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The artist as Bluebeard ; Hemingway critiques Hemingway in The Garden of Eden manuscript Roe, Steven C. 1995

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THE ARTIST AS BLUEBEARD: HEMINGWAY CRITIQUES HEMINGWAY IN THE GARDEN OF EDEN MANUSCRIPT by STEVEN CHARLES ROE B.A., The University of Victoria, British Columbia, 1986 M.A., The University of Victoria, British Columbia, 1988 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE RF^OIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY in The Department of English We accept this thesis as conforming to the require?! standard THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA April 1994 @ Steven Charles Roe in presenting this thesis in partial fulfilment of the requirements for an advanced degree at the University of British Columbia, I agree that the Library shall make it freely available for reference and study. I further agree that permission for extensive copying of this thesis for scholarly purposes may be granted by the head of my department or by his or her representatives. It is understood that copying or publication of this thesis for financial gain shall not be allowed without my written permission. (Signature) Department of The University of British Columbia Vancouver, Canada Date Ofd AJ/W-DE-6 (2/88) II ABSTRACT This interpretive study of The Garden of Eden manuscript examines the general critical conception of Ernest Hemingway as a male-chauvinist writer who valorizes masculine codes of heroic individualism while simplistically objectifying and debasing the feminine. T engage in a close reading of the manuscript, inferring thematic meaning through symbology, metaphor, implication, and intertextual allusions. My methodology demonstrates that Hemingway deploys the story of Bluebeard as a self-critical paradigm, to suggest (1) the sado-masochistic aspects of traditional gender relations, and (2) the creative vanity of an autobiographical artist figure whose stories embody violent fantasies of male power. Hemingway's moral self-awareness in the Eden manuscript, especially with respect to the gender-art nexus, problematizes the "Papa" stereotype. Indeed, the Hemingway of Eden emerges as a complex, introspective, and sensitive writer who sympathizes primarily with a well-drawn female character. Given Eden's carefully sustained matrix of tension, ambiguity, and irony, I conclude that the manuscript is a novelistic text that both moves within and pushes beyond patriarchal ideology. TABLE OF CONTENTS Abstract ii Table of Contents iii Note on the Manuscript iv Introduction 1 Chapter One The "Happy" Couple 28 Chapter Two Surprises and Changes 74 Chapter Three The Project 113 Chapter Four The New Girl 164 Chapter Five African Digressions 205 Chapter Six The Burning 262 Chapter Seven The Writer Recovers? 303 Conclusion 357 Appendix 366 Works Cited 388 IN/ A NOTE ON THE MANUSCRIPT Hemingway began writing The Garden of Eden in Cuba, in 1946, and worked on it, intermittently, for the next thirteen years. During an intense period of writing and revision in Ketchum, Idaho, from about September 1958 to February 1959, he brought Eden to rough completion. The original, autograph manuscript (Item 422.1 Hemingway Collection), consists of 1189 leaves of letter-size paper, measuring approximately 21 X 21 cm. Relatively small, early portions of the manuscript are in type. Most of it is handwritten, in pencil, averaging 24 lines and 200 words per page. As with other Hemingway manuscripts, descriptions and interior monologues tend to be altered more extensively than conversation. Additions are integrated between the lines, in the margins, and on inserted pages. The Garden of Eden manuscript as a whole contains roughly 300,000 words, and is tentatively divided into three "Books" of unequal length, having four, one, and forty-six chapters, respectively. Books One and Three focus on David and Catherine Bourne, a newly married couple who travel through France and Spain in the mid-1920s. The Bournes eventually meet up with a third main character, Marita. Book Two, the shortest of the three, presents a second couple, Nick and Barbara Sheldon, whose relationship parallels the Bournes.1 Hemingway appears to have been uncertain about how to integrate the Sheldon subplot into the main plotline. A note dated "Sept. 20/ [19]58" describes a "tentative arrangement," but Hemingway's intentions regarding the inclusion and placement of Book Two remain unclear. Given the large volume of material V under consideration, I have decided to concentrate on Books One and Three, which, after all, constitute the bulk of the manuscript. In May of 1958, Hemingway wrote a "Provisional Ending" to Eden, explaining on a cover sheet that he feared "something might happen before book [sic] could be finished." This "Provisional Ending," and four stories Hemingway called the "Andy part" (Items 422.? Hemingway Collection), have caused some critical indecision about how Hemingway intended to end his novel. Robert Fleming, for example, suggests that Hemingway, "at some point," probably considered the last of the four Andy stories "as a possible ending" (266). Fleming might well be correct, but I believe that the ending of the Eden manuscript proper, Book Three, Chapter Forty-Six, probably represents the ending that Hemingway finally preferred. Indeed, the last few pages of Chapter Forty-Six are carefully revised, and provide the kind of indefinite and ironic "conclusion" that is characteristic of Hemingway. In 1986, Charles Scribner's Sons published a posthumously edited trade edition of the Eden manuscript. The Scribner's publication contains a prefatory "Note" that acknowledges "some cuts in the manuscript," and "a very small number of minor interpolations for clarity and consistency" (v). Given the demands of the commercial market, however, Scribner's "cuts" are necessarily large, and those "minor interpolations" involve the frequent rearrangement of passages and the insertion of some entirely new ones. Because I am primarily interested in Hemingway's version of Eden, I shall be relying upon the manuscript as my critical text. Forthcoming parenthetical citations to the Eden manuscript consecutively identify book, chapter, and page numbers. Numerical irregularities are noted within square brackets. 1 nrTRODOCTION • . . it is of serious political importance that our tools for examining the signifying relation[s] [of gender] be subtle and discriminate ones, and that our literary knowledge of the most crabbed or oblique paths of meaning not be oversimplified in the face of panic-inducing images of real violence, especially the violence of, around, and to sexuality. Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Between Men, 10. Traces of the Bluebeard story appear in the plot of Ernest Hemingway's The Garden of Eden manuscript. Bluebeard, of course, is a man who marries a number of women in succession, brings them to his castle, and forbids them to enter a certain room. The wives disobey and Bluebeard murders them, one after the other, turning his forbidden room into a bloody tomb. Hemingway deploys the Bluebeard story intermittently and freely, in ways that do not always afford a one-to-one allegory. The Bluebeard parallels are nevertheless fairly extensive, and provide an interpretive framework for the manuscript as a whole. The Bluebeard-like aspects of Eden can be drawn quickly. David Bourne, Hemingway's 1925-1927 biographical self-image and male protagonist, is a newly married writer on a European honeymoon. Early on in the manuscript, Catherine, David's bride, compares reading the adulatory reviews of his second novel to "opening Bluebeard's closet" (1.2.8). At a single stroke, then, Catherine explicitly portrays David-the-artist as Bluebeard, and her statement slowly acquires a cumulative, if not definitive force. For David later isolates himself behind the doors of his private work room, where he composes a series of violent African tales involving polygamy, human butchery, and a bloody elephant hunt. Moreover, a la Bluebeard, David jealously guards the contents of his forbidden chamber, locking up both the room and his stories after every writing session. Notably, too, at this stage of the manuscript David becomes involved with a second woman, Marita, whose appearance gives rise to a deadly serial-marriage pattern. Indeed, David associates Marita with "Scheherazade" (3.45.29), the Arabian Nights princess who marries King Schahrayar, an Eastern version of Bluebeard, in a similar vein, Catherine actually jokes about the possibility of David taking a "third wife" (^.?4.?7). The Bluebeard pattern culminates as Catherine, the recalcitrant first wi^e, breaks into and eventually plunders David's secret closet, inciting his murderous rage. These loose parallels, tangibly embedded in plot and imagery, become especially intriguing in light of a more abstract, structural relationship between the exploits of Bluebeard and the Edenic myth Hemingway's overdetermined title foregrounds. Each fable turns upon an archetypal plotline involving gender-inflected prohibition and transgression: just as Jehovah instructs against eating the fruit of his forbidden trees, Bluebeard instructs against peering into his forbidden closet; and just as Eve cannot resist tasting the prohibited fruit, Bluebeard's bride cannot resist exploring the prohibited room. Moreover, both Jehovah and Bluebeard are stern masters whose severe punishments bring suffering and death. Yet the similarities between the two stories are less remarkable than their differences: whereas Eve's transgression stands as a "sin" against divine grace, Bluebeard's 3 trespassing bride reveals the duplicity of a human law-giver whose crimes are far greater than her own; whereas Eve's disobedience disrupts paradise, plunging mankind into the nightmare of human history, Bluebeard's bride discloses the nightmare that underlies a false idyll. The morphology of the tales is the same, but their eschatology is different. In this sense, the Bluebeard parallels in The Garden of Eden manuscript seem to re-envision the moral implications of the title, complicating Hemingway's declared and rather orthodox theme of "the happiness of the Garden that a man must lose" (Baker 512). I am getting ahead of myself, however, and would like to survey briefly Bluebeard's many faces before delving further into Hemingway's treatment of him. According to popular belief, the story of Bluebeard is partly based on the life of Gilles de Rais (1404-1440), Marshal of France, liegeman of Jeanne d'Arc, and mass murderer. De Rais sexually abused and tortured his victims, primarily young boys, before killing them. Charles Perrault's so-called "fairy tale," "Barbe-Bleue" (1697), provides the classic formulation of the Bluebeard legend, depicting the title character as a wife killer rather than a child killer. The plot of Perrault's tale is simple: a powerful man with an unsightly blue beard marries a young woman, brings her to his mansion, gives her his key ring, and tells her that she may "open everything [and] go anywhere," but "absolutely forbid[s]" her to "so much as open the door" of the room "at the end of the long gallery on the ground floor." Tormented by curiosity, the young bride unlocks the door of the forbidden chamber and finds the butchered corpses of Bluebeard's previous wives lying in pools of "clotted blood." Upon discovering his wife's transgression, Bluebeard draws his cutlass, preparing to kill again; yet, at the last moment, the young bride is 4 rescued by her two brothers. She later marries a kinder, more honest man (Carter, trans. 31-40). Perrault, a seventeenth-century bourgeois, tailors his tale to amuse and instruct a salon audience. Through judgmental narrative commentary and moral codas, he shifts attention away from Bluebeard's hideous crimes, focusing, instead, on the purported evils of female curiosity. Whereas Bluebeard's cutlass threatens decapitation, Perrault's quill pricks the female conscience; blood-and-gore savagery becomes an occasion for tongue-in-cheek urbanity. To paraphrase Maria Tatar, the brutalized victim is recast as a chastised fool (159). If the young wife is eventually rewarded for her trials, she is very much a country bumpkin, not the kind of heroine who would impress worldly young listeners in Paris society. Indeed, Perrault presents Bluebeard's bride as impetuous, if not stupid, and very lucky: she is saved not by her own initiative, but by her two brothers, and her future happiness depends upon still another male. The dismissal of misogyny engenders a profoundly sexist lesson. Since Perrault, the story of Bluebeard has been retold many times, with numerous modifications, in a variety of literary and performance genres. The history of Bluebeard retellings has already been traced by scholars such as Sherrill Grace, Juliet McMaster, and Maria Tatar, and need not be recounted in detail here. What matters, for my purposes, are patterns of meaning that emerge from the Bluebeard theme. Victorian novelists, playwrights, and librettists were particularly attracted to the image of Bluebeard, and tended to retain Perrault's light-hearted approach. Thackeray serves as a case in point. Toward the end of Barry Lyndon (1844), for example, the roguish Barry imprisons his detested wife within a remote castle, a la Bluebeard. Trollope called Thackeray's male protagonist "as great a scoundrel as the mind of man s ever conceived," but went on to suggest that the novel "is so written that it is almost impossible not to entertain some friendly feeling for him" (Morris vii). Juliet McMaster provides the definitive study of Thackeray's relationship to the Bluebeard theme, concentrating on an unfinished blank verse play entitled Bluebeard at the Breakfast Table. In a letter to Jane Brookfield, Thackeray confesses: "I was writing Bluebeard all day very [sic] sardonic and amusing to do, but I doubt whether it will be pleasant to read or hear, or even whether it is right to go on in this wicked vein" (qtd. by McMaster 198). Yet McMaster notes that despite Thackeray's moral qualms, he "evidently rather enjoyed the gruesome elements of Perrault's most sensational tale, and took a macabre satisfaction in drawing a comically inadequate veil over some of the grisly details" (208). If Thackeray's Bluebeard is a murderer, he is also a reflective, hen-pecked husband, an "Everyman," with only a little more than his share of skeletons in the closet. Moving into the twentieth century, Sherrill Grace cites Bela Bartok's one-act opera, Duke Bluebeard's Castle (I9"n), as a turning point in artistic treatments of the Bluebeard theme. ~ Based partly upon Maurice Maeterlinck's serious dramatic treatment of the theme in Ariane et Barbe Bleue (1901), Bartok's Duke Bluebeard "offers a profoundly disturbing picture of the darkest and most private recesses of the male psyche" (Grace 2^2; author's emphasis). The opera begins with a spoken prologue, in which a minstrel asks "teasing questions about whether the stage lies within or outside the 'curtain' of our eyelashes" (Griffiths 62). After the prologue, a literal curtain rises, to the first sinister stirrings of the orchestra, exposing a dark, circular gothic hall, which the stage directions describe as being "like a cave hewn in the heart of solid rock." The cavernous enclosure, whose walls are damp with blood, is a kind of "psychoscape," connoting the inside of Bluebeard's skull. 