That Summer in Paris

by Callaghan, Morley;

  Loretto would be agreeing, too, that he had been generous enough to come this far. I’m not going to turn back now from Chartres, I thought grimly. Not just to see a horse race. My wife said, “Well, what do we do?” and I said, “I’ll regret it all my life if I don’t see Chartres. Come on, let’s go.”

  As we got into the car I knew that in Ernest’s place I might have been sullen and irritable. I would have felt he was pushing me around. On the other hand, if we turned back, I would be letting him push me around. We were really pulling wildly against each other. I knew he wanted to wring my neck, yet he acted with grace and charm. On the road again he was neither sullen nor irritable.

  When we got to Chartres and entered the Cathedral, again he remained with Loretto, letting me wander around by myself. It was midafternoon. Sunlight was streaming through the famous blue windows. They began to enchant me. The sculptured heads, the Old Testament figures, were all around me. It seemed to me these heads had been carved by men who regarded the prophets as contemporaries; they had brought the whole Christian past into their present. Moving around by myself, meditating on this early Medieval view of history, I heard Ernest say scornfully to Loretto, “Look at him. He doesn’t even genuflect.” As a convert he had been genuflecting right and left at all the proper places. Now he was looking down his nose at me. He was inviting my wife to do the same. Ernest, the expert, the one who always knew! But I was convinced he was really wondering what happened to his horse at Longchamps.

  As I remember it, when we came out of the Cathedral the three of us stood together in the dusty square, looking up at the two steeples out of two Gothic periods. I said something about Henry Adams and Chartres being all of France. He didn’t answer. Here again was one of Ernest’s peculiar traits. While we stood there, meditating, just looking at the church, each one of us getting his fill, he expressed no enthusiasm. His handsome head raised a little, his dark eyes half closed, he looked at the church a long time, as I did too, and he kept his thoughts to himself. He didn’t ask me if I had been impressed. Yet he wouldn’t have brought us there if he had thought it would have been necessary to ask such a question.

  Then we heard music like calliope circus music. A little fair with tents and galleries for games had been set up just beyond the square. We wandered over. At the shooting gallery Ernest said, “Come on, let’s shoot. Whoever loses, pays.”

  For targets there were little ducks and tiny dolls set up in a row only about eight feet away from the rail where we stood with the guns. I had done a little shooting. Not much. Not since my boyhood. But we were so close to the targets, how could you miss? We each had four shots. He knocked down his four little targets. So did I. Another round. The same result. Still again. The same result. Irritated and more determined, he insisted we go on. On the twelfth round, and on my last shot, my little target tilted, swayed, then finally fell, as Ernest and I, now competing fiercely, watched breathlessly. We would have gone all night. Grabbing my arm, Loretto cried, “You missed, Morley. You didn’t really hit it,” and as I turned to protest, I caught a withering look from her. Abashed, I said, “That’s right,” and I paid. As I glanced at Ernest I could see he felt somewhat mollified.

  When we got into the car to begin the drive back to Paris, Ernest said a nearby place was famous for snails. The snails there were as good as any in France. This restaurant on the road from Chartres turned out to be a damp cellar. Snails were not my favorite dish, I said calmly, knowing I was losing all prestige. Loretto and Ernest, of course, ate the snails, with great relish. “He doesn’t like snails, Loretto,” Ernest kept saying with too much satisfaction. Again I knew he was picking on me. Again I knew his horse at Longchamps was still in the back of his mind. Yet the fact that he had caught me failing to genuflect, his little triumph at the shooting gallery, and now the snails, made him almost jolly with us. On the way back to Paris we were laughing and joking again.

  It had got dark while we were still on the road. But the lights of Paris were ahead. As we drove into the suburbs Ernest grew more subdued. At the first corner he stopped the car. “I want to get a paper,” he said. When he had got out, my wife said fervently, “Pray to God that horse didn’t win.” We saw him buying a newspaper. Breathless, we waited, watching him standing under the streetlight, scanning the track results. Then he came toward us, smiling. “Well, my horse didn’t even run in the money. You saved me some dough,” he said. And we laughed in our nervous relief.

