by Andrew Farah
Another display of social inappropriateness occurred in September 1956, after Ernest and Mary had made the trip across the Atlantic on the Ile de France. His friend the screenwriter Peter Viertel arranged a luncheon with some of his Hollywood friends. At a sidewalk café, he dined with Audrey Hepburn, Rita Hayworth, and Mel Ferrer. An older gentleman approached the famous group and asked for autographs to give to his daughter, and all complied except Hemingway, who said, “Sir, you look to me to be a c--ksucker.” No laughs, only a cold silence from the sophisticated ladies, forcing Hemingway to at least offer an apology.31 Either blasting Mary or ignoring her was one thing, and even erupting at friends was not uncommon, but vulgarity directed at an elderly stranger was a different matter. Perhaps the worst crime was subjecting the doe-eyed and eternally innocent Audrey to such unpleasantness.
A recurrent theme in Hemingway’s late-life paranoia was the FBI and its continual “surveillance.” The G-men enjoyed great power and stature in the minds of Americans in the first half of the twentieth century—the FBI men of newsreels and movies were the ultimate authoritative and stealth operatives in the collective unconscious of Hemingway’s generation. Robert Oppenheimer was another contemporaneous genius who was tormented by near continual FBI surveillance. But, unlike Hemingway, Oppenheimer was not delusional.
Since Hemingway’s FBI file has been made available thanks to the Freedom of Information Act, it has become commonplace to argue that he was not paranoid, just astute and observant. But the mere fact that he had a file was not unusual for a celebrity of his era, particularly given his connections during the Spanish Civil War. With a terrible case of stage fright that even an afternoon of drinking could not quell, he took the stage at Carnegie Hall on June 4, 1937, at an event sponsored by the communist-dominated League of American Writers. The audience was also going to see the film The Spanish Earth (at that point, without a soundtrack). The only other speakers that night were Earl Browder, secretary of the Communist Party USA, and Joris Ivens, Stalin’s operative, who was posing as an independent filmmaker.32
But what he feared was not the existence of a file containing information or associations but that he would be arrested for indecent contact with minors, for Valerie’s immigration violation, for his undeclared gambling winnings, and for less well defined crimes he termed “the rap on him.” He also feared surveillance—that FBI men were recording him. Later in life he even feared that they were doing so from his bathroom.
Thus, the existence of a file does not negate his paranoia. His delusions were independent of its existence, and he was not under surveillance. Yet, since the issue is Hemingway’s paranoia, it is worth examining his FBI file in detail.
The first entry in the file is a memo to Director Hoover, dated October 8, 1942, reporting that Hemingway had been residing in Cuba almost continuously for two years and that he was on “friendly terms” with Consul Potter and the Second Secretary of the Embassy and had met the ambassador on several occasions: “At several conferences with the Ambassador and officers of the Embassy late in August 1942, the topic of utilizing HEMINGWAY’S services in intelligence activities was discussed. The Ambassador pointed out that HEMINGWAY’S experience during the Spanish Civil War, his intimate acquaintances with Spanish Republican refugees in Cuba, as well as his long experience on this island, seemed to place him in a position of great usefulness to the Embassy’s intelligence program.… The Ambassador further pointed out that HEMINGWAY had completed some writing which had occupied him until that time, and was now ready and anxious to be called upon.”
The memo’s writer also noted that “any information which could be secured concerning the operations of the Spanish Falange in Cuba would be of material assistance in our work, and that if HEMINGWAY was willing to devote his time and abilities to the gathering of such information, the results would be most welcome to us.” Hemingway must have been delighted—he was officially a spy.
The next memo reported that, while in attendance at a jai alai match with Hemingway, the agent was introduced to a friend of Hemingway’s as “a member of the Gestapo.” The agent quickly told Hemingway he didn’t appreciate the remark, “whereupon he promptly corrected himself and said I was one of the United Sates Consuls.” The FBI men proved to have long memories, and the Gestapo remark is reiterated several times in the documents that follow.
