The Paris Wife (32 page)

“The Pamplona novel will wait,” he said. “It’s got more cooking to do.” He dug heartily into his plate of sausage and nice potatoes, pausing to say, “I have something else you can see if you’re really serious.”

“I’m
only
serious,” she said. “Didn’t you know?”

After lunch, when Ernest brought the pages down and handed them to Pauline, she said, “This is such an honor.”

“We’ll see if you feel that way when you’ve read the damned thing,” he said, and then readied himself for billiards with Herr Lent.

It was only when I walked around to read over her shoulder that I realized the manuscript he’d give her was
The Torrents of Spring
. I felt a small wave of nausea as I realized he’d never really stopped considering the project. He’d only been biding his time, waiting for the right reader.

After Ernest went off to his game, Pauline curled up in the nice red chair by the fire, and I went back to my piano. It was hard to concentrate because she was laughing out loud as she read. I finally decided I needed a long walk and it wasn’t until dinner, many hours later, that we all met up again.

“It’s all so hilarious,” she said to Ernest before he’d even gotten comfortable at the table. “Damned smart and very funny. You have my vote.”

“I thought it was funny, too,” he said. “But my very good friends seem to see it differently.” He looked at me pointedly.

“I just think it’s nasty to Sherwood,” I said.

Pauline could clearly see her cause now. “If the book is good, isn’t it kind of a tribute to Anderson?” she said. “No press is bad press, right?”

“That’s just what I thought,” Ernest said again, and the two kept egging each other on, growing more emphatic in their agreement.

“There’s no other way to see it, is there? Mightn’t he be flattered after all?” she said.

“No one with any stuff could be wounded by satire,” he said.

“Well, I think it’s great. It’s a damn fine book and you should submit it right away.”

It wasn’t until that moment that I fully understood how hurt he’d been when everyone, including me, had disparaged the book and shut it down. He loved and needed praise. He loved and needed to be loved, and even adored. But it worried me to have Pauline bolster him this way just now. With her encouragement, he would send
Torrents
to Boni and Liveright, and nothing good would likely happen then. Anderson was their most important author, and because it was his encouragement that had gotten Ernest a contract in the first place, I couldn’t imagine the book wouldn’t offend them. When Anderson heard, he’d be more than offended. My guess was we’d lose his friendship for good, the way we were clearly losing Gertrude’s. It was so hard to watch Ernest pushing these mentors away, as if striking deep blows was the only way to prove to himself (and everyone else) that he’d never really needed them in the first place. But I felt my hands were tied with this book. I couldn’t say anything else against it.

The next afternoon, Ernest arranged the typescript and put it in a bundle with a letter to Horace Liveright saying they could have the book for an advance of five hundred dollars, and that his new bullfighting novel, which he had every reason to feel excited about, was very near completed. Off the parcel went.

As we waited to hear, a fresh storm came in with more rain. We bided our time in the hotel, reading and eating better than ever. In the afternoons, Ernest and Pauline began taking long walks along the slopes behind the hotel, or winding through the town slowly, deep in conversation.

“She’s read so much,” he said to me one night when we were getting ready for bed. “And she can talk about books beautifully.”

“About more than Henry James, you mean?”

“Yes,” he said, smirking. Henry James had never stopped being our private joke, the writer that stood as the line between us, showing how stuck in the past I was no matter what else I was introduced to or had found on my own.

“She’s a smart girl all right,” I said, feeling a twinge of jealousy about their growing affinity. She
was
smart and seemed to find pleasure in matching Ernest intellectually. I could be a cheerleader for him and had been ever since that night in Chicago when he’d first handed me clutched and creased pages. But I wasn’t a critic. I couldn’t tell him
why
his work was good and why it mattered to literature, that age-old conversation among writers and lovers of books. Pauline could do that, and he was responding, as he would. He had a new energy, particularly in the evenings when he came downstairs after a day’s work, because there was someone interesting to talk to and talk
with
. What was more exciting than that? I could love him like crazy and work very hard to understand and support him, but I couldn’t be fresh eyes and a fresh smile after five years. I couldn’t be new.