  He drove us home to our little hotel on Raspail. It was quite dark now. I remember so clearly our parting with him. The streetlight was on him, and in that light there seemed to be so much warmth and vitality in his face. He kissed my wife goodbye. As I shook hands with him, watching him smile, aware of all the ease and sweetness in him, I was moved, not only because it seemed to be right that the last full day I should be spending with anyone in France should be with him, but because in all our boxing afternoons when we had been pummeling each other, we had never had a harsh word. Not even when Scott got mixed up in it; and even the fierce silent little struggle with him over having my way about going on to Chartres was the kind of struggle you have with a man you feel very close to, and he had shown more grace than I would have shown myself. As we said goodbye, we assumed we would soon see him again. Then he got into his car, waved, laughed and was gone.

  “I was glad he showed up the other night,” I said.

  “Well, I could have kicked you at that shooting gallery,”

  Loretto said. “The guy comes around and takes us to Chartres when he wants to be at the races. You won’t turn back. And then you won’t even let him win a little shooting match. What’s the matter with you? You said yourself the first day here with him, he just has to be champion.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Our leave-taking of the Quarter and our departure for London seemed to have been rather hurried and crowded. I’m looking now at a letter to London from Titus:

  ...frankly I have never before seen such an experience as we had getting you off. If we had taken for granted the porter’s statement that the train had gone, and had not tipped everyone right and left, you probably would not have got off... I have had Hemingway up at the house the other night... he said he might write me an introduction to Kiki’s memoirs... You are very much missed.

  I forget the cause of the confusion in our departure, but I remember that as soon as we got into a London taxi I knew definitely the journey was over and we were on the way home. It was the taxi driver. He was a thin grave middle-aged man wearing one of those straw boaters. I tried to make a joke with him as I would have done with a Paris taxi driver. As he looked at me with his gray, dignified, straw-hatted disapproval, he could have been taken for an alderman in my native city.

  We stayed only two weeks in London. All our mornings were spent in the National Gallery where uninvited and unnoticed, we joined an art class. The first morning, when we had been looking at a Michelangelo drawing, a middle-aged teacher with an author-itative voice had swooped down on us with a group of students, and had begun a lecture on Renaissance art. We let the group carry us along to the next subject. At noontime he said, “Well, the same time tomorrow.” We were there. All that week we were members of the class, and no one asked where we came from. In London we didn’t look up Helena Rubenstein, nor use any of the letters of introduction Sinclair Lewis had given us.

  After two weeks we went to Ireland. In Dublin, at the Gresham Hotel, I would try to talk to the woman who managed the place about William Butler Yeats, but she would rather have talked about the big nights at the hotel when the horsey set was there. In Dublin streets, looking for Joyce’s Dubliners, we would wonder if Joyce himself in Paris was still playing that Aimee Semple McPherson record. We went down to Cork and into the countryside. But Ireland only made us feel melancholy and anxious to be on our way home.

  In New York when I walked into Perkins’ office, I was carrying an Irish blackthorn, and he tried to hide his amusement. We talked about Ernest
and Scott and he told me that Ernest had written him letters about our boxing. And I could tell he wasn’t aware of Scott’s humiliation.

  Back in Toronto I waited for the publication of the novel It’s Never Over, which I had written in Paris, and began to write stories. Often I would find myself wondering when Ernest and Scott would return to America. A friend of mine had told me, smiling, that Ernest in a letter had referred to me as “Lord Morley.” It worried me. Granting it was an amusing view of me, it made me think of Scott trying to stand on his head to impress me. What kind of guy was I? Some men ask this question of themselves day and night. The question had never bothered me. And perhaps it was why Ernest, aware of my attitude, could jokingly refer to me as “Lord Morley.”

  Only a few weeks had passed since our return. Now I remember the day in November when I went into a bookstore to get the New York Sunday papers. Reading the New York Herald Tribute “Books,” I finally came to Isabel Paterson’s page, a page of gossip and chitchat about writers and publishers. My eye caught Hemingway’s name, then my own. The story was about my meeting Hemingway in Paris. According to this story Hemingway, sitting at the Dôme when I came along, told me the story I had written about a prizefighter was no good; it was obvious that I knew nothing about boxing. And there and then he challenged me to a match. I had knocked him out in one round.

