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CHAPTER I

THIE INAlDEQUA1CIES OF CRITICISM


In a dissertation he wrote at the University of Mlichigan in 1949,

E. M. Halliday found that by and large there had been "little analysis

of just how the effect" of Heamingwvay's fiction "is achieved,"1 Though

many articles about HIemingw~ay had been published, HaRlliday saw that

most of them dealt either with Hfemingwsay the man or, at best, with

relationships between Hamingway's life and his fiction. In the twenty

years since the writing of Halliday's dissertation, a great deal of

critical attention has been accorded Hoemingway's fiction, m-uch of it

of significance for the serious student of Hemningway's narrative tech-

nique. Nearly all of the standard critical works on Hacmingu~ay--Chanrles

A. Fenton's The Apprenticeship ofo Ernest Hfmingwny, Carlos Dbker's

Heingway~el: Ter wriea~s Atit Philip Younig's Ernlest Heifngiway-

have appeared since 1949, and numerous critics have attempted to ana-

lyze individual stories and novels.2 At the salme time, however, much

recent Hemingway criticism has continued to deal not with the writer

as artist, but withh the writer as fisherman, hunter, bullfight aficio-

nado, and so forth. Further, much of the criticism which has

studied Hemingway's art has continued to use the fiction primarily

as means with which to understand the historical personality.

Partly as a result of the attempt to discover the meaning of








Heli seway~8 as a mlan, an~d partly as a result of t-hp deceptive simiplicity
of iach of Hamilingr;ay's art, a great many signifcntapet of the


tech1:jique of. HouC~ingWay's fiction remain to be expllored. One of th!e

most important of these aspects of fictional technique is He.mingu:ay's

use of narratiive pe~rspective.

UIntil thle publication of Halliday's "Hemingway's Idarr1ative

Petci.l.ctive"' ju 1932 th~ere was hardly any suggestion~ on th~e part of

critics that Hoi-r!-n~iway ever paid the slightest attention to th~e

posribilitie~sof narrative perspective.3 Though the srituation hias

changed somewhat- since the appearprnce of Halliday's semi~nal work, it

is noitewor~thy' that his article remains one of cthe most ex~tensive

treatments of the subject. "Hemingu;ay's EParlative Perspe~ctive" dealsi

in detail wuirh The Sun Also Rises, A Farewecll to Arms, and To Have

ad Uve fot.Basically, the study attempts to show how the narrative

perspective of ilemningway's best. fict-ion reflc-ts al.d emphasizes

the.!atic contenlt. Halnliday ex:plains, for example, that the Iuse of a

first-person narrntor in The Sun Also Iidees produce.< "an effectr of

singebrity;~ and sinlgul~arity, in thei sense of emotional isolat~ion~,

is I:nsoparable fr-om the novel's then<-e of moral atrophy .. be~cause

Jaker, as pr~otaonist, is a man drawSin, himself inverd and apa1t~

from others, becoming,. .. constantly more self-sufficient anld alone,

this eflact of singulairity is made cxriemely :elling anrd powerful."4

Ha3liday's disccss~ion of The Su~n Also Rijse includes his definition of

"objctive epoitome" According to Hallida:y, Herint?::'Py u1Ss Jake'Is

pefrce~ption of particular externlal object-s ina mulolnl~s of strecss as a

meann of reflecting the inward psychologiical pain or pleasurt the

narratlor is Eincling,.5 Halliday's insighlts inlto The Suln Als Ri~ss









are helpful, but his subsequent contention that the technique of

A\ Farcullc~ to Ar-ms represents only a slight: modification of thle tech-

nique of the earlier novel is inco~rrect.6 One of Ileamigwuay's achieve-

mlents in The SunAlso Rise is the creation of first-person narrjtion

which is not retrospect.ive in effect, wh~ich~ creates thle kind of miov-

ing "Dowl" that critics of fictional technique have presumed imrpossib!l~e

for a first-rperson story. Fiederic lienrly's narrat~ion of A F~are?;ell to

Arms, on the other hand, is retrospective in effect. UJnlik~e The Sun

Also R~ises, th~e Inter novel mulst be viewred as a reminiscence. The

difference is an important one, for it afercts our reactions both to

specific incidents and to the overall reeanings of the t.wo novel~s.

Accordingly to Halliday, the unic-y of form and threwe which~ Poingwr-

way ach~ieves i~n The Sun Also :rises and A2 Fnarwe~ll to Arms is totally-

lost in To r~Fan~ve and whiich is little more than anr "Exhibition

of technical irresponsibility." In To Hlave and Have N;ot "the p~oinrt of

view flips back and forth so calpriciously that the reader suffers

fromj a kiind of vcrt-igo of the imagination which blurs the illusion,

[of rcauity)." This technical. confusion is parallocled by a "confusion

of the-me . .. The total impression is that of an author groping

for his there in a not--vcry-well-lighlted place . .. "' Though

Halliday is currect in his estimation of the quality of To Have and

Ha~ve No as a novel, his discussion is wYeakened by his failure to deal

with Hemingwany's experimentation with narrative perspective in indiv-

idlual parts of the book. "Homingway's Narrative Perspective" offers

manly valuabile insights. It is, nevertheless, ~imited both in scope--

it makes little mlention of several of thie novels and no mention at all

of the: short st~ories--and in depth of insighit.









Sinlce the appearancece of H~allid?y's article, critical attentlion

be~s been accorded th:e narrarivre persp-ctive of 11eningway's fiction

somewhat more frequnly.:!r Unfortunlately, however, this attention hras

usually been little more than cursory. In He~minga: h ritr as

Artist, for example, Carlos Bak~er limits his treatment of ilemingway's

USE of narrative p-erspective in the works up through Vinneir Take

Nojthinp, to a fewv off-hlandi eml~ainent andi a f-ootioot in whlich hre mentions

only that "Hiem~ingwYay did not b~egn to employ thei third person consistently

until the middle 1930's," Even this statement is of dloubtful validi ty

since In Our: Time uses third-person narration, far more~ conrsistently

thanl aniy of the later collections of short stories. Philip Youngp

gives the quefstion of n~arrat-ive perspective a little more spae; he

devotes parit of the. second chlapter- of Ernest eting A Reconsider-dnr

action to two groups of whlat be calls the "'I' storiess" In sulch stlorias

as "Tlhe Light of the World" anld "N~ov I Lay Nei," Young explains, the "I"

is the prootagolnist, usually Nick Adaras or a very similar character.

In other stories--"Fifty Grand" and "Mother of a Queen," for rxample--

thie narrator is an observer.9 Hlowieler, aside froau distinguish~ing

these categories, which are merely two traditionally defined type9 of

first-person niarration, Youngl does little more thran use the stor~ies

t~o exemplify hils ideas about th~e "Hemingwuay hero" and the "code hero,."

Young limits hijs analysis of the narrative perspective of the novrels

to mentioning Jzke? Earns' "conversati~onal stylo" and to making thef

highlly questionable obsfervat~ion thaot "Unliket Jake Barnes .. Frederil

Henry participates fully in the book's action, and as a person is wholly
10
real,"









h;.1 recent studies have. fr-ehuently don~e little m~ore than repeat

the. 'oc 3> cial observations of earlier critics.1 In Ernest Heatug

vay A Inrouctonand In~ttrp!retation Shneridan Eakler de'fines tw~o

"moodes" inl Haimingway's fiction, whichh might be called thie aul-obiogiraph-

Ical and the observationral, roughly the first and third person," 6nd he

mntirons i-hat in MEcn WI~ithoult oW~aan, "the two modes alternate and on.-

ga 93e r h other somewha-t as twro halves of a deckt of car-ds ....1

Pljl.,ir; You:n's precedent, however, Baker doesn't el:;borat-e on thle

onr, Imodel s and fails to explain in what way thley are par~ticularly

:Irvingwaoy's. He does mecntion the use of the fir-st-person method' in

we stories. "My Old Mlan," he says, is Hlewingw-y's only story "ln

whlat right be called 'rbl: first personl innoicen~t"'" and '!Fifity Grand"'

is "unialne awong Hoingwrlyay's stories in t-hat thei 'I' is not thef here~

bult a 'chasrnc tr-r'" whose "linited: intelligence turns all the tardyf

details comic and frrnk, as against the reader's broader perceptions."3

PLakerl s description of "Fifty? Gralnd," however, makes~ it soun~d molre

like "first- person invDocE.nt" than~l "Myi Old Mlan" does, expieclialy csince

the narrator of the latter story has lost: his inlnotcence by thle timie

he tells the reader of his experience,

Of che many fuill-length apiproaches to Hemringway's fictionl Earl

hovit s Ern~sXest emigw is mo-t frequently concerned with HIemingwany's

use of narrative perspective. Even Rovit, however, limits his detailed

discu~ssions ton a fewu of Hemingwayi's works. Like other- critics RovJit

finds thart the "typical Hcmingway fiction will be of two closely re

lated: evi-es. Eit-her there will be anl actual or an implied first-person

na -rato~r (the Nickr Adams stories, Th~e Sun Also Rises, A Farewell to Arms),

or there will be seemingly objective third-person narrated fictions in








which the reader will be coerced into the position of the reacting, un-

speaking 'voice' (The Old Mlan and the Sea)."1 The majority of Rovit's

discussions of narrative perspective are concerned with the first type

of story, with Homingway's use of first-person narration. Rovit uses

"In Another Country" to exemplify what he feels is a common narrative

structure in Hemingway's fiction. He explains that "In Another Country"

is basically about the narrator and "tyro" figure who undergoes a

learning experience as a result of his contact with a "tutor" figure,

the heroic Italian major.15 According to Rovit, this basic fictional

structure underlies several of Hemingway's short stories and several of
16
the novels. Rovit's comments about Hemingway's use of narrative

perspective are frequently useful, but as is true of other full-length

analyses of Hemingway's fiction, Rovit's study is far from exhaustive.

His explications of the novels are frequently inadequate, and few of

the short stories are discussed in any detail.

Though there are hundreds of critical discussions which deal

specifically with Hemingway's short stories, only a very few of these

are concerned to a significant extent with narrative perspective.17

Only three critics, in fact, offer detailed discussions of the narra-

tive strategies of more than one or two of Fiemingwlay's short workss*

Two of these critics--Charles A. Fenton and Richard Bridgeman--analyze



*Befcause of the number of discussions involved, an exhaustive
review of those articles which analyze indiividualn stories is im-
practical at this p~oint. Relevant analyses of Hecmingw~ay's short
stories are reviewed in subsequent chanpters of this study when t-he
stories themselves are discussed.









several of the inlter-chapter- of In Our Time. Thre third critic,

Joseph' DrFalco, makes valuable- observations about thei narrative

perspectives of several short stories.

In The Apppenticeship of Erne~Pst pomnw~ FEinton discusses cerr-

rain aspects of Hemningruay's workx with narrative voice. According to

Fenton "the two lions vigneltte, 'Chapter 4' and 'Chapter 5,"' are

attempts to recreate the British idiom of Hemingway's friend, Dornian-

Smith. Thle fac: thiat thle narrator of "Chapter 2," on the otherr hand,

is "'vulgar" and relativelyy unliteratec" is made clear by Hminngway's

use of language which is "fulctionally- ungorammatical." A third inarca-

tiue strategy is reflected 1y the fact that the n.-rrative voice of

manzry of thle sketLchies is anonym~ours. In these "more charact-eris:: ic"

pieces: 1:-!iirgway achieves his effects through thle use of "declarative

narrati~on anid ironic omission1 of comment,"8 Frnton's valuable dis-

cussion of the vignettes is supplcoemented by Eridg~en~an's analysis. In

The Collrlguia~l Scyle in America Bridgeman points out that half of thle

short chapters are told in th~e first person (Chapters I, II, IV', V, XI,

XIII, XIV, XV, and~ XVIII) and half in the third person (Chapt-ers ITH,

VI, VII, VriII, TX, X, XII, XVIT, and XVrII), andi then proceeds to analyze,

primarily by Ineans of diction, the various narrative voices created

in th~e sketlches. l 1ikea Fenton, B~ridgeman mentions that the Eirst-

person nar-rators include the British officer of "Chapter 5" and the

unlgra~mmatical American of "Chapter 2."2 He also distinguishecs, how-

ev-er, the be~aused, reminiscing "simple soul" of "Chapter 1" and the

"quietr cool observe~r" of the elevuenth, thirteenth, and eighteecnth

chapters. Thef thiird-persoln sketches range, he feels, from! the ironic

perspe)ctiveF of "iChaipter 8"1 to the "~frct-ual jour-nnistic"! perspective








af th~e third, sixth, and seventfeenh chapters. The overall purposes

of their books prevent Fen~tonl and Bridgernan froI. dealing in detail with

al~l the vignettes. Beccause of the thoroughness with which they analyze

those sbetches they do treat, however, their discussions are particu-

larly interesting and enlightening.

TJhough his study is nout primarily concerned with fictional tech-

nique, Joseph, Deb'alco does find occasion 1.0 analylze aspctcs of the

narrative Etr~ategies of such stories as "M~y Old Man.," "fifty Gracnd!,"

and "In Another Counltry." In The Here in He~mly Short Storia,~.

Deralco explains thiat the use of the first per-son ini "M~y Old Man"

enables hemningwany to better exhibit "the inner attitudes of the central

character and reoveal vthe pathos of the final learning situation."

Thec fact that the storiy is narrated in retrospect accountss For' the

tough, almost bitter tone of the piece," a tone wh~ich! illuistrateos

Cthe attitulde the yorung narrator has "derivedl from the experience."l

In: "Fifty Crcnd" it is the central protagonist--rather than thea first-

person nrirrater--whou -Indergces the significant learning experience.

.Jerry Doyle., thea nar;.ltor of the story, is ne~rely "a register"

against which ther chsaning. views of Jack Brennon can bef measured.22

Th1e narrator of "1Ln Anothler Country," according to DeFalco, is

neither innocent in the vay that Jerry is in "Fifty Grand" nor as

open about( the kinld of effect hris experiences have had on himt as is

thet narrator of "M~y Old Hian." "In Another Country" uses the Itali~an
majo as"th reistr .. .against which the attitudes and feelings

of the 'I' mayp be tested." ALtor choosing the first-person point of

view for "Tn1 Anot-hat Country," liciingway uses tihe narrator's choice of

deta Il in; order to project onto outward rrali ty thle conflict between









faith and total despair wyhichi his narrator is un~dsrgaing.23 DeFnlco's

discussions of the narrative strategies of 11emin-way's stories ar-e

nearly alwy~rs illuminating. Unfortunately, his chloice of subject

c~atter--hie works primarily withl those stories whichl further che psychic

development of Nic kAdams--and thle Jungian approach to which he is

coranitted prevent his book from being more useful in the present con-

text. In spite of ics limitations, however, The he~re in 11eiV";,Y:js

Short StoriES is Ct~ill a valuable approachi--and the only extensive

approach--t~o Hamingway~'s short stories. It is referred to often in

subsequent chapte~rs.

Though Hreming~way's fiction hais received considerable criticall

copolent in the last four decprdes, few comm~nentators have given ~unchi

attention to ma rt rs.of nairrative perspnective. Tinose discussions in

which critics do attempt to deal with narrative strategy are limited

in one of two ways. Some discussions--thiose of Carlos Bake~r, Philip

Young, and Sheriden Baker, for example--are too general to be of

much use. The more detailed discussions by such critics as 'dall~iday,

Fentonl, and Bridgema-n,on the mother hand, are extremely limitLed in

extent:--none of rhenl deals w~ith more than a very few wor-ks. The

present: study attemclpts to end the crit~c~al negl.ect of this area of

Hemingway's fict~ional techniqlue by show!ing in detail how~ the use of

narrative perspective contributiles significantly to the meaning of many

of Hemingwaiy's short stories.



Thle supposition that Hefmingway was a versatile and inventive

frictional technician, and, more particularly, that he seriously








concerned himself with the various possibilities of narrative per-

spective need cause the critic no surprise. Hefmingway himself attested!

to his concern with narrative strategy several times. In a Letter he

wrote to John Atkins, for example, Hemingway briefly reviews his past

concern with narrative person:


When I wrote the first t~wo novels I had not learned
to write in the third person. The first person
gives you great intimacy in attempting to give a
complete sense of experience to thef reader. It is
limited however and in the thtrd person the novelist
can work in other people's heads and in other
people's country. His range is gr-atly extended and
so are hiis obligations. L prepared myself for w~rit-
ing in the third person by the discipline of writ-
ing Deanhith ~in thAfternoon the short stories andi
especially the long stories of "The Short H~appy LL~e
of Francis Macomber" an~d "The Snows of Klirnanjaro. '
ini "The Snows of Kilimianjalro" I put in and del~ibEr-
ate~ly used what could havie made many novels to see2
how far it was possible to concentrate in a vradium.


A similar concern is evident in a letter Hiemingwany wrote to "!axwett

Parkins in 19)27. Having "'g~ot tired of the lilmitations' imposed~r by

first-person narrative," he explained, he had switched to Lihe third

person in thie"'s~ort of modern Tomi Jonas'" he was working: on,

Heminlgway's interest in narrative perspective upis not: liditod! to th1e

question of narrative person. In a letter to E'nund Wits::n, rem~ii~nduny

expresses his appraciation for Wirlson's Dnil re~viewi of in cur time and

Thiree Stories and Tun7 Poems, indicating that a; least~ onl srajoc roaison

for thle overall organization of Inl Our TimeP had to do wyith1 the frictionarl

distance crelt-ed between the reader anld thle events he ronad .,bout.

Thle purpose of the alterontion of full-lon::th stories anld brcief vignettes,;

Recording to Houai~engay was "to give cthe pictulrl of the~ whol~lr b2Lween









examining it in detail. Like looking with your eyes at something,

say a passing coast line, and than looking at it w~ith 15X blinoculars.

Or rather, maybe, looking at it and then going in an~d living ic--and

tian coming out and looking at it again."2

Hemingway's interest in matters of narrative perspective -tight

also be suggested by thle fact that moost of the rwriters he adultited

admiring are notable for their worke with narrative strategy. In thle

September, 1924 "Conrad Supplement" of F. M. Forrd'j Traiinsathetic

Review Hemingw~ay announces that "from nobling ^]lsJ that I have.' over
27
read have I gotten whlat every book of Conrad has, given me." It

seems fair to suppose that Conrard's lifelongl exprimientationi wiih

narrati~ve perspe~ctive both in collabortion~ wiy;h- Fo)rd and 11tone: waRs

at least part of wh-t it was that he gave Hin;'cquay, The~ i:st fewecus

of~ Hemiin7\wy's statements of ad~rairatic for mother wir:ites is hi:s con~-

tention in Green Hiills of Africa that Hen~ry Jararcj, Srtephen C:r;n~,

and M~ark~ Twain are thef finest American w~riters. Th pie o

James, which Young feels does not measn a great deal, miight Li Loss of

a problem for critics were Heinji~hngy's consistrint concern iith Iques-

Lionls of nar-rativet perspective Less frequently igno-.ed29: lmigwy'

cont-ention thait "All modern Amuerican litersture com~ea from, onr b:ooki

by Mark Tw~ain called Hucklb ry almost undoubtedly resuIlts inL

part fromu the fact thatr Twain's novel differs from nezrl~y all of t-he

Ameri~can fiction wihich~ preceded it in its use of a Eirst-?erson chasr-

acttir narrzftor anrd a nonstandard idiois particullarly sui-ed to that
30
nrao.Crane and Hlemingwyay share a backgrou~ndi a newspaperwen,

a background t-hpt was influential i~n the development~l by both writiers









of that particular kind of third-person narration critics usually call

the "diramlatic" or "objective" method. In Crocu !iills of Africa.

Hemingway nominates "The Bl~ue Hotel" as Crane's best story, and the

great s imi larity between Crane's dramatic method and Hamningway's can

best be seen by comparing this story and such lesser known CranE tales

as "An Episode of Wlar" and "Thei Upturned Face" with Hemingway's "Hiills

Like White Elephants."

Thle major evidence of Remingway's concenl with narrative pinii~t oE

view, of course, is found in his fiction. And elven a cursory -Ilance at

any area of Ilemingway's work indicates that exprcimlentation wiithi che

possibilities of narrative perspective was of signifka:nce3 throughout:

h~is career. Richard Bridgeman sulggests that during his earlyi wlritings

"H~emingway wvas consciously testing various applroaches and st-ylistic

techniques. He rarely repeated an experiamol:t thalt failedi to ad!vance

him stylistically. Even if a particullar tack su~cceedcd -as: "l'lyr Old

M~an" didl--Hiemingwy aIbandonrd it malrass it conatributedi to the: cons;truic-
31
tion of a satisfactory stylistic colv-yance fojr his mneaning." ;hat

Exidgeama says about style aplip]ies equallly t? Inar~caive perspective.

As Bridgemanl's ownl analysis of the in Our Time v ignateos illustrac-tes,

the two are often impossible to separate. ':o say thant a writer ins

experbiea-nting ciithi a particular- idliom, with, that is, a particula-r way

of speaking, malkes no se-nse ilnle~ss we prersum.e thait he is a~lso expeari-

mea~itingi ulith I panricu~lar speaaker. E/en to say t-hat a writer uses

a bare, houndi~-dolwn style inl a sory suggests something rabouc thei n~r-

rativei p'"rspective of -that: stocy.

Hamin:way'; concer- n with the pioss~ibitiei s of nalr~rative .:tralt,?y









is evident as early as his high school fiction. According to Fenton,

Hemingway's first published story, "Judgement of Mznitou," which

appeared in the Oak Park High School literary magazine, is a third-

person narration which relies on a complex plot and a treatment
32
remliniscent of Jack London for its effect. The second story Heming-

way submitted to The Tabula uses a different narrative voice. "A

Matter of Colour" is in part an attempt to reproduce the speech of thef
33
veteran fight manager who serves as narrator of thie story. Still

another narrative strategy is evident in the third Tabula_ story, "Sepi

J~ingan," which, Fenton explains, is "a tale of violence and revenge

told by an Objiw~ay Indian" in which "Hemingway avoided the artifici--

ality of total monologue. There was a base of fragmentary- exposition;

the narrator asked occasional questions that kept the Indian's speech
34
fluid." Hemingway's early interest t in narrative voice is also evi-

dent in the imitations of Ring Lardner he wrote in high school and

later in Italy. Fenton suggests that the Lardner imitations weare "anl

invaluable opening exercise in some of the technicalities of idiomatic

prose 35They were also, one might add, invaluable as opening

exercises in somue of the technicalities of a type of first-person nar-

ration which HemLolgwany used later in such stories als "Fifty Crand"

and "The Mother of a Queen." Though one cannot make too much of

Hemiingway~'s high school fiction, his earliest stories do indicate both

his interest in certain kinds of subject matter and his concern with

the various possibilities of narrative perspective.

Most critics would agree with Fenton that journalism was "the

most important single factor" in Hemingwayrs apprenticeship.3 And








though the chances for experimentationi with narrative per:spict~ive in

newspaper stories are somewhat limited, it is easy to see tIe effect

of the reporting Hemingway did for the Kansas City Star on his develop-

ment of "dlramatic" narration. At the Star Hemingway mect and became

close friends with Lionel Calhoun Maise. The belief of this almost

legendary reporter that "Pure objective writing .. is thle only true

form of storytelling" has frequently been cited by critics as an:

important influences in Hamingway's developments. Malise is reported to

hav/e advised young writers, "No stream of consciou~sness nonsrnse; no

playing dumb obrserver one paragraph andl God Almig~hty the nexrt

In short, no tr'icks."3

H!emingway's job with the Toronito Stdr We(1 subsequecnt to his

tour as an ambula~nce driver and soldier also played a part. ll the

development of his ability to handle uacr.etive pirspccL v. en.*

reports that during his stay with the Canadian paper 110miingway's

"scy]e and attitude~s mnatilced as he rangedi experimentally: through thle

various levels of burloesquei, mimicry, satire, and ironyj.'38 lIoc-nin3Sy

continlued to experir;ene wit'h a "variety of medium";! r'urin~g his stayi inl

Chiclgo in ihe winter of 192!1.. As Donald M~. Wdrignrt rememberi~s, Hecning-

way "w:as trying any and every kind of' writing at thle time-. ..

The result of thel yioung writer's attempts to wuorke with~ thei dif Grr ea

narratiue stanc~es required by satire, trony, lan burlesqure r at be

soon in his Incer ability to shift easily from one narr.,tiiv stince t~o

another in Death? in thkE Afterl1noon and other works.i6

Heat;ingway's eandy years in l'aris were undloubttedly of l:;rtati siiot-

Ficance: in~ the development of his fic:tional technliqlue.I sdifcl









to imagine that hef could has escaped at least the indirect influence of

such writer-friends as Ford, Joyce, Dos Passos, and Fitagerald,all of

whom were greatly concerned with matters of narrative perspective. One

need only remember such scenes as that described by Robert Mci~lmon in

Being Ceniuses Together where Hlemingway, Sylvia Beach, Stuart Gilbert

and others sit, "as grave as owls:' as Joyce reads from his own work to

realize how pervasive the atmosphere of literary experimentation must
40
have been.

The special importance of Sherwuood Anderson and Gertrude Stein

in Hemingway's development has often been discussed by critics. Both

writers were, of course, innovators in the area of narrative technique,

and much of what Hemingway is presumed to have learned from them is

related to the use of narrative perspective. The frequent critical

assumption, for example, that such Anderson stories as "E Want to Know

Why" and "I'm a Fool" influenced Hemingway's "M~y Old Man" is based in

large measure on the similarities between the narrative perspectives

of these stories. That the debt Hemingway owes Andierson has to do

with narrative perspective is emphasized by Hlemingway's own assertion

in his review of A S~ irstor ele'sSo that Anderson's significance

as a writer resided in his ability to take "a very banal idea of things"

and present it "wlith such craftsmanship that the person reading it be-

lieves it beautiful and does not see the craftsmanship at all."41

When Hiemingway came to repudiate Anderson in The Torrents of Spring,

one of the aspects of the older writer's fiction that he repeatedly

satirized was, as John T. Flanagan has explained, a certain tendency

in Anderson's use of third person narration:





-16-


Anderson utilizing an older technique intruded in
much of his fiction, interpolating hris own views
or comments, disrupting the very point of view
he sought to estAblis-h. Heminguay .. goes him
one better . .. Hemingvay appends author's
notes to cthe reader in which he alludes to personal
friends .. and calls attention not only to his
personal knlowledge of PetodLkey and the Michigan
Indians but to the unimnportance of the whole pro-
ject.42


Critics generally agree that Gertrude Stein taught Hemingway a

great deal about. the use of repetition, and one need on~ly compare an

early story such as "Up i~n Mi~chigan" in whichi Hemingway wonrks with

repetition in Stein's manner with an early story such as "Out of Season"

in which repetition is not an important device in order to understand

the significant effect repetition can have on narrative perspective.

The kind of exrperimnentation with narrative perspective Hieminlguayi

conducted during his apprenticeship is evident throughout his irajor

works. A glance at either the novels or the stories reveals that, at

least in the area of narrative perspective, Hemingway avoided repeat-

ing himself throughout his career. _The Suun Also Rise~s and A F~arewell~

to Arms are presented in different kinds of first-person narration;

To Have and Have Not is an attempt to work with multiple view; For

Idim the Bell Tolls is narrated in a standard type of omniscient nar--

ration; and Across the River and Into thle Trees and The Old Malin and the

Sea use different variations of central-intelligence narration. The

still. greater variety of narrative strategies used in liemingway's

short stories is examined at length in subisequent chapters.

In his Nobel Prize acceptance speech Hemingway explains that

"F'or a true writer each book should be a new beginning where he tries

aga~in for someth-i~ng thlat is tryond attainmefnt. He should always try




-17-



for something that has never been done or that others have. tried and

failed." Too often HemingwJay critici~nm ha7s tascctly assumed thati

Hemingway did not follow his ownl advice, that he himself wasi not

"driven far out past where" a write-r can go, "out to where no one can
43
help him." This study discusses at least one area in which Haming-

way did moove constantly into newJ and difficult areas thnrouaihout his

career, and in which he did try to accomplish things he felt had not

been done successfully.














NOTES TCO CHlAPTER I


1. E. M. Hialliday, "Narrative Technique in the Novels of Ernest
Hemingway," (a dissert-ation written at the Univer~sity of M~ichigan, 1949),
1-11.

2. Charles AZ. Fenton, The ; .rl.-l
(New York, 1954); Carlos Baker,-_ ._ .
(Princeton, 1952); P'hilip Young, I'rcH~~at emnga (Nlew Yorkr, 1952).
All retferecncs to Baker's book; in Lhis srudy ar-e to the third edlt;.on of
1963. Young's study has recently been revisfd and republished as
r`~~~~~~ r---;'-'---' el;_lr to n (University P'ark, Pcan~sylvania,
I~- I --. . .~. wor`K in thi~s study are~ to this re-
vij-d editioni.

3. E, M1. IHalliday, "Heringuay'vs Narrat3~i iv !'oTrspectiva,"i Sevous
Review, ~LX (Springe, 952), 202-218. This article, whlch was a conldo!-
sation; of part of the aforementioned di.issertaciou.:~ ;lso r!:-aurs inl
Carlos Baker, ed., . __ __ __ ____i1
(Now York: 1962), I

I. H~alliday, "Homingway's War~rative '-'rspective,"" 203:-201..

5. Hlaliday. ''liamingway's ;jrrative 'Je1spcetive" .i105-300.
ject-ive epitome" is also dlisen:isod brIefly inr E. M aib y.".oig
vzy's Aimbigoitry; Symolismr and inonyg," ^menca~n The;.~r, U :uC` X'./
(Mlarch~, 1956), 1-22. Th~is article is r-lriniced in .:0boo P i. Wooks9, id.,
if Criti~c1l Essays (Eng~lihwoo ClI.CIfs Ne>T


6. See Ital lid ay,"Homingwy' n "'ar :-r ei~va: 'e rsp; e ctve," 20j9.

7. Ha~lliday, "ilatiingwa~y'; Niarrattive Perspiective," 211., 212i, 4.



Hl:v;: andi Have No:-. 110 concludes thant "'the vi rtluosi y of t~he na~rr,..ive
te:chn~~?ique c alon La ough to set th~e book: u'tt in a kind a; lea.cl,
t~riumphi :romi rioot of ele w~riting: of the m'iidi thiittts"; (Bake!;r,
Mem~upry th Mr tr as5ctt,12)

9J. SaYug retHmnwy ecit1r~o,3-




-19-


10. Young, Ernes t Hemingwuay:li~ A Ronieio n, 90O.

11. In Ernest Hemingway and the Pursulit of iuroismi (NeFw York,
1968), L~eo Corkio does little more than mention that The Sun A lso Rises,
A FarewJell to Arms, and several of the short stories are narrated by
first-person narrators. He does record his belief that the weakness
of Catherine Barkley as a character results from the nov~el's use of
the first person. Since she is seen only through Frederic H~enry's eyes,
Gurko explains, Cathlerine "must live he~r whole life in tha no 01 within
that single focus. Since his interest in her is amatory, she- appears
only as a love object. Whatever qualities or resources she ma~y have
of any ocher kiind are blanked out in advance. Th~e result ;s 1 cha~racter
too limited to bear the emotional demasnds made- upon her" (GurkGo, 87).
S. F. Sanderson's E~s~rnest Heingwa (Edinbiurgl, 1961) mcerely repeats
the statements or previous studies, particularly those of Philip Youngp
in rnstHemngay I The Writer's A to Sel-Defens
(Mlinneapolis, 1969)3, Jackson J. Beatson places littL- emphasis on nlar-
rativ- perspective.





13. Sheridan Baker,_ Eres Hmigry 26,61-62.

14. EarL Roavit, ErnestHeming (New' Haven, 1963), 49. Though
hie never di-scus!;es exactly whac he macnts by the "'lnplied firs;t-personl
narrator" as it appears in the works h, lists, RovtL's b~ooki includes a
valua3ble discussion of the cabinet minister sketchi Eron 'in Car Time1 in
whichi his idiea of the implied narr-tor is mEadi cleanrs. nLiskc
Rovit says, the "th~ird dimeinsion in the scene .is provided by the
relationships of the se~i.-stunned narra:tor [of wvhom ther readecr is nlot
immediately aware] to the action that is taking place before his eyes"
(Rovit, 47).

15. Rovit's "tutor" and "tyro" orne a good deal~ to Y'ourg'; "Hepming-
wjay hero" and "code hero," t-he only difference betieoon them~i being. per--
haps, Rovit's extra emphasis on the teacher-learner relationship which
exists between 'lhe two types.

1.Likeu "in Another~ Couniry,"' accordiing ii Revir, A "ir ..011l to
Arm-ns portrays a learning experience on the par. or its first person
naerrator, Fredieric Henry, who learns; fron several "tiltors" chat to be
completely alive is possible only for one who truly loves. Rovit Finds
a similar st~ructure in The Sun Also Rises. H-rmin~~ay':; ficae !novel
pu~rerys a lear-ning: experience on the part or i:1 narrator, though
whait is learned by Jake Barnes is, in a sense, ihe opporsite OE what
reider~ic Henry learns. The Sun Aso Rises port:Rays Jalke's dievelopmenlt
of greater control over those emotionls which; he is iilncapble of fulfill-
ing: "just. as Freideric Henry hazs to learn that a truly huma;n life de-
roands involvement .. so Jake E~arnes must lear, to become- usinlvolvedl









f~rom~ useless and impossible illusions if he is to cem~ain sane" (Rovit,
157).

17. The narrative strategies of individual rovels have recefived
somewhat mlore critical attention. During the last few decades, for ex-
awple, there have been numerous attempts to analyze the narrative per-
spective of The Sun Also Rises. WJhile critical estimates of Jlake's
character and the effects his character have on thle novel vary greatly,
however, no critical argument has been offered which convincingly dis-
proves Rovit's assertion that he "muist be mrosy; reliable Jnd mol~sy2
sympathetic" (Rovit, 148). A reduction of critical interest in matters
of narrative technique iin general, and in maic-ers of narrative perspec-
tive in particular, is Evident in the criticism of the novels which fol-
low The Su!n Plso Rises. WJhile AZ Farewell to, Arms hlas received a good
deal of critical attention very few of thl manly articles conlcerned with
Iemingway's second novel deal with technical considerations, and none
deals primarily wiFth narrative perspective. This -eneral reduction of
critical con~cernl with the qjuest-ion of nlarrative straetegy~ is even~ more
pronounced in the criticism of subsequent novels.

18. Fenton, 238, 239.
1.See Richard Bridgeman, The Col-icqil Stge in Amlerrca

(New York, 1966), 203-209.

20. Bridgeman does not agree that Chapter IV is an attempt to
re~produce Dorman-Smiith's idiom. He feats thairt ho voice of this
vignette, "whichl may be Brit-ish," marks an attempt by housepay:l to
close in on a needed "neutral voice" (Bridgeman, 206).

21. Joseph De~alco, The Hero _~~in Hem.t__~ingc' SotStr
(Pittsburgh, 1963), 56.

22. See DeTalco, 211-212.

23, DeFalco, 130.

24. A~tkins, The Art of Ernest: Hamingway~3 (Lonidon, 191;), 721-73.
Atkins does not included anly notes in his book, and one canl onlly gellss
at the dace of Ham~ingway's letter. Peui oeeM< til
and Hemingway Lcorresp~ondd while Atkins was achiing: The Ai. f Enes
Hamingway,_ or a crn infecr that Hemingway's cui.:l`nts were m~ade around
1951.

25. Letter quoted by Carlos Bak-er in ncilom~ingray ~ Theriter as
Artist, 97n.

26. Le~itter qulotedl by Wilson in The Shores of IfghtL1 (NeU Yor'k,
1952), 122--113.

27. Hem~ingway pays tribute to Conrad En :'-rlaturutlatc Review
II (Septed~er, 1924), 341-342.









28. Ernest Hiemingway, Green Hlills of Africa (New York, i135), 22.

29. Young, Ernest Hemuinprray: A Reconsideration, 188.

30. Hemingway, G~reen illsofAfrca 22.

31 Bridgemian, 197.

32. See Fenton, 15.

33. See Fenton, 16-17.

34. Fenton, 17.

35. Fenton, 26.

36. Fenton, 24I3.

37. Fentor quotes Mloise, 41.

38. Fccton, 81.

39. Fanton quotes Wright, 101.

;0. See Robert McAlmo:n andl Kay Boyle, Being Genius~es To-iether
NEwj York(, 1968), 312-313.

41. Erne~st HemingwJay, Revie~w of Anderson's .S -Teller's~
Stoy. Ex Libris, II (March, 1925), 176-177.

L2. John T. Flanagan, "lle~mingwany's Debt to Shefrw:ood Antderson,"
Jounalof nglshandGerani Pilog, LIV (Octouber, 1955), 515.

43. Carlos L~aker includes the comiplete text of Hemninguray's
N~obel Prize acceptance speech in Hemf~in-iway~:The Wri_3~terasAit 339.















CHAPTER II

NARRATIVE PERSPECTIVE: A DEFINITION OF TERMS


The failure of critics to develop a sufficient understanding of

the importance of narrative strategy in Hemingway's fiction is part of

what amounts to an overall lack of critical attention to matters of

narrative perspective.* The general inadequacy of criticism in this

area is perhaps most clearly reflscted biy the fact that in the years

since the publication of Percy Lubbock's The Craft of Fiction, most

critics have been contenlt to accept Lubbeck''s useful, but obviously

limited analysis of the possibilities of narrative strategy with

little or no qualification. It is onlyl in~ the last few years, in ;-et,

thath critics such as IWayne C. Booth and Bertil Romnbers have puursued

Lub~bock's line of investigation and have attempted to lay a nlore sub-.

s;tantial foundation for thle study of narrative perspective. Because

of ithe absence of an adequiate critical framework for dealing wyith

questions of narrative strategy, it has been? necessary for the present

study to develop its own framework,. During its inve-tigation of: nairrn-

tive perspective in Heningway's stories, this study uses distinctions




Thle Locm "n~arrative perspective" is used inl thi~s sculdy to desig-
onoe that complex of relationships which is contingent on the kind of
narrator an author creates. By "narrator"' this study means that chat;-
acter wh~o ostensibly writes, tells, or re~mebehrs a story.










which are derlived, first, from a review and revisionl of those tersl-

and concepts developed in The Craft of Fiction:; second, from~ a reviewi

and revision of terminollogy developed in such recent scudies as those

of Booth and Rcmberg; and fin~allyi, from the definition of sever;:l termls

and concepts which have not been used previously in criticism of fic-

tion.

In The Craft o Fiio Lub~ock develops the four-fold cacigori-

zationl of possible narrative strategies wh~ichl has b~ccure the b-sis for

nearly all discussion of narrative perspeccive in the lese five

decades. Dependling upon the amoulnt of dralmatizntiion :n authlor tcee~a a

story req~uires, ,iccocdinrg to l;ubocki, he ct; present a narrativev

"dramaticallly" or he canl create an ".maiscieil t" narratoar, a "'Contall

intelligence," or a "first-person" narratorl

;nhjL to called rChe "cramat-ic": n-t:od tin Tih C.-Rft o~f Flici;!on g;

by difference narros; in the various ILSubsequent aeiempts to cate~o~rize

narrative strategies. Renei Wellek and Aus-in Warren, Edithn Mirial-ues,

anld K~enn~th P'ay~so Kempt-on call it the objectivee" methiod; Carolin3

Gordon and Allen~ Tater call it thes techniques of th!e "e~ffaced narrator";

Cleanth Brooks and dobert Penn I\ar-ren call i~t the t-echan~je of -lhe

"observer aulthor";i an~d Nltoraan Fri~edrnan refers to it as the "'dram:atic

md. Despite their differeinces ir: term~inology, howver, the cri tics

agree that whlen -rn author uses this na~rratlve m~et~hod, h:e is attempring

"tio appr-oximiate as closely as possible the authority of the dr~ama-

tist." In h~is attempt to present' a kinld of Prose drama~ the author

of a dramcatic nark effaces his nnrtrator, alloi~rng his: to en~tel the

narrative only for the purpose of pacing the characters before back-

grounds suicabL:e for t-he "scenes" th!ey ennet. Th~e characte-rs in






-ld-


dramatic fiction are developed exctlu~sively by mean; of the "objct-ivo"

presentation of only "what the characters do and say." si sa

in the actual drama it imitates: the thoughts and ~eeings of the char-

acters in dramatic narrative must be "inferrrd from action and dialog-ue."

Though dramatic telling hlas usually been thought of as one of the

method of third-person narration, there is no reason why a first-

personl work cannot be dramatic. The SunA~lsoRie in fact, is r-e

of 'Ihe few successful full-lcenth dramatic works in fiction. Withb fewi

exceptions--exceptions which total 1.ess th~an twenty of the rlovll's

250 pagrs~--Jake. Barne~s pre-sents the action of Thei Sun Also Rsisa exclu-

sively through conversation and through descript-ions of t.he exter;nal

appearances of people and things.

Wihat is convecntionally tentedl~ "omnt;iscient" narration in critteall

discussions is the kind of LicLiuonal presentation one e;:countezca in

Tom Jonese~ Vanitgliair, andl F~r~~or 9nom the Be To~ll. l,".ile there. are

;. great~ many dj fferefnt kinds of cinni~scient narrative. thiis stu~dy ulses

only the simlple distinction~ dsignated bjy rriedmaui's tems,.j "-d'torial

onmiscien~ce nnd "ieutlral owlniscience." A rnarrstor is said to bre

nearnc;ity omnsc~ienlt of he reveals: or dis-csses the~ unvoiced thcugh~ts

or1 emoti~ans of thei chalractors~ of his Inarrative. A an;crator ta Ler-med

iditor~ially or-mliscient if in; additionr to presentling (he unspoke. n

iLcouihts and! emotiions of thle chara2cters of his oln.rstLive, he Ipt Santsl

hii: oinions (whii~ch may or c.1y noat bc. LIo auclhor'::) IH.iher aboutl life

ini general l or laout the1 chara3ct. rsL and tvents of MiiS narlCCaI~ve

During thle 1;.s- ha.lf :onrlry a long a!.d often coniused critical





-25-


of omniscient narration and, more specifically, over the aesthetic

legitimacy of direct authorial intrusion. The question of whether

the presence of "Fielding" in Tom Jones, of "Thackeray" in Vanity Fair,

and of "George Eliot" in Middlcmarch, makes or mars these novels,

whether it helps or hinders the reader's "illusion of reality" has

been discussed at length by such critics as Henry James, Percy Lubbock,

Edithl Wharton, Caroline Cordon, and Joseph Varren Beachl. Booth's Tihe

Rhetoric of Fiction, in fact, is devoted in large part to a review~ of

the many critical discussions about the rhetoricc" of narrative intlra-

sion and to a partial reassessment of the importance of un:niscient:

narration. His work mus t be consulltedl for ai full understanding of

omniscience and of the questions that relate to it.

The third narrative strategy usually distinguished by critics is

thle "central-intelligeence" methlod.7 Central-intellicn~ce fiction jis

recognizable by the double view it gives a reader. As Gordon and Tace

explain, "Wne look at the situation by anld large through the eye~s of

the central character or intelligence, but wn. st-nd aI little above .and

to one side, so to speakx, and act~all.y use thle eyes of: the artist him-

self." In this kind of Fiction the reader is presented with two

-somiewhat overilaPp~in views of whatever events occur: the overall

"true" view of an omancscient narrator and the view~ of at least one

character who is involved in the events and wiho is attempting t~o make

sense of what he sees.* In central-intelligence fiction the reader is




Since centra-inteligence fiction depends on the presentation
of at least one character's unvoiced reactions, the narrator of a
central-inltelligence narration must be ac least neutrally ownniscir.at.
It is also possible, of course, for a central-intielligence narrat,r
to be editorially omniscient.






-26-


generally not as interested in watching the events which occur aIs he is

in directly observinig the way in which the mind! of the c~entrsl intelli-

gence is reacting to the events. The omniscient narrator's view of

things often serves primar-ily as a standard by which thle reader can

measure and evaluate the responses of the central intelligence.

The successful use of the central-intelligencce miethod in such

works as The labassadors and A. Portraite of the Artis;t as a Youtyn Maul

has; resulted in an attitude on thle part of mlany critics that the

central intelligence methodl is not only a useful tec~hnicue; but "he

useful technique for fictioall. presentation, an~ attitudes which reflects

a basic misunderstanding about the question of lictional meth~ods.

There has been a pIrop~ensit-y on the part of man: critics since Lubbockx

to, try to define not caly whant narrative stratay~: is u~sed in a work,

but- also to de~cormine which wacheds sl.auld be uned i fic tionl is to be

successful. This kind of thfulking is evident. inl those mln~y attacles on

Vannity Fair which are based in partl on a disapproval of ihe kind of

narrative strategy the novel uses, onl thle often unscaLed assumpl;tion

that the use of Editorial omniscience automat~i.:atly renders a work in;-

ferior. Then problems with6 thiis sort of criticism, oE cour-se, i:: dbat it

ver~rk backwards. Reasonable judgem~ents about the methods of Eicrion

must be based on the examination of particurlar works which~, as a whlolr,

are surccessful.. The only real proof Lbat the centrull-in~tellignce

method is a valuable fictional technique is that it wan usedl 10 the

creation of surch successful works at; Middlemarch anrd The cAmbssdos

Thoughl the crit-ic can~ ascertain howz these wro-ks vary theo technique

and attempt to decide why this partiicula;r mcthod wasr useful. for these

particular works, it is impor~rssible foc him to saiy--no matrter: how) maIny~










"advantages" thle methlod seems to have--t-hat it is any rlore likely to

be employed in a successful work of art thann are any of thne other nar-

rative methods which have been employed in successful works. It seems

fair to say, in fact, that a technique which could enable a writer to

hurdlee all the obstacles" of previous writers, as Gordon suggests the

central-intell ience method can do, would be a considerable disadvan-

tage for a writer.S In1 many cases, the most fertile ground for ant artist

is that which contains the most and the greatest obstacles. As Hem;ring:-

way puts it, "How simple the writing of literature would be if it wrec-

only necessary to write in another w~ay what has been well written;. It

is because we have had such great writers in the past that a wraiter is

driven iar out past where he can go, out to where no one can help~ himl."

This study does n~ot use th~e category of "first-person narration"--

the fourthl narrative method usually distinguished by critics--because

of certain ambiguities which arise when the traditional distinction of

person is emnployed. The terras "first person" an~d "third per-son" are

not simply "overjworke~d," as Eoothl suggests i~n The Rhetoric of ic~t~ion

they are essentially misleading, for they don't really have anything to

do with the quest-ion of person.11 "First person" seems to refer to a

narrator's ident-ification of himself as "I," but in Torn Jon, one of

the most frequently cited examples of third-person narrative, "Fielding"

refers to himself as "I" just as consistently as Jake Barnes does in
12
The Sun Also Rise-s. "Third person" seems to refer to the way in

which a central protagonist is referred to by n narrator, but in a

first-person narrative like The G-reat Gagsb the nlarrat-or consistently

refers to the protagonist as "he." In reality, "first person" and

thirdd person" represent an attempt to define the degree to which










a narrator is directly involved in~ the events he presents to the reederl

a far more important matter than whether t-he narrator identifies h:im-

self as "I" or not. In order to avoid the misleading connotations, of

the distinction of person, this study uses terms which clearly direct

the reader's attention to this all-important question of involvement.

The term "involved narrator" is used to desinnate a narrator who is or

has been physically involved in the events he relates, even if his in-

volvemient is only that of a witness who is phiysically present at these

events. The term "uninvolved narrator-" is used to refer to a narrator

whoe is not and has not been physically invlolved in rho events he

relates." There are instances, of course, where onrrators ares noti con-

sistently inviolved or uninvolved. When, fore examples, t:he generally

uninvolved "Trollope" of Th~e Warn tells thle re.-d-r thalt he sQ-, thet

characters writh whojm his r:arration is concerned, he becomoes miolaentarity~

an involved narrator.

In his r~ci-nt study Bertil Rober!cg dliEferentiatess involved nar-

rators on t-he basis of ithat he calls "epic situation," thast is, onl the
13
basis~ of "llhe narrator1's oitu-tion wrhen he is tellinge his story

Though the concept of "cpic situation" is a very useful one, the 1 aln

is unfortunate, For it seems to Inlvolve thle rEader~ ini quZstioniS of

genro, rather thanr in qulestions; of narrative perspective~. For thle sake

of clncity this study ulses the termu "narrating pres;ent"--the presentt"




It is possible for an ulninvolvedr nortaltor to bE emotionally
involved wjith the chairacters he presents, ':Thackeray,"" for example
somctimies gets ang,;ry at chalracto~rs inl Vani~tgiair.









during which a narrator narrates his story--instead of "epic situation."

According to Romberg, the narrating presents of some involved Ilarrations

are "oral." Harrators, in other words, tell their stories to listeners.

Thle "most usual epic situations," however, "is that which necessitates

the work of a narrator sitting at his writing desk."1 Because Romberg's

study is concrrned almost exclusively with works which use written

narrating presents, his book is of limited use in an analysis of Hleming-

way 's fiction. In nearly all of Hemingway's involved -narrntives narrators

are doing somlething other than writingg" In sulch works as "MyI: Old ani,"

"Aftler the Stormi," "Fifty Grand," and The SunAl~so Ri~ns, iivlued:c Iar-

rators spefak to implied listeners. In other 'Ij)Lks--"IA Canai~ry for One,"

"In Another Country," "Nowu I Lay Me," and A Fare~well to A.-7s, among~ themr--

narrating presents are neither oral, nor written. Narr;;te~s me~rely

remember events from their pasts.

In order to facilitate analyses of specific stories, th;is stuldy

makes use of a further dlitstinctio which is not part of the traditional

vocabulary for discussing narrative perspective. Ini addition to a

narrating present, all of Hemiinway's stories make use of at least one

"acttagg present," of at least one situation which the narrator Jesci-ibes

or presents. Cenera~ll speaking, thle balance iihich a writer esub~lishes

between narrating present and acting present is one of the mosti imoor-

tant sirrgle faci-ors in determining the effects and meanings a wiork

creates. In miost fiction thie reader 's attention is directed primarily




1170 possible exceptions here are "Th~e G-labler, the Nucn, and the
Radio" and "F1athiers and Sons." See the diiscussions of these stories
in Chapter V of this study.





-30-


to the events of the acting present, but his understanding of the~se

events is modified by his awareness of the narrating present. This

usual balance is exemplified by Great Exectations. During Dickens'

novel the older, more mature Pip's vision of things in thle narrating

present serves as a standard which enables the reader to more fully

understand the novel's primary subject, the development of the ch~ar-

acter of Pip in the acting present. In a similar fash;ion, while the

reader of A Farewell to Arms is primarily concerned with Frederic

Henry's experiences in the acting present, the narrators sadder,

wiser vision in the narrating prelsentr framfs: these events -nd miodciies

the effect the war experiences and love affair have onl the reader.

In some stories anld novels the nadrrating present is as imUPOrTa1t. as

the acting present. In Trist-raFm Sg for example, Trist~raca's

attempt to narrate the story of~ his birth and of~ his Uncle Toby's

love life becomes at least as important as the story itself. In util:

other works, the acting present receives thle almost anqual~ified

attention of the reader. The power of The Sun Also Rises, for example,

results in large measure from the fact that the narrating present of

thle novel is nearly invisible. During the hiundredis of pagecs of The SunL

Also R~ises there are onily twoe instances in rfhich J1'e J"arne draws;~

attention to his function as teller. The longer of t-he two--hts worry

thant hre has not: "shohn Robeirt Cohn clearly"--is a par-agraph! iong, thle

shiorter--Jake's mention thiat the Pamplona arcriivist's office has

"nothing to do with! the story"--takes only eight wo~rds.15

Aa involved narration ca:n beo classified! not only according: to

the kind of narrattag present which it uses, but. accordi~ng to thle extent

of the narrator's dire involvfment ilu the evenitr h ilecsentt s to rlhe










reader. Though there are obviously a great manyi possible derreecs of

this involvement, Rouiberg an~d most other critics use only the tradt-

tionlal two-fold distinction between the: narr-.tor as "pro;-.gonist" and

the narrator as "witness" or "observer." TIhis study uses the traditional

terminology,too, but with a qualification. In subsequent chiapters a

narrator is called a protagonist only when his ostensible purpose in

narrating is to tell his own story. When a narrator usnisiiibly attempts

to relate the story of anoch~er character, he is called a writn~e.s nar-rator,

even when his own story is more interesting to the reader than thle one he

tells .

In spite of the intense number of successful stories and o~vls

wh':ich use protaigonist-narrators4, mrany critics havef felt thant th? is nethod

of presenting fiction has great dIisadlvantages for a wricacl. ey

James, for example, calls narration byi an invo~lved nar.-aor "the; dark-

est abyss of romiance" and emphasizes his feeling "that thel fitsr po~csn,

in the long piece, is a form for-doomed to, looseneiss ....1 at

some of the many limitations James and subseqjuentl cr~cies hlave observdc~

in prot-agonist--inarration are real limitations, a great ,uty~j of the:im

are not. Critical understanding of narracive perspecie ha::-~ s fraguently

been fogged by ai failure to remember that in fiction whiat may si-:n ir;.-

possible need not really be impossible. Ther frequent crriTtecal objec-

tion, for example, that protagonist narration destroys intrediac~y, first,

because the reader is told about events rather than shiolw the events

themselves and, second. because the events descr-ibed take place in the

jast, rather then in thle present, only seems sound.17 in reality, it

is easy to find examples of scenes in novels nlarratefd by pr-otagoniists









which are at least as immediate in effect as the most vivid scenes in

works presented in other ways. Surely the wounding of Frederic Henry

in A Farewell to Arms cannot be accused of a lack of imrmediacy. The fre-

quant suggestion that if he is to be endowed with any of the great vir-

tues, the protagonist narrator must sing his owin praises is based on the

"logical" supposition that we can only know good things about a protag-

onist narrator if he tells us about them.1 This, of coursef, is nonsense.

Tcistrami Shandy, Jane Eyre, Huck Finn, and Jake Barnes don't tel us

they are good people, but we have no difficulty finding out. Even the

partally justified objection that narration by a protagonist forces a

work to limit its vision to what is seen by one man ignores real fiction.l

Such devices as the interpolated tale have long been used successfully

to help broaden a protagonist narrator's vision,

The other kind of involved narracor distinguished by Raomberg and

other critics is the "I" as "witness" or "observer." Critical discus-

sicos usually emphasize thle great variety of ways in which this method

has been used, a variety which is exemplified by Hefmingu~ay's use of the

method in such dissimilar stories as "Fifty Grand," "An Alpine Idyll,"

and "A Day's Wait."

A final distinction wuhi~ch needs to be mentioned here involves the

degree to which the personality of a narrator is developed. The nar-

rators of both uninvolved and involved narratives range from neasr in-

visibility to full characterization. The narrators of both "Th'le KE11ers"

and! "Thef Old H.an at the Bridge," for example, are nearly invisible as

individual personalities, and the result is that the reader devotes his

primary attention to the chlaracters and the events these narrators





-i3-


describe. Both the "Fieldirng" of Tom Jones and Nick Carroway in Th:e

Great Garsbi, on the mother hand, are "highly characterized," and in

both cases the characterization of the narrators significantly affects

the reader's understanding of the events which are presented.

The subsequent chapters of this study are divided into three

general sections. The first section, wihich~ includes Chapters III,

IV, and V, discusses those stories which are narrated by involved

narrators. The section begins w~ith those stories in which narratrors

are important primarily as "framles" for tne presentation of chiarac:ters

other t-hzn themselves and works t-oward those stories in wh~ichn the in-

volvement of narrators in the events they present is the reader's

primary concern. Part II of thle studly--Chanpters VI, VII, and ValI--

discusses those stories which USL uninjl~volvd nacrtors Trs stt

bergins writh a discussion of stor'.es in wht.ch unlnvolvedi narrctors are

as highly characterized aIs th: crcrators of many i;voled narretions,

and then discusses that Large group~ of urinivolved narratives which are

presented by nearly ivi~sible nlarcators. Th brief final dection of

thle scady discusses those stories ir which changes in the reader's

perspective on events effect anld modify thecmatic content. During the

process of analyzing specific H!emingway stories, those termrs ?nd re-c

lationshlips which are defined in this chapter are mlore fully~j developed,

and a fewi newi terms and relationships are distingpulshed. H~opefully,

the rather bulky tenlainology which is evolved is more of a help than1 a

hindrance to the reader's understanding of Hemingeway's accomnpl:shm~;e ~t- s.






-34-


In order to facilitate the use of thle terminollogy developed in

the present chapter and in subsequent chaptears, the Following lis L of

important terms and of the pages on which discussions of these terms

can be found has been included;


Acting Present: The series of events which~ the narrator
of a story presents to the reader, as contrasted with thle
series of events in which the narrator is involved as he
tells the story. Pp 29-30.

Anale of View: The modification of the narrative perspec-
tive OE an uninvolved narration wh-ich causes the reader co
view events buy aInd large as they are perceived by a char-
actor within the narration. Pp. 159-160.

Cen~~_~tral.-Inellienc Narration: Unin~volvrd nalrration which
is presented from the angle of viewv of a chanrzcter (or
characters) whose unvoiced reactionls to the experiences in
which~ he is involved art piresented.; i onidecable de!tail.
In a central-intelligence narration, the reaider i:; largely
concerned wi~th the specific reactions of th:e chlaracter--
or "cntral inteollilnce"--fromr whose :il310 he viox-s events.
Pp, 25-27.

Characterized Nlrrator: A narrator whose personality is dJ-
veloped duringp a narration. Pp. 32-33,

C~olttiLorialized Naraor narrator who speaks in clearly
cottoquial Language. P. 49.

Distance: Trhat degree of opposition or idecnti fiction
which exists between any two of the compronenlts of the ex-
perience of Fiction, tbhe is. betw~een author and -arr-tor,
narrator andl reader, narrator and imp~lie~d author, realder
and j,:,pl~ied listenor,, and so for~th. This oppostriionl or iden;-
tification canr oe mioral, intellccutual social, rac~ial, or
of almost innulrmerable other kiinds. P. 97.*

Dramaicn~r Na~rration: Th.at tyjie of narration dluring~ 4hich
c;?aractrc andr evenL are developers almnort exclusi~vely
Llroughl the pl-r;esntati~o on of conlversatioun and t-hrugh: de--
-cciptionls oE che, extrnal :IppearanceLsi O of eoP]Ciic an th~iigS,
In~ dramratic tiction,:i rhe nrratlor is often el:.cedi For Inth~e
portions of his narration. P'p. 23-2/r, 158.

Editourial Omntscicncei: Nnarration during which; .!n unirlvolvedr
narrator presentsi or dCscribesS the- Unvoiced thoughts, rool-
ingsI or Ii-natuieils Of one or more~ chi.a~r Lr ad isow
opiLnLion aou li)Ilif or h~is or,! !val a~tions:: ofi Ll chameterr s
andl eveitr of bis Iiarrat~ion. Pp. 23-25.











Implied Author: That image of its author which every
work of fiction creates by implications., an iniage which
may or mnay not correspond to the author himself. Pp. 48-49,157*.

Impeli~5ed senr The character to whom the involved nar-
rator of a liarration with an oral narrating present is
apparently speaking. Pp. 78-79.

Involved Narration: Narration which is presented by a
narrator who is or has been physically involved in the
events of thep story he relates to the reader, even if t-his
involvement is only that of a personal witness of these
events. Pp. 27-28, 137-138.

Multiple Perspective: That type of presentation which
utilizes changes in narrator or changes in angle of view
in order to eftfct the~matic concent. Ep. 220-221.

Partn resent: The situationl of a narrator as he is
narrating his story. A narrating present need not be de-
veloped in, a story, but if one is, it canl be urlrtten, in
which case the narrator is enngaged in the- proce-s of uirit-
ing his story; and it can be oral, in which c~ase the nair-
rator is telling his story to someone. Thef narrating
present of a work can also be wmadr up of a1 narrator's
attempt: I- reniouber: his past. Pai. 28-30.

Na-rcattve Perspective:ive Thiat complex of relationship s
which is; ci,?ingent on the kind of narraLor used in a
story. P. 22.*

I:arrator: The character wrho ostensibly writes, tells, or
remembers aI story. P. 22.*"

Neutral Owniscience: Narration~ during which an u~ninvolved
narrator presents or describes the unvoiced thioughtcs, feet-
ings, or memories of one or more chlaracrers, bult does nocl
directly present his own observations about life or his
owin evaluations of the characters and events of hiis .1'rrs-
tion. P. 24.

Ob~j-c~tiv Eitm: The use of a character's perception of
external ob~jects in moments of stress as a means of rel-
flecting thes characters inward psychoilogical state. P. 2..

ProtiiffagonitNartin That type of involved narration
during wnica a narra!tor ostensibly tells his own story,
Pp. 30-32, 90.

Situationl Report: A\ narrative during which the reader's
attention is focused on a general situation, rather than on
a single character or a single event. F. 53,





-36,-



Uninvrolved Narration: A narrationr which is presen~ted by a
narrator Who is not and has never been physically involved
in the story he relates to the reader. Pp. 27-28, 138.

Unreliable Narr-ator: A narrator whose presentation of:
events--either by accident or by design--distorts what
the reader guesses to be true. Pp. 78-79.

Witness Narration: Thaet type of involved narration during
which a narrator ustensibly presents the story of someone
other than himself A witness narration can. be sinle ia
which case the character whose story the witness narrat-or
presents is the reader's primary concern, or it can be
comaglex, in which case the reader is primarily concernedd
with the narrator andi with those relationships wihichl are
developed betw.-en the witness narrator anld the story he
relates. Fp, 32, 41, 58, 90.














NOTES TO CHAPTER II


1. See Percy Lubbockc, The Craft of Fiction (London, 1921).

2. Rene' Wellek and Austin Warren, Theory of Literature (New York,
1956); Edith Hiriclees, Writing the Short Story (Garden City, New York,
1934); Kenneth Payson Kempton, The Short Sory (Cam~bridge, M~ass., 1948);
Caroline Gordon and Allen Tate,Thef Houlse of Fiction (New York, 1950)
and Caroline Gordon, Hlow toRead a ovel (N~ew York, 1957); Cleanth
Brooks and Robert Penn Wjarren, Understanding: Fiction (New York, 1943);
Norman Friedman, "Point of View in Fiction: The Development of a
Critical Concept," PI1A. LX (December, 1955), 1160-1184.

3. Gordon and Tate, 624.

4. Friedman, 1178. The category of "dramatic" or "objective"
narration includes a number of different kinds of fictional presentea-
tion. "The Killers" is often used as an example of a dramatic story
primarily because it is told, as Cordon and Tate put it, with a
"minimum of exposition" (See Gordon and Tate, 624). On the other hand,
"dramatic" has also been used to designate fiction which is limited,
as strictly as possible, to a behavioristic presentation of character
and theme through external views. Using the kind rather than the amount
of exposition as the standard, the last two-thirds of Steinbeck's
"Flight" and Chapter X of I Our Time ("Thefy whack--whacked the white
horse .. .") can be called dramatic even though they are told exclu-
sively through exposition, Generally speaking, writers who have been
concerned with the one kind of dramatic telling have been concerned
with the other, and as a result, the two methods are usually used
together. In Of Mice and Men and _TheSun Als Rises, for example,
action which isn' t conveyed through conversation is nearly always
conveyed through descriptions of the external appearances of people and
things ,

5. Friedman, 1178.

6. See Friedman, 1169-1174.

7. The term "centr-al intelligence" was originated by Henry James,
w~ho, according to many critics, both developed the techniqule and created
the best e:amples of it. In addition to "central intelligence,"
Gordon andi Tate use "roving narrator" and "ollniscient narrator con-
cealed." Friedman divides the method into two sub-methods and calls
them "selective omniscience" and "multiple selective omniscience."


-37-










Kempton uses the term "stream of experience," and Elizabeth Drew uses
"indirect narrative." See Elizabeth Drew, "A\ Note on Technique," in
The Modern Novel: Some Aspects of Contemporary Fiction (New York,
1926).

8. Gordon and Tate, 626.

9. Gordon, 120.

10. Hemingway, in his Nobel Prize acceptance speech. See Baker,
Hemingway: The Writer as Artist, 339,

11. Wayne C. Booth, The Rhetoric of Fiction (Chicago, 1961), 150.

12. Booth mentions that the commentary in Tom Jones is "in the
first person, often resembling more the intimate effect of Tristram
Shand than that of many third-person works," (Booth, 150.)

13. Bertil Rombcer, Studies in the Technique of the First-Person
Novel (Stockholm, 1962), 33.

14. Rornberg, 35. A narrator need not be directly involved in the
events he relates for a narrating present to be created. The narrating
present of Tom Jones, for example, is more fully developed than the
narrating presents of many involved narratives.
Though the development of the narrating present of a work
usually results from a narrator's commenting about his function as
narrator: other elements can contribute to this development, For one
thing, the degree to which the narr-ator manipulates time and place dur-
ing his narrative is important. The shifting of seasons at the beginning
of A Farewell to Arms, for example, causes the reader to be more aware
than he might be otherwise of the presence of Frederic Henry in a
narrating present distinct from the events he is describing. The im-
portance of the shifting of time and place in the creation of the nar-
rating present is also suggested by the fact that in those works in
which the narrating present is invisible or nearly so, changes in time
and place are often particularly unobtrusive. In The Sun Also Rse,
for example, Flemingwyay uses a number of techniques which make shifts
in scene almost invisible. Early in Book II, for example, Brett asks
Jake if he thinks the trip to Spain will be too rough on Cohn.
"Thiat's up to him," I said. "Tell him you're coming. HE
can always not come."
"I'll write hlim and give him a chance to pulll out of it,"
I did not see B~rett again until the night of the 24th of
June.
"Did youl hear from Cohn?"
"Rather. Hie's keen about it."
"M~y God '"
"I thought: it was rather odd myself (The Sun Also Rises,
84) Hcmingway skips four days in one unobtrusive sentence, and he leaves
unsaid completely the details of what presu:1ably is a shift in place.
The significance of thiis particular techiniquie is more understandable
when one rernmembrs thant only.twro days are covered in the nearly fjifty
pages of Book i of Thle Sun Also Rises.







-39-



15. Hemingway, The Sn Also Rises, 45, 96.

16. Henry James, Thle Art of the Novel (New Yorkc, 1934), 320. It
is ironic, perhaps, that J~ames disapproves of a method which he uses in
such successful works as The Turn of the Screw, "Four Meetings," "The
Real Thing," and The Aspern Paors. Eis basic objection to thie method,
however, concerns its use in a "long'' work, by which he probably means
something more extensive than any of these narratives.

17. See, for example, Gordon, 98.

18. See, for example, Micielees, 104-105.

19. See, for example, Gordon and Tate, 625.










time . ."). Thourgh almost no information about this nalrlacor is

made explicit in the sketch, the diction the narrator uses indica es

both that he is an American and that he is in the process of learning

about the bullfight. His nationality is suggested by his use of the

Amlerican term, "kid," and, perhaps, by his use of "pigrail," which

seems like the probable American substitute for the Spanish word

"coleta." Thiat the narrator is in the process of learning about the

bullfight is suggested by the fact thlat while he understands such

relevant terms as "cuadrilla" and "barrern," he is unfamiliar

w~ith others. He is apparentlyr unacquainted, for example, with "col~neta,'

Evien the terms the narrator does know seeml to fall into twoe classes.

The nairrator is apparently so familiar w~ith "Itore~ro" and "balrrera_"

that thry are part of his automatic vocabulary. This is suggested

by the fact thlat the words are not italicized in chce te~xt aa for-;gn

words usually are. "Puntilla" and "cuadrilla," oni the other hand, are

ital.icizedl, and the way in which they stand out su:ggests thlat they are

not completely assinmilated into the nlarr~atr's vocabulary, that the

narrator Is, in ocher words, less fully acquainted with theml.

The narrator of Chapter XI is also chanracte-rized by his urention

uE the fact ilhat: after the cor~rida he sawJ the unsulccessful mastndor

at "the cafe'." By using "the cafef," rather than "a cafi" or thes name

of the c-fe, the narrator suggests thiat he? is and probably ha:s b~een for

somel t~imen a frequent customer of thre es tablishrment. The narratlor's

aassumpt~ion th~at th~e reader knows which cafe he means llso chaoracter-

izos the narrator. The reader comes to know~ the narrantor better by

finding out the kind of things h~e p~rsumes: Ieople knou.





-43-


In spite of the fact that thle narrator of Chiapter XI is more

fully characterized than the almost invisible narrator of :1 scory .such

as Chapter X of In Our Tim ("They whanck--w~hacked the whlite horse.

."), he remains of only secondary interest insofar as thle sketch as

a whole is concerned. The most important concern of Chapter XI is the

portrayal of an unsucce~ssul bullfight and an unsuccessful matador.

The involved narrator is; useful for adding fictional authority and a

certain sort of dramatic perspective to tne events he descr~ibes, but

in no sense does he receive the reader's priuir:y attention:.

As is true in Chapter XI, thle main purCP35s of thle neuraiCOrC of

Chapter VII ("While. thle bombardmenlt was knockiarg tbo Itrench to

pieces .. ") is the enhancement of the p~resentat'an~ of a character

other than himself. M~ore clearly than is true of the oacrator of

Chapter XI, how~~ever this narraior's acttitudes fra~mer~ an odify the

tone of the events he prese~nts;. The~ cal.y informarkin (-hat Lte readri

finds out about cho rnarrator of Chanter VII is that he is a soldier

who has become rather cynical about the -incerity of certain typecs of

religious con~version. 111e soldier-narrator recalls for thne rz~~eide ~th

momentary religious enthusiasm of a soldier rwho bezcomes terrifiedi dur-

ing: the bombalrdmenrt at Fossalta an, promises -od: that iT iir .1llow- hima

to live he will te~ll everyonef about ;iim. AcrcordlL toa the larirator, as

soon as thle attack is oiver, thle young, man forgets his vousi,. rtsun:es his

usual shloring at the Villa R~ossa, and "uever toild anybody" about Cod.1

While murder other circumistances thle reader mlight havi? symplat-hy for the

scared soldier, thle presence of the cyn~icral na;rrator inl llis sketch

almost probllbits suchn sympathy. Because the~ soldlrir's strory is

present-ed by a narrrcor wh~rose experience has urendered' himr articu!larly





time . .."). Th~ough almost no information about this narraicor is.

made explicit in the sketch, the diction the narrator uses indica es

both that he is an American and that he is in the process of learning

about the bullfight. His nationality is suggested by his use of the

American term, "kid," and, perhaps, by his use of "pigtail," which

seems like the probable American substitute for the Spanish word

"colets." That the narrator is in the process of learning about the

bullfight is suggested by the fact that while he understands such

relevant terms as "cuadrilla" anld "bnrrera," he is unfamiliar

with others. He is a~pparentlyl unacquainted, for ex~amp~le, with "colet?,"

Eve~n the terms the narrator does know seem to fall into two classes.

Thle nairrator is apparently so familiar w~ith~ "torero" and "barrera"

that. they are part of his automatic vocabulary. This is suggest-ed

by the fact thlat the words are not italicized in choe text as forL--gn

words usually are. "Punti~ll" and "cuadrilla," on~ thr other handl, are

itallicized, and the way in which they stand out su;ggests thlat they are

not completely assim~ilated into the nlarratour's vocabulary, that the

narrator is, in ocher words, less fullly acquainted wVith t~hem.

The narrator of Chapter XI is also chraracterized by his melnt-ion

oE the fact thbat after the cor-rida hie saw, the unsuccess:ful matandor

at thecaf'."By using "the caef," rather than "a cafe" or thle na3me

of the c-fe, thle narrator suggests th~at he is and probably ha:s b~een for

some timelt ? frequently customer of the establishment. The nari'ator's

assulmption th~at thle read~er knows which caf'e he mnc~s aIlso chlaracter-

izes the narrator. Thle reander comes to know the narrator better by

finding oult the kind of thing he presumes people know.










In spite of the fact that thle narrator of Chapte-r XI. is mo1re

fully characterized than the almost invisible narrator of a story such

as Chapter X of In Our Time ("They whack--whackied the white horse

."), he remains of only secondary interest insofar as thle sketch as

a whole is concerned. The most important concern of Chapter XI is the

portrayal oE an unsuccessful bullfight and an unsuccessful matador.

The involved narrator is usrEul for adding fictional autlhority and a

certain sort of dramatic perspective to the events he decoc:~ibes, but

in no sense does he receive the reader's pri.mary attention;.

