Papa Hemingway

by A. E. Hotchner

  She thought that in all aspects the institute would be splendid for Ernest and brought back brochures and literature for me to look at, but again she faced the problem that transfer was not possible without Ernest's consent. Since this was a psychiatric institution and there was no way to disguise that fact, his resistance to it was foreordained. She wrote to the Mayo doctors, asking their assistance in influencing Ernest, but they replied that they would not aid in such a transfer since they did not feel it was to the patient's best interest. On the other hand, the institute was very deferential to Mayo's and insisted on playing a completely passive role.

  On the evening of June 14th Mary came to dinner at my apartment. She had arranged a conference call with the Mayo doctors, and when it came through she asked me to listen in on an extension. The Mayo doctors said that Ernest was showing marked improvement and would suffer a lack of confidence in treatment if he were transferred. Mary asked what the marked improvements were. She was told that he was swimming every day, that he had promised to give up worrying about clothes, that he was making more mental effort, as evidenced by the fact that he had started to read a book—the first book he had read in the six weeks he had been there—and he was writing down notes about it. Mary asked the name of the book. She was told it was Out of My League by an author named George Plimpton. (The doctors had obviously not noticed Ernest's endorsement of the book on its dust jacket. Mary let it pass.) The doctors said that another good sign was Ernest's heightened interest in getting back to Ketchum and getting to work. Mary asked whether they planned to give any more shock treatments; they answered vaguely and it was my impression that they did not.

  Mary then said that she was planning to go to Ketchum for the summer and asked whether, on the way, she could visit Ernest without upsetting him. To the contrary, the doctors said. It would be highly beneficial for Ernest to see her, and perhaps it might not be a bad idea to let him return to Ketchum for the summer to see whether he really could get to work. Mary became very disturbed at that suggestion, and said that she did not want to take on such a responsibility, that Ernest's letters did not reflect the degree of progress that would make her feel secure in having him back home. She said she did not want to come to the clinic on that basis. The doctors acquiesced, and said they would not promote Ernest's return just yet.

  I was getting ready to leave for Europe, but Mary and I managed one last meeting before I left. She told me that she had consulted Dr. Renown after the Mayo phone call and told him how terrified she was that Ernest would be sent back to Ketchum at that time. He had telephoned the Mayo doctors and argued strenuously that, in his opinion, the cycle of electrical treatments had not been completed and that Ernest was in an unstable condition because he had been suspended in the middle of the series. He urged that the full cycle be administered and then followed by extensive psychotherapy, with a weekly electrical treatment if needed. Because the Mayo doctors had resisted this suggestion, he urged Mary to redouble her efforts to effect the transfer to The Institute of Living; but she had told him that she was fearful of the sensational and notorious publicity this would undoubtedly set off. She said that Dr. Renown then pointed out to her that there might be some advantages to inside-page news items about going to the institute, in contrast to front-page headlines about his suicide.

  That was the situation when I left for Europe. Toward the end of June I received a note from Mary telling me that when she had arrived in Rochester the Mayo doctors had put pressure on her to let Ernest go along to Ketchum. In fact, they had already told Ernest that he could go, and he was counting on it. The doctors said that they felt Ernest was on the threshold of a new phase and needed to prove to himself what he could do in Ketchum. Mary said she had again brought up the institute, but the doctors very firmly said that such a transfer would definitely set Ernest back and couldn't be considered; that, in fact, it would destroy the new confidence which they had so painstakingly built up. They said that Ernest was between sixty to seventy percent of his normal self and that that was plenty good to sustain him. Mary said she tried to protest but that with such little psychiatric knowledge it was futile. So she was resigned—fearful but resigned. She had rented a car and George Brown was flying out from New York to drive them through the northern states to Ketchum.

  On July 2nd I flew from Malaga to Madrid, where I stayed overnight to catch the morning jet for Rome. As I was leaving the hotel elevator to go to the airport the morning of the third, Bill Davis hurriedly entered the lobby. He had driven all through the night, virtually the length of Spain, to tell me that Ernest had shot himself and to be with me at this moment. I was glad he had. But what Ernest had done did not really hit me deeply at that time. It took months for that to happen.

  On the flight to Rome I read the details of what had happened. As Dr. Renown had predicted, there were banner headlines on the front pages of newspapers everywhere I went. The Associated Press dispatch said that Ernest had been cheerful during the three-day drive through the northern states and appeared to enjoy himself. That on his first night home he had had a pleasant dinner and had even joined Mary's singing one of their favorite songs, "Tutti Mi Chiamano Bionda." Then, according to Mary, early the following morning a shotgun exploded in the house. Mary ran downstairs. Ernest had been cleaning one of the guns, she said, and it had accidentally discharged, killing him.

  I could not fault Mary for covering up. She was not prepared to accept what had happened and that's what came out when she had to explain. What difference does truth make about a thing like that? Does truth bring back anything? Or assuage the torment?

  I found myself remembering a question from the interminable interview years before with the German journalist at the Felipe II. He had asked, "Herr Hemingway, can you sum up your feelings about death?" And Ernest had answered, "Yes—just another whore."

  I sent Mary a long cable, but I did not go to Ketchum for the funeral. I could not say good-bye to Ernest in a public group. Instead I went to Santa Maria Sopra Minerva—his church, not mine—because I wanted to say good-bye to him in his own place. I found a deserted side altar and sat there for a long while, thinking about all the good times we had had, remembering forward from the first tentative meeting at the Floridita in Havana. But when it came time to go, all I could think of to say was, Good luck, Papa. I figured he knew how much I loved him, so there was no point in mentioning that. I lit a candle and put some money in the poor box and spent the rest of the night alone, wandering through Rome's old streets.

  Ernest had had it right: Man is not made for defeat. Man can be destroyed but not defeated.