Fin­tan O’Toole

The New York Review of Books - - Contents - Fin­tan O’Toole

Ernest Hem­ing­way: A Bi­og­ra­phy by Mary V. Dear­born.

Knopf, 738 pp., $35.00

Ernest Hem­ing­way:

A New Life by James M. Hutchisson. Penn­syl­va­nia State Univer­sity Press, 292 pp., $37.95

Writer, Sailor, Sol­dier, Spy: Ernest Hem­ing­way’s Se­cret Ad­ven­tures, 1935–1961 by Ni­cholas Reynolds.

Wil­liam Mor­row, 357 pp., $27.99

The Short Sto­ries of

Ernest Hem­ing­way:

The Hem­ing­way Li­brary Edi­tion edited and with an in­tro­duc­tion by Seán Hem­ing­way, and a fore­word by Pa­trick Hem­ing­way.

Scrib­ner, 576 pp., $32.00

(to be pub­lished in July)

I am not sure whether the Na­tional Ri­fle As­so­ci­a­tion has ever thought of hav­ing an of­fi­cial No­bel lit­er­ary lau­re­ate. But if it did there is no doubt that it would choose Ernest Hem­ing­way. There is a cof­fee ta­ble book, pub­lished by Shoot­ing Sportsman in 2010, called Hem­ing­way’s Guns. It is a lov­ingly de­tailed, lav­ishly il­lus­trated, and creep­ily fetishis­tic cat­a­log of the great writer’s firearms: the Brown­ing au­to­matic 5s, the Colt Wood­man pis­tols, the Winch­ester 21 shot­guns, the Merkel over/ un­ders, the Beretta S3, the MannlicherS­choe­nauer ri­fles, the .577 Nitro Ex­press with which he fan­ta­sized about shoot­ing Sen­a­tor Joe Mc­Carthy, the big-bore Mauser, the Thom­son sub­ma­chine gun with which, he claimed, he shot sharks.

Here he is bran­dish­ing his Brown­ing Su­per­posed with Gary Cooper, or show­ing his Model 12 pump­gun to an ad­mir­ing Hol­ly­wood beauty: “Hem­ing­way en­joyed teach­ing women to shoot—and what man wouldn’t like to coach Jane Rus­sell?” Here is the Grif­fin and Howe .30-06 Spring­field— “al­ready blood­ied on elk, deer and bear”—lean­ing against a dead rhino. The one gun whose iden­tity the au­thors seem un­sure of is the one with which he took his own life in 1961.

Hem­ing­way’s pe­cu­liar vari­a­tion on Amer­i­can ro­man­ti­cism was a pro­found con­nec­tion to the nat­u­ral world ex­pressed through vi­o­lent as­saults on it. In one of his still-ra­di­ant sto­ries, “Fa­thers and Sons,” we find his al­ter ego Nick Adams driv­ing through the land­scape and “hunt­ing the coun­try in his mind as he went by.” This ra­pa­cious­ness was what made Hem­ing­way so fa­mous in his own time as the gold stan­dard of Amer­i­can mas­culin­ity. As David Earle has shown in All Man!, men’s mag­a­zines in the 1950s car­ried head­lines like “Hem­ing­way: Amer­ica’s No.1 He-Man” and “The Hairy Chest of Hem­ing­way.”*

Yet it is this same al­pha-male per­sona and its re­lent­less de­sire to pos­sess women and de­feat na­ture that now make Hem­ing­way such a re­bar­ba­tive fig­ure. It is hard to sym­pa­thize with the Hem­ing­way who ca­bled his third wife, the bril­liant jour­nal­ist Martha Gell­horn, while she was away cov­er­ing World War II: “ARE YOU A WAR COR­RE­SPON­DENT OR WIFE IN MY BED?” Harder still not to re­coil from ac­counts of Hem­ing­way’s slaughtering of li­ons, leop­ards, chee­tahs, and rhi­noc­eros in Africa or from Mary Dear­born’s dead­pan rev­e­la­tion of the fate of eigh­teen mahi-mahi caught by Hem­ing­way and his cronies off Key West: “They would be used as fer­til­izer for [his sec­ond wife] Pauline’s flowerbeds.”