As, is true in Chapter XI, thle main pu~rplse of thle narrator of

Chapter VII ("Whi le the bomnbardmenat was knockiing thle t-renlch to

vices .. .") is the enhalncement of the presentation of a character

other than him-self. M~ore clearly than is true of the uaccator of

Chapter XI, however, chis narrator's attttude~s frame anld aud~ifyr the

tone of the events he presents. The o-nly information: t~hat Lhe reader

finds cut about che nrslrator of Chapter VII. is that he is a soldier

who has bJecome raiher: cynlical. about the cinc.rity of certain types of

religious conversion. The soldier-narrator r.edits for thle re-der the

momentary religious enthusiasm of a soldier \ho be~comeis terriified dul--

ing: the bombu.-acrdmet at Possalta and promise s God that iT iis allow< his~i

to live he will toll everyone about Hiim. Accordias to t-he narrator, as

soon as thle attack is over, thec young nian forgets his vows;,. resume~s his

usual wheilring at the Villa Rossa, and "never- told ,aybo;dy"' about God.1

While untder other circum~stances thle reader light hav- sympllalhy for the

scared soldier, the presence of the cynical anatnor inl <.is sketchi

almost prohibits suchn sympathy, Becailse the~ soldiilrii 3tor.Y is

present-ed by a narratosr whGSe rXperi~ence has rendered' him particu!larly





knowledgeable about the effects of fear, the reader tends to view the

scared soldier's changes of heart with cold, humorous irony.

Like the narrators of Chapters XI and VII, the narrator of "The

Old Man at the Bridge" is only slightly characterized. He is signifi-

cant primarily as a means for dramatizing Hemingway's picture of a con-

fused old man.2 The reader does know a few definite things about this

narrator, among them that he is a soldier and that he has been sent out

to explore a bridgehead and find out "to what point the enemy had ad-

vanced." The narrator speaks Spanish--whether he is a Spaniard or not

is not made clear--and he knows enough about the Spanish people to

understand that the old man smiles because the mention of his native

town gives him pleasure. In addition to these few things, however, the

reader finds out little about the narrator and he focuses primarily on

the old man and on his inability to cope with the war.3

The use of a witness narrator in "The Old Man at the Bridge" aids

in the development of a powerful tension between the immobility of the

old man and the advance of the enemy army. When the narrator returns

from his mission, he attempts to get the old peasant to proceed toward

Barcelona with the rest of the refugees. The old man, however, is not

only physically unable to go any further, he has, as R. W. Lid suggests,

lost his will to live.h The peasant's physical and mental immlobility

is framed by the narrator's awareness of the constant movement which is

going on during the story. As the narrator talks to the peasant, the

road that crosses the bridge grows more and more empty, and the narrator's

repeated mention of the dwindling stream of refugees and carts emphasizes

the fact that the fascists may come into view at any moment. The narrator is

finally forced to leave the old man, and the last sight the narrator





-45-


and the reader- have of the peasant i:; overshadowed by the knowledge that

he will fell victirr, to the ourush-ing armrry at any moment.

The wit~ness narrator of "On the Quai at Smyrna" presents a Irean

who has been dri-len nearly crazy by the cruelty, thle absulrdity, and the

Grojtlsqiueess of wrar. As is true in "The Old Man at the~ Bridge."l this

narrator presents his central cha~racter- during a mooment of conveirsationl,

bu!t unlike ;1he soldier, the narrator of "On ihe Quali at Smayrna" say;

n~orhinlg to the central chanracter. Thea cffect of hlts silnce isj to

em~phae lse ther British offEicer's L?^os t h:yse:i Fee~i. LinabLil y to; s top

thinking: and tilling of those event-s ,hich hav~e shoc~k-d ht:L s-o deeply.

Unuke~ pre"viousily dliiscussed sketcheis, "On1 the? Quia:;i B:ltyr,?" creates

Jn expl:icit lI~ifferntitiatio betweep~ln cting: pren at -nd rnarratinS p~resen,

whi;,ch di~vide~s the- focus of the reader bet.weet cih c ants thec officer is

remewhec~singg nd; thie manner in which; thie officer talks of the-s;: evento

T;Ikern togetherr, the two presentsts' yiva a douJble emphad-i~s to, le horror

of i ar; they s~how that it is horribjle bothn in the brutalty I~t causesc

andu inI the eiffects olf this brutality on those lih- Partic~ipr~l in it.

It is temp~tin3 to see ironic suggests ions in the nika~c, of: the! overati

ourrator of "On thle Quaii at Smyvrna." D-Falcoi Lor exarl!,e, seen L;.is

n~arrotor as an ironl-ic ratuef for the" preisenItatlion of thr aiore si;escive

British? ofipcoc. According to DuP;!lco, tlhe rescuer's silence indiicaites

h~is indiffeerence andj his #enrarl lack of hunman emotionr.5 'the problems

with this interpre~tation is that silence by itself canl julst as cnasil~y

indicate sympat-hy or shock as indifEirrence. Iti velkl fo

example, thait th~e natutllor is silecr ~ in srad or- ;ained~ ril:.i.b~rance of

th~ose events which the Biritish- officer descr.ibe-s. EU1 -;n case, more

mus;t be2 k~nown; about: a cha-r cter than thie fact that he 1s s~ilen-t to










determine what his real reactions are.

"A Day's Wait" is not a particularly complex story. I sitr

testing in large part because of its picture of Schatz, the young boy

who stoically endures a painful reality and tries niot to make trouble

fo people. Unlike the nar-rators of previously discussed stories and

sketches, however, the narrator of "A Day's Wait" presents several ex-

periences in which he alone is directly concerned, experiences whichI

seem to have little relationship to the character whose act-ions he

witnesses. Hlavin~g given Schlacz hi~s medicine, thie narrator-father goes

outside and spends several hours hunting quail. The relationlship b~e-

tween this hunnting and theio boy's fight with w-hat hie believies is death

is not made e~xplicif. Thie Hunting trip does proviide a necessary break

in time, but such a break could easily be accompl.ished m~ore economi~cally.

The only real relationships between the: two parts of the story, in~ fact,

may be a metaphoric one. During the qjuail hunt the narrato~r slips on

the icy groulnd and falls down twice. Subsequently he learns to balance

on the sli~pperry surface and is finally abl~e to shloot several qluail. He

c~eturns house happy "there werh so many left to find on another day." In

a similar way, perhaps, thle boy's "knowledge" that he is going t. cu.'e

represents a kindI of fall fromn which he mus t picke himself up. t.. the

man holds himself steady on the Ice, the boy holds his emotions steady

in a kind of tenuous and courageous balance. Whecn the boy finds out thant

it has all ceen a mistake, he relaxes, presumiably happy, like his father,

in the know ledge thatl there will be another day. Th~e actions of thle

narrator of "A Day's Wait," inl other wourds, o~bliqluely modify th~e

reader':; unde~rstandlingl of the story of Schat-z, and add~ a dimecnsi< ':o





-47-


the boy's experiences which might not be felt otherwise.

Like most of the witness narrations discussed so far, the aarretor

of "God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen" performs a function in addition to

simply supplying fictional authority for the presenration of characters

other than himself. He establishes a particular kind of atmosphere

which modifies the tone of the events which he subsequently portrays.6

In part, Horace is able to carry out this extra function because of the

clear differentiation between narrating present and acting present r.'lich

he develops during the lonlg opening paragraph~ of the story. Hlorace be-

gins "God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen" by distin~uishitrng betweenei the way

things were "ITn those days" and the way th~ings are .it the- present time.

Not only is Kasnsas City different now, but the narrator himself is

somewhat changed. In those days, for example, the Tlarrator didi no~t kvow

Franchi, as is illustrated by his belief that "d?-_l-is agent" nt silverr

dance" or "silver dancer," and in the niarrating prles~en he looks; back

at his younger days and at his youthful pride in his w~orldly "knlowledge"

wlith humorous irony. The overall effect of the use of thlis distinction

between the twl presents is the creation of a diecepotive facting that

all is we7L and that what will follow is a kind of O'Rienrycsque st.:ry

of love and giving on Christmas Day. When the subsequent: event5.af^ the

story are revealed, the reader's shock is particularly intense because

of the initial creation of this atmosphere of well-being. Once the

scene of "Cod Rest You Merry, Gentlemen'' is set and the two doctors are

introduced, the story proceeds almost wholly byl means of dialogue.Te

distinction betweenl the acting present and the narratinlg present dis-

appears, and the reader devotes hi; attention almost exclusively to











the story of Doctor Wilcox, Doctor Fischer, an~d the overly religious

young mann.

There is a slight inconsistency in the narrative perspective of

"God Rest You Mlerry, Gentlemen." In his introduction of Doctor Witcox,

Horace presents information which he probably could not know. Hie ex-

plains that one of the doctor's professors in medical school told Wiilcou

that he had "no business being a physician" and that hie had done every-

thiing in his power to prevent hiim "from being c~ertifiedl as one" (3931).

Since Dr. Wilcox would surely not make this information known, and

since it is difficult to, imagine how else!Horace could know it, Hor:1cc's

presentation of the information lacks authority. However, because the

information does not seem at all surprising in light of Dr. Wicox's

personality, this lack of authority is not irrmmdiately apparently and has

little real effect on the story.

ToI nearly every story discu~.ssd so far, the la~rrator is almost

identical to what Booth calls the "imoplied author"' of the narrative,

tha3t is, to the implicit picture of Hiemingway which elich narrative

creates.* Even in ai story like "C-od Rest You Merry, G:entlemen" in which

"Heraingway" objectiifie his narrator by having one of ther charactors call

hina "Hlorace," little c::pici, diff.. ntinr~ion is devlcopedi bo~ucen thle

narrator and the. implied author. The fact that the narrator and thea




"As he writes," liooth explains, a writer "creates not simply an
ideal imlpers;onal 'man in general' but an implied vierjion of 'himself'
t-hat isi different froo the implied authors we, meeft in other men's works"
(Booth, 70-71). Even a novel "in public no narrat~or is dlramatinewd creates
-n implicit picture Of an1 auLthor) who stands bl'hindl theC sceneS" (Booth1 ,
151). This implied nuch~or is usually dlisinct from both the "reat mlan"
and frolm the "I" of thre work, the narra`Ttor.










implied author of a narrative are nearly identical, however, does not

mean that the narrative can be viewed as nonfiction, as simple repor-

torial recording. Since H!emingway never identi Eies a narrator as

"Ernest Hlemingway," it is always dangerous for the critic to assume

that such an identification exists. A~s Hemingway explains to "Mice"

in "Monologue to the Maestro," if a writer "gets so he can imagine

truly enough people will think that the things he relates all really

happened and that he is just reporting."7

Unlike previously discussed wi~tnfss narratives, "Fifty Grand''

is narrated by what might be called a "highlly colloquialized narrator,"

in this case, a narrator who speaks in a clearly colloquial kind of

American English. The use of a highly colloquialized narrator in

"Fifty Grand" has several effects on the story. For oned thing, as the

reader grows a-customed to Jerry Dojyle's !a~nce of speaking, he be-

comes more fully involved than he night be otherwise in the world ini

which Jerry lives. The trainer's highly colloquializedl menelnr of

speaking also gives a special kind of authority to his narrative.

Jerry DoyLe seem knowledgeable about prize fighting not only because

he works as a trainer, but because his way of speaking causes him to

sound the way a man who knows about bouxing oughlt to sound.

The choice of Jerry Doyle Is the witness narr-ator for "Fifty

Grand" is useful in ways unrelated to the trainer's manner of speak;ine.

For one thing, Jerry's narrating allows the reader to be a man on the

inside. Muchn of the effect of this story results from the fact that

the reader receives a behind-the-scenes view of the stinginess, the

domestication, and the overall unferociousness of a man the public










believes is a brutal and hardened fighter. Ther importance of the ce;nder's

proximity to th~e action of "Fifty Grand" is particularly evident on t-he

nighc of thie big fight. When Jack Brennan climbs up to get in the r-ing,

Jerry describes hlow Walcott comes over and pushes the rope down for

Jack to go through:

"So you're going to be one of these popular champions,
Jack says to him. "Take your goddam hand off my~ shoulderr"
"Be yourself," Walcott says.
This i~s all great for the crourd. How gentlema~nly the
boys are before the fight. How theoy rvish each mother luck.
(320)

The reador's enjoyloenlt of this scene results in large measure From his

knowledge thate her has infoirmation about what is going on which the rest

of thle sp~ec ators at the fight do not have. The moment of Jack Brnennan's

realizationl that he mous t Icse thie fight works mauch the same way. What I

appeats ton the .rudiu ne a widon: low bloor is c? orstood by Jerly, cud

thuas by thle re~rad, as the decsp-rate action~l of a thlreat'Lene bread-winner.r

A~lth~ough Jerry Doyle's manner of speaking anld his special involve-

?,ent in whiat is going on cause the reader to be interested in himl as a

character, Jack B~rcllnan consistently remaiins thie story's central concern.

The way in which Jerry is developed, in fact, helps co manintainl the

tory's focus on the Irish boxer. For oae things, Jerry Doyle does no~t

tell the reiader much about his own thoughlts and emotions. Gen~erally,

h:.s reactions to the things that hre sees .are simple and obvious andl in

no way attranct the reader's attention. Jerry's pcrsonlal comments: nearly

always support rather than m~odify the picture of events whiichl his nar-

ration sets uip. For example, when Jerry say thant Jack is "sore," h~e

does so, just a~ftr the reader has seenl BRowa's i gr fr imsl

Because. the readecl witches Jerry Laterpret Cvolts s liithoutll distor~tion,





-j1-


he comes to trust the trainer's judgement almost as completely Is he 13001~

trust the judgement of an ominiscient narrator. The readct c Jse.::

view Jerry as a character whose attitudes and prejudices are important

in themselves.

The reader's primary focus on Jack Brennan is also maintained by

thie story's creation of a special kind of presentness, a piosrrntness

which results from what can be thought of as a double disappiearance uf

the story's narrator. In the first place, Jerry Doyle is inlvijible. Es

a narrator in the act of telling a story. Nothing in the story suggests

that Jerry Doyle is reminiscing about events From a point in timne after

Brennan's fight with Walcott. On the contrary, the events of the story

seemn to be related without the intervention of a narrating present. A

second kind of disappearance results from the fact th~at dur-ing th-e

acting present when Jerry ir in conversation w~itr other characters,, he

frequently ceases to be distinguishable even as the overall observer

of events. In the following conversation, for ex;ample, it is ilpossihxoe

for the reader to tell that one of thei speakeirs is narrating the story:

"You know," he says, "you ain't got any idea how I
miss the wife."
"Sure."
"~You ain't got any idea. You can't have an idea
what it's like."
"It ought to be better out in the country than inl
the town."
"Withl me now," Jack said, "it don't makec any difrfr-
ence where I am. You can't have any idea what it's like."
"Have anoi-her drink.."
"Am I ectting soused? Do I talk funny?"
"Ylourre coming on all right."
"You can't have any idea what it's like. They ain't:
anybody can have an idea what it's like." (312)

The use of the present tense at the beginning of the exch-nge does sug-

gest that an involved narrator is telling the story, but the present:

tense is used so frequently during conversations in "Fifty Grand" that










it ceases to be particularly noticeable. During longer exchanges the

narrator identifies his words with "I said," but hie rarely elaboorates

on this identification, and, as a result, the ":" fails to attract

attention any rrore than "he" would. W~hen th~e narrator "dis;,ppeiars"

from large portions of a story or a novel, as is the case in "Fifty

Gran~d" and mnore notably in The Sun Also Ri~ses, the overall result is

the creation of a narrative which is both involved and dramatic.

Hemingway's effacercent of involved narrators in! order to enhan~ce

the direct presentation of scene forms an interesting contrast to one

of Henry James' techniques. In TheCaft of Fiction Lubbock explains

that one of Jamesl major developments in the area of narrative point of

view wJas his discovery that by puttiing a central Intelligence into coom-

versation w~ith other characters he could create ihe illusion that cho

reader is lookingp at that characcer whom he- has been looking through.

In The AmYbassadors, for example, the reader viewis events through Strcthei''

eyes and focuses on Strethler's reactions to these events. During conver-

sations, honwever, Strethrer "takes his part .. as though hie has al-

most become wha~t hie cannot be, an objective figure for thle reader

by an easy slfeight of h~and the author gives him almost the value of an

independent pcrson, a man to whiose words we may Listen expectantly, a

man~ whose mindl is screened from us.10 According to L~ubbock and to

man~y subsequenilt critics, ther development of this technique make-. it

possible for the central-intlcligecec method to attain full dramati.-

zation of both Enternal and externdi event, all Iccomplishludent which sets

the method apart from all othlers. In "Fifty Grand"' and T~e Sun ls

Rlises 110mingway de~velops a parallot "sleight of halnd." As has been suR-

gested, by causinga thre involved nnrr.ator of. v ork to disappear dulringg










conversations, Hemingway makes it possible for the reader to view scenes

directly. Hemingw'ay, in other words, does for involved narration what

many critics feel James did for uninvolved narration. He makes it

possible for the method to present directly both internal information

and external scene.



In every sketch and story which has been discussed so far, the

narrator creates a situation in which the reader focuses his primary

attention on one or two central characters and on the way in which

these characters are affected by a situation in which they are involved.

There are instances, however, w~hen effects are achieved by ma;king: the

reader's attention more diffuse. In "Che ti Dice la Patria?'' "Under

the Ridge," and "Night Before Battle," for example?, Hemliingay uses

witness narrators as means of presenting~ what might be called "situation

reports." These stories force the reader to diivide his attention, to

focus on several characters and on a general situation, rather than on

a single character and a single event. The narrator of "Che tL Dice la

Patria?" for example, is noc primiarilyI ;mportant mother as a character

in himself or as a mecans for presenting another character. Hie is im-

portant primarily as a means of presenting a series of evelns which

together suggest some aspects of the change which has occurred i~n Italy

since his last visit. In general, those witness narrators who present

situation reports not only have backgrounds very simlilar to Heiruingway's,

but reveal attitudes which are very similar to those of the implied

author of the works. The situation reports, in fact, are p~robably the

nearest thing to journalism ini HemingwYay's fiction.11










"Under the Ridge," the best of several recently reprinted Spanish

Civil Var stories, is about the general situation in Spain during the

Civil W'ar.1 The story that this witness narrator presents to the

reader is made up of a series of events which, when taken together, sug-

gest the chaos, the stupidity, and the horror of war. As the narrator

sits under a ridge with several Spanish soldiers, he sees a Frenchman

walk with great dignity away from the battle which is going on and

which, it is made clear, has no chance of success. The Frenchman is fol-

lowed by several battle police and shot. The Spaniards then explain how

Paco, a boy from their province, had shot himself in the hand in order

to escape battle and, the wound infecting, h~ad lost his right arm.

Paco, they explain,had come to sincerely regret his momentary cowardice

and to be willing to do anything he could for the Rp~fublican cause. The

Spaniards then point out the place where earlier the same day, Paco was

brutally shot by the French battle police as an example to other soldiers.

Th~e narrator leaves, but before he returns to Madrid, he visits

his friend the General. At headquarters he finds out that during the

poorly planned attack, the French tank commander got too drunk to com-

mnand and, as a result, is to be shot as soon as he sobers up. The

General is furious not only because he has been defeated, but also be-

cause the French Lantk mien, who did not arrive on time~ and who refused to

advance when they did arrive, shot by mistake the few enemy prisoners

which were the only positive result of the disastrous battle. During

the nightmarish comedy of errors which thie narrator presents, the

reader's focus is not on a single character or on any one of the individual

killings. It is directed toward the entire, seemlingly insane situation.









In a strict sense no character develops psychologically or in arw other

w;ay during the story; rather, thle narrator views and presents a pano-

rannof events which, when taken as a whole, create for the reader an

image of the Spanish Civil War and, perhaps, of war ini general,

Unlike "Che ti Dice la Patria?" and "Under the Ridge," "Nigpht Be-

fore Battle" develops a kind of central character--the witness narrator's

friend Al Walker. The narrators conversations with AI, however, are

by no means the whole of the story. The reader is also presented with

the conversation of the short, important man rwith thick glasses, wiith

Al's talk with thie waiter who has a son on the Ext-romadulra road, w~ith

the narrator's talk with Malnolita, and withl the personality and actions

of "Ealdy." All of these characters andi thle incidents in whlich theyj

partic pate combine to form a panoramic viewu of Madrid.- durling the

stege.l



All the witness nar~rators wlhich a~re disc~u.;?ed, ;n this chilpter havev

one thing La c~mmnon. They are all less impoartant ar: characters in themn-

selves than as m~eans for presenting other characters. Ini nearly c.very

case these simple witness rarrators perfern function; in addition to

supplying events w~ith~ fictional nuthorit~y. TIn no in:;tance, however.

does thie carrying: out~ of such functions result~ in thle development ofC

complex relation~ships between the w:itness narrators anld rho event; s they

present to the reader. Thef~ollowing chlapte~r of this study denjs witLh

a group of witness narrations in which such comlplexi relationships are

developed.














NOTES TO CHAPTER III


1. The involved narrator's matter of fact assurance thlat thle
soldier never kept his oath is accepted by the reader because of the
particularly automatic way in which the soldier converts during the
bombing.

2 "L'Envoi" is similar to "The Old Man at the Bridge" in narra-
tive strategy. Like the narrator of the Spanish Civil War story, the
narrator of "L'Envoi" is important primarily as a means for presenting
a character other than himself, in this case an undignified king of
Greece, who "Like all Greeks . wanted to go to America."

3. De~alco's suggest tion that the narrator of "The Old Man at the
Bridge" is in a state of spiritualal atrophy" an;d is too preoccupied with
ther coming of the enemy "in the form of troops and war irachinrs" to
understand the old man's sad situation a~nd rwhat it represents hass lit-tle
real foundation. The fact that the soldier stop, an;d tries to help tle;
old man doesn't suggest spiritual atrophy, and his "preoccupati-on" with~
thle coming of the enemy~ war machine- seems justificable! in light of
his knowledge that the deadly machines wi~ll appear at any roocent. See
DeFalco, 121-127.

4. See R. W. Lid, "Hemingwany and the Need for Speech," M~odern
Fiction Studies, VZII (Winter, 1962-1963), 403J.

5. See DeFalco, 127-129.

6. Like the narrator of "Cod Rest You Mearry, Gentlemen," thle nar-
cator of "ijine of Wyoming" is im~portanlt as a means for endowing the
story with a perspective it might otherwise lack. Njear the endl of "Wine
of Wyomning" the witness narrator becomes momentarily the center of attecn-
tion. As hie and his wife drive away froui Wyominlg, they begin Le cegrer-
that they disappointed the Fontans on the previous evening. Thre story
enlds with their co~n:ciousnessr and ido rL'acec's tha~t thos' =uproneIlyC
enjoyable people whiich life sometimes produces are, Like all man and
like all good things, fragile and cphemeral..

7. Erne~st Hecmingway, Eg-L~ine: Etnest Hlemingway_, ed., W~illia2m
White (N~ew York, 1967), 215.


-56-











8. The degree to which a narrator is colloquialized can halve rm-
portant effects on a story. Generally speaking, the more frequently a
narrator uses colloquial diction, the more visible he becomes as a
character. Because the narrator of Chapter IX of In Ou~r Time ("Tlhe
first matador got the horn through his sword hand . .") frequently
uses diction one might expect in connection with a prize fight, Chapter
IX becomes almost as much about the effects of the bullfight on thle
narrator as it is about the bullfight itself. The use of tco much
colloquial diction can get in the way of the reader's app,reciation of a
work. This is the case, for examlple, in such Ring Lardnler stories as
"Some Like Them Cold" and "I Can't Breathe." Hemingway's co~lolouialized
narrators--the narrators of such stories as Chapter IX of In Our Time,
"Ulp in Michigan," "My Old Man," "Flifty Graud," "Afte~r the Storm," "On<
Trip Across," and"Allan of the World"--never us" m~ore colloquial lan1SU3:Y
than is necessary t~o individualize theini and to invonlve the reader ini
their melieu.

9. Other invol ;ed narratives which are rendered dramatic as a
result of the narrator's "disappearance"' during substantial por-lions
of his narrative are "God Rost You Mefrry, Gentlemen,"' "The Light of
the World," "An Alpine Idyll," "One Trip Across," and ''After the Storm."

10. Lubbock, 166.

11. The fact that "Che ti Dice la Patria':" originally appgeared
in nhe NeJw Republic under the title "Italy, 19'2/" sugge~sts that it
was originally thought of as a report on the state of a nation.

12. "Under the Ridge" hlas recently been reprinted with "The
Denunciation,"' "Night Before Battle," and "The Butterfly and the
Tank" in Ernetst Hemingway, The Fif~th Column and Four StorieLs of: the
Spanish Civil War (New York, 1969).

13. The narrative strategies of the two other Spanish Civil War
stories are similar to those of the situation report;. In both "The
Denunciation" and "The Butterfly and the Tank," howeve-r, a single
central incident becomes the catalyst for a series of conversations
and actions which, when taken together, give panoramic views of the
situation inr Madridi during th~e siege. Overall, thle two st.r~i- seem
structuaslly about halfway between "Che ti Dice la Patria?" and "The
OLd Man ac the Bridge."















CHAPTER IV

COMPLEX HITNESS NARRATION


Ther complex witness narration differs from thle simple witness

narration in the complexity of the relationship which is developed be-

tween the witness narrator and the situation he witnesses. As was

shown in :he Dreceding chapter, the narrators of simple witness narra-

tions atre involved in thle situations theyj describe, but their involve-

ment is primarily importslnt as a means for' the presentation of the

actions and words of characters other than themselves. In several of

Hemingway's stories the relationships between nlarrat-ors and central

characters are more highly developed. In these coi..p]lex wriles~ noura-

tions, narrators are significant not merely as frames for the presenta-

tion of other characters, but also as initeresting char-cters in them-

solves. Often, the conflic ts and similar ties wh ichi are developed

between a complex witness narrator and the chiaiactor whose story he

rot~ates form the central thematic focus of a narrative. Mos t of the

meaning of a story such as "The Revolutionist," for example, result-.

from a conflict: which is developed between the complex w~itness narrator

of thle story andL the characters he presents to the reader.

Thle conflict which is developed in "The Revolution~ist" between

thle old and somewhat cynical narrator and the young, enth-lusiastic






-59J-


revolutionist works on several levels. The most obvious of these l

the difference in the political expectations of the two men. Th; xc~uent

of the young revolutionist's enthusiasm for the Party is illustrated,

as DeFaleo suggests, by the fact that though the young man has suffered

very much in Hungary, his energy and his excitement remain untouched by

the torture he has presumably endured.1 The revolutionist's enthusiasm

is framed by the narrator's unstated, but obvious doubts about the

Party's chances in Italy, doubts which become more significant when

placed in thle historical context Hemingway had when het wrote the story

in the early twenties. The narrator meets the revolutionist in 19119,

and, as Hamingway explains in one of his several news dispatches co~n-

carning the Ital~ian situation, Italian coi-munism suffFered a sepvere

defeat in the following: year. In 1920 the Fascisti "crushled obe Red

uprising with bombs, machine guns, knives, anld the libe~ral se of

kerosene cans to set the Red Treeting places afire, and acsavy iron-

bound clubs to hammer the Reds over the heads when they came out."2

Hemingw~ay's evaluation of the Italian communist seems of some reclevance

here too:

Uninspired by the vinous products of their native
land, the Italian conmiunist cannot keep his enthus -
ilssm ii to the d~monst-ration IoinLlt forI any1 length
of time. The cafes close, the "Vivas" grow softer
and less enthusiastic, the paraders put it off till
another day. and the Repds who reached the highest
pitch of patriotism too soon, roll under the tables
of the cafes and sleep until the bartender opens up
in thle morning. Some of the Reds, going home in a
gentle glow, chalk up on a wall in straggling
letters, "VIVrA LEANIN VIVIA TROTSK;YI" and the polit-
ical crisis is over ...

When the political situation in Italy is kept in mind, the young revolu-

tionist's belief that Italy "is thle one country that every one is sure










of" and that it "will be the starting point of everything" (157) seems

not simply enthusiastic, but rather foolish and ill-informed. The nar-

rator's doubts, on the other hand, seem both rwell-founded and wise.

Though the narrating present of "The Revolutionist" is not explicitly

developed, the indirection with which the narrator presents much of

the sketch causes the narrator's cynical tone to be more evident than

it might be otherwise. The fact that the sketch begins and ends wyith

the narrator's mention that the events of his story happened in the past

may suggest that, like the reader, the narrator is thinking back to the

incident from a point in time late enough so that he knows of the

Fascist victories of the early twenties.

A major reason for the failure of the communists in Italy is

implicit in the outlooks of both men. The young revolutionist is

enthusiastic not only about world revolution but also about the beauty

of Italy. The narrator tells the reader, "He was delighted with Italy.

It was a beautiful country, he said. The people were all kind. He

had been in many towns, walked much, and seen many pic tures. Giotto,

Masaccio, and Piero della Francesca he bought reproductions of

(157). The? beauty of Italy and of Italian art w~ith which the young

man is so taken is really the beauty of the nation's Christian past.

As a result, the revolutionist's great respect for the products of this

heritage forms a basic contradiction to his desire for world revolution

by an atheistic communist party which has as a major goal the destruc-

tion of the traditional. Thlis contrandiction is aptly symbolized by

the fact that the reproduct-ions of t~e O~ld Master~s which the revolu-

tionist buys are wrapped ini a copy of AZvanti ("Forward"), the official











organ of the Italian socialist party.* The failure of the communists

in Italy is also implicit in the narrator's quiet and unenthiusiastic

feeling& about the Party. His unexcited and rather cynical attitude is

ani antithesis of what is involved in the idea of violent world revolu-

tion.

The contrast which develops between the narrator and his young

ac-quaineance seems at base a result of their difference in ago. Thef

revolutionist's enthusiasm and energy is basically not a matter of

ideology, but is rather a result of the romanticisma of youLh, At the

end of the sketch iwhen the~ narrator gives the boiy aIddresses of comrades

in Milaln, the youlng man is not particularly interested. "H:e thanked

me very much, but his midnd was already loloking: forward to walking over

the pass . He loved the mounltainis in the autumn" (1;8). The

revolutionist seems basically more interested in experiencing thle beauty

of the world than in channging society. The narrator's pe~ssimisn, onl

t-he other hand, represents the usual sort of dloubrt with which elders

view the schemecs of youth, doubts which, at least in this case, are

solidly based.

The difference between the narrative structure of "The Revolu-

tionist" and the narrative structure of a sinspic wit~ness .:creation

likxe "The Old MLan at the Bridge" is one of degree. While both stories

ulse narrators who present interesting central characters, the relation-

ship between the narrator of "The Revolutionist" and the character he




'A double irony masy be suggested by the fact that from 1912?-19L4
M~ussolint was the -ditor of Avanti and was responsible for much of its
rise to popularity. Thle veryj newspaper whichl the young man! reads carries
within it. thuls, a suggestion of the force which in diestroying the take-
over for which the you-g man is so enthusiastic.






-62-


presents is more complex than the comparable relationship in the Spanish

Civil War story. In "The Old Man at the Bridge" the reader simply views

the old man's plight and the soldier's attempt to help him. No conflict

of views is developed and no significant personal similarities or con-

trasts are suggested, aside from the obvious fact that both the soldier

and the old man are affected by the war. In "The Revolutionist," on

the other hand, the reader sees meaningful conflicts and similarities

both in the views and in the personalities of the two characters, and

these conflicts and similarities become, perhaps, the major emphasis of

the story.

In "An Alpine Idyll," "The Light of the World," and "A Canary for

One" the relationship between the narrator's situation and the central

character's situation is developed further than it is in "Thle Revolu-

tionist." Thoulgh these stories are of varying complexity, the basic

structure of all three is the same. In each story the narrator,

accompanied by another character, is travelling somewhere. These char-

acters meet other characters with whom they talk alld from whom they hear

an interesting tale. Much of the meaning of all three stories is deter-

mined by the relationships which are discernable between the situations

in which the narrators and their comipanions find themselves and the

tales which are told to them.

At first glance, "An Alpine idyll," the simplest of the three

stories, seems to be little more thann a harsh satire of the traditional

pastoral view of peasants. As Carlos Baker explains, however, "An Alpine

Idyll" is not simply about the peasant and his wife. "Its subject,

several times emphasized early in the narrative, is 'not evetr doing






-63-


anything too long.'" Whel~n the story of the peasant and his wife is

revealed, "the idea of the 'unnatural' and the idea of 'not ever doing

anything too long' are both driven hom~e with a special twist of thle knife.

For the peasant has lived too long in an unnatural situation; his sense

of human dignity and decency has temporarily atrophied. When he gets

down into the valley .. he sees how far he has strayed from the

natural and the wholesome, and he is then deeply ashamed of himself."4

As Baker suggests, the skiers, too, have stayed in the nou~ntins too long,

so long that they are no longer able to enjoy one of the good things of

life. Th~e narrator himself explains that it "was too late in the spring

to be up in the Silvretta .. We had stayed too long .." (344).

Th~e story of the narrator and his companion, and the story of the

peasant form a reciprocal thematic relationship. On one hand, the story

of the peasant gives a startling emphasis to the lesson the skiers

have learned. On the other hand, the mood of doing things too long

which the narrator's story sets up is an apropos frame for the grue-

some tale of the peasant's mistake. In "An Alpine Idyll" the reader's

attention is split between the narrator's situation and the peasant's

situation, and his understanding of the story involves his perception

of the meaning which results from the juxtaposition of the two.

Als is true in ''An Alpine Idyll," in "The Light of the World" the

experiences of the witness narrator and his companion, and the tale

which is related to chose characters during the narrative,exhibit a

common theme. The story of Steve Ketchel, whonse ow~n father "shot him

down like a dog ," and of his fight with Jack Johnson, "that black son

of a bitch from hell," takes the form of a devil's victory over Christ,









of a triumph of the powers of darkness over "the greatest, finest,

whlitest, most beautiful man thlat ever lived .." (338). This pattern--

the victory of the darkness over the light--is also evident in the ex-

periences the narrator and his companion have during the story. As

Youlng explains, during "The Light of the World" the youthful narrator

of the story comes in close contact "writh things a young boy who stayed

at home would normally not meet--with things that the conventions gov-

erning the average boyhood do not define or present answers for ..."

As DeFalc~o suggests, the experiences of the narrator and Tot with the

hostile banrmn and wiith the strange congregation at the station ca:1 be

interpreted as one part of the loss of innocence which the boys are

undergoing, chat is, as one part of a symbolic triumph of' darkness.6

Like "An Alpinle Idyll," "The L~ight of the World" develops a reciprocal

thematic :elationship between the experincnes of the narrator and his

companionl and the story which is related during the narrationl. On one

hand, thle story of the "devil's" victory Pemphasizes the theme of the

loss of innocence which informs the story of the twio boys. At the same

time, thle experiences of the two boys with the angry bartender and with

the prostitutees and the effeminate cock serve as an approprintoi frame

for the mlock battle of good and evil whnichl is related by the two prosti-

tutes.

A~s is true in "An Alpine Idyll" and "The L~ight of the W~orld," a

full appreciation of "A Canary for One" depends on the reader's undor-

standing of the relationships that exist between the narrator's situa-

tion and the iale which is told by the character u~nose actions thef nar-

rator witnesses. In addition, however, "A Canary for Onle" makes










frequent use of techniques which render it one of th~e most: comp~lex and

interesting of Hemingway's short works.

"A Canary for One" is ostensibly concerned with a richi, middle-

aged American lady who is travelling to Paris on a train. Inl the lit

salon compartment of the train the American lady meets two fellow Amer-

inaans-tthe narrator and his wife--and during their journey together she

tells them how she put a stop to her daughter's love affair within a well-

to-do young Swiss because of hier belief that "No foreigner canl make an

American girl a good husband" (34;0). The canary the lady is trarvelling

with, she explains, is a gift for her heart-broken dauightcr who still,

two years later, "doesn't care about things." Insofar as this story is

concerned with the Amierican lady, it is a portrait of a parochial and

self-righteous middle-aged widow. Hier bungling obtusa;ncas, which is

obvious in nearly everything shet does, is perhaps belst evidienced by the

pattrine~ss of the gift with which she hopes to raise her daughter's

spirits, a gift whiich also, ironically, is a perfect symbol of the kind

of' caiged life the daulghter presumably lives.

"A\ Canary for One," howvevr, is only partly concerned witih the

Amerricaln lady and the story sh~e tells. At least as much of the reader's

attention is concerned with the sim~lar plight of the a~rrrator. As

John S. Rouch explains, "The broken romance of the Ameiricanl woman's

daughter" is for the narrator "a sad corollary for his own broken

marriage.."7 The similarity between the situation of thel narrator and

his wife and of t-he American girl and the Swiss engineer is not stated

explicitly until the final line of thle story wehen the reader finds out

that the American couple is returning to Paris "to set up separate










residences" (342). There are, hiouever, manly sulggestive details during

the narrative which keep the final line from being much of a surprise.

For one thing, the daughter's love affair and the story of the American

and his wife are similar in significant wuays. Just as the daughter

falls in love with a man fromt Vevey in the Fall, the American husband

and his w~ife spend their honeymoon in Vevey in the Fall. Both rela-

tionships are destroyed, and the American husband's view of things dur-

ing the story shows that he has not been able to adjust to the destruc-

tion of his marriage any more than the girl has been able to orglret

the loss of the Swyiss engineer.

As several critics have noted, HEmingway effectively employs the

device of "objective epitome" in this story in order to dramatize more

fully thle mental state of the narrator. As the narrator looks out of

the windows of the train, he notices many details which are clearly

symbolic reflections of his ow~n psychological state. Some of these

symbolic details have been discussed by critics. !)oth De~alco and

John S, Rouch, for example, mention that the narrator's observation

of lch "farmhouse burning in a field" with thle "bedlding and things

from inside the farmlhouse .. spread in the field" is a symbolic
reflection of the ocarrator's awrns f i w uie hm.


The fact that a farmhouse is involved makes the scene evenr more signt-

ficant, for the destruction of a farmholuse suggests, as does thle de-

struction of a marriage, the deathi of fertility and creativity. De~alco

mentionls that th~e wJreck which the narrator happens to, notice wlhen his

wife and the American lady are talking About" the honeymoonl inl Vevey

acts as a startling symbolic epitome of thle falilur.e ofi the honeymoon's






-67-


promise.~ The burning Earmhouse and the wrecked train, however, are

only the most obvious of such symbolic details. "A Canary for One"

probably makes more frequent: use of objective epitome than any; other of

Hemingwiay's short works. Early in thre story, as the narrator looks out

the window of thre train, he sees "dusty trees and an oiled road and flat

fields of grapes, with gray-stone hills behind them" (337). Thef nar-

rator's awareness of the gray and dingy dullness of t-his scene fpitomizes

his sad depression. Trains Frequently pass through the least picturesque

sections of cities, but even when che reader might expect a bit of

b-rauty, this narrator fails to notice it. As the train leaves Masrsnill~es,

for example, the narrator sees "the switch-yards and the footocy smoke

,the harbor with stone hills behind it and the last of t~he sun

on the water" (338). The nrarrat-or notices only the smoke sad the dying, of

thre light and falls to notice whatever color'thie sunset is ~akicigi. Jus t

after the narrator describes the burning farmhouse, he sees several

Negro soldiers. He ex~plai~ns, "Th~e train left Avignon station w~ith the

negroes standing there. A short white sergeanrt weas with them" (338).

Th~oughl this situation has nlo specific relationship to th~e destruction

of: the narrator's marriage, thre narrator's awareness of thle incident

indirectly epitomni7es his unhappiness and pain. The obvious5 red31i

imbalance of the situation and the fact that the m~en are Amearican. soldiers

in a foreign country suggests thre pain and unhlappiness wh~ich1 result from

bigotry and from the v/iolen~ce of military involvement. Tenarto

observation of other decalls suggests th~at a war has only recently

been concluded. As the tcain nears Paris, for example, the narrator

explains that "The fortifications were levelled but grass haod not growun,"






-68-


and he wonders if things are "still done" the way they were when he was

last in Paris. The fact that a war has recently ended suggests why the

narrator and his wife are jus t now returning to Paris. Further, the

narrator's observation of the ruined fortificacions epitomizes his pain-

ful consciousness of the approaching end of his embattled marriage. Th~e

narrator's perception of the lack of grass reflects his present deadness,

his failure thus far to readjust and begin a new life.

Several devices in addition to objective epitome add to, the drama-

tization of the narrator's situation in "AI Canary for One.' Ill the

first place, the fact that the narrator 100ks out the window as much as

he does is surggestive. In Heraiingway's fiction characters frequlently

stare ouit of windows when they are under great emotional stress of one

sort or another, and their staring is often emublemoatic of the fact that

thrings are niot well with themi. Characters stare in this ;ray, for ex-

ampllle, in "An Alipine Idyll," "Calt in thle Rain," and "In An~other Country."

T:he amount of thr~e the narrator just sits and stares in "A\ Canary for

On~e" suggests that his preoccupation wuith his problem; is especially

profountd. Thle American husband's s taring also miakes those ins tances

whenl he does listen and take part i~n wihat is occurring inside th~e com-

partijnt aspectally imlportanit. Significantly, heo fir-t ?L~istan ac?-

ful;ly to what is being said whe~n he hears the American lady ask, "Is

your husband Amecrican evo?" it is as thloughl the narrator's painful

conisciousnouis Lblat hie will soonl no longer be a husband malke; him part-ic-

ularly aware of anything which relates to his role as mattied man.

During the exchange between the two women--the? ilist which i~s directly

presented to the reader---he Aimerican lady tells thie utfre About hecr






-69-


daughter's love affair and its conclusion. The conducL of the nar-

rator's wife during the discussion is suggestive and has bearing, on the

narrator's plight. When the American lady explains how she took her

daughter away from the Swiss engineer, the w~ife only asks, "Did she

get over it?" The wife's failure to give even limited agreement to th~e

American lady's contention that foreigners don't make good husbands for

American~ women is also suggestive. The narrator pays attention to wh!at

the two women say as long as the conversation is concerned with~ mar-

riage, and hie is aware, no doulbt, of the implications of what hisi wife

says and does not say. When t-he topic of conversation does change, the

narrator's attention fades until he is once again staring out rhe win-

dow. TIhe waning of the narrator's attention is i~ndicatled by t-he indi-

rectress of his presentaticu of the American lady's comments about her

matson do couture.

Th7e only other conversation of any length to which the narrator

listens begins w~hen the Am~erican lady commecnts, "Amrericans make the

best husbands . ." (3410). Again the narrator tulnes in wihenl chn queps-

tion of marriage is brought up, and, again, he listens as long as the

conversation is concerned with the subjects of love and marriage. As; is

true in the eariier convuersation, the wi.F's commelnts are suggestive.

Wihen the Americani lady mentions that the honeymoon in Vevey "must have

bJeen lovely," the wife replies "It was a very lovely pl-ce." \Aen the

Am~erican lady mentions how nice the hotel where the ne~wlywedsl stayed

mlust ha e been, thie wife answers, "W~e had a very fine room and in the

fall the country was lovely" (341). In both cases, the wife answers

inl a way which suiggests her desire to avoid evepn the implication that










there is anything to regret about the forth-coming separation. The hlus-

band is conscious of the meaning of his wife's evasions, and his aware-

ness is indicated by the fact that during the conversation he notices

an automobile wreck and feels the need to say aloud, almost as if in

answer to the Amlerican lady's questions, "Look. .. There's been a

wreck" (341).

The extent of the separation of the narrator and his wife is sug-

gested both by what happens in the compartment and by the way in which

the narrator describes what is going on. In the first place, there is

no communication between the husband and the w~ife. Generally the nar-

rator ignores what the women are saying. In the two instances when he

actually does join the conversation, the wife does not respond in any

way to what he says. In the second place, the narrator does not mention

either that he is married or thathis wife is present in the compartment

until the story is half over. Chronologically, in fact, almost three-

fourths of the time covered in the husband's narration has passed be-

fore the reader is told of the wife's presence. When the narrator does

talk of his wife, he never calls her by name. She is "my wife" at

least fifteen times in two pages, and the awkwardness of the repetition

suggests the lack of personal closeness the two feel. At the end of the

story when the ch~aracters; separate, the. narrator mentions that "muy wife

said good-bye and I said good-bye to the A~merican lady." The narrator's

avoidance of "we said good-bye" gives a final emnphalsis to t-he complete

separation between himself and his wuife.

One aspect of the nacrative strategy of "A Canary for One" which

has not been dealt with is toe way in which unusual sentence construction






-71-


is used in order to mlaintain the reader's awareness that the narrator

is inside a moving tra-in looking out. One of the most obvious of the

unusual sentsnce constructions occurs at the beginning of' the four-th

paragca~ph, The narrator explains, "There was smoke from many tall

chimneys--coming into Marseilles . ." (337). The inverted structure

of the sentence suggests the way things would be observed by a passenger

looking out a train wi~ndow. The narrator sees first the smoke, then

the chimneys, and be deduces from these perceptions that the train is

coming inlto a city). A similar device is used as the train is coming

into Paris. The train~ crosses a r~ivePr and goes through a forest and

then passes "t-hrough many out-side of Paris tow~ns." Again, the st-range

construction is determined by the attempt to reproduce the specific

order of the narrator's perceptions. The train and, thus, the eyes

through wihichl the render watches the scene move first through "outsidP

oF Parisa" and thlen into Paris itself.

Other examples of the use of diction and sentence construction are

less obvious. In the first paragraph of the story the narrator looks

out the window~ of the train and tells the reader that "there was a cutting

through red stone and clay, and the sea was only occasionally and far

beloM against rocks"(337). The use of "occasionally and far below" in-

stead of another, less unusual construction is not accidental. If the

narrator were to use variations like "the sea was far below against rock-s,

only occasionally" or "only occasionally was the sea far below against

rocks," the reader would receive a solid picture of the sea hitting

rocks. The fact is, however, that from the viewpoint of a passenger on

a train, the sea is not a constant solid reality, it is only a reality










occasionally and far below when there is a break in the land through

which the train is moving. In the third paragraph the narrator mentions

that the American lady "pulled the window-blind down and there was no

more sea, even occasionally," Once the window is shut off, the sea

ceases to exist for the train passengers. As has been suggested, devices

like these maintain the reader's awareness that the narrator is ona

train. Further, however, the awareness of movement such devices create,

when combined with the narrator's frequent mention that the train is

"near Paris," "much nearer Paris," "outside of Paris," "coming into

Paris" emphasizes the narrator's painful consciousness that he and his

wife are constantly moving closer to their final separation.

One other strange construction ought to be mentioned. As the train

pulls into Paris, the narrator explains, "All that the train passed through

looked as though it were before breakfast" (339). The narrator's comment

is a projection not only of his before-breakfast physical nausia but also

of his psychological reaction to the death of his marriage. Further the

mention of the before-breakfast nausia emphasizes the fact that the psy-

chological or spiritual state of the narrator of "A Canary for One" is

reflected in the cycle of the day. As the train moves toward Paris,

light is extinguished for the narrator both literally and metaphorically.

At the end of the story, the darkest part of the night has ended, just

as the worst part of the experience of unhappy marriage. However, neith-

er literal dawn or psychologiical "dawn" has arrived.

As has been suggested, "A Canary for One" is similar to "An Alpine

Idyll" and "The Light of the Wdorld" in its development of relationships

between the situation of its narrator and the situation which this nor-

rator witnesses. At the same time, however, there are significant










differences between "A Canary for One" and structurally similar stories.

"A1 Canary for One" differs froa previously discussed witness narrations,

for example, in the manner in which the reader perceives the relation-

ships between the narrator and the other characters. In "An Alpine

Idyll" and "The Light of the World" the similarities between the situ-

ations of the narrators and the tales the narrators are told are not,

as far as t-he reader is aware, perceived by the characters themselves.

Both stories are understandable only because of the reader's perception

of certain abstract similarities between the two situations. In "A

Canary for One," on the other hand, the narrator is aware of the sim-

ilarities between h~is situation and the one he: hears about. He is

conscious not only of the relevance of the story the American Landy tells

to his own situation, he is also conscious of the irony involved inl

-he fact that thle A~meican lady tells her story to hi~m and his wifE.

Further, the narrator makes clear his consciousness of the relationships

which are formed between his story and th~e American lady's story at the

same time that these relationships are being formed. The result is

that thne reader not only finds out about two situations which are re-

lated in an abstract manner, but hie watches the one situation impinge on

th~e other both literally and themati-ally. The reader, in other words,

not only perceives parallels between the story of the young American

girl and the story of the narrator, he also sees how the Amlerican lady's

relation of her daughter's story intensifies the narrat-or's plight.

Like previously discussed complex; witness narrations, "Th~e Mother

of a queen" and "My Old Man" develop relationships between their nar-

rators anid their central characters. Unlike other witness narrations,










however, bothI those stories use narrators whose reliability is somE-

times questionable. As a result, wh~ile6 both stories are in some ways

less subtle and less Lightly knit than "A Canary for One," both created

mlore complex relationships between th~eiri narrators and the reader.

"Tne Nother of a Queen" is largely concerned with~ the relationship~

which is decveloped betw:ee Pao, a homosexual matador anld the narrator

whlo portrays him.10 To the extent that the story is concerned with P'aco,

"The 1Iothe~r of a Queen" is a rather conventional portrayal of homose~xu-

ality, made unusual on~ly by the fact that the effeminate young bull-

fighter- is h member of what is usually considered one of the most manly

prCofessions. Paco is vainl, stingy, and thoughtless, and he seems for

le-ss ad~ept: at doing Iobat needs to be done than at rationalizingt his

lainss Wen notice is received that his mother's bones have been

dumnped on thel public b~oneheap, Paco rejoices, "Now she is SO m;uch dearerf

to mef. NowJ I don' t havie to think of her buried in one place and be sad.

N'ow she is all about me in thle air, like the birds and the flower~s.

Now sh!e will always be with me" (416). Insofar as "The Mlother of a

yueen" is about Paco, the reader's judgement generally coincides with

the narrator's. "What kind of blood is it," Rnoger wonders, "that makes

a man like- tha.t?"

The portrayal of the narrator of "The N~othler of a Queen" and the

presentationl of his reactions to Paco, however, are at least as impor-

tant- as the~ characterization of Paco himself. The opening lines of

Rtogar's narrative, in fact, set up a division in the reader's attention

wahichl is developed thlroughout thle story:










When his father died he was only a kid and his
manager buried him perpetually. That is, so b~e
would have the plot permanently. But w~hen hi~s
mother died his manager thought they might not
always be so hot on each other. They were sweet-
hearts; sure he's a queen, didn't you know that,
of course he is. So he just buried her for five
years. (415)


The ambiguity of Roger's references to Paco, his father, and the

former manager causes the reader to be at least as consciouss of the man

speaking as be is of the men referred to, and this consciousness of

both narrator and central character is maintained throuighouc the story.

In a sense, "'The Hlother of a Queen" is two stories. On the one hand,

the narrative concerns some of Roger's experiences during those years

when he was. emplloyed by the young matador. On the other hand, ther

story. portrays Roger's atte--pt to relate these ex~perienczes Lo someone

who is not fully acquainted with Paco. In sto~rirs like "'J7re RVol-L?

tionist" and "A Canracy for One" the narrating present is gen~erally

invisible, and the reader's attention is split becween the witness

narrator as he was during the events he describes arid the events them-

sel~ves. In "The Mlothecr of a Queen,"' however, that part of the roadolr's

attention which is directed to Roger is spli' between Roger ;a a partici

pant in the aceingi present and Roger as narrator.

Both: the waoy in which R~oger talks to Paco in the acting p-resent

anid t-he way he t-alks about the matador in the narrating present sulg-

gest sormethiing about Roger of whr~ich he himself is probably unaware.

R~oger's interest i~n the burial of Faco's mother is, after all, somerhatl

exucessive. Though Paco tells Roger to "keep out of: my/ business,"

Roger recpeat~edly exhorts the iuatador to "Do your ownr business" and "see






-76-


you look after it." Whnen the final notice about the mot-her's bones

arrives, Roger is furious: "you said you'd pay that and you took money

out of the cash box to do it and now what's happened to your mother?

Mly God, think of it! TIhe public boneheap and your own mother. Wh~y

didn't you let me look after it? I would have sent it when the first

notice came" (416). The matador again tells Roger, "It's none of your

business. It's a 2Imother," but Roger scoldis Paco the way a mother

might scold a disobedient child. When Paco resists Roger's anger by

sentimentalizing his negligence, Roger concludes their argument in a

rather suggestive way. He says, "I don't want y~ou to even speak to me"

(416).

The way in which Roger talks about Paco's failure to bury his

mother emphasizes thle implications of thle wlomanish way in whlichr he talks

to the matador. Roger explains thiat after the- first notice came, he

told the matador to "let mle attend co it, Paco. But he said no, he would

look after it. He'd look after it right away. It was his mother and

he wanted to do it himself" (41.5). Wh~en the second notice arrived,

Roger again urged Paco to look after it, but, Roger comlplnins, "Nobody

could tell him what to do. He'd do it hiloself whlen he got around to

i~t" (41L5). After the third not-ice, Roger explains. "he said h? woulld

look after it. He went out Ijith the money and so of coulrsei I thought

he had attended to it" (416). Palco's conduct is obviously a~ggravot-ing,

but as is true of t-he wany in which Roger talks to the viaterdor, thle con-

descending, way in which Roger talks about Prco comecs to soundl more and

mlore U.ike the rating of an irritata~d paren~t. Roger's marnnor of speak-

ing in "Thle M'othecr of a Qlueen" suvtuests, inl other words, that thlere arc










twoe mothers of the queen in the story, One, of course, is the old

woman whose bones lie on the public boneheap; the other is the motherly

narrator of the story.

"The Mlother of a queen" is directly concerned with its ostensible

subject--the burial of Paco's physical mother--for about half its

leng th. The rest of the s tory concerns Roger's demand of the six

hundred pesos which Paco owres him. The implications of the first half

of "The Mother of a Queen"are emphasized during the second part of the

story by the brief fits of petty vanity wpith which Roger attempts to

indicate his superiority over the highly paid lratador. For example,

when Roger finally leaves the matador, he gets Paco's car out to go to

town. "It was his car but he knew I drove it better than be did," Roger

explains. "Everything. he did I could do better. He knew it. He

couldn't even read and write" (418). As is true throughout the story,

Roger's anger with Paco is both understandable and justified, but as is

true in other instances, the petty self-congratulation with which Roger

vents his anger and with which he remembers it for his listener causes

the reader to becoiae almost as conscious of the effemrinacy of the sub-

stitute mother of the queen as he is of the effeminacy of the queen

himself.

In his role of substitute mother, Roger finds himself in a situa-

tion somewhat parallel to that of Paco's real mother, Paco seems as

un~concerrned about his manager as he is about his mother's bones, and he

illustrates this lack of concern in both cases by his lack of willing-

ness to spend money. Wh~en Paco finally offers Roger twenty pe~sos to

stay, R~oger calls the m~atndor a "motherless bitch," gets out of the car,










and leaves. The particular epithet Roger chooses is suggestive. Accordi-

ing to Roger, Paco is a motherless bitch because he has treated his

mother's bones without respect. At the same time, though Roger is not

conscious of the implication, his leaving Paco renders the boy a

"motherless bitch" a second time.

In contrast to many of Hemingway's witness narrations, it is

clear during "The Mlother of a Queen" that the narrator is speaking to a

listener.11 Though the listener in "'The Mother of a queen" is not highly

developed, Roger's direct addresses to his audiencee and the overall tone

of his narrative keep the reader conscious that the story cannot be

viewed as a simple reminiscence. The listener in "The M~other of a

Queen" is a man wyho is at least slightly acquainted with Paco. He knows

enough about the muatador so that R~oger is surprised, or can feign surprise

that he does not know that Paco is a "queen." The listener is probably

not Spanish, since Roger feels it necessary to explain that "you

never had a mother" is "t-he worsE thing you can say to insult a man

in Spanish" (419). There are at least two ways in which ther kind of

relationship which is set up between Roger, the listener, and the

reader can be described. On one hand, the listener can be thought of

as an acquaintance of the ex-manager, and the reader can be thought of

as standing behind and to one side of the person who is being addressed

ini much the same wjay that the narrator of a centra-inteligence narra-

tion s tands. Mlore simply, however, the lisenear can be thought of as

the reader, who merely suspends his disbelief and imagines he is

talking with Roger somewhere. In either case, the char-cterization

of the listener results in the undermiinin of the narrator's fictional










authority. In stories such as "The Old M~an at th~e Bridge" and "A

Canary for One," the relationship between narrator and listener i~s not

developed. The reader seems simply to look at a representation of the

narrator's private thoughts or memories. Because this sort of narrator

is not personally involved with anyone as he narrates his story, he has

no motive for purposely being unreliable as teller. Whatever unrelia-

bi~lity is evident ini this kind of story, in other words, is a product of

the narrator's limited understanding of the events of the acting present.

WhTen a dramatic relationship between the narrator and his implied

listener is developed, on the other hand, the reader must view the

narrator as involved in the process of telling one character about

another, and when this is the case, the narrator does have a motive for

distorting events as he relates them. The narrator icay modify events,

in other words, because he wishes to justify and interpret hiis con-

duct for his listener. It would be surprising, really, if a narrator

like Roger in ":The M!other of a queen" did not attempt to present his

actions in the best possible light, especially since he is selling

about a man he now considers an enemy.

Once the reader sees the potential ext-ent of Roger's unreliability

and once it becormes clear that the character traits which Roger portrays

Paco as having--vani~ty, effeminacy, and so forth--are traits which

characterize Roger as well, it is difficult to avoid considering the

possibility that the "mother" of the "queen"' is as much a homosexual

as Paco is. Since Roger narrates the story, it is not surprising that

no sure evidence of such a relationship is given. There are, however,

details of Roger's narration which might suggest such a conclusion.






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It seems notable, for example, that when Roger reveals that Paco is

a "queen" and i-hat the matador and his former manager w~ere "?sweethearts,"

he: seems comparatively nonchalant about the basic fact of the homno-

sexuality. It is possible, of course, that Paco's homosexuality is

fairly common knowledge and it is also possible that Roger is only

apparently nonchalant about the information, but the nar~rat-or's lack of

concern about the fact might imply more. Even when Roge~r does alppear

to consurre himosexuality, his condemnation is qualified. "There's a

queen; flr you," he says, "You can't touch th~em. Nothing, nothing can

touch them. They' spend noney on themlselves or for vanity, but they

never~ pa). Try to gect one to pay" (419). This censure seems to 1-reult

Inot so auchl fro~m a dis:pproval of homosexuality- per se, as fr~om Roger's

knIowledge. that queens like Pco don't pay their debt-s. Finally, since

Roger is the successor- of the mai.nager wit? hollm Paco was; "srlcwacnthert "

it is difficult to avoid wondering whether employment as Paco's manaGer
12
requires duties unrelated to the corrida. Though there is no sure

evidence ci a honicsexcel Ielationship betwEnen Roger and Faco, enough

implications are included in the narrative to support the suggestion

that t-here may be no0t only two mothersr" in "The Mother of a Queen,"

but two "queens" as well.

"My Old Man" makes use of a relationship between its narrator and

the situations the narrator witnesses which is even more complex than

thle comparable relationship in "The Mother of a Queen." Ulnlikec other

witness nar~rations, "Myl~ Old Man" is primarily concerned with showinge

the actual process of character development. WJhile such stories as

"The Light orf the Wlorld" and "A Canary for One" shout characters for











only aI brief moment during what the reader presumes is a long period of

development, "Nyl Old Manm" shows events which span large portions of the

lives of the chnarncttrs it portrays. "My Old Man" drpmatizes the

chanrges w~ich takef place in t~he young, colloquialized narrator of the

storyij and in, ths narrator's all-too-humann father. The way in which

these ch;anges intirlocki creates a particularly dynamlic narrative struc-



The most obvi~ous character development in "My Old Manl" is young

Joe Butlet's loss of innocence. One of the earliest chronological

incidents in the story--HIolbrook's calling Joe's father a "son of a

hitchn"--begins a diminution of the boy's image of his father whichl conl-

tinuels over thE ne.xt few years. As Joseph D)EFalco mientions in his ex-

celclent discussion of "Miy Cld IMn," the extent of Joe's growth toward

adulth-ioo~d is, rieflcted in thle degree to which the boy's unquestion-

ing faith, in his r:,iir weekins.1 The cliumx of Joe's gTrowinG aware-

ness of the CO~r:!irupeeSs of adults, tree event which ltakefS the kick out

of all of t"' for hire, is thie fiind of the race between Kzar and

Kircubbin. ha De~al-o sugpgests, wh~en Joe calls George Gardner a "son

of a bi tch" for his part in thle fixing of the race, "he has at the

same time? lnknowinglyi applied the same imprecation to his own father.

George has not done anyt~vhing that the father has not already done in

Ml." By sh~ouing the de-strucrion of what DeFalo calls Joe's

fathelr-hero,, "Ny 01d Man" charts the grow~th of a young boy's awa-reness

not only that evil exists in. thy world, bult that it often1 exists very

close to home.,

Thle chanGe in: young Joe from innocrnt- boy tlo disillusioned youth





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is reflected by thef story's use of narrative unroliability. Unlike

most of Haeminlgway's involved nar-rators, Joe Butler at times misulnder-

stands whlat he sees and, as a refsult, misrepresents things thlat ar~e

happening. Farly in the story, for example, as Joe and hris father

sit with "Holbrooki andl a fat woup," the older Cutler asks his son to go

bouy him~ a Sprtsman. Though Joe is not aware that there is an ulterior

motive: invlolve~d in thiis request, the reader ulrderstands that the boy is

sent awyay so th~ac he vill not k-now about the crookedi dealings h~is

fat-her is involved in. Other instances of Joe's misinterpretation of

things are evenl I.ore obvious. At one point in the story, for example~,

Joe cojmpares 'l~Pai anld Milan:

Pairis tas an1 aw~ful big towen after M~ilan. Seems
like in MIrlan everybiody is going somewhere and
all thle tramsl. run somlelwhere and there sin't an1Y
iso-~rt o ordbi.-ip, Lut :aris is all ta-llcd up and
they rnever do straightenl it out. I got to like
it, though, part of' it, anyway, and say, it's
got ihe brest racei courses in the world. Seemis
as tloulgh tha~t were the thing that keeps it all
groing:, and about the only thing you can figure
on: is that every day the houses k~ill be going out
to whatever track they're runningp at, going
right out through everything to the tr-ack;. (195)


The boy's failure to understand that what alppears to be confusion is-

really com~plex organ~izat-ion and his attempt to explain Paris by relat-

ing wha~t he sees To the very limited world with which he is acquainted

nicely illustlrarecs Joe's innlocece.fc As he gr-ows, Joe's understanding

of whant goes on around him becoiies more complete, and, as a result,

he becomes less susceptibl e to such miis interpretat ion. At St. Cl oud,

for exar~ple, the boy does not understand that \dhen hris father and George

Gardener talk they 're making arrangements cOncernling che fixed ince.





-83-


Joe. does k~now, however, that "something big was up because George is

Kzar's jockey" (198), Thlough: his knowledge is inrcorrplete, Joe. is a

good deal closer to understanding the truth at St. Cloud chan he is in

Mi lan.

h s is true in "The Mother of a Queen," "My Old H~an" makes a dis-

tinction between its narrator's actions in the act-ing present andi hi~s

attempts~ Lo explain lhis past to a listener in the narrating present.

As Joe Le11s his story, it becomes clear that he is still in a state of

change. The last events of his n~arrative--bis father's attempt to lose

rveight and his delath in the steeplechase--occur not long before Joe's

narration of these rvent-s, and little psychological growth has occuirrd

in the interior. Tulough Joe's awareness of elril grows a great deal dur-

ing: the evours~ of thle story, his adjustrent to what he learns is not

complete at the time ike-en he talls of these even~ts. The very first

words of "Mly Old M~an"--"I guess looking at it now"--reflecr not only

thle fact that "now" the boy is older andl wiser, but also the fact: that,.

at the tim~e of the narrating present Joe cen only "gnecss" how things

really are. 7"T'ie boy's use of such expressions as "Gee, it's awfull"

during h~is narrative suggests that while in somae ways he is far mrore

emontionally awa-rr than another boy his age might be, in m~any ways he is

still quite young.

The growth of young Joe Butler's awareness of evil is only one

of several significant character developments which take place in

"My Old M~an." One of the central ironies of the stoqr is thlat as joe's

understanding of th~e complex~ity and the fallibility of the adult world

becomes mlore complete, the central representative of that world, Joe's











father, increasingly overcomes the very weakness which disillusions the

boy. Hav~ing participated in the crookedness which bhring:s about Joe's

loss of faith in the adult world, Butler buys Gilford, goes through the

painful process of getting into shape, and as a result of hard work,

courage, and tal~enc, rides G~ilfor-d to victory in his first race. As

DeFalco suggests, Joe's father is engaged "in a 'pursuit race'

for h~e must keep Ilhead of the ominous 'fat' whiich heralds old age and

thr sub~sequient loss of his means of ex~istence."15 The wiinnin2 of third

place- in thec 2500 met-er race, however, represents a momentary victor) ini

this pursuit raie, a victory which is achieved only as a result of a

k-ind of nphysicl and spiritual regeneration on the plart of the older

Diutler. Ironically, while Lhe loss of Josis faith in his facher briings

shout hini faiiil fom i~nnocence, Bu~le's regeneratjon, is a result in large

part of his love for h~is son and! his realization~ that soratingiiii rlase be

done ab~out thef growing boy;'s eduz;l~ion. Atr least one 7f the reasons why

Butler buys Gilford, the story suggests, has to do w~ith his desiie to get

"a3 Jecent stanke" so that Joe can go "back thecr- to the States and go to

school" (202). Thus, as Joe loses his innocence, his father regain~s somre

of his, and thie changes thle twlo characters undergo are, in a very real

sense, a3 result of wrhat they see happening io each other.

The simultaneous characters~ deverlop!ent~s of Joe and his fathe-r are

nicely exemlplifierd by the changee which occurs in their reactions be--

tween the two races which are p;resented in the narrative. Befoire the

race betwvorn Kear and Kircubb~ini, thei young n~arrator de-cribefs Kzar's

beauty: "Th~is Kea~r," he explains, "is a great big yellow horse th~at

looksr just: like nlothinge bult run. 1 never saw such a horse. He wais










being led around the paddocks with his head dow~n and when he wenit by mea

I felt all hollow inside he was so beautiful. There never was such a

wonderful, lean, running built borse" (197). When the race is over,

Joe feels "all trembly and funny" inside as a result of his tremnendous

emi~otional involvement in the race, and when he finds out thzt the race

wsas fixed, t-he extent of his involvement results in the depth of hlis

di~sillusionmecnt. Joe's inhel~r, on tl,; other hadl, does not seem at: all

emotionlally involved in the big race, even though he profits consider-

ably froli it in a financial way. His only comment about the race is

that Ceorge Gardner is "a suac11 jockey." The reactions of the two

characters to Cilford and his first victory, however, are quite diffor-

ent. The loss of faith in the adu: t world which Joe suf fers as a re-

sult of Kzar's defeat renders hill less able to becomaE emotionally in.-

vrolved with horses. As a rePsult, hlis feelings about Gilford are compar--

at-ively controlled. Hep is "fond" of Gilford, but as his description

of thle Irish jumper suggests, his enthusiasm for ther horse~ is temapered:

"He was a good. solid jumper, a bay, wi~th plenty of speed on the flat,

if you asked him1 for it: and he was a nice-]oookin~g horse, too" (202).

Though? the boy says that G-ilford is as good a horse as KzRar, it is

clear that Joe is feigning enthusiasm for the horse because of his

love for his father. The elder Enltler, on the other hand, is not de-

tachied vhere Gilford is concerned. When he takes third place in Gil-

ford's first race, he is "all sweating and happy," and, Joe tells thle

reader, he "was excited, too, even if he didn't show it" (203).

Through his exposure to crooked racing th~e young narrator of

"My Old Men" loses much of his innocence. As certain aspects of his










narration indicate, however, thle change in Joe is only partially a loss.

As: Joe grows1 away from childhood, his values mature, and an apprecia-

tion of honest human accomplishments replaces his blind, passionate

enthusiasm for anim~als. A~s long as he is innocent, Joe's primary in-

terest is in horses, and this interest is reflected in the way in which

hre looks at a horse race. As the horses "come pounding past" during

the race at St. Cloud, for example, Joe sees that "Kzar vas way back

.this K~ircub~bin horse was in front and going smooth" (199). At

thle end of the race, Joe explains, "Kzar came on faster thalin I'd ever

seen anything in my life and pulled up, on Kircubbin," but as chey are

neckl and nc~k "thajy passed the winning post and .. K~ircubbin had

won" (199). During the months previous to the Ptlix du Mirat, Joe

wratchfs his father work andJ sweat to get ready to ride, and the signt-

iicance for Joe of his father's struggle is suggestedi by the facr

that he begins his narrative with a presentation of it. As a result of

whlat he sees and learns fcran his father's courage and hard work. Joo's

view of t-hing~s changes, and his way of looking at a race reflects thlis

change. Thlen the horses come pounding by during the Pr-ix du Mlar-t,

Joe does not look at G;ilford, but, instead, hollers "at my old man as

he went by., and he was leading by about a length and riding way out,

and light as a monkey, and they were racing for t-he warer jumnp" (203-

204. Italics mine). As long as he is a child, Joe's innocence m~akes

him unaware of thie men controlling the horses he is intrrested in.

As a more matlure youthi, Joe comes to see that horse races are run by

men, and that in the real world the most significant accomplishments

asi well as the mlost. significant failures are those of meln, not those ofr





-87i-


animals.

As Butl]er sits at the barrier before the Prix du Mara-t, Joe looks

over anld sees him silttng, inr his black jacket "with the white cross."

Though the young narrator is not conscious of the symnbol~ism, the reader

understands that the wh~ite cross i~s perfectly fitting. A~s the farther

sits at the barrier. he has not only triumphed over his own weakness,

but he. is about to ulndergo the ultimaBte sacrifice in his attempts to

better the life of hi~s son. In "M'y Old M~an"' Joa an~d his father accolmp-

lish a double victory. Thle boy is victorious over ignorant! innocence, thle

noan over wecakness and selfish;ness. Thnis double victory, hnow~neve, lasts

only for a mom~ent-, and Joe is alwa1st immediately foceCd to come(C to

another shockin~g realiz-tion, about humian weaknetss. He is forced to

face the fact- that in the real world men muist dic, and L~-t a no~n's

derath can, come~ jus~t at that moment when he does not- deserve to dic.

Further, Joe learns that no matter what sacrifices a man un~derg~oes, his

fellow mnen often will nor know either that a victory occurred or care

about the- ian wyho accomplishedd it. As Joe says whEn the won call hi.s

father a crooki, "Seems like when they get stazced they don't leave a

guy nothing" (205).















NOTES TO CHAPTER IV


1. See DeFalco, 89.

2. Ernest Hemingway, ThieWild Years, ed., Gene Z. Hanrahan
(New York, 1967), 183-184.

3. Hemingway, The Wild Years, 184.

4. Baker, Ji :ic The Writer as Artist, 120.

5. Young, Ernest Hiemin~uy Rconsideration, 57.

6. See DeFalco, 81-88.

7. John S. Rouch, "Jake Barnes as Narrator," M~odern Fiction
Studies, XI (Winter, 1965-66), 362.

8. See Rouch, 363; and DeFalco, 175-176.

9. See DeFalco, 175.

10. TIhe term "queen" refers to "a male homosexual w~ho plays the
female role," especially one who is popular with "homosexuals who play
the male role," see Harold Wentworth and Stuart nerg Flexner, Dictionr
of American Slang (New York, 1960), under "queen."

11. Benson touches on this question. He explains that an "ex-
plicit audience consciousness" contributes to the "theatrical effect
of Hemingway's work." Sometimes appearing in the work itself and some-
times assumed to be the reader, "an audience is prerequisite to the
meaningful presentation of the protagonist's ordeal" (Benson, 71).
However, Benson confines hris exemplification of the device to mention-
ing that this "relationship with the reader more often develops in the
nonfiction . ." (Benson, 71-72), and to point-ing out one instance of
it in A Farewell to Arms.

12. The existocec of a homosexual relationship might also suggest
a more satisfactory reason for Roger's special fury over Paco's overly
generous treatment of his yoiing countryman.

13, See Defalco, 56-62.






-89




14. DeFalco, 61.

15. DeFalco, 58.















CHAPTER Vr

PROTAGONIST NARRATION


As was suggested in Chiapter II, the distinction between witness

an1d protagZonist narration which this study uses is based not on the

narrator's "!importance" In the story in which he appears, but on whiat

he and thle reader trke to be his purpose in narrating. Because Joe

Butler believes he is telling the story of his father and because the

Amlerican husband is primarily interested in telling about the mriddle-

aged American lady. both "Mly Old Man" and "A Canary for One" are c!he-

sified as w~itness narrations. A story is called a prot~agonist narr-a-

tjon, on the other hrandi, when it or:lploys a narrator iho see~s thle

presentationl of his ownr sLtory as his pr~imary functioni. Through this dis-

tinctio~n is generally useful,; like almost any critic al distinction,

it is riot adequate in every case. In such works As Chepter X11I of

In Our Tit e ("I hreard the drum~s coming . .) and "In Another Countr-y,"

for exam!ple, it is not only difficult, but misleading as well, to say

thait the Inarrator ostensibly presents either his own story or the

the story Of another character.

