It started with a cigarette.
Well, a cigarette and a man with a story. The identity of the
author isn’t clear at present, but it may become so in the
future. He is certainly one of the characters, set apart from
the rest only because he is also the storyteller. If authorship
may indeed be gleaned, then it is for another to deduce. To
this end and others, I’ve recorded the story as faithfully
and accurately as was possible, under the circumstances of
course…
Adam lifted his weathered copy
of A Farewell to Arms out of the messenger bag resting
on the adjacent seat and began to read casually. The train
hissed to a momentary stop. A well-dressed man juggling a leather
briefcase, a large cup of coffee, and a lit cigarette entered
the car and less-than-deftly ducked into the seat across from
Adam, presumably seeking to avoid a lecture on passenger etiquette.
After observing the novel’s language and title from the cover,
the man extinguished his cigarette and let out a brief chuckle.
Adam looked up from his reading and raised his eyebrows towards
this stranger with a quizzical expression. The middle-aged,
bespectacled man quickly seemed to realize and regret this
momentary impropriety. He apologized with a wave of his hand
and addressed Adam with a smile,
“I’m sorry. I must apologize
for my laughter, and my bad habits. I didn’t intend to mock
you or poke fun in any way. It’s just that your particular
choice of reading is…well…really quite ironic under the circumstances.”
Adam hated talking to strangers
the train. He hated the half-hearted, shallow discussions on
broad topics of mutual interest that seemed to repeat themselves
with each new passenger. He hated the endless affirmatives,
polite smiles, and practical impossibility of disagreement.
He hated asking questions to which he did not really care to
know the answers. He hated talking about himself. But most
of all, Adam hated listening to other people talk about their
work.
All he wanted to do was read
in peace—well, that and come up with a good idea for a story.
Adam was rapidly nearing the end of his semester abroad at
La Sorbonne in Paris and had not yet started the term paper
for his advanced Fiction Composition seminar, an original short
story of at least thirty pages. In one last-ditch effort at
inspiration and total focus before the Monday deadline Adam
had booked a small hotel room in Montmartre for the upcoming
weekend, a district made famous by its current and former artistic
and literary residents. With him he carried only his laptop,
a change of clothes, assorted toiletries, and a few of his
favorite books for moral support. Already suffering from severe
writer’s block by the time he boarded the train, he had decided
to search the old, familiar pages of his favorite Hemingway
novel for new ideas.
Sensing the eagerness in the
man’s eyes and the tone of his voice, Adam reluctantly acquiesced
to ask the inevitable next question demanded by the stranger’s
choice of words.
“How do you mean?”
Permission granted, the stranger’s
smile widened as he prepared himself for a long-winded monologue
which he had most likely delivered several times already, if
not explicitly rehearsed. He cleared his throat and leaned
forward to place the padded elbows of his corduroy blazer on
the table between the two men and folded his hands together.
“Well, are you familiar with
the famous Lost Hemingway Papers?”
“Yes…well, vaguely. I think I
remember reading that his wife lost a manuscript, one of his
short stories, on some train. Is that right?”
“Not just one manuscript, and
not just anywhere. As the legend goes, in November of 1921
Hemingway was living with his first wife Hadley Richardson
in Paris, earning a living as a foreign correspondent for the Toronto
Star. While he was away on assignment in Switzerland, Hadley
decided to pay him a surprise visit and bring along his writing
so he could work on it. So, she gathered together all the carbons,
original typescripts, and handwritten manuscripts she could
find into a single valise and boarded a train bound for Switzerland
leaving from the Gar De Lyon station here in Paris. Leaving
her luggage with a porter before boarding the train, she later
discovered the particular suitcase missing from her cabin without
a trace. Neither the valise nor the invaluable writing it contained
are known to have been recovered, a serious setback to Hemingway’s
nascent writing career indeed! One of Hemingway’s most difficult
losses was an early draft of A Farewell to Arms. So,
I simply could not contain myself after seeing you reading
the published version of that very same novel on a train leaving
from the very same station in Paris where the first draft was
lost over 80 years ago!”
Despite exceedingly low expectations
and a few diligent attempts to daze out, Adam could not help
finding himself drawn in by this rather strange man’s story.
After quietly debating what to say next, Adam decided to further
plumb his own curiosity and indulge the man’s obvious exuberance:
he risked asking another question.
“That is ironic. How do
you come to know so much about the subject?”
“I teach English Literature at
the University of Chicago. I’ve been using my sabbatical leave
over the last six months to finally finish a pet project I’ve
been working on sporadically since I started at the university:
a detailed biography of Ernest Hemingway. My work has led me
here to Paris this past month. I’m just now finishing up an
interesting chapter on Hemingway’s Lost Papers.”