Add in the over­whelm­ing ev­i­dence that Hem­ing­way in his later decades was, in the words of his fourth wife Mary, “tru­cu­lent, bru­tal, abu­sive and ex­tremely child­ish” and his life story be­comes ever more re­pel­lent. Yet the ap­petite for Hem­ing­way bi­ogra­phies ap­pears lim­it­less. Michael Reynolds seemed to say ev­ery­thing worth say­ing in his five-vol­ume life, pub­lished be­tween 1986 and 1999, but the books keep com­ing. They raise the is­sue that Gell­horn stated in a let­ter to her mother when she was about to di­vorce Hem­ing­way: “A man must be a very great ge­nius to make up for be­ing such a loath­some hu­man be­ing.”

The con­stant ex­ca­va­tion of Hem­ing­way’s life cre­ates the dan­ger of pol­lu­tion: the loath­some sludge of the per­son­al­ity might seep into the ge­nius of The Sun Also Rises, A Farewell to Arms, and a score of mag­nif­i­cent short sto­ries. Un­less, that is, we can see through the phoni­ness of Amer­ica’s num­ber-one he­man to the gen­uine tragedy of mas­culin­ity that is played out in Hem­ing­way’s life and in his best work.

Early in his brisk new bi­og­ra­phy, James Hutchisson has an anec­dote that smells as fishy as the dead mar­lin in The Old Man and the Sea. It sets up a phys­i­cal and psy­cho­log­i­cal con­trast be­tween the su­per-manly Hem­ing­way and the weak­ling James Joyce in Paris in the mid-1920s: Al­though Hem­ing­way of­ten made fun of the Ir­ish­man’s frail physique, this af­forded op­por­tu­ni­ties for fun and games when they went out drink­ing to­gether, as they did fre­quently. When Joyce got drunk and chal­lenged some stranger in a café to set­tle things man­fully, he would sim­ply de­fer to his com­pan­ion, say­ing, “Deal with him, Hem­ing­way! Deal with him!”

Did Joyce re­ally go around pick­ing phys­i­cal fights in bars? If so, his bi­og­ra­phers have missed it. Michael Reynolds, in his au­thor­i­ta­tive Hem­ing­way: The Paris Years, makes no men­tion of this de­li­cious anec­dote. The ori­gin of the story, so far as I can tell, is Hem­ing­way’s boast­ing thirty years later. He tells it an in­ter­view with Time when he won his No­bel Prize in 1954. And the con­text makes it ob­vi­ously bo­gus. The tale of the frail Ir­ish­man hid­ing be­hind the man­ful Amer­i­can is part of a longer quo­ta­tion in which Joyce al­legedly tells Hem­ing­way that “he was afraid his [own] writ­ing was too sub­ur­ban and that maybe he should get around a bit and see the world.” Nora, Joyce’s fu­ture wife, is lis­ten­ing in and adds her ap­proval: “His wife was there and she said, yes, his work was too sub­ur­ban—‘Jim could do with a spot of that lion hunt­ing.’”

What makes the whole story so clearly spe­cious is that Hem­ing­way’s ear­li­est lion-hunt­ing ex­ploits date from 1933, around a decade af­ter this sup­posed con­ver­sa­tion. Es­sen­tially, the Joyces are sup­posed to be ad­mit­ting in the mid-1920s that Joyce would be a much bet­ter writer if only he were more like the Hem­ing­way of later decades, the world-trav­el­ing he-man and hunter, and less like the weedy fel­low who needed his big­ger com­pan­ion to “set­tle things man­fully” on his be­half.

In one sense, this episode tells us noth­ing more than that Hem­ing­way was a com­pul­sive liar and that Hutchisson is fool­ish to fall for his brag­ging. The idea of Joyce on sa­fari sug­gests the pos­si­bil­ity of a par­lor game: Proust in space, Kafka at the disco. But be­hind it there is an im­mense sad­ness. For this woe­ful fab­ri­ca­tion sub­sti­tutes for some­thing that might have been real: Hem­ing­way did have a deep con­nec­tion to Joyce. His two ear­li­est—and best—nov­els, The Sun Also Rises and A Farewell to Arms, pick up on what Joyce had done in Ulysses. As Hem­ing­way ad­mit­ted to Ge­orge Plimp­ton in a cel­e­brated Paris Re­view in­ter­view in 1958, “the in­flu­ence of [Joyce’s] work was what changed ev­ery­thing, and made it pos­si­ble for us to break away from the re­stric­tions.”