On first roman'lg;, Chapt-er XIII of In Our Timer may seem primarily

concernedd with Luis;, the young Inst-dor w~ho h~as gotten drunk on the mlorn-

ing of thelr day- when hie is to participate in a corrida. Upon careful

examination, hiowever, it becomes clear thatI the sketch is just- as fully

concerned with M1aera and with its involved narrator as it is with L~uis.











The reader's understanding of Chapter XIII depends upon his awareness

of the indication in the final exchange of the sketch that Mlaera and

the narrator are the other members of the trio of matadors which is

scheduled to fight bulls "this afternoon."* After Luis dances aw~ay

with the riau-riau dancers, Maenra asks the narrator,


And who will kill his bulls after he gets a cogida?
le, I suppose, I said.
Yes, we, said Maera. Wie kills the savages'
bulls, and the drunkards' bulls, and the riau-riau
dancers' bulls. Yes. ~e kill them. We kill the
all right. Yes. Yes Yes.

As Hemingway explains in Death in the Afternoon, during a corrida the

"matadors kill their bulls in turn in the order of their seniority

If any matador is gored so that he is unable to return from the infirm-

ary ." his bulls "are divided between the remaining matadors."1

The face that Maera and the narrator will kill those bulls Luis fails

to kill indicates that both men are bullfighters.

Once it is understood that all three characters in Chapter XIII

are matadors, it becomes clear that the sketch not only portrays the

actions of an irresponsible young bullfighter, but that it develops a

comparison of the ways in which two other matadors react to an increase

in the danger of an already dangerous occupation. When M~aera realizes

that he m~ay be forced to face more than twio bulls, he is furious and

apprehensive. TIhe narrator, on the other hand, remains at least




Hemingwlay explains, "In the modern formal bullfight or corrida
de toros there are usually six bulls thac are killed by three dififr-
entl men. Each man kills two bulls" (Death in the AfLtenoon 26).






-92-


outwarrdly calmn in spite of his anger at Luis and in spite of whatever

fear ho hlas. The simplicity of his "We, I suppose" suggests both his

recognition of the danger involved and his realization of the necessity

for facing the danger calmly. The narrating present of the sketch is not

developed, but the fact that the events of the narrative take p~lace

in thec past might imnply that the third matador's ability to control

him~sllf hlas allowed him to continue until the~F time of the narrating of

the skeCtch without a fatal cornada.*

Unlike witness narrators, the narrator of Chapter XIII is ostensibly

no moreF conICerned writhi presenting the experiences of other characters

thani he is with relaringe experiences of his own. Unlike most protag-

onist narrations, hoblever,, Chapter XIII cannot be said to be rrnil

concerned with the narrator's story. Chapter XIII presents a single

situetion in which thrree characters are directly involved wi~th each

orther an~d in which thea actions of one character create the predicament

in which the other charsacters find themselves.

The narrator of "In An~other Country," like the narrator of Ch~apt-er

XZIII, can be thought of as either a protagonist or a wiitness. That

this is the case is suggested by the lack of critical agreement about

who thF sIToy's cEnItral charact-er is. On one hand, Phlilip Youlng feels

that: "In A~nother Country" shows Hemingway "for once .. not concerned

so Iunclh With Nick. It is the major's pain that thea story is about ...,"2

Josephl De~alco, on the other hand, believes that tbo narrator-

is the central character and that the story is about his exposure to




XThis idea is also suggested by the fact that in Chapter XIV of
In Olrr TI~me (Manera lay still, lis hiead on his arlms . ..) a mIatador
named "M~acra" receives a co~nalda and dies in thle inflirmlary.










two modes of adjusting "to his own personal wounds and to the conflict

imlplied in the know~ledge that man is a victim of contingent forces."

In reality, it is unnecessary and misleading to think of "In Another

Country" as being primarily about a single character. The story is

best thought of as a kind of complex situation report which surveys

the various ways in which several wounded soldiers adjust to their

physical and psychic wounds.

Unlike the situation reports discussed earlier in this study, the

events of the acting present of "In Another Country" tak~e place over a

fairly long period of time. M~uch of the story, in fact, is conducted

through descriptions of actions which the narrator carried out habit-

ually over a period of several months. The setting of the scene in the

first paragraph of the story, for example, includes details which th-

narratlor noticed during ant entire fall. As the months pass during the

scory, the relat-ionshipis which are set up among the various characters

undergo changes, and as several critics suggest, the result of these

changes is a learning experience on the part of the narrarac.~ As a

result of his relationship with the young Italian soldiers, the narrator

comes to understand that he is not a "bunting hawk," and that his adju~st-

msent to pain and fear will necessarily be different from theirs. As

result of knowing the major, the narrator comes to what Austin McGjiffert:

Wright calls a realization "of the inevitability (or incurability?) of

loss or pain even for those whlo have grown out of a belief in bravery."5

He coir.es to see, in other words, that bravery is not simply a matter of

how one reacts at the front, but that it is, rather a matter of how one

faces the pains and losses of life in general. As Rovit suggests, "The











Major's agony and his heroic hold on dignity under the burden of his

wife's sudden death--a dignity which does not place itself above show-

ing emotion in basic physical ways--become an object lesson to

Nick .. ." He becomes "an exemplar of courage and of dignified

resolution in xaceting disaster.6

Unlike Chapter XIII, "InI Another Country" carefully creates a

lifferentitiaton betwYeen acting present and narrating present. Three

times the fa~ct that the narrator is looking back at a younger version

of himself is made explicit. The narrator explains, for example, that

his experiences took place "a long timre ago, and then we did not any

of us know how it was going to be afterward, w'e only knew then that

there was always t-he war, but that we were not going to it any more" (269)

The specific fu~nction of the- story's development of its narrating

present is difficult to see, The reader's consciousness that he is

looking back over what seems a considerable period of time does give

"In Another Country" a far away and long ago atmlosphere similar to

that created in "G-od Rest You Merry, Gentlemen." Further, the distive-

tion helps to establish the story's thoughtful mood. In addition to

these functions, however, the differentiation does not seem of partice-

lar importance.7



While there are far fewer protagonist narrations among Hiemingway's

stories thann there are w~itness narrations, those stories which do fall

within this category often have particularly interesting narrative

strategies. The first thing the reader mlust understand about the

narrative perspective of a protagonist narration is the natulre of the










relationship which is created between the narrator as the reader sees

bin in the narrating present and the narrator as be appears in the

acting pr -:ent. A great deal of confusion can attend that reading of

a prr tagonist narrative which fails to keep this differentiation in

mind. I? some protagonist narrations narrating presents are rendered

nearly; invisible, and the reader's attention is directed almost exclu-

r'vrely to the acting presents. In at least two stories, changes i~n the

rye4.tionsip.F. between the reader, the narrator as teller, and the nar-

iator as .ccor affect meaning, In still other protagonist narrations

tbo relationships which are developed between narrating presents and

acting presents are so dynamiic that they account for considerable

thematic content,

The narrating present of Chapter III of IIn Ojur Time ("We wiere in

harder at Mons.") is nearly invisible, and the reader's attention is

direct-d lostot exclusively to the acting present. Though the narrator

of this sketch is usually identified withi the speaker in Chapter IV

("It was a frightfully hot daiy."), the tw~o narrators canl easilyj be

distinguirshed. WhTile the narrator of Chapter IV uses an idiom which

ror:hly -_ rrespionds to the "clipped upper class dict-ion of Sandhurst"

th a:.t Fring.;ay's friend Dorman-Smith probably used, the speaker in

C'iap ?r IIT is far less obviously British.8 As Bridgeman explains,

Chapter III "is considerably less radical in its dialect" than

Chapt-r IV, "wi th fewer eccentricities of speech . .. Just three

words ate used in a British manner: 'young,' as applied to a name,

'p.tte,L and 'alifully.' Yet anl American could use each of them in

this waay without strain or- affectation."






-96-


The narrator of Chapter III presents a war experience inl which

he took part, and the quiet, almost shocked tone of his reminiscence

suggests that the incident he is describing made a particularly strong

impression onl him. The narrator's mention that the German wuho is shot

first is "Thie first German I saw" may even suggest that the experience

at Mons is the narrator's introduction to war. That this might be the

case is substantiated by the narrator's triple repetition of the fact

that the "potting" of the German soldiers occurs in a garden. In addi-

tion to elaphasizing the basic incongruity of the background, the repe-

tition of "garden" may suggest that thle deaths which the narrator is

helping to bring about represent a loss of innocence not only for the

surprised Germans who are killed, but for the narrator as well.

As Bridgeman explains, Chapter IV is told by a British officer

"ubose dialectical intensifiers--' frightfully,' 'absolutely,' and

'topping'--establish an ironic distance between the reader and the

event that occasions the officer's schoolboy enthusiasm: the successful

placement of a barricade across a bridge."1 As Bridgeman implies, a

major tension is developed in Chapter IV between the obvious enjoyment

the narrator has and the deadly seriousness of the events in which he

is involved.

The special emphasis on the narrator's British manner of speaking

in Chapter IV, when combined w~ith the narrator's use of the second

person, sueggsts a further distinction between Chapter III and Chapter

11' Eile the nairrtor of Chanpter III seemsa to be remembering his

experiences, the narrator of the sulbseqluent ske~tch is Lalkiing about

the barricade with an unidentified listener. Th~is difference in thle










way in which the experiences of the twoe men are communicated emphasizes

their different reactions to what thley have seen. While the narrator

of Chapter III recalls his experiences in shocked silence, the narrator

of Chapter IV appears to enjoy telling about his adventures.

Though the narrators of Chapters III and IV are easily distin-

guishable in their attitudes and in the way they speak, Hiemingway's

juxtaposition of them in both in olr time and _In_ Our Time may imply

that they are the same man. The fact that both speakers do use some of

the sam~e speech mannerismls--they both use the term "potted," for example--

might suggest that the narrators of the sketches represent different

stages in the development of a single character, Tihe juxtaposition of

the two sketches, in other words, may imply that though the narrator

takes his initial war experiences quite seriously, later experiences

result not only in his becoming accustomed to battle, but in his enthus-

iastic enjoyment of it.

Like Chapter III both "After the Storm" and "One Trip Across"

focus much of the reader's attention on the acting present, and, even

more fu:lly than Chapter IV, both stories develop oral narrating

presents which frame and mlodify their acting presents. Unlike pre-

viously discussed sketches and stories, however, "After the Storm"

and "One Trip Across" utilize a change in "distance" between reader and

narrator inl order to effect thematic content.*




Booth decveleps the corcept of distance in The Rhetoric of
Fiction. He explains that narrators "differ markiedly according to
the degree and kind of distance thacr separates them from the author,
the reader, and the other characters of the story. In any reading






-98-


At the beginning of "After the Storm" a considerable distance is

reslted between the story's protagonist narrator and the reader by a

particularly effective combination of subject matter and p~hrasing. As

is true in many of Hemi~ngway's short stories, "After the Storm" Employs

tihat might be called a "running start." That is, the reader finds

hi self watching a series of events which has obviously been going on

1 fol* the~ 'story begins. Miore clearly thain in most stories, however,

;ad uf action which is underway in "After the Storm" is quite dif-

:ant~ from a~tlnytin m~ost readers have experienced. As "After the

S1-rr" opens, the narrator is in the mliddl~e of a fight, bein:, choked

by an antagontist who seems to want to kill h~ilr. As thle nlarrator ex-

plains, "Hie was choking me and hananering my head onl the floor and I

got th, kni:-e out and opened it up; and I cut the muscle right across

his ,?,n- and hie let go of mre. He couldn't have held on if hre want-ed

to" (372). It is the particular brutality of thiis fighnt, the d~~egre to

which -he opponents seem wiilling to destroy each other which creates

distance betiweenl the narrator and the reader, distance which is empha-

sized by the narrator's use of such roughl-sounding, nonstandard
11
ibrasc.. -s "Everybody was too drunkn to pull him off mue."

Distance between reader and narrator which is created ,n

th first paragraphs of "Aft-er the Stormn" is maintained and even ex:-

tended by the sponger's subseqjuent actions and reactions. For one




experience there is anl imlpliedl dia~logue amlong author, narrator, the
o~tler Iharacters, and the reader. Eachl of thre four can range, in rE-
lecti t, each of the others, froml identific~ation to complete opposi-
t ca, ag any axis of value, mnoral, intellectual, aesthetic, and even
phys -..al" (Boothl, 155).











thing, the narrator fails to react to the basic violence in, which he

has been involved. Though he has been choked and though hiis head has

been hammlered on the floor, he mentions no pain. Hle doesn't even appearl

to be dazed by what has happened. As econ as the narrator is outside

anid away from those friends of his antagonist who come out a~eftr him,

he seems to forget entirely about Lbe fight. During the remainder of

his narration he does not retiect on any aspect of the experience, nor

does he speculate on its possible repercussions. Thle only other refer-

ence in "Aftetr the Storm" which even pertains to the events of the

opening paragr,-phs occurs when the story is more than half over, and

even~ this reference is offhand and indirect. The narrator merely

mentions that "th~e fellow~ I'd had to cut wlas all right except for his

art," and th~at thle whole thing "camie out all right" (376). The narrator's

nonchslance about the fight and its effects emphasizes thle fact that he

is a man for whomi extreme physical violence is so normal as to be taken

casually.

The na;rrator of "After the Storm": is also rendered un~usual by his

failure to evaluate his experience, to put whlat- he sees into in any

sort of overall perspective. After hie escapes from the bar, finds his

boat, and hides out for aday, the narrator goes out to explore the

storm damage. His description of hiis procedure is illuminating:


I seen a spar floating and I knew there must be
a wreck and I started out to look for her. I
found her. She was a three-masted schooner and
1 could just see the stumps of hier spars out of
w~ater. Shie wia in too deep water and I didl' t
get anything off of hier. So I went on looking
for somnething else .. I went on down over
the sand-bars from where I left thlat three-masted






-100-


schooner and I didn't find anything and I went on
a long way. I was way out toward the quicksands
and I didn't find anything so I went on. (373)


As th~e description of the three-masted schooner makes clear, even the

sinking of a fairly large ship means nothing to the narrator, apart

from its being a possible source of salvage. As the monotonous repeti-

tion of the phrase "I went on" suggests, one experience follows after

2.uI.Lhe'r for the narrator, and aside from the possibility of simple

pe rsonal gain, none of his experiences seems of any more significance

to him than any other.

The distance which is created by the narrator's brutalized

insensitivity is greatest when~ the narrator discovers the ocean liner

hich has sunk with almost five hundred people aboard. As A~nselm

At ius explains, "The reader sees thle wretcked shiip through thf eyes of

the sp'onger, for whom t~hat underwater graveyard is nothing but a
12
fortuitous jackpot." Thte only thing about the ma~ck that moves the

sponger is the amount of booty involved, and as he tries again and again

to enter the vessel, the only "disaster" he seems to notice is the fact

that he has nothing strong enough to break through the porthol~d.

The difference between the way in which~ the narrator reacts to

what he sees and the way in which the reader reacts is emphasized fre-

quantly during the narrator's attempts to enter the ship. For example,

when the narrator dives down to the one porthole he can reach, hie sees "a

woman inside with her hair floating all out." He is forced to surface

:o; air, but hef goes down again: "I swam down and took hold of thle

ed.. of the porthole with my fingers and hleld iL and hit thle glass as

harnd as I could with the wrench. I could see the woman floated in the









water through the glass. Her hiair was tied once close to her head and

it floated all out in the water. I could see the rings on one of hefr

hands . .. I hit thre glass twice . ." (374-375). While the reader's

attention is taken up by his shocked consciousness of the dead waoman

and by the attempt to imagine what she lockis like, the narrator's

vision moves almost immediately to the ring~s on thle womani's hands.l

Thle implications of the narrator's lack~ of normal human sensitivity

to pain and to the deaths of five hundred of his fellow men, and of his

appar-rnt inabijlity to think about events except in the most basically

p'"llagmaic manner are emrphasized by the ~,Freuent juxtaposition of the

nerra~tor and the scavenger birds which are "mak-ing over" the sunken

linEr when the narrator arrives, As the narrstor skills over the liner,

thle birds zre all around him, and when hie looks up to stop his n~ose

bltod, he sees "a million? birds above and all around" (375). As it gets

dark, thle narrator gives up trying to get into the liner. He explains,

"The birds were all pulling out and leaving her and I headed for

Sou'west KFy towing thc sk~iff and the birds going on ahead of me and

behind re" (376). A"s Anselm Atkins suggests, this juixtaposition of the

birds and the narrator emlphasizes the similarities between the persistent

and unthinking birds and the persistent, unreflective narrator.l Liike

the birds, the narrat-or is a preduatr who seems to survive by us fs-h

considerable strength and endurance in order to prey on other animals.

Hie seems different from the birds, in fact, only inl his failure to salvage

anything, fromt the w~r.ck-.

if "Afiter thre St-orm" ended with the narrator's inability to sat-

vage booty from t.he 1ler, it would be a vivid picture of a brutalized






-102-


and predatory Key West fisherman. The story does not end, however, as

the narrator leaves the wreck. In the final portion of "After the

Storm" the narrating present is developed and thle result is a modifica-

tion of the story's emphasis. During the first three-fourths of the

story the existence of an oral narrating present is implied by the

highly conversational tone of the sponge-fisherman's narration. His

use of such phrases as "Brother, thiat was some storm" indicates t-hat

the narrator- is speaking, to an is being listened to by someone. Dur-

ing most of the story, however, this oral narrating present is com-

pletely oveirshadowefd by the violence of the narrator's fight and by

his investigation of the sunken li~ner. It is only during thle final

three paragraphs of thle jtory that the conversation between the narrator

an~d his Lmplied listener becomes the prrimoary focus of the narrative.

The reader begins to grow more aware of the narratinlg present

when thle narrator explains that after he returned from his unsu~ccess-

fuil attempt to enter the liner, thle wind "camE on to blow and it bleul

for a week" (376). During the first three-quarters of t-he stor-y the

time gap between the events of the acting present and the telling of

those events is only implicit. Whlen the narrator begins to telescope

time, however, thle reader grows more aware of the time 188, and as a

result, of the speaker who is reminiscing about the wreck.

The re~ader also becolies more fully aware of the narrating

present of "Afrter the Storm" when he sees the narrator attempting to

evaluate. the experiences he has aIlready presented. TJhe narrator's

frequent repetition of certain aspects of the shipwreck suggests that

though th:e narrator is much less sensitive to pain and death t:han





-103-


most men are, he has not forgotten the disaster. The moment of colli-

sjon seems particularly to affect the narrator. Twice he mentions tha;

the crew "couldn't have known they were quicksands" and three times he

refers to the fact that the captain must have ordered the crew to "open

up the ballast tanks" (376, 377). WJhile the story makes it clear that

the sponger has been affected by the wreck, however, it is obvious

that his basic nature has not changed. That this is the case is indi-

cated both by thle fact that his interest in thle shipwreck is largely

professional and technical, rather than human, and by the way in which

the story ends. "Well," the narrator explains, "the Greeks got it

all. Everything. They must have come fast all right. They picked her

clean. First there was the birds, then me, then thre Greeks, and even

tthe birds got more out of her chan I did"' (378). The final juxtapoci-

tion of the birds and the narrator and the use of "'picked her clean"

to describe the actions of the Greeks reestablishes and re-emphasizes

the picture of thle narrator as primitive predator ifoich is set up in the

first triree-fourthis of the story. Though the incident of the shipwreck

aiffects the fisherman, it does not alter thie fact that, like the birds

and the jewfish, he is at base an animal.

The change in narrative perspective in the last quarter of

"After the Storm" also involves the development of the narrator's

relationship with his impliecd listener. Frequently during the last

part of the story the narrator addresses the listener directly. He

explains, for example, that there are "Plenty of fish now though;

jewfish, the biggest kind. The@ biggest part of hier's under thie sand

now bult they live inside of her; the biggest kind of jewfish. Some











wecigh three to four hundred pounds. Sometime we'll go out and get

some. You can see the Rlebecca light from where she is" (377). As is

true in "The Molther of a Queen" and "Mly Old Man"11, the implied listener

in "After the Storm" is not specifically identified or characterized,

and the result is that the reader identifies himself as the listener.

This identification is emphasized in the final paragraph of the story

when the narrator asks the implied listener whether he thinks "they

stayed inside the bridge or do you think they took it outside?" (378).

Sincee thle reader finds himself trying to answer the question, he finds

himself involved, as it were, in conversation with the narrator. The

development of thle relationship between narrator and implied listener

may result in certain thematic implications. For one thing, as the

reader beconmES increasingly awiare Of his position as the listener to

whom the narrator is speaking so congenially, it becomes increasingly

difficult for him to view this potential fishing companion as a man

greatly different from himself. The more the reader's implied involve-

m~ent with the narrator is developed, in fact, the more like the

reader the narrator seems to become; and as the reader comes to see

the narrator as a man much like himself, it grows increasingly diffi-

cult to avoid the s~uggestion that, like the sponpger, the Greekcs, and

all the other living things in "After thle Storm," the reader is basi-

cally a predator. Th~e reader may differ fromu thle narrator ini the de~gree

to which hie is sensitized to exiperie~nce and he rmay be more sophisticated

socially and intollectually than the spion~er is, but whatever differ-

ences do exist ar? matters of d rere, not kind. Surely the Treder is

as mulch like the narraitor as thei narrator is Ilike the birds.










"One Trip Across" is generally not treated as a short story in

critical discussions, Since Hemingway incorporated it into To Hiave and

Eave Not, the story has usually been approached as a part of the longer

work. This study reverses the usual procedure for several reasons.

In the first place, there has been almost unanimous agreement among

critics that as a novel To Have and Have Not is a failure. This critical

consensus is given special weight by Hemingrway's oun stat-ement that thle

book; is not really a novel: "The thing wrong with 'To Have and Have

Not' is that it is made of short stories. I wrote one, then another,

but it was short stories, and there is a hell of a lot of difference."l

Whiile there is general agreement about the failure of To Have and Have

Not as a whole, however, it is obvious that many portions of thle book

are b~eautifully wri kten and that in general the work represents Heming-

way)'s attempt to mrove technically into new areas. In order chat. at

least somie of To Have and Halve Not might receive the critical attention

it deserves, this study discusses "One Trip Across" and "Th~e Irades-

man's Return"--two stories which were published before incorporacion

into the "novel"--and it analyzes one chapter of the book which,

through not published separately, stands salne as a short story .16

As critics have generally noted, there are a great many similar-

ities between "After the Storm" and "One Trip Across." Both stories

take place in or around Key West and both create prot-agonists who

make their living by the sea. Perhaps the most important similarities

between the twoe stories, however, concern their narrative strategies.

Like 'Afiter the Storm," "One Trip Across" develops an oral. narrating

present which, when juxtaposed withl the events of the acting~ present,i










modifies the effect of the narrative.

"One Trip Across" begins with a narrator-to-reader question sim~i-

lar in effect to the question near the end of "After thle Storm." Harry,

the narrator of the story, asks, "You know how it is there early in

+he morning in Havana with the bums still asleep against the walls of

the buildings; before even thle ice wagons come by with the ice for the

bars?" Just as in "After the Storm" the reaerr finds himself attempt-

ing to answer the narrator's question about the captain and crew, the

reader of "Onre Trip Across" finds himself att-emptinlg to answer Harry's

question, and again the result is the implicit involvement of the

reader-listener in a conversation with the narrator. TheR fact that

the reader probably doe~s not know what Havana is like does not detract-

from the illusion of involvement because Hemingway includes enough

highly descriptive details during che first paragraph of thle story so

that the reader can create an approximation of the picture which Hiarry

presunies he has. The illusion of intimacy which is developed in the

first paragraph is maintained during the narrative by the narrator's

familiar style and by his intermittent direct addresses to the reader.

The distance between reader and narrator in "One Trip Across" is

also minimlized by the way in which Harry speaks. Lik~e the speech of

the sponge fisherman in "A~fter the Storm," Harry's speech is collo-

quial. At the same time, howvevr, Harry uses nonstandard sentence

structure and diction far less frequently and far less obviously

th~an thle sponger does, and this careful limiting of colloquial

language in "One Trip Across" causes Harry's narrative to have effects










similar to those of Jerry Doyle's narration in "IFifty Grand."* Bjecause

Harry does sound like a fisherman, the reader is willing to trust Harry's

judgement about fishing and related matters. At thle same time, because

Harry does not sound too much like a fishennan, the reader finds it

relatively easy, at least during the first half of the story, to under-

stand and sympathize with Harry's attitudes.

Once the reader has been made aware of the fact that he is listen-

ing to the narrator, "One Trip Across" continues with relatively few

direct allusions to the narrating present. Only about ten times i~n

the following sixcy pages is the reader directly aiddressed or questioned

and the result is that the reader's attention is directed almost exclu-

sively to the acting present. Except for The Sun Also Rises, in fact,

"One Trip Across" is the longest of Henlingwaoy's narratives which is

both involved and dramatic. As is true in The Sun Also Rises, nearly

all of "One Trip Across" is carried on through the direct presentation

of conversation and throug-h the description of the outward appearances

of events. Thle reader is presented with a few of Harry's ruminations,

but these account at most for only three of the story's sixty-three

pages.

The dramatic method in "One Trip Across" is a direct reflection

of the kind of character who is narrating. In somle of Hensingwray's

dramatic fiction the reader is not presented with involved speculations




FTuSen Harry becomes emotional, he uses two particular speech
mannerisms: he ifrquently says "all right," and hre usaes "some" for
emphasis inl phr-ases like "Some nigger," "Some Tlr. Johnson," and "Som~e
Chink." These mannersrisms however, do not emphasized the fisherman's
general background; rather, they help to individualize him.






-108-


about characters or events because of the author's apparent desire to

present his story "objectively." In "One Trip Across," however, the

presentation of speculation and reflection is limited because the char-

acter who narrates the story does not speculate or reflect The infre-

quency of the story's presentation of unvoiced thoughts, emotions, and

memories, in other words, is not simply a result of Hemijngway's desire

to exclude undramatic iuinforation, it is also a function of the kind of

narrator Hemingwjay has created.

The particularly unspeculative and unreflective Iianner in which

Harry app~roaches Experience has several effects on "One Trip Across."

For one thing, it results in a certain kind of narrative reliability.

As the reader listens to Hlarry's narration, he becomes miore and more

aware that Hiarry makes all his judgemnents and draws all his conclusions

on thle basis of what he perceives, and, particularly, on the basis of

what he sees. The reader is nearly always presented with both the con-

clusions Harry draws and wjith the perceptual evidence on which these

conclusions are based. Early in the story, for example, Harry w~atches

a Niegro and a man in a chauffeur's duster at-tack~ the three Cubans with

whom. he has just been talking. At one point during the battle, Harry

sees Pancho shooting at the attackers wi th his lugar: "He bit a tire

on the car because I saw dust blowing in a spurt on ther street as the

air came out, and at ten feet the nigger shota him in the belly with the

Tommy gun, with what must have been the last shot in~ it because I saw

him throw it down .. ."(7).* The scene is presented exclusively




*~Since the revisions which were made betweenr the original publi-
cation of "One Trip Across" and "nhe Tradesman's Retur-n" an~d their
inclusion in To Haver and Have Not have no effect on narrative perspective,






109-


by means of the outward appearances of the action, and even the simple

conclusions Harry does draw--that a bullet hits a tire, that it wasi

the Negro's last shot--are given a particular authority by Harry's

exacting presentation of the basis on which he has drawn them. The

manner in which Harry seems to think of things happening "because" he

perceives their effects emphasizes his refusal to present any-thing

that has not been completely verified by his unaided senses. TIhe over-

all extent of Harry's reliance on what he sees is suggested by the

fact that in the noinconversational portions of the first fifteen pages

of "One Trip Across" alone, some. form of "to see," "to watc'l," or "to

Look" is used at least fifty times, The f~requency with wlhich, such

verbs appear in. the story is illustrated by Harry's introdluction

of Eddy:

Then as I looked up, I saw Eddy corning along
the dock lookn taller and sloppier than ever.
He walked with his joints all slung wrong.



Eddy looked pretty bad. He never looked too
good early in the morning; but he looked pretty
bad now." (8-9. Underlining mine.)


Harry's apparent presumption that in order to porcray~~ whac by

pens he needs simply to tell in detail what he sees creates in the

reader an almost complete trust in the accuracy of the picture Harry

presents. Because those conclusions which Harry does drau~ from his

perceptions seem perfectly simple and logical--at least during the



and since the stories are almost unavailable except in early issues of
CosmEolita and Egire,, this study uses the 1937 Scribner's Edition
of' To Have andi Have N'ot ats text. Parenthetical references in the text
are to this edition.











first half of the story--the reader comes to trust Harry's judgement as

well as his ability as an observer.

The trust w~hichl is created in the reader by Harry's reliabilitly

during the first pare of "One Trip Across" results in the efE~ctive-

ness of the change in reader-narrator distance which occurs in the

second hlalf of the story. During his dealings with Mr. Johnson, Hlarry

is a model of dependability, patience, and honesty. His straighltfor-

wuardness during the fishing expedition and his failure to feeli sorry

for himself when Joh~nson runs out without paying result in a great

deal of respect on the part of the reader for thle fisher-man. Once

Mr. Johnson has run out on Hlarry, however, the fisherman's actions

become increasingly violent(, and the reader's attitude toward Hlarry is

modified.

Hlrry'ss first violent action is his hitting Eddy in the face.

Thle fisherman uses his anger at Eddy for getting him mixed up witih

Mr. Johnoson as a cover for his not wanting a "rummy" along when he pickrs

up the Chinarrcn. Thnouoh hittirg rddy seemrs to Her~ry both necessnary

and logical, it is, nevertheless, somnething of anl unpleasantl sulrprise

to th~e reader. It gives the reader h~is first i~ndicat-ion t~hat w~hen

Harry's reasocnin3 tells him that he is thtentened, he will unhedirat-

ingly use whatever violence he fools is necessary in order to extricate

himself from the danger. The effec-t of this incident is em~phasized by

Harry's own feeling about it.~ "Blut I felt bad albout: hitting himn,"

Hirry explains, "You know how you feel when you hit a drunk" (38). The

fact t-hat the reader probably does not know "hlow you fee~l" hlelps to

begin the r:xtensi n of rcader-nprrator distance whiichi occuirs ductun g the










remainder of the story.l When Harry discovers that Eddy has srowued

away, he is again "sorry," but this time he feels bad because he plans

to kill Eddy. Harry's conclusions seem to hir. quite inescapable--he

wants safety from arrest; Eddy poses a threat to this safety; therefore,

Eddy must be done away with--but, again, while the reader understands the

basis for Harry's decision, he finds the conclusion unpleasant. Thle

divergence between the reader's reactions and Harry's becomes greatest

when Hiarry kills Mir. Sing In Harry's eyes the murder of at least one

Chinaman in unavoidable. Hc mlus t kill Mr. Sing, he explains to Eddy,

"To keep frolm killing twelve other chinks .." (55). As is true in

earlier instances, the reader understands the basis for Harry's decis-

ion. At the same time, however, the cold-blooded murder which results

from Harry's logic is shocking, even repulsive. Th~e tremendous reader-

narrator distance which is effected by HarryS murder of Mr. Sing is

given a special emphasis by the fact that eve 1 as he describes the

killing itself Harry continues to address his listener with the same

supposition of intimacy with which he addresses him earlier: "But I

got him forward onto his knees anld had both thumbs well in behind his

talk-box, and I bent the whlole thing back until she cracked. Don' t

think you can't hear it crack, either" (53-54).

While "After rhe Storm" uses a change in reader-narrator distance

in order to suggest that msan is essentially a predator, "One Trip Across"

extends the distance between H~arry and the reader in order to emphasize

thie degree to which Harry's misfortunes brutalize him. During the first

part of the story Harry shows himself to be a competent and likeable

man, and the result is that the reader trusts and admires him. As











Harry's financial security disappears, however, those samie qualities

which make the fisherman trustworthy and admirable--his courage,

competence, and strength--mnake him deadly. It is the intimacy which is

established between the narrator and the reader-listener at the beginning

of the narrative that makes the results of Harry's misfortunes particu-

larly effective. Were the reader placed at as great a distance from

Harry as he is from the sponger in "After the Storm," he might still be

surprised at the fisherman's brutality, but because the reader comes to

know and respect Harry at the beginning of "One Trip Across," the

fisherman's desperate attempt to maintain his independence and safety

becomes all the more powerful.



In "N~ow I L~ay Me" and "Th~e Gambler, the Nun, and the Radio" com-

plex relationships between acting present and narrating present are

developed, and in each story an understanding of these relationships is

of particular importance for a full realization of what HIemingway

accomplishes. "Now~ I L~ay Me" has usually been thought of as merely the

least important of that trio of stories--"Big Two-Hearted River" and

"A\ Hay You'll Never Be"l are the others--which portray Nick Adams'

attempts to adjust to his traumatic war experiences. And while in

some ways "Now I Lay Me" is not as skillful a story as these other two,

it is nevertheless a good deal mlore interesting technically than has

been previously understood.18 Critics have generally agreed that "Now

I Lay Me"' as Rovit says, is a "direct recounting of [N'ick's] convales-

conce in H~ilan after the Fossalta wound . .." According to t-he

usual view, the story does little more thanl portray the wany in whlich










Nick lies on t-he floor of a room in Italy and thinks about events of

his past in order to divert his mind from what Rovit calls "dangerous

preoccupations that might carry him over thle thin edge."19 Tn reality,

the usual view of the story oversimplifies: w~hat is actually occurring

during the narrative, and the result is that a certain dimension of the

story has generally been overlooked.

"Now I. Lay Me" does not simply present Nick in t-he acting present

reviewing his youthful experiences and talking withl John. During "Now

I Lay Me"I three "Nickcs" are developed, and Hemningway is careful at all

times to distinguish adequately among them. There is, of course, the

Nick of the acting present wrho lies awrake in a race. in Italy, Listens

to the silkworms eating, and discusses rcarriage with john. Secondly,

there is the youthful Nick whose experiences are habitually r-called

during the nights in Italy by the Nick of t-he acting present. Finally,

there is the N!ick of thle narrating present who, through not as irmme.

diately obvious as the other Nicks, is developed in considerable detail.

The reader originally becomes aware of the Nick who is narrntinig the

story as a result of several explicit diff~erentriaions between the

acting and narrating presents, the first of which occurs in the open-

ing paragraph of the story. Nick explains how he Lay onl the floor of

the room "that night" and "did not want co sleep because I had been

living for a long time with the knlowledlge that if I ever shut my eyes

in the dark and let myself go, my soul would go out of my body" (363).

He then draws attention to the narrating present by suggesting that

since "that night" his beliefs have been modlified: "So while niow I

am fairly sure that it would not really have gonle out, yet t-hen, that





-114-


summer, I was unwilling to make thie experiment" (363). In addition to

making the differentiation between Nick as narrator andl Nick as accor

explicit, this comment suggests interesting information about Nick.

It is clear that Nick is somewhat more fully recovered in the narrating

present from the shock of his wound than he was "that night."' At the

same time, however, his statement implies that even at the time of the

narration of the story he hras not fully recovereld Eromi what hanppene~d

to him. He is, after all, only "fairly sure" that his soul would not

have gone out, and h~is lack of complete confidence imiplies t-hat soane

apprehension concerning his memories remains. An even mPore suggestive

differentiation between narrating present and acting present ends

Nick's narrative. Nick explains that John came "to the hos;pital in

Milan to see me several months after and was very disappointed that I

had not yet married, and I know he would feel very badly if he knewi

that, so far, ~ I ave never married" (371). Agai~n, iLte distinction be-

tween present and past is made e>.pliciit, and again, the im~plicationl is

that Nick has not fully adjusted to having been wounded. Though malrriage

never does "fix up everything," as John believes it does, the final

emphasis on Nick's not marrying seems to imply thati th-ough Nick's

psychic health has improved, he is still un~able to face the psycholog-

ical strains which marriage necessitates.

Thle developrment of the N~ick~ who is nlarrating is also brought about

in less obvious, but ultimately more stgntf~icant ways. "Nowr I ay Me"

does not merely show t-he Nick of the acting present remecmbering fishtnig

trips and parental disuni ty, as miost critics suggest, A~lnost without

exception it is Nick as narrator who is du,~t: the? rclnciaboring. Thalt






-115-


this is the case is illustrated in the second paragraph of the story:

I had different ways of occupying myself while
I la awake. I would think of a trout stream I had
fished along when I was a boy and fish its whole
length very carefully in my mind; fisig very care-
fully under all the logs, all the turns of the bank,
the deep holes and the clear shallow stretches,
sometimes catcin trout and sometimes losing them.
I would stop fishing at noon to eat my lunch; some-
times on a log over the streak;; sometimes on a high
bank under a tree, and I always ate my lunch very
slowly and watched the stream below me while I ate.
(363. Underlining mine.)


As the italicized verbs suggest, the temporal relationship between the

fishing which is being reimembered and the actual reme~mbering changes.

At the beginning of the paragraph, the Nick of the narrating present

is remembering how during the nights in Italy he would remember fish-

ing trout streams as a younger man. As the description continues,

however, the acting present disappears and the reader sees Nick as

narrator remembering the fishing. The kind of memories the reader

views are presumably the kinld of remories Nick reviewed "that night"

on the floor and on other nights in Italy, but the actual remembering

that is being carried on takes place in the narrating present, not in

the acting present. A similar series of changes in tense occurs when

Nick describes hou~, on particularly bad nights,


I tried to remember everything that had ever
hoppned to me, starting just before I went to
the war and remembering back from one thing to
another, I found I could only rellember back to
that attic in mly grandfather's house. Then I
would sr there and remember this way again,
until I reached the war.
I remember, after m~y grandfather died we
moved away fromn that house .. and I





116-


remember those jars fromi the attic being
thrTownl in the fire. .. and I re~member
the snakes burning in the fire in the back-
yard. (365)

Again, Nick begins by remembering the way in which he passed th~e longo

nights in Italy. As he thinks about what h~e did on those nights, how-

ever, he begins to remember in the narrating present those same events

he remembered during especially bad nights in Italy.

mTh fact that thre remembering whlich is being done in "Now I L~ay

Me" is generally confined to the narrating present is also indicated

by the overall structure of the story. As the story togins, th~e Nick

of the acting present is described as lying on the floor listening

"to the silk-wormns eating" and dropping through the mulberry leaves.

As the story makes clear, the2 fact that Nick is listening to the coun~ds

outside his r~oo indicates that when the narrative opens h~e hias beean

lying awake for a long tilme and has already gone through the process

of recalling those memories which the narrative subseqruenltly reviews.

Having described the various things be wculd think about to p~as the

long ntlghts in Italy, the Nick of the narrating present explaiim:, "when

I could not remember anything at all any more I would just lis ten. And

I do niot remember a night on which you could not hear things

On this night "I listened to the silk--wel;re" (367). I te : s

though the memories which are reviewed during "Now I Lay M:e" represent

the kinds of things Nick thloughlt about after being woundredi and, in

particular, the thoughts hie has already revliEwed beforTe the reader

first scies him on "that night," the actual rememc~bering that occurs dur-

ing thie story is carried on by th~e narrato inl the nalrratinR preuent





-117-


Wh~en thle story's careful, consistent development of it narrat-

ing present is recognized, it is difficult to avoid suggestion: the

possibility that in the narrating present Nick is attempting to got

through a difficult night and is using the same process that he once

used to pass the nights in Italy. The only difference between what

Nick is doing during "Now I Lay Mer" and what he did in Italy i; fact.

is thlat during the narrating present Nick not only rememberr, his on-t,

but explicitly remembers the remembering he carried on in the acting

present. Even the title of the story reinforces this idea. "Nowi I Lay

Me" is an appropriate title not only because of its ironic suggestions;

of an innocence which has so obviously been lost, but also because the

story itself represents the narrator's attempt "nowJ" to stay a,ake

until be is again ready to "make the experiment" of closing his eyes

and facing the darkness.

Th~at the Nick of the narrating present is re~n:enbuiring: thin-s in

order to pass a difficult night is also suggested by a similarity

between the way in which he thought about things in Italy: and the way

in which he thinks about things in the narrating present. Ais i illus-

trated again and again, during the nights in Italy Nick gene ral,

attempted to pass the time by remembering series of events, peollj, and

facts. Often he remembered fishing up and down streams he had knowr

in younger days, "fishing very carefully under all the logs, all the

turns of the bank, the deep holes and the clear shallow stretc'.-s.

(363. Underlining mine.) On nights when he "couldn't fish" he tried

"!to pray for all the people I hlad over known" and "to remember rvery-

thing that had ever happened to me" (365). On those nights then r






-118-


could not even rememlber h-is prayers, he would "try to reme~mber all the

anlimals in the world by name and then the birds and then fishecs and

then countries and cities and then kinds of food and the names of all

the streets I could remember in Chicago . ." (367). One of the

n,emiorable things about the particular night Nick remembers during "Now

I Lay Mie," inl fact, is that his conversation with John gave him "a

new thing to think about and I lay in the dark with my eyes open and

thought of all the girls I had ever known and what kind of wives they

would make" (371). As is trute during the nights in Italy, during the

narrating present of "Now I Lay Nle" Nick is engaged in the process of

remembering series of things. For one thing, Nick reviews thle series

of things he did in order to pass the long nights in Italy. That this

is what Nick is doing is suggested by the fact that the five paragvraphs

subsequent to the introductory paragraph of h~is narrative beginl '' had

different ways of occupying myself," "Somnetimles," "Sometimes," "Blut

some nights," and "On those nights." Further', each of these general

ways of passing time is made up of series of facts, people, and events,

and several of these are reviewed during the narranting present. Nick

recalls, for example, the various kinds of bait he Isedl as a boy.

Finally, the way in obtich the story luCinos--'' h u~c of "l'hll ni-iht" -

suggests that the specific night in Italy during which Nick listen to

the silk wormos and talks to John is one of a series of knights which the

Nick of the narrating present has been relmemlbering: before the story begins

and which will continue after it ends.

Nick's plight during the narrating present is maede more dr-matic

than it misht be otherwise by the story's uise of a technliqueC simil-1r





-119-


in effect to the technique of objeccive Epitome. As Nick lies awake

in the narrating present, he attempts to avoid thinking about the trau-

matic moment when he is "blown up" by reviewing various aspects of his

past. Instead of disappearing, however, Nick's traumatic memory re-

asserts itself indirectly. At the end of his review of the kinds of

bait he used to use, for example, Nick remembers that he once "used a

salamander from under an old log . .. He had tiny feet that tried to

hold on to che hook, and after that one time I never used a salamander,

although I found them very often. Nor did I ulse crickets, because of

the way they acted around the hook" (364). As DeFalco suggests, the

behavior of "the salamander and the cricket wr~iggling, on a blook" is

analogous to Nick's "crucifiedl state of hyper-sensi~bility/," a condition

which is a result of Nick's war experience.20 Just as in "A Caniary for

One" the American husband's sadness orer the end of his marrialge causes

hlim to notice: those particular details of the scene w~hichl suggest pain

and disorder analogous to what he is suffering, Nick's fear of his trau-

matic raerories in "Nlow I Lay Me" causes himn to remember particular ex-

periences which nre Inalogous in one way or another to the event which

has caused him: so much pain. As Nick's review of his past continues,

the moment of being wounded see-is to force itself more and more fully

into his consciousness, and the specific mlemnories he recalls come to

have more and imore in comwionl with the memory he wishes to avoid. WJhen

Nick recalls the burning of the specimen jars, for example, he rememobers

in particular "how they popped in the beat and the fire flamed up froml

the alcohol" (365). The burn~ing and popping of the jars fairly clearly

suggests the explosion and the fire which mu.st have surrounded Nick onl










battlefields in Italy, Nick's detailed recollection of hi; mother's

destruction of his father's collections and the way in which the things

went "all to pieces," serves as a symbolic parallel to the way in which
21
Nick himself was shattered in the fire at Fossalta.

In narrative structure as well as in subject matter "Now I Lay

ME" is similar to A Farewell to Arms. In fact, along with "In Another

Country," the story might be viewed as one of the seeds out of whimb'

the novel was developed. Like "Now I Lay Me," A\ Farevlell to Arms

creates a narrating present in which the narrator remembers his past,

presumably in an attempt to mrake sense out of i~t. Further, the narra-

tion of the novel frames the events of the acting pre-sent wJith~ the

same kind of thooughtful mood that is created in both "Now I L:y Mc!" and

"In Another Country." Finally, there are significant similarities be-

tween the rhythm which develops in "Now I Lay Me" as a result of Nick~'a

remembering one thing, then another, thenr another and the seasonal

and psychological rhythms which inforrm A Farewell to Arms.

In light of the usual assumption that the structure and meaning

of: many of He~mingway's stories result at least in part fromi Hln ingway's

inability to keep his personal life out of his writings, any.,carlful

analysis of "Th- Cambler, thel Noun, and r:o Ratdio" and "Ftherli~s and Sonj"

may seem useless, even foolish to some critics. The obvious critical

problems which are posed by the narrative strategies of these stories

have generally been "explained" or ignored apparently on the assullption

that whatever inconsistencies occur are a result of the fact thlac

H!emingway is writing about his own life and is unable to moalntain sllf-

ficiecnt distance between himself and his protagonist. In reality,




-121-


however, to know that Hemingway used his personal life as the raw

material for his fiction is not to solve the critical problems oiff red

by his stories. The fact that a story contains elements of real life

experience, after all, does not necessarily show that the author of the

story is unimaginative or simplistic. Surely a complex narrative

strategy can be constructed out of "real" events as easily as it can be

constructed out of fully imagined events. To decide that careful

analysis of a Hemningway story is useless because the story is based on

events which actually happened and because Hemingway could not h~ave

been aware enough of what he w~as doing to use these events for more

than thinly disguised sketches of his youth is to m~ake zssllaptions about

Hemingway which would seem absurd if made about any other writer of his

stature. It seems only reasonable to suppose that a writer as serious

in the exercise of his craft as Hlemingway was would be able to work

imaaginatively with the relationships between hlis narrators and therr

experiences without unwittingly courtusing his e:.periencels with theirs.

One of the results of the assumption that muchi of E-ningw~ay's

fiction is little m~ore thran autobiography is that "T1he Cambler, the

Nun, and the Radio" and "Fathers and Sons" have not been accorded tae;

critical attention they deserve. "The Gambler, the Nun, and th-. Padio,

for example, has been used primarily to supply critics with an addi-

tional example of themes which are felt to be n~ore skillfully presented

in other stories. M~ost~ critics do little maore thprn agree wsith Young

thlat the story exemplifies a standard code hero-Hiemingwasy hero rela-

tionship. The M~exican gambler, Young explains,





-122-


has a code to live by. The Hemingway hero [in
this case It<. Frazer], although he greatly ad-
mires this code, is not able to live by it. He
is too tortured, too thoughtful, too perplexed
for that . .. The hero tries, but he cannot
make it, and that is why the stories which most
clearly present the code have a separate chac-
acter to enact it. It is Cayetano (who is in
much mlore pain .than Mr. Frazer) who does
not show a single sign of his suffering.22


At first glance "Tihe Gambler, thle Nun, and the Radio" may not

seem to belong in a discussion which deals with involved narrators.

The narrator of the story not only seems uninvolved in the tale he

tells, but he gives evidence of being editorially amniscient. He both

presents and discusses Mr. Frazer's unvoiced thoughts anld emotions,

and he directly presents his own opinions about aspect: of life in

general. In spite of thle fact t-hat the narrator of "The Czabler, thle

NJUn, and the Radio" is editorially omniscienit, ho~evac, the tolne of the

story does give "thle effect of first-person narrative," as M~arion;
23
Mlontgomacry suggests it: does. The narrator of "The~i Gamlbler, the Nu~n,

and the Radio,"' in fact, can be shwnii to be? a highly cha~r-cterized andl

involved protagonist narrator, similar in several ways to the narrator

of "INow I Lay Me."

That the narrator of "The Gamlbler, the Nun, and thre Radio" is in-

volved in the situation~ he describes is suggesl-ed by several things.

In the first place, his manner of speaking frequentlyr indicates not

onlly that he knows about; the ho~spital and about what wecnt on among

the charactcirs, but that he was=.lctually inside the hospital as a










patient. In the middle of the fourth section of the story,* for ex;ampile,

the narrator describes the views from the hospital windows: "Out of the

window of the hospital you could see a field with tumbleweedl coming out

of the snow, and a bare clay butte" (472); from the other window, "if

the bed was turned, you could see the town, with a little smokef above

it, and the Dawson mountains looking like real mountains !iith the winter

snow on them" (473). Th~e use of: the second person and of the phrase, "if

the bed was turned," suggests that the narrator has personally looked

out these particular windows. TIhat the narrator's sojourn in the

hospital was concurrent with the events of his narrative is indicated

by another description In the same section of the story. "One morning,"

the narrator explains, "the doctor wanted to show Mr. Fraze~r two

pheasancs that werre out there in the snow, an~d pulling: the bed toward:

the windlow, the reading: light fell off the iron bedstead and hit

Mr. Frazer on the headt. Tis does not sound so funny now but it was

very funny then" (472-473). Thie narrator's comparison of the way the

incident seemed "then" and the way it seems "now" indicatess that he was

present at the incident and took part in the "'fun."

Once it is clear that the narrator in "Thie Gambler, the Nun, and

the R~adio" is involved in the tale hle tells, it is necessary to ask who

the narrator is, and when all the informacion is taken into consideration

only one answer seems reasonable. When the reader examines what he




"Th~e Gambler, the Nun, and the Radio" is divided into nine see-
tions, each of which portrays a different setting or a different time
period. Often, the divisions between sections signal changes in style.





-124-


finds out about the narrator of the story and what the narrator tells

him about Mr. Frazer, it becomes almost impossible not to see the two as

the same character. For one thing, unless Mlr. Frazer is the narrator,

the involved narrator's presentation of the direct interior monologues

of Mr. Fraser has no authority. It is possible for one character to

talk about another character's thoughts and feelingsi, but the direct

presentation of unvoiced thoughts is hardly likely. Further, if th~e in-

volved narrator were a cia-racter other than Mrt. Frazer, it would be dif-

ficult to explain why no one talks to him or about him or even mentions

his name, particularly since he is always present during conversations

between Mr. Frazer and other chlaracters. Ille idlentification of the

narrator and Mr. Frazer is also suggested by the fact that nearly

everything of significance th~at the reader knows about the one he kinows

about the other. For one thing, both the narrator and M~r. Frazer play

the radio all night lonlg, and they go through a similar process of

switching to more and more westerly stations until they have reached

Seattle. Further, the overall narrator's description of what can be

seen from the hospital windows indicates that he and Mr. Frazer had the

same view. Since Mr. Frazer has a private room, the reader mnust pre-

some either that there are two mlen in one private rooml or that thle two

men are the same man. Still another similarity is indicated by the

narrator's mention that "Mr. Fraser had been through this all before.

The only thing which was new~ to hini was the radio" (4,80), A~s the nar-

rator's commlrents about hospitals in general indicate, hie, coo, has been

through it all before. There are, really, so mlany significant pa3rallets

between the narrator and Mr. Frazer tha3t in toe long run ic is more






-125-


difficult to think of them as separate characters than to think of them

as the same man.

Hemingway also suggests that the narrator and Mr. Frazer are the

same character by using a type of description which applies simultan-

cously to both of them. One of these descriptions occurs when the nar-

rator discusses the music that could be heard on the radio.


The best tunes they had that winter were "Sing Some-
thing Simple," "Singsong Girl," and "Little Wh'ite
Lies." No other tunes were as satisfactory, Mr.
Frazer felt. "Betty Co-Ed" was a good tune, too,
but the parody of the words vbiich came unavoid-
ably into Mr. Frazer's mind, grew so steadily
and increasingly obscene that there being to one
to appreciate it, he finally abandoned it and let
the song go back to football. (473)


The description begins with the narrator inl the narrating present speak-

ing in general, and it ends with wihat the narrator has said being part

of M~r. Frazer's chlinking. A similar device is used at the conclusion

of the~ s tory. As Mr. Frazer lies in bed and listens to the "Cuicaracha,"

he lbninks that the Mexicaicn musicians "would go now in a little while

and they would take the Cucaracha with them. Then he would have a little

spot of the giant killer and play the radio, you could play the radio

so that you could hardly hear it" (487). The final line of the story

can be thought~ of either as information volunteered by the narrator or

as part of Mr. Frazer's thinking, and the vagueness of the referent

suggests the oneness of the narrator and Mir. Frazer. The run-on con-

struction gives a further emphasis to this oneness by interlocking

Mr. Frazer's thoughts and the narrator's comment.

The reason for the narrator's objectification of himself in






-126-


"Thec Gambler, the Nun, and the Radio" is less clear then that the objecti-

fication~ occurs. Through a careful examination of the situation of the

narrator in the narrating present, however, it is possible to suggest

a reason for HemingwYay's use of the device in this particular story.

The fact that the narrator refers to himself in. the third person almost

eliminates the possibility that the narrator is simply rem!embering his

past, as Nick does in "Now I Lay Me," If he were rememb~ering, it would

be difficult to understand why he would not, like Nick, think of himself

as an "L." It would also be difficult to explaiin tle purpose of those

comments which are clear at temlpts on the part of the narrator to explain;

the past to someone other thlan himself When the narrator mentions t-hat

M~r. Frazer's being knocked on the h~ead with a reading lamp "does not

sound so funny now but iit. was very funny then"? (173), hie is connenting

in a way wYhich suggests that he is telling his story to someone else.

Even a comment such as "Everythinig is muich simpler inl a hospital, in-

cluding the jokes" (r473) has more the quality of an address than of a

memory. That the niarr-ator is telling his story to a listen;er might he

suggested by his informal. tone, but t-his seems unlikely too for` there is

no development of an implied listener during the stocy. Also, it is

difficult to ipagiae _tellity a dirrct interior mon~ologen of thle type

which is found in the final section of the narrative. Th~e mos t satis-

fying description of th~e nature of the narrating present is asuggested

by the narrator's occupation. As is mentioned several times~ in~ the

story, Mr. Frazer is a wuriter (his name--"phrera-ser"--sugess his occu-

pation nicely), and though it is never madle explicit thant the narrator

is engiaged in thle process of writing during tbo story, nio other










description seems as satisfactory. The fact that the narrator does some

thinking during his narration--especially in the fourth section of the

story--substantiates this conclusion, since, as the narrator explains,

Mr. Frazer usually "avoided thinking all he could, except when he was

writing .. ." (485).

If the narrator of "The Gambler, the Nun, and the Radio" can be

thought of as engaged in the process of writing an account of his exper-

iences, thematic, as well as technical relationships bietwleen the events

of the acting present and the events of thre narrating present become

apparent. During the acting present Mr. Frazer counfs to view life as

a sort of surgical operation during which men, wh:o refuse to be

"operated on without an anaesthetic," avail themselves of several of a

great manty possible "opiums." These opiumns make it possible for the

user to forget, at least momentarily, that :ife has no meaning, that

man is merely a creature at the mercy of haphnazard forces. The various

opiums make life endurable for the user either by giving him the illu-

sion that what happens in the world is reasonable or by distorting his

perception of the world so that he becomes temporarily blind to the

pain and unreason with which it is filled. All the characters in the

story make use of one or more opiums, and generally, the strongest and

longest lasting of these anaesthetics become the occupations of the

characters who use them. Sister Cecilia's opium, for example, is

religion, and her use of this anaesthetic serves both as her occupation

and as the basis for her interpretation of reality. Sister Cecilia's

opium allows her to understand everything as a result of God's provi-

dential activity. Notre Damle wins the football game, for example,










because God will not let the opposition defeat "Our Lady." Cayetano's

opium is also a means for or-dering the world, though the order which

gambling provides is less fully codified than the Christian order. As

is true in the case of Sister Cecilia's opiumi, Cayetano's opium makes

the world seem essentially reasonable and allows the believer to feel

that sooner or later he will be rewarded for the pain he must endure.

"If I live long enough," Cayetano explains, "the luck will change. I

have bad luck now for' fifteen years If I ever get any good luick I

will be rich" (483).

Like the other characters in "The Gam.bacr, the N~un, and the Radio,"

the narrator has ways of ignoiring nada. During the acting present Mlr.

Frazer plays: the radio all night, and like the opiums of other chlar-

acters, Mr. Fraser's listening to the radio represents an ordlering of

reality. At the same hour every night, Mrt. Frazer 1lst-ens to ther

"stations finally signing off in this order: Denver, Salt Lake Cit~y,

~o~s Angeles, a~nd Seattle" (479). H~e then begins the necw day at pret-

cisely 6:Gi0 in the morning with the "morning revellersi" from Minueapgo:.is.

Like Sister Cecilia's religion and like Cayetano's gambling, the radio

makes reality seem reasonable anid understandable. It allows Mr. Prazer

to live wiith~out thinking, without constantly facing the basic meani~ng-

lessness of things. During the narrating present the narrator uses a-

different opinni, and, as is true of the opiums of other characters, this

escape from oada is MIr. Frazer's occupation. As is true of Cayetalno's

gambling : and Sister Cocilia's religion, M1r. Frazer's writing is an

attempt to deal with thle meaninelessnless of life by giving the world

the illusion of order. The narrator of "Thle Gamlbler, the Nun, and the






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Radio" selects individual incidents from the mass of' his experience and

toolds them, into a single, meaningful whole, He is able, in other words,

to give the relationships between the gambler, the nun, and the radio

at least the illusion of nicaning.

Even if the thematic implications of its form were ignored, "The

Gambler, the Nun, and the Radio" would be interesting as an experiment

with a new kind of narrative perspective. By having the nlarcator refer

to himself as "Mr. Frazer," Hemningway effectively presents an involved

narrator who is emotionally detaching hiraself from those events in which

he was involved. As a result of his objectification of his past,this

narrator is able to present both the unvoiced thoughts and feelings of

his protagonist in the acting present and his own philosophic specuila-

tions in the narrating present, and still maintain both the fictional

authority and the credibility usually associated with editorially

omniscient narration.

The narrative strategy of "Fathers and Sons" is gene-rally similar

to the narrative strategy of "The Ganbler, the Nuln, and the Radio."

As is true in the latter, in "Fathers and Sons" it is ultimately more

difficult to think of the overall narrator and the proagaonist as

different characters than it is to identify t-hem. That th" edi~torintly

omniscient narrator of "Fathers and Sons" is the same person as the

protagonist of the story he narrates is perhaps most clearly sueggsted

by the story's use of "you" in passages such as the one in which Doctor

Adams is first described: "H!unting this country for qiuail as his father

had taught him," che narrator explains, "N~icholas Adams started think-

ing about his father. Wh~en he first thought about him it was always











the eyes, Thle big framle, the quick movements, the wide shoulders, the

booked, hawk nose, the beard that covered the weak chin, you never

thought about--it was always the eyes" (489).* The use of th~e second

person in this passage has the effect of identifying the narrator's

experiences and Nick's. Because the narrator knows what things "you"

noticed about Doctor Adams, and, later in the story, how "you" felt

walk-ing through the woods to meet Trudy, it becomes difficult to think;

of the narrator of "Fathers and Sons"1 as anyone except Nick. As is

true in "Now~ I Lay Mle," then, three "Nicks" are involved in "Fathers and

Sons." First, there is the young boy who gets bitten by a squi~rrell

while hlunting with his father; who has intercourse with a young Indiian

girl in the woods; and whlo refuses to wear his father's un~derwear,

Second, there is the "Nick" of the acting presenr t wo drives through the

south with hris young son, Finally, there is the "Nick" who narrates 1

story about himself.

A~s is true in "The Gambler, the Nun, and the Radio," in "Fathers

and Sons" the narrator can be thought of as engaged in the process of

writing his story, even though there is no explicit evidence that this

is the case. For one thing, if the narrator were simply remembhering

his past, ic would be di~fEicult to~ mI;:erstand t',e pa piose of those coin-

monts which are attempts to explain to a listener things the narrator




knhat the narrator is not Simply moving mnore fully jnto, the clind
of Nick in ther acting present is Ladic~ated by the fact: that the passage
distinguishes between ithe things Nick thinks uabut during ther actinge
present anld the information thie narrator presents in the nar)Trlting prlOS-
ent. In the acting present Nick thinks about h~is father's eyes, while
in the narrating present the narrator describes those thinL which
Nick generally did not chink about.






-131-


already knows. On the other hand, the fact that no implied listener is

developed, when cor.bined with the story's use of such passages as the

rhythmic description of Nick's intercourse with Trudy, makes it diffi-

cult to imagine that Nick is telling his story to someone. As is true

in the case of "The Gambler, the Nun, and the Radio," what is probably

the most satisfying explanation of the narrative perspective of "Fathers

and Sons" is suggested by the fact that the protagonist of the story

is presented as a writer. During his narrative Nick suggests more than

once that though at the time of the acting present he could not write

about his father because there were "Still too many people alive"! who

would be affected, he would write about him "later." Since his father's

story--or at least part of it--is related during "Fathers and Sons," it

seems possible to suppose that the "later" which is mentioned is the

narrating present of "Fathers and Sons."

"Father's and Sons" differs from. "N'ow I Lay Me" in its failure to

maintain a consistent and careful distinction between Nick's actions and

thoughts during the acting present and his thoughts during the narrating

present. TIhis lack of distinction, however, is functional more than

simply as a means for suggesting the identity of Nick and the narrator.

The story uses changes in tense in a waRy which effects smooth transi-

tions from one part of Nick's past to another, and the overall result

is that instead of presenting the narrator's review of a single situation,

as 'Thle Gambler, the Nun, and the Radio" docs, "Fathers and Sons" reviews

a series of experiences, thoughts, and memories which occur over a per-

iod of many years and which, when taken together, create for the reader

an impression of the tenor of a manl's entire life.

During Nick's review of past events, thea reader comes to see a










psychological continuity between the basic patterns of Nick's experi-

ences as a boy and his general way of looking at things as an adulltl

As the events of Nick's adolescence are presented, it becomes apparent

that the boy's experiences with sex~ and hunting are closely related.

OTat this is the case is made most evident, perhaps, by the consistent

juxtaposition of Nick's Sex(uaIEl expiCnces w~ith Trudy and th~e killing

of squirrels. The pattern is also clear during the incident uic:1 Nick

is hunting wiith his father. After Nick is bitten by the squirrel, he

and his father discuss thle word "bugeyr," uhich, Doctor Adams explains,

is "a man who has intercourse with animals" (490). The fact that N~ick's

mremories as an adult--both those in the acting present and those in the

narrating present--are confined almost exclusively to those incidents

in wh~ich~ sex and killing are colmbined or juxta~posed. is probably best

untder'sood as the psychological pattern which developed as ai result of

Nicki's experiences as a boy.



Once the implications of the generally similar narrattve passpec-

tivres of "The Cambler, the Nun, andi the Radio" and "Fathefrs and Sojns"

ace recognized, one can see that Hemningway broaden~s the "bouldalr-'9'

of involved narrative in LwJo major directions. In such storms as

"Fifty Graind" and "One Trip Across" he shows that involved narration

can be as fully dramat~icas fully immnediate in effect, as uninvolved

narration. in both "The Gambler, the Nun, and thle Radio" ;nd "Fa;thers

and Sons," oni the other hand, he illuscrntes that an involved narra-

tive can--with furll filetional authlority---make use~ of all of the priv'leness

necessary for Leditor~ial omnliSCiC1ce,2














NOTES TO CHAPTER V


1. Hlemingway, Death in the Afternoon (New York, 1932), 28.

2. Young, Ernest Hemingway; A Rcnsideration,~n_ 58-59. Leo Curko
agrees with Young. "The narrator," he explains, "is too young and in-
experienced, too little tested, to be more than a recorder of events,"
The story centers around the major, "who wills himself to life though
he no longer believes in it and who absorbs the catastrophic blow of
his wife's sudden death without disintegrating" (Gurko, 181).

3. Defalco, 136.

4. See, for example, Rovit, 96-97; Genson, 145-146; and DcFalco,
129-136.

5. Austin M~c~iffert Wright, The American Short Stor i h
Tu~enties (Chicago, L961), 402.

6. Rovit, 96-97.

7, To discussions of "In Another Coun~tr" deal with~ the problem
of the narrating present. In his dissertation, Thle Trg.'ic Aw'arences of


Iio,3 iin h-R at t n crato of "In Anto r Cott t~r rpr sents therD
narrator s attempt t~o adjust to the wounds of life. Accordi.-r to Rocbinson.,
the incidents that the narrator recalls from his past "al: expressive OE
his concern in the present. .. the narrator has turnedl to the only
method of healing available to him .. the creative act of giving~ form
and focus to his own condition of estrangemenc, as honestly and as pre-
cisely as he can" (Robinson, 37-38). The difficulty with Robinson's
analysis is that, there is no specific evidenice to support a detailed
expl.aniliton of the rarrito~r'q :;no byFor thli:'inj obout hise p-st. Tit
seems just as likely, for example, that: the narratore has adijusted to his
experiences by the time of the narrating present as it is that he is
attempting to adjust cbrough telling the story. As iResealry Stephens
mentionls in "'In Anothier Country': Threee as Sym~bol," UniversigL
MissipSsippi tudis Engish VII (196C6), "Thie narrator may be play-
ing football at the very time he is telling the story, for all the
reader knows" (Stephens, 81).

8. Fenton, 23:,.


-133-






-134-


9. Bridgeman, 205.

10. Bridgeman, 203-204.

11. In "Ironic Action in 'After the Storm,"' Studies in Short
Fiction, V (Winter, 1968), An~selm Atkins mentions another aspect of the
fight which can be thought of as creating distance. According to the
narrator, Atkins explains, "the fight 'wasn't about anything, something
about making punch' .. Yet for this nothing he is quite willing
to fight and kill. There is a gigantic disproportion between the provo-
cation and the subsequent fight, but the sponger is not bothered b~y it"
(Atkins, 191).

12. Anselm Atkins, 190.

13, Atkins mentions the irony of the juxtaposition of the SPOnger'sI
"matter-of- factness" and such deLa ils as the w~omani's face inl the port hole.
Hie explains that one of the most vivid of such juxtapositions involves
the "'pieces of things' that float to the surface from a rupture in the
hull. The sponger-scavenger never tells what the pieces were, but the
reader knows . .. The pieces obviously were parts of bodies mrangl~ed
when the boilers exploded." The narrator's lack of emotion in the face
of an incident as gruesome as this, Atkins suggests, puts the sponger
"on a level with the birds" and dissolves "thie staggering contrast be-
tween the petty loot he sought and the human remains on which the birds
were feasting" (Atkins, 190-191).

14. See Atkins, 190-191.

15, Recorded by Robert Van Gelder in "Ernest Hemingway Talks of
Work and War," NEwI York Times book Review (August 11, 1940), 2.

16, "One Trip Across" originally appeared in Cosmopolitan, CXCVI
(A~pril, 1934), 20-23, 108-122. It was revised and included as Part one
of To Have and Have Not. "The Tradesman's Return" originally appeared
in Esquire, V (February, 1936), 27, 193-196. It wras revised and: appears
as Part Two of To Have and Have Noc.

17. Phi~lip Young feels that this incident i; an inate.-1-il? cF the
fact that in To Ha~ve and Have Not Hamningwray is showing off; "Fcr th~e
first time the unconifartable feeling that~l one has in th:e pi--sence. of a
poseur is really marked. When Hemingway writes, for examlple, 'I felt had
about hitting him. You kno~w hlow you feet when you hit a drunk ..' it
is quite proper to reply, 'No. How does it feel to hit a drock? Tell ns
how it fools to hiti a drunik"' (Young, Ernest Hleminr way:v A R:cucon~~lpidrtin
100). Were thle rema~rk about hitting a drunk presci.ed by an ulnk~nvvolvd
narrator, Younlg's judgment might be mlore acceptable. Clearly, however,
the comment is attributed to Harry, and there is little doubt thate a main
like Harry would not only know what it is like to hit drunks, but would
pressure that other men knew as well. That Hemingway was well awa~re of
the importance of not being the kind of poseur Young suIggestS heC is is






-135-


indicated by his reply to a similar charge by Aldous Huxle1y. "Whnen
writing a novel," Hemingway explains, "a writer should create living
people; people not characters ,. . if the people the writer is mak-
ing talk of old masters; of music; of modern painting; of letters, or of
science then they should talk of those subjects in the novel, If they
do not talk of those subjects and the writer makes them talk of them he
is a faker, and if he talks about them himself to show how much he knows
then he is showing off" (Death in the Afternoon, 191).

18, Rovit's evaluation of the story is a fair one. "N\ow I Lay Me,"
he explains, "doesn't quite work although the straight interior memory
passages are excellent; for the two sections of the story never quite
engage each other" (Rovit, 79),

19. Rovit, 79.

20. DeFalco, 109. There are many of these suggestive details in
"Now I Lay Me." The first series of memories, in fact, ends with Nick's
recollection of how "one time in the swamp I could find no bait at all
and had to cut up one of the troult I had caught and use hiim for bait" (364).
Not only is the mnemory itself a somewhat painful one, but the cutting
up of the fish is subtly suggestive of the way in which Nick was blown
apart on the battlefield in Italy.

21. The memory of thle destruction of the father's collections has
many othoc implications. A4s Nick's father rakes through thie ashes
searching for arroubheads, for example, he is in metaphoric terms doing
munch the same thing that Nick is doing in the story's narrating presen~t.
Just as Nick attempts to reconstruct a past way of life which "wlent to
pieces" on the night when he was wounded, his father attempts to recon-
struct the relics of now-dead civilizations which went to pieces in the
fire.

22. Young, Ernest Hemingway: A Reconsideration, 68.

23. Malrion Montgomery, "Hemingway's 'The Gambler, t-he Nun, and
the Radio': A Reading and a Problem," Forum, III (Ninter, 1961), 37.

24. Unlike the editorially onmniscient narrator of an uninvolved
narrative, the type of involved narrator used in "The Cambler, the Nun,
and the Raedio" and "Father~s and Sens" has no authority for presenting
the unvoiced thoughts and feelings of characters ot-her than his protag-
onist. In other words, like any other involved narrator he is limited
to the presentation of only his own thoughts and feelings.





































PART II

UJNINVOLVEDJ NARRATION














CHAPTER VI

CHARACTERIZED, UNINVOLVED NAR~RATORS


Thus far, the present study has examined the ways in which nar-

rative strategy is used in Hemingway's involvedl narrations inl order to

m~odify and develop thematic content. In general, those effects whichr

Are achieved by means of narrative perspective in the stories discussed

in previous chapters result fromn the types of inc-erre lationishipo wh!ich

are created between narrators and readers and between narrat-ors and thre

events they narrate. A~s has been suggested, rhe relations-hip bewe~ren

the narrator of a story and the situations he presents to thei reador can

bi' ol a great anyn kinds. In simple witn~ess-narrrations surch as "The

Old Hlan at thie Bridge," invo~lved narrators se-rve primartly as means for

giving fic-ional authority to the Presentation oE eventsi. I.I a somplex

witness narraicon such as "ML~y Old N~an," on the other hland, thle celation-

sh~ip between the "I" and the events the "I" witnesses; is hi!;hly developed.

In several of :emingwiay's involvedi narrations, nar~rators tell thieir own

stories, and in at least one o~f these? instances, theP vBry pr~OceSs of

narrateing itself becomiS -n ;imPOrtrext aS anyth-: "3he -ir-'i 0 r--ltes.

Various relationships between narrator andi reader are also created in

Homingway's stories. In an involved narratlion such as "Fifty Grand,"

Hemingway renders the narrator almnost- invisible, enabling thle reader to

look: "through" thle narrat:ing present and focus his attenc'on di:-ectly on


-137-











the events of the narrator's story. In stories such as "The No~ther of

a Queen" and "One Trip A~cross," on the other hland, complex reader-llarrator

relationships significantly m~odify the reader's reactions to those char-

acters and events which the narrators describe. In general, a careful

examination of Hiemingwray's involved narrations reveals, first, that

Hemingway experiments with a fairly wide range of involved narrators,

and, second, that the experimentation which he carries on is often a

good deal more subtle and complex than has previously been understood.

Involved narration is not the only area in which He~mingway works

subtly and experimentally with narrative peTspective3. In some of his

miost interesting short stories narrators are not involved in the situ-

azions they present to the reader. Hemingway's uninvolved narrations,

in fact, are nearly as technically various as are his involved narration~s.