6 Along the far wall are seven large doors, and, to the le-^ t, a flight of stairs leads to a smaller, iron door. Suddenly, the small door opens and the figures of Bluebeard and Judith, his new bride, appear silhouetted in a tiny square o? light. Bluebeard offers Judith an opportunity to escape before he closes the door, but she refuses, swearing her love. The two passionately embrace, calling forth the whole of Barton's orchestra, consisting of more than a hundred players (Griffiths 62). Judith then explains why she has come: "That the stone be done with weeping, That the air once more be live, That the walls be warm, T came here That my lips may dry them, and my Body warm them: let me, Bluebeard' Let me, husband! Let the joyous light completely Flood the darkness from your castle, Let the breeze in! Let the sun in' Soon, 0 soon, The air itself will ring with blessings'" According to Judith, "[l]ight must end the reign of darkness." As the drama advances, Judith demands the keys to the seven doors, seeking an immediate accession of light. Bluebeard informs her that the doors must never be opened, but Judith is insistent. The husband capitulates and a serial unlocking ensues. Because Bluebeard is present throughout, "[this] unlocking is not just an act of childish furtiveness [as in previous treatments of the Bluebeard theme], but one that engages the two characters in a shifting dialogue of pleading and restraint" (Griffiths 59). Bluebeard's cold and plain speech, in the key of "A," contrasts with Judith's poetic outbursts, in "A" flat; the two "are as distant from each other tonally as they are in understanding" (Griffiths 62). Each door Judith opens floods the hall with increasing light, but the exposed ante-chambers betray the secrets of Bluebeard's inner life: a torture chamber (cruelty), an armoury (aggression), a jewel-house (materialism), a garden (isolation), a kingdom (power). Everything is bathed in blood. The sixth door uncovers an even more blatantly symbolic spectacle, a lake of tears, Bluebeard's own. At this point, the duke calls Judith to him for a final embrace, richly embellished by the orchestra. Judith now suspects that Bluebeard has murdered his previous wives, but presses on to the seventh door. Her fears are realized as Bluebeard's three former wives, richly adorned, come forth amid pale moonlight. Enraptured by this ultimate display of his power, Bluebeard addresses the three women as the sources of his wealth—the loves of his dawns, noons, and evenings, respectively. He then turns to Judith, proclaiming her to be the "fairest of all," and tells her that she will reign over his nights once she assumes her place with the. other three. All four women retreat into the seventh chamber, leaving Bluebeard alone in his cavern. "Night," he whispers. "Nothing but darkness ..... Endless darkness ..." Bartok's masterpiece is extraordinarily suggestive. The -Four wives—Bluebeard's morning, noon, evening, and night—evoke nature in its temporal cycle, revealing Bluebeard's relationship to all of life: he desires to control and possess otherness, to lock up the outer world in the chambers of his mind, for his own private use. Like Thackeray's Bluebeard, Bartok's is "Everyman," but with more sinister implications. Doomed by a need to know and to have, the duke evinces a murderous acquisitiveness. Nevertheless, Bartok's Bluebeard cannot simply be dismissed as a monomaniacal monster. Insofar as the duke knows and understands his fate, he is an almost tragic figure who 8 somehow manages to evoke our sympathy. As for Judith, she not only fails to escape her husband, but in some way becomes like him: her serial unlockings parallel his serial murders. In this sense, Judith remains trapped in a mental construct that she helps to create. Male and female, man and nature are all doomed. There is no longer any fairy-tale possibility of a "happy ending." In drawing upon the Bluebeard story in The Garden of Eden manuscript, Ernest Hemingway displays what might be regarded as a "Bartokian" sensibility. I have found no evidence, as yet, that Hemingway ever saw a performance of Duke Bluebeard, and cannot, therefore, claim any direct influence. Instead, I present Hemingway as another gifted artist who seems to have found, in the story of Bluebeard, a "portentous darkness" that is "most appropriate in this century" (Grace 24^). Like Bartok, Hemingway uses the Bluebeard story self-consciously and symbolically, to convey a variety of deeply disturbing meanings. On one level, Hemingway deploys the Bluebeard theme as a sexual trope, to expose and to question the sado-masochistic aspects of traditional gender paradigms. In this regard, Bluebeard represents a man who imposes his ego on women in a way that is analogous to locking them up or imprisoning them. Bluebeard's bride, meanwhile, is caught in an impossible bind: her almost ruthless curiosity is both a moral obligation and a means of courting Bluebeard. On a second level, Hemingway uses the Bluebeard theme more specifically, as an artist parable, to suggest subtle links between the creative imagination, aggression, and a will to power. Indeed, whereas David Bourne, the writer, is Bluebeard, language is his castle, a "place" where he twists all possible dimensions into his own. In elucidating Eden's monstrous subtext, I will be challenging some 9 widely held assumptions about the supposedly unreflective gender politics of a Hemingway text. Carlos Baker articulates the normative view of Hemingway's attitudes toward the relative roles of men and women when he impassively states that "[Hemingway's heroines, to make the statement exactly, are meant to [perform] a symbolic or ritualistic function in the service of the artist and the service of man" (157). In her feminist re-reading of American literature, Judith Fetterley agrees with Baker, but "resists" the point: "All our tears are ultimately for men," Fetterley writes, "because in the world of A Farewell to Arms male life is what counts. And the message to women reading this classic love story and experiencing its image of the female ideal is clear and simple: the only good woman is a dead one, and even then there are questions" (171). I shall be arguing that Hemingway's attitudes toward gender and sexuality in the Eden manuscript are far more complex than either Baker or Fetterley would allow. In a related way, I shall argue that Hemingway's multi-leveled use of the Bluebeard story is ultimately self-critical, that he uses the fairy tale to critique chauvinistic and/or misogynistic tendencies in both himself and his work. In turn, I believe that The Garden of Eden manuscript reveals a greater authorial empathy toward the feminine than Hemingway is usually given credit for. In this text, at least, Hemingway presents an assertive female character, Catherine Bourne, who articulates her own desires, who affirmatively challenges notions of sexual polarity and male dominance, who matters of and in herself. I do not, however, intend to push my revisionary reading too far, and would immediately like to recognize what might be regarded as a certain rock-bottom male chauvinism in Eden. Carol H. Smith is helpful in this regard, insofar as she contends that even Hemingway's most sensitive portrayals of women retain traces of "mythic stereotypes" (130-131). This is \0 certainly true of "Eden," where Hemingway presents a good woman and a bad woman, although readers may disagree over how to allot such roles. Both women, moreover, are very much defined in relation to money and sex: Catherine (the "good" woman in my reading) is a wealthy innocent, a kind of rich child-bride who is also an unpredictable bed partner; Marita (the "bad" woman in my reading) is both an heiress and a whore. Further still, as the focal character in Eden, David Bourne, the man, is free to love or despise these two women. Notably, too, David's thoughts and. words, encouraged and echoed by Marita, become increasingly dominant toward the end of7 the manuscript, whereas Catherine conveniently disappears after destroying the contents of her husband's work room. I shall complicate this rather crude sketch in the coming • pages, but concede that its male-centred silencing of the female voice remains troublesome. Accordingly, I hope to qualify normative views of Hemingway's chauvinism, without turning such views on their head. The Eden manuscript, as I read it, is a novelistic text that both moves within and pushes beyond patriarchal ideology, employing tension, ambiguity, and irony to destabilize the "rigid patterns of gender" we expect ^rom Hemingway (Smith 143). David Bourne, the artist-Bluebeard in Eden, is a problematical character. As previously noted, David stands at the centre of the manuscript, and in many ways resembles the sort of male "hero" Hemingway criticism tends to valorize: he is a stoic, tight-lipped war veteran and dedicated craftsman, a man who apparently does his best to accommodate the demands of a curious, invasive wife. Nevertheless, I shall argue that Hemingway, as author-narrator, stands at an ironic distance from the trials and tribulations of his male protagonist, whose centralized consciousness is invested with a kind of free-floating ugliness. According to the Bluebeard configuration described II above, David's monstrousness ultimately lies in his creative vanity, in the self-absorption, detachment, and pride that inform his compulsion to write. Indeed, Catherine, at one point, accuses David of appropriating her unruly banter for his artistic ends, of "storeing [sic] it away" in the dark recesses of his own mind ( Even at his most affectionate, David is stifling, and must be reminded by Catherine that they cannot keep their love "locked up like something in a vault" (3.4.4; emphasis added). There is, to be sure, an intended brutality in Hemingway's fictional self-image, a desire to master and control otherness, to reign over the world rather than participate in it. As a Bluebeard type who guards his own masculine superiority and identity, David Bourne emerges as lone male who derives his creative inspiration from a stratum of egocentric desires rooted in hostility and self-glorification. Accordingly, David asks himself, with a heavy conscience, "if it is possible that the only creation that is a moral act is pro-creation [sic] and that is why all other kinds are suspect?" (3.23.9.i). Self-critically, David also concedes that "no writer" is "completely soul" (3.39.20). But despite David's intermittent sensitivity, he remains an oppressive and violent protagonist, obtusely prone to self-delusion. Catherine Bourne, the female transgressor in Eden, figures among the gallery of mad or near-mad women who populate Hemingway's fiction. Certain passages in the manuscript imply that Catherine's madness is an hereditary, clinical, and debilitating condition. We learn, for example, that Catherine's father and uncle were both "silly" (a deliberately used, historical euphemism for "schizophrenic") (3.13[b].22-23), and that her father "[k]illed" both himself and. Catherine's mother "in a car" (3.13[b].22). Hemingway further hints that his female lead has undergone treatment in a Swiss sanatorium, an experience that has left her with a lasting resentment of "doctors" (3.16.22). Yet there is considerable ambiguity about the nature and source of Catherine's immediate psychological disturbances. "Crazy things aren't crazy now," Catherine tells David. "Sensible things are crazy. You know that" p.36.6^). Thus, Catherine suggests that her often bizarre behaviour offers a desirable alternative to more conventional versions of sanity. Tn this sense, Catherine merely "plays" at madness throughout much of the manuscript, attempting to escape the "shitty time" ( in which she feels she lives. Alternatively, when Catherine finally does undergo what appears to be a genuine psychotic breakdown, there is a sense in which David and Marita drive her mad, exploiting and/or eliciting a pre-existing vulnerability. Thus, while Hemingway may not quite match the sort of Laingian privileging of madness found in, say, Doris Lessing's The Four-Gated City, Catherine's "craziness" makes her both better and weaker than the two other main characters in Eden. In the ongoing drama of the manuscript, we see Catherine as a twenty-one-year-old bride. She is rich, beautiful,- and very strange. Impossibly naive and childlike, she appears to entertain delusions of grandeur. Moreover, she wants David, her writer-husband, to write about her. Hoping to achieve a total oneness with her new husband, Catherine cuts and colors her hair, orchestrating "changes" that culminate in mysterious forms of love-making. These tonsorial and sexual experiments permit a continuum of metamorphoses whereby conventional gender relationships are inverted, turned upside down or inside out, so that old patterns can be traced in new ways. Under Catherine's polymorphic influence, human identity becomes "flexible, anarchic, ambiguous, layered with multiple meanings [and new possibilities]" (Vance 22; qtd. by Abbandonato 1112). In effect, then, Catherine struggles to rehabilitate both her Bluebeard-like husband and the nexus of socio-cultural 13 values he represents. Put another way, as the Eve in Hemingway's garden, Catherine emerges as a feminist heroine who questions the terms of a male "Paradise." She self-consciously aligns herself with the "Devil," and seeks "some good vices" (1.1.3; emphasis added). Thus, if Catherine embraces unattainable values, her excesses are somehow ennobling; if she ultimately becomes violent and destructive, mirroring the evil she hates, her frenzy is the result of unbearable oppression. Indeed, given David's "Gilies"-like presence, I will show that the short-haired, boyish Catherine also figures as a kind of Joan of Arc. Hemingway enhances the mystery of Catherine's character by refusing to annotate her consciousness. Whereas a selectively omniscient narrator regularly provides inside views of David, Catherine is presented almost entirely in the dramatic mode: the reader witnesses only what she does and says, not what she directly perceives. It follows that Catherine is forever implying more than we can immediately