Two days after Christmas, the reply came from Boni and Liveright. They were rejecting
Torrents
. Aside from the book being an unnecessarily vicious piece of satire targeting Anderson, they didn’t think it would sell well. It was too cerebral and not as funny as it intended to be. They were very interested in the novel about the Spanish fiesta, however, and eagerly awaited its completion.

“I’m a free man, then,” Ernest said sourly when he’d read the cable aloud to us. “Scott’s talked to Max Perkins at Scribner’s about me, and there’s always Harcourt. I could go anywhere.”

“Someone has to see the genius here,” Pauline said, pounding one of her small fists on the arm of her chair for effect.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Do you really want to cut ties with Liveright? They’ve done right by you with
In Our Time.
”

“Why do you always have to be so damned sensible? I don’t want to play it safe anymore. Besides, they should be grateful to
me
. I’ve made them good money.”

“They’re certainly not the only publishers around,” Pauline said. “Scott’s had great good luck with Scribner’s. Maybe that’s the thing.”

“Something good’s bound to come of it,” he said. “It’s a damned fine book.”

“Oh, it is!” she said. “I’ll go to New York myself and tell Max Perkins just what funny is if he doesn’t know.”

Ernest laughed and then sat quietly for a moment. “You know,” he said. “It might not be a bad idea to go to New York and meet with Perkins myself. Scott tells me he’s the best, but it would be good to shake the man’s hand and make the deal directly, if it’s going to happen at all.”

“Aren’t you good to know it?” Pauline said, and I was struck by how quickly this scheme, too, had become a fait accompli. She fit so well inside his ear. She told him what he most wanted to hear, and it was obviously a powerful tonic for both of them, to be united in their thinking. Meanwhile I was on my own now, against
Torrents
and the whole scenario.

“Surely you can do all of this by mail,” I said. “Or go in the spring, when you’ve finished the changes on the new book, and then you’ll have more to show Perkins.”

“But
Torrents
is finished. I know you hate the book, but I’m going to strike while the iron is hot.”

“I don’t hate it,” I said. But he was already up and refilling his drink, his head thick with plans.

“It’s the right thing, you’ll see,” Pauline said.

“I hope that’s true,” I said.

Later that night, as we were readying ourselves for bed, I said, “I’m not
just
sensible, you know. You used to like my forthrightness.”

“Yes,” he said, with a small sigh. “You’re very good and very true. But I’m going to do this. Are you on my side?”

How many times had he asked me that in our married life? A hundred? A thousand?

“I’m always on your side,” I said, and wondered if I was the only one who felt the complicated truth of that hovering over us in the dark room.

February in Schruns was a small kind of hell. Outside, the weather raged or flailed. Inside, things weren’t much better because the stuffing of life had gone to Paris and then to New York, and I was alone with my doubts.

The night before Ernest left, I had helped him pack, but the mood was tense.

“You could come as far as Le Havre if you like, and see me off there.”

“It’s too hard with the baby on the train.”

“So leave him here with Tiddy. It’s only for a few days.”

“Maybe,” I said, but I already knew I wouldn’t do it because it wouldn’t solve anything. It wouldn’t dispel my worries that a wedge was growing between us, that he’d stopped listening to and trusting my voice, and it couldn’t soothe my anxieties about the way he was turning toward Pauline. He was attracted to her, that was obvious, but I didn’t really believe he would act on it. He hadn’t with Duff, and she hadn’t been anywhere near as ingrained in our life. Pauline was my friend. He wouldn’t ruin that and neither would she. Her letters had arrived nearly every day since we put her on the train back to Paris. They were always addressed to us both, her two great pets, as she liked to say, her cherishables. Her tone was exuberant and inclusive and untroubled—like Pauline herself—and reading them made me feel better. It also helped to remind myself that she wanted sweeping romance, the kind in great literature. She wouldn’t settle for tawdry. It wasn’t her style.

“You’ll see Pauline in Paris, of course,” I said as Ernest put the last of his things into the suitcase.

“If there’s time. She’s very busy now with the spring fashion shows and there are lots of other friends to see. You won’t come then?”

“No, I think I’m better off here.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, and closed the case with a click.