While narrative perspective is used in Hemingway's uninvolved narratives

in order to achieve a great variety of effects, however, thlese. effects

depend upon somewhat different aspects of narrative Derspective from

those w~hichi have been the focus of this study so Ear. For one thing,

Heminigway's uninvolved narratives are generally much less d pendent on

thle characterization of the narrator for their effeccs th-n are his

involved nalrratives. Of the forty-two uninvolved narrators in Hiemingway's

stories anrd s~ketches, only the "Hemingway" of "A? Natural History of the

Dead" talks about himself, and the narrators of only four or five other

stories are characterized fully enough to be distinctive personalities.

While there are few highlly characterized, uninvolved narrators in

Ceningoway's short fiction, however, those stories which do employ such

narrate:s are often interestingC tech~nically. Thle narrative Strategies






-139-


of such stories as "A Natural History of the Dead" and "Up in Michigan,"

for example, are more meaningful than they may appear on first reading.

As John Portz suggests, "A Natural Hlistory of the Dead" can be

divided into three sections.1 During the first two-thirds of the story,

Hemingway uses two slightly different narrative methods in order to

present a satiric essay on various aspects of violent and natural death.

In the final third of "A Natural History of the Dead" the imlplications of

the satiric essay are emphasized by wihat Robert O. Stephens calls "a

dramatized exempum" As Portn suggests, during the first phase of

the satiric essay, Hemingw~ay assumes "the protective mask of the natural

scientist" and portrays Events in a manner which is "obliviouis to the

agonies it is describing.', Early in the story, for example, the nar-

rator describes howu he and others collected the fragments of bodies which

wJere blown apart in a nunitions factory explosion, and mentions thlat dur-

ing the ride back to H!ilan he and one or two oE hris co-workers agreed

that the "picking up of the fragmernt-s had been an extraordinary business;

it being amazing that the human body shoulld be blown into pieces which

exploded along no anatomical lines, but rather divided as capriciously

as the fragmentation in the burst of a high extplosive shiell"((+43).

The narrator's use of a highly latinate vocabulary and of a highly de-

tached manner in order to describe this gruesome experience causes theo

passage to be a biting parody of "the stuffy style and manner of tech-

nical books written by field naturalists. "p It is mnore than just

style which is involved, however. The pedantic and derached manner of

the naturalists reflects what Hemningulay evidently felt was an over-

intellectualizedl, complacent attitude toward life. As Portz suggests,











Hemingway is satirizing those thinkers who assume that all is "harmonious

in nature's larger plan," and that certainty of mind derives ultimately

"from the argument from design."5

After the first seven~ paragraphs of the satiric essay the nar-

rative perspective of "A N'atural History of the Dead" is modified.

"Hemingway" periodically drops the mask of oblivious pedant and dis-

casses certain matters more directly. From the end of the eighth

parag-aph until the beginning of the thirteenth paragraph, various

combinations of direct personal statement and pedantic prose are used

in order to attack and parody those thinkers and writers who believe

that decorum is a key literary virtue. Hfmingway explains, for example,

In my nusings as a naturalist it has occurred to me that
while decorum is an excellent thing some must be indec -
orus if the race is to be carried onl since the position
prescribed for procreation is indecorous, highly inde-
corous, and it occurred to me thant perhaps that is what
these people are, or wer-: the children of decorous co-
habitation. But regardless of how they started I hope
to see the finish of a few, and speculate how worms will
try that long preserved sterility; with their quaint
pamphlets gone to bust and into foot-notes all their
lust. (44r5)

The use of the witty allusion as a highly decorous curse gives a special

force to Hlemingway's attack on the New Humanists and on all other thinkers

who would ignore thle facts of life.6

During the final third of "A Natural History of the Dead" a

lieutenant of artillery and a doctor argue about what should be done for

a man "iwhose head wans broken as a flower--pot may b~e broken, although

it was all held together by memlbranles and a skillfully aplplied bandage.

(41,6), rlnd their altercation serves as an enemrplu for the foregoing

satire in several ways. For one thring, the scene with which thle story

Ends presents somie of those aspects of war an~d death which the decorous






-141-


exponents of a harmonious universe would gloss over. Just as important,

the scene is presented directly_. Instead of using an editorially

aoniscient narrator as he does during the first section of the story,

Hemingway renders: the narrator almost invisible and presents a direct

scene. Instead of using the allusive and latinate style of the ex-

pository sections of the story, he uses a clear and direct style. As

a1 result, Hiemingway exemplifies not only the kind of subject matter

which must be included in any relevant examination of war, but the

manner in which the painful and ugly truths about violent and natural

death ough~t to be presented. By ending the examplumn and the overall

story in the middle of the ticutenant's scream, instead of with a

traditional dEnouemenlt, Hemingvray gives a final emphasis to his re-

fusall to ignore the truth about war, pain, and death, or to soften the

effect of the truth by masking it with decorous language or traditional

short story structure.

Highly characterized, uninvolved narrators are also used in "Mlr.

and Mlrs. El~liot-," "Up in Michi.gan," "Soldier's Home," and in a fewy

other stories, though in no instance is an uninvollvedi nacrator as fully

developed as the "Hlemingway" of "A Natural Hiistoryr of the Dead.": Althlough

the narrator of "Mr. and Mlrs. ELliot" is not directly characterized,

the way in which Hubert and Cornelia Elliot are presented keeps thle

reader constantly aware of the presence of a narrator who mediates be-

tLueen the. reader and the characters. The opening lines of "Mr. and Mrs.

Elliot," for example, both begin the characterization of the E11iots

and create an awareness of the narrator:

M~r. and Mirs. Elliot tried very hard to have a baby.
They tried as often as Mlrs. Elliot could stand it. They
tried in Boston after they were married and they tried






-142-


coming over on the boat. They did not tr'y very often on
the boat because Mrs. Elliot was quite sick. She was sick
and w~hen she was sick, she was sick as Southern w~omen are
sick. That is women from the Southiern part of the United
States. (161)

In this passage the narrator is developed in several ways. For one

thing, he indicates thlat he is knowledgeable about southern women, and

he implies that he is an Amnerican~ by mentioning that for him "southern"

is the southern part of the United States. Further, though repetition

need not result in the characterization of a narrator, the pointed co-

petition of "sick" and "tried" in the above passage causes the reader

to be almost as conscious of the character who is repeating the. wordsi

as hie is of the characters to whom the words apply, A constant nwarenes

of the narrator is maintained throughout "Mr. and Mrs. E~lliot" by thel

fact that the reader is forced to depend on t~he narrator's comm~en~tar-y

for all of his informastionl. The story is conlduc~ted without the p~re-

sentation of a single fully-developed scene. Not one of thle direct

conversations of the E11iots is presented, and Tcw of their specific

actions are even described.

The narrator's presence in "Mir. and Ntrs. Ellioc" is m~ade particularly

noticeable by the lack oE neutrality with which the Ptory is presented,

by thle fact Lthat ths omnnisci~ent narrntrr descr~iiiks theJ "liots' lives

ini suchl a way as to effect a completed denigration of the two characters.

In order to make a aackery of the E11iots' pretentions to sophistication

and virtue, for example, the narratior frequenlcy7 presents compromising

facts about the port an~d h~is wife in the samie pretentioius and prudish~

style that they thlemsel~ves affect. Probably the~ most :;rristent example

of thlis sort of mockery is the narrator's use of "trird to hav\e a b;.by."

The frequent repetition of this phrase does meore than suggest cthe El liots'











inability to produce a child. "Tried to have a baby" is, most likely,

the euphemism for sexual intercourse which tl2 E11iots employ in order

to conlceal from themselves their lack of passion and their inability

to achieve sexual satisfaction. The narrator's brutal repetition of

the phrase becomes a harsh mlockery both of the way in which the Elliots

force themselves into pleasureless sexual relations and of their hypo-

critical attempt to euphemize their sterile lack of real desire.7

The indirection and the lack of neutrality with which the narrator

presents the E11iots results in what De~alco calls "a reduction of the

characters into burlesque caricatures. . ,"8 Its Elliots never develop

into individuals with a wide range of human attributes. This lack of

development, however, is flunctionlal, fo the subject of the story's

harshly satire is not two individuals, but certain attitudes toward sex~

and art.R The Elliot-s are important primarily as mieansl for showing~ the

self-destructive results of prudery. As DeFalco suggests, the result

of the Flliots' "purity" is that before the end of the-ir first year of

marriages, Cornelial's girl friend "has usurped E11iot's marital bedl."

Elliot's wIriti"J is self-destructive in a similar way. H-is worklog at

night suggests t~hat his poetry "hlas become a substitute for the sexual

act," a subs;titute which is productive of rtat-hing.10l Elliot merely

writes long, presumably bad, poems and then is forced to pay to have

his lack of talent made public.

Homingwiay also uses anl uninvolvecd, characterized narrator in "Up

in Michigan," a story which, in spite of obvious technoical virtuosity,

has received little critical? attention 1 Thouigh thie carrator of "Up

in Michigan" does not identify himself As an "E," he is not only

characterized, but- is characterized- in a mlanner whichl is unusual for










Hemingway's uninvolved narrators. Usually, the uninvolved narrators in

Ilemingway's fiction--and in the fiction of most other writers as well--

narrate their stories in a highly literate brand of standard English.

Narr-ators who speakx in a colloquial manner are nearly always involved

in the action th~ey describe. In contrast to the conventional pro-

cedure, the omniscient narrator of "Up in Michigan" uses prose which

reflects the linguistic habits of the characters of~ the story. In

thle first place, the narrator's diction is often non-literary and

sometimes non-standard. For example, on the evening when Jim~ and th~e

others return fromi their- hunting trip, Jim goes out to thle wagon in

the barn, "and fetched in the jug of w~hiskey"(83), "Fetch iu~" is not

verb which is normally found in literary prose. It is, however, a word

which one would expect a president of a rllral towyn such as Ilortons Bay

to use. When the men have finished su~ppr, they go back "into the

front room again and Liz cleaned off' with M~rs. Smith"(84, Underliuing

mine). Again, the narrator uses temi~nnology which reflects the particular

background of the characters. The colloqutal tone which is established

by the narrator's diction is made particularly noticeable by thle frequlenti

use of sentence constructions whiich suggest that th~e nairrntor is a

comparatively unlettered man. During the description of the ways in

which Liz likes Jim, the narrator mentions thlat one day Liz "found that-

she liked it thef way the hair was black on his arms and how white thiey

were above thle tanned line when hie washed up in the wlashbasin, ." (81)

Not only is this passage notable for its ambiguous uise of "thry," it

also contains a non-standard phrasing--"1iked it the way"--and an error

in diction--"taunefd line" for "tan line."'





-1415-


The overall result of the use of colloquial diction and unlettered

sentence structure in "Up in Mich~igan" is the creation of a rather unusual

kind of narration. In most uninvolved narratives in which a narrator

is characterized, the characterization creates a disparity between the

narrator and the world of his narration. Usually, the more fully a

narrator's personality is developed, the more fully differentiated he

is from the world of the story he tells. Much of the effcctiveeilss of

the narrative strategies of both1 "A Natural Hlistory of the Dead" and

"Nlr. and Mrs. Elliot," for example, results f~rom the meaningful disparity

which is created between the personalities of the narrators anid the

events of their narratives. In "Up in M~ichigan," however, thiis cattern

is reversed. Because the narrator shares the background of th~e characters

and because nothing is known about him except that he shares their back-

ground, no disparit~y is created between the fictional world of I-he story

and the manner of its presentation. The result is that while the narrator's

unlettered style characterizes him, he does not become an indiyidualized

personality. He is pr-obably best thought of, inl fact, as the v-oice of

the milieu of Haorto~ns Bay.

TIhat the narrative voice of "Up in Miichigan" reflects ths educational

and linguistic background of the story's charrcters is only one aspect

of the way in which the story uses narrative perspective to reflect

subject malttEr and theme. Whlen "U~p in Michigan" is exa~mined carefully,

itl becomes clear that the style in which the narrator presents chlaracters

and events is a careful reflection of the kind of action w~hichi occurs in

the story and the k-ind of world in which the characters l~ive. The degree

to which technique reflects subject m~atter is evident in tboc first






-146-


paragraph of the story.

Jim Gilmore came to Hortons Bay from Canada. He
bought thle blacksmith shop from old man Horton. Jim was
short and dark with big mustachles and big hands. He was
a good horseshioer and did not look much like a blacksmith
even with his leather apron on. He lived upstairs above
the blacksmith shop and took hlis meals at D. J. Smithi's. (81)

For one thing, the rough, hammering rhythm which results from t:he

repetitions structure of these five sentences and from thle lick oE smooth

transitions between them is suggestive of the kind of man who is being

described. More importantly, the rough insistent rhythm of the para-

graph creates a tone which bothl reflects the general roughness of thie

society in which Jin Gilmore and the other characters live and foreshaldow~s

thle brutality of the particular events the story records.12

The general implications of the style of the first paragraph of

"Up in M~ilchigen" ar-e re-lempha:sized during suibsrleqen p3ragraphs of the

story by the frequent usef of awkwi~ard and repetitive sentence construactions.

be~n the mrin street of H~ortons Bay is described, for example, the stru~ccuree

of one ph~rase becomes nocticea'lly repetitive: "Th~ere was thle general store

and post police wtth a high false front and maybe a wagon hit-ched? out

in front, Smith's house, Stroud's house, Dillworth's house, Hiorton's

house and Van Hoosen's house"(81). D~uringe the catallogue o~ L~i-'s feelingsi

for Jim, the same phrase--"liked it the way"--is repeated six times.

There are even in~stannces whlere the repetiltion of single sounds~ becomes:

awkward. A~s L~i7. ad M~rs. Smith~ help the men to precpare for thle hunting

crip, the n~arrator menitions; that "Liz andt Nrs. Smith were cooking for

four dayo for t~hern before thiey started"(n2). Even the way in~ ehtch

conversation is Re~sentedd adds to the story's rough: t-one. As: Jim and

the othoc men sit: in the front room! drinlking,th tt!'oalst to eachl oilher:





-147-


"Well, here's looking at you, D. J.," said Charley
Wyman.
"That damn big back, Jimmy," said D. J.
"Here's all the ones we missed, D. J.," said Jim,
and downed his liquor.
"lTastes good to a m.an."
"N'othingc like it this time of year for what ails you."
"Hlow about another, boys?"
"Here's how, D. J."
"Downm the creek, boys."
"Here's to next year." (83-84)

The elimination of interpol~t-ions in the final five lines of` the exchange

gives the conversation a har~sh sound which is made all the more: emphatic

by the repetitive banality of thea toasts.

The overall effect of the narrator's use of a repetitious and

arukwrdn style iR a powerful emphasis of the brutal indi~fference with

which the world of Herrto:1 Bay treats ~ia Coates' girlish desire for

Jim Gilm~ore. iBy having Liz's introduction to sex described by a narraltor

whose t-one and manner~ reflect thre brutality of he~r -duction, L!mningwayl

causes the g~irl.'s r~oantic hopes to seera even more frail, anid the

destruction of hear tender and innocent love even mor-e inevitable than

they would seem; otherwise. The creation of an uninvolved narrator who

is part of the unsophisticnate miilieu he describes, the eii~intutioni of

any disparity between thle narrator and the world of his story, results

in the dlevelopFment of a very great disparity between the narrator's

world and the reader's. The result is that while the reader has great

sympathyi for Liz's pain~ and loneliness, the girl seems cormpletely

surrounded by the harsh world of Hortons Bay, utterly isolated fromi the

more symparlhetic world of the reader.

The narrztor of "Soldier's Home," like thie narrators of "Hir. andJ

Mlrs. Elliot" and "Cp inl Michigan," is not directly characterized,

However, the highly indirect and generalized manner in which the~o na;rrtor





-148-


introduces Harold Krebs causes the reader to be aware that at least

during the first section of "'Soldier's Hlomre" a narrator is mediating

between him and the story's central charact-er.*- The story opens with

the narrator's description of two photographs. The first sh!ous Krebs

"among, his fraternity brothers, all of them wearing exactly the same

height and style collar"(145). No detail is supplied which in any

way distinguishes Krebs front the other boys in the picture, and the

result is that thle reader sees Krebs as merely one common type of A~merican

boy. The second picture shows Krebus "on the Rhline withl two Germnn girls

and another corporal"(145). A~s D~erlaco mentions, "Thle ill-fitting

uniforms of both soldiers contrast w~ith the collars of the fr-ternity

bJrothe-rs." Further, sCince "the twvo girls are 'not beautiful,' there is

a hint that thley may not be the type- with whlich a Melthodist college

student woulld have associated."1? However, thoughi the acconld photograph

suggests some of thle changes whiich! take place in Krebs aIs a result of

thle war, the pho:tog~raph of thea GIs and the friendlly frauleins is as

sternotypedl as the picture of the fraternity brothers. No detail is

supplied abour Krebs whtch is not attributed equally to thz other corporal,

and, as a result, th:e second picture haJs not individu;lise Yrebs much

more fully trhan he is individualiz~ed in the ;irst photograph. Krebs

remains :or the reader a representative of one type of Americanr boy.



*"STojdice's liome" canl be divided into three sections, each of rwhich
uses a somewhat different narrative perspective.. In the first section--
[Iaragraphs; one~ through si:0--t~he cmnlsisci nacraoer is hlighly visible;
in t-he second sec~tion--paira:raphs ei:;ht thirouo h fif-teen-the narraltor
becowies less andr less Vihible Unltil inl tlE third sect ion--paraTgTRaph
sixteen to the end--lho narrator hasR abuostt completely disappeanred.






-149-


During the rest of the first third of "Soldier's Houne," the na~rrator

supplies no infonnation about Kirebs vbhich would not -pply equally to a

great many other young men. Like thousands of men his age, Krebs has

grown up in a small midwestern torm--the fact that the narrator does

not mention the name of the town helps to keep the description general.

With thousands of other men Krebs has fought in Wiorld War i, and like

thousands of other soldiers, Krebs has returned homie too laite to be a

hero. Finally, like other men, Krebs has come to knoaw the difficulties

of talking honestly about his war experiences. Through Krebs is a rep-

resentative of a type of young man, however, certain facts which the

narrator presents and the manner in which he presents these facts,

indicate to the reader that this type is especially admirable. In the

first place, the narrator supplies details which showu that Prebs and men

like him are both coulrageous and willing to sacrifice themselves for

their clause. Krebs, after all, eallists in t-he mnarines, The3 bat-tles he

fights in are the bloodiest of the war, and, during these battles, as

the narrator explains, Krebs "had really been a soldier"(1A6). The

characterization of the narrator who presents the facts about Krebs'

military experiences emphnasizes the implications of the facts themselves.

Nearly every ccun!ent the niarr~ator makefs in his own person suggests that

he is especially interested in and knowledgeable about military matters.

Ais a result, thle r-eader comes to viewr Krebs from the standpoint of a

military man, a stand'point which makes more ob~vious: the failiure of Krebs'

family and of his civilian acquaintances to understand his true worth.

Tlhat the reader is to view Krrebs as a soldier might view him is also

suggested by the narrator's consistent reference to the protagonist in

the military nlaunner as "Krebs," ralher than as "Harold Krebs" or






-150-


"Harold." "Soldier's Home" is, in fact, the only Hiemingway story in-

which a character is referred to consistently by his last na~me.

After the sixth paragraph of "Soldier's Hrme" the editorially

ow~niscient narrator b;ecomes increasingly invisible, and Krebs becomes

increalsingly individualized. However, as Krebs watches the girls on

the other side of CIhe street and talks to his sister and hia mother, the

reader rem~ains aw~are of thle fact that Krebs is one or thousand~s o 'able

and courageous young mecn whose value is not understood by civilian

so-iety and whose new maturity is not respected. That Krebs' difficulty

in adjusting to his antictimactic homecoming is representat-ive of the

problems of thousands of: soldiers gives the details of his story an

especally broad significnnce.

Like "Up in M;ichigan,"' the second part of "Soldier's Hlome"

(paragraphs ;oven through Fifteen) makes use of a narrative style which

simunltaneiously describes and dramatizes certain events. As K~rebs sits

on the porch of his family home, his desire is kindled by the excitingn"

pattern of: lhe good- looking girls he sees walking dowYn the opposite side

of the strect.1 At the same time, Krebs resists the desire to become

involved I~n the complicatedd w:orld of already defied attiatives And

shifting fcuds"(147) in whichi the girls live. Thi; conflict ':or-e theo

desire "to have a girl" and the desire to remain uninvolved is reflected

in the repetition whiich is used to describe Krebs' plight. During the

narrator's description of Krebs' attraction to the girls, "liked" is

repeated six times in close succession. In the subsequ 7t paragraph,,

when K~rebs' desire to remain unin~volved is described, thle ii:\rse "did

not want" is repeated six, times in close succession. T wo effect of ther






-151-


juxtaposition of the two paragraphs is the suggestion within the style

itself of the conflict of desire and resistance which is occurring

within the protagonist. In at least one instance the simultaneous

description and dramatization of Krebs' conflict is achieved within a

single paragraph:

He liked the girls that were walking along the other
side of the street. He liked the look of themn muich better
than the French girls or the German girls. But the world
they were in was not the world he wans in. He. would like
to have one of them. But it was not worth it. They were
such a nice pattern. He liked the pattern. It was3 exciting.
But he would not go through all the talking. He did not
want one badly enough. He liked to ?ook at them all, though.
It wats not worth it. Not now when things were getting good
again. (148)

As the alternation of "liked" and negative vrerbs suggests, K~reb's desire

for a girl makes itself felt again and again, and each time, his vish

to remain uninvolved at least until things get "g:ood" again defeaits the

desire. As is the case in "Up in Mlichigan," in theJ second part of

"Soldier's Home" the narrator's use of a style which reflects the subject

matter he is describing lessons the d!isparityr between~ himself and the

world he is portraying. The result is a decrease in thle reader's awareness

of the narrator's presence, a decrease whichl paves the way for the almost

complete effacement of the narrator in the third anid final section of

the story,*



*A similar inlStince of the use of style as dramatization occurs in
"Mr. and M~rs. Elliot." The narrator's repetition of "tried" in his des-
cription of how thie Elliots "tried to have a baby" relflcts stylistically
the sterile repetition of the Elliots' attempts at sexual fulfillment.
Noe decrease in the distance between the narrator and the horld of his
narration occurs: in "M~r. and Mrs. EllioL," however, because the repetition
of "tried" andl "tried to have a baby" is one of the narrator's methods
of mocking the Eiliots.










In only four other instances in Hemingway's short fiction is a

highly characterized, uninvolved narrator used for more thanl a limited

portion of a story. The most notable of these instances is "~The Capital

of the World," the narrator of which indirectly characterizes himself

wiith the first words he says:

Madrid is full of boys named Paco, which is the
diminutive of the name Francisco, and t-here is a Madlrid
joke about: a father who came to Mladridl and inserted an
advertisement in the personal columns of Ell Liberal whichl
said: PA\CO) MEET ME AT HOTEL MONTANA N'OO~ 'TUESDAIY A\LL IS
FORGIVEN PAPA and how a squadron of Guardia Civil had to
be called out to disperse the eight h~undred young men, whto
answYered the -dvertisement"(38).

By illustrating that he has been in M~adrfid long enough to be able to

tell its jokes, the editorially omniscient narrator of "Capitel! o f th

World" establishes himself as enough of an expert on Madrid Life to

be able to realistically present a panoramic view of the city. Chiarac ter i::

uninvolved narrartors are also used in Hemingvay's three un~repri-nted fables--

"A\ Divine Gesture," "Thie Goodl Lion," and "The Faithfu~l Bull."1 In aech

of the fables, the narrator's humorously ironic cone framles the events

which are portrayed and emphasizes the wry hlumor of these events,

In general, highly ch~aracterized, uninvolved narratlion is of minor

imprortance in Hemingiay''s fiction. The method is used ext--nsively in

-nly eight stories, and several of Chese few stories are inconsequential it

In spite of th~e relative insigniFicancee of the meathodi, however, Hermingway~'s

use of charactacried, uninvolved narrators doei reflect his ucual concern

with the possthtlities of narrative strategy. In nearly eve::y instance,

the use of hiighly characterized, uninvol~ved Ilrration is im~portant as a

mncarl for creating or m~odifying thema;tic content. andl in at least one






-153-




instance--in "Up in Michigan"-- Hemingway can be chough-t f as broade:rits

the traditional limits of the method.














NOTES TO CHAPTER VI


1. See John Portz, "AIlusilon and Structure in Hemingway's
'tA Natural Hiistory of the Dead,'l'Tcnnessee Studies in Literature,
X (1965), 27-41, Portz suggests that the story has a tripartitP structure
whiich1 indicates a psychological movement "from~ control to hysteria and
back to control"' (Portz, 37). According to Portz, in the first pict of
"A Natural History of the Dead" Hefminguray assumes "'the protective risk
of the natural scientist"; in the second section, "Hlemingway's: efforcs
to imitate the manner of a naturalist weaken, the ironic tone g ows
feebler and the Hleminguay style takes over"; in the sketch at the end
Hefmingw~ay regain~s control by taking "refuge in his fictional art"
(Portz, 37, 38, 39). One difficulty with Portz's interesting inter-
pretation is that it implies that the structure of "A Natural History of
th~e Dead" results from Hemingway's inability to maintain con~trol of his
writing. In reality, however, Hemingway doesn't lose control of the
mask of naturalist during the second part of the story, he mer-ely drops
the mask in order to discuss certain questions more directly. Further,
Hefmingway doesn' t "take refuge" in the dramatized! exempiu, he u~ses it ns
an object lesson.

2, Robert 0. Stephens, Hecmingwany's Nonfiction: The Pu~blic Voic
(Chapel HIill, North Carolina, 1968), 7.

3. Portz, 37. Portz's article is especially valuable for' its
comprobensive and interesting discussion of thle many allusions in "A
Natural Hiistory of the Dead," and it can be usefuilly consulted by any
critic interested in Hemingwayls philosophy or aesthetics.

4. Portz., 28.

5. Portz, 31,

6. Portz explains that Hemingway might have known "of the warfare
which raged between the ~it-rary ~ntulralisc- s, led b;y II. L.. I'mblul and
the New Hulmanists, such as Irving, Babbitt, Paul Elmer More, and Stuart
P. Shermlan" (Portz, 34) as early as 1917-1918 when he worked on the
Kansas City Star. He surely knew abollt them, however, when be was writing
Death in the Afternoon. During the years 19293-1932 "thle New Humanists
were fig~hting a l~ast, futile roar guard action in The Bookmnan and other


-154-











magazines" for a revival of Classical and Neo-Classical doctrines and
literature, for a revival of those qualities of balance and moderation
which Babbitt summed up in "one of his key words, decorum . ."(Portz,
34). In fact, Portz explains, "Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises, Mien
Without Women, and A Farewell to Arms could have been seen in; no other
way than as examples of the new literary excess and of strained Naturalism.
hA a matter of fact, an attack by novelist Robert Herrick on the latter
work, and the faint-hearted praise by Editor Seward Collins, a mlinor
New Humanist--both of thel in Thie ookmn of 1929--might very well have
pricked Hemingway into his outburst"(Portz, 34-35).

7. A subtle example of the narrator's mockery of the Elliots
occurs during the description of the wedding night. After Hulbert
Elliot is "disappointed" with Cornelia, he takes a walk through the
corridor of the Boston hotel in which they are staying--"As he walked
he saw all the pairs of shoes, small shoes and big shoes, outside the
doors of the hotel rooms. This set his heart to pounding and he hurried
back to his own room but Conmelia was asleep. He did not like to waken
her and soon everything was quite all right and he slept peacefully"
(162-163?). The implication seems to be that Elliot masturbates on his
first night of marriage, andl while this detail would be rather pathetic
in itself, the narrator's use of "qulite all right" to suggest the act
brings to mind E11iot's pretentions to dignity and virtue and causes
the masturbation to seem particularly ludicrous.

8. De~alco, 157-158.

9. The similarities between Mir. Elliot and T. S. Eliot are almost
undoubtedly more than coincidental. Like T. S. Eliot, Hubert Elliot
studied at Harvard, and like the real poet, the fictional poet marries
a southern woman. It may be that Hemlingway is satirizin~g thle concept:
of the modern world as waste land by suggesting that the world is sterile
only for those people who are emoticually impotent.

10. DeFalco, 157.

11. Aside from suggesting that like "Mly Old Mian," "Ulo in M~ichigan"
owes a certain debt to Sherwood AndersonI, and that it is one of very
few Hemingwai~y rarrtivcc, rwhich focus 1ponr tboe runsihility of a fFn110,
critics have said almost nothing about the story. For the story's debt
to Anderson, see Young, Errnest Hemingt usiderationo~ 179; Rovit,
43; Baker, ~Hemingway: The Writer as Artist, 12. For brief discussions
of the story's focus on the female sensibility, see DeFalco, 55; and
Baker, Heninwy he Writer as Artist, 1315.

12. The choice of detail also reflects and foreshadows Liz's loss
of innocence. The narrator uses a series of obviously phallic details
which not only sUgg2Et the sexual experience Liz has, but which imply
the pain of that experience. The narrator explains, for example, that
in the evenings Jim reads "The Toledo Flade" and goes out "spearin~g fish
in the bay"(82).





-156-




13. DeFalco, 139.

14. DeFalco interprets the fact that Krebs does not want girls for
"themselves really," that Krebs only "vaguely ,. , anted a girl,"
to mean that Krebs' desire "remains in the realm of the abstract"
(DeFllco, 141). It would be more accurate, however, to say that Krebs'
desire never becomes more than a basic urge. Krebs wants sex, but he
doesn't want to become involved in the kind of comlplex relationship
which would unquestionably precede his having sexual relations with any
of the local girls.

15. "A Divine Gesture" appeared in the Nlew Orleans Double Dealer,
~III May, 1922), 267-268. "The Faithfuil Bull" and "The Good Lion"
appeared together in Holiday, IX (Mlarch, 1951), 50-51.















CHAPTER VII

DahM1ATIC: NARRATION


Wlith t-he exception of those few stories which are discurssed inl

Chapter VI, Hamingw~ay's ulninviolved narratiojns are! prnsented byi un-

characterized narrators, narrators who ar- nearly invisible as p.rson-

alities.* Eccause this is -he case, anly a~tt-pt to undlerstan~d the

narrative str-ategies of thei lajority of Hamingway':: rnin~volvedi nasrratives

requires the examination of somewhat different rotLationships from t-hose

whiich have been thle Iocus of t-his; study so far. Lui the- last four chapi-

ters di-cussions of thel narrative strategies of those involvedl and un-

Involvecd narrations wh~ich us~e charnracteized Ilari-tter-c ha;ve blen la!rgely

concelrned w~rith~ the wiays in which thez particula: parac:1alities of the~

liarrators create or modify themlatic content. Ani invest~isttion of dult

largo group ofE stor~ie~s ~wirn whch.rlaats .aritnerly invisiible, on the

other hand, trust be concerned~ prim3_itly withr the ways in whiichl the

reader's pr-ci o~ events_ is qi;directly contlrolled.




While the personaliity of thle uininvolved, uncharacterizedl nar-rator
of a story m~ay often differ- little from the personality of the author of:
the story, this study at.terapts to avoid the scnfurion whlic:h frcrque~tly
arises wihen critics begin Edentifying authors and narrcaori by adhering
to Booth's threefoldl distinction between author (theF actual ulran wrho wrv-tees
a book~), "im~plied author" (th~e implildd versionl of iits au her whichi every
book creates, a versica which may or may not corresapond to th~e author
himself), and~ Clhe nar~craor (the speaker in a work). See Boorth's disc~us-
sions of "nalrratorr" and "implied author" in Th~e Rh~etoric of Fietion.


-157-










Among the large g~roup of uninvolvied narrations whic'l ulse un-

characterized narrators, thefre are two roughly distinguishlable kinds

of stories. Th maoiyo I'e nno~a aratives ar

dramatic inl presentation, that is, they are carried on primarily th~ou~gh

description and cxerstin in a few of the uninvolved narratives,

however, the presentation of the specific unvoiced thought, iieli; ,,

and memories of individually char~acters is crucial for thle deve!l.i.rntmn of

thematic content. As tight be expected, the part-icular methods which

are used by uncharacterized, uninvolved narrators inl ord-r to effect

meaning largely ifepend on rihe extent~ to which~ the stories in question

rely on car~versation and decscription andi the extent to which they are

introspec tive. Thle thematic content of those stories which Ire I !rga g

di-ramat-ic in pl!rescotation is controlled -rirst, through thle cceation of

maningngul relatloIhip;s between the characters and thle ser;ings iLu,

which those- chacractors Rspak and act; second, th~ough;! th~e czr~Eul adi-

justmente of the geinTral directions icom which t-he Tfireader~ iesch: I1ctEcs

arnd evyents; and,firnally, thlrcoug careful control ofT the k~ins of c..n-

versa-ions which are carried on by the characters..

Though, strictly speaking, thle question of settling I E ciiou'.ne

not involve tbo question of narrarive perspective, t~hcre 1-- i o1. va s

when the1 two are closely related. Settinge is often a means by whlichl an

unchlaract-erized. narrator inldircely~ conveys information whichl a e'rtranc-

torized narrator algqht present in his own person. Early in "A Clean;,

Videl-Lighted Place," for example, the outrator menticens twice that rie

old mnan who is drinkLing: brandy is sitatug "in thle sha;dou: the. iIt wa of

the tTCre tradf e gius t Lhe electric lighit"(379). T~he doubl.. pair 'On





-159-


of thlis particular detail is especially noticeable since there are very

few descriptive details in the story. Later, the older waniter attempts

to make the younger waiter understand wlhy the old man needs t-he cafe'.

He explains, "You do not understand. This is a clean and pl~easant cafe'

It is well lighted. The light is very good and also, now, there are

shadows of the leaves"(382). Because the older waiter notices and ap-

parently understands the subtle significance of a detail whiichl the narrator

clearly feels is imnportarlt, the reader has definite evidence for seeing

thle ol1de~r waiter as ''Hemingway's" spokeennn in the story. Whilp settling

and narrative are often closely related, howeaver, the ude of: settjing is

generally less a matCFer of narra`ti he P1Cpersecive than~ it :s a i:tter of

metaphor, and as a reallt, the settingys of Retaiingway's stories are: not

discussed- ini detail in Lhiis stuldy.1

The development of relationships betweenl chariaci-r clnd s~etting is

outy the most obvious of the three general wjays in wh;ich7 thematic conltent

is indirectly controlled by the. nar;ators of Hamningway'sa dcuamatic

narratives In mnanyi of his involved narrain hmt ctn s

effected through the control of the specific "arlgle of view"' from; whichl

the reader appreh~ends events. Nearly all of Hewin~gu~ay's UniiqyoLved

narrations are presented from the overall perspective of unichlaracterized,

uniniavol ed ra tors. what thle reader sees from this overiLl perspective,

however, is often modified by the Eact t-hat the reader stands "behiind" one

or moeo h hiatr nthe narration, by th gt hi he reader

sees from the p~r~ticular angl ofew of one or more characters. The

failure to pay tnough attention co the ways in whiich narratrmis use angle.

ofview in order to effect themratic content hlas resulted in critical mis-

conceptioos about sulch stories as "Indian Camip" and "Thie Doctor and t-he





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Doctor's WifE," misconce-ptions which a careful look at the nar-rative

strategies of the stories can clear up.

Critics have usually approached the Nick Adams stories as the

various chapters of a loosely constructed Bildungsroman.. Philip Young,

for example, explains that "Nick is the central character in a book of

short stories that is nearly a novel about him .2Carlos Baleer

suggests that the stories might be entitled "The Education of Nicholas

Adams."3 One result of the cendency to approachi the Nicki Adams stories

as parts of a whole is the idea that somne of the stories "are incompre-

hensible if one does not see the point, and it is often subtle, of some

earlier story." An awareness that there are certain relationships amocng

the Nick Adnams stories of ln oulr TIime and later collections is, of -oulrse,

necessary for a Tul1 under-standing~ of H~emn~i~ngy's work. tio-vever, to pre-

s;ume thiat th~e only way to understand the degree to which pacticullar

story is concerned with Nick is to be acquainted with~ other Nic~ Adams

stories is to ignore thle texts of Chle stories thmselvejVS. F'or exiample,

whlen "1ndian Camp" is examined carefully, it becom-s impossible to say,

as Young does, that inl this story "Nick is not recognised as protagonist

unless one perceives that the last page of the five-page piece would be

irrelevant if: the st~ory were about the Indiians or the doctor, and also

unless one looks back later to see that Hlemingw:ay ha;s Logan withl his first

story a pattern of contracts with violence aInd evil for Nicki thac he

decvelops in the rest of t-he stories. .."

One of the tools which is usedl in "Indian Camp" to control the

reader's angle of view is t~he naming of -,he chiaracters. 'That "Ind-ian

Camp" is primarily concerned with Nick Adamns is suggested by th:! fact

that somne form of the name "Nlick" is used at: Ilest t-hirty times In the1I






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four pages of the story, far more frequently than it would need to be

used if the narrator did not w~ant to place particular emphasis on the

young boy, At times, the narrator purposely seems to repeat the name

rather than avoid the awkward sound the repetition creates. This is

the case, for example, when Doctor Adamns is preparing to operate:

Nick's father ordered some water to be put on the
stove, and while it wras hosting he spoke to Nick.
"This lady is going to have a baby, Nick," he said.
"I knoww" said Niick, (92)

The way in which other characters are referred to is also important.

Doctor Adams, for example, is consistently referred to in a wJay which sug-

gests that at least part of his importance in the story results from his

relationship to NIick. Nineteen times the doctor is called "Nick's

father" or "hiis fatherr" Only one time in the entire story, in fact,

is he referred to in a w~ay which does not suggest hris relationship to

the young boy. Doctor Aidams' brother George is also referred to in a

way which draws attention to Nick's importance in the story. Except

for the few times when Doctor Aidams calls hita "Ceo~rge," N'ick's uncle

is always called "Uncle George." The constant direct and indirect ref-

evence :0 Nick Io "'Indian Camp" not only helps to create th~e reader's

awareness of the boy's importance in thie story, it also causes thle reader

to see the other characters more or less as Mick sees them.

The fact that the? reader of "Indlian Camp" is to view events from

Nick's angle is also suggested by the story's careful control of its

relatively few direct assignments of sense perceptions. Nine times in

the story characters are described as looking, watching, or hearing, and

in seven of these in~stnces Nick alone is doing the perceiving. Once,

Uncle Ge~orge looks at his arm~, and Nlick's father looks into the upper

bank to check ;lhe Indian huisband, but Nick's perception of events is





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th~e only one which is consistently made explicit.

Closely related to the direct assignment of sense perceptions is

the story's frequent use of descriptive details which are presented in

a wuay which indicates that the reader is seeing things as Nick sees

them. For example, as the Indians row Nick, his father, and Uncle Coorge

to thre Indian camp, the narrator explains, "Nick heard the oar-lock~s of

thle other boat quite a way ahead of them in the mist. The Indians

lowed with quick choppy strokes. N~i~ck lay back with his father's arm

around him. It was cold on thle water"(91?). Imnlediately after rixentioning

that Nick hears the car-locks, the nrl-rator Presents a detail which~ is

both a shnpl.e descriptive observation and an indir-ct assignment of

perception to Nick. That the Indianis row with chocppy strokes, inl other

words, is a conclusion which Nick draws on the basis of wihat hef has

just heard. In a similar manner, th:e nrarraor's ;ention :ihat it is cold

on the water is both a simple descriptive det-it and an, indirect suigpestion,

that Nick has leaned back in his father's arm because he feelo cold.

Other examoples of this technique occur later in the story, hn h

Caesarian hias 'oeen completed, for elxample, D~octor A~dams looks over the

patienc, and thlE narrator corrments, "She did not know what had biecomef of

t-he baby or alnything"(94r). Though the reader is watchiing thle doctor a~nd

the squaw, the youthful sound of thle phrase "or anything" Irieminds the

reader that he is seeing as Nick sees. Th~e frequent use of both dircet

and indirect assignments of sense pecrceptions in "Tndian Car1p"1~ maintinst

the reader's consciousness that he is per~cei~vtug events from Nick's; ange:

of view and that Nickls reactions to these events.are of particular

importance.






-L63-


Though the narrator of "Indian Camp" does not assign the perception

of every detail to Nick, it is notable that by and large the reader is

presented with only those things which it is possible for Nick to observe.

That this is the case is indicated by the fact that when N~ick is not able

to see something, the reader does not see it either. Once the baby has

been delivered, for example, Nlick looks away "so as not to see what his

father was doing"(93). He hears his father say "There. that gets it"

and then feels him put "something" into the basin Nick is holding. when

Nick is not watching, the narrator does not present any of the details

of the way things look.* Like Nick, the trader is restricted to hear-

ing and feeling. The fact that the narrator limits the reader to Nick's

general angle of view is given a final emlphasis at the end of thei story

when Nick asks, "W~here did Uncle George go"(93). Presumably, every

character except Nick knows the answer to this question, but b-cause

Nick does not find out exactly where ther uncle is, the narrator does

not supply the information. The re~ader can only speculate on Georgo's

whereabouts.

T~hat "Indian Camp" is largely concerned withi Nick Adams~ is, then,

clearly indicated by the d-tails of the story's narrative strategy. It

is not necessary, however, to suppose that Nick's initiation to pain and

to thle violence of birth and death is the only important subject of the



*A similar technique is used in Chopter XIV of In Our Timue ("Maera
lay still . ."). As Mlaera lies on the sand in the bullring, ther
narrator explains t~hat "Some one" hlas the bull by thle tail, that "they"
are attempting to divert the bull, and that "Somie ul~en" carry Miaera to
the infirmary. The use of indefinite pronouns andl adje~ctives causes
the reader to see events more or less in the dazed, confused wany in which
NIaera perceives whriat is going on.











story, any more than it is necessary to say, as G. Thomas Tanselle does,

that "the central character is actually the Indian father In

its overall structure, "Indian Camlp" is, really, quite similar to such

involved narrations as "A~n Alpi~ne Idyll" and "A Canary for One." In

"Indian Camp" the actions of the character from whose angle of view the

reader watches events form a reciprocal thematic relationship with the

story of the Indian couple, Just as in the case of the Indians the

painful birth of a child results in the destruction of the father, N!ick's

painful "birth" into the harsher realities of life results in wrhat thre

reader presumes is the beginning of the "destruction" of Nick's fatel-r,

at least insaofar as he is an authority figure for Nick.

The position from which the reader of Hamingway's early dramatic

stories usually views events is almost identical to the position From

which the readecr of a central-intellligecce stor-y views events. T'he

only difference between "Indian Camp" and a central-intell igence nerra~tion,

in fact, lies in the ex;tensiven~ess with which the reactions of the char-

acter "brehind" whom the reader stands are portrayed. In a central-

intelligence story the reader is presented with the specific emotional

and intellectual reactions of the "central intelligence" to the

experience in which he is invo~lved. This is not the cas., her..m,P7~, i?

thie early Nick Adams stories. The reader of "Indian Camp," for example,

is presented rwith some of Nick's perceptions of events, and hre is mrade

conscious of the fact t-hat the boy is reacting to what be sEee and hea~rs.

The specific rnature of Nick's reactions, however, murst be inferred,

The tou~dency to approach the Nick Adam~s stories as thle chapters

of a loosely construlcted novel has also hand thF effect of Iex?;gerating~










Nick's importance in particular stories. The failure to carefully

investigate the narrative perspective of "The Doctor and the Doctor's

Wife," for example, has fr~equently resulted in the idea that Nlick is the

protagonist of this story as clearly as he is the protagonist of such

stories as "The Battler" and "Big Two-Hearted River." Joseph DeFalco,

for example, suggests that the events of the "The Doctor and the Doctor's

Wife" ore important in large measure because they portray part of Nick's

initiation into manhood. According to DeFalco, the encounter between

Dick Boulton and Doctor Adams undennines Nick's trust in his father.

The "father figure" is "denigrated in Nick's eyes . ." as is the entire

social framework of whlichl the doctor is a part.7 Carlos Baiker, on the

other hand, sees the story as movingly drpomatizing the father-son

relationship by portraying "Niick's sympathy with his father's shaie and:

anger after the encsounter with tha sawyers, in'which Dr. Adams has bfeen

insultingly bested."8 Philip Young suggests that "The Doctor and the

Doctor's Vife" is one of several stories which present "the boy's first

encounter w-ith things that are not violent, but which complicate his

young life considerably because they deeply perplex," Th~ere are tw~o

problems; with interpretations such as these. First, they presume that

the argulment betwe-n Dick Boulton and Nick-'s father and the conversations

between the doctor and theo doctor's wife are seen fromn Nickx's ang~le of

view. As Robert Miurray Davis and Sheridan Baker point oult, however,

there is no evidence at all whichn indicates that Nick ritnesses Any of

the Events which transpire before his father finds him in the iwoods.10

The critical. assumption that "The Doctor and the Doctor's Wife" largely

concerns N~ick also ignores the details of the text of :he story. While






-166-


"Thle Doctor and the Doctor's Wife" uses many of the same techniques

"Indian Camp" uses, these techniques indicate that the story's main

concern is wuith Doctor Adams. As is usually true in Hemingway's stories,

the use of names in "The Doctor and the Doctor's WJife" helps to create

the reader's perspective. That Doctor Adams himself is the center of

the story is suggested by the fact that he is generally referred to as

"the doctor." A few t ies he is called "Nick's father" or "his father,"

but not frequently enough to suggest that Nick is especially important.

Doctor Adams' importance in the story is also suggested by the fact that

Mrs. Adams is consistently referred to in terms of her relationship to

the doctor. She is always called "the doctor's wife" or "his wife,"

never "Nick's mother" or "Mrs. Adams."

Unlike "Indian Camp," "The Doctor and the Doctor's Hiife" canl be

divided into two sections, each of which uses a different angle of view.*t

In thef first sect-ion of the story the reader views events primarily from

the angle of the Indians. The story begins when the Indians walk in

the back gate, and it continues for nearly a page with descriptions of

their actions. Of the six sense perceptions which are mentioned during

the altercation between Dick Boulton and Doctor Adams, only one is

assigned to Doctor Adams. Tihe Indians do the rest of the looking and

watching. Unlike "Indian Camp," this story uses several descriptions



*Because they use more than a single perrspective on evrens, both
"The D~octor and the Doctor's Wife" and "The End of Something" can be
considered multiplee view narlratives." at least as thlis :;tudy defrines
the term in Chapter IX. However, because the sFtories are !rere profit-
ably discussed as draimatic rnarratives, t-hey are analyzed In Lthe present
chapter.






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of emotional states, and nearly all of those that occur during the first

part of the story are assigned to Dick Boulton. By causing the reader

to observe the first part of the story from the point of view of the

Indians, the narrator emphasizes the doctor's isolation and weakness.

Doctor Adams' petty hypocrisy about stealing thle logs and the humiliation

which results from his inlabilitiy to carry out his threat are made to

seem all the more pathetic by the fact that the reader does not see

things from his angle.

After the indians walk away through the woods, the angle of view

changes, and the reader sees events as the doctor sees theml. As is t~rue

of: the conversation between Dick BJoulton and D~octor A~darms, the con-

versation between Doctor Adams and his wife reveals aspects ofI the

doctor's weaknecss. As DeFalco suggests, the fact that the wieil belongs

"to a rel~iuius sect which denies the necessity of his profes-sional

fulnction n1 ekes it evident that even in his own home Docto~r Adamr~s

has no power or dignity. However, because the reader sees the events

of the. second conversation froma the doctor's angle, the? doctor becomes

a more sympathetic character. As he and the reader listen to the wife's

quotation Irom~ scripture and to her doubt that anybody w-ould intentionally

start a flight in order to get out of paying a bill, thle sadness and the

emptiness of the doctor's life overshadow~ his petty hypocrisy about the

logs, and the reader feels sorry for him.

Though "The Doctor and the Doctor's Wife" is not in any sense

about Nick, it is clear thlat the informatrion which the leader finds

out about the doctor witT. be important to the boy latler on. Nickc's love

for hris father is, no doubt, contingent on his belief in his father's






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strength. For the moment, as Sheridan Baker explains, "The companionship

of the Father and son is still intact," but this is only because "Nick

has not seen his father's humiliation."12 As the boy grows, he will

surely come to see his father's weakness, and their relationship will

dissolve.

In four other early stories--"The Three-Day Blow," "Thle Battler,"

"Cross-Country Snow," and "Big Two-Hlearted River"--there is little doubt

that Nick's reactions to events are of particular importance.13 In the

opening paragraphs of all four narratives, the reader sees Nick doing

something alone, an~d the focus on Nick which is set up at the beginning

of these stories is maintained by the fact that the reader consistently

stands "behind" N-ick and perceives frome hi~s angle of viewY. "The End of

Something," the only other Nick Adams. story in In Our Tme, is also

largely concerned w~ith~ Nick's reactions. It: is not, hlowever, told con-

sistently from Nick's, angle. During the first three q~uarters of "The E~nd

of Somnethling," the narrator divides the reader's focus Equally between

Nick and Marjorie. What MIarjorie does is as completely described! as

what Nick does, and Marjorie's perceptions are at least as fully reported

as Nick's, After Nicki's revelation that love isn'tt fun any more,"

however, the narrator limits thle reader to Nick's anlgle of view, and

while this limitation does emphasize thle imp~ortance. of Nick's reactions,

it also emphasizes thle quliet and lonely courage illust~ratfd by Maorjorie's

ability to Face a painful truth and act upon its implieations witiouit

tears or recrimniration.

Tle? unchacracterized nalrrators of 110mingwa~y's dlramaLic stories;

control the angle from which thle reader view~s events p~rima~rily by mleanls










c." ri Ui. r ..-,3 :.-.llr..L assignment of sense perceptions, and wrhile

t-he way in which perceptions are directly attributed to a character nefeds

no further discussion, a brief survey of some of the techniques with

which perceptions are indirectly assigned may be worthwhile. One way

in hic anle f vew s indirectly maintained involves the narrator's

exclusion of those details of scene, character, and action which a

pacticular chara-cter is unable to perceive. A few examples of this

techniques have already been discussed in connection with "Indian Cam.p,"

and mnany other examples can be found in Hemingway's other dramatic

n~arrat-ives. Early in "Cross-Country Snow," for example, the narrator

explains, "Hef [Nick] climbed up the steep road withr thle skiis on his

shoulder, kicking, his heel nails into the icy footing. He~ heanrd George

breithinig anid kicking in his heels just behind him"(185). Nick cannot

see Coorge, and b-cause the najrrator restricts his presentation of the

event~ to whiat can be heard, the reader is forced to perceive? the event

as Nick perceives it. During the final section of "The End of Somethling,"

Nickx ties with; his face in a blanket, andl the rarrat~or restricts the

reader co Jicik's angle by describing Mlarjorie's departure and Bill's

arrival without recourse to the way things look:

He could hear Mlarjorie rowing on the water.
He layr there f~or a long time. H~e lay there while hre
heard Bill come into the clearing walking around through
the woods. Hefelt Bill. coming up to the fire. (111.
Underlining min~e.)

One of the muost important examples of a narrator's exclusion of those

details which a c~a-racter cannot perceive occurs in "Big Two-Hearted





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River."* Each time Nick ialls asleep during this story, that is, each

time Nick's conscious perceptions stop, the narration hatts completely.

Part I of the story ends when Nick goes to sleep for the night. The

second part does not begin until Nick has awakened, Because thle character

from whose angle of view the reader perceives generally cannot look at

himself, the reader is often presented with more detailed descriptions

of those characters from whose angle he does not view events, than of

the character "behind" whom he stands. In "The Battler," for exam~ple,

Al's face is described in detail, but the reader knows nothing of Nick's

appearance. In "Cross-Country Snowr" the reader is told of George's

"big back and blond head"(184i), but does not find out what Nick looks

like, A



:"Big Two-Hiearted River" 's not a dramatic story in the same sense
that "Indian Camp" and "The Doctor and the Doctor's Wife" ace, but it
furnishes several interesting examples of the indirect creation of angle
of view, See Chapter VIII of this study for a more complete discussion
of "Big Two-Hearted River."
**CLosely ce lated to the above technique, though not strictly
speaking thle same thing, is the technique whereby a narrator describes
only what one character is doing whien it is obvious that other characters
are doing the sam thing at the same time. In "Cross-Count-ry Soow,"
when Nick and George get dlresse~d for their "run home together," thie
narrator mentions only that "Nick stood up. Hie buckled his waind jacket
tight. Hie leanod over George and picked up the two ski poles from
against the wa1L"(1881. It is obvious, however, that Georye must be
standings up Und ga:cingd irelssed it ilth ao.u- til.e iNick is. Inl "thel
Hattler," only hNick is described as osting the hot fried hamn and eggs,
even though it is clear thiat Bugs must be eating, too. InI "The Thiree-
Day Blow," Lthe narraltor mentions only that "Nick went inside the cottage"
(115) when it ih clear that Gill is right behind him. Thlough1 this
techlniqlue does riot limit the reader to a character's angle of view, it
is oftern imp~ortantt for ma~iuainining the reader's focus on~ the character
from whose algle: events are presentecd,






-171-


Another technique whiich is used to restrict the reader to a

character s angle of view has to do with the way in which certain de-

tails are include4,.ld in descrDiption. In many inls ance~s, as .ts of scene

are portrayed as th;-;l, tl :'r :--i ten- wer~e contingent.on the per-

cept-ions of a character. In "The Battler," for example, as Tick walks

toward the campfire, the fire is described as being "bright now, just

at the edge of the trees"(130). The fire has actually been bright *'I

along, but the narrator is presenting the fire as Nick seel; it, and trms

the boy's vantage point the brightness depends on his distance from the

fire. During Part I of "BDig TwYo-Hearted River," Niick rests from carrying

his heavy pack, and be looks toward "the far blue hills tlihat marked

the Lake Superior height of land. Hie could hardly see ther-, Eaint and

far away in the heat-light over the plain. If he looked too steadily

they were gon~e. But if hre only half-looked the~y wreor there, the Far-oFf

hills of the height of land"(211). The blue hills are, of course,

"there" al.l the time, but in this passage their existnce seems

contingent on N\ick's- perception of them. Wihen PTick does not see the

hills, they are "gone" both for Nick and for the narrator. Near the

beginning of the same story, Nick watches the fish on thle pebbly bc:- o

of the? river--"As he watch~ed them" the n-rrator clxplains, "they? cha!u:r d

their positions by quiick angles . ."(209)). Though the fish are

changing positionl whether Mlck is watching them or not, the use of "as"

suggests that the movement of the fish is involved with Nick's watching.

This particullar construct-ion is used several times in "Big Twoa-Hartted

River." As Nick walks through the pine grove, "It was brown and soft

undlerfoot as Nick walked on it"(213). In Part ii, whlen Nick crawls






-172-


out of his tent in the morning, the "grass was weft on his hands isbef

came out"(221).

One other technique which is useful for limiting thle reader to a

particular character's angle involves the particular sequence in which

details are presented. At the beginning of "The Three-Day Blow," for

example, Nick is walking to Bill's house, and as he nlears the end of hlis

walk, the narrator explains, "the door of the cottage opened and Bill

cam~e out"(115). By fchosingt this particular construction, rather thl-in

i-he more obvious "Bi;ll opened the door anld cam~e out," the narrator

emrphasizes the fact that the reader is seeing things not simply La t.h-e

order in which they happen, but in that specific order in whbich N~~k sees

them happen. Somlecimefs, details are presented in a3 sequen~ce whiicl sulg-

gests thalt the scene exists, as it were, outward from thi character who

is perceivin;g it. In "Eig Two-11erarted River" Nlick comes: doorr a h:i.llide

into a meadlow and, the narrator explains, "At the edge of the mea.!dow

flowed thei river"(213), The use of anl inverted construction ilsteald of

the more obvious "The river flowerd at thle edge of the I-eadow,"' sulggests

that the re~ader is standing behindn" Nick, looking front Nick's posit'ion

toward the river. Nea-r the beginning of' "The th~lree-Day BJlow," Nick a~nd

CDill look olt- "acr~o~s the country, down over the orchard, breyond th~e

road, across thle lowhe fields and the woods of the point to t~he takc"(115).

The resul- is thlt thec reader sees things from thle position~ of thet

chararctrs and in that particular sequence in which the characters' eyes

sweep the scene.

Because thle perfect~ of the use of a particular ;;nater of view in

a specific otory are ?largely drepend~ent on the subject matter and r-hi






-173-


structure of that story, it is difficult to generalize intelligently

about the ways in which angle of view can be used to create and modify

thematic content. It is possible, however, to hazard one limited

generalization about the use of angle of view in some of the Nick A\dams

stories. By presenting such stories as "Indian Camp" and "The Uattler"

from Nick's angle, Hemingway is able to create, or at least to em~phasize,

a thematic dimension which might not exist otherwise. Both "Indian Camp"

and "The Battler" have two kinds of thematic content. On one hand, they

present central situations which are interesting in themselves. At the

same time, they are clearly concerned with the reactions of a particular

character to these central situations. Wiere the stories not presented

from a specific ang1.e of view, the portrayal of Doctojr Adamns' delivery

of the Indian baby and oF the relationship between Eugs and Al would

still l he mneaningful, bult thle suggestion that these experiences are mrak~ing

siginificant impressions on Nick and that he will grow~ and develop in

part because of these imrpressions might be a good deal less clear.

Ini general, analysis of the NJick A~dams stories of In Our Time

indicates that the reader of a particular story does not, as Young

supposes, require information which is contained in the other stories

in order to understand the degree to which the narrative he is reading

is concerned with Nick A~dams. All that is necessary is an awareness on

the part of the reader of Hiemingway's careful control of narrative

perspective in general, and of narrative angle in particular.14

Th~e development of a particular angle of view in a story often has

the effect of creating sympaethy for the character behindl" wyhom thet

reader stands. Howeve-r, just as the reader of an involved narration










must consider calrefully before he accepts what at narrator says, the reader

of an uninvolved narration must be aware that sympathy with a character

from whose angle events are presented may be misplaced. As a result of

the particular angle of view which is created in "Cat in the Rain,"

for example, there is a tendency on the part of some readers to overlook

certain important implications of the story's presentation of the characters.

Because thle reader of "Cat in the Rain" sees things f'rom thre angle of

view of the American wife, the sterility of the marriage of the two

Amlericans seems at first glance to result primarily from thle husband's

unresponsivenesis. inhen th'e story is examined more carefully, however,

it becomes apparent, first, that thle wife is at le~ast- as unresponsive

as the husband is, and, second, tha~t George's recurrent: return to his

book is well-motivated.1 b'hen the wife returns to the hotel room,

having failed tio filud the cat, she sits; at h-r dressing table ardl studies

herself in the mirror. Then she asks her husband,

"Don~'t you think it would be a good idea if I let my
ha~r' grewl out.
"I like it the way it is."
"L get so tired of it," shef said. "I get so tired
of look;ing like a boy."
George shifted his position in the bed. He hadn't
lookedc awiay from her since she seactedr to speak,
"You look pretty darn nice," he said.
She la~id t:he mirrorr down on the dresser and went
over to thie window and looked out. (169))

George's staring and hris emphatic compliment indicate that at least in

this insane hle Ls responding to his wife. The w~ife, however, ignores

this response, walks to the window, and begins to catalogue att thie

things shet wants, rWhen George's wife does pay attenltion to he~ r husband,

it is a type of att-ention which makes his frequentnt return to his reaiding

quite understandable. When the wife rceturn to the room, for example,






-175-


George immediately puts his book down and asks if she found the cat.

He continues to engage in the conversation until his wife sits down on~

the bed and complains, "I wanted it so much . .. I don't knowa why

I wanted it so much. I wanted that poor kitty. It isn't any fun to

be a poor kitty out ini the rain"(169). The wife's desire for a cat

reflects, as both John V. Hagopian and Joseph DeFalco suggest, certain

inner needs. At the same time, however, the maudlin, childish way in

which the wife generally expresses her dissatisfaction with her life

implies that her foremost desire is not, as Haigopian suggests, "mnother-

hood, a hom~e w~ith a family" and "an end to the strictly comlpanionate

marriage with Ceorge," but that it is, as DeFalco suggests, the complete

security of childhood.16 George may be a poor mate, buit his failure

as a husband seems at least partially motivated by his wiife's self-

centered, chlildishi approach~ to life.

The techniques which a-re developed in InOur Time for controlling

angle of viewj are used throughout Hemingway's w~ork. "Ten Indians," for

example, is not only similar thematically to such earlier stories as

"The Three-Day Blow" and "The Battler," it employs many of the specific

techniques which are used in these enclier stories. A? particular angle

of view is set up in the very first sentence of "Ten Indians": "Aifter

one Fourth of July, Nick, driving home late from town in the big wagon

with Joe Garner and his family, passed nine drunken Indians along the

road"(331). By explaining only that Nick is riding in the wagon and

passing the Indians, even though other characters are doing and seeing

the same things at the same time, the narrator makes clear that the

reader is perceiving as Nick perceives. This angle of view is maintained

thnroughi the use of names. Doctor Adams, for example, is referred to






-176-


only in terms of his relationship to Nick. He is called "his father"

or "Nick's father" fifteen times in the finial two pages of the story.

The presentation of the events of "Ten Indians" Erom Nick's angle of

view both intensifies thle shock of Doctor Adams' revelation of Prudie's

disloyalty and suggests the imrportan~ce of the revelation as a part of

the process of Nick's maturation.

"Che Killers," another of the later dran~atic stories, is usually

discussed as though it were as fully concerned with N`ick A~damos as "Ten

Indians" is. As is true in the case of "The Doctor and the Doctor's

Wife," hlowever, the standard approach to "The Killers" has tended to

exaggerate Nick's importance in order that the story might more easily

be interpreted .:s a "chalpter" in a "novel..7 Nick is, of course, a

more important character in "The Killers" than he is in "The D~octor and

The Doctor's Wife." Nick is the only character in thle lunch-coom~ whuse

full na~me is given; he is the only character whose specific reaction to

baing gagged is presented; and the reader watches more or less from

Nick's angle when he goes to warn 01e Anidcoson. At the samep time,

however, it would be difficult to say thast Nick is much m~ore important

in "The Killers" than George is. George is present" during more of t-he

story than1 Nick is, and the reader sees more or less from George's

angle during thre longest scene in the story, whlen George i~s alone with

Max awaiting 01e An~dresonl's arrival. It is George whlo rel2\izes thatJ

the gangsters are going to kill 018 and who suggests that iluck go to

warn thle ex-prizefighter. An examinatlion of' the assignment ?f sense

perceptions and states of feeling als:o suggest; 1-hat Coorge's reactions

are as important as iNick's, Parceptions lr'e dlirMtly aissinelr d to COorGe,

in fact, mlore frequently than to anly other chanrater. Thoau:h GergrE's






-177-


reactions to the events of the story have been called less senlsitive--

and, thus, less interesting--than Nick's, it is easy to exaggerate the

difference in the effect of the experience on the two characters. Nick

thinks 01e's situation is an "awful thling"; George thinks it is "a h~ell

of a thing." Even th~e much-discussed final lines of thle story do not

necessarily indicate that the incident has had a significantly greater

effect on Nick than on George, As Charles A. Owen suggests, Nick has

caught "the contagion of flight" from 01e Andreson, and his inunediate

reaction is to wlant to "get out of this town"(289)).18 The irony with

which George treats Nuicki's desire to run away fromt trouble does not

indicate th~at George is callous, it merely indicates his understanding

of the uselessness of the solution Nick proposes for the situation.

The point here is not that George is the protagonist of "The Killers,'

but that it is an exaggeration to say that Nick is the prota,:onist,

"The Killers" is not exclusively concerned wJith~ Nick's "discovery~ of

evil," as Young, De'ralco, Ec-ooks, H~arren, and others have argued, any

more than it is exclusivrely concerned with OLe Andreson's attempt to

face death, as O'iver Evans has argued.19 '.T~e Kitl~ers" portrays a

situation during which several characters act and react and during which~

a variety of meanings are suggested. "The Killers" is, in other words,

a different kind of story than "Intdian~ Camp," "The Battler," and "Ten

Indiians," and this difference is clearly indicated by the story's

shifting an~gle of view and its diffulse assignment of sensory and

emotional reaction.





-178-


Like "Ten Indians," both "The Sea Change" and Chapter 21 of To

Hlave and Have Not present events from thle angle of a single character.*

In "The Sea Change" the reader sees events by and large from Phil's

angle, and, as a result, thle girl's revelation that she wishes to have

an affair with another woman has a different effect than~ it might have

otherwise. Similarly, the argument between Helen and Richard Gordon in

Chapter 21 of To Hae ndfla o has t-he particular eEfe~ct it does in

part because the reader views thre altercation from the angle of Richard

Cordon. Since the reader shares Gordon's angle, Helen Cordon's words

come "towuardl" the- reader, so to speak, and: emphasize the effect of the

dressing down her husband receives.



There is a talency in"" som of Hmin~gwa's uninyclved stories

to eliminate even d;ramatic exposition aiid ty rey acn fully ~as possible

on conversation for the presenf~tation of character,~ event, and~ thereP.O



*TZhe an~gle in both stories is set up by meuans of devices used in
earlier stories. In "The Sc:1 Chainge" thea reader learns Phil's name~, but
not the girl's. The reader is presented writh Phil's percep~tions, pactt-
cularly at thre end of the story when he sees in the mirror that he is
"a differeni- man." W~hile the girl is described in somne detail, the reader
only knows that, according to the: harman, P~hil looks "\ery weLl." In~
Chapter 21 of To_111p'e end (lave Not. Richar~d Gordonr is t~e onlyl chlaracter
namefd by. the nar;ratr, and he is named fairly frequcately. His wtle,
Helen, onl the other ha~nd, i:; neverr named by the nalrrator. W~hen Aelen
is referred to more elaboratlLy than as "she" or "her," she is called
"his wife." All b ut one of the sense perceptions and all of thle general
states of feeling whlich~ are assigned in the text are assigned to Richard
Gordon, and the story includes several of Gordlon's thoughvlts andr one long%
flashbackl fromn his angle of view. Finally, only Hclren is described in
any detail; thle reader knows nlothling of howy Gordlon looks,






-179-


This tendency to eliminate exposition has a number of important c~fects

on narrative perspective. For one thing, the less exposition a narrative

uses, tbo less chance there is for a narrator to be characterized, and

as has been suggested,..-the more a narrator is effaced, the more fully

his control of the meaning and effect of his narrative-must be exerted

indirectly by means of description and the creation of anugle of vriew.

Even the use of description and angle of view, however, requires ex-

position, and as a result, the loss a narrator uses exposition, th~e

less he is able to rely on these methods. In those stories in which

exposition is largely e~limina;ted, the reader's perspective on events

is determined primarily by t~he kinds of conversation which aire carried

on by the chacacters. In these stories the conversation often is the

action, ard whatever effects and mneanings are achieved reisult primariLy

from che things wht~ch the characters say anld the way in which they say

t~hemr.0

''The End ofT so-etht"S," for example, is more fully concerned wiith~

things Nick Adams says, thann it is w~ith any particular. action which

either he or Mairjorie ca-rries ou~t. Somel physical action, does occur

during the story, but Lhe only real importance of the rowing and the

fishing wbichl takes; place is mct*Iphoric. The degree to whiich "The End

of Something" is concerned with thle saying of things is msde particularly

eu.phatic by the? facrt that for all practical purposes, the love affair

between H!arjorie aind Nick is over before "The End of Something" begins.











That this is the case is suggested in the first exchange of tbo story:

"There's our old ruin, Nick," Marjorie said.
Nick, rowing, looked at the white stone in the green
trees.
"There it is," he said.
"Can you remember when it was a mill?" Marjorie asked.
"I can just remember," Nick said.
"lt seems more like a castle," Mlarjorie said.
Nick said nothing. (108)

Marjorie's use of "our old ruin" suggests that on previous fishing trips

she and Nick have thought of the ruined lumber mill as a symbol of their

intimacy. As a result, as DeFalco mentions, Nick's noncommittal and

unenthusiastic replies suggest that his feeling for those things which

the ruin still symbolizes for Marjorie has died. DeFalco feels that

during the first part of "TPhe End of Someching" Manrjorie is unaware of:

the change which has occurred in Ni~ck. It seems just as likely, how-

ever, that shet knows what the problem is th~roughiout the story. lie Ere-

que-ncy of M:arjorie's attempts to draw Nick into conversation and to get

him to enjoy fishing with her suggest that she is attempting to rekindle

emotions which she knows have cooled. When N~ick finally gets mad at

Mlarjorie and claims that he is angry because Marjorie knows Everything,

Marjorie's reply shows that she understands what is actually wrong:

"You don't have to talk silly," Manrjorie said.
"What-'s really the meterr?"
"I-don't know."
"OE: dourse you know."
"No I don' t."
"Go on and say it." (110)

As Mairjorie's urging suggests, she realizes that aT1 that remaoins is for

Nick co sa what the problem is. Onlce Nick adlmits whlat th-y both know,

that for Nick "It isn't any fun any more. Not anly of it" (110), the aFfail

is finished. Until Niicki says what is the mlatter, Mlarjor-ie attemptss to

re-cstabl~ish their relationship, but once trho tcuth bus been stated, it











must be faced, and on her owin initiative M~arjorie gets up? and leaves.

The highly conversational form of some of Hemingwa;y's uniinvolved

narrations not only determines the kind of action which occurs, it also

determines the manner in whiich character is delineated. In some stories

the creation of character depends on the use of specific speech pecu-

liarities. The rough speech used by the soldiers in "Today Is Friday,"

for example, emphasizes the irony of their failure to understand the

real significance of the man they have just crucified. By and large,

however, the accent a character has and the peculiarities of his diction

and sentence construction reveal only regional, occupational, or social

background, and while these aspects of personality are important for

making a character authentic, they are of limited use in determining the

reader's evaluation of the character. As of ten as not, the details of

a character's speech are not as important as the general manner in which

the character makes use of the coimnunicative powers of language.

The importance of a character's use of langunage in determining the

reader's attitude toward himn is exemplified by the argument ini "The

Doctor and the Doctor's W~ife" betw~een Dick Boulton and Doctor Adams.

When t-his argument is examined carefully, it becomes clear that the

characterization of Doctor Adams is at least as fully dependent on the

way in which he uses language to deal with several circumstances as it

is on the actuel circumstances themselves. The argument begins linen

Dick Boulton turns to Doctor Adams and says, "WFll, Do . that's a

nice lot of timber you've stolen"(100). As the narrator indicates early

in thle story, Doctor Ad-ms kniowr exactly- whene the timber comeos froml and

to whom it really belongs. In other words, the doctor knows that in a





-182-


literal sense the logs are stolen, but because the connotations of

"stolen" embarrass him, he tells Dick Boulton, "Don't talk that way

.It's driftwood"(100). The Doctor's reply suggests, really,

that he is less worried about whether he actually is a thief than about

whether he is called a thief. He begins to look foolish to the reader

not because he takes the logs, but because of his humorless inability

to admit what he does, because of his refusal, as A~erol Arnold puts il-,

to say the truth.22

Dick Boulton sees the petty hypocrisy of the Doctor's use of

"driftwood," andi he is annoyed by the Doctor's condesceniding correction

of what he has said. As a result, Boulton refuses to let the subject

drop. He has che log washed off to establish its true owinership, end

he reiterates his claim that the logs are "stolen":

"Don't get; huffy, Doc," said Dick, "Don't gar hiuffy.
I don't care whYio you steal from. It's none of my business.."
"LI you think the logs are stolen, leave thast alone
and take your tools back to the camp," the doctor said,
Hlis face was red,
"Don't go off at half cock, Doc,"' Dick said. He spat
tobacco ju!ice on the log, It sltd off, thinning in the
water. "You know they're stolen as rwell as i do. It don't
make any difference to me."
"All right. If you think thle logs are stolen, take
your stuff and get out." (100)

As is evident from his stubbornness about whant th~e logs are called ndl

from his anger about the way in which Boulton refers to him, Doctor Adams

expects the Inldians to treat him with deferenlce and to do as he says

regardless of how he acts. This demand for respect is based not on

honesty, not on moral rectitude, but simply on social position. The

resullt of the argument about the uise of "stolen" and "driftwood," in





-183-


other words, is that the reader comes to see not only Doctor Adams'

pettiness, but his hypocrisy and his basic lack of integrity.

The unflattering portrait of Doctor Adams in "The Doctor and the

Doctor's Wif~e" is given a further emphasis by the way in which his con-

versation with Boulton ends. The half-breed baits the doctor with

"stolen" and "Doc" until Doctor Adams completely loses control and

warns, "If you call me Doc once again, I' ll knock your eye teeth down

your throat"(101). Boulton responds belligerently to the doctor's

threat, and the humiliated doctor finally turns awiay and walks to thle

cottage. It is important to notice that the doctor's humiliation does

not -esult per so from the fact that he is afraid to fighte Dick Boulton.