apprehend. Her words and actions are deceptively resonant and dazzlingly rich, presenting a special dialect to a discerning audience. Decoded, Catherine's "schizophrenese" reveals the visionary insights of someone seeking to achieve selfhood through cooperation, nurturance, and relationship. Further still, I shall argue that Catherine's needy but perceptive voice expresses deep authorial concerns and convictions, revealing a hitherto disregarded sensibility within Hemingway himself. Conversely, Hemingway draws Marita's character with a good deal of cynical detachment, ironically reworking the subservient-woman "ideal" that supposedly pervades much of his fiction. For although Marita partially meets the needs of a burdened male, her "dog"-like loyalty (3.42.21) conveys a vampiristic longing for self-empowerment, a desire, spurred by lostness, to feed on omnipotent authority. "[A] certified book reader" (3.21.40), as It Catherine describes her, Marita knows David's work (3.?1.14) and is quite probably "in love" with David long before she deviously arranges to meet him (3.21.11; etc.). Moreover, as David's self-described "business partner on writing" (3.37.40), Marita is inclined to "take" David away from Catherine, who meddles in his vocational secrets (3.71.4). Exhibiting unscrupulous fealty to an author-god, Marita undermines Catherine's tenuous emotional stability by exploiting her sexual compulsions (3.?0.2cS-?7; etc.). A woman of many talents, the submissive newcomer subsequently indulges David's darkest and most authoritarian sexual fantasies by copying and debasing Catherine's boyish roles. Marita's derivative and therefore insincere acts lead away from the complex intersubjectivity that excites Catherine, toward cruel and mutually exploitative sexual relations based on privileged usership. The written commentary on Eden—most of which relies heavily on the published text—has simply missed or underestimated Eden's complex irony. In most cases, Catherine's feminine recalcitrance has been devalued, while David's masculine artistry and his eventual relationship with Marita have been idealized. David, in particular, has been viewed as one of Hemingway's most admirable stoics, as an indulgent husband who tolerates the misdeeds of a "crazy," castrating wife before justly reclaiming his manhood. Somewhat predictably, that is, a group of mostly male readers identifies almost exclusively with the male protagonist. Frank Scafella^ -For example, reductively exaggerates the sex-money ingredients OF Catherine's character, suggesting that she is primarily motivated by a '"secret*" wish for a lesbian affair" and a desire to "control" David (??). This critic sees Catherine's "crisis of identity" as a self-inflicted "crisis of will" (?6). Scafella claims that David, on the other hand, retreats, via his work, "into the world 15 of the spirit" (27). Here, Sca^ella argues, the male protagonist discovers "the compassionating mood of the soul" (79), with Marita, a "fit helper," at his side (21). Robert Jones likewise believes that the role of Hemingway's "malevolent and willful" heroine (?) is "predicated upon the author's representation of androgyny in terms of the failure of womanhood and the encroachment of insanity" (4). Jones does add a qualification, asserting that Catherine emerges as a "sympathetic character" (4). Catherine, this critic writes, is "neither totally good nor totally evil" (S). Curiously, though, for Jones, Catherine's finest moment, one that brings "authentic selfhood," hinges upon her decision to "leave Davi^ before destroying him and his career" (5). It follows that David happily rediscovers "his identity as a man and as a writer" (6; emphasis added). "[T]hrough a Conradian devotion to efficiency and discipline" (5), Jones claims, David transforms "his consciousness" and alters "his relationship with the world," which, he comes to view "with pity and irony" (7). Other scholars read Eden in much the same way, stressing Catherine's failure and David's triumph (see Bauer, Broer, Cackett, Hillman, etc.). Briefly striking a different note, Robert E. Gajdusek finds in Eden "the eternally retold story of artistic guilt" 0 8). Gajdusek explicitly acknowledges Catherine's victimization, claiming that she is "driven to excesses of destructive behavior by historical time" 06). Tn turn, Gajdusek summarizes Eden, in part, as "a study of the dissatisfaction of contemporary woman in her role and her attempt to seize the attributes and authority of the male" (16). Yet Gajdusek is puzzling on this point, since he might appear to be taking female subordination and "male authority" ^or granted: to some extent, the essentialist tone of his remarks seems to reinscribe assumptions that the text challenges. Moreover, Gajdusek concludes that Catherine's 16 "dissatisfaction" ends in a censurable assumption of "unilateral power" (16), but celebrates David's artistic attainment of male-female "balance." Indeed, Gajdusek ultimately effaces the theme of creative guilt by presenting a glowing paean to the supposedly redeemed writer. The Garden of Eden, Gajdusek claims, "is [primarily] a study in . . . [David's-Hemingway's] relinquishment of [male] power and . . . [their attainment of] a new male posture" (15). As for Marita, she "is the new wife for the new man" (17). Gajdusek, surely one of the most sensitive readers of gender issues in Hemingway studies, might well offer a viable interpretation of the published text, but his comments misrepresent the complex irony of the manuscript. Among the critical celebrations of David Bourne's supposed triumph, I find a long article by Nancy R. Comley and Robert Scholes especially puzzling. Comley and Scholes touch upon the Bluebeardesque themes of transgressive behaviour and moral darkness, but still affirm Hemingway's commitment to David's masculine artistry. "What the unfinished text of The Garden of Eden is about," Comley and Scholes suggest, is the relationship between a search for artistic "truth" and a sexuality that trangresses the norms of the culture that Hemingway kept trying to outgrow. In this novel . . . sexual trangressions in thought and deed become the keys that unlock the artist's sources of inspiration and allow him that glimpse of truth . . . (277) According to Comley and Scholes, Catherine "initiates" such transgressions, but only "because she is losing her grip on reality" (279). Under Catherine's purview, then, sexual experimentation becomes a sign of madness. "Catherine herself," we are told, cannot "negotiate the passage between imagination and reality . . . " (283). Marita, however, succeeds where Catherine fails, 17-leading David to an artistic triumph endorsed by Hemingway. "Marita," Comley and Scholes write, "is the perfect writer's spouse, appreciative of [David's] work rather than jealous of it, smart, sexy, and submissive" (280). Her sexual trangressions are affirmative insofar as they are liberating, partly because they are "more fully imaginative, more consciously and deliberately performed" (283). As Comley and Scholes see things, then, the David—Marita liaison offers a complex but "happy ending," in which the thrill of artistic self-discovery outweighs any accompanying revelation of moral darkness. Yet Comely and Scholes, I would suggest, underestimate Catherine's role. Moreover, they do not inquire closely enough into the "primal and savage" nature of David's moral darkness, and thereby dodge the disturbing issues they raise. Indeed, I intend to demonstrate that Comley*stand Scholes's notion of a "happy ending" misleadingly glosses submerged but inferrable details that signal an unresolved authorial ambivalence toward artistic endeavor. Rightly, I think, some commentators have taken a more sceptical view of Eden's ostensible formula of male transcendence. John Updike, for example, in a remarkably perceptive review of the published text, regards Catherine as "the most interesting of [Hemingway's] heroines" (87). Updike suggests that the novel affords "a new reading of [the author's] sensibility" (86), one that "touch[es] upon the feminine within [Hemingway] . . . . countering his masculine values and public gestures" (86-87; emphasis added). Eden, Updike writes, "leaves us with a better feeling about the author's humanity . . . than anything else published since his death" (88). Mindful of the limited evidence before him, Updike goes on to acknowledge the ultimate failure of Hemingway's vision, asserting that the David-Marita relationship "reconstitute[s] the old impervious, macho Hemingway persona . . . " (86). In my view, however, Updike's tentatively offered conclusion is a little too 18 unequivocal, insofar as it underestimates the persistent irony and detachment that inform Hemingway's presentation of David and Marita. Indeed, Updike is inclined to reverse the basic authorial value structure argued for here, claiming that "[t]he [disobedient] wife is bad and the mistress good—i.e., an acolyte to the writer and his writing" (88). In a thorough study of the manuscript, Mark Spilka also detects Hemingway's emotional investment in Catherine, describing her as the author's "androgynous lesbian muse," that "secret female version of himself against whom his masculine artistry has always been opposed" (305-306). But while Spilka calls for a richer reading of Catherine, he depicts her character in a familiar way: for Spilka, Catherine's antagonism is primarily self-willed, evidence of jealousy, resentment, and competitiveness, of a striving for "hegemony" and "independent creativity at all costs" (305-308). Accordingly, Spilka, too, places Hemingway's conscious affinities elsewhere, concluding that we are meant to see Marita as "'the good wife' who ministers to the creative mystery but has no creative life of her own," except "as an adjunct to the great weight-carrying, narcissistic male" (310). Reading straightforwardly rather than ironically, Spilka laments the author's "colossal self-deception" (310). H.R. Stoneback carries the possibility of a revisionary reading one step further by foregrounding elements of deliberate authorial self-criticism. After touching upon the profound psychological aspects of Catherine's androgynous yearnings (26-27), Stoneback suggests that Hemingway sees David as an irremediably lost character who possesses "knowledge of his own radical insufficiency and betrayal" (26). David, Stoneback writes, "is a fallen and a broken man, and I am not at all convinced that his convenient new partner, Marita, will be able to help put him together again" (26). Yet if Stoneback If searchingly explores David's shortcomings/ he argues that Hemingway leaves his male protagonist with a last vestige of self-respect. Writing, Stoneback claims, is "the one thing [David] has not betrayed" (26). While Stoneback does not suggest that David's writing is a source of redemption, he does imply that David's writing imparts a measure of grace. Tnferrably, therefore, in Stoneback's view, Hemingway's self-criticism is confined to matters other than art. David emerges as a tragically flawed figure who, despite all else, remains loyal to his craft. Stoneback, then, preserves David's peculiar brand of writing as a sacrosanct value in the Hemingway text. Several newly published discussions of The Garden of Eden pay even greater heed to Catherine's voice. This material carefully probes the meaning of Catherine's resistance to David's masculine artistry. Arnold Weinstein, in Nobody's Home; Speech, Self, and Place in American Fiction from Hawthorne to DeLillo (1993), argues that Catherine's "enormous project of transformation and transcendence endows [The Garden of Eden, a ] seemingly privatist novel, with genuine metaphysical reach, placing Hemingway in a large and rich tradition of spiritual and erotic quests ranging from Hawthorne and Melville to Proust, Joyce, and Faulkner" (193). "The woman-as-(desiring)-subject stands (at last) at the tragic centre of this fable," Weinstein writes, "and Hemingway has been able to see it her way, even as he measures her intolerable threat to his male surrogate, even as he punishes her act[s]' of hubris" (209). Similarly, Jerry A. Varsava, in "En-Gendered Problems: Characteral Conflict in Hemingway's Garden" (1991), cites "the intellectual strength and moral courage of Catherine who first fiercely questions and then calmly violates everyone else's rules" (120). Catherine ultimately proceeds, Varsava observes, "to question a fixed precept of bourgeois mores—the very sacrosanctity of art and the artist—a precept firmly entrenched in our cultural code since the zo Romantics . . . " (120). Kathy Willingham, in "Hemingway's The Garden of Eden; Writing the Body" (1993), recasts the argument in terms of a distinctly feminist affirmation. Willingham sees Catherine as an artist figure who attempts to reconstitute art on new terms. According to Willingham, Catherine struggles (a la Helene Cixous) "to create a language which is 'non-phallic' and 'non-fetishistic'" (47). Eden, Willingham claims, forces us to take a closer look at Hemingway himself. His treatment of Catherine challenges numerous critical charges of misogynistic insensitivity, for . . . he provides a sympathetic portrait of a creative woman who, contrary to critical assumptions, does not victimize the male protagonist; rather, she enables [or invites?] him to see beyond restrictive binaries: male/female, homosexuality/ heterosexuality, passive/active. Catherine enriches David's life; she does not destroy it. (60) Yet while Weinstein, Varsava, and Willingham make valuable contributions toward our understanding of Eden's complexity, I believe that all three continue to underestimate the revisionary force of the "Other" ground they open up. In my view, that is, each critic preemptively underwrites Hemingway's self-criticism, effacing the deeply problematical nature of David's masculine artistry. Jerry Varsava provides an especially interesting case in point. For Varsava labors under an a priori assumption that feminist critics who stand with Catherine must necessarily be reading "contratextually," or "against the grain." Hemingway, by implication, neither understands nor empathizes with the subversive claims of the female he creates. Thus, while Varsava admirably strives to avoid a dualistic reading of Eden (an interpretation which champions either David or Catherine), the premises from which he begins are suspect. From the very outset, this critic 2/1 confines the possible range of authorial intentions within the narrow preconceptions he seeks to escape. That is, Varsava solves a problem that exists only if one denies Hemingway's ability to challenge the misogynistic paradigms he is supposed to espouse. In some way, then, Varsava brings us back to Judith Fetterley's criticisms of Hemingway. Rose Marie Burwell's excellent article on Eden, entitled "Hemingway's Garden of Eden: Resistance of Things Past and Protecting the Masculine Text," appeared as my own study neared completion. Burwell further explores the legitimacy of Catherine's feminist challenge to David's art, extolling Catherine's "healthy anger" (205). Yet Burwell, as her title indicates, is among those who believe that Hemingway exclusively favours "the masculine mode of David's creative vision" (203). Curiously, then, Burwell again argues that Hemingway fails to appreciate the affirmative moral significance of the heroine he creates. For Burwell, Catherine affords "a striking analogue of the history of women's creative struggle," but only when she is "viewed apart from the burdens she bears as a facet of Hemingway's psyche and [as] a stand-in for the women he feared and/or desired" (204). "[T]he male narrating voice" (i.e. Hemingway's voice), according to Burwell, makes Catherine's pursuit of wholeness seem "trivial" (206). Similarly, Burwell argues that Catherine's cogent criticism of David's art is "presented as [mere] hysteria by the narrating male consciousness" (208). To my mind, however, Burwell is not generous enough in her attitude toward Hemingway, and again locks him into the "Papa" stereotype. Indeed, I would respectfully suggest that Burwell is guilty of a familiar critical error insofar as she conflates Hemingway's view with the blinkered views of his male protagonist. Moreover, the "evidence" Burwell brings forth in an effort to justify "the unity of Hemingway and David Bourne" is far from conclusive, and simply demonstrates a string of "LI; connections between Hemingway and Bourne that say very little, if anything, about the author's attitude toward his fictional self-image (200-201). To date, only Toni Morrison has squarely confronted the disturbing implications of David's artistry (and Catherine's rebellion against it) as part of an intended authorial design. Perhaps Morrison's identity as a black, female novelist makes her especially sensitive to the "Other" side of Eden, to the force with which Hemingway objectifies the white-male subject position. In Playing in the Dark; Whiteness and the Literary Imagination (1992), Morrison devotes several paragraphs to the published version of Eden, noting Catherine's derogation of David's work. "Hemingway," Morrison states, thinks "she is right. . . . for the story we are reading and the one he has written is about her" (89). Morrison, therefore, unlike Burwell and many others, allows for a necessary and fundamental distinction between Bourne and Hemingway. Moreover, Morrison perceives in David's work an exclusionary violence that has otherwise gone unremarked: the protagonist's stories, Morrison claims, have "value as a cherished masculine enclave of white domination and slaughter . . ."(89; emphasis added). In effect, then, Morrison detects Hemingway's darkest implications, deploying language that allows for an intended kinship between David and Bluebeard. Like Eliot critiquing Hamlet, Morrison critiquing Eden perceives an authorial disgust that is "in excess of the facts as they appear." Thus, while Morrison seems to conclude that Hemingway himself ultimately remains imprisoned within certain ideological norms, she acknowledges the startling honesty of his self-examination. The foregoing overview of Eden criticism comprises a grid of response that increasingly qualifies Hemingway's commitment to the male artist. For the most part, however, the critical discourse upholds fairly stereotypical X3 ideas about Hemingway's work. Indeed, whether David Bourne achieves "halance" or succumbs to "betrayal," most critics assume that Hemingway identifies almost exclusively with the male viewpoint. Consequently, David's moral and vocational destiny as an artist tends to eclipse the aspirations and incriminations of a feminine "Other." For while the criticism often recognizes Catherine as a "sympathetic character," it either consigns her to what Gilbert and Gubar refer to as the attic of female madness, or portray her as character who somehow exceeds Hemingway's understanding. In the former case, Catherine is judged narrowly, as an Eve-like usurper whose ill-conceived schemes disrupt the supposed merits of a male order, whereby David, the creative artist, rightly serves his creator. Under the abstract simplicity of this Miltonic mythos, Paradise may be hopelessly lost or happily regained, but, whatever the outcome, the fate of man(kind) is writ large, in terms that exclusively valorize masculine endeavour. Catherine, we must infer, does not truly belong to the realm of the explicable. My own analysis of the Eden manuscript opens the text to affirmative, author-informed, proto-feminist considerations. I do not wish to contradict previous readings, so much as to show how these readings, like my my own, are selective. More pointedly, I hope to redress a chronic critical blindness to certain significant textual facts in Eden, exposing both the relentless force of Hemingway's self-criticism, and his deep emotional affinity with the female Other. Indeed, the most interesting aspect of Eden, I think, is the degree to which the text reflexively scrutinizes male privilege, casting doubt upon David's writing. Hemingway, in this respect, delves much deeper into the vexed waters of his own psyche than do most of his critics. For the Hemingway of Eden is critiquing aspects of his own art, a move that turns writing itself into the real battleground in this tale of troubled lovers. "What is so holy and sacred about writing anyway?" Catherine asks, stating the key problem in Eden. "There've been plenty of writers," Catherine observes, "and there will be plenty more" (3.3.6). Rather than taking the position that all writing is worthless, however, Catherine urges David to "write differently" (, and that androgynous difference is precisely what Hemingway himself is aiming for. Insofar as I present Catherine as Hemingway's self-informed conscience, T should reiterate that the manuscript which emerges from my reading is a novelistic text that both moves within and pushes beyond the boundaries of patriarchal ideology, problematizing David's masculine artistry. The hermeneutical principles I shall be applying throughout my study of the Eden manuscript reflect my understanding of Hemingway "as a conscious, literate artist, fully in the modernist tradition" (Sylvester 91). I believe that Hemingway the modernist, a student of Pound, Eliot, and Joyce, deploys a language of realistic images charged with symbolic import, to the point where virtually every word in the text functions both literally and figuratively. My reading of Eden is informed by a series of supplementary presuppositions, most of which have been validated by Hemingway himself, and by generations of his critics: (1) words and images in the text derive added significance from context, repetition, and syntactic structures; (?) as a highly literate field of discourse, the text continually calls for comparative and/or intertextual readings; (3) thematic meaning sometimes resides in specialized knowledge of certain actions, objects, and events in the text, and this knowledge must be supplied by the reader; (4) much of what matters in the text is implicit rather than explicit, "left out," as it were, in accordance with Hemingway's so-called theory of omission or "iceberg" principle (A Moveable Feast 75; Death in the Afternoon 132); (5) the text, again working by implication and innuendo, frequently puts before the reader views other than those of the 2.5 central character(s); (6) the author frequently deploys a "natural" and/or archetypal symbology in which words and objects function as the "objective correlative" of certain emotions. To a lesser extent, I will also employ biographical considerations where these seem helpful. I do so cautiously, however, and shall attempt to respect the convoluted and often tortuous relationship between life and art. While the foregoing principles and presuppositions explain my readerly guidelines, they do not minimize the hazards of interpretation itself. Recent developments in literary theory, especially in the area broadly defined as reader-response criticism, oblige all close readers to acknowledge the highly subjective, often accidental, and infinitely variable experience of reading. In texts such as Hemingway's, which place extraordinary demands upon the reader by telling so little but implying so much, the problems of reading are acute. I want, therefore, to make explicit my own generative role in the reading process. For although I have taken great pains, over a period of several years, to get at Hemingway's intended meanings, no critic, regardless of energy and competence, can exactly reconstruct Hemingway's mind during the prolonged and intermittent composition of Eden. What T propose to offer here, then, is something other than a pristine correction of preceding, errant readings. At best, I have managed to view Eden from a different angle, and that angle of vision, like all acts of viewing, is necessarily constituted by selection and distortion. Nevertheless, I firmly believe that my interpretive framework tells us something new about the object of investigation, thereby complicating and enriching other critical viewpoints. My reading "matters" not so much because it may be true or false, but as a contribution to a much-needed exchange and revitalization of ideas in Hemingway studies. And so, without further apology, but with a self-conscious awareness of the conditions of viewing, I will proceed with my "interpretation." 2-6 The close readings which follow concentrate on the David-Catherine plotline as it develops over the course of the Eden manuscript, culminating in a triangular relationship with Marita. In an effort to trace the rich weave of the text, I will not limit my analysis to what I perceive as intended allusions to the specific topoi of the Bluebeard story. Instead, T will pursue the gender-art nexus as it appears in a wider array of textual motifs and allusions, returning to the Bluebeard story at intervals, as does Hemingway. In this sense, I shall be using the Bluebeard story more as a paradigm than a focal point. "Chapter One: The 'Happy' Couple" portrays Le Grau-du-Roi, the small fishing village where the Bournes begin their honeymoon, as a borderland region of time and space. The quiet town, it would seem, is a place of new beginnings, a womb-like enclave where David and Catherine, two spiritual orphans of the twentieth century, might rejuvenate their troubled psyches. Upon close consideration, however, Le Grau-du-Roi harbours sinister undertones of division, decay, and death. Indeed, the seemingly idyllic world of Le Grau-du-Roi is neither as "simple" nor as "happy" as David claims. "Chapter Two: Surprises and Changes" explores the ontological implications of Catherine's initial tonsorial and sexual experimentation. "Chapter Three: The Project" traces the brief enactment and failure of Catherine's scheme at La Napoule, another evocative Riviera setting. "Chapter Four: The New Girl" explores Marita's role in the narrative. "Chapter Five: African Digressions" analyzes the significance of Africa as David's boyhood home, and provides a psychoanalytical reading of his African stories. "Chapter Six: The Burning" examines Catherine's destruction of David's African manuscripts. "Chapter Seven: The Writer Recovers?" focuses on the circumstances that lead to David's questionable creative resurrection. A "Conclusion" reviews how Hemingway's breadth of vision and complexity in the Eden manuscript problematizes critical conceptions of his work. Z.TT Notes - Sherrill Grace demonstrates that Bartok's Duke Bluebeard has had a profound effect "upon certain later writers who are drawn to the Bluebeard theme, notably John Fowles and Margaret Atwood" (245). Grace observes (246) that Fowles saw a performance of Bartok's opera shortly before writing The Collector (1963), a novel about Frederick Clegg, a lepidopterist who locks a beautiful woman in a cellar room. Discussing the influence of Bartok, Fowles claimed: "the thing that struck me [about Duke Bluebeard] was the symbolism of the man imprisoning the woman underground" (Newquist 219; qtd. by Grace 246). According to Grace, Atwood is "more eclectic" in her use of Bluebeard sources, but also draws upon Bartok. Indeed, the carefully wrought topoi of Bartok's production—the cavernous castle, the sharp distinctions between inside and outside, etc.—appear to have spoken with special force to Atwood, an artist deeply concerned with what Grace elsewhere describes as "violent dual[ities]." See, for example, Atwood's Power Politics (1971) and Bluebeard's Egg (1983). l& CHAPTER ONE: THE "HAPPY" COOPLE When she saw this rigid system close about her, draped though it was in pictured tapestries, that sense of darkness and suffocation of which I have spoken took possession of her; she seemed shut up with an odour of mould and decay. She had resisted of course; at first very humorously, ironically, tenderly; then, as the situation grew more serious, eagerly, passionately, pleadingly. She had pleaded the cause of freedom, of doing as they chose, of not caring for the aspect and denomination of their life—the cause of other instincts and other longings, of quite another ideal. Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady, 379. The Garden of Eden manuscript begins in the Camargue region of south-eastern France, on the marsh lands of the Rhone delta, at Le Grau-du-Roi, a small fishing village overlooking the Golfe du Lion. In one of his many centre-of-consciousness soliloquies, which constitute a kind of free indirect discourse, David Bourne recalls how he and Catherine arrived at the village: after marrying in Paris, they came down to Avignon on the train, with their bicycles, then cycled further south, with the Mistral, to Nimes, then to Aigues-Mortes, and, "still with the heavy wind behind them," they cycled on down to Le Grau-du-Roi (1.1.15). Here, the cool, gusting Mistral relents, and the newlyweds are soothed by spring breezes and warm sunshine. As "the only 21 foreigners in the village" (1.1.18), they enjoy celebrity status, and are granted special liberties. Their days consist of universal, timeless pleasures, such as eating, drinking, sleeping, swimming, and making love. Superficially, at least, the "tiny village," which has "no Casino and no entertainment" (1.1.5), is decidedly Edenic, a "cheerful and friendly" enclave untainted by the corruptions of modernity (1.1.1). "It was a very simple world," David thinks to himself, "and he had never been truly happy in any other" (1.1.15). More particularly, the "simple world" of the Camargue, where the honeymoon begins, connotes what might be considered a state of "mythic actuality." As David Bourne observes, Le Grau-du-Roi "was the port that Saint Louis sailed from to the Crusades" (1.1.9). Concomitantly, the Bournes are exhilarated by the stone contours of nearby Aigues-Mortes, a thirteenth-century garrison town built specifically for Louis1 two expeditions. "[W]e found [Aigues-Mortes] together," Catherine says, "and saw the towers and walls rising out of the flat country and the marshes. It was a brown blue color that afternoon. It's such a wonderful thing to have found" (1.1.9). David responds in kind: "We were in the thick grape country when we saw it first and they were spraying the vines and the young grapes. Do you remember how hot it was? The gray of the spray was on the green. And there was our walled city across the plain" (1.1.19). In part, at least, the Bournes* numinous vision of Aigues-Mortes recaptures the grand, medieval conception of a divinely inspired civilization. Like St. Louis' mounted knights, the cyclers are themselves crusaders, impelled by Utopian ideals. Indeed, for David and Catherine, the walls and towers that loom on the horizon are symbols of transcendence and rejuvenation. For them, and perhaps for us, the castle-like appearance of the "walled city" evokes the supernaturalism of fairy tales, of enchanted kingdoms where dreams come true. 30 Hemingway is clearly drawing upon the circumstances of his honeymoon with Pauline, among other possible sources. Baker's Ernest Hemingway: A Life Story suggestively sketches the actual wedding trip: The honeymoon lasted approximately three weeks and was spent at a small pension in Grau-du-Roi . . . . It was a warm and watery region, still largely unspoiled, and favored with a long, clean swimming beach where they disported themselves each morning. (?23) Bernice Kerts, in her biographical study of Hemingway's wives, embellishes Baker's outline with an anecdote that accents the fanciful quality of the wedding trip: "One day [Pauline and Ernest] stained their faces with berry juice, disguised themselves as gypsies, and rode their bicycles to a local festival" (203). Yet the Hemingway letters and biographies also confirm that the actual honeymoon was marred by Hemingway's guilt-ridden desertion and betrayal of Hadley, his first wife. Moreover, the discomfort of Hemingway's troubled conscience was exacerbated by a potentially symbolic injury: "They [Ernest and Pauline] both flourished," Kerts writes, "until Ernest cut his foot and developed an anthrax infection (a deep-seated abscess difficult to treat) that necessitated a ten-day stay in bed after their return to Paris" (204). Interestingly, then, psychobiographical considerations might actually problematize Hemingway's supposed identification with his younger, fictional self-image. For the emotional ambiguity of the "real" honeymoon points toward the possibility of a self-critical sensibility in the retrospective author, permitting us to regard David Bourne as Hemingway's version of an "infected," former self. In any event, upon closer consideration, Hemingway's signifying text systematically undermines its edenic pretensions. The peculiar ecology of the area—the excessive heat, the sprayed, gray-flecked vines, and the flat, 3! swampy plain—holds a threat of oppression, dullness, and disease. And the very name "Aigues-Mortes," whose Latin derivation means "dead waters," ominously attests to the alkaline deposits that contaminate the hydrosphere of the delta. On yet another level, the rich history of the region is both inspiring and foreboding. For St. Louis' magnificent crusades, the second of which led directly to his own death, were unqualified failures (Wade LaBarge 131; 243). And, two hundred years after St. Louis' defeat, those inspiring towers of Aigues-Mortes—which give the Bournes a euphoric sense of freedom—were used to incarcerate political prisoners (Jordan 74-75). Hemingway's awareness of this fact is confirmed by Mary, who records the sights of her husband's return visit to Le Grau-du-Roi, in the early fifties. "One woman," Mary writes, "was imprisoned there for thirty-eight years, [and] scratched 'Resistez' in the wall, an admonition which they now keep under glass" (252). Ultimately, of course, the sinister implications of the setting coalesce with the emergence of tensions that inform the Bournes' private lives: while Catherine, the schizophrenic, nervously anticipates her own psychic disintegration, David, the writer, continually broods about the interruption of his career. Indeed, the subject of writing, like Catherine's madness, is omnipresent, ruffling the smooth surface of the narrative. Thus, the seemingly idyllic world of Le Grau-du-Roi is neither as "simple" nor as "happy" as David, the editorializing protagonist, claims. The apparent happiness of the honeymooners, from the very outset, is somehow hallucinatory, more wishful than real. Like most fairy tale realms, then, Le Grau-du-Roi is deceptive and contains hidden dangers. At once an oasis and a waste land, the alluvial delta defies clear definition. An implied instability, a subtle, but fully intended hint of excess and obliteration informs the narrative. 32-Hemingway explicitly introduces the Bluebeard motif mid-way through the Grau-du-Roi section of the manuscript, alerting us to the male issues it raises through a preliminary account of the honeymooners' "mail" (1.2.4). Indeed, the arrival of the mail incites David's barely repressed hostilities by establishing a gender-monetary hierarchy in which Catherine comes out on top, usurping David's manhood. Her mail arrives in a "large" and "heavy" forwarding envelope (1.2.4), containing two big cheques from the trustees of her family estate (1.3.3); moreover, Catherine's package requires her signature upon delivery, a technicality that delays "the postman." David's less weighty literary affairs, on the other hand, require no signature, and, initially, at least, receive less emphasis: "There were," a dismissive omniscient narrator tells us, "three [envelopes] re-addressed from [David's] bank too" (1.2.4). Clearly, then, David's "mail"-ness does not measure up to Catherine's; in the "mail" order he comes in a poor second. As if to reassert his "rightful" place in the male economy, David then tips the postman "five francs" and invites him to the nearby "zinc bar" for a drink (1.2.5). Zinc, of course, is a hard metallic element that resists corrosion. As Catherine retreats to the hotel room, David, now in the company of another male, engages in what might be regarded as another show of masculine power, issuing a simple domestic statement that implicitly recognizes his superior physical strength: "Let me bring the rucksack up," he says to his departing wife. Unwittingly, it would seem, Catherine exposes the inconsequentiality of David's pose: "Leave [the rucksack] here," she replies. "It only clutters up the room. I'll look after the towells [sic]" (1.2.5). David takes leave of the postman and walks over to the soothing shadiness of the town cafe, where he orders yet another, stronger drink, "a vermouth and soda." Sitting alone with the fortified wine, David begins to read his mail. 33 The three envelopes, all from his publisher, contain reviews of his recently published novel and a long letter. The letter, which is "cheerful and guardedly optimistic" about the prospects for David's new book (1.2.5), resituates Catherine as a mere wifely adjunct, but does little to ease David's underlying insecurity. The excerpted passages David peruses are chatty and supercilious, evincing the banal niceties of a business relationship: It was too early to tell how the book would do but everything looked good. Most of the reviews were excellent. Of course there were some. But that was to be expected. . . .His publisher wished he could say more about how the book would do but he never made predictions as to sales. It was bad practice. . . .His publisher hoped that he was as happy as he deserved to be and taking the rest that he so richly deserved. He sent his best greetings to his wife. (1.2.5; emphasis added) "I sound very deserving," David thinks, rather cynically (1.2.5). Nevertheless, there is a certain poetic justice in the publisher's insincere well-wishing, which might be lost on David, but not, I think, on Hemingway: for perhaps David, the humorless and edgy writer, j.s, in fact, just as happy as he deserves to be. The possibility of authorial irony becomes more pronounced when David sets about calculating the limited wealth that he may expect to accumulate during his "richly deserved rest." Mechanically, it would seem, the protagonist begins to multiply, divide, and subtract, balancing royalties and advances. Given the "male" problems that are subtly at issue in this chain of events, David may have good cause, in his own mind, to be concerned about his earnings: he must make some money if he is to avoid the parasitic disgrace of becoming a "kept man." Yet, as Kathy Willingham has already observed, David 3H "actually possesses a very acquisitive attitude towards money" (56). Willingham further notes that "Hemingway devotes two full paragraphs to describing David's rather obsessive assessment of the sales" (56). There is, indeed, a bourgeois small-mindedness about the miserly calculations of this artist-turned-accountant, who measures the rewards of his labour with a waiter's pencil (1.2.5), as if he, too, were in the business of adding up lunch tabs. Appropriately, therefore, David's royalties, which increase incrementally, according to the total sales of his book, run between 10 and 12% percent (1.2.5-6), approximating the traditional value of a modest tip. Somewhat appeased by the figures he arrives at, David immerses himself in the reviews, which bear both his name and his photograph. Hypnotized by his own image, he consumes his vermouth "without ever noticing it" and orders another. The clippings, Hemingway seems to be telling us, have awakened a kind of insatiable appetite in David. At this point in the narrative, Catherine joins David at the cafe, carrying "her heavy envelope of [unopened] letters" (1.2.6). Almost immediately, she senses that the adulatory reviews blight the marital bond. "Is Madame also a writer?" the ever-attentive waiter asks, impressed by the pictures of David. "[N]ot looking up" from the reviews, Catherine replies: "No . . . . Madame is a housewife" (1.2.6). Her distracted retort accurately renders the sentiments of David's publisher, who, by way of an afterthought, sends his "best greetings" to his client's "wife." Thus, with sibylline clarity, Catherine perceives the chauvinism implicit in the literary lionization of her husband. The waiter, amused by Catherine's remark, responds by slotting her in a more glamorous but equally stereotypical role: "Madame is probably in the cinema," he says (1.2.6). When the two honeymooners return to the reviews, the tone of Catherine's 35 concern becomes more intense, bringing us to the brink of the Bluebeard reference. "I'm frightened by them," she says. "They do a terrible thing to me" (1.2.7). After David reminds her that she "asked to see them," Catherine, in a passage excised from the published version of the manuscript, replies: "I know. And people open the door into Bluebeard's closet. They always do it. Look at Landru even" (1.2.8; emphasis added). While Catherine's reference to "[p]eople" seems to amalgamate wives and readers, the context of her statement foregrounds the former group. Thus, Catherine, who is literally "frightened" by what she reads, perceives the clippings as portents of aggression. More particularly, she implies that the reviews of David's novel implicate him in a Bluebeardesque atrocity. Henri Desire Landru, the Frenchman Catherine mentions, was popularly known in the twenties as "the modern Bluebeard" or "the Bluebeard of Gambais" (MacKenzie 13). Between 1915 and 1919, Landru swindled and murdered at least ten women, allegedly using an oven to dispose of their bodies (MacKenzie 15-22; 183-207). A great deal of public interest surrounded Landru's trial, which probably explains why Catherine chooses him to support her claim that "people" are "always" intrigued by Bluebeardlike crimes. Catherine's startling associations, overlooked by other critics, cannot simply be explained away as examples of jealousy or mental instability. Here, as elsewhere, her seemingly "schizoid" parlance deserves careful consideration. For, in keeping with Catherine's Bluebeard simile, David wields a "sharp knife blade" (1.2.8) to open the "fat" envelopes containing the clippings. The danger of David's razor-sharp pocket knife is implied in his recommendation that Catherine avoid using it (1.2.8). Thus, metaphorical details subtly corroborate Catherine's inexplicable "feeling" of dread (1.2.7), suggesting that the clippings do, in fact, embody a murderous secret. 36 For Catherine, as for Hemingway, the reviews reveal the monstrous vanity of David's writerly quest for self-validation. Indeed, such sycophantic journalism, typified by what Catherine calls "niggledy spit falseness" (1.2.8), feeds David's voracious ego, whose incessant devouring annihilates otherness, posing a very real threat to Catherine's own identity. Discussing "the theory of personality, as it develops from Hegel to Nietzsche to Freud," George Steiner claims: "[B]ecause the primary thrust of the libido is toward the ingestion of all realities into the self, there runs through human relations a drive towards the pulverization of the rival persona" (52). It is precisely this drive towards pulverization that Catherine senses in her review-reading husband. For as long as David chooses, as Catherine puts it, "to live in the clippings" (1.2.6) (to play the part of a great writer), he can be neither a loving husband nor a true friend. Moreover, as Catherine sees things, the clippings are a double-edged sword, posing a threat to David as well. "They could destroy you if you thought about them or believed them," she says (1.2.7). "I wouldn't want to die of eating a mess of dried clippings" (1.2.8). Thus, Catherine implies that David might choke upon his own grossly inflated ego. She correctly perceives an element of hero-worship in the reviews, a cult of personality that enshrines David as a veritable god. Appropriately, David's review reading is itself a kind of ceremony, infused with implications of self-worship. Indeed, with his tumbler of vermouth and soda on the table before him, David unfolds and refolds the clippings, carefully, it would seem, then places them back in their envelopes, as if they were of sacramental value (1.2.8). Catherine obliquely alludes to the flavor of self-immolation that haunts the clipping ritual: "I don't want to be stupid about them," she says. "But even in an envelope it's awful to have them with us. It's like bringing 3?