Without realizing it, Adam started
to fall into the familiar but insincere language of the conversations
he’d had with his past single-serving train friends. And before
he knew it, he had made a fatal mistake: he let a platitude
slip out into the no man’s land above the small plastic table
which separated the two men’s seats.
“That’s really interesting. Hemingway’s
always been one of my favorite writers. His style is just so…so
original, and his voice is so unique.”
At hearing this, the professor
let out another small chuckle. Adam replayed these last words
in his head and began to blush. He feared that this idiosyncratic
but clearly intelligent little man now considered him foolish
or trite. An English major and international student, Adam
resented being pegged as boring or unsophisticated far more
than most. He decided to think carefully before his next foray,
and the professor again began to lecture.
“Twice ironic! Through my original
research on the subject, I’ve discovered that a fair portion
of Hemingway’s writing was neither unique nor original. In
fact, I have good reason to believe that on multiple occasions
he copied or adapted others’ work and presented it as his own!”
“What? Really? I don’t believe
it. I don’t remember the Lost Papers having anything
to do with plagiarism. What have you found?”
“A few years ago I was reading
a newly-published anthology containing some of Hemingway’s
early work. I stumbled across a certain short story which the
anthology attributed to Robert McAlmon, a somewhat obscure
contemporary author and one of Hemingway’s close personal friends.
The story was thought to have been written some time between
1935 and 1938. But after reading it several times, the signs
of Hemingway’s writing were unmistakably clear, leading me
to doubt the veracity of the listed author. With my biography
in mind, I looked into the matter further and discovered that
the story had been published posthumously in 1963 by McAlmon’s
grandson. He discovered the manuscript after cleaning out a
trunk full of what appeared to be his grandfather’s writing
while preparing to sell the old family house years after the
funeral. As soon as possible, I arranged to meet McAlmon’s
grandson who lives here in Paris and examine the original manuscript
to test my theory of the story’s authorship.”
“I don’t understand. You make
it sound like this McAlmon stole from Hemingway. Did Hemingway
attempt to publish one of McAlmon’s stories earlier under his
own name? Or is there another Hemingway story a little too
similar to one you discovered while reading the anthology?”
“Quite the opposite. Let me explain.
When I visited McAlmon’s son last month I discovered that he
had kept not only the original typescript and corresponding
handwritten drafts of the story in question, but also the full
trunk of disorganized and incomplete material which he thought
to be his grandfather’s writing. I examined the handwritten
manuscript and immediately determined that it was Hemingway,
and not McAlmon who had originally penned the story. Excited
by this new discovery, I resolved to search through the trunk’s
contents in greater detail to see if they contained any more
of Hemingway’s unpublished work.”
Now undeniably enthralled by
this winding narrative, Adam closed his novel and placed it
back on the seat beside him. He beckoned to a passing attendant
and asked him in French approximately how long it would be
until the train stopped in Montmartre. The attendant informed
that it would be at least another ten minutes due to track
delays ahead. After thanking him, Adam leaned forward and placed
his own hands on the table between seats. Taking great pains
not to seem too eager, he urged the professor to please continue.
“Most of the writing did turn
out to be McAlmon’s own authentic work. However, at the bottom
of the trunk I found a large worn-down file separate from the
rest of the looser material. The file contained hundreds of
handwritten notes, pages of typed manuscripts, and a re-sealed
personal letter dated November 15th, 1921. The letter was addressed
to McAlmon and written by Hemingway himself in his own hand.
At this discovery, I must admit that my curiosity got the best
of me and against my better judgment I opened the letter and
began to read its contents.
In rushed handwriting, a flustered
Hemingway confides to McAlmon that over the past few months
he had he had written multiple short stories which had been
based on the ideas of another writer whom Hemingway had not
acknowledged. More seriously, Hemingway had shared several
manuscripts and drafts with other prominent writers which were
in fact not his own work. I don’t know how familiar you are
with what’s now known as the Lost Generation, but several
expatriate writers like Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Ezra Pound,
and James Joyce would often closely collaborate, sharing and
editing each other’s writing. In the letter, the young Hemingway
reveals an admiration of these more established writers which,
based on his language, bordered on hero worship. He explains
to McAlmon that during his first few months in Paris Hemingway
had felt immense pressure to prove himself as a writer and
gain the respect of his new colleagues and mentors.
He further relates that years
earlier while working with the Toronto Star in Chicago
he had befriended a fellow reporter by the name of Thomas Callaghan.