Boulton, after all, is a "big man" who likes "to get into fighits"(10L).

ThFe doctor's fear of him is quite understandable. Thel real source of

the doctor's embarrassment Is the fact that hef threatened Boulton, or

to put it another way, the fact that he says he will knock Boulton's

teeth ouit am' then is unable or unwilling to back up his words w~ithl

action. The ardumefnt begins because the doctor w~ill not call anl action

bl its proper n-mle; it ends writh his inability to 1lve up to what he

says. In both cases the doctor's use of language is what betrays the

essential weakness of his character,

Hlenlingway's short stories after In Our Time rely even more exclu-

sively on conversation for the presentation of character and theme than thle

In Our Time stories do.3 That this is the case is indicated by the fact

that such later stories as "The Killers," "Hills Like White Elephants,"

"The Sea Chanige," "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place," and Chanter 21 of To

HaeadHav e o use substantially fewer lines of exposition thanr the





-184-


dramatic stories of In Our Time.2 The increased dramaitization at; the

later stories is most clearly illustrated, perhaps, by "Today Is Jr'?4ay,'

a storyy" which Is presented in the form of a play,

in such later stories as "Hills Like White Elephanets" and Chapter

21 of To HaE ar~_nd Have Not~ the almost exclusive reliance on the spoken

w~ord results in the creation of fiction which is not only conducted

th~rogh~ conversaition, but which is in large measure about the use OF

language.25 At the bleginning of. "Hlills Like Wrhice Elephants," thr reader

sees a man and a girl sitting outside a train station. Thesy order' beer.

and as they drink, the girl looks at. the line of white: hIlls across thie

valley Jnd coarnentrs,

"'They Look like white elephants
"I've ieve-r seen one,"' the man drank htis beer.
"No, you wouldn't have."
"I mnighit have," rhe man said.. "Just because you say
I would~n't have d!oesn't prove r'nLythinlg." (?173)

At the~ on -ret, the girt's wyittiness is conrtiasted wIit-h the m~an's peevish

defens;vencss, and the disparity between the two chr-ractors in sem~iitvivit

and inc-lligenrce wh:i-'1 is s'I~gested by tiis Exschange- is mal~inrined thr1ough-

sout the r(:ory. Thle gir1's; writ-ty com-ient rouc.esents, -s L~id exPlains,

-'heir kind of vrbahl ex~perience they have shared il the pass, a yri- U.

intimiate response L-O their surroundingss" The fa'ict thalt thle Kjiu.'s levilen

now merely results in an7 argument indicate-s, as lid sueggets, that the

two characters are "rubbing eac~ othler's nerved' rawJ."26

After the man and the girl bicker about thle degree to w~hichl their

lives are made up of: looking at things and trying now driuk~s, the menn






-185-


brings up the topic which is really on both their minds:

"It's really an awfully simple operation, Jig," the man
said. "It's not really an operation at all."
The girl looked at the ground the table legs rest-ed
on.
"I know you wouldn't mind it, Jig. It's really not
anything. It's just to let the air in."
The girl did not say anything.
"I'll go with youl and I'll stay with you all the time.
They just let the air in and then It's all perfectly
natural." (275)

It is clear from this dialogue that the couple has talked about the

proposed abortion before and that in their previous discussions the

giirl has made it clear that she would rather hlave the baby. As a result.

the man's assurance that Jig won't "1:oin it" mefans th~e exact opposite of

wha i sas.On thle most b asic level, the maln mieains that Jig will not

"m~ind it" physically, that the rbortion wiill not be pa~inful. Howecver,

not only is there a good -!hance chal~t thel "cpa-ration" :ill be painful,

but it is clear thatl Jxg will "mlind it" -viin if no physical pain is Linvol~vid.

The man's use of naturall" to describe the way~ things are after th~ey "1at-

the air in," even more obviously indicltes the ecieare to which the man's

words are belied by what he Ieans. As t-he btory contRInuS, Tthe hiypclrisy

of what the man says becomes muore and more clear. Six times h~e s:ays,

"I don't want you to do it if you don't want to"(277) or something nearly

identical, when it is perfectly obvious that the entire discussion has

resulted from the fact that the girl doesn' t want to go through wjith the

abortion, Late in the story, the man avers, "I'd do anything for you"

(277), another statement which is; clearly contradicted by the nature of

the conversa-tion in which t-he couple is engaged. Because of thle consistent

hypocrisy of the man's words and the lack of concern for the girl that his

hypocrisy frequently indicates, it is not surprising that the girl's






-186-


final request of the man is "Would you please please please please

please please please stop talking"(277).

Unlike the mlan, the girl usually attempts to say the truthi. Even

when she attempts to avoid talking about thle abortion, as she does by

being witty about the way the bills look, her concern about the operation

is suggested by what she says. As most critics have noticed, thF girl's

observation thant the hills look like white elephants is an objective

epitome of her concern with the hu~man "white elepha-nt" that the abortion

will destroy. During the story, the girl tries and fails to bring the

man to say that hre want~s the child., lier final submission to the Inoau's

wishes is Fittinglyi su~ggsted by hier using Language in the same hypo-

cr~itical way in which the man uses it. Whepn thle mann returns fro~ thle

bar, he -Tks, "Do you feet better?"(278). Phlat hes really wants to know

is whether the gidl will go through? with the dangerouss abortion, and,

as a result, his apparcnt statements of concern for thec girl's well-being

indicates a lack of concern for hecr well-being. The story G2ods wijth the

girl's reply, "I feel fine . .. lthere's nothing wrong withl me. I

feel fine"(278). Just as thle man's question means the opposite. ofl what

it seems to~ mlean, thle gid~'s ansuccr sa~ys the opposite of what she feels.



engagCe in epitcmizes their life together. Thie essential sterili:y of the

relatioinu~ip, between the maln and the~ girl, which is madle clear by the

decision to have thec abortion, is; reflected by the futility of their

conversation. When1C the stoUry begins, the gict hasj .greed to have~ the

abortion and is attemp~ting to avoid thinking about her dccisionl by

fe~igning cheerffu uless Thle lanl broachecs the subljerct, however, and they






-187-


argue about the possible effects of the operation. W~hen the s;tory ends,

the conversation has concluded e::actly where it began, w~ithl the r,Lcl

having agreed to have the abortion anld feign~ing cheerfulness in an

attempt to avoid thinking about it. Just as the physical intimacy

which the couple has shared will end in the destruction of the product

of that intimacy, the verbal conunanication which takes place betwmain the

couple results merely in their agreeing not to cnamunicate abouL what is

miost: important to them.

Like "The End of Somethling," Chapter 21 of To Hiav and! Ha-ve Not is

miore fully concerned with the verbal statemnEn that the emotional bai;Li

of a relationship is dead, than w~ith che actual destruccion or: the re-

lationshiip. That this is the case is made clear by the. Ilct that- r-bo

one disloyal action whichi is portrayecd ini the story i~s not rportra~y~d

until the G~CarOns haive said so much to each orber- :ha, ~c-ording: to~

Halenc Cordon, fixing up their marriage would be irapassibLe.Iti as

su~ggested by the fact that though Helenl Cordon's feerlings have existed

Ear quite so~me Lime, thle marriage does not end until these feelings8 are

voice!.,

Like the man and the girl in "H~ills Like W~hite Elephad 0`," ::len

-nd Richard Gurion u.:e language in~ iry differently ways. .l_:L.s ti f nce

is indicated in the first exchange at the story:





-188-


"W~ell," Richard Gordon said to his wyife.
"You have lipstick on your shirt," she said. "And over
your Ear."
"What about this?"
"W~hat about what?"
"What about finding you lying on the couch1 with that
drunken slob?"
"You did not."
"Wlhere did I find you?"
"You found us sitting on the couch," (182)

Cordon's silent acceptance of his wife's correction of his statement shows

that he not only exaggerates what he saw, but that he does so knowingly.

The care with which his wife states the facts of her disloyalty, on the

other hand, suggests her ability to be honest about what she does. As

the argument continues, Gordon consistently distorts reality--etther

willfully or as a result of poor judgement--and his wife consistently

denies hiis distortions. Nearly everything Cordon says, in fact, is show'n7

to be wrong. The degree to which this is the case is indicated by thlat

part of the altercation which produces Gordon's realization of the

seriousness of this particular argument:

"I dislike yrou thlorcughly and I'm through with youl."
"AL1 rightt" he said.
"No. Not all right. All over. Don't you understand?"
"I gesles so."
"Don't: guess."
"Don't be so melodramatic, Heclen."
"So I'm melodramatic, am i? Well, I'm not, I'm through
with yo~u."
"10, youl're not."
"I won't say it again."
"What ar-e you going: to do?"
"I don't know yet. I may marry John MancW11sey."
"lou will not."
"I u111 if I wish~."
"HtE wouldn't marry you."
"Oh, yes he will. He asked me to marry him this
afternoonn" (184-185)










Gordon's tendency to distort reality when he verbalizes it is made

particularly ironic by the fact that he is a writer. Aind, since the

reader sees Gordon distort the facts during conversation whenever he feels

it convenient to do so, Hlele Gordon's evaluation of her husband's writing

is accepted by the reader. "If you were just a good writer," she explains,

"I could stand for all the rest of it maybe. But I've seen you bitter,

jealous, changing your politics to suit the fashion, sucking up to

people's faces and talking about them behind their backs. I've seen you

until I'm sick of you"(186). As is true of bothi Doctor Adams (in "The

Doctor anld the Doctor's Wife") and the man in "Hiills Like Whlite Eleph~ants,"

William Gordon uses language to mask his own weakness, and, as is true

in the cases of these other characters, this mask is only self-deceptive.

The overall effect of Gordon's use of language is his complete ignorance

of who he and his wife really are. As is made clear at the enld of the

story, Hiel~en Gordon's revelation that their marriage has been a sordidl

-nd unhazppy experience for her comes as a total surprise to her husband.















NOTUES TO CHAPTER VII


1. DeFalco's perceptive discussions of Hemingway's stories
should be consulted for a full understanding of the ways in which
Hemingway uses setting. See especially DeFalco's discussions of
"The End of Something," "The Three-Day Blow," "Ten Indians," and
"Big Twio-Hearted River."

2. Young, Er gway:I~ A Rec~Sionsdrain 32,

3. Baker, Heminlgway: Th wrier s Arist 128.

4. Philip Young, Ernest Hem~ingw~ay, University of Miinnesota
Pamphlets on Ameirican Writers (Minneapolis, 1959), 4.

5, Young, Ernest Hemingway:ns A eosderation, 32.

6. G. Thomas Tanselle,"H!emingway's 'Indian Camp,"'" Eplicator,
XX (February,1962), item 53.

7. DeFalco, 35.

8. Baker, H!emingway l~_?~The ritr a Arist 134. John Killinger
agrees with Baker. In "The Doctor and thie Doctor's Wi~f," he explains,
"N'ick chooses to side with his father against the Indians rather than
to believe,1ike his religious mother, that they are good men." Killinger,
Heming~ry nd the Dead Gods (Lextington, Kentucky, 19)60), 22,

9. Young, Er-nest (way:~i~a A ReccasideL'rtin 32.

10. See Robert Murray Davis, "lremingway's 'The Doctor and the
Doctor's WifeE,'" Eqplicator, XXV (September, 19661,ie 1 n Seia
Baker, 23-29). As Davis mentions, Aeral Arnold's discussion of the story
is one of few whlicch does not fall back on the assumption that Nick witnesses
the confronltation betweEn the doctor and Dick Boullton. See Aerol Arnold,
"Hemingway's 'TPhe Doctor and the Doctor's Uife,"' Explicator, XVIII:
(March, 1960), item 36.

11. DeFalco, 36.

12. Sheridan Bak~er, 28.


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-19)1-


13. In "Hlemingway's 'The Battler,'" Exsplicator-, liII (October,
1954), W~illiam Bache documents one aspect of Hemingw~ay's creation of
angle of view in "Thre Battler"': "Hemingway suiggests thle iu~pact of thet
incident on Nicki by underlining the appeal of thle action to the senses:
references are made to feeling, hearing, tasting; it. its various forms
look is used twenty-five times, and see, fifteen times" (Bache, item 4).

14. Horst H. Kruse deals with one aspect of this question. He
proves unfounded Young's contention that the reader noods information
which is contained in "The Three-Day Blow" in order to understand why
Nick and Marjorie break up in "The End of Something." As Kruse shows,
all the information which is necessary for understanding "The End of
Something" is contained in "The End of Somcething." See Hiorst Hi. Ktruse,
"Ernest Hemingway's 'The End of Something': Its Independence as a Short
Story and Its Place in the 'Education of Nick Adams,'" Stuldies in short
Fictio, IV (Winter, 1967), 152-166; and Young, Ernest Homingwn7 i
Reconsideration, 33-35.

15. In "Symmetry in 'Cat in the Rain, '" Co le n n o~, XXrV
(December, 1962), Joh~n V. Hagopian contends that G:eorg~e's reading indi-
cates that he "prefers the world of fiction to the world of adulthood"
(Hagopian, 222).

16. See DeFalco, 159; Hagopian, 221.

17. Inl "Time: -;rd the. Contag.ionl of Fligh~t in 'he Killers,"'
Forum, III (Fall and Wiinter, 1960), Chacles A. Owen., Jr., points out
that "The Killers" st~lods apart from other Nick Adantls stories in the age
and circumstances of the hero: "I am indebted to my ol~nleague Georg:e
Hemphill for pointing out to me that through the story takes pilace in thle
'20s during the prohlibition era, t-his Nick Adams has clearly playedd no
part in W~orld WJar I. Hie is thus distinct from the hero of thle other
'Nick Adamns' stories aind mlore clearly diiffrentiated from Hemingway"
(Owen, 46n1).

18. See Owen, 46.

19. See Younrg, Ernest Hemingway: A Reconsideration, 32, /48-49;
DeFalco, 63-71; Brooks and Warren, Undersrandingi Fiction, 303-312. Part
of the. Broc~ks and Ja~rren analysis is reprin;ed in W'eeks, ed., iem~?inga
A Collection of Critical Essays as "The Discovery of Evil: An A:!alysls of
'The Killers"'" See Oliver Evans, "The Protagonist of Hemingway.) 's IThe
Killers, "' Modern Language Niotes, LXXIII (December, 1958), 589-591,

20. The elimination of exposition results in thle virtual elimi-
nation of the PortraYal of physical action, but physical action can be
r~eorted in dialogue. In "A Clean, Well-~ightled Place," for example,
one of the: waiters repvorts on the old man's aIttempotedi suicide. It is
also possible for characters to carry out certain kinds of actions while
they are talking. The waiters in "A Clean, Well-Ligh~ted Place," for






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example, are shutting :the cafe' for the night and getting dressed to go
home while they discuss the old man. Nevertheless, the actual portrayal
of physical action is almost entirely dependent on exposition, and when
exposition is eliminated physical action is usually eliminated as well.
The elimination of the portrayal of physical action, of course,
is not the same thing as the elimination of the import-ance of physical
action. In some highly conversational stories wh~at is said is of importance
because it implies that action has occurred or will occur. Much of the
effect of "The Killers," for example, depends on the reader's awareness
that while characters are only talking, violent physical action is imrainent.
The conversations of t-he ganigste-s and the boys have power because of t-he
reader's awareness, first, that: AL and Max are dangerous and nervous, and,
later, that they have come to the restaurant in order to murder 01e
Andreson. In the same way, Nick's conversation with 01e Andreson is
effective in part because the Swede's life is in immediate danger. "Hills
Like White Elephants"l makes similar use of the awareness of irmminelt
action. The conversation of the couple at the railroad station is made
more powerful by what Richard W. Lid calls a "sense of dimiinishing time
and approaching disaster." As the man and the girl discuss the prop~osed
abortion, the time during, which they can change their minds is being u!;ed
up, and the abortion itself is coming constantly closer. See "Hemingway
and th~e Need for Speech," Mlo~der Fton Stuis VIII (Winter, 1962-19631),


21. DoFalco, 43,

22. A~rnold, itemn 36.

23. The kind of conversation characters have also has themrat:ic
implications in one other story from InOur Time In "Out of Season" the
inability of characters of different nationalities to ccoirnunicate in
c-lnversation serves as a su'otle emphasis of the story's present-at~ion of
one moment in che disintegration of the marriage of a young gentlrman
and his wi;fe, Tiny. In this story, however, thie actual Iuse of dialogue
is less important than is Homingway's atccmp: to present a confused
multilingual conversation in English. The kind of subtlety that is
achieved in the conversation of' "Out of Season1" is illustrated by a
brief exchange which occurs as: the young gentleman, Tiny, and Peduzzi,
their drunk Italian guide, walk toward thle river where they plan to fish:
They wrce wa~lkinge daon thi Ill toward theu river. Thle
town was in back of t~hemr. Th~e sun had gone under and inl was
sprinkling rain. "Thais," said Pcduzzi, pointing to a girt
in thie doorway of a house thley passed, "My~ daughter."
"Hlis doctor," the @.fe said, "has he got to shiow us
his dcetoc?"
''He said his dalghlter," said the young gentleman. (176)






-193-


At first glance, it appears that Peduzzi is attempting to tal.k about
his "daughter" in English. In reality, however, Peduzzi does not know~
English. As t-he narrator subsequently mentions, "Part of the timne he
talked in d'Ampezzo dialect and sometimes in Tyroler Germann dialect"
(176), What Peduzzi really says is mein Tochter, the German for "mly
daughter." The American wife mistakenly thinks the words are English,
but the husband, who understands a little Ce~rman, translates for hlis
wife.

24. The number of lines of exposition per page in the In Our Time
stories is approximately as follows: "Indian Camp": 18; "The Doctor and
the Doctor's Wife": 18; "The End of Something": 22; "The Three-Day Blow":
6 (This story, unlike other In Our Time stories uses a caulsiderable.
amount of internal view, which, of course, requires exposition. That
kind of exposition, however, is not included in these estimates.);
"The Battler": 11; "Cross-Country Snow": 16; "Out of Season": 15;
"Cat in the Rain": 14, The amount of exposition used in stories from
later collections is usually about half of the amount used in the stories
from n Our Ti: "Today Is Friday": 4; "Thle Killers": 7; "Hiills L~ike
White Elephants": 7; "Ten Indians": 12; "The Sea Chaonge": 8; "A Clenn,
Welll-ightedi Place": 6; "Today Is Friday": 4; Chapter 21 of To Have and
Have Not: 3.

25. In "T~he Logic of Confusion in Hemingway's 'A\ Clean, Well-
Lighted Place,"' Co~lley XXII (Na~y, 1961), Joseph F. Cabriel
contends that the crnversation in "A Clean, Il011--T.iphtnd Placea," another
of Hemingwayls highly conversational stories, creates meanuing in a very
special manner. According to Gabriel, thie conversation betw:~en th:e two
waiters "operates on twro levels: it operates ini the conventional mranner,
discursively conveying the essential features of the older waiter's
vision; and it operates symbolically, actually representing through? its
conlstruction thle kind of world he experiences. Not only does the diallogu~e
tell of the nada of existence, but it re-creates it by raiising for the
reader the very problems which confront the older waiter and the old man
as they apprehend their world. The experience of the reader duplicates
their experience, for the reader, too, is called upon to bear uncertainty,
inlconsist-ency, confusion, and: ambiguity, as he attempts to fashion some
pattern of meaning out of the chaos of the dialogue" (Gabriel, 545).
The difficulty with Gabriel's fascinating interpretation is that the con-
fusion in the dialogue on which his int-erpr~etacir.,n is based is moce
easily, and more believably accounted for by Otto Reinert's suggestion
that H~emingway violated the convention of indenting during conversation
only whlen a new speaker begins to comment. Reinert rightly contends
t-hat Hemingway's inldention of the older waniter's cormnent that the old
man "must- be eightyi ye-rs" and of his qualification "Any~way I should
say be was -Jighty"(380) suggests "a reflective pause" between the two
commeinnts. SEE Reinert, "Hemingway's Waiters Once Hore," College Englsh,
XX (Ma~y, 19519), 4r18. Refinert does not Ilention that the use of an indented






-194-


line without a change of speaker occurs frequently in H~emingway's fiction.
In "The Three-Day Blow," for example, Bill says both, "Oh, he's a better
guy, all right . ." and "But Walpole's a better writer"(119). As is
true in "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place," this double indention suggests
a reflective pause. In "The Gambler, the Nun, and the R~adio," when the
Mlexicans who have been sent to visit Cayetano ask how much Mr. Frazer's
radio cost, Mr. Frazer answers, "I don't know .. It is rented,"
and then in the following line asks, "You gentlemen are friends of
Cayetano"(476). Thie indention between Mr. Frazer's two speeches emphasizes
the difficulty Mr. Frazer is having talking to the Mlexicans. In The Sun
Also Rises, there are several instances of Hemingway's violation of the
use of a new line for each new speaker, Near the end of Book II, for
example, two instances occur on a single page. Jake is putting Mike to
bed and tells him "Let me cover you over." Mike replies, "N'o, I'm quite
warm," and after a pause during which Jake presumably covers him, he
tells Jake, "Don't go. I have n't got ten to sleep yet" (The Sun Also
Rises, 210). Jakef goes downstairs and meets Bill, who asks, "See Mike?"
Jakxe replies, "Yes," and then says "Let's go and eat" (The Sun Also Rises,
210). The relative frequency with which Hemingway ignores the traditional
"rules" for indenting during the presentation of conversation makes it
especially difficult to accept Gabriel's explanation of the "inconsistencies
in "A Clean, Wrell-Lighted Place." (For still other examples of the use
of indention between comments by a single speaker, see "The Undefeated,"
244; theSun Also Rises, 83,)
Other articles which play a part in the interesting critical de-
bate over the supposed errocs in the dialogue of "A Clean, Well-Lighted
Place" are Willialm Bache, "Craftsmnh~ip in 'A Clean, Wrell-Lighted Place,'"
Perso~nalist, XX(XVII (Winter, 1956), 60-64. Frederick P. Kroeger, "The
Dialogue in 'A Clean, Well-Lighted Place,"' College English, XX (February,
1959), 2/10-?41; William E. Coburn, "Confusion in 'A Clean, Well-Lighted
Place,'"' College Eng is, XX (February, 1959), 241-242.

26. Lid, 404,














CHAPTER VIII

INTERIOR VIEW


As was suggested in the previous chapter, the majority of those

uninvolved narrations which are presented by uncharacterized narrators

develop character and event primarily by means of description and con-

versation. The few assignments of sense perceptions, states of feeling,

and thoughts which occut in the dramatic stories are imp~ortant primarily

as means for emphasizing aspects of chlaracter andi thewsp which are developed

in these other ways. In one group of Hlemineway's uninvolved narrations,

however, thie privileges of interior view are more imiportant. In such

stories as "Big Twoc-:harted :ivecr," ",r Way Youl'll Never ae," aInd "!The

Snows of Kilimanjaro" the presencration of the particular unvroiced

thoughts and Efeling~s of chlaracters is the primary means, and sometimes

the only means, by rhich thiematic content is revealed.

To say that the presentation of a character's unvoiced thoughts

and feelings is crucial in a story is not necessarily to say that the

story uses a great deal of internal view. In "Big Two-11earted River,"

for exatrple, there is comparatiively Littl; presentation of :;ick'L: un-

spoken reactions. Th~e only emotion which the narrator consistently makes

explicit is Nick's happiness at being on a fishing trip. The only

intellectual activity which is frequently presented is the kind of


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;imple figuring Nicki does whe:1n he eramnines thel b1:l a rsashoppers, when

be think-s about the direction in which he must walkr to hit the river,

and when be thinks about how to catch bait. Th~e story's presentation

of a few more penetrating views of Nick's consciousness, however, makes

it possible for the reader to see that "Big Two-Hearted River" is largely

concerned with Nick's attempt to control certain areas of his mind. The

most important of these deeper views occurs near the end of Part I of

the story when Nick remembers at som~e length how he, his friend Hopkins,

and several others wefnt fishing on the Black River "a long time ago."

This iiomory has several functions. For one thing it re-emphasizes the

story's frequent suggestion that N'ick has been away from normal life for

a very lon~g times and that important things ha~ve happened to hi;m in the

interim. More important than the particular content of the memory,

however, is theR fact that as a result of the act of remembering, Nick

can feel his mind "starting to work," and purposely stops th~inking.

That Nick finds it necessary to "choke" his moind and is only able to

do so becauIse he is "tired enough" is the clearest indication in "Big

Tw~o-Herarted River" tha~t during the expedition Niick "is trying desperately1~

to keep2 from going outr of his minid."I As Manlcolm Coweley puts it, Nick

Adamls regards the strealuous fishing trip "as an escape, either from

nightinare or frolm realities that havf become a nighrtlinae.', Atltough

Niick is abule to maintain his psychic balance during the~ story, the pro-

cariousness of this balance is suggastod b) thef fact :hat it is endangered

by what begins as a comiparatively pleasant remin~iscence.

Th~e memory of fishing on thle iilack Rivrer is th!e most extensive

pr"Eenatatin of the deeper levels ,f Nick's consciousness in "Big Two-






-197-


Hearted River." There are, however, a few brief passages which emnphasize

the implications of the reminiscence. The most explicit of thefse is

the narrator's mention early in the story that Nick's e-njoyment oE t-he

fishing trip results in part from his feeling that "he had left everything

behind, the need for thinking, the need to write, other needs. It w~as

all back of him"(210). In Part II there are several instances when it

becomes clear, as Young puts it, that Nick "must not get too excited or

he will get sick .. It is as though he were on a doctor's pre-

scription, and indeed he is on the strictest sort of emotional diet

,,3 The reader's few glimpses into a level of Nick's mind deeper

than hlis immediate responses to the hiking and fishing are, then, the

primary means by whlich the central conflict in "Big Two-Hearted River"

is revealed. Here these few unvoiced thoughts and feelings eliminated

from the presentation of th~e stocy, the reader could only speculate.

about the meaning and the purpose of the fishing trip.

Once the basic conflict in "Big Tw~o-Hearted River"l is recognized,

the way in which the narrator's style reflects and dramatizes this

conflict becomes understandable. As Philip Young exiplains, t-he fr-equent

monotony of th~e style in "Big Two-Hearted River" is "'extraordinarily

appropriate to the state of Nick's nerves .. A terrible panic is

just ba-rely under control .. ." When for a few moments th~e pressure

is off N~ick, as it is when a big trout strikes, "the style changes

abruptly" and "thle sentences length~en greatly and becomiie appropriately

graceful . ." The style: of "Big Two-Rlearted River," in other words,

"is the perfect expression of the content of the story,"4






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The nar ative perspective of "Big Two-Hearted R~iver" reflects

exactly the- subject matter it is used to present. In the first. place,

external scene and action are presented exclusively from Nick's angle of

view. All aspects of the trip are presented precisely as Nick perceives

them. What Nick does not perceive is not presented to the reader.*

Secondly, the presentation of Nick's thoughts and feelings reflects

exactly the activity of Nick's mind. On~ly wuhen Nick reacts to wh~at hie

perceives is the reader presented with Nick's reactions. When Nick is

remembering, then and only th~en is the reader presented with portions of

his past. Because Nick forces himself not to thiink about those things:

which endanger his psychic balance, the reader is not presented wich any

specific information about Nlick's problem. By carefully restricting

the narrator's presentation of t-he events of "Big Two-Hearted River" to

what Nick perceives and thinks, Hcnmingway creates uninvolved narration

which is very similar to th~e kind of involved narration which is used

in "A Canary for One" and The Sun Also Rises. As Es true in, these; in-

valved narrat~ions, in "Big Two-Htearted River" thie presentation of every

external detail and of every internal reaction has full fictional authority.

Every "he"' in the story, in fact, could be changed to an "I" and no

mlodification in~ the story's presentation of scene or action would be

necessary. In spite of these similarities, however, the use of hlighly

iilimited unin~volvred narration in "Big Two-iBearted Riiver," instead of thle



*Pacticular examples of the devicrs bhich are used to maintain
this angle of view are discussed on pp. 168-172 of this study.









kind of involved narration which it resembles, is not ,ccidenred The

protagonist of "Big Two-Hearted River" is engaged- in a 1 ni'v.lttempt

to keep from going mad, and much of the effect oi his n-ory depends on

the fact that neither Nick nor the reader knows whether Nick will be

successful. Here Nick to narrate the story, it would be clear that he

did recover, and much of the desperate intensify ..f hii. ite Aiicl mighlt

be lost.5

"A Way You'll Never Be" is similar to "Big~ Two--Hle 'te' R vcr"

both in narrative strategy and in thematic content. Like "Big Two-

Hearted River," "A Way You'll Never Be" employs a narrator whose overall

perspective is an almost exact reflection of his protagonist's angle of

view, and like the earlier story, "A INay You'll Never .le" rises this

narrative method to dramatize the protagonist'j attempt to achieve and

maintain psychic balance.6 Wihile- th~e stories .:re gene~r ally similar,

however, there are notable differences between them. 19xile "BiP Tw-o-

Hearted River" portrays a character's desperate atcempr to keep from

thinking, "A Way You'll Never Be" portrays a charter's aIttemp' to

understand the meaning of his most troublesome thoughts. Thlis thematic

difference is reflected by the fact that thoeurt~ < iay Yoy '1 N ver i-a"

does not present a great deal of inlternal iLn~ormac A;n, Ihos: v es of

its protagonist's mind which it does present are more penetrating than

the internal views included in "Big Two-Hearted River.' For exam le,

when Nick lies down in Captain Paravicini's dugou:, his mind begin- to

work. Instead of choking his thoughts, as he d~oes in ig ~Io-Hearted

River," Nick allows his mind to wander, and the reader i: presented 1.ith





-200-


a series of memories which reveal many facets of Nick's past and which

make up one of the very few streams of consciousness of all of Heminlgway's

fiction.*

Although the reader never finds out all the details of the various

scenes which Nick recalls during his interior monologue, it is possible

to understand some of the associations which he makes.' Nick begins by

recalling the confused scene just before the first attack in which he

had ever taken part without being drunk. He remembers the charge up

the slope, and then shifts past the battle itself to the movement of the

wounded back downm the slope. Thle beginning and end of this particular

attack reminds Nick of other attacks during which he and other soldiers

moved, up, back, andl down, and this general movement sends his mind into



*This study uses the definition of stream of consciousness fiction
which Robert Humphrey develops in Stream of Consciousness in the Mlodern
Novel (Berkeley, 1965). According to Humphrey, stream of consciousness
fiction is that "type of fiction~ in which the emphasis is placed on
exploration of the prespeech levels of consciousness for the purpose,
prima~ri ly, of revealing the psychic being of thle charac ters" (Humphrey,
),By "prespeech levels of consciousness" Hum~phrey means those areas of
the psyche which "are not censored, rationally controlled, or logically
ordered"(Humphrey, 3), According to Humphrey, stream of consciousness
refers to an area of subject matter which can be presented by moeans of
four general techniques. The two of these techniques which are relevant
here are called "interior monologue," the technique "for representing
the psychic content and processes of character, partly or entirely
unuttered, just as these processes exist at various levels of conscious
control before they are formulated for deliberate speec~" (Humph~rey, 24r).
Interior monologue can be "direct-," in which case thioughts are represented
"with negligible author interference and with no auditor assumed," or
it can be "indirect," in which case "an omniscient author presents un-
spoken material as it were directly from the consciousness of a character
and, with commentary and description, guides the reader through it"
(Humphrey, 25, 29).





-201-


new channels. He recalls singing and dancing star Gaby Deslys and song-

writer-dancer Harry Pilcer, Gaby Destys' dancing partner in several

popular musical comedies. The lines, "you called me baby doll a year ago

.. you said that I was rather nice to know . ."(408) are probably from

one of Caby Deslys' songs. The mention of feathers suggests tbo plumage

which frequently adorned her famous hats and gowins, and the phrases

"feathers on," "feathers off" probably refer to the fact that Miss Deslys

was famous for her appearances in comparatively skimpy outfits.b Ni~ck's

memories of the French star remind him of his days in Paris, and he

thinks of riding up and down the hills of Paris in taxis. This memory

reminds Nick of how he dreams every night of "Sacred Cour, blown white,

like a soap bubble"(408), and his memory of one part of thisj habitual

dream reminds him of the other components of the dream.

A4s is true in "Big Two-Hearted River," in "A W~ay You'll Never Be"

the one extended view of Nick's thoughts which is presented reveals the

story's basic tension. During the final section of Nick's interior

monologue it becomes clear that Nick's primary motivation for returning

to the front is his desire to locate in objective reality a scene he

sees every night in dreams, a scene "outside of Fossalta" where "there

wyas a low house paintedl yellow with willows all around it- and a lowI

st-able and there was a canal .."(408). One of the effects of Nick's

wound is that his memories of places often become confused, and because

Nick is frequently unsure w~hichn places are real and which are not, he

is often in danger of losing his way. Nick has returned to the front in

the hope that if he can find the score which troubles him, he will have

begun the process of distinguishing objective and subjective reality and

will have taken an important first step in regaining his ability to










control his thoughts and actions.' As is made clear at thle end of thle

interior monologue, however, Nick's expedition to Fossalta has been a

failure, and it is apparently his frustration at not finding the scene

that triggers5 a deterioration of his control. As Nick talks to the

adjutant and the other soldiers, he becomes increasingly disturbed until

finally he relives the shattering experience of being wounded. The

way in which the house, the s-,able and the canal appear "in place" of

Nick's memory of being shot suggests that they -form an image under which,

so to speak, the painful moment of the wounding is usually sublimnated.

The particullar basis for the scene, however, is not m~ade clear, Young

believes th~at it is simply the place where Nick was wioun~edl, but the

problem is not so easily solved.10 The most frequently mentioned

difference between the imagined scene sad the real one is :he heights of

the Plave, but~ when NIickx sees the river early -in the story, hre thninks

to hiimself that "becoming historical had made no change in this, the

lower river"(404). If the scene which h~aunts N~ick wefre the place whiere`

he was wounded, the river in~ his dream should lock lik~e the river in thle

story, There is undoubtedly a psychological explanation for the scfee

Nick habitually sees, It seems quite possible, for example, that: it is

a comiposite of several of Nick's traumatic memories. Whatever the

specific explanation is, hoirever, remains unclear at the enid of the story.

Nick does not solve the riddle of the scene, and the reader, whose view

of events is limilted strictly to wata Nick perceives and thinks, can

only speculate about the solution.





-203-


Except for Nick's brief interior monologue in "A Way You'll Never

Be," there are no streams of consciousness in Hemingway's short stories.*

The story which comes closest to presenting the pre-speech levels of

consciousness, in fact, is the involved narration "Now I Lay Me."

As is true in "A Way You'll Never Be," the basic tension in "Now I Lay

Me" is that between the lower levels of Nick Adams' psyche and his reasoning

faculties. As Nick lies awake during the night, he is attempting to

maintain control of his mind, and though he is successful, the recu_-

rent imagery of wsorms and snakes, of decay and destruction suggests

that his control is, at best, precarious. The fact that Hefmingway

rarely presents streams of consciousness does not meat that he has little

interest in the workings of the mind, it merely reflects the fact that his

fiction is more frequently concerned with types of thinking which art

conducted on or near the speech level of conscioulsness. General)

speaking, Hemingway's fiction is less taken up with the presentation of



*In one of the brief character sketches near the end of To Have and
Have Not, the reader is presented with the rather uncomplicasted stream
of consciousness of Dorothy Hollis. Her thoughts are motivated by the
fact that her lover, having had sexual intercourse with her, has fallen
asinep and left her unfulfilled. As a result of her frustration, Dorpth
Hollis' thoughts circle around such questions as how good Eddie and
John are in bed, how some men need m~any w~omren, and how women often be--x~ie
"bithes." Finally she relieves her frustrationi by maisiuthating.
The interior monologues of Harry and Marie Morgan in To Have and
Have Not are not really streams of consciousness since they are confined
to the speech level of consciousness, to the process of trying to figure
out what to do next. The interior monologue at the end of "One Reader
Writes" in which a young wife wonders why her husband "had to get a
malady" takes place, like the ruminations of the Morgans, on the speech
level of consciousness.










patterns of free association th~an with the ways in which characters take

stock of themselves when they are under various kinds of immediate

physical and psychological stress.

T ike "Big Two-11earted River" and "A way You'll Never Be," "The

Snows of Kilimanjaro" is largely concerned with its protagonist's thoughts

and feelings, but whlile these other stories portray characters' attempts

to control certain areas of their minds, "The Snowus of Kilimanjaro" is

concerned with what is revealed by thie memories a character reviews

when he believes he is about to die. Few short stories have received

the amount of critical attent-ionl which has been accorded "The Snowis of

Kilimanjaro." Of Ilemingway's stories, in fact, only "The Killers,"

"A Clean, !iell-L~ighted Place," and "The Short Happy Life of Francis

Mlacoxuber" have been the subjects of a comparable number of critical

diasussions. Ther most obvious reason for this attention is that "The

Snows of Kilimiinjaro" is beautifully written. Even critics whlo believe

that the story ultimately fails judge it a magnificent failure.11 "Th~e

Snow~s of Kilimanijaro" has also received critical attention because it

p'ortrays mnore eyents and moire scenles than any other Hemlingway short story.

Hiemingwa~cy himnself has written that in "'The Snows of Kilimanjaro' I put in

and deliberately used what could have made mlany novels to see how far it

was possible to concentrate in a medium. "12 F~inally, the story has been

the suibject of many critical discussions because it offers a number of

difficult critical problems, the most- perplexing of which hias been the

significance of the headnote and of its presumably symbolic moulntain

and leopard. This study does not proLteud to answer all1 thie questions

suirmrouning th~e partriculair meaning of the spnIublism in "Thel Sniows of

Kilmojar."A more corrplet-e understandings: of certain aspects of the






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story's narrative perspective, however, is important for any intelligent

exploration of the story's meaning.

One aspect of the narrative strategy of "The Snows of Kilimanjaro"

which has caused consistent critical comment is the plane trip which is

described near the end of the story. Mlany critics have interpreted this

flight as Ilemingway's way of indicating that Harry is a superior mlan.

Much of the disagreement about the story's success, in fact, has resulted

from varying opinions as to whether H~emingway's elevation1 of Harry is

jus tified by H~arry's actions during the s tory. Marion Montgomery feels

that Harryrs "salvation" is not justified by his nature and that his

journey to the summit of Kilimanjaro is a sentimental attempt to give

the story a happy ending. Rovit believes that Harry is a despicable

character, but that Heimingway awards salvation to him in order to in-;ult

the reader. Other critics see Hocming~ay's' Elevation of Ha~rry as

perfectly justifiable. According to Oliver Evans, some sort of divine

forcJiveness results in Harry's return "to the Original Source of al~l

love" not merely "in hisdeliriumn .. but in death.,,15 Gloria

Dussinger claims that the plane trip is Hemingway's method of giving

Harry a "second chance," during which Harry regains his intCegrity and

comes to deserve t1e Sal~vation be subsequently receives.16 The problem

with all of these interpretations is that they fail to take into account

the implications of the ways in which Hlemingway limits the narrator's

presentation of events in "Thle Snows of Kili~manjarc." During the first

twelve sections of the story (up until the flight to the mountain), the

uninvolved nar-rator's overall perspective is nearly identical to the

protagonist's angle of view. As completely as any previously discussed





- 0G-


story, in fact, "The Snows of Kilimanjaro" limits itP s pEl reation of.

its protagonist's thoughts and perceptions. That tiiis i- thh ca52s ,

especially obvious at the end of the twelfth section. Wh~en deach is

described as resting its head on the foot of Harry's cot and as caving

up on Harry until it crouches on his chest, the reader understands that

the being which Harry sees exists only in Harry's i .aglnststa, t'!a' 11

is the? p-.ojection of a mind which is growing deliriou;. "'De-th" seems

real enough, but this is because it is described as H:1rry mees-lt. Thw

"hell of a breath" which Harry thinks death has is actually the odor

from Harry's putrified leg. The weight on Harry's chest is his pr~o-

ject-ion of internal pain. This same narrative method is ujed in the

subsequent section of the story for the presentation of the imagined

flight to Kilimanja~ro. The flight stees real enough, but th?t is because

t~he render sees only what Harry sees.17 That Harry in realit, do~sn'~

take a plane flighlt, thlat he really doesn't see Kilima~njsro is made

perfectly ceaec in th;e final section of the story when IHelen wal up

and sees Hlarry on thef cot. When Harry dreams he has t-rochl. ge"...i g

his leg onto the plane, he is
It is: likely that when Harry dreams he is being a rracH"l;;..i the- me,

he is actually being carried into the tent.18

As every critic has suggest-ed, Harry's journey to the r:unt~in

has symbolic value. Hefmingway himself implies that this is th~e case by

explaining in the headnote to "The Snowrs of Kilimanjare" :hat the rastern

summit of the mountain is called "the House of God." Hcerever, whether

the destination of Harry's symbolic flight is thought of as 'e `'cki< e-

ment of the "Leaol," as E. W. Tedlock suggests, as a movrme a~ iIto




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"Iffe-in-death," as Evans calls it, as the attainment of Flaubert's

"Mountain of Art," as Alfred E. Engstrom and Philip Young agree, or in

any other way, the fact remains that whatever symbolic journey is taken

occurs only in Hlarry's imagination.1l9 The journey to the mountain may

suggest the achievement of moral or artistic integrity, but this in-

togrity is something Harry wishes he were attaining, not something he

actually attains. In other words, the flight to Kilimanjaro does

suggest an enaubling of the protagonist, but HIemingway is not ennobling

Harcy, hie is merely presenting Harry's imaginary ennoblement of him-



Those critics who see the flight to Kilimanjaro as a means by

wh!ich Semingwa-y rewards Harry seldom mention the final section of the

story. That this is the case is understandable, for whatever enuoblement

appen'.1s to ,cculr during the Elight ic harshly unde~r-cut whien HOien is

awakniredi by the hyena. Evans, Dussinger, Tedlock, and others see "The

Snow~s of Kilimanjaro" as ending on a "note of triLumph." The real ending,

however, is a good deal less than triumphant. As WIillian~ Van O'Connor

mentions, among the final images in the story, one is nearly as memorable

as the white brillialnce of th~e mountain: when Helen wakes no, she can

see Harry's "bulk under the mosquito bar but somehow he had gotten his

leg out and it hunig down alongside the cot. The dressings had all come

down and she could not look at it"(77).20 The last picture the story-

presen-rts is not~ of a victorious ascent to the sunanit of Kilimranjaro,

it is o: Harry's patrified body lying dead in the tent. The story's

final emphasis is not on _the achievement of perfection, but on the

inevitability and finality of death, that very limitation which makes





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the difficult struggle for imm~ortality in art so important anl under-

taking,21

Though the fact that thle flight is a dream is nlot made explicit

until the final section of "The Snows of K~ilimanjaro," the difference

between what Harry dreams and what actually happens is imlplicit in the

manner in which the thirteenth section of the story is presenlted.2 At

the beginning of the dream Harry hears the plane and looks up:

It showed very tiny and then made a wide circle and the
boys ran out and lit the fires, using kerosene, and piled
on grass so there were two big smudges at each end of the
level place and the morning breeze blew them toward the
camp and the plane circled twice more, lowy this time, and
then glided down and levelled off and landed smoothly and,
coming walking toward him, was old Comlpton in slacks, a
tweed jacket and a brown felt hat. (75)

The run-on construction of this sentence gives the action it: describes

the effect of bieing both accelerated and telescoped. Eveons seem to

follow one another wiithout regard to the normal limitations of tim~e.

The Iplane, for example, circles and lands too quickly, and Compton is

out and walking towar-d Hanrry, seemingly before the plane has stopped.

This kind of run-on construction is used frequently during the description

of the flight. The resulting difference between the presientation of

the dream an1d the presentation of real events, while not obvious, is

perceptable anid creates overtonies whiebi prepare thle reader for the

revelations of the final section of the story.

A more obvious, but less frequently discussed aspect of the

narrative perspective of "The Snows of Kilimanjaro" is the use of

itali~cs. Nzot only is "Thef Snows of Kilimanjarou" the first Hemningway

story to use italics as a means of distinguiishing various aspects of

its presentation, it also makes miorp extensive use of the device than





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any other liamingway narrative.* At first glance, the tacticss in "The

Snows of Kilimanjaro" seem simply to be a means; of isolating Harry's

memories of his past life fromn other kinds of thinking and from the

action which is occurring in the acting present of the story. Although

all of the episodes in italics are memories which Harry reviews during

his last hours, the purpose of the italics is nor simply to separate

memory from other parts of the story. That this is the case is made

clear by the fact that Ilarry's memories of hris life writh\ Helen and of

"poor Julian" are presented without italics. Mlontgomery suggests that

the italics embody "Harry's reflections concerning the past he approves

of; the material in Roman type embodies thle past and present he dis-

approves of."2 While this distinction is valid in a general sense,

the particular memories which are presen;ted in italics are not chosen

simply on the basis of Harry's approval. Harry dloesr't "approve" of

any aspect of the episode in which Williamson is ''caght in the wre,

with a flare lighnting: him up and his bowels spilled out inco the

wi~re . ."(73), nor does he approve of the incident when the Greek

artillery fires into its own troops. It is even doubtful th!at Harry

approves of his owjn conduct in all instances. Surely, the episode in



*In only a few other instances in Hemingway's fiction are italics
used for the purpose of distinguishing between various parts of a
narrative or between various narratives. The most significant of these
instances is In Our Timne. The italicizingC of the eighteen interchapterS
serves as a means of setting thlem off more clearly as prose poems from
the ful~l length stories in the volume. In Chapter 21 of To l~iev ndHv
Not Hemingway italicizes the flashback to willias Gordon's embarrassing
afternoon with Helene Bradley in order to give special emphlasis to the
shift in~ time and place andi to the effect of the experience on William
Gordon. In Chapter 2$ of To Hiave and Have Not italic; are used briefly
to separate various parts of a conversation; and near the end of F~or
Whomte Bell Tolls italics are used to separate different portions of
one of Robert Jordan's interior monologules.






-210-

which Harry writes a passionate letter to his first wife, only to for-

get about it later, is not included because Hiarry sees himself playing

a particularly heroic role during the incident. There is one thing

which all of the episodes in italics do have in common. As is made

explicit again and again during "tlhe Snows of Kilimanjaro," the

italicized incidents are those experiences which Harry "had saved to

write .."(55), those experiences which he "had always thought that

he would wr1ite . ."(6G) but now never would. The last italicized

section in the story, in fact, is the only section during which Harry

does not explicitly regret his failure as an artist. Even this section,

however, does present memories Harry wishes he had written. That th~is

is the case is suggested by the fact that during the conversation which

follows the section, Hiarry tells Hielen that he2 has been "writing."

Harry has not really been writing, of course. He is beginning to grow

delirtous, and be confuses his dreams of creation with the act of

creation. Howuev-r, since Harry in no way distinguishes the memories

of the final italicied section fcom all the other mewnoies he has been

"writing," it seems fair Lo assume that thiis final section, like all

previous italicized sections, presents experiences Harry had meant to

write. Though th- memories in italics have in common the fact that they

represent experiences 11arry had saved to write, Hasrryr's procrastination

is not pyr s the criterion for the use of italics. In at least one

instance an experience 11arry had meant to write about is presented in

Roman type. Harry remembers that: after li' ilarriage to H~elen, he con-

sidered hinrielf i "spy" in the countryy" of thle rich and that he prosiated

that once h knowv the country wieil enough, he would "leave it anld write






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of it and for once ir would be urlitten by som:e one iwho kinew vlhat he

was writing of"(59). However, while th~is memoDry shows4 that the critorton

for including an incident in italics is not simply that the incident

forms the basis for stories Harry had planned to write, it does suggest

what the actual criterion is. Unlike every other incident Harry had

saved to write, Hiarry's plan to tell thle truth about the rich pr-oves

ultimately not wzorthl carrying out, iWhen Harry came to know the rich,

hie found that his experiences in their "country" were not worth writing.

Als he thinks to himself, "The rich were dull and they dranki too much,

or they played too nuch backgowraon. they were dull and they were rep-

etitious" (72). One thing, thern, does distinguish the italicized sections

of "The Snlo-s of Kili.:njaro" from the sections in f~m~an type. It is

the fact I-hat thle ep~isodes in italics are experien~ces Hanrry had saved

to write ^nd w-hich, in~deed, wreir worth writ:ngS abolur. Thle italicized

d'eetions, in ot-her words, are n~emories which should hlave been recreated

in fiction.

Critics have generally agreed that the division of "The Snows~ of

Kilimanjaro" into italics and Rom~an type results in a meaningful contrast

betweenr Harry's "present igopble situation and the memory of a more

heroic past."2 Thle specific basis for the use of italics, however,

causes the division of the story to have more specific implications.

For one thing, the alternation of italics and Roman type keeaps the reader

constantly aware of the degree to which Harry hias failed to fulfill his

obligations as a writer. Tie cpisodeis which make up the italicized

sections illulstrat~e the bcaulty anld thle power of the things Harry has

seen, and, as a result, empFhasize the loss of the fiction which m~ight





-212-


have been the product of these episodes. The fact: that same of thle

episodes represent numerous incidents, all of which sould have become

fictional material, emphasizes the extent of Harry's failure.

Another implication of the use of italics in "The Snows of

Kilimanjaro" is suggested by the fact that in the final analysis the

italicizing of memories represents the overall narrator's judgement.

Were the italicized episodes presented in Roman type, it woulld still be

clear that they are memories which Harry had saved to write, an~d the

change would ini no way alter the presentation of Harry's thinking.

What would be lost if the italics were omitted is "Hlemingw~ay's" juidge-

ment that the episodes should have been recreated in art. Thts very

crrphasis on the value of Harry's experiences as material for Eiction,

however, mnakes it particularly obvious th~at at least inl one sense some

of the m~emnories have become fictional material. Harry's failure as

a writer is made cleac, after all, only by ":lilenwinga's" success. Harry's

inlability to fulfill the duty of a. writer, in other words, is mad; clear

both by the story's catalogue of many of thoze specific incidents to

ihich Harry neglected to apply his talent anld by "Hiemingway's" use: ofi

some of those incidents as fictional material. To put it another way,

the achievowent represented by "Thie Snow~s of Kilimanjaro" is the nlti-

mate standard against which the reader can, measure Hlarry's failure.

One final aspect of the narrative strategy of "Thec snows; of

K~ilimanorjaro" which needs to be discussed is thle opigraphi hici;lh precedels

the body of the story. At some point in nearly evocy crf tical discussion

of "The Snows of Kilimaonjaro" an afttmpt is mnade to explaiin thle meaning

of this Epigraph and to discover the naiture of its relationahiip to, the





-213-


story as a whole. Many articles, in fact, take as their primary purpose

the solution of this problem. Most recent critics interpret the leopard

of the headnote as a metaphor for some aspect of moral or artistic per-

Efction. The leopard's climb up the mountain is often understood as a

metaphor for what is seen as Harry's achievement of moral or artistic

integrity during the final hours of his life.25 The problem with most

analyses of the headnote's significance is that they are based on the

idea that the leopard's attainment of the mountaintop is a worthwhile

achievement. In reality, however, the leopard is only successful inl a

very limited sense. The animal's attainment of the mountaintop is clearly

a prodigious feat. Ait the same time, however, `oy making the journey the

leopard leaves its natural habitat and places 'tself in the unfortunate

postion of not being able either to endure the cold of the high altitude

or to find its way to a less hostile environment. The direct result

of the lo~opard's. climb, in other words, is death. For the leopard

"success" is ultimately a means to failure.

Once the leopard's achievement is put in proper perspe~ctive, the

relationship between the epigraph and Harry's life becomes more unader-

standable. Harry is like the leopard in that he has failed to withstand

the "high altitude" he achieved as a result of his success as a ycung

writer.2 As is made clear in the italicized sections of the story,

Harry's early life as a writer was a struggle, a struggle which was

productive of good literature. Because of the fame and money which cam~e

with the success of his writing, however, Harry slowly lost his ability

to w~ork. His marriage to Helen and his subsequent entrance into high

society "were all part of a regular progression in which .. he h~ad





-214-



traded away what remained of his old life"(62). Harry's ill-fated

expedition to Africa, in fact, represents a last desperate attempt to

"work the fat off his soul," an attempt which fails not only because of

Harry's carelessness, but because of his inability to make a real break

with his recent life by leaving Helen behind.

While both Hlarry's struggle and the leopard's end in failure,

however, both the animal and the man do receive what Evans calls a

"Life-in-death." The leopard's struggle and failure are given a kiind

of immortality by the preservative powers of the mountain snow, by the

very element whlich the animal was unable to conquer. In a similar

manner, Harry's failure to fulfill the dulties of a tru;e writer by cr~eat-

ing fiction is immortalized through the creation of fiction. Just as

t~he leopard is preserved by the snows of K~ilimanjaro, in other wonrds,

HA-rry is preserved by "The Snows of Kilir.anrjaro."














NOTES TO CHAPTER VZIII


1. Young, Ernet Hminway pamphlet, 6.

2. Malcolm Cowley, "Nightmare and Ritual in Hemingway" in W~eeks,
ed., Hemingway: A Collection of Critical Essays, 42.

3. Young, Ernest Hemingway: A Reconsideration, 47.

4. Young, Ernest Hemingway: A Reconsideration, 46. Earl Rovit
makes the same point: "That Hemingway is able to insinuate [Nick's]
desperate restraint by making his prose the stylistic equivalent of that
restraint is the triumph of the story" (Rovit, 81-82).

5. ilemingvay does use Nick Adams as the involved narrator of
"Nocw I Lay Mle,"astery which has much the same thematic content as "Big
Two-Hearted River." As is made clear in Chapter V of this study, however,
the kind of suspense which "Big Two-Hearted River" creates is achieved
in "Nowr I Lay Me" only by full dramatization of the narrating present,
that is, by the creation of a type of involved narration very different
from that used in "A Canary for One" or The Sun Also Rises, in both oE
which the narrating present is nearly invisibig.

6. The narrative strategies of two of Hemingway's unreprinted
stories are similar to the narrative strategies of "Big Two-Hecarted
River" and A Way You'll Never Be." In "Get a Seeing-Eyed Dog" the
narrator's overall perspective is nearly identical to the angle of view
of Philip, a writer who has recently been in an accident which has re-
sulted in blindness and partial amnesia. The presentation of Philip's
unvoiced thoughts reveals that the calm acceptance with which he seems
to face the loss of his sight and memory results from a kind of severe
discipline which he knows he cannot maintain much: longer. Because Philip
is afraid that his loss of control will in the long run alienate the
woman, he asks her to go on a vacation, and though he fails to convince
her to lealve, hie vows to himself to "try it another day," "Geti a SFeeing-
Eyed D~og" appeared in The Aclantic Mlonthly, CC (N'ovember, 1957), 66-68.
Most of "Nobody Ever Dies" is presented fromt the angle of view of
Enrique, a dedicated young Cuban revolutionary who has nearly succeeded
in training himself not to feel. Though few of Enrique's thoughts and
feelings, other than his reactions to his immediate perceptions, are










presented, those few deeper views of his mind which are portrayed are
very important. They reveal "the one small and unconditioned human part"
of the young man which brings about that momentary relaxation of control
which results in his death. Unlike the other stories discussed in this
chapter the presentation of interior view in "Nobody Ever Dies" does not
reflect exactly thie activity of Enrique's mind. Several times the reader
is presented with omniscient explanations of aspects of Enrique's con-
sciousness in a manner in which Enrique himself would not think of them.
"Nobody Ever Dies" appeared in C sopltan CVI (March, 1939), 29-31,
74-76.

7. According to Robert Hiumphrey, "The chief technique in con-
trolling the movement of stream of consciousness in fiction has been an
application of the principles of psychological free association" (Htumphrey,
43). Hemingway uses the traditional technique in "A Way You'll Never
Be" and in the few other streams of consciousness in his fiction.

8. Various aspects of Gaby Deslys' career andr public image are
discussed in Alan Dale, "Artist in Dollars," Cosmropolitan, LI (Septem'oer,
1911), 507-511; "A Lily of France," Cosmpog an, LV (June, 1913), 126-
127; "London's Solemnity Relaxing," Literary Digest, L (May 15, 1915),
1152-1153.

9. Nick's interior monologue sheds some light on the structure of
the first few~ paragraphs of "A Way You'll Never Be." The opening senltence
of t-he story presents a panoramic riew of how a recent attack "hand gonre
across the field, be;en he.ld up by machi~ne-gun fire from t-he suntken. road
and fromn the group of Iarm houses, encountered no resistance in the town,
and reached the bank of t-he river"(402). In the second sentence the
reader sees Nick bicycling through the scene of the attack and is told
that Nick is noticing che position of the dead. During the next six
paragraphs the r-ead~r watches from Nick's angle as Nick examines in order
those aspects of scene which are summa~rized in the first sentence--the
field (paragraphs two and three), the machine-gun exlplacem1ents (paragrlaphS
threc, four, and five), the tow~n (paragraphs five anld six): and the bank
oF the river (paragraphs six and seven). Since the way the attack had
gone is revealed in the first paragraph and since a detailed description
of a similar scene is included in "A Natural History of the Dead," a
story: which appears with "A WJay You'll Nlever BE" in fin~rr_ Take Nothinng,
there seems little reason for Nick's detailed ex~aminationi of t-he gruesome
scene. It would seem likely, in fact, that N~ick would wish~ to look
away from the battlefield. During Nick's interior monologue, however,
the reader finds out that because th]ings "get so damlned mixed up.
he not-iced everything in such detail. to keep it all st-raight so be would
knlow just where he was .."(409).

10. Young, E ms! 1___rnest Hsiemyag ecnsdeaton 52.











11. See, for example, Gordlon and Tate, 423.

12. Letter from Hemingway to Charles Atkins. In Atkins, 73.

13. Mlarion M~ontgomery, "The Leopard and the Hyena: Synbol and
Meaning in 'The Snows of Kilimanjaro,'" University of Kansas City Review,
XXVII (Summer, 1.961), 282.

14. See Rovit, 37-38.

15. Oliver Evans, "'The Snows of Kilimanjaro': A Revaluation,"
PMLA, LXXVI (December, 1961), 605.

16. See Gloria R. Dussinger, "'The Snows of Kilimanjaro': Harry's
Second Chance," Studies in hort Fiction, V (Fall, 1967), 58-59.

17. Dussinger's strange contention that "Hemingway has made
Harry's ascension to the Hiouse of God truly by see Kilimanjaro through
the eyes of his protagonist" (Dussinger, 55) indicates her confusion
about the uses of narrative perspective in fiction. The pres ntation of
scene, character, and action is always less reliable when the reader is
seeing as a character sees. In reality, Hemin~iway makes Harry's
ascension to the Hocuse of God at least doubtful by seeing Kilimanjaro
through Hlarry's eyes.

18. The suggestion thlat it is only Harry's soul which travels to
the House of God and that his body remains in the tent is difficult to
accept since an obvious point is made of the difficulty Harry has getting
his leg into the plane. Though no critic makes this suggestion explicit,
it seems implicit in Evans' discussion and in several other approaches
to the story.

19. See E.. W. Tedlock, "Hemingwayl's 'The Snows of Kilimanjaro,"'
ExiEl~icaor, VIII (October, 1949), item 7; Oliver Evanls, "'Th:e Snows of
Kilimanjaro': A Revaluation," 606-607; Young, Ernest Heminga:
co~~rnsieain 197-198; and Alfred E. Engstrom, "Dane, F~laubert, and
'Thie Snou~s of Kilimoanjaro,"' Modern Language Notes, LXVr (March, 1950),
203-204.

20, Uilliam Van O'Connor, The rotesque:p An Americanl Genre and
Other Essays (Carbondale, Illinois, 1962), 122.

21, Young, Carlos Eaker, and R. W'. Stallman, see the final section
of the story as an undercutting of wihat is suggested in the dream. See
foung, Ernest emingy~ A Reconsideration, 78; Eakler, Hemn~ingay The
Wlriteras Artist, 195; and R. W. St-llman, The Hosuses that Jamesu Built,
196.

22. As M~ontgomefry suggests, the particular content of the dream
"has been prepared for all along in the story." For one thing, Helen










"h~opefully argues that t-he plane will come for him in time to save
him .. Further, one is prepared for a psychological use of the
mountain, though Kilimanjaro itself does not figure in the story until
the dream passage, for Harry's thoughts run to the cool snowJs of the
heroic yesteryears as he lies on the cot on the African plane"(Miontgomery,
"The L~eopard and the Hyena," 281-282 ).

23. Montgomery, "The Leopard and the Hyena," 278,

24. Mlontgomery, "The Leopard and the Hycna," 277,

25. See Dussinger's review of critical approaches to the leopard
-nd the mountain as symbols.

26. This interpretation of the relationship between the epigraph
and Harry's life is given strong support by the "second epig~raph, which,
as Robert W. Lewis, Jr., explains in "Vivienne de Watteville, Hemlingway's
Compaznion on Kilimanjaro." Texas Quarterly, IX (Winter, 1966), Hemingway
originally intended to use in "The Snows of Kilimanjaro," The "second
epigraph," which is taken fromi Vivienne de Watteville's Speak to the
Earth, goes as follows:
"The difficulites [sic.] he said, were not in the
actual climbing. It was a long grind, and success de-
pended not on skill, but on one's ability to withstand the
high altitude. H~is parting words were that I must make
the attempt soon, before there was any risk of the rains
setting in."
V. DE WATTEVILLE
According to Le~wis, the qulotation was omitted from "The Snows of
Kil~imanjaro" not because it was considered irrelevant, but for two other
reasons. First, Arnold Gingrich, the editor of Esquire with whom
H~emingway made the arrangements for publishing the story, felt t-hat "had
both epigraphls been retained, an awkkwardl amount of 'business' would have
divided th~e title from the story proper" (Lewis, 76). Second, Hemingway
may have felt that the w~atteville epigraph combined with the "leopard
epigraph" would hanve made "his intentions too obvious, his meaning too
explicit--though perhaps such an assumpltion by Hemaingway would have meant
his underestimiating the complexity of his story and overestimrating the
perceptiveness of his readers"(Lewis, 76).

































PART III

MULTIPLE PERSPECTIVE















CRAIPTER IX

MUILTIPLE PERSPECTIVE


The technique of using more than one narrator in a single work

in order to effect thematic content--that group of ficticuial methods

usually called"multiple perspective" or "multiple viewu"--remains to be

discussed in connection with Hemingway's short stories. In contrast to

a contemporary like Faulkner, Hemningway carried on relatively few ex-

perimecnts with multiple Perspective. The only work in which he -attemipts

to effect meaning by using several overall rarrators, in fact, is To

Have and Have Not, and, as has been suggpested, even this one experiment

is unfEinished. Ilo-mver, the fact that Hocmingway was never whell7 jllc-

cessful in the use oF multiple narrators does not m~ean thatl he was un-

interested in the effects which can be achieved by using a variety of

perspectives in a sin31le work. Like 'many of his contei.1poraries, Hemingwray

did sucessfully use one group of fictional methlods which can be included

in thle general category of multiple perspective. Withiai~ work which

is presented by a single uninvolved narrator, an author can create

offects similar to those created in narratives which employ several

na~rrators by causing the reader to perceive events fromt some combination

of the narrator's overall perspective and the angles of view of particular

characters, By using several di~ffernt angles of view in Portrait of a


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-221-


Lady and Li~,. i aqust,~~, for example, Jamerhs ndi Faulkne~r create fiction

which is as fully diverse in perspective as are many works which make

use of several narrators. Hemningway successfully uses this type of

multiple perspective to create and modify the thematic content of For

Whmc~ che~ Bell Tolls and of several of his short stories.

There are a great m~any ways in which the angles of viewr of partic-

Miar characters and the overall perspective of an uninvolved narrator

can be meaningfully comlbined in a story. The simplest and m~os~t frequently

used of these many pJossile variations occurs wheii th-e narrative per-

spective of a warkshifts from the angle of view of one character to the

angle of viewy of another character. In some instances the only effect

of this shifting of angle is the broadening of the reader's perspective.

;n "The K~illers," for example, the narrator's shift frcm a neutral

positionn into Ceorg~e's angle, from George's angle into Nick's angle, and

firnally, from Nick's angle back to a neutral perspective seems to have

little im~portance in addition to broadening thle story's scope. Were

"The Killcers" presented from a singlP, static angle of view, some of the

story's offectiveness as a survey of various reactions to danger might

be lost. Often, howrever, shifits in angle of view have more specific

effects than ther more broadeninga of the reade~rr' Jierspecti-i The single

shift in angle of view which occurs in "The Doctor and the Doctor's Wife,"

for example, serves as a means for rcenrolling the reader's evaluation of

Diocto~r Adams. Because the first section of the story is presented more

or less from the angle of view of thle Indians, the doctor's self-

righteousne~ss antd resulting emba~rrassmenlt seem all the mnore pathetic.










The subsequent shift to the doctor's angle during his conversation with

Mrs. Adams causes the reader to see Doctor Adams' life more as thle doctor

sees it. The result is an increase in sympathy for the lonely rran.

The. use of shifting angle of view is also an important means for

controlling the reader's evaluation of the protagonis of "The Tradesman's

Return," a story which wa~s revised and reprinted as Part II of To Have

and Have Not.1 During the first scene of "The Tradesman's R~etulrn" the

reader watches from H-arry Morgan's angle as the fisherman-smuggler

attempts to hide a load of contraband liquor he and his mate havea just

brought from Cuba. During the first part of tlhe second scene (the rest

of this scene is completely d-ramatic) the reader watcher; froml the angle

of Captain W~ilie Adams as he pilots his charter Eishing boat doba the

Woman Kecy Channel past Harry and Weasley, and during the final scenre the

story shites back to Harry's angle for the fishlermain's returnl to Key

Wes~th. It i~s clelr from thle first scene of the story tha~t Hlarry Mocrgan

has courage and endurance. Hie forces himself to do heavy phlysical work

ini spite of considerable fatigue and the pain of a serious gunshot woulnd.

While somre of the basic aspects of Harry's character are clear fromn the

beginning, however, the extent of his persistence and bravery is not

clear untlil thRe story's first c',anpo of pe-spa-ctive. In the Eir.St I usage

alec- the shift in angle of view, the reader is presented with Captain

- illie's reactionls to seeing Hlarry: Harry crosseld last night. TLhalt

boy's got- cojones. He must hazve got that whole blow,. Sh~o's a sex b~oat

all right. Ilow do youi suppose hie smnahed his windishield. D~amnedf if

I'd crosjs 9 night lIke last night, Daum~ed if I'd ever run 11quor froml

Cuba"(73). By presenting t-he surprise. of an experiecedcr fiishe~rman thlat





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Harry crossed from Cuba during thte recent storm, Hiemingway indicates

that Harry's accomplishment is a good deal more significant than it

might seem otherwise. That Captain Willie forms his judgement without

knowing, as the reader does, that Harry made the dangerous voyage without

the help of hiis mate and with the use of only one arm makes it parti-

cularly clear that Harry's ability, courage, and endurance are of heroic

stature.

In the two African stories shifts in narrative perspective are

used as means for controlling the reader's reaction to various themes

antd acions. As is suggested in Chapter VIII of the present study,

the shift in perspective inl the final section of "The SnowIs of K~ilimanjaro"

femphasizes one of the story's main themes.2! By shifting to Helen's angle

of view~ at thie conclusion of the narrative, Homingway forcefully under-

cuits thie spiiritual eicevation which H~arry seems to Iundergo during thle

~illusoryr flight to the mountaintop. For one thing, when Helen wakes up

an~d sees Harlry lying inl the cot, the reader knows for sure that th~e

flight is a dream. Further, by ending the story with Hllen's; horrified

realizat~ion that Ha3rl: is dead, a final emphasis is given to one of the

story's main themes, t-hat because timre is so short, the hardest thiing

for a writer is "to survive and get his worki done.,,

Secau~se of the particular subject matter of "Th;e Short Happy L~ife

of Francis Maocombr," control of the reader's reactions is especially

important, and sh~ifting angle is onle technique with which thiis control

is maintained. Since Francis Macomiber's success during the ~arrrative

depends onl th~e degree to which he lives up to the exacting standards of

big game hunting in Africa and since the average reader of "The Short






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Happy Life" has no experience with this dangerous game, it: is parti-

cularly important for the story to make the standards of the hunt under-

standable and acceptable to the reader. In general the story accomplishes

this by presenting events from thle angle of view of RobJert Wilson, the

character who most fully represents these standards. During the disastrous

lion hunt, however, most of the action is presented from Nacomber's angle,

and thle standards against which the reader measures the American are

supplied by a~ combination of Wilson's judgemrents and several unusual

shifts irl angle of view.

If' the reader is to appreciate Francis M~acombler's growth in stature

during the secondl half of "The Short Happy Life," it mllst be clear th~at

during thre lion hunlt thie merican is more of a coward than he should be.

!:ere Majcomber's conduct during thie hunt judged acceptable, his Later

victory over fear wouldl not seman particilarly significant. In order for

Marcomber's frenzie~d run from the lion to seem blameworthyj, however, the

Story maust convince the reader that it Le absolultely necessary for Wilson

and Mancomber to risk their lives in order to kill a ser~iously woundedd

animal whiich woulld probably die soon anyway. Wil'sonl suggest-s a twro-fold

necessity Loc~ risk. "For one thingp," hre tells Macombefr, the lion is

"certain to be suffering, For another, some one else might run onto

th"1) he ts~cond part- oE Wilson's e.;planation is untderstandab le

enough, but thle first part might seem semleewhat irndadquate were. i~t not

supported by several shifts in eagle, the first of whiich occurs before

thle wounded lion escapes into the high grass. As Macomiber gets ready

to shoot the lion~, thel narration shifts out of Macalabor's angle OE vriew






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and into the lion's angle of view. The reader first realizes that the

lion has been shot, in fact, when the lion hears

a cracking crash and felt the slam of a .30-06 220-grain
solid bullet that bit his flank and ripped in sudden hot
scalding nausea through his stomach. He t-rotted, heavy,
big-footed, swinging wounded full-bellied, through the
trees toward the~ tall grass and cover, and the crash came
again to go past him ripping thle air apart. Then it
crashed again and he felt the blow as it hit h~is lower
ribs and ripped on through, blood sudden hoc and frothy in
his mouth, and he galloped toward the high grass where he
could crouch and not be seen and make them bring the
crashing thing close enough so be could make a rush and
g"t the man that held it. (15)

By shifting into the lion's angle, thie story mnakes it clear t-hat the

animal is more~ th~an simply a mindless beast. By knowing first hand of

the animal's suffering, the reader is more fully able to agree w~ith Wilson

that the lion must not be allowed to die a slow and painful death. Once

Mancedor- ^:nd W!~iso h~ave discussed the necessity for following the lion

into thie brush, thie muen get ready to begin pursuit, and the necessity

for the dangerous chance they are taking is re-emphasized by a second

dhift into the lio;'s angle of view:

Th-irty-five yards into the grass the big lion lay
flattened oult along the ground. Hiis ears were back and his
only movement wans a slight twitching uIp and down of his
long, black-tufted tail. He had turned at bay as soon
as he had reached this cover and he was sick with the wound
through his full belly, and wealkening with the wound through
his lungs that brought a thin founy red to his mouth each
time hie breathed. H~is flank-s were wet and hot and flies
were on the little openings the solid bullets had made in
his tawny hide, and his big yellow eyes, narrowed with
hate, looked straight ahead, only blinking when the pain
came as he breathed, and hiis claws dogS in the soft baked
eazrth. All of him, pain, sickrress, hatred and al l of his
reLmaininrG strengthi, was tightening into an absolute con-
centration~ for a rulsh. (19)

Again, the lion's suffering is seen first hand, and again, the animal's






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misery julstifies w~ilson's demand for pursuit. Thie result is that Mlacomber's

inability to conqerr his fear long Enough to help put the suffering animal

out of its agony seems particularly wreak and cowardly.5

The thematic em~phasis of "The Shnort Happy Life" is also affected

by the order of the story's several shifts in perspective. As has been

sugg~ested, it is particullaly important in this story that the reaider

not be. overly sympathettic to M~acomber's cowardice. One w~ay in which the

narrtiveiV avoids the creat~ion of excess sympathy for the Amrerican is by

allowing the reader to see onily a few portions of the action from

Macomiber's angle of view. During the very first section of "The Short

Happy L~ife"' the reader sees events from the angle of Margot Macombher, and

the rESult is that! thef reader's fir-st impr5SsionsS of Macomberc adi Wirlson

ace colored by thte :rserican wife's disgust for her husband and by her

new ad:ntration for Wilson. Once Mrs. M~acombier runsi crying into the tent,

thle rlarrative :Ciparapective shifts anld thLe reaider sees f~ro Robiertf iNilson's~

an::le. During the subsequent sections of thep narrative, Mrs. Mancomber's

unfavorable judgement~li of MaLcomber- is reinforced by th~e evaluation of an

essent-ially neutral observer whose ex-perience renders him particularly

well-allited to judge Miacoraber's conduct during: the hurnt.\ Because! th~e

events of: thle first quanrter of thec story are presented from the angles

of t~wo chiaric-cetrs who hanve little respect for Macembe,fc a minlinlue of

symrpathy is created for the American. The reader remains at a great

distancer fromnr the: American, in fact, until the long falashoack, during

whlich Malcetrb,-'s IG1EOlC~r s ful attempt: to~ kill chef lioni is rac-iewed.