These re­stric­tions were partly ques­tions of frank­ness about sex and the body and partly ques­tions of style. Hem­ing­way made won­der­ful use of the free­dom that Joyce had cre­ated. The tone of his mas­terly Nick Adams sto­ries comes from Dublin­ers: it is im­pos­si­ble to imag­ine his first fully achieved piece, “In­dian Camp,” for ex­am­ple, with­out “Araby,” and we can see in Seán Hem­ing­way’s in­tro­duc­tion to the new edi­tion of the short sto­ries pre­cisely how his grand­fa­ther ruth­lessly cut eight pages from the be­gin­ning of that story to plunge the reader, as Joyce does, straight into the stream of the ac­tion. The long in­te­rior mono­logue of Harry Mor­gan’s wife, Marie, that ends To Have and Have Not may not be a wor­thy suc­ces­sor to Molly Bloom’s in Ulysses, but at least Joyce gave Hem­ing­way per­mis­sion to try.

How­ever, even these in­flu­ences may be less im­por­tant than some­thing else that Joyce gave Hem­ing­way: a spe­cific idea of male­ness. That idea is the op­po­site of the per­sona Hem­ing­way would later forge—the hero who “set­tles things man­fully.” Joyce gave us, in Leopold Bloom, the hero who set­tles noth­ing and is not at all man­ful, the paci­fistic lit­tle man who just lives with Molly’s cheat­ing on him with Blazes Boy­lan. Hem­ing­way’s great tragedy is that he delved deeper into this un­man­li­ness but then turned him­self into a par­ody of the very mas­culin­ity he had sub­verted. For all his talk of courage, his is per­haps the great­est loss of nerve in twen­ti­eth-cen­tury lit­er­a­ture.

Hem­ing­way had imag­i­na­tive ac­cess to two things he hid be­hind his out­landish pub­lic im­age—a com­plex sex­u­al­ity and a deep trauma. Since the pub­li­ca­tion in 1986 of the un­fin­ished novel The Gar­den of Eden, which he had worked on fit­fully from 1945 un­til 1961, it has been ob­vi­ous that he was drawn to the ex­cite­ment of cross­ing sex­ual bound­aries. The he-man was at least in part imag­i­na­tively a she-man. It was al­ready clear that Hem­ing­way was drawn to the erotic po­ten­tial of an­drog­yny. In A Farewell to Arms, Fred­eric and Cather­ine dis­cuss grow­ing their hair to the same length so that they can be “the same one.” In the story “The Last Good Coun­try,” Nick Adams’s sis­ter cuts her hair off so she can be like him—“I’m a boy, too”—and Nick says, “I like it very much.” But The Gar­den of Eden took all of this much fur­ther. Cather­ine cuts her hair to match that of her hus­band David but she then be­comes a boy, Pe­ter, and David be­comes

a girl, also called Cather­ine. David/ Cather­ine is pen­e­trated by his wife/ hus­band:

He lay there and felt some­thing and then her hand hold­ing him and search­ing lower and he helped with his hands and then lay back in the dark and did not think at all and only felt the weight and strange­ness in­side and she said, “Now you can’t tell who is who can you?”

Zelda Fitzger­ald’s mock­ery of Hem­ing­way as “a pansy with hair on his chest” was crude and in­ac­cu­rate but no more so than Hem­ing­way’s own self­car­i­ca­ture as the straight­est hom­bre on the planet.

Mary Dear­born’s well-bal­anced and deeply re­searched new bi­og­ra­phy con­vinc­ingly traces some of this in­ter­est back to Hem­ing­way’s child­hood and the way his for­mi­da­ble mother Grace in­sisted on treat­ing Ernest and his older sis­ter Mar­celline as if they were twins, giv­ing them the same hair­cuts and in­sist­ing that they be in the same classes at school. The strong an­tipa­thy that Ernest de­vel­oped for Mar­celline may be the first ex­pres­sion of his ten­dency to re­act to com­pli­cated de­sires by swing­ing to the op­po­site ex­tremes. But Hem­ing­way’s sex­ual com­plex­ity may also be con­nected to his ex­pe­ri­ence in World War I. Of course, he hated the idea that he was trau­ma­tized. In part, he hated it be­cause it was a cliché. There is weari­ness as well as hu­mor in the dead­pan way the nar­ra­tor of The Sun Also Rises, Jake Barnes, says of his first meet­ing with Brett Ash­ley: “We would prob­a­bly have gone on and dis­cussed the war and agreed that it was in re­al­ity a calamity for civ­i­liza­tion, and per­haps would have been bet­ter avoided.” It is un­der­stand­able that Hem­ing­way, whose fam­ily was cursed through the generations by men­tal ill­ness and sui­cide, did not wish to be re­duced to a case study. In the 1954 in­ter­view with Time, he asked, “How would you like it if some­one said that ev­ery­thing you’ve done in your life was done be­cause of some trauma? I don’t want to go down as the Legs Di­a­mond of Let­ters.” (Di­a­mond was a gang­ster known for sur­viv­ing mul­ti­ple shoot­ings.)