-somebody's ashes along in a jar" (1.2.7). Put one way, Catherine opens up a mock-heroic gap, suggesting that David, the writer-god, is depersonalized even as he is immortalized: by savoring such homage he becomes public property, a mere museum-piece in a pantheon of heroes. Notably, too, Catherine later portrays David's writing as a kind of masturbation, a criticism that might somehow be analogous to carrying "somebody's ashes along in a jar." "How can we be us and have the things we have and do what we do," Catherine continues, "and you be this that's in the clippings?" (1..2.7). in effect, then, Catherine is asking David to exchange "false" publicity for "real" intimacy. Later on, Catherine defends her position. "I can't help it about the clippings," she says. "I wasn't being crazy or strange. T hate the clippings. You'll try and understand about that won't you? It's not from choice and I can't help it anymore than if I were a negro" (1.3.3). The statement is rather odd, since Catherine will, in fact, "choose" to become a negro as the plot takes an African turn. Catherine, at any rate, explicitly identifies herself with an oppressed people, thereby fusing sexual with racial tyranny. The analogy is compelling and might lead an engaged reader to consider seriously Catherine's claim that she is not "crazy." Indeed, Catherine's contentions display a kind of polyvalent logic that evokes the "bilingual" abilities many feminist critics associate with women. Terry Eagleton makes the point in another context: "Oppressed peoples are natural hermeneuticists," he writes, "skilled by hard schooling in interpreting their oppressor's language. They are spontaneous semioticians, forced for sheer survival to decipher the sign systems of the enemy and adept at deploying their own opaque idioms against them" (qtd. by Kearns 109). In sum, while it is quite possible to read these matters according to the "traditional" paradigms of Hemingway criticism, involving stoic (good) men and destructive 3d (bad) women, alternative readings remain plausible, if not preferable, insofar as they illuminate the complexity of Hemingway's prose. Biographical details again provide helpful clues to the breadth of implication Hemingway seems to be aiming for in Eden, but such outside material must be used cautiously, and remains suggestive rather than definitive. In a remarkably forthright letter to Maxwell Perkins, from Gstaad, Switzerland, dated "19 February 1927," Hemingway wrote: . . . today I read something by Burton Rascoe in which I earned my way through college as a boxing instructor! As I never went to college and have never told a living person that I went to college that just was amusing as fantasy rascoe. But if Scribner's repeated it, people would think I had put it out and those that knew me would think I was mad. I know I should have given you some sort of biographical material but the only reason I didn't was because I hate all that so that I thought if I didn't furnish it there would not be any [sic] • • • • Of course the whole thing that is wrong is this damned clipping system. No living person should read as much stuff about themselves as they get through those cursed clippings. I ought to stop them but I don't because they are practically all the mail I get—and living in the country or by ones-self the mail becomes such an event. But I am going to have to stop them. So will you stop them?" (Selected Letters 247-48) It is particularly interesting, given the presence of a supposedly mad wife in The Garden of Eden, that the self-aware Hemingway of this letter associates 3<? such David-like reviews with a personal, male madness. James Brasch develops the issue in an article entitled "The Writer and His Critics" (Nagel 203-215). Brasch cites a passage from another Hemingway missive: " . . . you would run into all kinds of shit, printed as well as verbal. Also it is bad for me. Makes me think about myself instead of about writing which is what I should do" (205). "The more [Hemingway] read about himself," Brasch concludes, "the less he knew about himself" (204). David, however, responds to Catherine's fear of the reviews in a superior and condescending manner. As if without thought or consideration, he immediately says "Let's burn them" (1.2.7). Ironically, however, toward the end of the manuscript, Catherine will do just that (see Chapter Six). Thus, David foreshadows future events, but apparently fails to appreciate the inevitability of his own proposal. Catherine, meanwhile, unwilling to be fobbed off, rejects David's facetious tone: "You have to read them and I have to read them. We have to know what they say. But they won't keep on coming will they?" she asks (1.2.8). After assuring Catherine that the clippings are only a temporary instrusion, David makes a partial concession: "They're bad for you," he admits, but maintains, somewhat unconvincingly, that "it doesn't last" (1.2.7). Sensing that David still does not appreciate "how wrong and dangerous" the clippings are, Catherine tries to clarify her concerns, arriving, finally, at the Bluebeard analogy. "We don't have to be so damned violent because a publisher sent the first reviews of a novel do we?" David asks. "Plenty of people would be happy if their damned husbands had good reviews" (1.2.8), he adds. "I'm not plenty of people," Catherine counters, "and you're not my damned husband except if we both are. People don't even know what it [being damned] means anymore. Maudite" (1.2.8). Thus, Catherine refutes David's impersonal appeal to objective 4-0 standards of reasonable behavior, while simultaneously stressing the moral seriousness of his careless profanity. For her, as for Hemingway, the condition of being "damned" carries theological weight, imputing a meaning that has been lost amid the banalities of a secular age. Indeed, the spectre of damnation that looms before Catherine, adumbrated by the resonant French of "Maudit," involves nothing less than the hellish agony of tortured souls. Moreover, Catherine's emphasis upon their mutual damnation is theologically sound, insofar as she acknowleges the joined edenic fate of man and woman, husband and wife. Appropriately, therefore, as the scene draws to a close, Catherine makes a plea for togetherness. "I know I'm a violent girl," she says, "and you're violent too. Please let's not fight" (1.2.8). But the shared violence that Catherine cites as a basis for compatibility involves an important distinction. For while Catherine's female "violence" bespeaks a passionate need for love and understanding, David's male "violence" (a la Bluebeard) entails an aggressive desire for supremacy and autonomy. Their irreconcilable differences persist when Catherine, having resigned herself to the presence of David's clippings, turns to her own version of "the mail," which, significantly enough, relays information about her independent wealth. At precisely this point, David, again defensive, interjects news of his pecuniary affairs: "The book's made some money already," he announces (1.2.8). "That's wonderful. I'm so glad," Catherine replies. "But we know it's good. If the reviews had said it was worthless and it never made a cent I would have been just as proud and just as happy" (1.2.8). Thus, Catherine graciously reassures her husband that the value of his work cannot be measured by the almighty dollar, that art provides incomparable spiritual riches. Catherine's comment strikes directly at David's deep insecurities, bringing the conversation to an abrupt halt. u I The omniscient narrator surveys the ensuing silence. "[T]he young man," we are told, disagrees with Catherine's sentiment, but does not say anything, opting, instead, to preoccupy himself with his self-serving reviews. "The girl," meanwhile, reads of her material wealth "without interest," an attitude that is entirely consistent with her previous statement of values. "Then," suddenly "very sad," "she look[s] out of the cafe at the sea": Her face was a dark gold brown and she had brushed her hair straight back from her forehead the way the sea had pulled it when she had come out of the water and where it was cropped close on her cheeks the sun had burned it to white gold against the brown of her chin. (1.2.8-9) There are canonical precedents for this intensely "colorful" verbal portrait of Catherine. In "The Sea Change," for example, the girl is "a smooth golden brown," her "blonde hair" is "cut short" (like Catherine's will be), and grows "beautifully way" at the forehead (Collected Short Stories 397). Here, Hemingway associates the golden brownness of the girl with female emancipation and self-exploration. For the girl is about to leave her belligerent male partner for another woman. More importantly, the rich coloring of the girl favorably contrasts with the pale whiteness of the bartender in the story, who prepares drinks for two homosexual men. Indeed, the "golden brown" girl of "The Sea Change" is also more enlightened than her "brown young man," who, sensing his own emasculation, joins the sickly white men at the bar. Thus, while the girl's own fate remains uncertain, her golden hue seems to imply a qualitative superiority in the Hemingway lexicon, and should be differentiated from whiteness or mere brownness, a baser color. Similarly, Catherine Bourne's "dark gold brown" face and "white gold" hair suggest that she is a character who embraces a wide range of affirmative but dangerous possibilities. Looking as though "she had just come out of the water," Catherine is ready to experience a kind of visionary surfacing. In a related way, the golden Catherine may even figure as a kind of alchemical miracle worker, someone seeking a spiritual and emotional panacea. Yet Catherine's seaward eyes, which are "very sad," also seem to suggest an awareness that her goals are a very long way off, if not impossible to obtain. "Then," the omniscient narrator tells us, as one disjointed moment leads to the next, Catherine returns to her letters. "The young man," meanwhile, watches her, thinking she looks "a little as though she [is] shelling peas" (1.2.9). The odd simile has literal validity, in that the action of slicing and opening envelopes resembles a kind of shelling. This oblique parallel supports the apparent truthfulness of David's perception, which further conveys Catherine's boredom and despair; shelling peas, after all, is rather mundane work. Nevertheless, Hemingway, as author-narrator, explicitly allots this "thought" to David's consciousness, thereby telling us something about the subjective peculiarities of David's inner world. Indeed, David explicitly relegates his opinionated and wealthy bride to the kitchen, associating her with a kind of slave labor. In effect, that is, David turns Catherine into a mere "housewife," reinscribing the sexist sentiments of his publisher. Yet David's writerly "pea" simile backfires, at least to some degree, insofar as the "shelled" letters, provide evidence of Catherine's monetary power. At the risk of over-reading, I would like to suggest that the sort of subjective warp Hemingway is orchestrating here might even carry deeper, more insidious meanings. For the mindless activity of "shelling peas" might resonate beyond the kitchen, toward the asylum, placing Catherine in an even more confining position. Once again, then, it is possible to see David as a kind of Bluebeard, as a male whose "secret language of hate" (Pullin) imprisons women. t3 Having introduced Hemingway's overt acknowledgement of Bluebeard, 1 would now like to approach the first portion of the manuscript chronologically, tracing the subtly pervasive presence of the fairy tale as a thematic paradigm. For the first five paragraphs of Eden, an omniscient narrator speaks to the reader in a tone of surgical calm, revealing Hemingway the symbolist at his best. The language evinces a kind of poetic compression, and is charged with barely discernible meanings: They were living at Le Grau du Roi [sic] and the hotel was on a canal that ran from the walled city of Aigues Mortes straight down to the sea. They could see the towers of Aigues Mortes across the low plain of the Camargue and they rode there on their bicycles at some time of nearly every day along the white road that bordered the canal. There were mullet in the canal and in the evenings and in the mornings when there was a rising tide sea bass would come into it and they would see the mullet jumping wildly to escape from the bass and watch the swelling bulge of the water as the bass attacked. (1.1.1) Here, the dreamscape of the Camargue seems to coalesce into an image of maternal physiology. For the "walled city" whose canal runs "straight down to the sea" might be intended to evoke the womb and birth canal, respectively. The suggestion of such a design should come as no surprise, since Hemingway explicitly deploys unusual birth metaphors at the beginning of A Farewell to Arms, where "gray leather" cartridge boxes bulge forward under soldiers' capes, making them look "as though they were six months gone with child" (4). Moreover, in The Garden of Eden, as in A Farewell to Arms, our attendant expectations of delivery—reinforced by that outward flowing canal—are frustrated by contradictory implications of death. For the Bournes—whose very name connotes both the limitless possibilities of natal emergence (being born) and a set boundary (bourn)—are drawn inland, away from the sea, toward the "dead waters" of "Aigues-Mortes." Thus, the daily excursion of the two canal-dwellers, insofar as it may constitute a kind of birth ritual, implies repetition and regression rather than inception and progression. Indeed, the "white road" along which the Bournes ride, like the canal itself, is an unnatural, engineered route, whose hue imparts the pale sterility of those previously mentioned homosexuals in "The Sea Change." Hemingway's uncanny juxtaposition of birth and death is brilliantly captured in the "swelling bulge of the [canal] water," whose pregnant form betrays a submerged violence. This image, in particular, is reminiscent of the opening to A Farewell to Arms, where the soldiers' ammunition belts "bulge forward" (4). Curiously, then, a kind of inverse gestation prevails in this borderline region of time and space, where the river meets the sea. Charles Dickens, I might add, provides the classic version of this topography of liminality on the opening pages of Great Expectations (1-3). Eden's second paragraph, broadly considered, affords seemingly less problematical imagery of communal prosperity and harmony. While situating David and Catherine in the town cafe, where they dreamily watch the sailboats out in the gulf, the narrator surveys life at Le Grau-du-Roi: it is "late in the spring," the mackerel are running, and the fishing people of the port are "very busy"; the sea, less ominous than before, is "blue and pleasant," a benign domestic resource. The holidaying Bournes, moreover, help the fishermen haul "the