By prese''ndn the: lion hulnt primar~ly f-rom M~aeobelrr's angle Lle nairrator






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accomplishes two things. First, the judgements of Mlargot and Wilson con-

cerning Macomber's fear and cowardice are substantiated. Macomber's

frenzied run from the animal is fully as compromising an action as

the disgust of the hunter and the wife suggests. At the same time,

however, because thie reader sees events from Macomber's angle, his

knowledge of and sympathy for the American begin to grow. The result

is that when the reader begins the final section of th~e narrative, he

is able to symlpathite with Macomber enough to hope that the American

improves his situation, but not enough to obscure the fact that M~acombrer

does grow in stature during the hunt for water buffalo. During the

finial section of "The Short Happy Life" the narrative perspective shifits

Efrquently froml Irilson's angle to Macomber's angle, andr the reader is

presented both with Maicomber's trium~ph over fear and with Wlilson's

growing a-dmiration for him. The result is thlat the reader's respect:

for Mlacomnber increases at the same time that, accordiing to the standards

of the hulnt, Macomber- comes mnore and more to deserve this respect,

Near the end of "The Short Happy Life," Hemningway uses a technrique--

w-hich th~is studyj calls "expanding angle"---by means of whichn he movies not

simply rrom the ang;le of view of one character to the angle of view of

another: character, b~ut from a chlaractrr's view of i sit~uatica to a

broader view of the some situation offered by the overall narrator's

perspectives, A careful investigation of the use of this techrnique in

"The Short Ha~ppy Liife" helps to resolve the critical dispute about the

natuire of MrsT. Miacormber's motivation for shooting her husba-nd. The events

just before thle shlooting--the charge of the grounded buffalo and the attemptss







-228-


by Nlacomber and Wiilson to bring the animal down--are presented frota

Francis Macomber's angle. Once he is~ shot, the perspective of the story

expands and the reader is presented with the overall narrator's obser-

vationls of whai Wvilson and Mrs. Macomber were doing at the moment of

Macomber's death. As Robert B. Holland suggests, most of those many

critics who have interpreted Mlargot Mlacomber's action as mulrde~r have

overlooked the fact that it is thte omniscient nlarracor of the story who

descr i~bes what she does and who pointedly mentions that "Mlrs. Mlacombher,

in tha car, had shot at the buffalo with the 6.5 M~annicher- as it seemed

abo!t- to gore Macomber and had hit hier husband .."(36. U'nderlining:

mine).6 Wiece the shooting of Francts Macombefr presented from Wvilson's

anlgle, as many earlier scen~es are, the -eadler would have little or no

evidence for dloubtinS Wilson's belief ilt hat Mrpt M'acomber is a murderess.

Thle fact i*, howiever, that~~ when Mr. Ma~comiber's aCtionl is deCSCribed, IhC

narcative has shifted into the broader perspective of the overall nar-

rator, and in spite of wh~ateve: WJilson thinlks is true,1 theC reader must

ittler believe what thle overcall narrator says or call thle en~tire na~rrtive

into question.

Lla "The Sea Change" expanding angle is; used as a means for



story's pcotagonisto finids himjs-lf. The~ reader of "The Sea Change" watches

by and large from Phlil's angle as chle young man a'ttempts to adjutst to thle

girl's revelation of her desire to leave, have an affair with anlothler

vompll, and~ thenl return to him. Because of the abniormality of his situation,

Phil's attempts to react in a "normal" way to the girl's revelation .seem

inadeqluate both to Phil and to thle reader. For example, when~ thre yo n;






-229-


man first realizes that the girl really wants to leave him for a worman,

he angrily tells the girl, "I'll kill her"(397). Were the girl going

off with a man, Phit's threat would not seem unusual, but because lthe

interloper is a woman, his reaction seems foolish. The complexity of

the situation in which Phil is involved is given a subtle, but powerful

emphasis by a shift in perspective which occurs just after Phil labels

the girl's lesbianism a vice:

"L~et's not say vice," she said. "That's not very
polite."
"Perversion," he said.
"James," one of the clients addressed the barman,
"you're looking very well."
"You're looking very well yourself," t-he barman sai~d.
"Old James," the other client said. "You're father,
James."
"'It's terrible," the barman said, "the warry I pult it
on."
"Don't neglect to insert the brandy, Jam~es," the first
client said.
"No, sir," said the barman. "Ti-ust m~e."
The two at the bar looked over at the two at th.: table,
then looked back at t~he barmanl again. Towards thle barmniz
was the comfortable direction.
"I'd like it better if you didn't use words like that,"
the girl said. (399-400)

The sudden shift in the story's perspective after "perversion" causes

the conversation of the bartender and the clients to have overtones

of abnormality. The concern of these men about their physical apprarance-

particulazly within the context of the girl's revelation--comess to seem

somehow strange, as does the pseudo-sophiistication of the client's use

of "insert." The suggestive overtones which the conversation takes onl

are glven a further emrphiasis by the barman's use of "Trust me," a phrase

which recalls the girt's telling Phil earlier in the story, "It wouldn't

be a man. You know that. Don't- you trust me?"(3981. There. is no sure





-230-


evidence for saying more than that the conversation of the clients and

thle bartender seems somehow strange. The ambiguity of the implications

of the conversation is mecaninlgful in itself, however, for it emphasizes

the moral complexity of the world in which Phil finds himself, a world

in which it is difficult not only to know howu to react to irmmoraity,

but also to know what ilmnorality is and when one sees it.

Expanding angle is especially important in "The Und9Efated," one

of Hemingway's most popular early stories. "The UndefEatea" is primarily

concerned with the presentation of M'anuel Garcia, a veteran matador who,

having recently recoveredl from a cornada, has returned to Madrid in hopes

of fighting bulls;. Maniual talks to Retana, an influential bullfight

manager, and contracts for a bullfight which~ is to be held the folicwing

eve-ning. A2s Mannuel attempts to kiill his first bull during this bull:-

fig~ht, he receives a serious injury, in spite of which he returns to theJ

bull and kills it before allowring himself to be taken to thle infirmanry.

Because of the obvious courage Manuel shows in refulsing to have his

wound treated until he has killed the bull, ther prota-onist of "The

undefeated" has generally been regarded as a "code he~ro," or "tutor,"

as a "m~odel of e~xcellence" whose dignity and integCrity distinguish himt

from average men1.7 Critics have agreed that by staying in~ the buttlring

until the bull is dead, Manuel achieves a moral triumph which is mnade

all thle more poignant by the reaction of "the unsympat-hetic and in-

sulting crowd" that atcends the nocturnal.9 in spite of the almost

complete agreement among critics about lManel Gaircia, however, the usual

crit-ical interpretation of "The Undefeated" has only partial validity.










There is nlo question but that Manuel has courage, persistence, and some

talent. At the same time, however, as is suggested by an examination of

the story's use of expanding and shifting angle, he is a "model of

excellence" in only the most limited sense.

The first example of expansion of perspective in the story occurs

while Manuel is discussing hits most recent bullfight with Retana. As

Mlanuel sits: in Retana's office, he looks up at the stuffed bull's head

which hangs on the wall:

He had seen it often before. He felt a certain family
interest in it. It hid killed his brother, the promising
one, about n~ine years ago. MZanuel remembered the day,
There was a brass plate on the oak shield the bull's head
was mounted on. Manuel could not read it, but he imagined
it was in memory of his brother. Well, he had been a
good kid.
The plate said: "The Bull 'Mlariposn' of the Duke of
Veragua, wlhich accepted 9 va~ras for 7 cabattos, and caused
the death of Antonio Garcia, Novillnrn, April 27, 190(9"(236).

The? narrator's revelation of thle fact that the plate is in memory of

the bull!, rather than of Antonio Garcia does more than suggest the

roughness of professional bullfighting. The expansion of the story's

perspective from Manuel's angle of view to the narrator's more complete

viewy of things has the effect of undercutting Masnuel's evaluation of

whiat he sees. Not only is Manuel wrong about what the plate says in a

literal sense, burt the~ particular nature of his er-ror suggests thatll he

hss a tendency to romanticize the importance of his family's role in

bullfighting. As the plate indicates, Antonio Garcia had not even

achieved the rank of matador. The effect of this expansion of perspective

is made particularly emphatic by the fact that as Manuel thinks about

his brother, Retana sees him looking at the stuffed bull's head and






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comments, "The lot the D~uke sent me for Sunday will make a scandal

They're all bad in the legs"(236). It is obvious from his comment t-hat

Retana either does not remember Antonio Garcia's connection with

"Mariposa" or does not feel it necessary to indulge in sympathetic words

with Ma7nuel. That the bull's head causes the manager to talk about other

bulls, rather than about Antonio Garcia, th;us suggests, as does the

captionl on the metal plate, that the Garcia family is not and has never

been an important one in bullfighting.

Th.e most significant; examples of expanding angle in "Thle Undefeated"

occur during the bullfight, an~d as is true of the incident of the stuffed

bull's head, the manipulation of perspective during the corrida tends

to undercut Mlanuel's view of things and cause modifications in thle

reader's understanding of the matador's actions. During the presentation

of the first third of the corridai, a series of shifts and expaensions of

angle build to the most memorable shift in perspecthiV ill the story. The

description of thle first third of the bullfig~ht is concerned about equally

with Ma~nuel and Z.urito, thle picador who has come out of self'-i:mpoed re-

tirement in order to help his old friend. AIs the two veterans per~orml,

their work with the bull is evarluat-ed by two "judges," thie first: of

which is inrtroduced~ as "thle substitute bull-fighlt critic of El Heraldo"(218)

The bullfight critic is not a particularly admiirable character. Trhe simple

fact that he is "slightly bored" with the corrida places him in thast class

of spectator Eor Whlich Hemingway seems to have reserved a special dis-

like.' At: the samne time, though the critic is probably thle least like-

able character in the narrative, the frequent expansions of perspective






-233-


which enable thle reader to see the critic's notes serve several positive

functions. For one thing, the critic's descriptions of the action in

the bullring are informative. They enable those many readers who are

not well-informed about the corrida to become familiar with some of

the common bullfight concepts and terms. Further, while the judgements

which the substitute critic makes are unenthusiastic, their basic ac-

curacy helps the reader to evaluate what he sees intelligently. After

the bull is let out of thle dark pen, for example, thle narrator explains,

M~anuel, leaning against the barrera, watchiLng the bull,
waved his hanld and the gypsy ran out, trailnin3 his cape.
The bull, in full gallop, pivoted and charged the cape, his
head dowun, his tail rising. The gypsy, moved in a -igzag,
and as he passed, the bull caught sight of him and abandoned
the cape to charge the man.
The critic of El Heraldo lit a cigarette and tossed
the match at thef bull, then wrote in his nolco-booki, "large
and with enough horns to satisfy the cash customers,
Campagnero showed a tendency to cut into the terrain of
the bull-efighters." (248-24r9)

The critic's comment about the bull having "enough horns" confirms the

judgement Manuel and Hernandez make about the bulls being "big ones with

horns" before the bullfight bfeins. Mlore important, the critic's

explanation that the bulll tends to cut into the "terrain" of t-he mata-

dor both accurately describes the bull's actions, and informs the reader

that the bull's abandoning the cape to charge the rran is a defect which

has a technical name.

Having presented the critic's evaluation of the bull, the narrator

describes Manuel's first set of passes, at the end of which he holds

"thel cape against his hip and pivoted, so the cape swong out like a

ballet dancer's skirt and wound the bull around himself like a belt,









to step clear, leaving the bull facing Zurito .. "(249), The narrative

perspective then shifts, and the reader is presented w~ith the critic's

evaluation of Manuel's perfonnan~ce: "th~e veteran blanolo designed a series

of acceptable veronicas, ending in a very Belmontistic recorte that

earned applause from the regulars, and we entered the tercio of the

cavalry"(2491. Again, the critic's explanation accurately reflects

what happens in the bullring, and again, the critic's comm~ents help to

broaden the reader's understanding, this time about the kind of veronica

he is seeing. As the critic's favorable judgement of Masnuel's performance

makes clear, the critic is in no way hostile toward the veteran during

the first part of the corrida. Though he is not enthusiastic aboutr the

bullfighic, th~e critic is at least a neutral observer of it, Following

Manuet's series of passes Zurito first pics the 'oul1, and the skill

which seems clear from the narrator's d~escriptiion of whnat Zurito dolls i:

sulbstantiiated by an expansion of perspective during which th~e narrator

presents the critic's evaluation of the picador's performance: "The

veteran Zurito," the critic explains, "resurrected some of his old stuff

with the pike-pole ,. ."(251),

The events of the tercio de varas are also evaluated by another

"judge"--the crowd in the bullring--and~ in every instance the judgement

of the crowd reaffirms the judgement of the critic.* As the critic



*Thlis study uses a number of bulIifigh tennls which are not commlon
knowledge. "Trcio," for example, means "third," As Hemingweay explains,
"the bullfight is di.ividd into three parts, thl terio de ars that
of the vic, tercio dobanderillas and tercio delmarte or third of
death"(gltossary of D~eath in thec After-noon under "Tercio").





-235-


explains, for example, Hanuel's acceptablee" veronicas earn applause

from the regulars. Zurito's work with the pic is also appreciated by

the crowd. As the critic attempts to record his impressions of Zurito's

first meeting with the bull, he is interrupted:

"'016! 014!' the man sitting beside him shouted. The
shout was lost in the roar of the crowd, and he slapped the
critic on the back, The critic looked up to see Zurito,
directly below him, leaning far out over his horse, the
length of the pic rising in a sharp angle under his armpit,
holding the pic almost by the point . ."(251).

The crowd's immediace enthusiasm for Zurito's pic-ing not only reinforces

the critic's evaluation of Zurito's skill, it also indicates that the

Madrilenos both-understand ability and, unlike thie critic, are willing

to respond emotionally to it.* At least until M:anuel's semnd set of

veronicas, then, it is clear that the activity in the bullying is being

evaluated accuirately by both judges. Though the critic's bored: pro-

fessional air of;Ects thle enthusiasm of the Mladrid crowdr, both authorities

'are in essential agreement as to the skill of what Is done in the bull-

ring.

During Mlanuel's second set of veronicas, the reader sees events

fromn Ma[nuel's an~gle of view, and because the veteran becomes oblivious

to his audience while he passes the bull, the reader is not informer:

about the react~ions of the critic or of the crowd as a ';hole3. The



*That Hemingway did feel that the Madrid audience w~as a good judge
of bullEighlts is made clear in Death in the Afternoon~. "A good public,"
Hem~ingway explains, "is Madrid, not the days of th.e benefit fights with
elaborate decorations, much spectacle and high prices, but the serious
public of the abonos who know bullfighting, bulls, and bullfighters, who
kinow the good from i-he bad, the faked from the sincere and for whom the
bull-fighter must give his absolute maximum"(Death in the Afternoon~, 42).






-236-


limitation of the presentation to Manuel's angle in this instance forces

the reader to base his judgements on the details of the narrator's

description and on Manuel's perceptions of and reactions to what occurs.

The result is a tendency on the part of those readers who are unacquainted

with the bullfight to presume that Mlanuel's last set of veronicas is at

least as successful as his first set. Since the series of passes con-

cludes with what seems a perfectly acceptable veronica, the subsequent

expansion of perspective is almost shocking:

"Hluh!" Manluel said, "Toro!" and leaning back, swung
the cape forward. Here he comes. He side-stepped, swong thle
cape inl back pf him, and pivoted, so the bull followed a
swirl of cap2 and then was left with nothing, fixed by the
pass, dominated by the cape. Manuel sw~ung the caoe under
his muzzle with one hand, to show the bull was fixedc, and
walked away.
There was no applause.
Hainuel walked across thle sand toward the barrecra,
while Zuril.o rode oult of thle ringU. Tre- trumpet hladi blovo
to change the act to the planting of th? banderi10s while
M~anuel had been working with t-he bull. He hand not consciously
noticed it. (253)

[t is tempting to conclude fromn the audience's failure to pay attention to

MaInuel that the audience is remiss, that the :tadri~lenod homed foolishly

failed to notice and reward a good performance. In !.ight of che audience's

intelligent appreciation of previous parts of the tercio, however, this

would be a rather difficult conclusion to support, especially since the

audience's apparently capricious judgement is substantiated by a further

expansion of perspective during which the critic's evaluation of Mainuel's

last veronicas is presented. According to the critic, "the aged Manoolo

rated no applause for a vulgar series of lances with the cape ."(253).

The problem of the apparent inconsistency in the ability of the crou~d

and the critic to evaluate the events of the corrida accurately is solved






-237-


by a close examination of the narrator's description of Mlanuel's cape

work. Manuel's first, "acceptable" set of passes and the final, "vulgar"

veronicas differ in one important way, Durirng the "vulgar" veronicas

Manuel is described as sidestepping all four times the bull ch~arges. The

importance of this detail is suggested by part of Hemingway's definition

of "Veronica" in Death in the Afternoon. "The veronica," Hemingway

explains, "is tricked by the man making a sidestep as the bull charges to

take him further awray from the horns .. The merit in the veronica

is not determined by whether the feet are together or apart, but by

whether they remain immobile from the moment of thle chanrge until the

bull has been passed and the closeness with which the man passes the

horn by his body.' 10 anuel is clearly tricklingg" during the final set

of passes, and it is his faking which alienates the audience and the

critic.* To the uninformed re~ader, the lack of apprecinton for Ma~nuel's

work on the part of the twio "judges" seems shocking and unfair. WJhen

the corrida is more fully understood, however, it becomes apparent that

Manuel receives from the crowd and the critic exactly the response he

earns.1

During the tercio de banderillas Hemingway reaffirms the crowd's

ability to evaluate the events of the corrida accurately. The bullfight

critic does not appear during this section of the story, but twro evalu-

ators in addition to the Madrid crowd are developed. The tercio de

banderillas is largely concerned with the prefsentat-ion of Fuentes'



*Mlanual is described as sidestepping once during thle earlier set
of veronicas, and it may be that the previous passes were only "accept-
able," rather than good, because of this one sidestep.





-238-


skillful work with the banderillas, and after the gypsy has planted his

first set, the three judges evaluate his performance:

Fuentes ran across the quarter of a circle as the bull
charged and, as he passed running backward, stopped, swung
forward, rose on his toes, arm straight out, and sunk thle
banderillos [sic] straight down into the tight of the big
shoulder muscles as the bull missed him.
The crowd were wild about it,
"That kid won't stay in this night stuff long," Retana's
man said to Zurito.
"He's good," Zurito said. (255)

The skill which seems indicated by the narrator's description of Fuerres!

work in the ring is reaffirmed and given authority by the appr-ciation

of the crowd, by the enthusiasm of Retana's man,* and by the approval of

Zurito, whose superior knowledge of the corrida is evident throughout

the narrative,12 As is true during the tercio de vnras, the fact that

the judgements of all authorities are the same gives their evaluations

added credibility.



*Retana's man's enthusiasm for Fuentec and his assurances. that the
fypsy won't stay in nightt stuff" long re-emphasizes the fact tha;t Hasnual
Is no longer able to Lontract for anything except nrovilladas. As
Feningwsay explainls in Deach in the Afternoon, the novailada is like a
regullar bullfight inl every way "except th7e quality of the bulls and
the inexperience or admitted failure of the bullfighters , the
present-day novil~lada has come about through the desire to present a
regular bullfight at less than formal prices due to the bulls beinl
bargains and the men, due to a desire to present themselves and maike
name, or to thle f~a~C that they hlave failed as formal ma~tadors, are lloss
exigent in their demands for money than the full matadors" (glossary of
Death in the Atrno under "Novill~ada"). That M~anulel is willing to
w~ork as a noi2llero for 250 pesetas gives these implications even more
force--"The most a povillero makes in Miadrid is 5,000 pesotas a fight
and he may), if a debutant, flight for as lowu as a thousand pesetas"
(glossary of Death in the Afternoon under "Novillada"),





239-


At the end of the tercio de banderillas Fuentes' perfcrmance is

evaluated by the crowd and by Zurito, and their evaluations are followed

by a suggestive detail:

The gypsy came running along the barrera toward Manluel,
taking the applause of the crowd. His vest was ripped
where he had not quite cleared the point of the horn. He
was happy about it, showing it to the spectators. He made
a tour of the ring. Zurito saw him go by, smiling, point-
ing at his vest. He smiled.
Somebody else was planting the last pair of badrto
(sic J.
Nobody was paying any attention. (256)

The apparently off-hand expansion of perspective with which the narrator's

presentation of the tercio de banderillas concludes serves as a subtle

re-emphlasis of the implications of the concluding events of the torcio

de vara~s. The twio "thirds" of the corrida are made memorable by the

brilliant performances of Zurito and Fuentes, performances which are

enthusiastically received by the spectators. And, just as the tercio

de varhs ends with the audience's ignoring a mediocre performance, the

tercio de banderillas ends with the mention of abat is, judging from

the total lack of response by both the characters andl th~e narrator, an

undistinguished performance. M~anuel's second set of veronicas, of

course, seems more significant to the reader than the work of the second

band-rillero, bult this is because "'The Unrderfeted" is about No.wl and

because t-he reader sees the end of the tercio de vacas from Manuel's

angle of view. The implication of the similar endings of the-first two

parts of the corrida is that had the reader seen Manuel's performance

from the audience's perspective, Manuel would have seemed as insignificant

as the other banderillero.







-240-


During the first section of the final tercio, the reliability of

Zurito, Retana's man, and the crowd as evaluators is reaffirmed still

once more. Though M~anuel's work with the muleta is presented by and

large from the matador's angle of viiew', shifts and expansions of angle

are used to inform the reader of the evaluations of the various spectators.'

Unlike the "vulgar" and "acceptable" veronicas of the torcio de varas,

Manuel's passes with the mnuletr are very skillful. As the narrator makes

clear, Manuel is able to dominate his sense of forboding, keep his feet

firm, and pass the bull very close. That the danger in Mlanuel's faena

is not "tricked" is emphasized by shifts in perspective which indicate

Retana's man's enthuisiasm and Zurito's Ppprehension. Further, as is true

in earlier instances, the crowd both recognizes and is willing to show

its appreciat-ion for Man~uel's skill. WShen the faena is finished, the

narrator exp'lains, "Mlanuel stood up and, the muleta in his left hand,

the sword in his right, acknowledged the applause fromn the dark plaza"

(259). Thus, as is usually the case during "The Undefeated," all observers

of thle action in the bullring agree about its value. As the final moment

of the corrida airrivefs, it is clear that the audience and the three other

judges are fair and accurate in their evaluations, that they are able and

w~illing, to appreciate any torero who performs with skill.



*The mulata is a "beart--shaped scarlet cloth of serge or flannel
foldend and doubled over a tap?redi woodlen stick equipped w~it-h a sharp
stael point at thec narrow co2 and: a grooved handle at the widened extrealty
The mluleta is used to defenld thle man; to Live the bul.1 and reg-
iilate :he position of his hood and feet; to perform a series of passes
of more or less penlthetic value with thle bull; and to aid the man in the
killing" (g~lrosaryy of Deah in the Afterlnon unrder "Mulleta"). The "sum
of the work done by? the m'tador- Iith the Inuleta in t-he final third of
the bullifight . ." is caillcd th~e "feena" (glossa:ry of Deat~h iu the
A~fteroon undi~Er "faunail").






-241-


The conclusion of the tercio del muerte is presented en;tirely

from Manuel's angle of view. No shifts or expansions of perspective are

used. However, as Manuel fails again and again to kill the bull, the

reactions of those judges which are developed during the story by means

of shifting and expanding perspective become particularly important.

M~anuel has tried and failed to kill the bull twiice before any reactions

become clear. Whnen he runs to the barrera for a new~ sword, howCver, the

lack of sympathy with which Retana's man tells him to wipe his face

begins a series of reactions which become more and more explicitly

unfavorable as Manuel continues. As the matador returns to thle bull-

r-ing wiping the blood from his face, he realiesf that he "had not seen

Zurito. Where w~as Zurito"(262). Because the reader sees only what Manuel.

sees during this section of the narrative, the whereabouts of the picad~or

are not made explicit, but it seems fair to suppose that Zurite has left

the corrida to keep from witnessing what he considers a disaster. That:

this is the case is suggested by the fact that when Zurito arlrives in

the informary at the end of the story, his first action is to try to

cut Manuel's coleta,

Manuel tries to kill the bull twice more before the other two

judges evaluate his performance. After Manuel's sword flies into the

crowd, however, judgement comes quickly:


"The first cushions throirm doymr out of the dark missed
him. Then one bit him in the face, his bloody face looking
toward the crowd. They were comiing down fast, Spotting
the sand. Somebody threw an empty champagne bottle from
close range. It hit Manuel on the foot"(263),

Like Zurito, both the crowd and the substitute bulllfight critic--re-

presented by the champagne bottle--judge the conclusion of Manuel's

performance a disaster. Just as the crowd is quick to show its










appreciation of Manuells ability, it does not hesitate to show its

disappointment once Ma~nuel's inability to kill thle bull gracefully is

evident. Beccause the reader sees the torcio del mulcree frorm Manuel's

angle, it is possible to over-sympathize with th~e matadcr and to inter-

pret the reactions of the various spectators as overly harshly. The

numerous previous indications of the neutrality and accuracy of the

audience, the critic, Zurito, and Retana's man, however, make this

interpretation untenable. While it seems unfair to American readers

for the crowd to throw things at Manuel, the narrator's careful control

of perspective in "The Undefeated" leads to the almost inescapable con-

clusion that the matador's continued difficulty in killing the bull co-

ceives the reaction it deserves, the reaction any comrpetent~ bullfight

crowd would give a mediocre performance which ended artlessly.

Decame~ of she coulrage Mannuel shows in rpincin~~g to leave thle

rinig without filing the bull, all critics of "the Undefeated" see the

ma~tador as moral:ly successful, as essentially undefeated in spite of

whatevoc techrnical defeat occurs during the bullfight. Carlos Baker,

for example, .juggEs~ts that Manuel earns the rightly "to keep his coletal,

theii badge of thle professional mataodor, by a courage that is much greater

than his aging skill, or, for thiat matter, hi:; luck.,,13 DoFalco feels

much the sam-: way: "Mannuel emerges as the personification ofE the 'com~-

pleto' bullfighter, for his refusal to submit to defeat on any grounds

"14i SucSh views of thef veteran, hOowver, sentIimPentally underrate

the importance of Mianuel's technical mediocrity. Surely courage alone

is no: croug~h to earn a mian the status of matador. Bravery is a quality

whlich mnight be expected from a paid professional who faces brllss only





-243-


by his own free choice. In reality, it is more justifialble to say that

in "The Undefeated" Manuel forfeits the right to keep hlis coleta by

being unable to complete an undistinguished performance wuith a bull

without being taken to the infirmary, even when the bull has been prepared

by an excellent: banderillero and by "the best picador living"(2A-4). Baker

implies that Manuel's failure to kill the bull successfully is a result

in large part of bad luck. Mlanuel, however, does not simply have a bad

day. As is made clear during the first scene of "The Undefeated," M~anuel

has fought only once during the entire year previous to the events of the

story, and that bullfight ended exactly as does Man~nel's work wi th his

first bull during the nocturnal. In other words, in spite of his proud

assurance that "I am a bull-fighter," Hianu~el has not been able to complete

the job he contracts for in at least one year, and h- ends the corrida in

"The Un~defeated" disabled for somne time to come. Maonu-l's inability to

finish the job he starts is given a final emphasis during the last scene

of the story by the fact that as Manuel lies on the operating table "he

heard a noise far off. That was the crowd. Well, somebody would have

to kill h;is other bull"(265).

Th~e sentimental tendency to see Manuel Garcia as a kind of tragic

hero has resulted at times in distortions of what occurs during the

final scene of "Thle Undefeated." According to Sheridan Baker, Zucrito's

actions in the infirmary attest to tie fact that Manluel is ultimately

victorious: "Zurito lets him keep his pigtail, the sign of the bull-
fighter, and assures him he was 'gigget,,,15 D~locmst h

same conclusion: "Zurito's decision not to cut M~anuel's coleta










reflects his acknowledgement of the victory he has witnessed.

These interpretations, however, distort what actually happens. As soon

as Zurito enters the infirmary, he borrows a pair of scissors withl which

to cut Manuel's coleta, an action which makes it rather obvious that the

picador is unimpressed with Manuel's performance. The real reason for

Zurito's subsequent "decision" not to cut off the pigtail is cleai froTI

the text:

Zurito was saying something to him. Holding up thle
scissors.
That was it. They were going to cut off his coleta.
They were going to cut off his pigtail.
Manuel sat up on the operating-table. The doctor
stepped back, angry. Some one grabbed him and held him.
"You couldn't do a1 thing like that Manos," he said.
HIe heard suddenly, clearly, Zurito's voice..
"Thnat's all right," Zurito said. "I wou't do it.
I was jokin~g."
"I wras going good," Mlanuel said, "I didn' t have a ly
luck. Thiat was all."

"I was going good," Mianuel said weakly. "'I was
going great."

"WJsni't I going good, Manos?" he asked, for confir-ia
tion.
"Sure," said Aurito. "Yo'u were going great."
(265-266)

It is obvious that Manuel is allowed to keep his coleta nol- because of

any virtue in his performance, but because of Zurito's desire to iompyy

with the physician and prevent Manuel from sit-ting uip on the operatir;

table. The picador's subsequent comment that Mlanuel was "going great"

also results from his desire to make Manuel's time in the infirmary as

easy as possible. That no reat evaluation is implied by Zuritu';

statements is emphasized by the frequency wilth which Man~uel mus;t say

how well he was doing before Zurito will agree.17










If Mlanuel Garcia can be thought of as achieving a victory through

defeat, it is a victory of only the most lhimied sort. The veteran may

earn a degree of dignity by showing courage in his attempts to kill the

bull, but in order to achieve this limited victory, he is willing to

compromise his dignity and integrity in most other ways. N~ot only is

Mlanuel willing to accept Retana's condescension, and endure the manager's

jokes about his inability to kill bulls, he is willing to beg for a

chance to risk his life for almost nothing. He proudly refuses to "get:

a job and go to work"(236), but he is willing to accept insults from

waeiters who can tell that he is too old to be a matador merely by looking

at him. Even when M~anual is in the ring, only one portion of the pe~r-

formance he gives is really good. The remainder is at best "ac~eptablle"

and at worst "vulgar." The veteran's embarrassment~ inside andi outs'do

the bullring might deserve more sympathy were M~anuel aloner involved in

his decision to continue fighting bulls. The fact is, how~ever that

Manuel's compulsion to fight bulls involves other people. Because he is

unable to give the crowd a complete perfcormance, Manuel zndangers

Hlernandez by giving him an extra bull to kill. Because of hiis proud

refusal to fight without good pic-ing, Manuel is forced to ;sk Zurico

to come out of retirement and risk~ his life wuithout~ pay, Th~e gueroun~s

picador agrees to help Manual only when the matrador makes a promise

that if he does not "go big," he will quit bullfighting, a promise MIanuel

subsequently refuses to keep. In "The Undefeate-d" Mlanuel is not a good

matador who fails through bad luck, nor is he a mediocre matador attempting,

as DeFalco suggests, to achieve some sort of ideal.18 Rather, Man~uel





-2/*6-


Garcia is a middle-aged man who is engaged in a stubborn flight from

the simple fact that he is too old to be a matador. As Zurito explains

during his first conversation with Manuel, it just "isn't right" for

Manuel to be in the bullring. It isn't right for Manuel, and it surely

isn't right for Zurito, Hernandes, and the crowd. The final irony of

the story is that Manuel will not learn. Even another painful cornadn

has failed to dispel his inaccurate and dangerous illusion that he is

or could be a good matador. When the story ends, the reader has little

doubt that if Manuel does recover from this goring, he will return,

illusions undefeated, to beg for a chance to work~ at a job ibe is physi-

cally unable to perform.19



In at least one instance thematic conltent is created and modified

not muelcy by the juxtaposition of two or more perspectives on thle same

scene, as is the case in "The Sea Change" and "~The Undefeated," but by

the juxtaposition of two different perspectives on two entirely different

scenes. In "Banal. Story" a simultan-ous shift in scene and in n~ar-

rative method is the primary means by which certain thiematic elements

are revealed.

The first two-thirds of "Banlal Story" portray a writer who rtaes

a break from his work and reads an advertisement for The Forum, a

journal of opinion which was published in the United States from 1886

until 1950. The advertisement's description of the kinds of articles

generally found in the magazine suggests that like the naturalists in

"A Natural History of the Dead," thle editors of The Forum admire a kind

of writing which ignores or disguises anything unpleasant.20 Even thle





-E47-


portrayals of "crowded tenement" which appear in the magazine hlave "a

healthy undercurrent of humor"(360). Wuhen the writer finish~es reading

the advertisement, the scene of "Banal Story" suddenly shifts:

Live the full life of the mind, exhilarated by
new ideas, intoxicated by the Romance of the unusual.
He laid down the booklet.
And meanwhile, stretched flat on a bed in a darkened
room in his house in Triana, Manuel Garcia MIaera lay with
a tube in each lung, drownling with the penurmonia. (361)

The most obvious effect of this change in scene is to emphasize the

complacency of the attitude toward life reflected by the advertisement,

by the subject matter of the articles included in The Forum, and by the

writer's apparent acceptance of the magazine's viewJ of things. By

shifting to the scene of the highly unpleasant death of a matador iubo

"did always in the bull-ring the things .. [ other matadors ] could

only do somnetimes"(361), the story emhphaipes the fact thalt whant is left

out of The Forum's presentation of the "Roma~nce of the unusual" is bot~h

what is authentically unusual and whait is truly vzluable. The imnpli-

cations of the shift in scene from the writer's room to Triana are made

particularly empha~tic by the fact that thie scope of the narrat-ive

changes when the scene changes. Inl the first part of the story the

reader is limited to the angle of view of the writer. The shift to a

broadly-ranging editorial omniscience for the p~resentation of M~aara's

death and the Spanish reaction to it helps to suggest the sterile in-

sularity of the kind of mental life glorified by the arty magazine.

Both "Thle Capital of the Wvorld" and "Homage to Switzelrland"

Employ narrative strategies which are closely related to the narrative

strategy of "Banal Story." The only difference is that while "Banal





-248.


Story" changes perspective when it changes scene, "Capital oE the

World" and "Homage to Switzerland" retain the same overall perspective

during several shifts from one scene to another, The series of changes

in scene which occur in "The Capital of the Wlorld" results in t-he inter-

weaving of the pathetic story of Paco, the young Spanish apprentice

waiter who dies in a mock bullfight, with the presentation of what Leo

Gurkxo calls, "the atmosphere of a whole city."2 As DeFalco explains,

"The narrative pattern employed is a sequence of miniature portraits

of the people who live at the hotel where Paco works as an apprentice

waiter. 'lhese portraits are so interspersed that as the events which

lead to Paco's death~ occur, the revelation of the character of these

individuals, their personal plight, and their individual responses to

their plight emerge simnultaneously."2 By combining, several scenes,

"Capital of the Wourld" is able to give th~e reader an indication of both1

the intensity and the diversity of life in the Spanish capital.

In "Hlomage to Switzerland" the juxtaposition of threl different

scenes results in the creation of a kind of narrative tripty~ch whichi

portrays the wrays in which three Americans wait the Simpl0n-Orient

Express in three different Swiss towns. Thie mlost important effect of

the juxtaposiition of almost identical scenes in "Hlomage to Swit.crla.ndi"

is not, as DeFalco suggests, an emphasis of the specific differences

among the three Amer.ican tranvellers, but rather, the development of a

series of similarities which together formn patterns of behavior that

characterize and distinguish thle Amnericans and the Swiss.2 As the

reader sees different Americans do the samne kinds oi things and make




-249-




the same kinds of statements, he comes to see that certain actions and

reactions are particularly American. In like manner, the similarities

among Swiss characters cause the reader to see that certain reactions to

experience are particularly Swiss. Overall, this juxtaposition of Swiss

and American patterns of behavior results in the development of a general

contrast between the Americans, who are characterized by a concern with

finding something other than what they have, and the Swiss, wyho are

generally content to accept what is.















NOTES TO CHAiPTER IX


1. As is mentioned in Chapter V of this study, "The Tradesman's
Return" is not readily available in its original form, and as a result
this study uses as text the slightly revised version of the story which
app-ars as Part ITwo of To Hajve and Hlave Not

2. See pp.207-2(Eof this study,

3. Hemingway, Green Hills of Africa, 27.

4. It would serve no purpose here to become involved in the contro-
versy about the extent to which the reader can viewy Wilson as a re-
liable standard for action. I have seen no convincing argument either
for questioning Wilson's integrity as a hunter or for questioning the
validity of hiis hunting standards as a means for judging Mlacomber's
act-ions in "The Short Happy Life." For t-he main critical arguments
against IWilson's integrity as a hunter and as a man, see Warren FBeck,
"Thef Shorter H~appy Life of Mrs. Ma~comber," Mlodern Fiction Studies, I
(Novem~ber, 1955), 28-37; Virgil Hutton, "The Short Haoppy Life of
Macoralber," Univrersi ,~ XXX (June, 1964), 253-263; and William
Bysshe Stecin, "Heminlgway's 'The Short 11appy Life of Francis Maicomber,'"
~x~plicaltor, XIX (April, 1961`), item 47.

5. In "Ernest H~emingwany: 'The Short Happy Life of Francis
Macomber,'" whiich is part of the second volume of The Idea of the
iilunnities ann d Other Essays TitCrite adHsoil, 2 vols. (Chlicago,
1967), R. S. Crane faujlts Hemi:ngway) for including the flashbhck to the
previous day on rhe groundsi that when we learn for oulrselves what
actually ha~ppened during the lion hlunt, wpe te~nd to feel t~hat Wilson
and "his professional code ace below humanity in a sense in which
Ma~comber' s regrettaJle out wholly natural cowardice is not"(Crane, 324).

6. In his excellent article, Holland reviews thec criticism of
"The Short Hxppy Life of Francis Macom~ber" and offers hiis clarification
of the meaning of thie final scene. See R~obert 1J. H~olland, "Mazconiber and
the Critiis," Situdie~s ~ _ho _in shtortFiti V (Winte-r, 1968), 171-178,

7. See Y. . r1 .I ri : ,- 4i ., -, 5; and Rovit,
6&,83-4. n 1 ** a r .* .. . Rapid , Mlichigan,
1956 NG han .. .., .., I I II. 6roup of chara ctors
heli are distinguished by their "rigorous honesty," thetr ability to do


-250-





-251-


"wh~atever it is that they do .. wyith consuni-note chill and wit~h pride
of craft," and who "can be counted on in a tight sq~ueeze" (Scott, 25).
Jackson J. Benson mentions that Manuel has an exceptionally strong sense
of honor. See Benson, 75.

8. Young explains thalt Mnuele and Santiago of The Old Mnan a the
Sea are characters "whlo lose in one way but win in another," w~ho endure
andl gain victory in spite of loss. See Young, BEnest Hemingwy:
Reconsideration, 125. L~eo Gurko feels that "in some ultimate sense"
Manuel is "uindefeated. The pure integral soul is in his case trans-
cendent over the limited, fallible flesh"(Gurko, 195). DeFalco sees the
matador as victorious ov~er "the forces of com~promise," as unldefeated in
much thle same sense as Christ. See DeFalco, 201. Though they do not
discuss this aspect of "The Undefeated" in any detail, Shieridian Baker,
Jackson J. Benson, and Carlos Baker also see anunel as essentially
victorious.
Of the critics w:ho have discussed "The Unde~fated" only
K~enneth riinnmamn emiphasizes the limitations of Mianufl's performance
as a matador. Na:nluel, Kinnamon explains in "Hemingwany, the Calrrida, and
Spain," T' ? Se F~iii ? in T.5m,- 4nre Indl Tiniilee, I (Spring, 1959), is
compell et r- 1. I r.<. .. -i I. ---- I .- pride in his profession,
and his illusory rationalization that he is still capable of making a
comeback~." During the bulligiht, "?:anuel's work in the ring is valiant
and suprzemely honest :Kinnacon is exaggerating here] although he does
not maintain full control of the bull and has lost most of his art"
(Kinnanon, 48). Like other critics, however, Kinnamon concludes that
M;anuel achieves "a kind of victory"' by "refusing to accept defeat in a
situation justifying surrender"(Kinnnmamo 49).
Kiinnamion mentions the "unsympathetic, insulting crowd" in
"Hefmingway, theo Corrida, and Spain," 48. Sheridan Baker calls the spectator:
a "hard crowd" in Erne~st Hemingway, 61.

9. Herringway shoes his disgust for those sp-ctators who are bored
bith the corrida both in Death ~in the Afternoon(See for example, page
63)and in The SSunAl Rises(See the treatment of R~obert Cohn in Chapter
XV ).

10. Hemingwzay, glossary of Death in the Afternocon, under "'Veronica,"

11. After the tercio de vanms Zurito tells Ma-nuel "You're going
good"(254), but thris is less true evaluation of \inael's performance
than it is an attempt to Five the mratador support. As becomes clear
during the faen~a, Zorito considers his friend going good only as long
as the m~atador stays out of real danger anid attempts merely to say alive.

12, Zurito's goold judge~ment is made cl-ar inma~ny ways, one of the
mo;t memorable of whiich is his choice of "the only steady horse of thle
lot" before thef corridor begins.










13. Baker, Haming~way: The writer as Artist, 122.

14. DeFalco, 201.

15. Sheridan~ Baker, 61.

16. DeFalco, 201.

17. It is tem~pting to see significance in the fact that the end
of the corrida in "The Undefeated" resembles the end of a corrida de-
axibed in Death in the Aftern~oon during which Mlanuel Garcia Maera--
one of Hemingw~ay's favorite natadsrs--hias difficulty killing a bull.
Sheridan Baker, for example, gives in to this temptation(See Ernest
H~emingway, 60-61.). While there are obvious similarities between the
stories of the two matadors, however, it is misleading to place much
emphasis on them. Both the real and the fictional matador do show great
courage in refusing to le ave the bullring without killing the bull. At
the same time, however, Hemingway's descriptions indicate that there are
significant differences between the two men. For one thing, it is clear
in Death inthe Afternoon that Maera's difficulty with the bull is un-
usual for him. It is equally clear from "The Undefeated" that for Mannuel
such difficulties hanve become the usual thing. Wh~en Maera repeatedly
fails to kill the bull, he becomes furious at himself anld at the audience,
and thle result is that while M~anuel's actions resemble those of Maera,
his attitude is reminiscent of the bullfighter who, having lost "his
honor he goes along living through his contracts, hating the~ public he
fights before, telling himself that they have no right to hoot and jeer
at him who faces death when they sit comfortable and safe in th~e seats,
telling himself he can always do great wsork if he wants to and they can
wait until he wants"(Death in the Afternoon, 91).
While the similarities between the end of "The Undefeated" and
Mlaera's unfortunate afternoon have been stressed ini criticism of "The
Undefeated," the substantial similarities between Manuel and other mata-
dors have generally been ignored. Like Mlanuel, for example, Louis Freg
fought much longer than most matadors, and he was one of few matadors
who wore the pigtail plaited on his head. Lik~e Mlanuel, wuho has been
"on plenty of operating-tables"(265), Freg was severelzy punished by thie
bulls. These simuilarities make Hemingway's description of Freg's un-
disputed courage sceem, at least as relevant to the portrait of Mlanuel in
"The Undefeated" as are the limited similarities betwueen Nlaera and M~anuel.
Freg's terrible gorings, Hefmingw;ay explains, "had nlo effect on his valor
at all. But it was a strange valor. It never fired you; it wans not
contagious. You saw it, appreciated it and knewy the man was brave, but
sca~nebowv it was as t-houghl courage was a syrup rather than a wine or the
taste of salt and ashes in your mouth"(Death in the Afternoon, 263).
The problem with placing mnuch embahfsis oni suchr similarities,
between bullfighters of course, is that the reader whlo knows little! of
bullfighting tends to see significance in details which would seem un-
important were he more familiar with the sport. A good example of this










tendency has to do with names. At first it seems very significant that
the matador in "The Undefeated" is named Mannuel Garcia antd that one of
the best of all matadors wjas named M~anuel Garcia Maera. The problem is
that in Death in the Afternoon alone, at least two other matndors are
called "Mlanolo" and have things in co-ranon with the Mlonolo of "Thie Un1-
defeated." See the sections in Death in the Afternoon on Malnolo M~artinez
(260-262)and on Mlanolo Bienvenida(251-252) .

18. See DeFalco, 197-202.

19. Several critics seem to assume that Manuel dies at the end
of "The undefeated," even though there is no evidence w~hatsoever- to
support such a contention. Sheridan Baker describes Mannuel as going
"into oblivion on Lbe operating table"(Sheridan Baker, 60-61). Carlos
Baker mentions that during "Thle Undefeated" Ma~null is "iieeting his last
bull under thle accligh~ts of the bullring in Madirlid"(Baker, lurninguay:
The Wlriter as Artist. 122). Benson c::plain- that i:anual loses his life
in puirsuit of his commitment to honor. See Benson, 75. H. E.. Bates
feels that t-he death of Mianuel helps to exemplify the idea that Hemningualy
is preoccupied aith the themel of death. See Bates, "Homirngway's Short
Stories" in Siaker, ed., Hieningwagd hi~sriics Cii 76. Ray B. W~ese- feels
that one of the them-es of "The U'ndefeat~ed" has to do with the idea that
one can achnieve glory through death. See "1Three Methods of Mocdern Fiction:
Ernest Aemingw~ay, Eudora W'elty and Thlomas Mann, II ..I. XII
(Jdn., 1951), 194. Kenneth Kinilnaon mentions t.. i. .-... ..I -,ot
arise" from thle operating table. See Kinnamon, 49.

20. The subject matter reviewed in the story is frequently taken
directly, or almost directly, from The Forum of 1925. for example, one
of the articles thle writer reads about in "Bianal Story" is described in
this way: "And what of our daughters wh~o must make Lheir own Soulndinlgs?
::ancy Hanwthorne is obliged to make hur own Soundings in the sea of life.
Bravely and sensibly she faces the problems whiich come to every girl of
eighteen"(261). During 1924 and 1925 The Forum published a novel by
Arthur H~amilton Gibbs called noundings, which deals with an eighteen
year old girl named N'ancy Hawthorne. The epigraph to the novel suggests,
"'Life is an uncharted ocean. The cautious mariner must needs take
many soundings 'ere he conduct his barque to port in safety."'

21. Gurko, 193.

22. DeFalco, 92-93.

23. See DeFalco, 179-183.















CONCLUSION


A few general conclusions can be drawn about the experimentation

with narrative perspective which Hemingway carries on in his short

stories. In his early w~ork Hemingway seems primarily concerned with

dramatic narration. The early Nick Adams stories, for example, and many

of the In Our Timne sketches give evidence of Hemingway's strong interest

in developing fiction in which all narrative privileges other than

those necessary for the presentation of conversation and the descrip-

tion of thle outu;ard appearances of things are eliminated. This early

interest in the possibilities of dramatic narrative is evident through-

out Hemingway's career. Though none of the later coll~crisons of stories

reflect as great a concern with dramatic narratior as does In Our Time_,

such later stories as "The Killers," "Hills Like White Elephants,"

"Fi~fty Grand," "The Sea Change," "A Clean., Well-Lighted Place," arnd

"The Light of the Wdorld" illustrate Hemingway's continued attempt to re-

fine the dramatic method and to broaden its usefulness.

Heingwii~ay's early stories also give evidence of his concern with

other aspects of narrative strategy. Th1e full length stor-y "Mly Old Mlan"

and sulch brief stories and sketches as "The R~evolution~ist," "On the Quai

at: Smyjrna," and Chapters 1, III, IV, VII, IX, XI, and XIII of In Our Time

illustrate Haimingway's strong interest in and his considerable skill with

t-he use of different kinds of characters as narrators. Like hris early


-254-




-255-


interest in dramatic narration, Hemingwaiy's interest in the po~ssibil-

ities of involved narration is evident throughout his career. Such

full-length stories as "A Canary for One," "The Mothler of a Queen,"

"After the Storm," "One Trip Across," "In Another Country," and "Now

I Lay Me" make it clear that Hemingway grewJ increasingly interested in

thematic possibilities which result from the development of the narrator's

situation in the acting present and from the manipulation of relation-

ships between acting present and narrating present. The comlplex nar-

rative strategies of "The Gambler, the Nun, and the Radio" and "Fathers

and Sons" in fact reflect Hemingway's attempt to expand the traditional

limits of involved narrative, to give th~e mcth~od newr and interesting

possibilities.

Two other areas of technical development become particularly

noticeable in the short story collections aiter In Ou-r Time. For one

thing, the longer he wrote the more interested Hemingvery seems to have

become in the exploration: of the minds of his characters. Wh~ile3 com-

paratively few presentations of thle unvoiced thoughts, feelings, and

memories of characters are used in the eacly stories, Envesigtiatons

of consciousness either by overall narrators or by the characters

themselves are of considerable significance in such later- works as

"Nolw I Lay Me," "A Way You'll Never Be," "Fathers and Sons," "The

Gambler, the Nun, and the Radio," "fhe Capital of the woirld," "The

Short Happy Life of Francis Mancomlber," andi "The Snowrs of Kilimanjaro."

Hemingway's interest in one other area of technical concern--the use of

multple perspective--also becorr.es more noticeable in later works.

While miultiple perspective is significant in such early stories as






-256-



"The Doctor and the Doctor's Wife" and "Thef Undefeated," it is not used

consistently until the TIhirties.

All in all, a detailed investigation of Hemingway's short stories

leads to the conclusion that as is true in t-he cases of such contempor-

aries as Joyce and Faulkner, Hemingway not only experimented with the

possibilities of narrative perspective, but experimented widely and

successfully with them. To overlook Hemingw~ay's development and refine-

ment of the dramatic method and his concern with the possibilities of

involved narration, to ignore his interest in interior view and multiple

perspective, is to miss not only many important thematic dimiiensions of

his short stories, but also a significant aspect of his overall achieve-

mient as an artist.














BIBLIOGRAPHY


I. Works by Hemingway

A. Short Stories

"A Divine Cesture," NeTw Orleans Double Dealer, III (May, 1922), 267-
268.

"The Faithful Bull," Hoia, IX (Mlarch, 1951), 51.

The Fifth C~olumn and Four Stories of the SpaihCvil War. Nlew York,
1969.

"The Good Lion," HLoliay IX (M~arch, 1951), 50-51.

"Get a Seeing-Eyed Dog," Atlantic Eotli, CC (November, 1957), 66-68.

"A Man of the World," Atlantic Monthly. CC (Nlovemb~er, 1957), 61,-66.

"Nobody Ever Dies," Cosmouolitan, CVI (M~arch, 1939), 29-31, 74-70.

"One Trip Across," _Cosmopolitan,, XCVI (April, 1934), 20-23, 108-122.

The Short Stories of E~rnest Heminrrway. New~ York, 1954.

"Tlhe Tradesman's Return," Fsqir, V (February, 1936), 27, 193-1.96.


B. Novels

Across the River an~d Into the Trees. New York, 1950.



For Wh~om the Bell Tollsj. New York, 1940.

The Old Man and the Sea. Newl York, 1952.

The Sun Also R~isea. Necw York, 1926.

Tio Have and hlave Not. Neu York, 1937.


-257-






-258-


C. Nonfiction and Miscellaneous

By-Line: Ernest Hemingwaay. Edited by TWilliam White. New York, 1967.

Death in the Afternoon. New York, 1932.

Green Hills of Africa. New York, 1935.

The Hemingway Reader. Selected by Charles Poore. New York, 1953,

"Homage to Ezra," This Quarter I (May, 1925), 221-225.

A Moveable Feast. New York, 1964.

Review of ShErwood Anderson's A Stolry-Teller's Stopy in Ex ibris II
(March, 1925), 176-177.

Tribute to Conrad in Transatlantic Review, II (September, 1924), 341-342.

The Wild Years. Edited by Gene Z.. Hanrahen. New York, 1967.


II. Articles and Books on Hemingwiay

A4. General

Atkins, Joh~n. The Art of EnestHemn London, 1952.

Backman, Melvin. "Hezmingway: The Matador and the Crucified," Nod~ern
Fiction Studies, I (Aungust, 1953), 2-11. Reprinted in Baker, ed.,
Hemingway and his Critics, 245-258, and in Baker, ed., Ernest
Hemingway: Cri~tiques of Four Mlajor Novels, 135-143,

Baker, Carlos. Erneslt Heingwa A LifeStory1 New York, 1969.

.Hfmingwayb 2e Writer arts Atit Princeton, 1963.


ked.L96frest HAmineway Critigues of Four Major Novels_.

ed. Hepmnny n His iic: Ar International



New York, 1967.

Barnes, RobErt J. "Two Modes of Ficti~on: Hifomingwa y and: Greene,"
Ronascece XIV (Summler, 1962), 193-198.

Bates, H. E. "Il-minigway's Short Stories," in I:aker, id., Heminguag:l and
His Crf tics, 11-79.

Beaver, Joseph. 'ehiu'iHeiwy, olgFlshXI
(Manrch, 1953.), 325-3)28.





-259-


Beebe, Maurice and Feaster, John. "Criticism of Erne3st Homingvay: A
Selected Checklist," Modern Fiction Studies, XIV (Aultumn., 1968),
337-369.

Bensonl, Jackson J. Hemingway: The Writer's Art of Self-Defense.
Minneapolis, 1969.

Bridgeman, Richard. The Colloquial Style in America. Now York, 1966.

Callaghan, Morley. That Summerin Paris. New York, 1962.

Carpenter, Frederic I. "Hemingway Achieves the Fifth Dimension," PMLLA,
LXIX (September, 1954), 711-718. Reprinted in Baker, ed., Heing-~Z
way and His Critics, 192-201.

Cowley, M'alcolm. "Njightmare and Ritual in Hemingway," in W~eeks, ed.,
Hemingway: A Collection of Critical Essays, 40-51,

"A Portr-ait of ULr. Papa," L~ife, XXV (January 10, 1.949),
86-101. Reprinted in M~cCaffery, ed., Frnest Hiemingway: Thef Man
and Hiis Work, 34-56.

Daiches, David. "Ernest Hemingway," Colleoe Englig, II (Maoy, 1.941.),
725-736.

DeFalco, Joseph. Th~e ero nc;in Hein~way' Shlort Stories Pittsburgh,
1963.

Drumnmond, Ann. "The Hemingway Code as Seen. in the Early ShortL Stor~ies,"
Discourse, I (October, 1958), 248-252.

Edel, Leron. "The Art of Evasion," Folio, XX (Spring, 1955), 18-20

Evans, Robert. "H;eroiingay and the Pale Ca~st of Thought," Amr;-ican
Literature, XXXVIII (EMay, 1966), 161-176,.

Fenton, Charles A. Th~e Apprenticeship of Ernest Hemingwa. New\ York,
1954.

Flanagan, John T. "Hemingwjay's Debt to Sherwood: Anderson," Journal
of English and-ifi~, Cemnc hlloy IV (October; 1955), 50r7-520.

Frohock, W. r. The Novelo ofVol~neinceinArica. Dal~las, 1938.

Fussell, Edwin. "Hemingway and M~ark Tuain," Accent, XIV (Suimmer, 1954),
199-206.

Gordon, Caroline. "Notes on Heminlgway and Kafka," Sewanea Review,,
LVII (1949). 215-226.

Graham, John. "Ernest Hemingway: The Meaning of Siyle," Modern
Fletion Studies, VIT (Wiinter, 1960-1961), 298-313.





-260-


Gurko, Leo. Ernest Hemingway and the Pursuit of Hieroismi. NEic York, 1968.

Halliday, E. M. "Hemingway's Ambiguity: Symbolism and Irony," American
Literature, XXVIII (March, 1956), 1-22. Reprinted in Baker, ed.,
Ernest Hemingway: Critiques of Four Major N\ovels, 61-74; and in
Weeks, ed., Hemingway: A Collection of Critical Essays, 52-71.

"Hemingway's Narrative Perspective," Sewanee Review, LX.
(Spring, 1952), 202-218. Reprintred in Baker, ed., Ernest Femiingway:j
Critiques of Four Major Novels, 174-182.

Hannaman, Andre. Ernest Hemingway: A Comprehensive Bib~liography.
Princfeon, 1967.

Hart, Robert C. "Hemingway on Writing," College english XVIII (March,
1957), 314-320.

Heiney, Donald. Barron's Simplified Approach to Ernest Hemrringway~.
Woodbury, New York, 1965.

Hemphlill, G-eorge. "Hemingway and James," Keiyr; Review, XI (W~inter,
1949), 50-60.

Holman, C. Hugh. '"Heminguray and Vanity Fair," Caolna Qntry
VIII (Sumrmer, 1956), 31-37.

Howell, John M., ed. Ham~ingwav's African Stories: The Stories mtrf
Soucs Ter Critics. Nuew York, 1969.

Jameson, Storm. "The Craft of the Novelist," English Rieviewi, LVIII
(1934), 28-43.

Joost, Nicholas. Ernest Hemingway and heLttl Hugzies rr,
Mascachusetts, 1968.

Kashkee~n, Ivan, "Ernest Hemingway: A Tragedy of Craftsmanship," in
MlcCaffery, ed. Ernlest Hiem~~~~.ingay Th s n is Wor 76-303.

K~illinger, John. Hemingway and the Decad Gods. Lexington, Kentucky,
1960.

"Hemingway and Our 'Essential :World~liness,"' in Scott,ed.,
Forms of Extremity in the Mlodern Nove. Richmonld, Virginlia,
1965.

Kinnamon, Ke~nneth. "Hemingway, thle Colrrida, and Spain," exass Studies
in Ltratue ndLaguge I (Spring, 1959), 44-61.

Levin, Harry. "Observations of the Style of Ernest Heminguay~," lienyonq
Review~, XIII (Autumn, 1951), 58(1-609. Re~prin~ted in Bake~r, ed.,
Hamit nd His Critics, 93115; and in Wreekis, edl., Reminptyl
A COilection of ritial Esays 72-85.




-261-


Lid, R. W. "Hemingway and the Need for Speech," Mlodern Fiction Studies,
VIII (Winter, 1962-1963), 401-407.

McCaffery, John K. Ml. ed. Ernest Hemingway: The Man and His Work. Cleve-
land, 1950.

Manning, Robert. "Hemingway in Cuba," Atlantic CCKVI (August, 1965),
101-108.

O'Connor, Frank. Thel Lonely Voice: A Study of the Short Story.
Cleveland, 1963.

O'Faolain, Sean. The Vanishing H~ero: Studies in Novelists of the
Twenties. L~ondon, 1956.

Plimpton, George. "Ernest H~emingway," Paris Rieview, XVIII (Spring,
1958), 61-82. Reprinted as "An Interview with Ernest Hemingwayr,"
in Baker, ed., _Hemigw an Hi Critics_, 19-37.

Poorer, Chlarles. Foreward to The Hlemingway Render. New York, 1953.
Ross Lilian."Howi Do You Like It Now, Gentlemen? e oreXV

(May 13, 1950), 36-56. Reprinted in IHeeks, ed., Hemin~EI~~
Collection of Critical Essays, 17-39.

Rovit, Earl. Ercs Ecign. New York, 1S63.

Sanderson, Stewart. Ernest Heming.y Edinburgh, 1961.

Scott, Nathan A., Jr. Ernrest Hemingway: A Critical Essay. Grand Rap~ids,
Michiigan, 1966.

,ed. Forms of Extremity in the Mocdern~ I~iovel. Richlmond,
Virainia, 1965.

Stallman, P. W. Th~e Houses That James Euilt an.d Ocher Liteary Stdies
Ease Lan~sing, Michigan, 1961.

Stephens Rolr O~arilla' Fonfiction: The Public Voi~ce. Chapel


Van Gzlder, Robert. "Ernest Hemingwacy Talks of Work and War," New York~
Timesr Book Review, LXXXIX (August 11, 19410), 2.

Warren, Robert Penn. "Ernest Hemingway," Renyon Review, IX (Winter,
1947) L-28.

Weeks, Robert P., ed. Hemiangwy A Collection of Critical says.
Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1962.






-262-


West, Ray B. Jr. "Three Meithods of Modern Fiction: Erne~st Hemingway,
Endara WeJlty and Thomas Miann," CollegeEglsh XII (JTanuary, 1951)
193-203.

Wright, Austin MlcGiffert. The American Short Story in the Twrenties.
Chicago, 1961.

Young, Philip. Ernest Hemingway. New York, 1952..

.Ernest Hemin.a University of Minnesota Pamph~lets on
American Idriters. Minneapolis, 1959.

.Erne Apg2I Reconsideration. University Park,
Pennsylvania, 1966.

"Hemingway: A Defense," Folio, XX (Spring, 1955), 20-22.
Reprinted in Ueeks, ed., Hemingway: AColectonof ritca
Essays, 172-174.


B. Dissertations

Hanlliday, E. M1. Na.rrati~ve Tchnige in the Noels of Ernest .
University of Michigan, 1949.

Robinson, Forrest- D. The Trag_~4 ~ waretness ouf HemninrJ/'sr ist-Person
Narraors: M o "Th SunAlso Rises" and "A Far-ewell t rm.s
Ohio University, 1966.


G. Studies of Individual Works

Across the River aind Into thle Trees

L~isca, Peter. "Th~e Structure of HemingrJy's Across the Rier and
Intoth Tee," Modern Fiction Studiesf XII (Sumnmer, 1966),
232-250.

"After t;he Stormo"

Atkiins, Anselm. "Ironic Act-ion in 'After the Stor:,"'" Studies in
Short Fiction, V (Winter, 19)68), 189-192.

"An Alpilne Idyll"

Hartam, Edlward. "Hieminl:way's 'An Alpine Idyll,'" Modern Fctio
Studies_, XII (Sunntrer, 1966b), 261-265.

"The Battler''

Bache, W~illimr. "mingwaDj~ y'j s IqThe Battler,'"l ExpllicatoT, XIII
(Octcher, 1954), itemn 4.





-263-


"Big Two-Hearted River"

Stein, William Biysshe. "Ritual in Hemingway's 'Big Two-Rarted
River,"' Texas Studies in, Literature and Language,; !Wint-er,
1960), 555-561.

"The Capital of the World"

Reid, Stephen A. "The Oedipal Pattern in Hemingway's 'The Capital
of the World,"' Literature and Psychology~, XIII (Spring
1963), 37-43.

"Cat in the Rain"

HIagopian, John V. "Symmetry in 'Cat in the Rain,'" Col9ege
En , XXIV (December, 196,2), 220-222.

Mlagee, John D. "Hemin~gway's 'Cat in the Rain,'" Expiiator, XXVI
(September, 1967), item 8.

"A\ Clean, Well-Lighted Place"

Gachle, William. "Craftsmanlshi~p in 'A Clean, Wlell-L~gighted Place,"'
Personalist, XXXVII (Winter, 1.956), 60-64.

Colburn, Wi11iam E, "Confusion, in :iA Cle-;n, Well-Lighlcedd Olace,'"
(k giagingish XX (Febr-uaiy, 1959), 241-2?12.

Gabriel, Joseph F. "The L~ogic of Confusion in Ho;i~ngwany's 'A
Clean, Well-Lighted Place,"' Coll~ Elish, XXII (Maly,
1961), 539-546.

Kroeger, PFederick P. "The Dialogue in 'A Clean, Wecll-~ighted
Place,'" College English, XIX (February, 1959), 240)-241.

O'Faolainl, Sean. "'A Clean, Well-Lighlted Place,"' inl Shosrc
Sto7r~ies: A ud in Pleasu~re. Boston, 1961. 75-T~. Re
216-l ~~Idaks, ed., Hem ogwav A Colloccion; of C it~ne


Rieinertt, Otto. "Heminguay's Waiters Once Mlore," College ngish,
XX (M~ay, 1959), 417-418.

"The Doctor and the Doctor's Wife:

Arniold, Aerol. "Hemingway's 'The Doctor an~d the Doctor's Wife~,'"
~Ex XVIII (March, 1960), item 36.

Davis, Robert Mulrray. "Hemningway's; 'The Doctor and the Doctor's
W~i~e,'" Explicator, XXVI (September, 1966), item L.






-264-


"The End of Something"

Kruse, Horst H. "Ernest Hemingway's 'The End of Something': Its
Independence as a Short Story and Its Place in the 'Education
of Nick Adams,'" StudiesinShort Fiction, IV (Winter, 1967),
152-166.

Parker, Alice. "Hemingway's 'The End of Something,'" Exp~licator,
X (March, 1952), item 36.

W~itt, Joseph. "Hemingwayrs 'The End of Something,'" E pictr,
IX (June, 1951), item 58.

A Farewell to Arms

Anderson, Charles R. "Hem~ingway's Other Style," Moderni Language
Notes, LXXVI (May, 1961), 434-442. Reprinted inl Baker, ed.
Ernest Hemingrway: Critiques of Four M~ajor NoJvels, 41-46.

Biles, J. I. The Arristotelian Structure of A Farewllc~ to Arms.
Georgia State College School of Arts and Sciences Research
Papers, IX (April, 1965).

Ford, Ford Miadox. Introduction to the Modern Library edition of
A. Farewell to Arms. New York, 19312.

Friedman, Norman. "Criticism and the Novel," Anti~ch Revie,
XVIII (Fall, 1958), 352-356.

Glasses Wilam966"AFrJ-lt:(os SewaeeRev iewv, LXXIV'


Light, James F. "Th~e Religion of Death in A Farewell to Airms,"
Modern Fiction Studies, VII (Surmmer, 1961), 169-172. Re-
printed in Baker, ed., Ernest Hemiingayn\: Critiques of
Four Prjo Nvels, 37-40.

W~est, Ray B., Jr. and Stallman, R, W. "Ernest Hamingway: A
-.." ini Jhe Art oZ Ilo an: F~rictio, 62?-633.
..=0 .T- Biological Trap"' in W~eeks, ed., Heming-
way: A Collection of Critical Essays, 139-151.

"Fifty Grand"

Davies, Phillips G. and Davies, Rosemary R, "Hemingwaiy's 'Fitiy
Grand' and the Jack Britton-Mlickey. Walker Prize Fight,"
American Literature, XXXVII (November, 1.965), 251-258.




-265-


For Whom the Bell Tolls

Barea, Arturo. "Not Spain But Hemingway," Horizon, III (May, 1941),
350-361. Reprinted in Baker, ed., Heminguacy and His Critics,
202-212.

Schorer, Mark. "The Background of a Style," Kenvon Review, III
(Winter, 1941), 101-105. Reprinted in Baker, ed., Ernest
Hemaingway: Critiques of Four Major Novels, 87-89.

Weeks, Robert P. "The Power of the Tacit in Crane and Hemlinguay,"
Modern Fiction Studies, VIII (Uinter, 1962-1963), 416-419.

"The Gambler, the Nun, and the Radio"

Mizener, Arthur. "Ernest HemingwJay: 'The G~ambler, the Nlun, and
the Radio,'" in "A Handbook of Analysis, Questions, and a
Discussion of Technique" for use w~ith Mizener, ed., Modern
Short Stories: The Uses of Imagination. Now York, [966.

Montgomery, Mlarion. "IHemingway's 'TIhe Cambler, the Nunl, and thle
Radio'; A Reading and a Probleml," Forum, III (W~in~ter, 19)61)
36-40.

"Hills Like White Elephants"

Rodrigues, Eulsebio L. "'IHills L~ike~ abite Ele phants': An Analysis,"
Literary Criterion, V (1962), 105-109.

"In Another Country "

Stephens, Rosemary. "'In Another Coulntry': Three as Symbol,"
University of Mississippi Studies in Engqlish, VII (1966),
77-83.

"Indian Camp"

Bernard, Kenneth. "HemringuYay's 'Indlian Camp,'" Studies in Short
T'iction, II (SprinE, 1965), 291.

Tanselle, G. lRomas. "Hemingway's 'Indian Camp,"' Explicato~r,
XX (February, 1962), item 53.

"The Killers"

Brooks, Clee~nth and Warren, Robert Peonn "'The Discovery of Evil:
An Analysis of 'The Killers:'" in _Understandi Fiction,
303-312, Reprinted in W~eeks, ed., Hew~i g AColecio
of Critical Essays, 114-117.





-26~6-


Evans, Oliver. "The Protagonist of Hiemingway's 'Ihe K;illers- '"
Modern Languag Noes LXXIII (December, !338)*, 5:;9-591.

Moore, L. HIugh, Jr. "Mrs. Hirsch and Mrs. Bell in Hemingw y's
'The Killers,"' Modern Fiction Studies, XI (Winter, .965-
1966), 427-428.

Morris, William E. "Hemingway's 'The Killers,"' Fg~plcator,
XVIII (October, 1959), item 1.

Owen, Charles A., Jr. "Time and the Contagion of FlightL in 'The
Killers,"' Forum, III (Fall and Winter, 1960), 45-46.

Sampson, Edward C. "Hemingway's 'The Killer's,'" ~Exlli~cator, XI
(October, 1952), item 2.

Weeks, Robert P. "Hlemingway's 'The Killers,"' Explicator, XV
(Mlay, 1957), item 53.

"The L.ight~ of the World"

Canadiy, Njicholas, Jr. "Is There Any Light in Hlemingway's 'The
Light of the World'?" Studies in Short Fiction1, III (Fall,
1965), 75-77.

Shnf~er, Wdilliam J. "E~rnest Henin~gway: A2r'iter of Commesl Nuimer-
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"Mly Old Man"

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"A Natural History of the Dead"

Portz, John. "Allulsion and Structure in HFI rnguay :. 'A Hotural
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"Now~ I Lay Me"

Hovey, Richard B. "'Now I Lay Me'; A Psychological Interpreta-
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(Winter, 1961), 84-85.




-267-


Beck, Warren. "The Shorter Happy Life of Mrs. Macomber," Moder
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-268-


Lewuis, Robert W., Jr. "Vivienne de Watteville, Hecminigway's Com-
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"The Undefeated"

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1953,















BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH


Scott Mi. MacI~onald was born in Easton, Pennsyl.vania on Oc~tober 10,

1942. He attended elementary schools in Easton until 1957 when he and

hiis parents moved to BelLeville, Il~linois. He a~ttnded Eellevil:le Town-

ship High School and was graduated in June of 1960. In the fall of

that year he entered DePauw University where he received his Bachlelor of

Arts degree in June, 1964. In thei fall of 1964, he entered the U:niver-

sity of Florida and received his Master of Arts degree in June of 1965.

Hle was admitted to the P~h. D. program in June, 1966, and since then his

worked toward hijs doctorate. Firom September, 1964 until June, 19?69 he

workud hs a graduate assistant in thle Colmprobouisive English Decpartr.ert-

of the University of Florida. Since September of 1969 he has: been

employed as an Interimn Assistant Professor of Humdanities at the Univer-

sity; of Florida, Sco~tt Macl~onald was married to thec former Margucri te

Goodrich in 1966, and the two of them are just pleased as punch to be

nearing the conclusion of thle Ph. D). process,









Thlis dissertation was prepared under the direction of the chair-

man of the candidate's supervisory committee and has been approved by

all members of that committee. It was submitted to the Dean of the

College of Arts and Sciences and to the Graduate Council, and was ap-

proved as partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of

Doctor of Philosophy.

Nlarch, 1970.4


Dean, College of Arts and i1 es



r ..J. C I


Sulpervisory Committee:


CL












NARRATIVE PERSPECTIVE IN THE SHORT STORIES

OF ERNEST HEMINGWAY














SCOTT Mi. MacDONALD













A DISSERTATION PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE COUNCIL OF
THE UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA.
IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE
DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY


UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA
1970












































F7or M~argie













ACKNO~fEDGMENTS


I wish to express my particular appreciation to the chairman of

my supervisory committee, Dr. Peter Lisca, whose perceptieness, en-

courager.ent, and good humor helped me in countless ways during the

preparation of this dissertation. Without Dr. Lisca's interest and

assistance, this study would probably never h~ave been Finished.

I also wish to thank Dr. John E. Pickard. Without his advice,

enco?ragemnent, and example I would never havie entered a Ph. D. pro-

gram, much less completed onle. I am- indlebted also to Dr. W~ard Hellstrom,

whose generous tutelage in nineteenth century fiction has proved in-

valulable during the preparation of this study, to Dr. Claude K.