When Philip Young’s study of him ap­peared in 1959, Hem­ing­way ob­jected in a let­ter to Har­vey Breit: “P. Young: It’s all trauma. Sure plenty trauma in 1918 but symp­toms ab­sent by 1928.” But if the ex­ag­ger­ated mas­culin­ity was an at­tempt to es­cape Hem­ing­way’s at­trac­tion to an­drog­yny, the ex­ag­ger­ated ac­tion-man poses, the con­stant re­turn to sites of death and dan­ger, were surely symp­toms of the long reach of his early wartime ex­pe­ri­ences.

Hem­ing­way was just eigh­teen—in our terms barely out of his child­hood—when he ar­rived in Italy in June 1918. On his first day there, be­fore he had even joined his Red Cross am­bu­lance unit, he was called to the scene of a huge ex­plo­sion at a mu­ni­tions fac­tory twelve miles out­side Mi­lan. His first taste of war was col­lect­ing the shred­ded parts of the work­ers’ bod­ies. Hutchisson quotes from the di­ary of one of Hem­ing­way’s com­rades, Mil­ford Baker:

In the barbed wire fence en­clos­ing the grounds and 300 yards from the fac­tory were hung pieces of meat, chunks of heads, arms, legs, backs, hair and whole tor­sos. We grabbed a stretcher and started to pick up the frag­ments. The first we saw was the body of a woman, legs gone, head gone, in­testines strung out. Hem­mie and I nearly passed out cold but grit­ted our teeth and laid the thing on the stretcher. . . .

Dear­born, rather star­tlingly, gives this in­ci­dent a sin­gle para­graph in her hefty bi­og­ra­phy, and con­fines her com­men­tary to the breath­tak­ingly glib: “Ernest went at the job most likely with his heart in his mouth.” It seems more likely that a kid who had never seen vi­o­lent death be­fore, let alone picked up a torso with dan­gling in­testines, and who “nearly passed out cold” at the sight, was pro­foundly af­fected.

When Hem­ing­way used this ex­pe­ri­ence, in the story/es­say “A Nat­u­ral His­tory of the Dead,” he did so within a frame of ex­ag­ger­ated sci­en­tific ob­jec­tiv­ity. The story be­gins: “It has al­ways seemed to me that the war has been omit­ted as a field for the ob­ser­va­tions of the nat­u­ral­ist.” The pas­sage deal­ing with the in­ci­dent moves quickly from “I” to “we” and says noth­ing about al­most pass­ing out. It at­tempts a cold, neu­tral tone:

I re­mem­ber that af­ter we had searched quite thor­oughly for the com­plete dead we col­lected frag­ments. Many of these were de­tached from a heavy, barbed-wire fence which had sur­rounded the po­si­tion of the fac­tory and from the still ex­is­tent por­tions of which we picked many of these de­tached bits. . . .

It is worth not­ing the (un­con­scious?) rep­e­ti­tion of “de­tached”—the first time in the pas­sive voice to dis­tance us from the ac­tion of Hem­ing­way and his col­leagues ac­tu­ally pick­ing body parts from the barbed wire, the sec­ond to dis­tance those “bits” from the hu­man­ity to which they so re­cently be­longed. There is some­thing un­con­vinc­ing in the prose, some­thing pan­icked in the need for so much in­su­la­tion from the re­al­ity be­ing de­scribed. And that dis­tanc­ing be­comes down­right de­mented when Hem­ing­way goes on to write, with a sur­real blitheness, that “the pleas­ant, though dusty, ride through the beau­ti­ful Lom­bard coun­try­side...was a

com­pen­sa­tion for the un­pleas­ant­ness of the duty.” This takes protest­ing too much to a ri­otous pitch. When, in an early draft of the story pub­lished in Seán Hem­ing­way’s new edi­tion, his grand­fa­ther writes, “As for think­ing about what I had seen; I have never been much im­pressed by horrors so called,” it is sim­ply very hard to be­lieve him.