long net" up onto the "long sloping beach" (1.1.1). Such work momentarily effaces the troublesome individuality of the honeymooners, enabling them to join in the expansive and bountiful skein of an anonymous, pre-industrial collectivity. Further, the Bournes' hotel, like the town itself, is small and comfortable: 4-5 . . . they liked the hotel which had a restaurant and two billiard tables downstairs facing the canal and the light house and four rooms up-stairs [sic]. The room they lived in looked like the painting of Van Gogh's room at Aries except there was a double bed and two big windows and with the windows opened you could look out across the sea and the marsh and sea meadows to the white town and bright beach of Palavas. (1.1.1) While the passage evokes the pictorial radiance of, say, William Carlos Williams' oft-anthologized bedroom poem, "Nantucket," the related Van Gogh intertext is especially pertinent. "This time it's just simply my bedroom," Van Gogh wrote of the preliminary sketches for his famous painting, "[everything] is to be suggestive here of rest or of sleep in general. In a word, to look at the picture ought to rest the brain or rather the imagination" (297). However, the added "exceptions" that embellish Hemingway's verbal picture—the two billiard tables and four rooms, the double bed and two big windows—suggest a more restless, dualistic reality, an existence typified solely by twos and multiples of two. In this sense, Hemingway may be hinting at the schizophrenic divisions that haunted Van Gogh's quest for unity and wholeness. Pointedly, after all, Kathy Willingham draws a connection between the psychic troubles of the visionary artist and Catherine's own mental condition. "The symbolic alignment" of "Catherine and Van Gogh," Willingham writes, "signifies Hemingway's great sympathy for her aesthetic trials and sufferings (49). On yet another level, the isolation and limitation of romantic love is conveyed through the redundancy and insubstantiality of the framed landscape ("the sea and the marsh and sea meadows"). Moreover, the enigmatic view, 46 which opens onto marshy, dreamy perspectives, is bound by a kind of heavenly unreality ("the white town and bright beach of Palavas" ). "The window," writes Jean Rousset in another context, "combines open and enclosed space, represents an obstacle as well as an escape, a sheltering room as well as an area of endless expansion, a circumscribed infinity" (450). Rousset reinforces the significance of the window motif by citing a passage from one of Flaubert's journals. In a very Baudelairean frame of mind, Flaubert writes: "Ah! air! more air! give me space in which to breathe! Our oppressed souls are stifled and dying near the window. Our captive minds turn and turn upon themselves, like bears in cages, bumping against the walls that enclose them. Let my nostrils at least breathe in the scent of all winds that encircle the earth, and let my eyes escape toward all the horizons" (450; Flaubert's italics). Such feelings, Hemingway wants us to understand, inform the Bournes' panoramic outlook. The third and fourth paragraphs, which focus exclusively on the immediate facts of the Bournes' private world, are more obviously disquieting: They were always very hungry but they ate very well. They were hungry for breakfast which they ate at the cafe ordering brioche and cafe au lait and eggs and the type of preserve that they chose and the manner in which the eggs were to be cooked was an excitement. They were always so hungry for breakfast that the girl often had a headache until the coffee came. But the coffee took the headache away. She took her coffee without sugar and the young man was learning to remember that. On this morning there was brioche and red rasberry preserve and the eggs were boiled and there was a pat of butter that melted as they stirred them and salted them lightly and ground pepper over them in the cups. They were big eggs and fresh and the HI-girl's were not cooked quite as long as the young man's. He remembered that easily and he was happy with his which he diced up with the spoon and ate with only the flow of the butter to moisten them and the fresh early morning texture and the bite of the coarsely ground pepper grains and the hot coffee and chicory fragrant bowl of cafe au lait. (1.1.1-2) More than any other author, perhaps, Hemingway is famous for his descriptions of food, and this passage certainly matches the descriptive precision that we have come to expect of him. Yet Hemingway's realism also operates on the level of symbolism, engendering figurative and implicit meanings. Significantly, in this regard, the Bournes' hunger is unnaturally intense, desperate, and insatiable; bespeaking more than itself, such hunger is a textual metaphor for spiritual emptiness, suggesting a desire for emotional fulfillment. Emphasizing the metaphysical gist of the Bournes' hunger, H.R. Stoneback astutely relates their consumption of eggs to "the mysterious Orphic egg," " 'the basis of all initiations'" or births, the alchemical symbol of "'the world itself" (26). In light of Stoneback's observations, Hemingway's mannered description of "the preserve" and "the eggs" as sources of "excitement" (emphasis added) becomes especially meaningful. For, philosophically considered, such matters concern nothing less than the ritualistic preparation and preservation of the soul. Appropriately, Catherine's hunger does not strike in the lowly pit of the stomach, but in the head, the seat of consciousness. Moreover, it is worth noting that the identity-starved Catherine takes her headache-soothing coffee "without sugar," or, unsweetened. That is, Catherine, who prefers "real" beverages (1.3.1), yearns to savor the real taste of life, without any cloying or candied additives. Significantly, David, "the young man," has trouble remembering how ¥8 Catherine likes her coffee, and would, implicitly, prefer to forget such details. For there is something distinctly threatening about this strange and beautiful young woman who robustly refuses the conventional dash of feminine sweetness. Nevertheless, "the young man" at the breakfast table is consoled by the eggs, which are "big and fresh," fitting exempla, indeed, of the cosmic egg. Quite properly, the eggs are boiled—served intact and whole—in rounded, grail-like cups. Duly reverential, the Bournes garnish their eggs with loving care: they stir in the pat of melting butter, and meticulously apply salt and freshly ground pepper. Moreover, the way Catherine prefers her eggs conforms more readily to David's expectations: her eggs, we are told, are not "cooked quite as long" as his; hers, that is, are softer, more pliantly feminine—stereotypically different from his. Accordingly, David, who tends to be forgetful about Catherine's less orthodox culinary preferences, has no trouble remembering about the eggs: "He remembered that easily . . ."(emphasis added). In the final analysis, then, David's eggy "excitement" is reassuringly conventional, if not a little banal. There is, to be sure, a measure of narratorial bemusement toward what "the young man" can and cannot remember. Indeed, I would suggest that David ultimately addresses his carefully treated egg with a self-enclosed euphoria: "he was happy with his which he diced up with the spoon and ate with only the flow of the butter." Such passages deliberately rehash the sensual appreciation of, say, Nick Adams in "Big Two-Hearted River," problematizing the "code-hero" cliches upon which Hemingway criticism has long relied. David, the connoisseur of eggs, is limited by rather commonplace ideas about gender, identity, and male dominance. The fifth paragraph, which completes the descriptive opening of events at Le Grau-du-Roi, takes an even closer look at the Bournes' honeymoon intimacy, focusing on the marriage bed itself: The fishing boats were well out. They had gone out in the dark with the first rising of the breeze and the young man and the girl had wakened and heard them and then curled together under the sheet of the bed and slept again. They had made love when they were half awake with the light bright outside but the room still shadowed and then they had lain together and been happy and played tired and then made love again. Then they were so hungry that they did not think they would live until breakfast and now they were in the cafe eating and watching the sea and the sails and it was a new day again. (1.1.2) Here, the restful happiness of the honeymoon further suggests a womblike existence. "[C]urled . . . under the sheet," David and Catherine experience fetal gratification, joining with each other on a plane where no other human relations matter. "[T]ogether," they exist in their own shadowy sanctum. There is, now, a marked contrast between the outer world of the community and the inner world of the entwined lovers: outside, in the "bright" light of awareness and activity, the busy townspeople are at work; inside, in the shuttered gloom of sleep, the langorous newlyweds are only "half-awake." The unnaturally prolonged dimness of the honeymoon enclosure sustains the previous implications of regression and avoidance, evoking a comfortable relapse into obscurity. For David and Catherine, in fact, sleep and sex function as anaesthetics, alleviating the burden of consciousness. Accordingly, the Bournes' seemingly blissful repose, like their hunger, is somehow desperate and urgent, more exhausting than the comparatively simple wakefulness of the town collective. For the Bournes' deceptively "happy" torpor is characterized 50 not simply by pleasure, but by the compulsive repetition of pleasure. Indeed, the anaphoric recurrence of "again," another obvious example of Hemingway's mannered prose, suggests a stifling cyclicity, an originary lack or absence. Sense and syntax are brilliantly fused as phrases wind in on each other: statement is enclosed within statement in an endless circularity, connoting a closed genetic circuit. The honeymoon womb is a kind of tomb, a Bluebeard's castle, as it were, in which the two lovers are imprisoned. Hemingway tightens the psychic strain of the narrative in an ensuing dialogue. "What are you thinking?" Catherine asks David, as they breakfast at the cafe. "Nothing," David replies. "You have to think something," Catherine insists. "I was just feeling," David responds. When Catherine presses further, asking David how he feels, he answers, simply: "Happy" (1.1.2). It should be evident by now, however, that "happy" is a red-flag word in the narrative, signalling a more ambivalent emotional state. "But I get so hungry," Catherine continues. "Is it normal do you think?" Given Catherine's history of mental illness, her reference to normality carries an unusual weight, innocuously raising the issue of sanity. "Do you always get so hungry when you make love?" Catherine asks, naively appealing to her husband as a reliable measure of well-being. David, however, dodges the intimate nature of the inquiry, impersonally deflecting Catherine's direct address: "When you love somebody," he remarks. Dissatisfied with the response, Catherine portrays David as an experienced Casanova, a jaded lover who knows "too much." "No," David counters. Considered as a whole, this first series of exchanges establishes a pattern of approach and avoidance. Catherine is open, giving, and inquisitive, David is broody and uncommunicative. Once again, of course, we might call upon the familiar paradigms of Hemingway criticism, and see 51 David as an admirable, tight-lipped stoic. However, such a reading would ignore an explicit negativity in David's character. Indeed, David's speech, which tends to be flat and programmatic throughout the manuscript, conveys a certain emotional deadness that coincides with hints of lifelessness in the environment. Catherine continues on a lighter note, claiming that she does not care about David's past, nor about what they do together. Nevertheless, Catherine chooses to act responsibly, declaring that she "should write a letter or maybe two" (emphasis added). It is intentionally ironic that this first overt reference to writing in Eden should relate to Catherine rather than David, the author by trade. The reversal gains significance when we later learn that Catherine's obligatory letters, addressed to the "trustees" of her family estate (1.1.10), bear upon money matters. For Catherine can accomplish more, financially, by casually writing a letter "or . . . two" than David can by writing a whole book. In a monetary sense, then, Catherine's "pen" is threateningly powerful. Nor does Catherine improve the situation by suggesting that David, the dormant writer, might as well go fishing (1.1.2-3). Catherine, that is, suggests that David should take up a purely recreational shaft. As one attempts to sort through the complex implications of this early dialogue, the temptation to read according to familiar paradigms remains strong: just as David seems to resemble the typical Hemingway good guy, Catherine might be seen as a typical Hemingway bitch, a woman who blithely emasculates her man. "But that," as Arnold Weinstein reminds us, "is only part of the picture" (202). For if Catherine presents a threat of emasculation, she does so in the interests of freedom, hoping to transcend the mutually confining precepts of gender-appropriate behavior. The underlying problem of spiritual fulfillment returns as the 5;L honeymooners anticipate lunch while still at the breakfast table. Such indulgence excites Catherine: "That's wonderful," she says. "Let's give into [our hunger] completely just like it was a vice instead of just healthy and good for us. Maybe it will be more fun if it's a vice. We need some good vices" (1.1.3). Catherine's devilish banter temporarily alleviates David's morose self-absorption. Suddenly talkative, he contemplates the noon menu, declaring that it should begin with "very simple hors d'oeuvres" (1.1.3). Thus, the writer, the would-be creator of complex master works (i.e., "chef d'oeuvres"), alleviates his vocational insecurities by pondering "very simple" extraneous works or "hors d'oeuvres." Curiously, Catherine says of the "very simple hors d'oeuvres" David anticipates: "That's the only sort there are" (1.1.3; emphasis added). The puzzling comment obliquely reflects upon the comparable simplicity of the writer's literary "oeuvre," undercutting his desire for individual greatness. Undaunted by Catherine's disguised criticism, David goes on to plan the noon-time meal in considerable detail. His creative outburst culminates in a wry suggestion that, after lunch, he and Catherine "take a nap like good children" (1.1.4). Catherine applauds David's writerly ingenuity with mock admiration: "That's an absolutely new idea," she says. "Why have we never thought of that?" (1.1.4). Confirming the subliminal import