A memo from 1942 focused on his possible communist leanings, explaining that Hemingway “engaged actively on the side of the Spanish Republic during the Spanish Civil War” and also that “Hemingway, it will be recalled, joined in attacking the Bureau early in 1940, at the time of the ‘general smear campaign’ following the arrests of certain individuals in Detroit charged with violation of Federal statutes in connection with their participation in Spanish Civil War activities.” While in Spain, Hemingway was on the antifascist side of the fence. By default, that meant he (like so many other artists) was acting out the script of Stalin’s operatives in the conflict. The Spanish Earth, the film he screened with President and Mrs. Roosevelt and for which he was proud to be the public face, was made by Joris Ivens, an operative from Stalin’s Comintern. Yet, with regard to Hemingway’s current communist leanings, a memo from December 1942 states that “Hemingway has been accused of being of Communist sympathy, although we are advised that he has denied and does vigorously deny any Communist affiliation or sympathy.”
But, as that memo continued, it was clear the bloom was off the rose: “Agent Leddy stated … the extreme danger of having some informant like Hemingway given free rein to stir up trouble such as that which will undoubtedly ensue if this situation continues.… Hemingway is going further than just an informant; he is actually branching out into an investigative organization of his own which is not subject to any control whatsoever.” Hemingway had “apparently undertaken a rather involved investigation with regard to Cuban officials … including … [the] head of the Cuban National Police … the Cubans are eventually going to find out about this if Hemingway continues operating, and that serious trouble may result.”
In another letter, the “organization” created and controlled by Hemingway was described as “unknown for its reliability or trustworthiness.” Two days later, J. Edgar Hoover sent a letter consisting of five brief paragraphs in response to his agent, Ladd, who had warned of the risks Hemingway posed: “Certainly Hemingway is the last man, in my estimation, to be used in any such capacity. His judgment is not of the best, and if his sobriety is the same as it was some years ago, that is certainly questionable. However, I do not think there is anything we should do in this matter, nor do I think our representative at Havana should do anything about it with the Ambassador. The Ambassador is somewhat hot-headed and I haven’t the slightest doubt that he would immediately tell Hemingway of the objections being raised by the FBI. Hemingway has no particular love for the FBI and would no doubt embark upon a campaign of vilification.” In retrospect, Hoover’s insights were impressive.
Hoover next read that “The Legal Attache at Havana expresses his belief that Hemingway is fundamentally hostile to the FBI and might readily endeavor at any time to cause trouble for us. Because of his peculiar nature … Hemingway would go to great lengths to embarrass the Bureau if an incident should arise.” The agent further cited Hemingway’s prestige as a literary man and his influence on public opinion. Hoover responded, “I see no reason why we should make any effort to avoid exposing him for the phoney [sic] that he is.” He was prepared to “meet him head-on” if it meant protecting the Bureau’s interests.33
By 1943 the last of these memos was written. One interesting entry stated, “A clique of celebrity-minded hero worshipers surround Hemingway wherever he goes.… To them, Hemingway is a man of genius whose fame will be remembered with Tolsty [sic].” The remainder of his file includes newspaper clippings, a brief description of a petty dispute he had with a columnist, and a great deal of information on Gustavo Durán, who had commanded a brigade in Spain and was described as an �
��active member of the Communist Party … during the Spanish Civil War.” Durán first met Hemingway in Paris, where Durán was studying music in the 1920s. Hemingway even shared a hotel room with him in New York prior to turning over his manuscript of For Whom the Bell Tolls to Scribner’s. Durán was entrusted with correcting his Spanish and critiquing the plot (while suitemates, he noted Ernest’s early breakfasts of gin and tea). Years later, Hemingway recruited him for a major role in his “intelligence gathering” in Cuba. Hemingway trusted Durán without reservations, but it was obvious the FBI had concerns.