Yet what is also very strik­ing about the ac­count in “A Nat­u­ral His­tory of the Dead” is that it strangely pre­fig­ures his in­ter­est in hair as a to­ken of sex­ual in­ver­sion:

Re­gard­ing the sex of the dead it is a fact that one be­comes so ac­cus­tomed to the sight of all the dead be­ing men that the sight of a dead woman is quite shock­ing. I first saw in­ver­sion of the usual sex of the dead af­ter the ex­plo­sion of a mu­ni­tion fac­tory which had been sit­u­ated in the coun­try­side near Mi­lan.... I must ad­mit, frankly, the shock it was to find that these dead were women rather than men. In those days women had not yet com­menced to wear their hair cut short, as they did later for sev­eral years in Europe and Amer­ica, and the most dis­turb­ing thing, per­haps be­cause it was the most un­ac­cus­tomed, was the pres­ence and, even more dis­turb­ing, the oc­ca­sional ab­sence of this long hair.

Here we can see Hem­ing­way’s se­cret erotic in­ter­ests—the in­ver­sion of gen­der, the fetishiz­ing of hair—be­com­ing en­tan­gled with ex­treme vi­o­lence and grotesque hor­ror. We do not have to re­duce all of his life to trauma to un­der­stand how pow­er­ful the dis­tur­bance must have been for a teenager. It is hardly sur­pris­ing that Hem­ing­way’s ca­reer as a child­ish liar be­gan af­ter this psy­cho­log­i­cal wound was com­pounded by a real one in July 1918 when he was hit by shrap­nel and ma­chine-gun fire. He be­gan to tell tales of phoney hero­ics and he never re­ally stopped. When the boast­ing was not enough, he threw him­self into reck­less ad­ven­tures, go­ing on sa­fari, be­com­ing (il­le­gally) a com­bat­ant in World War II, and ac­cu­mu­lat­ing more and more of the brain in­juries that surely has­tened his de­scent into ma­nia.

Oddly, the brag­ging some­times ob­scured re­al­i­ties that were re­mark­able enough in them­selves: while Dear­born, for ex­am­ple, dis­misses Hem­ing­way’s wartime links with the NKVD, forerunner of the KGB (“The NKVD con­nec­tion never re­ally bore fruit”), Ni­cholas Reynolds’s fas­ci­nat­ing new re­search in Writer, Sailor, Sol­dier, Spy shows that he was in fact work­ing for both the Rus­sians and the Amer­i­cans: he vis­ited the Chi­nese Com­mu­nist Party deputy leader for the NKVD on a re­port­ing trip to China in 1940 even though two years later he was pro­duc­ing fan­tas­ti­cal re­ports for the FBI on Ger­man spies in Cuba. (In one, he sug­gested us­ing jai alai play­ers to throw bombs into U-boats.)

Hem­ing­way saw enough ac­tion not to have to make ris­i­ble claims like his more-or-less sin­gle-handed tak­ing of Paris from the Nazis, as Man’s Mag­a­zine had it in a 1959 spread en­ti­tled “Ernest Hem­ing­way’s Pri­vate War with Adolf Hitler”: “When the Al­lies first marched into Paris, they found a sign read­ing ‘PROP­ERTY OF ERNEST HEM­ING­WAY.’” The truth that is most ob­scured by the puerile bravado, though, is the ten­der­ness of Hem­ing­way’s best fic­tion, its sub­ver­sion of all those no­tions of heroic mas­culin­ity. In Van­ity Fair,

