Hemingway's Girl (46 page)

September 2, 1951

Dear Mariella,

I think of you every year at this time on the anniversary of the Labor Day hurricane.
I think of you many other times of year, but on this day, in particular, you are with
me all day—your strength and courage, your devastation followed by your elation, but
mostly, I think of how I hurt you.

I never apologized to you. Oh, I know Ernest sent
my apologies, but I never spoke directly to you. You stopped working for us, I began
to travel, and then my marriage began to unravel. I know you probably hate me, as
you should, but please accept my deepest and sincerest apologies.

My anger and jealousy began their slow and definite erosion of me that summer. I have
no one to blame but myself. I’m certain the end of my marriage to Ernest was justice
for what I did to his first marriage. Like so many “other women” I was fool enough
to believe that I was the man’s
one true love
. We all know, of course, that Ernest’s only true love is his writing. All of us exist
in orbit around him when he needs to breathe from it, but it’s to
it
he always returns—to
it
only that he’s faithful.

But I digress.

I’m so happy to hear that your family is well and that you have managed so well. You
are the strongest woman I know. I would have done well to pay attention to you more,
watch your confidence, adopt your honesty, treat everyone as equals; perhaps it would
have changed the way my life turned out.

Again, I am deeply sorry for the way I hurt you. I would be honored if you would write
to me now and then to keep me up-to-date on your family and yourself. I will understand
if you don’t.

Very sincerely,

Pauline

May 6, 1959

Dearest daughter,

My heart aches for you. Your account of Gavin’s death moved me to tears. How fortunate
a man he was to have you all at his side when he died. Why cancers take some so young
and not others never ceases to baffle me, but I know one thing: Gavin was the purest
kind of man who led the best kind of life, so he will rest. I only pray that you will
now that he’s gone.

But of course you will.

I remember when you thought he’d gone after the storm. You allowed yourself to grieve
for six days, then came out and took yourself home and prepared yourself to keep living.
Then came the greatest day of my life—the day that gave me faith in God—when we paraded
Gavin down the street to you, alive, resurrected, restored, so you could begin your
happily ever after.

And the two of you: the legacy you’ve left and continue to provide. How you and Gavin
lived your dream on your charter boats that now take up half the dock at the Harbor
View and are captained by Mark Bishop and John and your sisters’ husbands. My God,
you are the fleet of Key West, and half the town has you to thank for its survival.

You know Gavin’s body is gone, but you’ll have him still. He’ll be on the water with
you when you’re out fishing. He’ll be in the air in the excitement of a boxing match
downtown. He’ll look at you out of his son’s eyes.

I enclosed the picture that Mary took of me reading
your letter. I didn’t know she took it, but doesn’t it just tell you about God and
our relationship. My relationship with you, the only pure thing I’ve got, with God
above us, approving.

I don’t know much about God. Our relationship has been strained, at best. But I do
know that God approves very much of you and of Gavin, and that you’ve had the richest
kind of life. May he rest in peace.

Ever yours,

Papa

June 30, 1961

Well, daughter,

No doubt you’ve heard by now.

First, let me get all apologies out of the way. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you. You’re
a true friend and I wish it didn’t have to happen this way.

On better days, I thought I’d go to you in Key West and see if that place would resurrect
the part of myself that had been, but I knew I’d just be bothered by a bunch of damned
phonies and the ghost of my young, healthy, careless self.

So why? she asks.

Winter’s been hard. Ghosts of dead wives (even if they’re still living), unsettled
sons, unquiet parents, friends loved and lost, critics, editors, poets, fishermen—their
voices have gotten so loud I can’t hear my own—nor single them out to understand what
they’re saying. I went to Mayo to get help and they electrocuted me.

The voices stopped, by God, but so did mine. I can’t write a word of fiction anymore.
I can’t even write the truth. If I can’t write, I’m nothing.

This letter gave me hope—seeing these little black marks on the page that have sustained
me all these years, at once depleting and restoring me. But when I tried them in my
stories, they wouldn’t come.

All that comes are the dreams in the night. I dream of the porpoise pod I told you
about, and of Bimini, and of the Gulf Stream. I dream of fall with the great flare
of life and color in the landscape before it blows away. I wish I had gone out at
the peak, instead of waiting till the color was gone and only the dry, brown shell
of what was once great remained.

Remember this: I’ll be demonized and canonized because of this, but I’m no worse or
better than any man. I’m not to be pitied—I’ve lived more lifetimes than any man deserves.

I do have to confess one thing to you, though. Remember that year—the year of the
great storm—when all that summer you taught me that I had to stop collecting people
and using them in my stories? You told me people were disposable to me. I fought you,
but you were right, and you didn’t want to be used. I told you I would never use you.

But I did.

It was in
The
Old Man and the Sea
—the only thing I’ve ever been really proud of. It was the truest writing I’ve ever
done. Santiago was the best man I
ever wrote and the fish was the best fish and the hunt was the best hunt.

No doubt you think you are the boy. You are
like
the boy, because you are good to me and because I always wished you were with me.
Because I never really thought a thing had happened until I told you, and I always
said to myself, “I wish Mariella were here,” like the lights on the boats in that
Key West poem by the damned Stevens. But that isn’t the whole story.

The sea—
la mar
—was the best sea I ever drew. She was the great beauty who held the old man aloft.
Who gave and who took—but who always provided. Who nourished, challenged, and taught
him. My girl,
la mar
—you are the sea. And your vast brilliance held me afloat longer and better than you
can ever know. And I’m sorry to have used you, but your greatness and your goodness
were too broad to ignore. And if I have a heart, it is yours.

Yours,

Ernest Hemingway