The FBI also understood that Hemingway’s hunts for Nazi subs in Caribbean waters were nothing but quixotic drinking parties at sea, during which grenades were tossed into the water for sport. He never encountered a submarine but had unwisely stockpiled an impressive arsenal in the Pilar’s holds that he eventually had to jettison after the Cuban revolution (as he realized he no longer had a good explanation for the stash of weapons).
Thus, the information in the file as it existed was certainly not news to him. He could have guessed its contents on the basis of his own experience and contacts with the FBI men. And the surveillance he feared was related to delusions that began fifteen years after these entries were made. What is lacking (or perhaps largely blacked out) in his FBI file is an extensive discussion of his support for Fidel Castro shortly after what Hemingway called “a good revolution,” an “honest revolution.” Castro claimed, “We took For Whom the Bell Tolls to the hills with us, and it taught us about guerrilla warfare.” When Castro won a fishing tournament in May 1960, Hemingway presented the prize to him. He told journalists he hoped for the best, that the people of Cuba, the “people who are being shot,” deserved it. And “This is a very pure and beautiful revolution so far—Naturally I do not know how it will come out.”
These statements did prompt the American Embassy in November 1959 to notify the State Department of Hemingway’s words to the press: “1. He supported [the Castro government] and all its acts completely, and thought it was the best thing that ever happened to Cuba. 2. He had not believed any of the information published abroad against Cuba. He sympathized with the Cuban government, and all our difficulties. 3. Hemingway emphasized the our, and was asked about it. He said that he hoped the Cubans would not regard him as a Yanqui (his word), but as another Cuban. With that he kissed the Cuban flag.” When asked to kiss the flag again for the cameras he quipped, “I said I was a Cuban, not an actor.”34
But Hemingway was no true fan of Castro. He was simply a man trying to protect his Cuban home, his art collection, his boat, and the most valuable thing he had—a stack of unpublished manuscripts.
Another noteworthy absence from the file is a report on the two-hour visit from the Soviet minister of trade, Anastas Mikoyan, to Hemingway’s home, the Finca, in February 1960. The Soviets were courting Castro, and courting Hemingway seemed like a good PR move. The minister had brought Russian translations of Hemingway’s writing and promised royalties that had been long frozen in the Soviet Union. Hemingway insisted he could not accept such payment unless all other American authors were paid for their work that had been translated for Soviet readers. Though certainly well into his downward spiral, he could still sniff out when he was being used, and he wanted no part of it.
The only entry in his FBI file that coincides with the treatment of his mental illness is a well-meaning but fumbling gesture by his own psychiatrist, who, unbeknownst to Hemingway, one day contacted the agency to help dispel his patient’s delusions of FBI surveillance.
There are many delusions that are hallmarks of dementing illness. One interesting form of psychosis is a version of “Capgras Syndrome.” This involves the delusion that family members or others close to the patient have been replaced with imposters or body doubles and that the “real” individual is missing somehow. This bizarre concern is seen in some patients with head injuries as well. Perhaps the mind is trying to make sense of the fact that things do indeed seem very different through the prism of illness. For all of the delusions already discussed in connection with Hemingway’s demise, this one is certainly absent, which is in some ways surprising. For a period of time in the 1930s, Hemingway did in fact have an imposter. There was a doppelganger of sorts, a man who traveled the country, reading and signing books and presenting himself as the one and only Ernest Hemingway. He even left unpaid tabs in Hemingway’s name. According to Leicester’s memoir, he didn’t look very much like Ernest and even showed up at the family home in Oak Park, nervously asking to see Grace. Hemingway didn’t seem particularly troubled at the time by his antics, until many of the bills he incurred were forwarded to Key West.35
Patients with severe depression may hear a voice call their name or think they hear someone at the door—any number of minor hallucinations can occur, and they resolve with adequate treatment of the depression (usually without requiring an antipsychotic drug and often with just an antidepressant and psychotherapy). When very severe, the delusions associated with depression are quite bizarre; for example, patients may assert that they are “already dead.” These delusions are “mood congruent,” meaning that their content is overall in keeping with the illness of depression. Hemingway’s delusions were quite diverse and more typical of his dementia than of the depressive illness of his final two years. And there is no evidence that he ever suffered hallucinations.