his sad lit­tle book, Papa: A Per­sonal Mem­oir, Hem­ing­way’s son Gre­gory, who was trans­sex­ual, wrote: “What I re­ally wanted to be was a Hem­ing­way hero. But what the hell was a Hem­ing­way hero?... A Hem­ing­way hero was Hem­ing­way him­self.” In this he was mistaken. The Hem­ing­way hero, at least in his most im­por­tant work, is very far from the hairy-chested ul­tra­male that his father pre­tended to be. In one of his finest sto­ries, “The Short Happy Life of Fran­cis Ma­comber,” the Hem­ing­wayesque great white hunter Wil­son is not the hero. The hero, Ma­comber, is a cow­ard and a cuck­old. In The Sun Also Rises, the cen­tral char­ac­ter Jake has no pe­nis. And this is not, as it would have been in any novel be­fore Hem­ing­way, a sym­bol or a joke—it is a hu­man re­al­ity evoked with gen­tle sub­tlety and in­fused with a sim­ple dig­nity. Hem­ing­way’s in­tro­duc­tion of the fact is one of the great episodes of artis­tic tact. In the third chap­ter, af­ter their first meet­ing, Brett says “‘It’s a shame you’re sick. We get on well. What’s the mat­ter with you, any­way?’ ‘I got hurt in the war,’ I said.” In the next chap­ter, Jake is un­dress­ing and looks at him­self in the mir­ror. Hem­ing­way’s ge­nius is to re­veal Jake’s “hurt” to us while the nar­ra­tor is also think­ing about the fur­ni­ture, so that what he sees in his re­flec­tion—his mu­ti­lated self—is mixed up with ba­nal thoughts on the mir­ror in which he is see­ing it:

Un­dress­ing, I looked at my­self in the mir­ror of the big ar­moire be­side the bed. That was a typ­i­cally French way to fur­nish a room. Prac­ti­cal, too, I sup­pose. Of all the ways to be wounded. I sup­pose it was funny. I put on my pa­ja­mas and got into bed.

The rhythm of the prose here comes from Leopold Bloom, but Hem­ing­way is go­ing even fur­ther than Joyce did with Bloom in mak­ing the un­manned man a liv­ing and unashamed pres­ence in lit­er­a­ture. Jake re­calls an Ital­ian of­fi­cer telling him that he has sac­ri­ficed more than life to the cause in los­ing his pe­nis—but the book tells us that life, af­ter all, is more than a pe­nis.

This em­brace of un­man­li­ness ex­tends, in A Farewell to Arms, to the ul­ti­mate be­trayal of male honor, de­ser­tion from the war­front. Ar­guably the sin­gle great­est pas­sage in Hem­ing­way is about run­ning away from war. The long de­scrip­tion of the Ital­ian army’s re­treat from its dis­as­trous de­feat at Ca­poretto is a bravura set piece in it­self and it is worth not­ing that for all Hem­ing­way’s ex­al­ta­tion of true first­hand ex­pe­ri­ence it was con­structed from other peo­ple’s tes­ti­monies. It is also a farewell to valor and power and a man­li­ness that ex­presses it­self with a stiff up­per lip. The cara­binieri who ques­tion the re­treat­ing sol­diers and sum­mar­ily ex­e­cute those they sus­pect of trea­son are mod­els of cool­ness and courage, ren­der­ing those qual­i­ties ap­palling. That word “de­tach­ment” re­turns with all its psy­chotic res­o­nance:

So far they had shot ev­ery one they had ques­tioned. The ques­tion­ers had that beau­ti­ful de­tach­ment and de­vo­tion to stern jus­tice of men deal­ing in death with­out be­ing in any dan­ger of it.

And the hero of the book is lit­er­ally flee­ing from this beau­ti­ful de­tach­ment of the cool killer. He makes a break for it, both phys­i­cally and psy­cho­log­i­cally: “I was through. I wish them all the luck. . . . But it was not my show any more.” In these great books, Hem­ing­way made his own break for it. And he nearly made it too. Aes­thet­i­cally at least, man­li­ness wasn’t his show any­more. Or at least it wasn’t un­til the world be­came enor­mously in­ter­ested, not in his grown-up truths, but in his child­ish lies. He ran away from his own brave de­ser­tion. He be­came a male im­per­son­ator—the swag­ger, the drink­ing, the trad­ing in of wives for younger mod­els, the boy’s own ad­ven­tures, the male harem of cronies, the ex­ag­ger­ated ges­tures of butch­ness be­came Hem­ing­way and he be­came them. Hav­ing so hero­ically left the show, he ended up mak­ing a mock-heroic show of him­self.

Ernest Hem­ing­way on his first sa­fari in Africa, 1933–1934

Pa­per dolls of Ernest Hem­ing­way from March 1934

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