  The story filled me with such agitation I couldn’t think clearly. I called Loretto. I showed her the story. We both felt desolate. Who had put out the story? Then, stricken, I knew it didn’t matter; the malicious thing had been printed, a legend very important to Hemingway might be destroyed. And what was more terrible, I knew, was that the malice struck at the root of his whole fantasy. He had been made to look like a boastful bully whose bluff had been called. A host of envious people would rejoice to have their own wishful view of him confirmed. And no matter what he had thought of me, I felt very close to him.

  For some hours I couldn’t get my thoughts organized. I was too full of protest. It seemed to be a ghastly outrageous irony that I had been chosen as the one who could humiliate my friend. Finally I sat down and wrote the following letter to the Herald Tribune:

  Toronto, Nov. 26/29

  Dear Miss Paterson,

  Last Saturday I saw the story of the singular encounter between Ernest Hemingway and me, taken from the Denver Post. It is a fine story and you can imagine how much I regret not deserving such a reputation, but this ought to be said: Hemingway, as far as I know, never sat at the Dôme last summer. Certainly he never sat there panning my fight stories and whatever background I might have for them. I have only written one fight story anyway. I’ll have to do some more at once. Nor did I ever challenge Hemingway. Eight or nine times we went boxing last summer trying to work up a sweat and an increased eagerness for an extra glass of beer afterwards. We never had an audience. Nor did I ever knock out Hemingway. Once we had a timekeeper. If there was any kind of a remarkable performance that afternoon the timekeeper deserves the applause. Being of a peaceful and shy disposition I have only envy for strong men who challenge each other then knock each other out. But I do wish you’d correct that story or I’ll never be able to go to New York again for fear of being knocked out.

  Best personal wishes,

  Then I wrote to Max Perkins, enclosing a copy of the letter I had written to Isabel Paterson. I knew he would understand my concern. I prayed that Ernest in Paris might not see the New York Tribune – at least not until my correction had appeared.

  Within a week I heard from Perkins, who comforted me. My letter to the Herald Tribune would be printed, he said. No one would be injured, he assured me. I also got this note from Isabel Paterson:

  Dec. 3, 1929

  Dear Mr. Callaghan,

  I am printing your correction next Sunday. Sorry to have been misled, though I must admit it sounded too good to be true. If I had known you were back in Toronto I might have sent it to you to check up. I had no idea where to look for you in Paris last summer, didn’t know where anyone was, and consequently saw no one which I regretted very much. I thought Ford was going to be over there and tell me about the others; but he didn’t arrive back from New York until a day or so before I had come back.

  Good luck.

  Sincerely,

  Isabel Paterson

  But just before my letter was printed I got a cable from Scott: HAVE SEEN STORY IN HERALD TRIBUNE. ERNEST AND I AWAIT YOUR CORRECTION. SCOTT FITZGERALD.

  And the cable came to me collect!

  All week I had been upset, torn between melancholy and disappointment. When I got this cable from Scott I was blind with indignation. The arrogance of the cable! Scott sending it to me collect! Was I supposed to be the one who put out the story? If he wanted to correct the story why didn’t he do so? Or why didn’t Ernest do it himself? Scott taking it upon himself to handle the situation – a good little boy taking over for Ernest, when he knew I was aware of his own bitterness. What did he want me to do? Write the story, tell the truth, tell in detail the whole affair, tell about him crying out, “He thinks I did it on purpose?” I had expected to hear from Ernest, but not Scott.

  And when I read in the Herald Tribune my elegant gloss of the events in question, I felt all the more enraged. I wrote Scott a letter. Until now I had been the one untouched by rancor. My two friends might nurse their secret resentments, but I had done nothing to bring humiliation upon myself. To this day I feel ashamed of that letter I wrote to Scott. It is a humiliation to me even now to remember it. I told him it had been unnecessary for him to rush in to defend Ernest. For him to hurry out and send that cable to me collect without waiting to see what I would do was the act of a son of a bitch and I could only assume that he was drunk as usual when he sent it.