Callaghan was himself once an aspiring fiction writer and often
sent his ideas and drafts to Hemingway for help and advice.
However, Callaghan apparently decided to give up writing fiction
in favor of religion and joined the seminary just before Hemingway
left for Paris in early 1921. Hemingway confesses to McAlmon
that seeing no danger of discovery, he had begun to sporadically
use Callaghan’s writing and ideas, passing them off as his
own work in addition to presenting his own authentic writing
to his literary peers in Paris.”
Adam digested and evaluated these
new claims. He remembered the times that he himself had been
seriously tempted to borrow a paragraph or two from some obscure
article or website—at least he would have been in good company.
He tried to fit a chronology of events together in his mind
until the professor’s story all made sense. The professor rocked
back into his seat, thoroughly satisfied, and took another
large sip of his coffee. Something still didn’t fit, and Adam
was determined to get to the bottom of the mystery before parting
ways. After several seconds of silence he asked,
“Why did Hemingway tell McAlmon
he had stolen the stories? Why didn’t he just publish them
himself if, like you said, he saw no immediate danger in doing
so?”
The professor’s eyes widened
as he thrust down his coffee and smiled eagerly. He again leaned
forward towards Adam, this time inches closer than before,
and slid his padded elbows forward along the small table between
the seats.
“Ah, why indeed! The second part
of the letter tells us that on November 14th Callaghan arrived
in Paris on vacation and decided to pay his old friend a surprise
visit. But, at the time Hemingway was still working as a correspondent
for the Toronto Star and was on assignment in Switzerland.
Callaghan therefore met only Hemingway’s wife Hadley at the
couple’s Parisian flat. During the course of the ensuing conversation
Hadley revealed details her husband’s recent work that sounded
a bit too familiar to Callaghan. Callaghan then asked to see
Hemingway’s recent manuscripts and found his suspicions confirmed.
He discovered that a large portion of his old writing had been
in fact grossly plagiarized by his supposed mentor!”
The professor’s mention of an
assignment in Switzerland provided the missing link. Adam began
to connect the dots between this new plagiarism theory and
the more well-known story about Hemingway’s Lost Papers.
He interrupted the professor impulsively.
“Wait. Did this happen before
or after Hemingway’s wife lost all his work at the train station?
And what did Callaghan do when discovered the stolen stories?”
“Just before. Callaghan was furious
when he discovered that his stories had been used by his trusted
friend. He telephoned Hemingway in Switzerland later that evening
threatening to expose him as a fraud if Hemingway didn’t immediately
destroy every last page of writing taken from or influenced
by Callaghan’s work and ideas. Hemingway saw his future as
a writer flash before his eyes and profusely apologized over
the phone. He informed Callaghan that all of his notes, manuscripts,
and other work was kept in the Paris flat, and that he would
instruct his wife to dispose of it all as soon as possible.
The historical record indicates that Callaghan returned to
the United States six days later and the two never spoke again.”
Adam began to get a sense of
the bigger picture.
“So, the Lost Papers account
is a myth. There never was a missing bag at the train station.
Hemingway had his wife destroy the papers to prevent her husband
from being exposed as a plagiarist…But, then why did she tell
that grandiose lie in the first place. Why not just destroy
the writing quietly? And you said that Hemingway’s wife lost
a copy of A Farewell to Arms on the train. Was that
really written by Callaghan? The plot is pretty much a Hemingway
autobiography.”
The professor, now visibly giddy
with excitement, gesticulated wildly with his arms and continued
speaking, raising his voice in crescendo towards the climax
of his narrative.
“Not exactly! It’s all in the
final section of Hemingway’s letter to McAlmon! Hemingway was
apparently so distraught after the telephone call that he couldn’t
remember exactly which writings had ties to Callaghan and which
were completely original—and he couldn’t leave his post in
Switzerland to go back and sort through them all in detail
himself. His literary peer group had also recently read some
of the stolen stories favorably and would be suspicious if
they remained inexplicably unpublished for much longer. Hemingway
was in a major conundrum: there was no easy way to abandon
or publish the writing without arousing serious suspicion.
Unwilling to lose years of work
but deathly afraid of being exposed, he later telephoned Hadley
and told her to gather all his writings together and
convince Callaghan that she intended to destroy them. At the
end of the letter, Hemingway informs McAlmon that he has instructed
his wife leave a small blue valise in a certain set of dumpsters
outside platform three of the Gar De Lyon train station at
4pm on November 19th before leaving for Switzerland. The valise
would contain all his authentic and borrowed work to date.