Abraham, who was kind enough to read an~d cr-iticize an early draft of

this study, to M~iss Carol J. Quinn of the University of Florida R~esearch

Library whose assistance saved me imanyi hours, and to Mrs. Patricia B.

Rambo, whlo patiently helped me: prepare the final copy.

For ideas and oral support of various kinds, I am more fully

indebted than I can? express to Mrrs. Jaine M. Bak~er, to Mr. Christophe~r

E. Bak~er, to Mir. A. X, Thiersch, III, to Mr-. Simurtl Go~wan, to rGipsy,

Squeek, and Mloppe, and most of all, to mry wife N~argie without whose

patient assist unce anld cornsta~t- sacrifice I wrould probably have gone

mad.







Abstract of Dissertation Presented to the Graduate Council
in Partial fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of
Doctor of Philosophy
at the University of Florida


NARRAT'IIVE PERSPIECTIVE: I:: THE SORT STO:IES
OF EluIEST L:EMINGW!IAY

By

Scott M1. Mlaclonald

March, 1970




Chairman: Dr. Peter Lisca
Major Departnrent: English

Having revised' and expanded the tradit-ional critical tcru~inology

for dealing with narrative perspective, this study analyzees the thmati

implications of the narrative strategies of Hem~inrway's sloot stories.

The first section of the study deals with those stories in whichl the

narrator is or was directly involved i~n the story be rout:es to the

reader. Tnese "involved narrations" are of thre- general kinds. In

stories sulch as "The Old M~an at the Bridge" and~ "Fifty Graind" narratrors

are primarily important as "frames" for thie presentation of characters

other than thiemiselves. In more complex~ stories such as "Ai Canalry for

On1e" and "Hy: Old Mlan," narrators w;ho ostensibly Tresent the stories of

other characters are developed so extensively ihati they L1hemselve~s becomef

the recader's pr~i;a-ry concern. In a thirdl Scoulp of stor~ios--sor-ies such

as "After the Storm" and "Now I L~ay Mle"--!arrators rellat their own ex;-

prielnes. In general, detailed aralysis of those stories which use

invol~ved narrators shows not only th~at Hiemingwany skillfully uses tradi-

iional types of narrative strategy in his short fiction, but that in









such stories as "Fi~fty Grand" and "Thle Gambler, the Nun, and the Radio"

he broadens the traditional ':boundaries" of involved narration.

The second section of th~e study deals with those stories which are

narrated by narrators who are not and have not been physically involved

in the stories they tell. This section begins with a discussion of such

stories as "Up in Michigan" and "Mr. and Mrs. Elliot," in which unin-

volved narrators are developed as personalities, and then analyzes those

uninvolved narrations in which narrators are largely effaced. The study

finds that in such "dramatic" narrations as the Nick Adams stories and

"Hills Like White Elephants" themlatic content results in large measure

from careful control of the specific angle from shich the reader vieus

events and from the implications of the types of conversations in which

characters engage. The section concludes writh a discussion of those

stories in which the revelation of characters' unvoiced thoughts, ifel-

ings, and nmemories is crucial for the development of thematic content.

Careful investigation of the narrative perspective of "The Snows of

Kilimanjaro," for example, is found to provide the key to problems in

the meaning of the story which have troubled many critics.

The brief final section of the scudy discusses those stories in

which thrematic content is Effecced by changes in narrative perspective.

An analysis of the u:se of multiple perspectiv e in "The Ulndefeated," for

example, reveals that the usial critical cuplhasis on Mainual Carcia's

inteS1rity nnd courage distorts thie story's imeaning.

All1 in all, the study shows thiat Hecmingway's use of narrative

pe~rspective is more varied,, more complex, and considerably more succezss-

Eul thano has been gecnerally understuood.













TABLEI OF CON:TEtSX~

i'Pag

Acknowledgmrents ----------------- -------------- ------------ iii

Abstract --------------------------------------------- Vi


Chaptar' I The Inndiqur.jcis of Criticismn ----------- 1

Notes to Chaotor I ------------------ ----------- 18


Chapter II 6irrative Prrspective: A Definiition of
Terns -------- 22

Notecs to Clapter I.I ------ ----------------------- 37

Part `i: Invl~;ved I:3rration *-------------------- -------- Li0


Chapter TL1 Si,7pic :itness !narration --------------- 41

(C1Iapter XI of o 0,:-. r-, Chaptor VII of



"(Cod; i;st You TEar_~ y, nt-le on,~" "Fitty
Grandd" "Ch ic D ice la IPatc~," "Iunder
th:e RidgEz" "Ll::ir beforee naltle."):

~Ntes to Chapter III -------------- -------------- 56

Chanptcr TV Compplex IWitness N:arrationi ------- -------- 58

("Thle Revolutcionist," "An Alpine Idyll,"
"Thie Light~ of thea Wol-rl," "A Canalry for Goo,"
"Il veenL~ m" "N-y Old Man.'")

Notes co Chautcr TV -------~------~-----~-------- 88

Chap'ter V Prot'gonist Narration ---------------------- 90

(Cha~pter X1iI of In~ Our T~i-me "In Anoth rr
Count:~ry," Chapter III of In Our Tin~..
Chaptrr IV of ~InOu!lr Time "Atfter thoctorm.,"
"Onle Trip Arcross," "Now I L~ay M~e," "The 3 bih
ler, t-he Niun, andl thF Radio," "Fathelrb e~nd
C:olls.. ")

Nctes ;:o Chaptler V ---------------------------- 133







Page

Part- II: Uninvlv.OIEd NaLration! -------------- --------------- 136


Chdprer VT Ch:aractor':od; Unri nvolvnd Kearrator s ----- 137

(" a La of thei U nd, "'r nold




Not es to Ch~apter~; VI --------------------------- 15

Chapiter ViT Dr-r ptic :.;-tlation --------------------- 157

( A *" "Todiaon
( ---~--a octo-' s W\ife,"
"The~ End: of Soli:thino;. "Cat in the Rainil,"
"TenZI IndowsI:,"1 'TheC ~i~llers," "Thle St:n
,, "9:1sLine Z C~.r~ hit E:'lilephns':
C~hjiptEI ?1 of To En!ive and Have Not.

Notecs to Chapter' VII -- ---------- ---- ----- 190

CoaterV11 -incrio Viw ------------------------ 195

(''~ig I::u- kerted, Ri~vrr," "A !Nay vou']ll




Nator: to Chapter VZII -------------------------- 215

PortL J.1T: Ho;ltiple Pefrspctive --------------------------- 219)

Ch-pter- IN Multliple Prspective -------------------- 220

("The KILers," "The- Doctlor and: th~e Doctor's
!ife,"l "The Trandesma~n's Return".l "IThe: S~orTI
Happy LifeT of F'rancis Ma:-co-,br-r," "Thei Sea
Chlirie" "Thle U-ndefeated,," "E-nnal Story,"
"The1 CapIta)c of the Wo!rld," "Hiomage to
Swi tzerl nd.")

NoELIIS to Chiaptler IX( --------------------------- 250

Coniclus ioni --- -------- --- -------------- ---------- - ------ 254

Bibliog;r.phyp --------------------------------------- 257

Ei ogra;phical Sket:chl --------------------------------------- 274







Abstra~c: of Dijssertatjion Presented to the Grraduate Council
in Partial Fulfillment of thef Requirements for the Degree of
Doctor of Philosophy
at the Unijversity of Florida


NARRA\TIVE PERSPECTIVE IN: THiE SHiORT STORIES
OF EARNEST H;EMINGWAY

By

Scott M2. MacDonald

March, 3970




Chairmanm: Dr. Peter Lisca
Major Departmeant: English

Having revised and expanded the traditional critical terminology

for dealing with~ narrative perspective, this study analyzes the thematic

impllications of the narrative strategies of Hem~ingvay's short storieE.

Thc first: section of the study deals with th~ose stories in which t~he

narretor- is or was directly involved in the story he relates to the

reader. These "involved narrations" are of threae general kinds. In

stories such as "Tihe Old Man at the Bridge" and "Fifty Grand" narrators

are prili~ar-ly important as "frames" for the presentations of characters

other than themselves. In more complex stories such as "A Canary for

One" and "My~ Old Ma:n," narrators who ostensibly present the stories of

other charactfr~s are- developed so extensively that they themselves become~

t-he reader's primary concern. In a third group of stories--stories such

as "After the Storm" and "Now I Lay Me"--narrators relate their own ex-

periences. In general, detailed analysis of those stories which use

involved narrators shows not only that Hemingway skillfully uses tradi-

tional types of narrative strategy in his short fiction, but that in








such stories as "Fifty Grand" and "The Gambler, the Nun, and the Radio"

he broadens the traditional "boundaries" of involved narration.

The second section of the study deals with those stories which are

narrated by narrators who are not and have not been physically involved

in the stories they tell. TIhis section begins with a discussion of such

stories as "Up in Michigan" and "Mr. and Mrs. Elliot," in which unin-

volved narrators are developed as personalities, and then analyses thosse

uninvolved narrations in which narrators are largely effaced. Taer study

finds that in such "dramatic" narrations as thle Nick A~dams stories antd

"Hills Like White Elephants" thematic content results in large nmeasulre

from careful control of the specific, angle from which th~e reader views

events and from the implications of the types of conveorsations in which

characcers engage. The section concludes !Jftth i discussion of chose

stories in which thle revelation of characters' ulnvoiced thoughts, ffel-

ings, and memories is crucial for the development. of chemai~tic content.

Careful investigation of the narrative perspective of "Thle Snowls of

Kilimanjaro," for example, is found to provide the kcey to problems in

the meaning of the story which have troubled many critics.

TIhe brief final section of the study disculsses thlose stories in

which thematic content is effected by changes in narrative perspective.

An analysis of the use of multiple perspective in "The Uld~efeatEd," for

example, reveals that the usual critical emphasis on Mlanuel parcia's

integrity and courage distorts the story's meani~ng.

All in all, the study shows that Hemingway's use of niarrative

perspective is more varied, more complex, and considerably moure sulccess-

ful than has been generally understood.




Narative perspective in the short stories of Ernest Hemingway
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 Material Information
Title: Narative perspective in the short stories of Ernest Hemingway
Physical Description: vii, 274 . : ; 28cm.
Language: English
Creator: MacDonald, Scott Messinger, 1942-
Publisher: University of Florida
Place of Publication: Gainesville, Fla.
Publication Date: 1970
Copyright Date: 1970
 Subjects
Subjects / Keywords: English thesis Ph. D
Dissertations, Academic -- English -- UF
Genre: bibliography   ( marcgt )
non-fiction   ( marcgt )
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Thesis: Thesis - University of Florida.
Bibliography: Bibliography: . 257-273.
Additional Physical Form: Also available on World Wide Web
General Note: Manuscript copy.
General Note: Vita.
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Holding Location: University of Florida
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NARRATIVE PERSPECTIVE IN THE SHORT STORIES

OF ERNEST HEMINGWAY












By
SCOTT M. MacDONALD












A DISSERTATION PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE COUNCIL OF
THE UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA
IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE
DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY


UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA
1970


















Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2012 with funding from
University of Florida, George A. Smathers Libraries


http://archive.org/details/narativeperspect00macdrich









































For Margie















ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


I wish to express my particular appreciation to the chairman of

my supervisory committee, Dr. Peter Lisca, whose percepti-eness, en-

courager.ent, and good humor helped me in countless ways during the

preparation of this dissertation. Without Dr. Lisca's interest and

assistance, this study would probably never have been finished.

I also wish to thank Dr. John B. Pickard. Without his advice,

encouragement, and example I would never have entered a Ph. D. pro-

gram, much less completed one. I am indebted also to Dr. Ward Hellstrom,

whose generous tutelage in nineteenth century fiction has proved in-

valuable during the preparation of this study, to Dr. Claude K.

Abraham, who was kind enough to read and criticize an early draft of

this study, to Miss Carol J. Quinn of the University of Florida Research

Library whose assistance saved me many hours, and to Mrs. Patricia B.

Rambo, who patiently helped me prepare the final copy.

For ideas and moral support of various kinds, I am more fully

indebted than I can express to Mrs. Jane M. Baker, to Mr. Christopher

E. Baker, to Mr. A. R. Thiersch, III, to Mr. Samuel Gowan, to Gipsy,

Squeek, and Moppe, and most of all, to my wife Margie without whose

patient assistance and constant sacrifice I would probably have gone

mad.













TABLE OF CONTENTS


Page

Acknowledgments -----..---------------------------------------- iii

Abstract ------------------------------------------------- vi

Chapter I The Inadequacies of Criticism ------------ 1

Notes to Chapter I ------------------------------- 18

Chapter II Nerrative Perspective: A Definition of
Terms -------- 22

Notes to Chapter II ..---------------------------- 37

Part I: Involved Narration ---------------------------------- 40

Chapter III Simple Witness Narration --------------- 41

(Chapter XI of In hOur Time, Chapter VII of
"The Old Man at the Bridge,"
"On the Quai at Smyrna," "A Days Vait,"
"God Rest You Merry, Gentleai.n," "Fity
Grand," "Che ti Dice la Patria," "Under
the Ridge," "Night Before Battle.")

Notes to Chapter III ---------------------------- 56

Chapter IV Complex Witness Narration --------------- 58

("The Revolutionist," "An Alpine Idyll,"
"The Light of the World," "A Canary for One,"
"The Mother of a Queen," "My Old Man.")

Notes to Chapter IV ---------------------------- 88

Chapter V Protagonist Narration -------------------- 90

(Chapter X1II of In Our Time, "In Another
Cooncry," Chapter III of i.. C..," ,
Chapter IV of In Our T Ime, "if'. L.,.- Storm,"
"One Trip Across," "Now I Lay Me," "The Gamb-
ler, the Nun, and the Radio," "Fathers and
Sons .")

Notes ao Chapter V ---------------------------- 133








Page

Part: II: Uninvolved Narratior; ---------------------------- 136

Chapter VI Characterized, Uninvolved Narrators ----- 137

(,.., -- ,.i ,. r '-- '-t- "Mr. and
"oldicr's
]', , i i.l _i- li ', lai cr 'S
Hoe," "Ilihe Capital of the World.")

Notes to Chapter VI ---------------------------- 154

Chapter VII Dramatic Na-ration -------------------- 157

(C C.: J '-L-i- ,_ _[ :' L "Indian
S .,- ' L..- l Ijctor's Wife,"
"The End of Something," "Cat in the Rain,"
"Ten Indians," "The Killers," *'-- ".'a
," "Hills Like White Elephants,"
Chapter 21 of To Have and Have Not.)

Notes to Chapter' VII --------------------------- 190

Chapter VIII Interior View ------------------------- 195

("Big Two-l-narted River," "Aimy-l'11
I .- i "Now I Lay Me," "The Snows of


Notes to Chapter VIII ------------------------- 215

Part III: Multiple Perspective --------------------------- 219

Chapter IX Multiple Perspective ------------------- 220

("The. Killers," "The Doctor and the Doctor's
Wife," "The Tradesman's Return," "The Short
Happy Life of Francis Macomber," "The Sea
CI, l- "Tie Undefeated," "Banal Story,"
0,.- C ., '.- I of the World," "Homage to
Switzerland.")

Notes to Chapter IX --------------------------- 250

Conclusion ---.-------------------------------------------- 254

Bibliography ----------------------------------------------- 257

Biographical Sketch --------------------------------------- 274








Abstract of Dissertation Presented to the Graduate Council
in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of
Doctor of Philosophy
at the University of Florida


NARRATIVE PERSPECTIVE IN THE SHORT STORIES
OF ERNEST HEMINGWAY

By

Scott M. MacDonald

March, 1970




Chairman: Dr. Peter Lisca
Major Department: English

Having revised and expanded the traditional critical terminology

for dealing with narrative perspective, this study analyzes the thematic

implications of the narrative strategies of Hemingway's short stories.

The first section of the study deals with those stories in which the

narrator is or was directly involved in the story he relates to the

reader. These "involved narrations" are of three general kinds. In

stories such as "The Old Man at the Bridge" and "Fifty Grand" narrators

are primiarly important as "frames" for the presentation of characters

other than themselves. In more complex stories such as "A Canary for

One" and "My Old Man," narrators who ostensibly present the stories of

other characters are developed so extensively that they themselves become

the reader's primary concern. In a third group of stories--stories such

as "After the Storm" and "Now I Lay Me"--narrators relate their own ex-

periences. In general, detailed analysis of those stories which use

involved narrators shows not only that Hemingway skillfully uses tradi-

tional types of narrative strategy in his short fiction, but that in




vi










such stories as "Fifty Grand" and "The Gambler, the Nun, and the Radio"

he broadens the traditional "boundaries" of involved narration.

The second section of the study deals with those stories which are

narrated by narrators who are not and have not been physically involved

in the stories they tell. This section begins with a discussion of such

stories as "Up in Michigan" and "Mr. and Mrs. Elliot," in which unin-

volved narrators are developed as personalities, and then analyzes those

uninvolved narrations in which narrators are largely effaced. The study

finds that in such "dramatic" narrations as the Nick Adams stories and

"Hills Like White Elephants" thematic content results in large measure

from careful control of the specific angle from which the reader views

events and from the implications of the types of conversations in which

characters engage. The section concludes with a discussion of those

stories in which the revelation of characters' unvoiced thoughts, feel-

ings, and memories is crucial for the development of thematic content.

Careful investigation of the narrative perspective of "The Snows of

Kilimanjaro," for example, is found to provide the key to problems in

the meaning of the story which have troubled many critics.

The brief final section of the study discusses those stories in

which thematic content is effected by changes in narrative perspective.

An analysis of the use of multiple perspective in "The Undefeated," for

example, reveals that the usual critical emphasis on Manuel .Garcia's

integrity and courage distorts the story's meaning.

All in all, the study shows that Hemingway's use of narrative

perspective is more varied, more complex, and considerably more success-

ful than has been generally understood.


vii















CHAPTER I

THE INADEQUACIES OF CRITICISM


In a dissertation he wrote at the University of Michigan in 1949,

E. M. Halliday found that by and large there had been "little analysis

of just how the effect" of Hemingway's fiction "is achieved."' Though

many articles about Hemingway had been published, Halliday saw that

most of them dealt either with Hemingway the man or, at best, with

relationships between Hemingway's life and his fiction. In the twenty

years since the writing of Halliday's dissertation, a great deal of

critical attention has been accorded Hemingway's fiction, much of it

of significance for the serious student of Hemingway's narrative tech-

nique. Nearly all of the standard critical works on Hemingway--Charles

A. Fenton's The Apprenticeship of Ernest Hemingway, Carlos Baker's

Hemingway: The Writer as Artist, Philip Young's Ernest Hemingway--

have appeared since 1949, and numerous critics have attempted to ana-

lyze individual stories and novels.2 At the same time, however, much

recent Hemingway criticism has continued to deal not with the writer

as artist, but with the writer as fisherman, hunter, bullfight aficio-

nado, and so forth. Further, much of the criticism which has

studied Hemingway's art has continued to use the fiction primarily

as means with which to understand the historical personality,

Partly as a result of the attempt to discover the meaning of










Hemingway as a man, and partly as a result of the deceptive simplicity

of much of Hemingway's art, a great many significant aspects of the

technique of Hemingway's fiction remain to be explored. One of the

most important of these aspects of fictional technique is Hemingway's

use of narrative perspective.

Until the publication of Halliday's "Hemingway's Narrative

Perspective" in 1952 there was hardly any suggestion on the part of

critics that Hemingway ever paid the slightest attention to the

possibilities of narrative perspective. Though the situation has

changed somewhat since the appearance of Halliday's seminal work, it

is noteworthy that his article remains one of the most extensive

treatments of the subject. "Hemingway's Narrative Perspective" deals

in detail with The Sun Also Rises, A Farewell to Arms, and To Have

and Have Not. Basically, the study attempts to show how the narrative

perspective of Hemingway's best fiction reflects and emphasizes

thematic content. Halliday explains, for example, that the use of a

first-person narrator in The Sun Also Rises produces "an effect of

singularity; and singularity, in the sense of emotional isolation,

is inseparable from the novel's theme of moral atrophy . because

Jake, as protagonist, is a man drawing; himself inward and apart

from others, becoming . constantly more self-sufficient and alone,
4
this effect of singularity is made extremely telling and powerful."

Halliday's discussion of The Sun Also Rises includes his definition of

"objective epitome." According to Halliday, Hemingway uses Jake's

perception of particular external objects in moments of stress as a

means of reflecting the inward psychological pain or pleasure the

narrator is feeling.5 Halliday's insights into The Sun Also Rises










are helpful, but his subsequent contention that the technique of

A Farewell to Arms represents only a slight modification of the tech-

nique of the earlier novel is incorrect.6 One of Hemingway's achieve-

ments in The Sun Also Rises is the creation of first-person narration

which is not retrospective in effect, which creates the kind of mov-

ing "now" that critics of fictional technique have presumed impossible

for a first-person story. Frederic Henry's narration of A Farewell to

Arms, on the other hand, is retrospective in effect. Unlike 1i.: Sn

Also Rises, the later novel must be viewed as a reminiscence. The

difference is an important one, for it affects our reactions both to

specific incidents and to the overall meanings of the two novels.

According to Halliday, the unity of form and theme which Heming-

way achieves in The Sun Also Rises and A Farewell to Arms is totally

lost in To Have and Have Not, which is little more than an "exhibition

of technical irresponsibility." In To Have and Have Not "the point of

view flips back and forth so capriciously that the reader suffers

from a kind of vertigo of the imagination which blurs the illusion

[of reality]." This technical confusion is paralleled by a "confusion

of theme . The total impression is that of an author groping

for his theme in a not-very-well-lighted place . . ." Though

Halliday is correct in his estimation of the quality of To Have and

Have Not as a novel, his discussion is weakened by his failure to deal

with Hemingway's experimentation with narrative perspective in indiv-

idual parts of the book. "Hemingway's Narrative Perspective" offers

many valuable insights. It is, nevertheless, limited both in scope--

it makes little mention of several of the novels and no mention at all

of the short stories--and in depth of insight.










Since the appearance of Halliday's article, critical attention

has been accorded the narrative perspective of Hemingway's fiction

somewhat more frequently. Unfortunately, however, this attention has

usually been little more than cursory. In Hemingway: The Writer as

Artist, for example, Carlos Baker limits his treatment of Hemingway's

use of narrative perspective in the works up through Winner Take

Nothing to a few off-hand coumsents and a footnote in which he mentions

only that "Hemingway did not begin to employ the third person consistently
8
until the middle 1930's." Even this statement is of doubtful validity

since In Our Time uses third-person narration far more consistently

than any of the later collections of short stories. Philip Young

gives the question of narrative perspective a little more space; he

devotes part of the. second chapter of Ernest Hemingway: A Reconsider-

ation to two groups of what he calls the "'I' stories." In such stories

as "The Light of the World" and "Now I Lay Me," Young explains, the "I"

is the protagonist, usually Nick Adams or a very similar character.

In other stories--"Fifty Grand" and "Mother of a Queen," for example--

the narrator is an observer.9 However, aside from distinguishing

these categories, which are merely two traditionally defined types of

first-person narration, Young does little more than use the stories

to exemplify his ideas about the "Hemingway hero" and the "code hero."

Young limits his analysis of the narrative perspective of the novels

to mentioning Jake Barnes' "conversational style" and to making the

highly questionable observation that "Unlike Jake Barnes . Frederic

Henry participates fully in the book's action, and as a person is wholly
10
real."










MoirV recent studies have frequently done little more than repeat

the i.opeficial observations of earlier critics. In Ernest Heming-

way: An Introduction and Interpretation Sheridan Baker defines two

"modes" in Hemingway's fiction, "which might be called the autobiograph-

ical and the observational, roughly the first and third person," and he

mentions that in ,1,'r "t ch. ,, u..:,: "the two modes alternate and en-

ga;' (<:h other somewhat as two halves of a deck of cards . 12

F .l lin,) Young's precedent, however, Baker doesn't elaborate on the

wo modes and fails to explain in what way they are particularly

Hemingway's. He does mention the use of the first-person method in

two stories. "My Old Man," he says, is Hemingway's only story "in

what might be called 'the first person innocent,'" and "Fifty Grand"

is "unique among Hemingway's stories in that the 'I' is not the hero

but a 'character'" whose "limited intelligence turns all the tawdy

details comic and frenk, as against the reader's broader perceptions,"13

Baker's description of "Fifty Grand," however, makes it sound more

like "first person innocent" than "My Old Man" does, especially since

the narrator of the latter story has lost his innocence by the time

.he tells the reader of his experience.

Of the many full-length approaches to Hemingway's fiction Earl

Kovit's Ernest Hemingway is most frequently concerned with Hemingway's

use of narrative perspective. Even Rovit, however, limits his detailed

discussions to a few of Hemingway's works. Like other critics Rovit

finds that the "typical Hemingway fiction will be of two closely re-

latL' tyv).es. Either there will be an actual or an implied first-person

narrator (the Nick Adams stories, The Sun Also Rises, A Farewell to Arms),

or there will be seemingly objective third-person narrated fictions in










which the reader will be coerced into the position of the reacting, un-
14
speaking 'voice' (The Old Man and the Sea)." The majority of Rovit's

discussions of narrative perspective are concerned with the first type

of story, with Hemingway's use of first-person narration. Rovit uses

"In Another Country" to exemplify what he feels is a common narrative

structure in Hemingway's fiction. He explains that "In Another Country"

is basically about the narrator and "tyro" figure who undergoes a

learning experience as a result of his contact with a "tutor" figure,

the heroic Italian major. According to Rovit, this basic fictional

structure underlies several of Hemingway's short stories and several of

the novels. Rovit's comments about Hemingway's use of narrative

perspective are frequently useful, but as is true of other full-length

analyses of Hemingway's fiction, Rovit's study is far from exhaustive.

His explications of the novels are frequently inadequate, and few of

the short stories are discussed in any detail.

Though there are hundreds of critical discussions which deal

specifically with Hemingway's short stories, only a very few of these
17
are concerned to a significant extent with narrative perspective.

Only three critics, in fact, offer detailed discussions of the narra-

tive strategies of more than one or two of Hemingway's short works.*

Two of these critics--Charles A. Fenton and Richard Bridgeman--analyze



*Because of the number of discussions involved, an exhaustive
review of those articles which analyze individual stories is im-
practical at this point. Relevant analyses of Hemingway's short
stories are reviewed in subsequent chapters of this study when the
stories themselves are discussed.











several of the inter-chapters of In Our Time. The third critic,

Joseph DeFalco, makes valuable observations about the narrative

perspectives of several short stories.

In The Apprenticeship of Ernest Hemingway Fenton discusses cer-

tain aspects of Hemingway's work with narrative voice. According to

Fenton "the two Mons vignettes, 'Chapter 4' and 'Chapter 5,'" are

attempts to recreate the British idiom of Hemingway's friend, Dorman-

Smith. The fact that the narrator of "Chapter 2," on the other hand,

is "vulgar" and "relatively unliterate" is made clear by Hemingway's

use of language which is "functionally ungrammatical." A third narra-

tive strategy is reflected by the fact that the narrative voice of

many of the sketches is anonymous. In these "more characteristic"

pieces hlewinigway achieves his effects through the use of "declarative
18
narration and ironic omission of comment." Fenton's valuable dis-

cussion of the vignettes is supplemented by Bridgeman's analysis. In

The Colloquial Style in America Bridgeman points out that half of the

short chapters are told in the first person (Chapters I, II, IV, V, XI,

XIII, XIV, XV, and XVIII) and half in the third person (Chapters III,

VI, VII, VIII, IX, X, XII, XVI, and XVII), and then proceeds to analyze,

primarily by means of diction, the various narrative voices created
19
in the sketches., Like Fenton, Bridgeman mentions that the first-

person narrators include the British officer of "Chapter 5" and the

ungrammatical American of "Chapter 2."20 He also distinguishes, how-

ever, the bemused, reminiscing "simple soul" of "Chapter 1" and the

"quiet cool observer" of the eleventh, thirteenth, and eighteenth

chapters. The third-person sketches range, he feels, from the ironic

perspective of "Chapter 8" to the "factual journalistic" perspective










of the third, sixth, and seventeenth chapters. The overall purposes

of their books prevent Fenton and Bridgeman from dealing in detail with

all the vignettes. Because of the thoroughness with which they analyze

those sketches they do treat, however, their discussions are particu-

larly interesting and enlightening.

Though his study is not primarily concerned with fictional tech-

nique, Joseph DeFalco does find occasion to analyze aspects of the

narrative strategies of such stories as "My Old Man," "Fifty Grand,"

and "In Another Country." In The Hero in Hemingway's Short Stories,

DeFalco explains that the use of the first person in "My Old Man"

enables Hemingway to better exhibit "the inner attitudes of the central

character and reveal the pathos of the final learning situation."

The fact that the story is narrated in retrospect "accounts for the

tough, almost bitter tone of the piece," a tone which illustrates

the attitude the young narrator has "derived from the experience."21

In "Fifty Grand" it is the central protagonist--rather than the first-

person narrator--who undergoes the significant learning experience.

Jerry Doyle, the narrator of the story, is merely "a register"

against which the changing views of Jack Brennen can be measured.22

The narrator of "In Another Country," according to DeFalco, is

neither innocent in the way that Jerry is in "Fifty Grand" nor as

open about the kind of effect his experiences have had on him as is

the narrator of "My Old Man." "In Another Country" uses the Italian

major as "the register . against which the attitudes and feelings

of the 'I' may be tested." After choosing the first-person point of

view for "In Another Country," Hemingway uses the narrator's choice of

detail in order to project onto outward reality the conflict between









23
faith and total despair which his narrator is undergoing. DeFalco's

discussions of the narrative strategies of Hemingway's stories are

nearly always illuminating. Unfortunately, his choice of subject

matter--he works primarily with those stories which further the psychic

development of Nick Adams--and the Jungian approach to which he is

committed prevent his book from being more useful in the present con-

text. In spite of its limitations, however, itL 1rl. ,, '

Short Stories is still a valuable approach--and the only extensive

approach--to Hemingway's short stories. It is referred to often in

subsequent chapters.

Though Hemingway's fiction has received considerable critical

comment in the last four decades, few commentators have given much

attention to matters.of narrative perspective. Those discussions in

which critics do attempt to deal with narrative strategy are limited

in one of two ways. Some discussions--those of Carlos Baker, Philip

Young, and Sheridan Baker, for example--are too general to be of

much use. The more detailed discussions by such critics as Halliday,

Fenton, and Bridgeman,on the other hand, are extremely limited in

extent--none of them deals with more than a very few works. The

present study attempts to end the critical neglect of this area of

Hemingway's fictional technique by showing in detail how the use of

narrative perspective contributes significantly to the meaning of many

of Hemingway's short stories.



The supposition that Hemingway was a versatile and inventive

fictional technician, and, more particularly, that he seriously










concerned himself with the various possibilities of narrative per-

spective need cause the critic no surprise. Hemingway himself attested

to his concern with narrative strategy several times. In a letter he

wrote to John Atkins, for example, Hemingway briefly reviews his past

concern with narrative person:


When I wrote the first two novels I had not learned
to write in the third person. The first person
gives you great intimacy in attempting to give a
complete sense of experience to the reader. It is
limited however and in the third person the novelist
can work in other people's heads and in other
people's country. His range is greatly extended and
so are his obligations. I prepared myself for writ-
ing in the third person by the discipline of writ-
ing Death in the Afternoon; the short stories and
especially the long stories of "The Short Happy Life
of Francis Macomber" and "The Snows of Kilimanjaro."
In "The Snows of Kilimanjaro" I put in and deliber-
ately used what could have made many novels to see
how far it was possible to concentrate in a medium.24


A similar concern is evident in a letter Hemingway wrote to Maxwell

Perkins in 1927. Having "'got tired of the limitations' imposed by

first-person narrative," he explained, he had switched to the third
25
person in the"'sort of modern Tom Jones'" he was working on.

Hemingway's interest in narrative perspective was not limited to the

question of narrative person. In a letter to Edmund Wilson, Hemingway

expresses his appreciation for Wilson's Dial review of in our time and

Three Stories and Ten Poems, indicating that at least one major reason

for the overall organization of In Our Time had to do with the fictional

distance created between the reader and the events he reads about.

The purpose of the alternation of full-length stories and brief vignettes,

according to Hemingway, was "to give the picture of the whole between










examining it in detail. Like looking with your eyes at something,

say a passing coast line, and then looking at it with 15X binoculars.

Or rather, maybe, looking at it and then going in and living it--and

then coming out and looking at it again."26

Hemingway's interest in matters of narrative perspective might

also be suggested by the fact that most of the writers he admitted

admiring are notable for their work with narrative strategy. In the

September, 1924 "Conrad Supplement" of F. M. Ford's Transatlantic

Review Hemingway announces that "from nothing else that I have ever
27
read have I gotten what every book of Conrad has given me." It

seems fair to suppose that Conrad's lifelong experimentation with

narrative perspective both in collaboration with Ford and alone was

at least part of what it was that he gave Hemingway. The most famous

of Hemingway's statements of admiration for other writers is his con-

tention in Green Hills of Africa that Henry James, Stephen Crane,

and Mark Twain are the finest American writers.8 The praise for

James, which Young feels does not mean a great deal, night be less of

a problem for critics were Hemingway's consistent concern with ques-
29
tions of narrative perspective less frequently ignored. l{emingway's

contention that "All modern American literature comes Erom one book

by Mark Twain called Huckleberry Finn" almost undoubtedly results in

part from the fact that Twain's novel differs from nearly all of the

American fiction which preceded it in its use of a fLrst-person char-

acter narrator and a nonstandard idiom particularly suited to that
30
narrator. Crane and Hemingway share a background as newspapermen,

a background that was influential in the development by both writers










of that particular kind of third-person narration critics usually call

the "dramatic" or "objective" method. In i. u ,ill .1f -. i

Hemingway nominates "The Blue Hotel" as Crane's best story, and the

great similarity between Crane's dramatic method and Hemingway's can

best be seen by comparing this story and such lesser known Crane tales

as "An Episode of War" and "The Upturned Face" with Hemingway's "Hills

Like White Elephants."

The major evidence of Hemingway's concern with narrative point of

view, of course, is found in his fiction. And even a cursory glance at

any area of Hemingway's work indicates that experimentation with the

possibilities of narrative perspective was of significance throughout

his career. Richard Bridgeman suggests that during his early writings

"Hemingway was consciously testing various approaches and stylistic

techniques. He rarely repeated an experiment that failed to advance

him stylistically. Even if a particular tack succeeded--as "My Old

Man" did--Hemingway abandoned it unless it contributed to the construc-
31
tion of a satisfactory stylistic conveyance for his meaning." What

Bridgeman says about style applies equally to narrative perspective.

As Bridgeman's own analysis of the In Our Time vignettes illustrates,

the two are often impossible to separate. To say that a writer is

experimenting with a particular idiom, with, that is, a particular way

of speaking, makes no sense unless we presume that he is also experi-

meating with a particular speaker. Even to say that a writer uses

a bare, heved-down style in a story suggests something about the nar-

rative perspective of that story.

Hemingway's concern with the possibilities of narrative strategy






-13-


is evident as early as his high school fiction. According to Fenton,

Hemingway's first published story,."Judgement of Manitou," which

appeared in the Oak Park High School literary magazine, is a third-

person narration which relies on a complex plot and a treatment
32
reminiscent of Jack London for its effect. The second story Heming-

way submitted to The Tabula uses a different narrative voice. "A

Matter of Colour" is in part an attempt to reproduce the speech of the
33
veteran fight manager who serves as narrator of the story. Still

another narrative strategy is evident in the third Tabula story, "Sepi

Jingan," which, Fenton explains, is "a tale of violence and revenge

told by an Objiway Indian" in which "Hemingway avoided the artifici-

ality of total monologue. There was a base of fragmentary exposition;

the narrator asked occasional questions that kept the Indian's speech
34
fluid." Hemingway's early interest in narrative voice is also evi-

dent in the imitations of Ring Lardner he wrote in high school and

later in Italy. Fenton suggests that the Lardner imitations were "an

invaluable opening exercise in some of the technicalities of idiomatic

prose . .35 They were also, one might add, invaluable as opening

exercises in some of the technicalities of a type of first-person nar-

ration which Hemingway used later in such stories as "Fifty Grand"

and "The Mother of a Queen." Though one cannot make too much of

Hemingway's high school fiction, his earliest stories do indicate both

his interest in certain kinds of subject matter and his concern with

the various possibilities of narrative perspective.

Most critics would agree with Fenton that journalism was "the

most important single factor" in Hemingway's apprenticeship.36 And





-14-


though the chances for experimentation with narrative perspective in

newspaper stories are somewhat limited, it is easy to see the effect

of the reporting Hemingway did for the Kansas City Star on his develop-

ment of "dramatic" narration. At the Star Hemingway met and became

close friends with Lionel Calhoun Moise. The belief of this almost

legendary reporter that "Pure objective writing . is the only true

form of storytelling" has frequently been cited by critics as an

important influence in Hemingway's development. Moise is reported to

have advised young writers, "No stream of consciousness nonsense; no

playing dumb observer one paragraph and God Almighty the next . .

In short, no tricks."37

Hemingway's job with the Toronto Star Weekly subsequent to his

tour as an ambulance driver and soldier also played a part in the

development of his ability to handle narrative perspective. Fenton

reports that during his stay with the Canadian paper Hemingway's

"style and attitudes matured as he ranged experimentally through the

various levels of burlesque, mimicry, satire, and irony."38 Hemingway

continued to experiment with a "variety of mediums" during his stay in

Chicago in the winter of 1921. As Donald M. Wright remembers, Heming-

way "was trying any and every kind of writing at the time. . 39

The result of the young writer's attempts to work with the different

narrative stances required by satire, irony, and burlesque can be

seen in his later ability to shift easily from one narrative stance to

another in Death in the Afternoon and other works.

Hemingway's early years in Paris were undoubtedly of great signi-

ficance in the development of his fictional technique. It is difficult






-15-


to imagine that he could has escaped at least the indirect influence of

such writer-friends as Ford, Joyce, Dos Passos, and Fitzgerald,all of

whom were greatly concerned with matters of narrative perspective. One

need only remember such scenes as that described by Robert McAlmon in

Being Geniuses Together where Hemingway, Sylvia Beach, Stuart Gilbert

and others sit, "as grave as owls," as Joyce reads from his own work to

realize how pervasive the atmosphere of literary experimentation must
40
have been.

The special importance of Sherwood Anderson and Gertrude Stein

in Hemingway's development has often been discussed by critics. Both

writers were, of course, innovators in the area of narrative technique,

and much of what Hemingway is presumed to have learned from them is

related to the use of narrative perspective. The frequent critical

assumption, for example, that such Anderson stories as "' Want to Know

Why" and "I'm a Fool" influenced Hemingway's "My Old Man" is based in

large measure on the similarities between the narrative perspectives

of these stories. That the debt Hemingway owes Anderson has to do

with narrative perspective is emphasized by Hemingway's own assertion

in his review of A Story Teller's Story that Anderson's significance

as a writer resided in his ability to take "a very banal idea of things"

and present it "with such craftsmenship that the person reading it be-
41
lives it beautiful and does not see the craftsmanship at all."

When Hemingway came to repudiate Anderson in The Torrents of Spring,

one of the aspects of the older writer's fiction that he repeatedly

satirized was, as John T. Flanagan has explained, a certain tendency

in Anderson's use of third person narration:










Anderson utilizing an older technique intruded in
much of his fiction, interpolating his own views
or comments, disrupting the very point of view
he sought to establish. Hemingway . goes him
one better . . Hemingway appends author's
notes to the reader in which he alludes to personal
friends . and calls attention not only to his
personal knowledge of Petoskey and the Michigan
Indians but to the unimportance of the whole pro-
ject.42


Critics generally agree that Gertrude Stein taught Hemingway a

great deal about the use of repetition, and one need only compare an

early story such as "Up in Michigan" in which Hemingway works with

repetition in Stein's manner with an early story such as "Out of Season"

in which repetition is not an important device in order to understand

the significant effect repetition can have on narrative perspective.

The kind of experimentation with narrative perspective Hemingway

conducted during his apprenticeship is evident throughout his major

works. A glance at either the novels or the stories reveals that, at

least in the area of narrative perspective, Hemingway avoided repeat-

ing himself throughout his career. The Sun Also Rises and A Farewell

to Arms are presented in different kinds of first-person narration;

To Have and Have Not is an attempt to work with multiple view; For

Whom the Bell Tolls is narrated in a standard type of omniscient nar-

ration; and Across the River and Into the Trees and The Old Man and the

Sea use different variations of central-intelligence narration. The

still greater variety of narrative strategies used in Hemingway's

short stories is examined at length in subsequent chapters.

In his Nobel Prize acceptance speech Hemingway explains that

"For a true writer each book should be a new beginning where he tries

again for something that is beyond attainment. He should always try






-17-



for something that has never been done or that others have tried and

failed." Too often Hemingway criticism has tacitly assumed that

Hemingway did not follow his own advice, that he himself was not

"driven far out past where" a writer can go, "out to where no one can

help him."43 This study discusses at least one area in which Heming-

way did move constantly into new and difficult areas throughout his

career, and in which he did try to accomplish things he felt had not

been done successfully.















NOTES TO CHAPTER I


1. E. M. Halliday, "Narrative Technique in the Novels of Ernest
Hemingway," (a dissertation written at the University of Michigan, 1949),
i-ii.

2. Charles A. Fenton, i. Ahe rr.t': 1ip [ tr.- i _._, [i__.',
(New York, 1954); Carlos Baker, -.iLI.n; i.' f'.c 0 r-.rcr .- r, ,11t
(Princeton, 1952); Philip Your- -. i.- .J .-i ,' I ..'- Y. I ',
All references to Baker's book in this study are to the third edition of
1963. Young's study has recently been revised and republished as
Srn-: c i,..'c':u-; l.: :or, i rat L .:. (University Park, Pennsylvania,
1 0 ... .,rel t1c [ o.ji '- ,ork in this study are to this re-
vised edition.

3. E. M. Halliday, "Hemingway's Narrative Perspective," Sewanee
Review, LX (Spring, 1952), 202-218. This article, which was a conden-
sation of part of the aforementioned dissertai'ioi, also appears in
Carlos Baker, ed., Ernest Hemingway: Critit2ue of Four Major Novels
(New York, 1962), 174-182.

4. Halliday, "Hemingway's Narrative Iekrspective," 203-204.

5. Halliday, "Hemingway's Narrative Perspective," 205-208. "Ob-
jective epitome" is also discussed briefly in E. M Hallilay, "KeIming-
way's Ambiguity: Symbolism and Irony," A'_er__cn Literat're, XXVIII
(March, 1956), 1-22. This article is r; ,,.L I '.'..- P. Weeks, ed.,
Hemingway: A Collection of Critical Essays (Englewood Cliffs New
Jersey, 1962), 52-71.

6. See Halliday,"Hemingway's Narrative Perspective," 209.

7. Halliday, "Hemingway's Narrative Perspective," 211, 212, 214.

8. Baker, H .. I. .' ;:L .I __ _. L.., 97i. Baker does
review Hemingway'- .1" ,.j.> 0[ .. ,-. I',. i: perspective in To
i..- .r i .. F..'. lHe concludes that "the virtuosity of the narrative
i.. *.q... :. .s enough to set the book off in a kind of lonely
triumph from most of the writing of the middle thirties" (Baker,
9 n r. e. I., C__: 2 'C L L, 221).

9. See Young, E..:_ r _. . '._ i '. -..--, 56-64.










10. Young, Ernest Hemingway: A Reconsideration, 90.

11. In Ernest Hemingway and the Pursuit of Heroism (New York,
1968), Leo Gurko does little more than mention that The Sun Also Rises,
A Farewell to Arms, and several of the short stories are narrated by
first-person narrators. He does record his belief that the weakness
of Catherine Barkley as a character results from the novel's use of
the first person. Since she is seen only through Frederic Henry's eyes,
Gurko explains, Catherine "must live her whole life in the novel within
that single focus. Since his interest in her is amatory, she appears
only as a love object. Whatever qualities or resources she may have
of any other kind are blanked out in advance. The result is a character
too limited to bear the emotional demands made upon her" (Gurko, 87).
S. F. Sanderson's Ernest Hemingway (Edinburgh, 1961) merely repeats
the statements of previous studies, particularly those of Philip Young
in r...; -t it.il r. :..*a In T r . i ,_ ; i.r' .'-.t f Self-Defense
(ILi-ir. af :.1 i l )..), Jac,-) n J. .. .:...' L .-- -a- phasis on nar-
rative perspective.

12. Sheridan Baker, Ernest Hemingway: An Introduction and Inter-
pretation (New York, 1967), 58.

13. Sheridan Baker, rr,: 'E.m.- 26, 61-62.

14. Earl Rovit, Ernest Hemingway (New Haven, 1963), 49. Though
he never discusses exactly what he means by the "implied first-person
narrator" as it appears in the works he lists, Rovit's book includes a
valuable discussion of the cabinet minister sketch from Tr. --,' Ti- in
which his idea of the implied narrator is made clearer. fi, '.,,. :.ic-Ech,
Rovit says, the "third dimension in the scene . is provided by the
relationship of the semi-stunned narrator [of whom the reader is not
immediately aware] to the action that is taking place before his eyes"
(Rovit, 47).

15. Rovit's "tutor" and "tyro" owe a good deal to Young's "Heming-
way hero" and "code hero," the only difference between them being, per-
haps, Rovit's extra emphasis on the teacher-learner relationship which
exists between the two types.

16. Like "In Another Country," according to Rovit, '. .' 11 ti
Arms portrays a learning experience on the part of its first person
narrator, Frederic Henry, who learns from several "tutors" that to be
completely alive is possible only for one who truly loves. Rovit finds
a similar structure in The Sun Also Rises. Hemingway's first novel
portrays a learning experience on the part of its narrator, though
what is learned by Jake Barnes is, in a sense, the opposite of what
Frederic Henry learns. The Sun Also Rises portrays Jake's development
of greater control over LI..'-. ....... ,- .. 1: he is incapable of fulfill-
ing: "Just as Frederic Henry has to learn that a truly human life de-
mands involvement . so Jake Barnes must learn to become uninvolved










from useless and impossible illusions if he is to remain sane" (Rovit,
157).

17. The narrative strategies of individual novels have received
somewhat more critical attention. During the last few decades, for ex-
ample, there have been numerous attempts to analyze the narrative per-
spective of The Sun Also Rises. While critical estimates of Jake's
character and the effects his character have on the novel vary greatly,
however, no critical argument has been offered which convincingly dis-
proves Rovit's assertion that he "must be mostly reliable and mostly
sympathetic" (Rovit, 148). A reduction of critical interest in matters
of narrative technique in general, and in matters of narrative perspec-
tive in particular, is evident in the criticism of the novels which fol-
low The Sun Also Rises. While A Farewell to Arms has received a good
deal of critical attention very few of the many articles concerned with
Hemingway's second novel deal with technical considerations, and none
deals primarily with narrative perspective. This general reduction of
critical concern with the question of narrative strategy is even more
pronounced in the criticism of subsequent novels.

18. Fenton, 238, 239.

19. See Richard Bridgeman, The Colioquial Style in America
(New York, 1966), 203-209.

20. Bridgeman does not agree that Chapter IV is an attempt to
reproduce Dorman-Smith's idiom. He feels that the voice of this
vignette, "which may be British," marks an attempt by Hemingway to
close in on a needed "neutral voice" (Bridgeman, 206).

21. Joseph DeFalco, Th- Ie '-L ... nI.i .*, .: ii U c C r i--
(Pittsburgh, 1963), 56.

22. See DeFalco, 211-212.

23. DeFalco, 130.

24. Atkins, The Art of Ernest Hemingway (London, 1952), 72-73.
Atkins does not include any notes in his book, and one can only guess
at the date of Hemingway's letter. Presuming, however, that Atkins
and Hemingway corresponded while Atkins was writing P,. 'r-. tF Ernt.'t
Hemingway, ore crn infer that Hemingway's comments ..r,- i,. ,r~e.jd
1951.

25. Letter quoted by Carlos Baker in H ..: Th .ric..-r U
Artist, 97n.

26. Letter quoted by Wilson in The Shores of Light (New York,
1952), 122-123.

27. Hemingway pays tribute to Conrad in Transatlantic Review,
II (September, 1924), 341-342.










28. Ernest Hemingway, Green Hills of Africa (New York, 1935), 22.

29. Young, Ernest Hemingway: A Reconsideration, 188.

30. Hemingway, Green Hills of Africa, 22.

31 Bridgeman, 197.

32. See Fenton, 15.

33. See Fenton, 16-17.

34. Fenton, 17.

35. Fenton, 26.

36. Fenton, 243.

37. Fentor quotes Moise, 41.

38. Fenton, 81.

39. Fenton quotes Wright, 101.

40. See Robert McAlmon and Kay Boyle, Being Geniuses Together
(New York, 1968), 312-313.

41. Ernest Hemingway, Review of Anderson's A Story-Teller's
Story, Ex Libris, II (March, 1925), 176-177.

42. John T. Flanagan, "Hemingway's Debt to Sherwood Anderson,"
Jou rrii .-1 ri :i h ar.' C.: m r.: T-,:i, I. LIV (October, 1955), 515.

43. Carlos Baker includes the complete text of Hemingway's
Nobel Prize acceptance speech in i..r :. h- : r,.:*. : ..rLL_ E, 339.,















CHAPTER II

NARRATIVE PERSPECTIVE: A DEFINITION OF TERMS


The failure of critics to develop a sufficient understanding of

the importance of narrative strategy in Hemingway's fiction is part of

what amounts to an overall lack of critical attention to matters of

narrative perspective.* The general inadequacy of criticism in this

area is perhaps most clearly reflected by the fact that in the years

since the publication of Percy Lubbock's The Craft of Fiction, most

critics have been content to accept Lubbock's useful, but obviously

limited analysis of the possibilities of narrative strategy with

little or no qualification. It is only in the last few years, in fact,

that critics such as Wayne C. Booth and Bertil Romberg have pursued

Lubbock's line of investigation and have attempted to lay a more sub-

stantial foundation for the study of narrative perspective. Because

of the absence of an adequate critical framework for dealing with

questions of narrative strategy, it has been necessary for the present

study to develop its own framework. During its investigation of narra-

tive perspective in Hemingway's stories, this study uses distinctions




The term "narrative perspective" is used in this study to desig-
nate that complex of relationships which is contingent on the kind of
narrator an author creates. By "narrator" this study means that char-
acter who ostensibly writes, tells, or remembers a story.









which are derived, first, from a review and revision of those terms

and concepts developed in The Craft of Fiction; second, from a review

and revision of terminology developed in such recent studies as those

of Booth and Romberg; and finally, from the definition of several terms

and concepts which have not been used previously in criticism of fic-

tion.

In The Craft of Fiction Lubbock develops the four-fold categori-

zation of possible narrative strategies which has become the basis for

nearly all discussion of narrative perspective in the last five

decades. Depending upon the amount of dramatization an author feels a

story requires, according to Lubbock, he can present a narrative

"dramatically," or he can create an "omniscient" narrator, a "central

intelligence," or a "first-person" narrator.

What is called the "dramatic" method in ii.-,'. -1. r' '-- goes

by different names in the various subsequent attempts to categorize

narrative strategies. Rene Wellek and Austin Warren, Edith Mirielees,

and Kenneth Payson Kempton call it the "objective" method; Caroline

Gordon and Allen Tate call it the technique of the effacedd narrator";

Cleanth Brooks and Robert Penn Warren call it the technique of the

"observer author"; and Norman Friedman refers to it as the "dramatic

node."2 Despite their differences in terminology, however, the critics

agree that when an author uses this narrative method, he is attempting

"to approximate as closely as possible the authority of the drama-
3
tist." In his attempt to present a kind of prose drama the author

of a dramatic work effaces his narrator, allowing him to enter the

narrative only for the purpose of placing the characters before back-

grounds suitable for rhe "scenes" they enact. The characters in










dramatic fiction are developed exclusively by means of the "objective"
4
presentation of only "what the characters do and say." As is usual

in the actual drama it imitates, the thoughts and feelings of the char-
5
acters in dramatic narrative must be "inferred from action and dialogue."

Though dramatic telling has usually been thought of as one of the

methods of third-person narration, there is no reason why a first-

person work cannot be dramatic. The Sun Also Rises, in fact, is one

of the few successful full-length dramatic works in fiction. With few

exceptions--exceptions which total less than twenty of the novel's

250 pages--Jake Barnes presents the action of The Sun Also Rise. exclu-

sively through conversation and through descriptions of the external

appearances of people and things.

What is conventionally termed "omanscient" narration in critical

discussions is the kind of fictional presentation one encounters ir

Tom Jones, Vanity Fair, and ," ".: 'k f. 'i1L _'_.. While there are

a great many different kinds of omniscient narrative, this study uses

only the simple distinction designated by Friedman's terms, "editorial
6
omniscience" and "neutral owniscience." A narrator is said to be

neutrally omniscient if he reveals or discusses the unvoiced thoughts

or emotions of the characters of his narrative. A narrator is termed

editorially omniscient if in addition to presenting the unspoken

thoughts and emotions of the characters of his narrative, he presents

his opinions (which may or may not be the author's) either about life

in general or about the characters and events of his narrative.

During the last half century a long and often confused critical

battle has raged over the question of the advantages and disadvantages










of omniscient narration and, more specifically, over the aesthetic

legitimacy of direct authorial intrusion. The question of whether

the presence of "Fielding" in Tom Jones, of "Thackeray" in Vanity Fair,

and of "George Eliot" in Middlemarch, makes or mars these novels,

whether it helps or hinders the reader's "illusion of reality" has

been discussed at length by such critics as Henry James, Percy Lubbock,

Edith Wharton, Caroline Gordon, and Joseph Warren Beach. Booth's The

Rhetoric of Fiction, in fact, is devoted in large part to a review of

the many critical discussions about the "rhetoric" of narrative intru-

sion and to a partial reassessment of the importance of omniscient

narration. His work must be consulted for a full understanding of

omniscience and of the questions that relate to it.

The third narrative strategy usually distinguished by critics is

the "central-intelligence" method. Central-intelligence fiction is

recognizable by the double view it gives a reader. As Gordon and Tate

explain, "We look at the situation by and large through the eyes of

the central character or intelligence, but we stand a little above and

to one side, so to speak, and actually use the eyes of the artist him-
8
self." In this kind of fiction the reader is presented with two

somewhat overlapping views of whatever events occur: the overall

"true" view of an omniscient narrator and the view of at least one

character who is involved in the events and who is attempting to make

sense of what he sees.* In central-intelligence fiction the reader is



*Since central-intelligence fiction depends on the presentation
of at least one character's unvoiced reactions, the narrator of a
central-intelligence narration must be at least neutrally omnisciet.
It is also possible, of course, for a central-intelligence narrator
to be editorially omniscient.






-26-


generally not as interested in watching the events which occur as he is

in directly observing the way in which the mind of the central intelli-

gence is reacting to the events. The omniscient narrator's view of

things often serves primarily as a standard by which the reader can

measure and evaluate the responses of the central intelligence.

The successful use of the central-intelligence method in such

works as The Ambassadors and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

has resulted in an attitude on the part of many critics that the

central intelligence method is not only a useful technique, but the

useful technique for fictional presentation, an attitude which reflects

a basic misunderstanding about the question of fictional methods.

There has been a propensity on the part of many critics since Lubbock

to try to define not only what narrative strategy is used in a work,

but also to determine which methods should be used if fiction is to be

successful. This kind of thinking is evident in those many attacks on

Vanity Fair which are based in part on a disapproval of the kind of

narrative strategy the novel uses, on the often unseated assumption

that the use of editorial omniscience automatically renders a work in-

ferior. The problem with this sort of criticism, of course, is that it

works backwards. Reasonable judgements about the methods of fiction

must be based on the examination of particular works which, as a whole,

are successful. The only real proof that the central-intelligence

method is a valuable fictional technique is that it was used in the

creation of such successful works as Middlemarch and The Ambassadors.

Though the critic can ascertain how these works vary the technique

and attempt to decide why this particular method was useful for these

particular works, it is impossible for him to say--no matter how many










"advantages" the method seems to have--that it is any more likely to

be employed in a successful work of art than are any of the other nar-

rative methods which have been employed in successful works. It seems

fair to say, in fact, that a technique which could enable a writer to

"hurdle all the obstacles" of previous writers, as Gordon suggests the

central-intelligence method can do, would be a considerable disadvan-

tage for a writer. In many cases, the most fertile ground for an artist

is that which contains the most and the greatest obstacles. As Heming-

way puts it, "How simple the writing of literature would be if it were

only necessary to write in another way what has been well written. It

is because we have had such great writers in the past that a writer is
10
driven far out past where he can go, out to where no one can help him."

This study does not use the category of "first-person narration"--

the fourth narrative method usually distinguished by critics--because

of certain ambiguities which arise when the traditional distinction of

person is employed. The terms "first person" and "third person" are

not simply "overworked," as Booth suggests in The ;,LL,'.ri, 4.f icrion,

they are essentially misleading, for they don't really have anything to

do with the question of person. "First person" seems to refer to a

narrator's identification of himself as "I," but in Tom Jones, one of

the most frequently cited examples of third-person narrative, "Fielding"

refers to himself as "I" just as consistently as Jake Barnes does in
12
The Sun Also Rises. "Third person" seems to refer to the way in

which a central protagonist is referred to by a narrator, but in a

first-person narrative like The Great Gatsby the narrator consistently

refers to the protagonist as "he." In reality, "first person" and

"third person" represent an attempt to define the degree to which










a narrator is directly involved in the events he presents to the reader,

a far more important matter than whether the narrator identifies him-

self as "I" or not. In order to avoid the misleading connotations of

the distinction of person, this study uses terms which clearly direct

the reader's attention to this all-important question of involvement.

The term "involved narrator" is used to designate a narrator who is or

has been physically involved in the events he relates, even if his in-

volvement is only that of a witness who is physically present at these

events. The term "uninvolved narrator" is used to refer to a narrator

who is not and has not been physically involved in the events he

relates.* There are instances, of course, where narrators are not con-

sistently involved or uninvolved. When, for example, the generally

uninvolved "Trollope" of The Warden tells the reader that he saw the

characters with whom his narration is concerned, he becomes momentarily

an involved narrator.

In his recent study Bertil Romberg differentiates involved nar-

rators on the basis of what he calls "epic situation," that is, on the

basis of "the narrator's situation when he is telling his story . .13

Though the concept of "epic situation" is a very useful one, the W'krar'

is unfortunate, for it seems to involve the reader in questions of,

genre, rather than in questions of narrative perspective. For the sake

of clarity this study uses the term "narrating present"--the "present"



It is possible for an uninvolved narrator to be emotionally
involved with the characters he presents. "Thackeray," for example,
sometimes gets angry at characters in '.'nr j itr.










during which a narrator narrates his story--instead of "epic situation."

According to Romberg, the narrating presents of some involved narrations

are "oral." Narrators, in other words, tell their stories to listeners.

The "most usual epic situation," however, "is that which necessitates

the work of a narrator sitting at his writing desk."14 Because Romberg's

study is concerned almost exclusively with works which use written

narrating presents, his book is of limited use in an analysis of Heming-

way's fiction. In nearly all of Hemingway's involved narratives narrators

are doing something other than writing.* In such works as "My Old Man,"

"After the Storm," "Fifty Grand," and The Sun Also Rises, involved nar-

rators speak to implied listeners. In other works--"A Canary for One,"

"In Another Country," "Now I Lay Me," and A Farewell to Arms, among them--

narrating presents are neither oral, nor written. Narrators merely

remember events from their pasts.

In order to facilitate analyses of specific stories, this study

makes use of a further distinction which is not part of the traditional

vocabulary for discussing narrative perspective. In addition to a

narrating present, all of Hemingway's stories nake use of at least one

"acting present," of at least one situation which the narrator describes

or presents. Generally speaking, the balance which a writer establishes

between narrating present and acting present is one of the most impor-

tant single factors in determining the effects and meanings a work

creates. In most fiction the reader's attention is directed primarily




Two possible exceptions here are "The Cambler, the Nun, and the
Radio" and "Fathers and Sons." See the discussions of these stories
in Chapter V of this study.










to the events of the acting present, but his understanding of these

events is modified by his awareness of the narrating present. This

usual balance is exemplified by Great Expectations. During Dickens'

novel the older, more mature Pip's vision of things in the narrating

present serves as a standard which enables the reader to more fully

understand the novel's primary subject, the development of the char-

acter of Pip in the acting present. In a similar fashion, while the

reader of A Farewell to Arms is primarily concerned with Frederic

Henry's experiences in the acting present, the narrator's sadder,

wiser vision in the narrating present frames these events and modifies

the effect the war experiences and love affair have on the reader.

In some stories and novels the narrating present is as important as

the acting present. In Tr:-K. ,i ...j for example, Tristram's

attempt to narrate the story of his birth and of his Uncle Toby's

love life becomes at least as important as the story itself. In still

other works, the acting present receives the almost unqualified

attention of the reader. The power of The Sun Also Rises, for example,

results in large measure from the fact that the narrating present of

the novel is nearly invisible. During the hundreds of pages of The Sun

Also Rises there are only two instances in which Jake Barnes draws

attention to his function as teller. The longer of the two--his worry

that he has not "shown Robert Cohn clearly"--is a paragraph long, the

shorter--Jake's mention that the Pamplona archivist's office has

"nothing to do with the story"--takes only eight words.15

An involved narration can be classified not only according to

the kind of narrating present which it uses, but according to the extent

of the narrator's direct involvement in the events he presents to the










reader. Though there are obviously a great many possible degrees of

this involvement, Romberg and most other critics use only the tradi-

tional two-fold distinction between the narrator as "protagonist" and

the narrator as "witness" or "observer." This study uses the traditional

terminology,too, but with a qualification. In subsequent chapters a

narrator is called a protagonist only when his ostensible purpose in

narrating is to tell his own story. When a narrator ostensibly attempts

to relate the story of another character, he is called a witness narrator,

even when his own story is more interesting to the reader than the one he

tells.

In spite of the immense number of successful stories and novels

which use protagonist-narrators, many critics have felt that this method

of presenting fiction has great disadvantages for a writer. Henry

James, for example, calls narration by an involved narrator "the dark-

est abyss of romance" and emphasizes his feeling "that the first person,

in the long piece, is a form foredoomed to looseness . ." While

some of the many limitations James and subsequent critics have observed

in protagonist-narration are real limitations, a great many of them

are not. Critical understanding of narrative perspective has frequently

been fogged by a failure to remember that in fiction what may seem im-

possible need not really be impossible. The frequent critical objec-

tion, for example, that protagonist narration destroys immediacy, first,

because the reader is told about events rather than shown the events

themselves and, second, because the events described take place in the

past, rather than in the present, only seems sound.17 In reality, it

is easy to find examples of scenes in novels narrated by protagonists










which are at least as immediate in effect as the most vivid scenes in

works presented in other ways. Surely the wounding of Frederic Henry

in A Farewell to Arms cannot be accused of a lack of immediacy. The fre-

quent suggestion that if he is to be endowed with any of the great vir-

tues, the protagonist narrator must sing his own praises is based on the

"logical" supposition that we can only know good things about a protag-

onist narrator if he tells us about them.18 This, of course, is nonsense.

Tristram Shandy, Jane Eyre, Huck Finn, and Jake Barnes don't tell us

they are good people, but we have no difficulty finding out. Even the

partially justified objection that narration by a protagonist forces a

work to limit its vision to what is seen by one man ignores real fiction.19

Such devices as the interpolated tale have long been used successfully

to help broaden a protagonist narrator's vision.

The other kind of involved narrator distinguished by Romberg and

other critics is the "I" as "witness" or "observer." Critical discus-

sions usually emphasize the great variety of ways in which this method

has been used, a variety which is exemplified by Hemingway's use of the

method in such dissimilar stories as "Fifty Grand," "An Alpine Idyll,"

and "A Day's Wait."

A final distinction which needs to be mentioned here involves the

degree to which the personality of a narrator is developed. The nar-

rators of both uninvolved and involved narratives range from near in-

visibility to full characterization. The narrators of both "The Killers"

and "The Old Man at the Bridge," for example, are nearly invisible as

individual personalities, and the result is that the reader devotes his

primary attention to the characters and the events these narrators






-33-


describe. Both the "Fielding" of Tom Jones and Nick Carroway in D-e

Great Gatsby, on the other hand, are "highly characterized," and in

both cases the characterization of the narrators significantly affects

the reader's understanding of the events which are presented.

The subsequent chapters of this study are divided into three

general sections. The first section, which includes Chapters III,

IV, and V, discusses those stories which are narrated by involved

narrators. The section begins with those stories in which narrators

are important primarily as "frames" for the presentation of characters

other than themselves and works toward those stories in which the in-

volvement of narrators in the events they present is the reader's

primary concern. Part II of the study--Chapters VI, VII, and VIIll--

discusses those stories which use uninvolved narrators. This section

begins with a discussion of stories in which uninvolved narrators are

as highly characterized as the narrators of many involved narrations,

and then discusses that large group of uninvolved narratives which are

presented by nearly invisible narrators. The brief final section of

the study discusses those stories in which changes in the reader's

perspective on events effect and modify thematic content. During the

process of analyzing specific Hemingway stories, those terms and re-

lationships which are defined in this chapter are more fully developed,

and a few new terms and relationships are distinguished. Hopefully,

the rather bulky terminology which is evolved is more of a help than a

hindrance to the reader's understanding of Hemingway's accomplishments.






-34-


In order to facilitate the use of the terminology developed in

the present chapter and in subsequent chapters, the following list of

important terms and of the pages on which discussions of these terms

can be found has been included:


Acting Present: The series of events which the narrator
of a story presents to the reader, as contrasted with the
series of events in which the narrator is involved as he
tells the story. Pp. 29-30.

Angle of View: The modification of the narrative perspec-
tive of an uninvolved narration which causes the reader to
view events by and large as they are perceived by a char-
acter within the narration. Pp. 159-160.

,. nrri -Tur.li1 ..:,:,. IarL ,'.r'..: Uninvolved narration which
r- 7r A r-,_. f :r C_: ., .,: ..f view of a character (or
characters) whose unvoiced reactions to the experiences in
which he is involved are presented in considerable detail.
In a central-intelligence narration, the reader is largely
concerned with the specific reactions of the character--
or "central intelligence"--from whose angle he views events.
Pp. 25-27.

Characterized Narrator: A narrator whose personality is de-
veloped during a narration. Pp. 32-33.

Coltoquialized Narrator: A narrator who speaks in clearly
colloquial language. P. 49.

Distance: That degree of opposition or identification
which exists between any two of the components of the ex-
perience of fiction, that is, between author and narrator,
narrator and reader, narrator and implied author, reader
and implied listener, and so forth. This opposition or iden-
tification can be moral, intellectual, social, racial, or
of almost innumerable other kinds. P. 97.*

Dr.n- : U 1-- r .-.n That type of narration during which
character and event are developed almost exclusively
through the presentation of conversation and through de-
scriptions of the external appearances of people and things.
In dramatic fiction, the narrator is often effaced for large
portions of his narration. Pp. 23-24, 158.

Editorial Omniscience: Narration during which an uninvolved
narrator presents or describes the unvoiced thoughts, feel-
ings, or memories of one or more characters and his own
opinions about life or his own evaluations of tie characters
and events of his narration. Pp. 24-25.











Implied Author: That image of its author which every
work of fiction creates by implication, an image which
may or may not correspond to the author himself. Pp. 48-49,157*.

Implied Listener: The character to whom the involved nar-
rator of a narration with an oral narrating present is
apparently speaking. Pp. 78-79.

Involved Narration: Narration which is presented by a
narrator who is or has been physically involved in the
events of the story he relates to the reader, even if this
involvement is only that of a personal witness of these
events. Pp. 27-28, 137-138.

Multiple Perspective: That type of presentation which
utilizes changes in narrator or changes in angle of view
in order to effect thematic content. Pp. 220-221.

Narrating Present: The situation of a narrator as he is
narrating his story. A narrating present need not be de-
veloped in a story, but if one is, it can be written, in
which case the narrator is engaged in the process of writ-
ing his story; and it can be oral, in which case the nar-
rator is telling his story to someone. The narrating
present of a work can also be made up of a narrator's
attempt to remember his past. Pp. 28-30.

L' ._-_ P. t ..- t ... That complex of relationships
.i ;h L . ,L.- .- i,- .a the kind of narrator used in a
story. P. 22.*

Narrator: The character who ostensibly writes, tells, or
remembers a story. P. 22.*

Neutral Omniscience: Narration during which an uninvolved
narrator presents or describes the unvoiced thoughts, feel-
ings, or memories of one or more characters, but does not
directly present his own observations about life or his
own evaluations of the characters and events of his narra-
tion. P. 24.

i.4Lcr. I j-g[.'r..e: The use of a character's perception of
:.l..,ial tj..:r i.n moments of stress as a means of re-
flecting the character's inward psychological state. P. 2..

Protagonist Narration: That type of involved narration
during which a narrator ostensibly tells his own story.
Pp. 30-32, 90.

Situation Report: A narrative during which the reader's
attention is focused on a general situation, rather than on
a single character or a single event. P.. 53.





-36-




Uninvolved Narration: A narration which is presented by a
narrator who is not and has never been physically involved
in the story he relates to the reader. Pp. 27-28, 138.

Tnrl. -.hi liar,- t.jr: A narrator whose presentation of
.rnc3--itcher t.y -ccident or by design--distorts what
the reader guesses to be true. Pp. 78-79.

Witness Narration: That type of involved narration during
which a narrator ostensibly presents the story of someone
other than himself. A witness narration can be simple, in
which case the character whose story the witness narrator
presents is the reader's primary concern, or it can be
complex, in which case the reader is primarily concerned
with the narrator and with those relationships which are
developed between the witness narrator and the story he
relates. Pp. 32, 41, 58, 90.














NOTES TO CHAPTER II


1. See Percy Lubbock, The Craft of Fiction (London, 1921).

2. Rene Wellek and Austin Warren, Theory of Literature (New York,
1956); Edith Mirielees, Writing the Short Story (Garden City, New York,
1934); Kenneth Payson Kempton, The Short Story (Cambridge, Mass., 1948);
Caroline Gordon and Allen Tate,The House of Fiction (New York, 1950)
and Caroline Gordon, How to Read a Novel (New York, 1957); Cleanth
Brooks and Robert Penn Warren, Understanding Fiction (New York, 1943);
Norman Friedman, "Point of View in Fiction: The Development of a
Critical Concept," PMIA LXX (December, 1955), 1160-1184.

3. Gordon and Tate, 624.

4. Friedman, 1178. The category of "dramatic" or "objective"
narration includes a number of different kinds of fictional presenta-
tion. "The Killers" is often used as an example of a dramatic story
primarily because it is told, as Gordon and Tate put it, with a
"minimum of exposition" (See Gordon and Tate, 624). On the other hand,
"dramatic" has also been used to designate fiction which is limited,
as strictly as possible, to a behavioristic presentation of character
and theme through external views. Using the kind rather than the amount
of exposition as the standard, the last two-thirds of Steinbeck's
"Flight" and Chapter X of In Our Time ("They whack--whacked the white
horse . .") can be called dramatic even though they are told exclu-
sively through exposition. Generally speaking, writers who have been
concerned with the one kind of dramatic telling have been concerned
with the other, and as a result, the two methods are usually used
together. In Of Mice and Men and The Sun Also Rises, for example,
action which isn't conveyed through conversation is nearly always
conveyed through descriptions of the external appearances of people and
things.

5. Friedman, 1178.

6. See Friedman, 1169-1174.

7. The term "central intelligence" was originated by Henry James,
who, according to many critics, both developed the technique and created
the best examples of it. In addition to "central intelligence,"
Gordon and Tate use "roving narrator" and "omniscient narrator con-
cealed." Friedman divides the method into two sub-methods and calls
them "selective omniscience" and "multiple selective omniscience."






-38-


Kempton uses the term "stream of experience," and Elizabeth Drew uses
"indirect narrative." See Elizabeth Drew, "A Note on Technique," in
The Modern Novel: Some Aspects of Contemporary Fiction (New York,
1926).

8. Gordon and Tate, 626.

9. Gordon, 120.

10. Hemingway, in his Nobel Prize acceptance speech. See Baker,
Hemingway: The Writer as Artist, 339.

11. Wayne C. Booth, The Rhetoric of Fiction (Chicago, 1961), 150.

12. Booth mentions that the commentary in Tom Jones is "in the
first person, often resembling more the intimate effect of Tristram
Shandy than that of many third-person works." (Booth, 150.)