  I wrote Perkins, told him of the cable from Scott, told him it enraged me.

  By this time, of course, Perkins was trying to calm his insulted authors. My piece in the Tribune had appeared. Perkins was busy writing to Scott and to Ernest and to me.

  Finally I heard from Ernest. The letter was a beauty. I have it on my desk now, dated January 4, 1929. (Actually, the thirties had begun – we weren’t still in ’29.) It was sent from 6 rue Ferou, in Paris. It is written in pencil.

  In this letter Ernest put the blame on Pierre Loving for starting the story in both Paris and New York, and he said that he had cabled Loving in New York saying he had heard Loving had seen him knocked out by me. But Loving hadn’t replied.

  And then Ernest said it was at his instigation that Scott had cabled me, calling my attention to the appearance of the story and saying he was waiting impatiently to see me correct it. In this letter Ernest underlined his acceptance of all responsibility for the cable. Scott had acted against his own convictions. Then Ernest went on to say that because three weeks had passed since the story had been printed in the New York Post (sic) he couldn’t know whether I had seen it or corrected it, and if I hadn’t it would have fallen to Scott to do it, since he had been present. Again Ernest repeated Scott was against sending the cable, insisting I would have read the story. But the wire, Ernest went on, made no reflection on me. Three weeks had elapsed before he himself had read the story, therefore he couldn’t be certain I had read it.

  Again he took the entire responsibility for the sending of the cable to me. Since some abusive language was being used concerning the one who was responsible for the dispatch of the wire, he was telling me Scott was blameless. He, Ernest, was the one. If I wanted to switch to him the abusive terms I had directed at Scott, he was coming to the States shortly and would be at my service wherever it could be kept private.

  So Ernest wanted to meet me and knock my block off! And I knew why. It was as he had said; he had literally compelled Scott to send that peremptory and arrogant cable. Yes, I could see what had happened. Upset as he should have been, as I myself in his place would have been, he had rushed out looking for Scott. And I could see Scott, distressed and pale, trying to reason with him, begging him to wai
t. And I could see Scott, too, under the pressure of Ernest’s anger, recalling all the embarrassment Ernest had suffered that day in the American Club. Perhaps Scott had been made to feel half guilty himself. And he must have wondered bitterly what had kept driving him to ask to be allowed to come with us. Going against his own wisdom, his own sensibility, and remembering that Ernest had left him feeling that he, Scott, enjoyed seeing him humiliated, Scott had given in and sent the cable. Now here was Ernest inviting me to transfer the epithets I had addressed to Scott to him. Even after reading my piece in the Tribune, Ernest still panted to beat me up.

  I wrote to him calmly enough. I said I regretted what had happened. Then, to let him know what I thought of him for dra-gooning Scott into sending the cable, I wrote that I couldn’t transfer the epithets to him. Since he had compelled Scott to send the cable, I would have to get a whole fresh set of epithets to address to him.

  Again I heard from Perkins, who knew about the cable and who had heard from Paris. Scott had read my letter in the Herald Tribune. According to Perkins, Scott had tried desperately to assure Ernest that they should leave the whole matter to me. They both knew me. I was bound to see the original story and know how it would torment Ernest, and I would be quick to come to his defense. Perkins wanted me to know that from beginning to end I had acted like a little gentleman and that Scott was full of remorse. Perkins asked me to leave everything to him.

  A little later I got a letter from Scott, a letter from Paris dated January 1, and he too seemed to believe we were still in the year 1929 and not 1930.

  The letter is written in ink in bold clear handwriting easy to read, and I look at it now on the desk before me, and recall all my feelings. Plunging right in, Scott apologizes without any reserva-tions for what he called his “stupid and hasty” telegram. He assures me he knew I was quick to deny the story, and he wants me to know it never entered his head that I might have started the rumor. It had never been his intention to make the telegram sound insin-uating, and he was sorry for the wording of it. But with the story being repeated he felt it had to be denied by him or me, and since I was on the ground it was his idea that it was up to me. And then Scott went on to say that he himself had too often endured pain from these scandalous stories, and he believed they stayed around a long time unless they were immediately wiped from the slate.