In this way he could assure Callaghan that he had indeed gotten
rid of the writing without appearing to have done so on purpose,
and at the same time avoid permanently losing the stories.
Hemingway ends the letter by instructing McAlmon to keep the
writing secret and safe until he has time to sort through it
in more detail and reclaim the authentic portion for himself.”
A train attendant interrupted
the professor’s monologue letting all passengers know that
Montmartre would be the stop after next. Adam acknowledged
the attendant briefly with a wave of his hand and immediately
shifted his attention back to the professor.
“So, that’s how Hemingway was
able to complete A Farewell to Arms…but, if he went
back and sorted through all the writing in the valise and separated
out his own, how did one of his short stories show up forty
years later published in McAlmon’s name?”
“Actually, it’s my personal and
professional opinion that Hemingway never saw any of that writing
again. In various recorded correspondences, those within his
peer circle noted a certain understated bitterness developing
between Hemingway and McAlmon in years following the event.
The letter I mentioned earlier is the last recorded written
communication between the two authors. I believe Hemingway’s
admission of plagiarism disgusted McAlmon. In denying Hemingway
the writing, McAlmon was able punish him for his sins without
completely depriving the world of one of its truly great minds.
Or, perhaps McAlmon kept the writing to publish himself in
the case that he outlived both Hemingway and Callaghan. What
really happened between the two, we’ll probably never know.
But to answer your question, it seems to me that Hemingway
completely re-wrote A Farewell to Arms from scratch.
It was in a way his penance for the whole sordid ordeal.”
“You said that you found Hemingway’s
letter in a folder with notes and manuscripts when you went
to visit McAlmon’s grandson right? Do you think any of that
writing was the same stuff Hemingway’s wife originally packed
into the valise?”
“I know it to a near certainty—the
dates are an exact match. The folder includes handwritten notes
and manuscripts written during a period between 1918 and November
3rd, 1921, the day before the Toronto Star took Hemingway
to Switzerland. I was also able to get a sample of Callaghan’s
handwriting faxed over from the Star’s archives and
it matches just under half the folder’s handwritten material.
The rest undoubtedly belonged to Hemingway, further convincing
me that he never got a chance to reclaim his lost writing.
Over the last two weeks, I’ve been able to piece together and
restore the manuscript for one additional short story, aside
from the fully-intact one McAlmon’s grandson mistakenly published
in his grandfather’s name.
“Unfortunately, the story is
typeset and doesn’t clearly list either Hemingway or Callaghan
as the original author. Since Callaghan heavily influenced
Hemingway’s early work and he himself never published any stories
for comparison, I’ve been unable to identify the author with
any real degree of confidence. So, I’m taking the story to
an old colleague of mine teaching at the University of Paris
who specializes in literary forensics. If this ‘track delay’ isn’t
too bad, I should reach his stop and be able to show him the
manuscript within the hour.”
Adam looked down under the table
at a worn leather briefcase which rested at a sharp angle against
the bottom of the seat. “Next stop: Montmartre.” Adam barely
heard the attendant’s announcement as he continued to stare
at the mysterious case at the professor’s feet. Wheels started
turning inside his head. After several seconds, he regained
his equilibrium and faced the professor.
“That’s an amazing story. I’ve
never heard anything like it. Stranger than fiction. I’ll be
the first one to buy that biography when you finish it.”
The professor smiled and nodded
his head in acknowledgement. He picked up his coffee to take
one last sip but after raising it to his lips noticed it was
completely empty.
“Just makes you think how many
stories might not belong to the people listed on the spine.
You’ll have to excuse me now, I’ve had far too much coffee
this afternoon and I don’t think this going to wait until I’m
off the train, track delays or not.”
The professor unbuckled his seatbelt
and awkwardly shuffled out of his seat and into the isle. Passing
Adam with a soft grunt, he headed carefully down the isle resting
his hands on the seat-tops for support until he disappeared
into a vacant lavatory. Adam again stared at the briefcase
which remained resting against the vacated seat. He was mesmerized,
lost in thought imagining what wondrous writing it might contain—writing
that had not yet seen the light of day or the reader’s eye. “Montmartre.” The
attendant’s call startled him out of his daze.
Adam stepped down out of the
train and into the sunshine of the Montmartre station platform.
The train let out a hiss of steam behind him and then slowly
accelerated until he watched it pass out of sight. Adam lit
a cigarette and smiled. He felt his writer’s block vanish into
the warm summer air.
# # #
A Farewell to Authorship by
Eric Lundquist
originally
published October 5, 2009