13. Bertil Romberg, Studies in the Technique of the First-Person
Novel (Stockholm, 1962), 33.

14. Romberg, 35. A narrator need not be directly involved in the
events he relates for a narrating present to be created. The narrating
present of Tom Jones, for example, is more fully developed than the
narrating presents of many involved narratives.
Though the development of the narrating present of a work
usually results from a narrator's commenting about his function as
narrator, other elements can contribute to this development. For one
thing, the degree to which the narrator manipulates time and place dur-
ing his narrative is important. The shifting of seasons at the beginning
of A Farewell to Arms, for example, causes the reader to be more aware
than he might be otherwise of the presence of Frederic Henry in a
narrating present distinct from the events he is describing. The im-
portance of the shifting of time and place in the creation of the nar-
rating present is also suggested by the fact that in those works in
which the narrating present is invisible or nearly so, changes in time
and place are often particularly unobtrusive. In The Sun Also Rises,
for example, Hemingway uses a number of techniques which make shifts
in scene almost invisible. Early in Book II, for example, Brett asks
Jake if he thinks the trip to Spain will be too rough on Cohn.
"That's up to him," I said. "Tell him you're coming. He
can always not come."
"I'll write him and give him a chance to pull out of it."
I did not see Brett again until the night of the 24th of
June.
"Did you hear from Cohn?"
"Rather. He's keen about it."
"My God!"
"I thought it was rather odd myself (The Sun Also Rises,
84) Hemingway skips four days in one unobtrusive sentence, and he leaves
unsaid completely the details of what presumably is a shift in place.
The significance of this particular technique is more understandable
when one remembers that only .two days are covered in the nearly fifty
pages of Book I of The Sun Also Rises.






-39-



15. Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises, 45, 96.

16. Henry James, The Art of the Novel (New York, 1934), 320. It
is ironic, perhaps, that James disapproves of a method which he uses in
such successful works as The Turn of the Screw, "Four Meetings," "The
Real Thing," and The Aspern Papers. His basic objection to the method,
however, concerns its use in a "long" work, by which he probably means
something more extensive than any of these narratives.

17. See, for example, Gordon, 98.

18. See, for example, Mirielees, 104-105.

19. See, for example, Gordon and Tate, 625.

































PART I

INVOLVED NARRATION















CHAPTER III

SIMPLE WITNESS NARRATION


In much of his short fiction Hemingway makes use of witness nar-

rators, those narrators who ostensibly relate the story of someone or

something other than themselves. The witness narrators Hemingway creates

in his stories and sketches are of a great many kinds, and frequently

the reader's comprehension of a particular work is significantly modi-

fied by his recognition of the implications which result from the use

oE a particular narrator. The most important thing a reader must as-

certain about the narrative strategy of a witness narration is the de-

gree to which the narrator is personally involved in the eveutnts he

witnesses and the degree to which he modifies those events in his

presentation of them. While Hemingway uses many witness narrators who

are involved in the tales they tell in complex ways, the involvement

of the majority of his witness narrators is quite limited. Though

their personalities frequently have some effect on the reader's under-

standing of the stories they narrate, most of the witness narrators in

Hemingway's sketches and stories are primarily important as means for

lending fictional authority to the presentation of characters other

than themselves.

One of the earliest witness narrators in Hemingway's fiction is

the narrator of Chapter XI of In Our Time ("The crowd shouted all the










time .. ."). Though almost no information about this narrator is

made explicit in the sketch, the diction the narrator uses indicates *

both that he is an American and that he is in the process of learning

about the bullfight. His nationality is suggested by his use of the

American term, "kid," and, perhaps, by his use of "pigtail," which

seems like the probable American substitute for the Spanish word

"coleta." That the narrator is in the process of learning about the

bullfight is suggested by the fact that while he understands such

relevant terms as "cuadrilla" and "barrera," he is unfamiliar

with others. He is apparently unacquainted, for example, with "coleta,"

Even the terms the narrator does know seem to fall into two classes.

The narrator is apparently so familiar with "torero" and "barrera"

that they are part of his automatic vocabulary. This is suggested

by the fact that the words are not italicized in the text as foreign

words usually are. "Puntilla" and "cuadrilla," on the other hand, are

italicized, and the way in which they stand out suggests that they are

not completely assimilated into the narrator's vocabulary, that the

narrator is, in other words, less fully acquainted with them.

The narrator of Chapter XI is also characterized by his mention

of the fact that after the corrida he saw the unsuccessful matador

at "the cafe'." By using "the cafe," rather than "a cafe" or the name

of the cafe, the narrator suggests that he is and probably has been for

some time a frequent customer of the establishment. The narrator's

assumption that the reader knows which cafe' he means also character-

izes the narrator. The reader comes to know the narrator better by

finding out the kind of thing he presumes people know.










In spite of the fact that the narrator of Chapter XI is more

fully characterized than the almost invisible narrator of a story such

as Chapter X of In Our Time ("They whack--whacked the white horse .

."), he remains of only secondary interest insofar as the sketch as

a whole is concerned. The most important concern of Chapter XI is the

portrayal of an unsuccessful bullfight and an unsuccessful matador.

The involved narrator is useful for adding fictional authority and a

certain sort of dramatic perspective to the events he describes, but

in no sense does he receive the reader's primary attention.

As is true in Chapter XI, the main purpose of the narrator of

Chapter VII ("While the bombardment was knocking the trench to

pieces . .") is the enhancement of the presentation of a character

other than himself. More clearly than is true of the narrator of

Chapter XI, however, this narrator's attitudes frame and modify the

tone of the events he presents. The only information that the reader

finds out about the narrator of Chapter VII is that he is a soldier

who has become rather cynical about the sincerity of certain types of

religious conversion. The soldier-narrator recalls for the reader the

momentary religious enthusiasm of a soldier who becomes terrified dur-

ing the bombardment at Fossalta and promises God that if He allows him

to live he will tell everyone about Him. According to the narrator, as

soon as the attack is over, the young man forgets his vows,. resumes his

usual whoring at the Villa Rossa, and "never told anybody" about God.1

While under other circumstances the reader might have sympathy for the

scared soldier, the presence of the cynical narrator in this sketch

almost prohibits such sympathy. Because the soldier's story is

presented by a narrator whose experience has rendered him particularly






-44-


knowledgeable about the effects of fear, the reader tends to view the

scared soldier's changes of heart with cold, humorous irony.

Like the narrators of Chapters XI and VII, the narrator of "The

Old Man at the Bridge" is only slightly characterized. He is signifi-

cant primarily as a means for dramatizing Hemingway's picture of a con-
2
fused old man. The reader does know a few definite things about this

narrator, among them that he is a soldier and that he has been sent out

to explore a bridgehead and find out "to what point the enemy had ad-

vanced." The narrator speaks Spanish--whether he is a Spaniard or not

is not made clear--and he knows enough about the Spanish people to

understand that the old man smiles because the mention of his native

town gives him pleasure. In addition to these few things, however, the

reader finds out little about the narrator and he focuses primarily on
3
the old man and on his inability to cope with the war.

The use of a witness narrator in "The Old Man at the Bridge" aids

in the development of a powerful tension between the immobility of the

old man and the advance of the enemy army. When the narrator returns

from his mission, he attempts to get the old peasant to proceed toward

Barcelona with the rest of the refugees. The old man, however, is not

only physically unable to go any further, he has, as R. W. Lid suggests,

lost his will to live. The peasant's physical and mental immobility

is framed by the narrator's awareness of the constant movement which is

going on during the story. As the narrator talks to the peasant, the

road that crosses the bridge grows more and more empty, and the narrator's

repeated mention of the dwindling stream of refugees and carts emphasizes

the fact that the fascists may come into view at any moment. The narrator is

finally forced to leave the old man, and the last sight the narrator










and the reader have of the peasant is overshadowed by the knowledge that

he will fall victim to the onrushing army at any moment.

The witness narrator of "On the Quai at Smyrna" presents a man

who has been driven nearly crazy by the cruelty, the absurdity, and the

grotesqueness of war. As is true in "The Old Man at the Bridge," this

narrator presents his central character during a moment of conversation,

but unlike the soldier, the narrator of "On the Quai at Smyrna" says

nothing to the central character. The effect of his silence is to

emphasize the British officer's almost hysterical inability to stop

thinking and telling of those events which have shocked him so deeply.

Unlike previously discussed sketches, "On the Qual at Smyrna" creates

an explicit differentiation between acting present and narrating present

which divides the focus of the reader between the events the officer is

remembering and the manner in which the officer talks of these events.

Taken together, the two "presents" give a double emphasis to the horror

of war; they show that it is horrible both in the brutality it causes

and in the effects of this brutality on those who participate in it.

It is tempting to see ironic suggestions in the silence of the overall

narrator of "On the Quai at Smyrna." DeFalco, for example, sees this

narrator as an ironic frame for the presentation of the more sensitive

British officer. According to DuFalco, the rescuer's silence indicates

his indifference and his general lack of human emotion.5 The problem

with this interpretation is that silence by itself can just as easily

indicate sympathy or shock as indifference. It is quite likely, for

example, that the narrator is silent in sad or pained remembrance of

those events which the British officer describes. In any case, more

must be known about a character than the fact that he is silent to










determine what his real reactions are.

"A Day's Wait" is not a particularly complex story. It is inter-

esting in large part because of its picture of Schatz, the young boy

who stoically endures a painful reality and tries not to make trouble

for people. Unlike the narrators of previously discussed stories and

sketches, however, the narrator of "A Day's Wait" presents several ex-

periences in which he alone is directly concerned, experiences which

seem to have little relationship to the character whose actions he

witnesses. Having given Schatz his medicine, the narrator-father goes

outside and spends several hours hunting quail. The relationship be-

tween this hunting and the boy's fight with what he believes is death

is not made explicit. The Hunting trip does provide a necessary break

in time, but such a break could easily be accomplished more economically.

The only real relationship between the two parts of the story, in fact,

may be a metaphoric one. During the quail hunt the narrator slips on

the icy ground and falls down twice. Subsequently he learns to balance

on the slippery surface and is finally able to shoot several quail. He

returns home happy "there were so many left to find on another day." In

a similar way, perhaps, the boy's "knowledge" that he is going t. .e *

represents a kind of fall from which he must pick himself up. EA the

man holds himself steady on the ice, the boy holds his emotions steady

in a kind of tenuous and courageous balance. When the boy finds out that

it has all been a mistake, he relaxes, presumably happy, like his father,

in the knowledge that there will be another day. The actions of the

narrator of "A Day's Wait," in other words, obliquely modify the

reader's understanding of the story of Schatz, and add a dimension to





-47-


the boy's experiences which might not be felt otherwise.

Like most of the witness narrations discussed so far, the narrator

of "God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen" performs a function in addition to

simply supplying fictional authority for the presentation of characters

other than himself. He establishes a particular kind of atmosphere

which modifies the tone of the events which he subsequently portrays.

In part, Horace is able to carry out this extra function because of the

clear differentiation between narrating present and acting present which

he develops during the long opening paragraph of the story. Horace be-

gins "God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen" by distinguishing between the way

things were "In those days" and the way things are at the present time.

Not only is Kansas City different now, but the narrator himself is

somewhat changed. In those days, for example, the narrator did not know

French, as is illustrated by his belief that "i ._ ._'_ r.'' meant "silver

dance" or "silver dancer," and in the narrating present he looks back

at his younger days and at his youthful pride in his worldly "knowledge"

with humorous irony. The overall effect of the use of this distinction

between the two presents is the creation of a deceptive feeling that

all is well and that what will follow is a kind of O'Henryesque st.4ry

of love and giving on Christmas Day. When the subsequent events of the

story are revealed, the reader's shock is particularly intense because

of the initial creation of this atmosphere of well-being. Once the

scene of "God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen" is set and the two doctors are

introduced, the story proceeds almost wholly by means of dialogue. The

distinction between the acting present and the narrating present dis-

appears, and the reader devotes his attention almost exclusively to .






-48-


the story of Doctor Wilcox, Doctor Fischer, and the overly religious

young man.

There is a slight inconsistency in the narrative perspective of

"God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen." In his introduction of Doctor Wilcox,

Horace presents information which he probably could not know. He ex-

plains that one of the doctor's professors in medical school told Wilcox

that he had "no business being a physician" and that he had done every-

thing in his power to prevent him "from being certified as one" (393).

Since Dr. Wilcox would surely not make this information known, and

since it is difficult to imagine how else.Horace could know it, Horace's

presentation of the information lacks authority. However, because the

information does not seem at all surprising in light of Dr. Wilcox's

personality, this lack of authority is not immediately apparent and has

little real effect on the story.

In nearly every story discussed so far, the narrator is almost

identical to what Booth calls the "implied author" of the narrative,

that is, to the implicit picture of Hemingway which each narrative

creates.* Even in a story like "God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen" in which

"Hemingway" objectifies his narrator by having one of the characters call

him "Horace," little explicit differentiation is developed between the

narrator and the implied author. The .fact that the narrator and the




"As he writes," Booth explains, a writer "creates not simply an
ideal impersonal 'man in general' but an implied version of 'himself'
that is different from the implied authors we meet in other men's works"
(Booth, 70-71). Even a novel "in which no narrator is dramatized creates
an implicit picture of an author who stands behind the scenes" (Booth,
151). This implied author is usually distinct from both the "real man"
and from the "I" of the work, the narrator.










implied author of a narrative are nearly identical, however, does not

mean that the narrative can be viewed as nonfiction, as simple repor-

torial recording. Since Hemingway never identifies a narrator as

"Ernest Hemingway," it is always dangerous for the critic to assume

that such an identification exists. As Hemingway explains to "Mice"

in "Monologue to the Maestro," if a writer "gets so he can imagine

truly enough people will think that the things he relates all really

happened and that he is just reporting."

Unlike previously discussed witness narratives, "Fifty Grand"

is narrated by what might be called a "highly colloquialized narrator,"

in this case, a narrator who speaks in a clearly colloquial kind of

American English. The use of a highly colloquialized narrator in

"Fifty Grand" has several effects on the story. For one thing, as the

reader grows accustomed to Jerry Doyle's manner of speaking, he be-

comes more fully involved than he might be otherwise in the world in

which Jerry lives. The trainer's highly colloquialized manner of

speaking also gives a special kind of authority to his narrative.

Jerry Doyle seems knowledgeable about prize fighting not only because

he works as a trainer, but because his way of speaking causes him to

sound the way a man who knows about boxing ought to sound.

The choice of Jerry Doyle as the witness narrator for "Fifty

Grand" is useful in ways unrelated to the trainer's manner of speaking.

For one thing, Jerry's narrating allows the reader to be a man on the

inside. Much of the effect of this story results from the fact that

the reader receives a behind-the-scenes view of the stinginess, the

domestication, and the overall unferociousness of a man the public






-50-


believes is a brutal and hardened fighter. The importance of the reader's

proximity to the action of "Fifty Grand" is particularly evident on the

night of the big fight. When Jack Brennan climbs up to get in the ring,

Jerry describes how Walcott comes over and pushes the rope down for

Jack to go through:

"So you're going to be one of these popular champions,
Jack says to him. "Take your goddam hand off my shoulder."
"Be yourself," Walcott says.
This is all great for the crowd. How gentlemanly the
boys are before the fight. How they wish each other luck.
(320)

The reader's enjoyment of this scene results in large measure from his

knowledge that he-has information about what is going on which the rest

of the spectators at the fight do not have. The moment of Jack Brennan's

realization that he must lose the fight works much the same way. What

appeals to the .udi'nc, a vLcious low blow is understood by Jerry, and

thus by the reader, as the desperate action of a threatened bread-winner.

Although Jerry Doyle's manner of speaking and his special involve-

ment in what is going on cause the reader to be interested in him as a

character, Jack Brennan consistently remains the story's central concern.

The way in which Jerry is developed, in fact, helps to maintain the

story's focus on the Irish boxer. For one thing, Jerry Doyle does not

tell the reader much about his own thoughts and emotions. Generally,

his reactions to the things that he sees are simple and obvious and in

no way attract the reader's attention. Jerry's personal comments nearly

always support rather than modify the picture of events which his nar-

ration sets up. For example, when Jerry says that Jack is "sore," he

does so just after the reader has seen Brennan's anger for himself;

Because the reader watches Jerry interpret events without distortion,





-51-


he comes to trust the trainer's judgement almost as completely as he would

trust the judgement of an ominiscient narrator. The reader ceases to

view Jerry as a character whose attitudes and prejudices are important

in themselves.

The reader's primary focus on Jack Brennan is also maintained by

the story's creation of a special kind of presentness, a presentness

which results from what can be thought of as a double disappearance of

the story's narrator. In the first place, Jerry Doyle is invisible as

a narrator in the act of telling a story. Nothing in the story suggests

that Jerry Doyle is reminiscing about events from a point in time after

Brennan's fight with Walcott. On the contrary, the events of the story

seem to be related without the intervention of a narrating present. A

second kind of disappearance results from the fact that during the

acting present when Jerry is in conversation with other characters, he

frequently ceases to be distinguishable even as the overall observer

of events. In the following conversation, for example, it is impossible

for the reader to tell that one of the speakers is narrating the story:

"You know," he says, "you ain't got any idea how I
miss the wife."
"Sure."
"You ain't got any idea. You can't have an ide.i"'
what it's like."
"It ought to be better out in the country than in
the town."
"With me now," Jack said, "it don't make any differ-
ence where I am. You can't have any idea what it's like."
"Have another drink."
"Am I getting soused? Do I talk funny?"
"You're coming on all right."
"You can't have any idea what it's like. They ain't
anybody can have an idea what it's like." (312)

The use of the present tense at the beginning of the exchange does sug-

gest that an involved narrator is telling the story, but the present

tense is used so frequently during conversations in "Fifty Grand" that





-52-


it ceases to be particularly noticeable. During longer exchanges the

narrator identifies his words with "I said," but he rarely elaborates

on this identification, and, as a result, the "I" fails to attract

attention any more than "he" would. When the narrator "disappears"

from large portions of a story or a novel, as is the case in "Fifty

Grand" and more notably in The Sun Also Rises, the overall result is

the creation of a narrative which is both involved and dramatic.9

Hemingway's effacement of involved narrators in order to enhance

the direct presentation of scene forms an interesting contrast to one

of Henry James' techniques. In The Craft of Fiction Lubbock explains

that one of James' major developments in the area of narrative point of

view was his discovery that by putting a central intelligence into con-

versation with other characters he could create the illusion that the

reader is looking at that character whom he-has been looking through.

In The Ambassadors, for example, the reader views events through Strether's

eyes and focuses on Strether's reactions to these events. During conver-

sations, however, Strether "takes his part . as though he has al-

most become what he cannot be, an objective figure for the reader . .

by an easy sleight of hand the author gives him almost the value of an

independent person, a man to whose words we may listen expectantly, a

man whose mind is screened from us.10 According to Lubbock and to

many subsequent critics, the development of this technique makes it

possible for the central-intelligence method to attain full dramati-

zation of both internal and external event, an accomplishment which sets

the method apart from all others. In "Fifty Grand" and h'.- I., Also

Rises Hemingway develops a parallel "sleight of hand." As has been sug-

gested, by causing the involved narrator of a work to disappear during










conversations, Hemingway makes it possible for the reader to view scenes

directly. Hemingway, in other words, does for involved narration what

many critics feel James did for uninvolved narration. He makes it

possible for the method to present directly both internal information

and external scene.



In every sketch and story which has been discussed so far, the

narrator creates a situation in which the reader focuses his primary

attention on one or two central characters and on the way in which

these characters are affected by a situation in which they are involved.

There are instances, however, when effects are achieved by making the

reader's attention more diffuse. In "Che ti Dice la Patria?" "Under

the Ridge," and "Night Before Battle," for example, Hemingway uses

witness narrators as means of presenting what might be called "situation

reports." These stories force the reader to divide his attention, to

focus on several characters and on a general situation, rather than on

a single character and a single event. The narrator of "Che ti Dice la

Patria?" for example, is not primarily important either as a character

in himself or as a means for presenting another character. He is im-

portant primarily as a means of presenting a series of events which

together suggest some aspects of the change which has occurred in Italy

since his last visit. In general, those witness narrators who present

situation reports not only have backgrounds very similar to Hemingway's,

but reveal attitudes which are very similar to those of the implied

author of the works. The situation reports, in fact, are probably the

nearest thing to journalism in Hemingway's fiction.11











"Under the Ridge," the best of several recently reprinted Spanish

Civil War stories, is about the general situation in Spain during the

Civil War.12 The story that this witness narrator presents to the

reader is made up of a series of events which, when taken together, sug-

gest the chaos, the stupidity, and the horror of war. As the narrator

sits under a ridge with several Spanish soldiers, he sees a Frenchman

walk with great dignity away from the battle which is going on and

which, it is made clear, has no chance of success. The Frenchman is fol-

lowed by several battle police and shot. The Spaniards then explain how

Paco, a boy from their province, had shot himself in the hand in order

to escape battle and, the wound infecting, had lost his right arm.

Paco, they explain,had come to sincerely regret his momentary cowardice

and to be willing to do anything he could for the Republican cause. The

Spaniards then point out the place where earlier the same day, Paco was

brutally shot by the French battle police as an example to other soldiers.

The narrator leaves, but before he returns to Madrid, he visits

his friend the General. At headquarters he finds out that during the

poorly planned attack, the French tank commander got too drunk to com-

mand and, as a result, is to be shot as soon as he sobers up. The

General is furious not only because he has been defeated, but also be-

cause the French tank men, who did not arrive on time and who refused to

advance when they did arrive, shot by mistake the few enemy prisoners

which were the only positive result of the disastrous battle. During

the nightmarish comedy of errors which the narrator presents, the

reader's focus is not on a single character or on any one of the individual

killings. It is directed toward the entire, seemingly insane situation.










In a strict sense no character develops psychologically or in any other

way during the story; rather, the narrator views and presents a pano-

ramaof events which, when taken as a whole, create for the reader an

image of the Spanish Civil War and, perhaps, of war in general.

Unlike "Che ti Dice la Patria?" and "Under the Ridge," "Night Be-

fore Battle" develops a kind of central character--the witness narrator's

friend Al Walker. The narrator's conversations with Al, however, are

by no means the whole of the story. The reader is also presented with

the conversation of the short, important man with thick glasses, with

Al's talk with the waiter who has a son on the Extremadura road, with

the narrator's talk with Manolita, and with the personality and actions

of "Baldy." All of these characters and the incidents in which they

participate combine to form a panoramic view of Madrid during the

siege.13



All the witness narrators which are discussed in this chapter have

one thing in common. They are all less important as characters in them-

selves than as means for presenting other characters. In nearly every

case these simple witness narrators perform functions in addition to

supplying events with fictional authority. In no instance, however,

does the carrying out of such functions result in the development of

complex relationships between the witness narrators and the events they

present to the reader. The following chapter of this study deals with

a group of witness narrations in which such complex relationships are

developed.














NOTES TO CHAPTER III


1. The involved narrator's matter of fact assurance that the
soldier never kept his oath is accepted by the reader because of the
particularly automatic way in which the soldier converts during the
bombing.

2. "L'Envoi" is similar to "The Old Man at the Bridge" in narra-
tive strategy. Like the narrator of the Spanish Civil War story, the
narrator of "L'Envoi" is important primarily as a means for presenting
a character other than himself, in this case an undignified king of
Greece, who "Like all Greeks . wanted to go to America."

3. DeFalco's suggestion that the narrator of "The Old Man at the
Bridge" is in a state of "spiritual atrophy" and is too preoccupied with
the coming of the enemy "in the form of troops and war machines" to
understand the old man's sad situation and what it represents has little
real foundation. The fact that the soldier stop,, and tries to help the
old man doesn't suggest spiritual atrophy, and his "preoccupation" with
the coming of the enemy war machines seems justificable in light of
his knowledge that the deadly machines will appear at any moment. See
DeFalco, 121-127.

4. See R. W. Lid, "Hemingway and the Need for Speech," Modern
Fiction Studies, VIII (Winter, 1962-1963), 403.

5. See DeFalco, 127-129.

6. Like the narrator of "God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen," the nar-
rator of "Wine of Wyoming" is important as a means for endowing the
story with a perspective it might otherwise lack. Near the end of "Wine
of Wyoming" the witness narrator becomes momentarily the center of atten-
tion. As he and his wife drive away from Wyoming, they begin to regret
that they disappointed the Fontans on the previous evening. The story
ends with their consciousness and the reader's that those sup)rcaely
enjoyable people which life sometimes produces are, like all men and
like all good things, fragile and ephemeral.

7. Ernest Hemingway, By-Line: Ernest Hemingway, ed., William
White (New York, 1967), 215.











8. The degree to which a narrator is colloquialized can have im-
portant effects on a story. Generally speaking, the more frequently a
narrator uses colloquial diction, the more visible he becomes as a
character. Because the narrator of Chapter IX of In Our Time ("The
first matador got the horn through his sword hand . . ") frequently
uses diction one might expect in connection with a prize fight, Chapter
IX becomes almost as much about the effects of the bullfight on the
narrator as it is about the bullfight itself. The use of too much
colloquial diction can get inthe way of the reader's appreciation of a
work. This is the case, for example, in such Ring Lardner stories as
"Some Like Them Cold" and "I Can't Breathe." Hemingway's colloquialized
narrators--the narrators of such stories as Chapter IX of In Our Time,
"Up in Michigan," "My Old Man," "Fifty Grand," "After the Storm," "On.
Trip Across," and"A Man of the World"--never use more colloquial language
than is necessary to individualize them and to involve the reader in
their melieu.

9. Other involved narratives which are rendered dramatic as a
result of the narrator's "disappearance" during substantial portions
of his narrative are "God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen," "The Light of
the World," "An Alpine Idyll," "One Trip Across," and "After the Storm."

10. Lubbock, 166.

11. The fact that "Che ti Dice la Patria?" originally appeared
in The New Republic under the title "Italy, 1927" suggests that it
was originally thought of as a report on the state of a nation.

12. "Under the Ridge" has recently been reprinted with "The
Denunciation," "Night Before Battle," and "The Butterfly and the
Tank" in Ernest Hemingway, 1I1 FLfri- Col..- ji F3uu,0 r .-,rL.. F the
Spanish Civil War (New York, 1969).

13. The narrative strategies of the two other Spanish Civil War
stories are similar to those of the situation reports. In both "The
Denunciation" and "The Butterfly and the Tank," however, a single
central incident becomes the catalyst for a series of conversations
and actions which, when taken together, give panoramic views of the
situation in Madrid during the siege. Overall, the two stories seem
structurally about halfway between "Che ti Dice la Patria?" and "The
Old Man at the Bridge,"















CHAPTER IV

COMPLEX WITNESS NARRATION


The complex witness narration differs from the simple witness

narration in the complexity of the relationship which is developed be-

tween the witness narrator and the situation he witnesses. As was

shown in the preceding chapter, the narrators of simple witness narra-

tions are involved in the situations they describe, but their involve-

ment is primarily important as a means for the presentation of the

actions and words of characters other thaa themselves. In several of

Hemingway's stories the relationships between narrators and central

characters are more highly developed. In these complex witness narra-

tions, narrators are significant not merely as frames for the presenta-

tion of other characters, but also as interesting characters in them-

selves. Often, the conflicts and 'similarities which are developed

between a complex witness narrator and the character whose story he

relates form the central thematic focus of a narrative. Most of the

meaning of a story such as "The Revolutionist," for example, results

from a conflict which is developed between the complex witness narrator

of the story and the character he presents to the reader.

The conflict which is developed in "The Revolutionist" between

the old and somewhat cynical narrator and the young, enthusiastic










revolutionist works on several levels. The most obvious of these is

the difference in the political expectations of the two men. The extent

of the young revolutionist's enthusiasm for the Party is illustrated,

as DeFalco suggests, by the fact that though the young man has suffered

very much in Hungary, his energy and his excitement remain untouched by

the torture he has presumably endured.1 The revolutionist's enthusiasm

is framed by the narrator's unstated, but obvious doubts about the

Party's chances in Italy, doubts which become more significant when

placed in the historical context Hemingway had when he wrote the story

in the early twenties. The narrator meets the revolutionist in 1919,

and, as Hemingway explains in one of his several news dispatches con-

cerning the Italian situation, Italian communism suffered a severe

defeat in the following year. In 1920 the Fascisti "crushed the Red

uprising with bombs, machine guns, knives, and the liberal use of

kerosene cans to set the Red meeting places afire, and heavy iron-

bound clubs to hammer the Reds over the heads when they came out."2

Hemingway's evaluation of the Italian communist seems of some relevance

here too:

Uninspired by the vinous products of their native
land, the Italian communist cannot keep his enthus-
iasm up to the demonstration point for any length Z
of time. The cafes close, the "Vivas" grow softer
and less enthusiastic, the paraders put it off till
another day, and the Reds who reached the highest
pitch of patriotism too soon, roll under the tables
of the cafes and sleep until the bartender opens up
in the morning. Some of the Reds, going home in a
gentle glow, chalk up on a wall in straggling
letters, "VIVA LENIN! VIVA TROTSKY!" and the polit-
ical crisis is over . 3

When the political situation in Italy is kept in mind, the young revolu-

tionist's belief that Italy "is the one country that every one is sure










of" and that it "will be the starting point of everything" (157) seems

not simply enthusiastic, but rather foolish and ill-informed. The nar-

rator's doubts, on the other hand, seem both well-founded and wise.

Though the narrating present of "The Revolutionist" is not explicitly

developed, the indirection with which the narrator presents much of

the sketch causes the narrator's cynical tone to be more evident than

it might be otherwise. The fact that the sketch begins and ends with

the narrator's mention that the events of his story happened in the past

may suggest that, like the reader, the narrator is thinking back to the

incident from a point in time late enough so that he knows of the

Fascist victories of the early twenties.

A major reason for the failure of the communists in Italy is

implicit in the outlooks of both men. The young revolutionist is

enthusiastic not only about world revolution but also about the beauty

of Italy. The narrator tells the reader, "He was delighted with Italy.

It was a beautiful country, he said. The people were all kind. He

had been in many towns, walked much, and seen many pictures. Giotto,

Masaccio, and Piero della Francesca he bought reproductions of . ."

(157). The beauty of Italy and of Italian art with which the young

man is so taken is really the beauty of the nation's Christian past.

As a result, the revolutionist's great respect for the products of this

heritage forms a basic contradiction to his desire for world revolution

by an atheistic communist party which has as a major goal the destruc-

tion of the traditional. This contradiction is aptly symbolized by

the fact that the reproductions of the Old Masters which the revolu-

tionist buys are wrapped in a copy of Avanti ("Forward"), the official











organ of the Italian socialist party.* The failure of the communists

in Italy is also implicit in the narrator's quiet and unenthusiastic

feeling about the Party. His unexcited and rather cynical attitude is

an antithesis of what is involved in the idea of violent world revolu-

tion.

The contrast which develops between the narrator and his young

acquaintance seems at base a result of their difference in age. The

revolutionist's enthusiasm and energy is basically not a matter of

ideology, but is rather a result of the romanticism of youth. At the

end of the sketch when the narrator gives the boy addresses of comrades

in Milan, the young man is not particularly interested. "He thanked

me very much, but his mind was already looking forward to walking over

the pass . .. He loved the mountains in the autumn" (158). The

revolutionist seems basically more interested in experiencing the beauty

of the world than in changing society. The narrator's pessimism, on

the other hand, represents the usual sort of doubt with which elders

view the schemes of youth, doubts which, at least in this case, are

solidly based.

The difference between the narrative structure of "The Revolu-

tionist" and the narrative structure of a siepie wiLness narration

like "The Old Man at the Bridge" is one of degree. While both stories

use narrators who present interesting central characters, the relation-

ship between the narrator of "The Revolutionist" and the character he



*A double irony may be suggested by the fact that from 1912-1914
Mussolini was the editor of Avanti and was responsible for much of its
rise to popularity. The very newspaper which the young man reads carries
within it, thus, a suggestion of the force uhich is destroying the take-
over for which the young man is so enthusiastic.






-62-


presents is more complex than the comparable relationship in the Spanish

Civil War story. In "The Old Man at the Bridge" the reader simply views

the old man's plight and the soldier's attempt to help him. No conflict

of views is developed and no significant personal similarities or con-

trasts are suggested, aside from the obvious fact that both the soldier

and the old man are affected by the war. In "The Revolutionist," on

the other hand, the reader sees meaningful conflicts and similarities

both in the views and in the personalities of the two characters, and

these conflicts and similarities become, perhaps, the major emphasis of

the story.

In "An Alpine Idyll," "The Light of the World," and "A Canary for

One" the relationship between the narrator's situation and the central

character's situation is developed further than it is in "The Revolu-

tionist." Though these stories are of varying complexity, the basic

structure of all three is the same. In each story the narrator,

accompanied by another character, is travelling somewhere. These char-

acters meet other characters with whom they talk and from whom they hear

an interesting tale. Much of the meaning of all three stories is deter-

mined by the relationships which are discernable between the situations

in which the narrators and their companions find themselves and the

tales which are told to them.

At first glance, "An Alpine Idyll," the simplest of the three

stories, seems to be little more than a harsh satire of the traditional.

pastoral view of peasants. As Carlos Baker explains, however, "An Alpine

Idyll" is not simply about the peasant and his wife. "Its subject,

several times emphasized early in the narrative, is 'not ever doing











anything too long.'" When the story of the peasant and his wife is

revealed, "the idea of the 'unnatural' and the idea of 'not ever doing

anything too long' are both driven home with a special twist of the knife.

For the peasant has lived too long in an unnatural situation; his sense

of human dignity and decency has temporarily atrophied. When he gets

down into the valley . he sees how far he has strayed from the

natural and the wholesome, and he is then deeply ashamed of himself."4

As Baker suggests, the skiers, too, have stayed in the mountains too long,

so long that they are no longer able to enjoy one of the good things of

life. The narrator himself explains that it "was too late in the spring

to be up in the Silvretta . . We had stayed too long . ." (344).

The story of the narrator and his companion, and the story of the

peasant form a reciprocal thematic relationship. On one hand, the story

of the peasant gives a startling emphasis to the lesson the skiers

have learned. On the other hand, the mood of doing things too long

which the narrator's story sets up is an apropos frame for the grue-

some tale of the peasant's mistake. In "An Alpine Idyll" the reader's

attention is split between the narrator's situation and the peasant's

situation, and his understanding of the story involves his perception

of the meaning which results from the juxtaposition of the two.

As is true in "An Alpine Idyll," in "The Light of the World-" the

experiences of the witness narrator and his companion, and the tale

which is related to these characters during the narrative,exhibit a

common theme. The story of Steve Ketchel, whose own father "shot him

down like a dog ," and of his fight with Jack Johnson, "that black son

of a bitch from hell," takes the form of a devil's victory over Christ,





-64-


of a triumph of the powers of darkness over "the greatest, finest,

whitest, most beautiful man that ever lived . ." (338). This pattern--

the victory of the darkness over the light--is also evident in the ex-

periences the narrator and his companion have during the story. As

Young explains, during "The Light of the World" the youthful narrator

of the story comes in close contact "with things a young boy who stayed

at home would normally not meet--with things that the conventions gov-

erning the average boyhood do not define or present answers for . . ,5

As DeFalco suggests, the experiences of the narrator and Tom with the

hostile barman and with the strange congregation at the station can be

interpreted as one part of the loss of innocence which the boys are

undergoing, that is, as one part of a symbolic triumph of darkness.6

Like "An Alpine Idyll," "The Light of the World" develops a reciprocal

thematic relationship between the experiences of the narrator and his

companion and the story which is related during the narration. On one

hand, the story of the "devil's" victory emphasizes the theme of the

loss of innocence which informs the story of the two boys. At the same

time, the experiences of the two boys with the angry bartender and with

the prostitutes and the effeminate cock serve as an appropriate frame

for the mock battle of good and evil which is related by the two prosti-

tutes.

As is true in "An Alpine Idyll" and "The Light of the World," a

full appreciation of "A Canary for One" depends on the reader's under-

standing of the relationships that exist between the narrator's situa-

tion and the tale which is told by the character whose actions the nar-

rator witnesses. In addition, however, "A Canary for One" makes










frequent use of techniques which render it one of the most complex and

interesting of Hemingway's short works.

"A Canary for One" is ostensibly concerned with a rich, middle-

aged American lady who is travelling to Paris on a train. In the lit

salon compartment of the train the American lady meets two fellow Amer-

icans--the narrator and his wife--and during their journey together she

tells them how she put a stop to her daughter's love affair with a well-

to-do young Swiss because of her belief that "No foreigner can make an

American girl a good husband" (340). The canary the lady is travelling

with, she explains, is a gift for her heart-broken daughter who still,

two years later, "doesn't care about things." Insofar as this story is

concerned with the American lady, it is a portrait of a parochial and

self-righteous middle-aged widow. Her bungling obtuseness, which is

obvious in nearly everything she does, is perhaps best evidenced by the

paltriness of the gift with which she hopes to raise her daughter's

spirits, a gift which also, ironically, is a perfect symbol of the kind

of caged life the daughter presumably lives.

"A Canary for One," however, is only partly concerned with the

American lady and the story she tells. At least as much of the reader's

attention is concerned with the similar plight of the narrator. As

John S. Rouch explains, "The broken romance of the American woman's

daughter" is for the narrator "a sad corollary for his own broken

marriage."" The similarity between the situation of the narrator and

his wife and of the American girl and the Swiss engineer is not stated

explicitly until the final line of the story when the reader finds out

that the American couple is returning to Paris "to set up separate










residences"(342). There are, however, many suggestive details during

the narrative which keep the final line from being much of a surprise.

For one thing, the daughter's love affair and the story of the American

and his wife are similar in significant ways. Just as the daughter

falls in love with a man from Vevey in the Fall, the American husband

and his wife spend their honeymoon in Vevey in the Fall. Both rela-

tionships are destroyed, and the American husband's view of things dur-

ing the story shows that he has not been able to adjust to the destruc-

tion of his marriage any more than the girl has been able to forget

the loss of the Swiss engineer. I

As several critics have noted, Hemingway effectively employs the

device of "objective epitome" in this story in order to dramatize more

fully the mental state of the narrator. As the narrator looks out of

the windows of the train, he notices many details which are clearly

symbolic reflections of his own psychological state. Some of these

symbolic details have been discussed by critics. Both DeFalco and

John S. Rouch, for example, mention that the narrator's observation

of the "farmhouse burning in a field" with the "bedding and things

from inside the farmhouse . spread in the field" is a symbolic

reflection of the narrator's awareness of his own ruined "home."

The fact that a farmhouse is involved makes the scene even more signi-

ficant, for the destruction of a farmhouse suggests, as does the de-

struction of a marriage, the death of fertility and creativity. DeFalco

mentions that the wreck which the narrator happens to notice when his

wife and the American lady are talking about the honeymoon in Vevey

acts as a startling symbolic epitome of the failure of the honeymoon's









9
promise. The burning farmhouse and the wrecked train, however, are

only the most obvious of such symbolic details. "A Canary for One"

probably makes more frequent use of objective epitome than any other of

Hemingway's short works. Early in the story, as the narrator looks out

the window of the train, he sees "dusty trees and an oiled road and flat

fields of grapes, with gray-stone hills behind them" (337). The nar-

rator's awareness of the gray and dingy dullness of this scene epitomizes

his sad depression. Trains frequently pass through the least picturesque

sections of cities, but even when the reader might expect a bit of

beauty, this narrator fails to notice it. As the train leaves Marseilles,

for example, the narrator sees "the switch-yards and the factory smoke

. . the harbor with stone hills behind it and the last of the sun

on the water"(338). The narrator notices only the smoke and the dying of

the light and fails to notice whatever color'the sunset is making. Just

after the narrator describes the burning farmhouse, he sees several

Negro soldiers. He explains, "The train left Avignon station with the

negroes standing there. A short white sergeant was with them" (338).

Though this situation has no specific relationship to the destruction

of the narrator's marriage, the narrator's awareness of the incident

indirectly epitomizes his unhappiness and pain. The obvious racial

imbalance of the situation and the fact that the men are American soldiers

in a foreign country suggests the pain and unhappiness which result from

bigotry and from the violence of military involvement. The narrator's

observation of other details suggests that a war has only recently

been concluded. As the train nears Paris, for example, the narrator

explains that "The fortifications were levelled but grass had not grown,"











and he wonders if things are "still done" the way they were when he was

last in Paris. The fact that a war has recently ended suggests why the

narrator and his wife are just now returning to Paris. Further, the

narrator's observation of the ruined fortifications epitomizes his pain-

ful consciousness of the approaching end of his embattled marriage. The

narrator's perception of the lack of grass reflects his present deadness,

his failure thus far to readjust and begin a new life.

Several devices in addition to objective epitome add to the drama-

tization of the narrator's situation in "A Canary for One." In the

first place, the fact that the narrator looks out the window as much as

he does is suggestive. In Hemingway's fiction characters frequently

stare out of windows when they are under great emotional stress of one

sort or another, and their staring is often emblematic of the fact that

things are not well with them. Characters stare in this way, for ex-

ample, in "An Alpine Idyll," "Cat in the Rain," and "In Another Country."

The amount of time the narrator just sits and stares in "A Canary for

One" suggests that his preoccupation with his problem is especially

profound. The American husband's staring also makes those instances

when he does listen and take part in what is occurring inside the com-

partment especially important. Significantly, he first listens care-

fully to what is being said when he hears the American lady ask, "Is

your husband American too?" It is as though the narrator's painful

consciousness that he will soon no longer be a husband makes him partic-

ularly aware of anything which relates to his role as married man.

During the exchange between the two women--the first which is directly

presented to the reader--the American lady tells the wife about her










daughter's love affair and its conclusion. The conduct of the nar-

rator's wife during the discussion is suggestive and has bearing on the

narrator's plight. When the American lady explains how she took her

daughter away from the Swiss engineer, the wife only asks, "Did she

get over it?" The wife's failure to give even limited agreement to the

American lady's contention that foreigners don't make good husbands for

American women is also suggestive. The narrator pays attention to what

the two women say as long as the conversation is concerned with mar-

riage, and he is aware, no doubt, of the implications of what his wife

says and does not say. When the topic of conversation does change, the

narrator's attention fades until he is once again staring out the win-

dow. The waning of the narrator's attention is indicated by the indi-

rectress of his presentation of the American lady's comments about her

mason de coutoure.

The only other conversation of any length to which the narrator

listens begins when the American lady comments, "Americans make the

best husbands . ." (340). Again the narrator tunes in when the ques-

tion of marriage is brought up, and, again, he listens as long as the

conversation is concerned with the subjects of love and marriage. As is

true in the earlier conversation, the wife's comments are suggestive.

When the American lady mentions that the honeymoon in Vevey "must have

been lovely," the wife replies "It was a very lovely place." When the

American lady mentions how nice the hotel where the newlyweds stayed

must ha e been, the wife answers, "We had a very fine room and in the

fall the country was lovely" (341). In both cases, the wife answers

in a way which suggests her desire to avoid even the implication that










there is anything to regret about the forth-coming separation. The hus-

band is conscious of the meaning of his wife's evasions, and his aware-

ness is indicated by the fact that during the conversation he notices

an automobile wreck and feels the need to say aloud, almost as if in

answer to the American lady's questions, "Look.. . .. There's been a

wreck" (341).

The extent of the separation of the narrator and his wife is sug-

gested both by what happens in the compartment and by the way in which

the narrator describes what is going on. In the first place, there is

no communication between the husband and the wife. Generally the nar-

rator ignores what the women are saying. In the two instances when he

actually does join the conversation, the wife does not respond in any

way to what he says. In the second place, the narrator does not mention

either that he is married or that his wife is present in the compartment

until the story is half over. Chronologically, in fact, almost three-

fourths of the time covered in the husband's narration has passed be-

fore the reader is told of the wife's presence. When the narrator does

talk of his wife, he never calls her by name. She is "my wife" at

least fifteen times in two pages, and the awkwardness of the repetition

suggests the lack of personal closeness the two feel. At the end of the

story when the characters separate, the narrator mentions that "my wife

said good-bye and I said good-bye to the American lady." The narrator's

avoidance of "we said good-bye" gives a final emphasis to the complete

separation between himself and his wife.

One aspect of the narrative strategy of "A Canary for One" which

has not been dealt with is the way in which unusual sentence construction











is used in order to maintain the reader's awareness that the narrator

is inside a moving train looking out. One of the most obvious of the

unusual sentence constructions occurs at the beginning of the fourth

paragraph. The narrator explains, "There was smoke from many tall

chimneys--coming into Marseilles . ." (337). The inverted structure

of the sentence suggests the way things would be observed by a passenger

looking out a train window. The narrator sees first the smoke, then

the chimneys, and he deduces from these perceptions that the train is

coming into a city. A similar device is used as the train is coming

into Paris. The train crosses a river and goes through a forest and

then passes "through many outside of Paris towns." Again, the strange

construction is determined by the attempt to reproduce the specific

order of the narrator's perceptions. The train and, thus, the eyes

through which the reader watches the scene move first through "outside

of Paris" and then into Paris itself.

Other examples of the use of diction and sentence construction are

less obvious. In the first paragraph of the story the narrator looks

out the window of the train and tells the reader that "there was a cutting

through red stone and clay, and the sea was only occasionally and far

below against rocks"(337). The use of "occasionally and far below" in-

stead of another, less unusual construction is not accidental. If the

narrator were to use variations like "the sea was far below against rocks,

only occasionally" or "only occasionally was the sea far below against

rocks," the reader would receive a solid picture of the sea hitting

rocks. The fact is, however, that from the viewpoint of a passenger on

a train, the sea is not a constant solid reality, it is only a reality










occasionally and far below when there is a break in the land through

which the train is moving. In the third paragraph the narrator mentions

that the American lady "pulled the window-blind down and there was no

more sea, even occasionally." Once the window is shut off, the sea

ceases to exist for the train passengers. As has been suggested, devices

like these maintain the reader's awareness that the narrator is on a

train. Further, however, the awareness of movement such devices create,

when combined with the narrator's frequent mention that the train is

"near Paris," "much nearer Paris," "outside of Paris," "coming into

Paris" emphasizes the narrator's painful consciousness that he and his

wife are constantly moving closer to their final separation.

One other strange construction ought to be mentioned. As the train

pulls into Paris, the narrator explains, "All that the train passed through

looked as though it were before breakfast" (339). The narrator's comment

is a projection not only of his before-breakfast physical nausia but also

of his psychological reaction to the death of his marriage. Further the

mention of the before-breakfast nausia emphasizes the fact that the psy-

chological or spiritual state of the narrator of "A Canary for One" is

reflected in the cycle of the day. As the train moves toward Paris,

light is extinguished for the narrator both literally and metaphorically.

At the end of the story, the darkest part of the night has ended, just

as the worst part of the experience of unhappy marriage. However, neith-

er literal dawn or psychological "dawn" has arrived.

As has been suggested, "A Canary for One" is similar to "An Alpine

Idyll" and "The Light of the World" in its development of relationships

between the situation of its narrator and the situation which this nar-

rator witnesses. At the same time, however, there are significant










differences between "A Canary for One" and structurally similar stories.

"A Canary for One" differs from previously discussed witness narrations,

for example, in the manner in which the reader perceives the relation-

ships between the narrator and the other characters. In "An Alpine

Idyll" and "The Light of the World" the similarities between the situ-

ations of the narrators and the tales the narrators are told are not,

as far as the reader is aware, perceived by the characters themselves.

Both stories are understandable only because of the reader's perception

of certain abstract similarities between the two situations. In "A

Canary for One," on the other hand, the narrator is aware of the sim-

ilarities between his situation and the one he hears about. He is

conscious not only of the relevance of the story the American lady tells

to his own situation, he is also conscious of the irony involved in

the fact that the American lady tells her story to him and his wife.

Further, the narrator makes clear his consciousness of the relationships

which are formed between his story and the American lady's story at the

same time that these relationships are being formed. The result is

that the reader not only finds out about two situations which are re-

lated in an abstract manner, but he watches the one situation impinge on

the other both literally and thematically. The reader, in other words,

not only perceives parallels between the story of the young American

girl and the story of the narrator, he also sees how the American lady's

relation of her daughter's story intensifies the narrator's plight.

Like previously discussed complex witness narrations, "The Mother

of a queen" and "My Old Man" develop relationships between their nar-

rators and their central characters. Unlike other witness narrations,










however, both these stories use narrators whose reliability is some-

times questionable. As a result, while both stories are in some ways

less subtle and less tightly knit than "A Canary for One," both create

more complex relationships between their narrators and the reader.

"The Mother of a Queen" is largely concerned with the relationship

which is developed between Paco, a homosexual matador and the narrator

who portrays him.10 To the extent that the story is concerned with Paco,

"The Mother of a Queen" is a rather conventional portrayal of homosexu-

ality, made unusual only by the fact that the effeminate young bull-

fighter is a member of what is usually considered one of the most manly

professions. Paco is vain, stingy, and thoughtless, and he seems far

less adept at doing what needs to be done than at rationalizing his

laziness. When notice is received that his mother's bones have been

dumped on the public boneheap, Paco rejoices, "Now she is so much dearer

to me. Now I don't have to think of her buried in one place and be sad.

Now she is all about me in the air, like the birds and the flowers.

Now she will always be with me" (416). Insofar as "The Mother of a

Queen" is about Paeo, the reader's judgement generally coincides with

the narrator's. "What kind of blood is it," Roger wonders, "that makes

a man like that?"

The portrayal of the narrator of "The Mother of a Queen" and the

presentation of his reactions to Paco, however, are at least as impor-

tant as the characterization of Paco himself. The opening lines of

Roger's narrative, in fact, set up a division in the reader's attention

which is developed throughout the story:





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When his father died he was only a kid and his
manager buried him perpetually. That is, so he
would have the plot permanently. But when his
mother died his manager thought they might not
always be so hot on each other. They were sweet-
hearts; sure he's a queen, didn't you know that,
of course he is. So he just buried her for five
years. (415)


The ambiguity of Roger's references to Paco, his father, and the

former manager causes the reader to be at least as conscious of the man

speaking as he is of the men referred to, and this consciousness of

both narrator and central character is maintained throughout the story.

In a sense, "The Mother of a Queen" is two stories. On the one hand,

the narrative concerns some of Roger's experiences during those years

when he was employed by the young matador. On the other hand, the

story portrays Roger's attempt to relate these experiences to someone

who is not fully acquainted with Paco. In stories like "The Revolu-

tionist" and "A Canary for One" the narrating present is generally

invisible, and the reader's attention is split between the witness

narrator as he was during the events he describes and the events them-

selves. In "The Mother of a Queen," however, that part of the reader's

attention which is directed to Roger is split between Roger as a partici-

pant in the acting present and Roger as narrator.

Both the way in which Roger talks to Paco in the acting present

and the way he talks about the matador in the narrating present sug-

gest something about Roger of which he himself is probably unaware.

Roger's interest in the burial of Pace's mother is, after all, somewhat

excessive. Though Paco tells Roger to "keep out of my business,"

Roger repeatedly exhorts the matador to "Do your own business" and "see










you look after it." When the final notice about the mother's bones

arrives, Roger is furious: "you said you'd pay that and you took money

out of the cash box to do it and now what's happened to your mother?

My God, think of it! The public boneheap and your own mother. Why

didn't you let me look after it? I would have sent it when the first

notice came" (416). The matador again tells Roger, "It's none of your

business. It's my mother," but Roger scolds Paco the way a mother

might scold a disobedient child. When Paco resists Roger's anger by

sentimentalizing his negligence, Roger concludes their argument in a

rather suggestive way. He says, "I don't want you to even speak to me"

(416).

The way in which Roger talks about Paco's failure to bury his

mother emphasizes the implications of the womanish way in which he talks

to the matador. Roger explains that after the first notice came, he

told the matador to "let me attend to it, Paco. But he said no, he would

look after it. He'd look after it right away. It was his mother and

he wanted to do it himself" (415). When the second notice arrived,

Roger again urged Paco to look after it, but, Roger complains, "Nobody

could tell him what to do. He'd do it himself when he got around to

it" (415). After the third notice, Roger explains, "he said he would

look after it. He went out with the money and so of course I thought

he had attended to it" (416). Paco's conduct is obviously aggravating,

but as is true of the way in which Roger talks to the matador, the con-

descending way in which Roger talks about Paco comes to sound more and

more like theprating of an irritated parent. Roger's manner of speak-

ing in "The Mother of a Queen" suggests, in other words, that there are










two mothers of the queen in the story. One, of course, is the old

woman whose bones lie on the public boneheap; the other is the motherly

narrator of the story.

"The Mother of a Queen" is directly concerned with its ostensible

subject--the burial of Paco's physical mother--for about half its

length. The rest of the story concerns Roger's demand of the six

hundred pesos which Paco owes him. The implications of the first half

of "The Mother of a Queen"are emphasized during the second part of the

story by the brief fits of petty vanity with which Roger attempts to

indicate his superiority over the highly paid matador. For example,

when Roger finally leaves the matador, he gets Paco's car out to go to

town. "It was his car but he knew I drove it better than he did," Roger

explains. "Everything he did I could do better. He knew it. He

couldn't even read and write" (418). As is true throughout the story,

Roger's anger with Paco is both understandable and justified, but as is

true in other instances, the petty self-congratulation with which Roger

vents his anger and with which he remembers it for his listener causes

the reader to become almost as conscious of the effeminacy of the sub-

stitute mother of the queen as he is of the effeminacy of the queen

himself.

In his role of substitute mother, Roger finds himself in a situa-

tion somewhat parallel to that of Paco's real mother. Paco seems as

unconcerned about his manager as he is about his mother's bones, and he

illustrates this lack of concern in both cases by his lack of willing-

ness to spend money. When Paco finally offers Roger twenty pesos to

stay, Roger calls the matador a "motherless bitch," gets out of the car,










and leaves. The particular epithet Roger chooses is suggestive. Accord-

ing to Roger, Paco is a motherless bitch because he has treated his

mother's bones without respect. At the same time, though Roger is not

conscious of the implication, his leaving Paco renders the boy a

"motherless bitch" a second time.

In contrast to many of Hemingway's witness narrations, it is

clear during "The Mother of a Queen" that the narrator is speaking to a

listener.11 Though the listener in "The Mother of a Queen" is not highly

developed, Roger's direct addresses to his audience and the overall tone

of his narrative keep the reader conscious that the story cannot be

viewed as a simple reminiscence. The listener in "The Mother of a

Queen" is a man who is at least slightly acquainted with Paco. He knows

enough about the matador so that Roger is surprised, or can feign surprise,

that he does not know that Paco is a "queen." The listener is probably

not Spanish, since Roger feels it necessary to explain that "you

never had a mother" is "the worst thing you can say to insult a man

in Spanish" (419). There are at least two ways in which the kind of

relationship which is set up between Roger, the listener, and the

reader can be described. On one hand, the listener can be thought of

as an acquaintance of the ex-manager, and the reader can be thought of

as standing behind and to one side of the person who is being addressed

in much the same way that the narrator of a central-intelligence narra-

tion stands. More simply, however, the listener can be thought of as

the reader, who merely suspends his disbelief and imagines he is

talking with Roger somewhere. In either case, the characterization

of the listener results in the undermining of the narrator's fictional






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authority. In stories such as "The Old Man at the Bridge" and "A

Canary for One," the relationship between narrator and listener is not

developed. The reader seems simply to look at a representation of the

narrator's private thoughts or memories. Because this sort of narrator

is not personally involved with anyone as he narrates his story, he has

no motive for purposely being unreliable as teller. Whatever unrelia-

bility is evident in this kind of story, in other words, is a product of

the narrator's limited understanding of the events of the acting present.

When a dramatic relationship between the narrator and his implied

listener is developed, on the other hand, the reader must view the

narrator as involved in the process of telling one character about

another, and when this is the case, the narrator does have a motive for

distorting events as he relates them. The narrator may modify events,

in other words, because he wishes to justify and interpret his con-

duct for his listener. It would be surprising, really, if a narrator

like Roger in "The Mother of a Queen" did not attempt to present his

actions in the best possible light, especially since he is telling

about a man he now considers an enemy.

Once the reader sees the potential extent of Roger's unreliability

and once it becomes clear that the character traits which Roger portrays

Paco as having--vanity, effeminacy, and so forth--are traits which

characterize Roger as well, it is difficult to avoid considering the

possibility that the "mother" of the "queen" is as much a homosexual

as Paco is. Since Roger narrates the story, it is not surprising that

no sure evidence of such a relationship is given. There are, however,

details of Roger's narration which might suggest such a conclusion.










It seems notable, for example, that when Roger reveals that Paco is

a "queen" and that the matador and his former manager were "sweethearts,"

he seems comparatively nonchalant about the basic fact of the homo-

sexuality. It is possible, of course, that Paco's homosexuality is

fairly common knowledge and it is also possible that Roger is only

apparently nonchalant about the information, but the narrator's lack of

concern about the fact might imply more. Even when Roger does appear

to censure homosexuality, his condemnation is qualified. "There's a

queen for you," he says, "You can't touch them. Nothing, nothing can

touch them. They spend noney on themselves or for vanity, but they

never pay. Try to get one to pay" (419). This censure seems to result

not so much from a disapproval of homosexuality per se, as from Roger's

knowledge that queens like Paco don't pay their debts. Finally, since

Roger is the successor of the manager with whom Paco was "sweethearts,"

it is difficult to avoid wondering whether employment as Paco's manager
12
requires duties unrelated to the corrida. Though there is no sure

evidence of a homosexual relationship between Roger and Paco, enough

implications are included in the narrative to support the suggestion

that there may be not only two "mothers" in "The Mother of a Queen,"

but two "queens" as well.

"My Old Man" makes use of a relationship between its narrator and

the situations the narrator witnesses which is even more complex than

the comparable relationship in "The Mother of a Queen." Unlike other

witness narrations, "My Old Man" is primarily concerned with showing

the actual process of character development. While such stories as

"The Light of the World" and "A Canary for One" show characters for






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only a brief moment during what the reader presumes is a long period of

development, "My Old Man" shows events which span large portions of the

lives of the characters it portrays. "My Old Man" dramatizes the

changes which take place in the young, colloquialized narrator of the

stoiy and in the narrator's all-too-human father. The way in which

these changes interlock creates a particularly dynamic narrative struc-

ture.

The most obvious character development in "My Old Man" is young

Joe Butler's loss of innocence. One of the earliest chronological

incidents in the story--Holbrook's calling Joe's father a "son of a

bitch"--begins a diminution of the boy's image of his father which con-

tinues over the next few years. As Joseph DeFalco mentions in his ex-

cellent discussion of "My Old Man," the extent of Joe's growth toward

adulthood is reflected in the degree to which the boy's unquestion-
13
ing faith in his father weakens. The climax of Joe's growing aware-

ness of the corrupt.-ess of adults, the event which "takes the kick out

of all of it" for him, is the fixing of the race between Kzar and

Kircubbin. As DeFalco suggests, when Joe calls George Gardner a "son

of a bitch" for his part in the fixing of the race, "he has at the

same time unknowingly applied the same imprecation to his own father.

George has not done anything that the father has not already done in
14
Milan." By showing the destruction of what DeFalco calls Joe's

father-hero, "My Old Man" charts the growth of a young boy's awareness

not only that evil exists in the world, but that it often exists very

close to home.

The change in young Joe from innocent boy to disillusioned youth










is reflected by the story's use of narrative unreliability. Unlike

most of Hemingway's involved narrators, Joe Butler at times misunder-

stands what he sees and, as a result, misrepresents things that are

happening. Early in the story, for example, as Joe and his father

sit with "Holbrook and a fat wop," the older Butler asks his son to go

buy him a Sportsman. Though Joe is not aware that there is an ulterior

motive involved in this request, the reader understands that the boy is

sent away so that he will not know about the crooked dealings his

father is involved in. Other instances of Joe's misinterpretation of

things are even more obvious. At one point in the story, for example,

Joe compares Paris and Milan:

Paris was an awful big town after Milan. Seems
like in Milan everybody is going somewhere and
all the tratis run somewhere and there ain't any
sort of amix-up, but Paris is all balled up and
they never do straighten it out. I got to like
it, though, part of it, anyway, and say, it's
got the best race courses in the world. Seems
as though that were the thing that keeps it all
going, and about the only thing you can figure
on is that every day the buses will be going out
to whatever track they're running at, going
right out through everything to the track. (195)


The boy's failure to understand that what appears to be confusion is

really complex organization and his attempt to explain Paris by relat-

ing what he sees to the very limited world with which he is acquainted

nicely illustrates Joe's innocence. As he grows, Joe's understanding

of what goes on around him becomes more complete, and, as a result,

he becomes less susceptible to such misinterpretation. At St. Cloud,

for example, the boy does not understand that when his father and George

Gardner talk they are making arrangements concerning the fixed race.










Joe does know, however, that "something big was up because George is

Kzar's jockey" (198). Though his knowledge is incomplete, Joe is a

good deal closer to understanding the truth at St. Cloud than he is in

Milan.

As is true in "The Mother of a Queen," "My Old Man" makes a dis-

tinction between its narrator's actions in the acting present and his

attempts to explain his past to a listener in the narrating present.

As Joe tells his story, it becomes clear that he is still in a state of

change. The last events of his narrative--his father's attempt to lose

weight and his death in the steeplechase--occur not long before Joe's

narration of these events, and little psychological growth has occurred

in the interim. Though Joe's awareness of evil grows a great deal dur-

ing the events of the story, his adjustment to what he learns is not

complete at the time when he tells of these events. The very first

words of "My Old Man"--"I guess looking at it now"--reflect not only

the fact that "now" the boy is older and wiser, but also the fact that

at the time of the narrating present Joe can only "guess" how things

really are. The boy's use of such expressions as "Gee, it's awful"

during his narrative suggests that while in some ways he is far more

emotionally awara than another boy his age might be, in many ways he is

still quite young.

The growth of young Joe Butler's awareness of evil is only one

of several significant character developments which take place in

"My Old Man." One of the central ironies of the story is that as Joe's

understanding of the complexity and the fallibility of the adult world

becomes more complete, the central representative of that world, Joe's






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father, increasingly overcomes the very weakness which disillusions the

boy. Having participated in the crookedness which brings about Joe's

loss of faith in the adult world, Butler buys Gilford, goes through the

painful process of getting into shape, and as a result of hard work,

courage, and talent, rides Gilford to victory in his first race. As

DeFalco suggests, Joe's father is engaged "in a 'pursuit race' . .

for he must keep ahead of the ominous 'fat' which heralds old age and

the subsequent loss of his means of existence."15 The winning of third

place in the 2500 meter race, however, represents a momentary victory in

this pursuit race, a victory which is achieved only as a result of a

kind of physical and spiritual regeneration on the part of the older

Butler. Ironically, while the loss of Joe's faith in his father brings

about his fall from'innocence, Butler's regeneration is a result in large

part of his love for his son and his realization that something must be

done about the growing boy's education. At least one of the reasons why

Butler buys Gilford, the story suggests, has to do with his desire to get

"a decent stake" so that Joe can go "back there to the States and go to

school" (202). Thus, as Joe loses his innocence, his father regains some

of his, and the changes the two characters undergo are, in a very real

sense, a result of what they see happening to each other.

The simultaneous character developments of Joe and his father are

nicely exemplified by the change which occurs in their reactions be-

tween the two races which are presented in the narrative. Before the

race between Kzar and Kircubbin, the young narrator describes Kzar's

beauty: "This Kzar," he explains, "is a great big yellow horse that

looks just like nothing but run. I never saw such a horse. He was










being led around the paddocks with his head down and when he went by me

I felt all hollow inside he was so beautiful. There never was such a

wonderful, lean, running built horse" (197). When the race is over,

Joe feels "all trembly and funny" inside as a result of his tremendous

emotional involvement in the race, and when he finds out that the race

was fixed, the extent of his involvement results in the depth of his

disillusionment. Joe's fathcr, on the other hand, does not seem at all

emotionally involved in the big race, even though he profits consider-

ably frow it in a financial way. His only comment about the race is

that George Gardner is "a swell jockey." The reactions of the two

characters to Gilford and his first victory, however, are quite differ-

ent. The loss of faith in the adult world which Joe suffers as a re-

sult of Kzar's defeat renders him less able to become emotionally in-

volved with horses. As a result, his feelings about Gilford are compar-

atively controlled. He is "fond" of Gilford, but as his description

of the Irish jumper suggests, his enthusiasm for the horse is tempered:

"He was a good, solid jumper, a bay, with plenty of speed on the flat,

if you asked him for it, and he was a nice-loooking horse, too" (202).

Though the boy says that Gilford is as good a horse as Kzar, it is

clear that Joe is feigning enthusiasm for the horse because of his

love for his father. The elder Butler, on the other hand, is not de-

tached where Gilford is concerned. When he takes third place in Gil-

ford's first race, he is "all sweating and happy," and, Joe tells the

reader, he "was excited, too, even if he didn't show it" (203).

Through his exposure to crooked racing the young narrator of

"My Old Man" loses much of his innocence. As certain aspects of his






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narration indicate, however, the change in Joe is only partially a loss.

As Joe grows away from childhood, his values mature, and an apprecia-

tion of honest human accomplishment replaces his blind, passionate

enthusiasm for animals. As long as he is innocent, Joe's primary in-

terest is in horses, and this interest is reflected in the way in which

he looks at a horse race. As the horses "come pounding past" during

the race at St. Cloud, for example, Joe sees that "Kzar was way back

. this Kircubbin horse was in front and going smooth" (199). At

the end of the race, Joe explains, "Kzar came on faster than I'd ever

seen anything in my life and pulled up on Kircubbin," but as they are

neck and neck "they passed the winning post and . Kircubbin had

won" (199). During the months previous to the Prix du Marat, Joe

watches his father work and sweat to get ready to ride, and the signi-

ficance for Joe of his father's struggle is suggested by the fact

that he begins his narrative with a presentation of it. As a result of

what he sees and learns from his father's courage and hard work, Joe's

view of things changes, and his way of looking at a race reflects this

change. When the horses come pounding by during the Prix du Marat,

Joe does not look at Gilford, but, instead, hollers "at my old man as

he went by, and he was leading by about a length and riding way out,

and light as a monkey, and they were racing for the water jump" (203-

204. Italics mine). As long as he is a child, Joe's innocence makes

him unaware of the men controlling the horses he is interested in.

As a more mature youth, Joe comes to see that horse races are run by

men, and that in the real world the most significant accomplishments

as well as the most significant failures are those of men, not those of










animals.

As Butler sits at the barrier before the Prix du Marat, Joe looks

over and sees him sitting in his black jacket "with the white cross."

Though the young narrator is not conscious of the symbolism, the reader

understands that the white cross is perfectly fitting. As the father

sits at the barrier, he has not only triumphed over his own weakness,

but he is about to undergo the ultimate sacrifice in his attempt to

better the life of his son. In '"My Old Man" Joe and his father accomp-

lish a double victory. The boy is victorious over ignorant innocence, the

nan over weakness and selfishness. This double victory, however, lasts

only for a moment, and Joe is almost immediately forced to come to

another shocking realization about human weakness. He is forced to

face the fact that in the real world men must die, and that a man's

death can come just at that moment when he does not deserve to die.

Further, Joe learns that no matter what sacrifices a man undergoes, his

fellow men often will not know either that a victory occurred or care

about the man who accomplished it. As Joe says when the men call his

father a crook, "Seems like when they get started they don't leave a

guy nothing" (205).















NOTES TO CHAPTER IV


1. See DeFalco, 89.

2. Ernest Hemingway, The Wild Years, ed., Gene Z. Hanrahan
(New York, 1967), 183-184.

3. Hemingway, The Wild Years, 184.

4. Baker, Hemingway: The Writer as Artist, 120.

5. Young, Ernest Hemingway: A Reconsideration, 57.

6. See DeFalco, 81-88.

7. John S. Rouch, "Jake Barnes as Narrator," Modern Fiction
Studies, XI (Winter, 1965-66), 362.

8. See Rouch, 363; and DeFalco, 175-176.

9. See DeFalco, 175.

10. The term "queen" refers to "a male homosexual who plays the
female role," especially one who is popular with "homosexuals who play
the male role," see Harold Wentworth and Stuart Berg Flexner, Dictionary
of American Slang (New York, 1960), under "queen."

11. Benson touches on this question. He explains that an "ex-
plicit audience consciousness" contributes to the "theatrical effect
of Hemingways work." Sometimes appearing in the work itself and some-
times assumed to be the reader, "an audience is prerequisite to the
meaningful presentation of the protagonist's ordeal" (Benson, 71).
However, Benson confines his exemplification of the device to mention-
ing that this "relationship with the reader more often develops in the
nonfiction . ." (Benson, 71-72), and to pointing out one instance of
it in A Farewell to Arms.

12. The existence of a homosexual relationship might also suggest
a more satisfactory reason for Roger's special fury over Paco's overly
generous treatment of his young countryman.

13. See DeFalco, 56-62.






-89-



14. DeFalco, 61.

15. DeFalco, 58.















CHAPTER V

PROTAGONIST NARRATION


As was suggested in Chapter II, the distinction between witness

and protagonist narration which this study uses is based not on the

narrator's "importance" in the story in which he appears, but on what

he and the reader take to be his purpose in narrating. Because Joe

Butler believes he is telling the story of his father and because the

American husband is primarily interested in telling about the middle-

aged American lady, both "My Old Man" and "A Canary for One" are clas-

sified as witness narrations. A story is called a protagonist narra-

tion, on the other hand, when it employs a narrator who sees the

presentation of his own story as his primary function. Though this dis-

tinction is generally useful, like almost any criti-al distinction,

it is not adequate in every case. In such works as Chapter XIII of

In Our Time ("I heard the drums coming . .) and "In Another Country,"

for example, it is not only difficult, but misleading as well, to say

that the narrator ostensibly presents either his own story or the

the story of another character.

On first reading, Chapter XIII of In Our Time may seem primarily

concerned with Luis, the young matador who has gotten drunk on the morn-

ing of the day when he is to participate in a corrida. Upon careful

examination, however, it becomes clear that the sketch is just as fully

concerned with Maera and with its involved narrator as it is with Luis.











The reader's understanding of Chapter XIII depends upon his awareness

of the indication in the final exchange of the sketch that Maera and

the narrator are the other members of the trio of matadors which is

scheduled to fight bulls "this afternoon."* After Luis dances away

with the riau-riau dancers, Maera asks the narrator,


And who will kill his bulls after he gets a cogida?
We, I suppose, I said.
Yes, we, said Maera. We kills the savages'
bulls, and the drunkards' bulls, and the riau-riau
dancers' bulls. Yes. We kill them. We kill them
all right. Yes. Yes Yes.

As Hemingway explains in Death in the Afternoon, during a corrida the

"matadors kill their bulls in turn in the order of their seniority . .

If any matador is gored so that he is unable to return from the infirm-

ary . ." his bulls "are divided between the remaining matadors."1

The fact that Maera and the narrator will kill those bulls Luis fails

to kill indicates that both men are bullfighters.

Once it is understood that all three characters in Chapter XIII

are matadors, it becomes clear that the sketch not only portrays the

actions of an irresponsible young bullfighter, but that it develops a

comparison of the ways in which two other matadors react to an increase

in the danger of an already dangerous occupation. When Maera realizes

that he may be forced to face more than two bulls, he is furious and

apprehensive. The narrator, on the other hand, remains at least




Hemingway explains, "In the modern formal bullfight or corrida
de toros there are usually six bulls that are killed by three differ-
ent men. Each man kills two bulls" (Death in the Afternoon, 26).










outwardly calm in spite of his anger at Luis and in spite of whatever

fear he has. The simplicity of his "We, I suppose" suggests both his

recognition of the danger involved and his realization of the necessity

for facing the danger calmly. The narrating present of the sketch is not

developed, but the fact that the events of the narrative take place

in the past might imply that the third matador's ability to control

himself has allowed him to continue until the time of the narrating of

the sketch without a fatal cornada.*

Unlike witness narrators, the narrator of Chapter XIII is ostensibly

no more concerned with presenting the experiences of other characters

than he is with relating experiences of his own. Unlike most protag-

onist narrations, however, Chapter XIII cannot be said to be primarily

concerned with the narrator's story. Chapter XIII presents a single

situation in which three characters are directly involved with each

other and in which the actions of one character create the predicament

in which the other characters find themselves.

The narrator of "In Another Country," like the narrator of Chapter

XIII, can be thought of as either a protagonist or a witness. That

this is the case is suggested by the lack of critical agreement about

who the story's central character is. On one hand, Philip Young feels

that "In Another Country" shows Hemingway "for once . not concerned

so much with Nick. It is the major's pain that the story is about ..,,.2

Joseph DeFalco, on the other hand, believes that the narrator

is the central character and that the story is about his exposure to



*This idea is also suggested by the fact that in Chapter XIV of
In Our Time (Maera lay still, his head on his arms . .) a matador
named "Maera" receives a cornada and dies in the infirmary.