Ernest was on the high seas for ten days, out of reach. During that time, Bumby and I kept to our routine as much as possible because it made me feel more grounded and stable. We ate the very same things at the same times. We went to bed early and rose early. In the afternoons I walked in the village or wrote letters while Tiddy cared for him. Most mornings I rehearsed a Bach-Busoni chaconne until I thought my fingers would fall off. It was for the concert, which I’d finally decided to act on. Ernest’s absence and my growing fears helped me see that I needed it more than ever. I wrote a letter to the house manager of the Salle Pleyel, a small concert hall on the rue Rochechouart, expressing my interest in performing there, as well as giving details of my background and connections. I waited for a response with trepidation, but I needn’t have. He wrote back quickly and graciously, setting a date for the thirtieth of May. The details would be settled when I returned to Paris in early April.

When Ernest finally wrote, I learned he’d headed right for Horace Liveright’s office on landing in New York. The meeting had gone well. Liveright had been civil, and everything had ended on a pleasant enough note. They were holding no grudges and, what was more, Maxwell Perkins thought
Torrents
was “a grand book.” He’d offered a fifteen-hundred-dollar advance against the royalties of it and the new book, which Ernest had newly titled
The Sun Also Rises
, as a package, which was more money than we’d ever heard of anyone getting. He was set to leave New York at the end of the week, but changed his mind at the last minute to extend his stay. He was on top of the world, after all, and there were so many interesting people around. He met Robert Benchley and Dorothy Parker and Elinor Wylie, and everything was as good as could be. Why would he rush back?

Meanwhile, the weather in Schruns had evened out. We had three feet of new snow, and in an effort to keep myself from going crazy with waiting, I skied and hiked until my legs felt stronger than ever, and my lungs hardly burned with the altitude. Up above the town, I could look down and see the hotel, in miniature. From that distance, I could cup it in my palm, but it also seemed solid and reliable. Of all the places Ernest and I had been together, this was where I felt safest and strongest. If I had to brave out weeks of uncertainty, I was glad it was here.

Ernest stayed in New York for three weeks altogether, and then there were ten more days at sea. His ship landed at Le Havre in early March, but he didn’t come back to Schruns immediately. There were friends to see in Paris. He was able to catch Scott and Zelda for a very nice lunch before they headed off to Nice for the spring. He saw Gerald and Sara Murphy and the MacLeishes and Pauline, too, of course. He took care of the banking that needed to be done and saw to the apartment, and the days passed. When he finally arrived, on a day shot through with bright sunlight, Bumby and I met him at the train.

“Look at you, wife,” he said when he met us on the platform. “You’re so fine and tan and lovely.”

I smiled and kissed him.

“And look at those woodchuck cheeks, Mr. Bumby,” he said. “I must say I have the most beautiful family. What great luck.”

All through dinner he was full of exciting stories about New York. It wasn’t until we were in bed that I told him about the concert at Salle Pleyel, and he was nearly as excited for me as I had been for myself.

“I’ve always wanted this for you, Tatie. To have music in your life just like you did back home. For it to matter that much.” He ran his hands through my hair, which was growing out wildly and had become quite blond with all the sunshine. “I didn’t know how much I missed you until I saw you today.”

“Didn’t you?”

“There’s something about coming home that reminds you of what you have.”

“I missed you the whole while.”

“That’s nice, too,” he said. “It’s all nice.”

I kissed him, and then lay down in the featherbed and watched him fall asleep. His eyes relaxed completely and showed no lines around them and no tiredness. He was like a boy when he slept well. I could see the child he used to be under the man, and I loved them both, simply and completely and irreversibly. I tucked myself beneath his arm, and felt his breath moving in and out, and let myself sleep. In March, the avalanches came disastrously to Schruns. Herr Lent was leading a party of Germans when the first loss came. There’d been so much sun, conditions were dangerous, and although Lent had told the Germans not to come, they came anyway and insisted on skiing whether he led them or not. So he took them to the soundest slope he knew and crossed it himself, first, to be sure. They came across as a group, thirteen of them reaching the center of the slope just as the hillside came down in a crushing slide, burying all thirteen. By the time a rescue party arrived to dig them out, nine were dead.