uncompleted novels.
All in all, this Finca Vigía edition contains twenty-one stories that were not included in "The First Forty-nine." The collection is named for Hemingway's home in San Francisco de Paula, Cuba. He lived at Finca Vigía "Lookout Farm" on and off during the last two decades of his life. The finca was dear to his heart and it seems appropriate now that it should contain a major portion of his life work, which was even more dear.
-- Charles Scribner, Jr.
Copyright © 1987 by Simon & Schuster Inc.
When Papa and Marty first rented in 1940 the Finca Vigía which was to be his home for the next twenty-two years until his death, there was still a real country on the south side. This country no longer exists. It was not done in by middle-class real estate developers like Chekhov's cherry orchard, which might have been its fate in Puerto Rico or Cuba without the Castro revolution, but by the startling growth of the population of poor people and their shack housing which is such a feature of all the Greater Antilles, no matter what their political persuasion.
As children in the very early morning lying awake in bed in our own little house that Marty had fixed up for us, we used to listen for the whistling call of the bobwhites in that country to the south.
It was a country covered in manigua thicket and in the tall flamboyante trees that grew along the watercourse that ran through it, wild guinea fowl used to come and roost in the evening. They would be calling to each other, keeping in touch with each other in the thicket, as they walked and scratched and with little bursts of running moved back toward their roosting trees at the end of their day's foraging in the thicket.
Manigua thicket is a scrub acacia thornbush from Africa, the first seeds of which the Creoles say came to the island between the toes of the black slaves. The guinea fowl were from Africa too. They never really became as tame as the other barnyard fowl the Spanish settlers brought with them and some escaped and throve in the monsoon tropical climate, just as Papa told us some of the black slaves had escaped from the shipwreck of slave ships onthe coast ofght of Saint Elmo's fire.
During the early years at the finca, Papa did not appear to write any fiction at all. He wrote many letters, of course, and in one of them he says that it is his turn to rest. Let the world get on with the mess it had gotten itself into.
Marty was the one who seemed to write and to have kept her taste for the high excitement of their life together in Madrid during the last period of the Spanish Civil War. Papa and she played a lot of tennis with each other on the clay court down by the swimming pool and there were often tennis parties with their friends among the Basque professional jai alai players from the fronton in Havana. One of these was what the young girls today would call a hunk, and Marty flirted with him a little and Papa spoke of his rival, whom he would now and again beat at tennis by the lowest form of cunning expressed in spins and chops and lobs against the towering but uncontrolled honest strength of the rival.
It was all great fun for us, the deep-sea fishing on the Pilar that Gregorio Fuentes, the mate, kept always ready for use in the little fishing harbor of Cojimar, the live pigeon shooting at the Club de Cazadores del Cerro, the trips into Havana for drinks at the Floridita and to buy The Illustrated London News with its detailed drawings of the war so far away in Europe.
Papa, who was always very good at that sort of thing, suggested a quotation from Turgenev to Marty: "The heart of another is a dark forest," and she used part of it for the title of a work of fiction she had just completed at the time.
Although the Finca Vigía collection contains all the stories that appearedin the first comprehensive collection of Papa's short stories published in 1938, those stories are now well known. Much of this collection's interest to the reader will no doubt be in the stories that were written or only came to light after he came to live at the Finca Vigía.
-- JOHN, PATRICK, AND GREGORY HEMINGWAY
Copyright © 1987 by Simon & Schuster Inc.
Posted January 23, 2011
No text was provided for this review.