The Other Women

Immediately within the first paragraph of the Shakespeare and Company chapter in Ernest Hemingway’s, A Moveable Feast, Hemingway speaks highly of the bookstore owner, Sylvia Beach. Though at first he comments on her appearance, and a bit sexually at that, his diction is telling of her gay personality. And in quintessential Hemingway fashion, his observations are short, but acute. We get a greater comprehensive understanding of her character and role in his life through his integration of dialogue and interactions. Beach is a lovely woman—present, understanding, welcoming—she seems to fall in that category of people you ask yourself if its possible that they have any enemies. It’s hard to imagine they would.

Though the chapter is short, a mere four pages, only two really dedicated to Beach, the friendship between her and Hemingway is potent. Two literature lovers, one a bookkeeper, the other a writer, they are at opposite ends of the same spectrum, providing two different perspectives on the same labyrinthine subject. Not only one of his first friends in Paris, Beach was also one of Hemingway’s first fans and supporters as a writer. I find that it’s hard to find a friend and someone who appreciates your craft in the same person, and when it happens, that individual is to be cherished endlessly. This is not to say that best friends don’t understand each other on a professional level, but rather that if they do not study the same subject or practice the same art, it’s difficult to relate on a level that eclipses surface compliments such as, “I can really hear your voice in your writing!” or perhaps the most hollow, “wow, that was so good!” I realize I sound bitter and unappreciative, and though it’s flattering to hear such remarks, it’s always more rewarding to hear comments that are constructive, even if they sting.

Beach also had a profound relationship with Irish novelist and poet, James Joyce; she was arguably one of the most important support systems in his literary career, and life in general. Their relationship however seemed to be one of co-dependence—on Joyce’s end. In the Joyce and Sylvia Beach document by Sanford Pinsker, it’s apparent that Joyce used Beach not only as an emotional support, but also as an endless errand runner. Beach adopted the role of being Joyce’s life-assistant, and obediently followed all his demands, tirelessly recruiting and overseeing various typists to create a pristine final manuscript for Joyce’s, Ulysses. But despite her devout and virtuous character, Beach, like all humans, reached a breaking point and in her letter to Joyce, she articulates herself in such a raw, and impressive way. She is honest, and her words read in a rational, calm-paced tone. She relays her pain without including any character assassination or victimizing herself. And even if she had it would have been justified. Despite all the financial and emotional investment she put in to his work and their relationship, Beach never received the appreciation she deserved. She never sent him the letter, which suggests that she feared her feelings were too honest for Joyce and that in opening herself up to him she may end their relationship.

The bond between Joyce and Beach is beguiling—toxic, yet undeniably charming—and Beach’s recorded role in the friendship unveils her subdued nature, a quality I wouldn’t have picked up on from Hemingway’s profile of her. Furthermore, Hemingway’s description of her does not reveal her outspoken, emotional side like the letter to Joyce does or more importantly, her own notes on Shakespeare and Company. Beach is an eloquent speaker, as mentioned previously—albeit, it seems to be apparent only in her writing—and her writing, laconic and observant, is very similar to Hemingway’s. A woman with “pretty legs [and who] was kind, cheerful, and interested”, Beach was certainly more than what met the eye.

Then, there is Elizabeth Hadley Richardson, Hemingway’s first-wife, who Hemingway, infatuated by her and her innocence, once stated as, “the girl [I knew] I was going to marry”. Their relationship appeared to be a heavenly, and though the two did share a strong bond, the story of Richardson’s relationship with Hemingway ends with a parting between the two, along with an enkindling of self-worth for Richardson. In A Moveable Feast, Hemingway presents a very blissful union between him and his wife; they not only loved one another, but they learned from each other as well, experiencing life and growing from their travels together—arguably, one of the best relationships to have. However, in Irene Gammel’s, “New Readings of American Expats in Paris”, we discover the betrayal and lack of respect sent forth to Richardson from Hemingway. Hemingway, much like Joyce to Beach, needed his female counterpart, but failed to provide and reciprocate the warmth and support she showed him, and instead—consciously and/or subconsciously—peripheralized her, literally.

Richardson was a not a writer neither like Hemingway, nor like his subsequent wives, and her domestic, quintessential soft, Southern St. Louis identity clashed with that of the modern literati, and the shameless sexual freedom attached to that culture. Initially, Hemingway was drawn to Richardson’s wholesome character, but as he grew more known in the literary world and experienced more liberal cultures, especially during his travels abroad, Richardson’s loyalty to him became vexatious. A man more honest on paper than in person, Hemingway engaged in infidelity with Pauline Pfeiffer—one of Richardson’s friends, no less—and two years after that, Richardson and Hemingway got divorced. Pfeiffer was very likely only one of the tens of sexual affairs Hemingway had, but it was perhaps the one that triggered Richardson’s awakening.

However, despite their divorce and Hemingway’s three subsequent marriages, Richardson was undeniably his most significant muse. In addition to be being his first wife, therefore first committed love, and the mother of their first child, Richardson was his partner and constant comfort in Paris, a city that before Hemingway made his mark in, was entirely unfamiliar to him. And once the honeymoon stage of the uninhibited literary-star lifestyle came to an end, Hemingway began to recognize the beauty of the anti-modernism Richardson represented. Though he never publically reclaimed a desire to reignite an intimate relationship with Richardson, he has acknowledged and admitted to being the one who destroyed their marriage.