Though not yet incapacitated by his illness, the ever-observant old newsman was quietly keeping tabs on his demise through the 1950s. While in Venice after his Africa plane crashes, Hemingway met with the Italian poet Eugenio Montale, who left an elegant snapshot of the great man, all too aware of the slippery slope he was treading:
Farfarella, the garrulous porter,
loyal to his orders,
said it was forbidden
to disturb the man, the lover
of bullfights and safaris.
I beg him to tell that
I’m a friend of Pound’s (exaggerating somewhat)
and deserve special treatment.
Who knows … he picks up the phone,
talks, listens, talks again,
and Hemingway the bear takes the bait.
He’s still in bed.
From the fur of his beard pierce only
eyes and eczema.
Two or three empty bottles
of Merlot, avant-garde of the many
to come. Down at the restaurant
they are all at the table.
We do not speak of him, but of
our dear friend Adrienne Monnier,
Rue de l’Odéon. Sylvia Beach, Larbaud,
the roaring thirties and the braying
fifties. Paris, London
a pigsty, New York stinking,
pestiferous. No hunting
in the marsh, no more wild ducks, no
more girls, not even the idea
of such a book.
We make a list of mutual friends,
whose names I don’t know. All’s rotten,
decayed. Almost in tears
he asks me not to send
any people of my sort, still less
if they are intelligent. Then he gets up,
wraps himself in a bathrobe
and shows me to the door with a hug.
He lived a few more years, and
dying twice, had the time
to read his obituary.36
The newborn Ernest weighed nine and a half pounds and measured twentythree inches, with thick black hair and dimples. His mother wrote that “The robins sang their sweetest songs to welcome the little stranger into this beautiful world.” Photograph copyright unknown, reproduced courtesy of the Ernest Hemingway Collection Photographs, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum.
All but two Hemingways in this 1906 family photograph committed suicide: his mother, Grace, and the youngest pictured, Sunny. The hearts yet unborn, Carol (1911) and Leicester (1915), also suicided. Ernest understood his genetic b
urden, writing to his mother-in-law when he was thirty-seven that the Pfieffer bloodline was needed to “breed some of the suicidal streak out of” his children. Photograph copyright unknown, reproduced courtesy of the Ernest Hemingway Collection Photographs, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum.
Hemingway proudly displaying his stash of booze while recovering from his World War I injuries. The Red Cross hospital occupied the fourth floor of an elegant mansion near the cathedral in Milan, and the head nurse was less than amused when his wardrobe was discovered to be filled with empty cognac bottles. The pattern of alcohol intake was set at a young age. Always a complex mixture of contradictions, Hemingway was described by nurses as “impulsive, very rude, ‘smarty,’ and uncooperative,” yet he was also relying on his good looks and charm to help excuse nearly any mischief. Photograph copyright Henry S. Villard, reproduced by permission of Dimitri Villard, courtesy of the Ernest Hemingway Collection Photographs, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum.
Elizabeth Hadley Richardson was nearly eight years older than Ernest when they married, and she was matronly in appearance even as a young woman. Writing A Moveable Feast at the end of his life forced him to reconsider Hadley and his infidelity. Hemingway described her as the heroine of the book, and this final work can be viewed as his last act of contrition. Photograph copyright unknown, reproduced courtesy of the Ernest Hemingway Collection Photographs, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum.
On the basis of its grouping in the Hemingway Archives, it appears this elegant nude of Hadley from their Paris years was still in Ernest’s possession at the time of his death. Photograph copyright unknown, reproduced courtesy of the Ernest Hemingway Collection Photographs, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum.