of the scene, David humorously alludes to his authorial gifts: "I have these flashes of intuition," he says. "I'm the inventive type" (1.1.4; emphasis added). Once again, however, Catherine declares herself an adversary of the artist's ego: "I'm the destructive type," she says. "And I'm going to destroy you. They'll put a plaque up on the wall of the building outside the room. I'm going to wake up in the night and do something to you that you've never even heard of or imagined of [sic]. I was going to last night but I was too sleepy." (1.1.4) 53 More specifically, Catherine intends to exchange sexual roles, to let David be the girl, and thereby ameliorate his masculine obsession with vocational recognition and accomplishment. The commemorative plaque to which Catherine refers would, indeed, be a fitting tribute to the event, marking the death of a one-sided, all-too-public figure, the generic "famous man" who stands, finally, as an embodiment of patriarchal values. Clearly, the dehumanizing effects of such "monumental selfhood" bring us back to the problem of the clippings, to "ashes in a jar," and so on. David, meanwhile, does not take Catherine seriously: "You're too sleepy to be dangerous," he says. "Don't lull yourself into a false sense of security," she warns (1.1.4). The dramatic tension of the honeymoon intensifies as Hemingway provides an inside view of David's besieged consciousness. Such passages permit one to read both with David and against him. Still sitting at the breakfast table, the protagonist reviews the last few weeks of his life. The tanned honeymooner, we learn, wear shorts and "striped fisherman's shirts" that Catherine purchased from the "marine supplies" store (1.1.4). Twinned, the Bournes appear more like "brother and sister" than husband and wife, and this pleases Catherine "very much" (1.1.4). For, in Catherine's mind, the brother-sister relationship, based on mutual resemblance or sameness, signifies a fraternal equality rather than a marital hierarchy. In fact, as siblings, the honeymooners are, more simply, "brothers" in the ideal sense (1.1.4, etc.), compeers who treat each other with love and respect. Accordingly, the eponym of "brother" recurs throughout the Le Grau-du-Roi section of the manuscript in particular, offsetting David's desire for individual and self-authorizing freedom with a social concept of liberation. The passage at issue further reveals that the signifying garments of 51 brotherhood are ritualistically prepared: "[Catherine] had bought the shirts for them," David recalls, and then washed them in the basin in their room at the hotel to take the stiffness out of them. They were heavy and stiff and built for hard wear but the washings softened them and now they were worn and softened enough so that when he looked at the girl now her breasts showed beautifully against the worn cloth. (l.l.S) In effect, then, Catherine's baptismal washings remove "the stiffness" from narrowly male configurations, imbuing rigid masculine forms with feminine beauty. That is, Catherine exerts "'the softening feminine influence,'" that Hemingway refers to in the famous epigraph to Men Without Women, an influence that he felt was "missing" from his era, "whether as a result of "'training, discipline, death or other causes.'" Over the course of David's interior monologue, David's own voice imperceptibly gives way to Hemingway's, so that the honeymooners again become "the girl" and "the young man." "No one wore shorts either around the village," we are told, and the girl could not wear them when they rode their bicycles. But in the town village it did not matter because the people were very-friendly and only the local priest dis-approved [sic]. But the girl went to mass on Sunday wearing a skirt and a- long sleeved cashmere sweater with a scarf and the young man stood in the back of the church with the men. They each gave twenty francs which was more than a dollar then and since the priest took up the collection himself their attitude toward the church was known and the wearing of shorts in the village was regarded as an eccentricity by foreigners rather than an attempt against the morality of the ports of the Camargue. The priest did not speak 55 to them when they wore shorts but he did not denounce them and when they wore trousers in the evening they bowed to each other. (1.1.5) Clearly, the priest represents a conservative structure of religious values that function to repress the Bournes' bohemian tendencies. Indeed, a trace of authorial irony laces the deadpan description of this ordained "father," who piously stands as a guardian of "the morality of the ports of the Camargue" (emphasis added). The irony of the passage becomes more overt when we find out that the priest is bought off. Moreover, it is interesting to note that David himself accepts Catherine's monetary donations, albeit grudgingly, and thereby stands in spurious complicity with the self-serving priest. Indeed, David, who also worries about Catherine's free ways, will soon remind himself to stop "being a moralist" (1.1.16). Nor do Hemingway's nudges end there. For the round of officious evening bows confirm the circular nexus of patriarchal "morality" in this provincial village, where mutual regard is very much a matter of manners, of shallow, public gestures. Catherine, however, employs such forms in order to subvert them. Her modest Sunday attire—the "skirt" and "long sleeved cashmere sweater [sic]" (emphasis added)—are mere tokens of submission to established authority, constituting a literal and figurative "cover up." Upon close consideration, Hemingway's excessively detailed recitation of religious life in the village harbours an even greater wealth of hidden meanings. For the local proprieties of Sunday mass suggest a now familiar link between the Catholic Church and misogyny. Indeed, if David stands "at the back of the church with the men," Catherine, by implication, kneels in front, with the women. The sexual segregation of the gathered laity, still a common feature of Catholic mass in many parts of the world, partly reflects 56 traditional attitudes toward women: as descendants of Eve, the archetypal temptress, women are humbly situated front and centre, under the purview of the male gaze. Paradoxically, then, Catherine's implied proximity to the altar enforces her exclusion from it. Obediently gathered around the male celebrant, the women of Le Grau-du-Roi simultaneously assume their "proper" role as reverential handmaidens, while the men watch from afar, conveniently near the exit, in a position of greater power and dignity. More pointedly, to borrow Mary Daly's terms, the Griselda-like women assume the role of "servant," "slave," or "institutional 'sufferer'" (qtd. by Weaver 67). And lest such a reading of Hemingway's authorial intentions seem unwarranted, it is worth noting that Catherine elsewhere alludes to the Napoleonic Code, which more or less summarizes the prevailing cultural attitudes toward women. "[l]f you'd been a European with a lawyer to go and see," she says, "[my] money would have been yours anyway" (1.3.5). The goings-on at Le Grau-du-Roi are briefly interrupted by David's previously proposed fishing venture, one of the few dramatic incidents in a manuscript which consists mostly of talk. Upon first glance, this fishing episode appears to reinstate the conventional Hemingway paradigms of hunting and fishing, which supposedly valorize sportsmen who resist chaos, earning a measure of dignity by exercising certain skills and adhering to certain codes. In Eden, however, Hemingway tends to cite these norms, then works to subvert them. Indeed, there are qualitative discrepancies between David Bourne, a shore angler who hooks a 15 pound bass, and Hemingway's most exemplary fishermen—risk takers such as Santiago who goes "too far out" and does battle with a 1500 pound marlin, or the Nick Adams of "Big-Two Hearted River," who casts into the deep holes of the Black River. Technically and spiritually, 5* David's fishing venture is much closer to Frederick Henry's rather uninspired trolling in A Farewell to Arms (254-256). Moreover, I shall be arguing that the problematical import of David's fishing venture casts aspersions on his writerly abilities. In my view, that is, Hemingway designs the fishing espisode as another artist parable, to suggest the paradoxical weakness of David's Bluebeardlike personality: if David as Bluebeard is frightening, he is also rather pathetic insofar as he can only embrace a limited range of imaginative possibilities. For while David, rod in hand, explores archetypally feminine depths, enacting a deed that promises to recover and make known the "Other" side, he does not so much assimilate feminine Otherness as triumph over it, reaffirming a narrow manliness. Once again, then, Hemingway's attitude toward David is typified more by detachment than identification. The fishing episode, in short, takes us into the Byronic realm of the mock heroic, realizing Catherine's teasing comment about commemorative "plaque[s]" on walls (1.1.4). Here, as elsewhere, I infer authorial meaning from a theoretical presupposition that Hemingway is a highly conscious artist who signifies through implication, repetition, metaphor, symbolism, and an intimate knowledge of his subject material. "Monsieur is going to fish?" Andre, David's waiter-friend asks (1.1.5). "I think so," the writer replies, evidently uncertain about the prospect. "How is the tide?" David asks. "This tide is very good," Andre says, implying that the moment at hand is particularly promising. Interestingly, however, as Comely and Scholes observe in another context, Hemingway often deploys the word "very" satirically, whether in omniscient exposition or dialogue, to connote excessive emotions (270). Obviously, the practice Comely and Scholes identify does not automatically apply in every circumstance, but their point is relevant here. For "Andre," as we shall see, is a little too helpful, even 58 over-eager. "I have some bait if you want it," he adds, offering encouragement. David remains reticent: "I can get some along the road," he says. "No," Andre insists. "Use [mine]. They're sandworms and there are plenty" (1.1.6). This discussion of bait is significant. For, according to many authorities, angling with bait is a vulgar or low method of fishing, and the "genuine sportsman" (or artist?) is always a fly-fisherman (Gallichan 53). With this in mind, we should note that Andre not only steers David in the direction of worms, but of "sandworms" (emphasis added), the lowliest of the low. The banality of the event is further suggested by the sexual innuendo of David's claim that he "can get some along the road." The exchange between David and Andre continues to resonate in remarkably subtle ways. "Can you come out?" David asks. The question has a juvenile ring, and seems to infantilize the two men, who are about to embark on a brief recess from women and work. "I'm on duty now. But maybe I can come out and see how you do," Andre responds. "You have your gear?" he inquires, posing a question that again points toward David's uncertain masculinity. As if to underscore the ignoble nature of the event, Hemingway again turns the conversation toward worms: "Stop by for the worms," Andre reminds David (1.1.6). Among other things, then, it becomes increasingly obvious that the waiter attaches some special importance to David's morning leisure: as someone who must abide the constraints of "duty," Andre, the worm man, falsely inflates David's angling into a display of male freedom and prowess. Indeed, Andre's oppressive helpfulness, combined with his announced intention to "come out" (to sneak away from servitude, if only for a moment), reveal his narcissistic investment in "the young man," a need to participate vicariously in the "great" event. Similar restrictions on time and value occur in A Farewell to Arms, where Emilio, Frederick Henry's waiter-helper, must cut the 59 fishing short in order to "be there" for the sexually suggestive "[l]'heure du cocktail" (256). Emilio, of course, later saves Frederick Henry's life by warning him that he is about to be arrested by the carabinieri, but apparently remains rather limited in his moral outlook on the world: "You're very good to help us," Catherine Barkeley tells Emilio. "That's nothing, lady," the barman answers. "I'm glad to help you just so I don't get in trouble myself" (267). As the fishing scene proceeds in The Garden of Eden, Hemingway's detachment adds a good deal of humor to what might otherwise be a fairly prosaic presentation of "phallic symbols." When David returns to the hotel for his "gear," he is ready to abandon the expedition altogether, and wants to do nothing more than "go up to the room and see the girl" (1.1.6). Appropriately, the genital-shaped tools of his trade—his pole and basket—are lodged "behind the [front] desk," where "the room keys" hang, signalling the domestication of his creative powers. Moreover, David's "long jointed bamboo pole" is an ungainly and awkward rod, figuratively broken. Things go from bad to worse for the reluctant hero, who proceeds "out into the brightness of the road," and on down to "the glare of the jetty" (1.1.6). Here, the sun is hot, but there is a fresh breeze and the tide is "just starting to ebb." Poorly equipped for the occasion, David wishes "that he had brought a casting rod and spoons so that he might cast out across the flow of the water from the canal[,] over the rocks on the far side" (1.1.6). This "wish" explicitly raises the issue of technique, nudging us toward a recognition that the scope of David's talents is not very far reaching. Given the strategic limitations of his undesirable "gear," David adopts a relatively unadventuresome tactic: "he rigged his long pole with its cork and quill float," we are told, "and let a sand worm float gently along at a depth where he thought fish might be feeding" (1.1.6). That floating "quill/" I 60 think, metonymically reinforces the writerly parallel, presenting a kind of interpretive puzzle. Considered in isolation, the floating quill might signify an affirmative condition of creative repose, a kind of Wordsworthian "joy" that precedes "poetic numbers." But given the enveloping context of problematical detail, David's floating quill seems to imply a certain enervation and/or absence of vitality. A mere daydreamer, David floats away inside himself, watching "the mackerel boats tacking back and forth out on the blue sea and the shadows the high clouds [make] on the water" (1.1.6). Like the impotent fisherman-protagonist Bickford Sylvester astutely describes in "Out of Season," an early Hemingway short story, David appears content to "drift uncommitted into an ambivalent half-life of mixed sensations" (82). Suddenly, however, David is jolted by a powerful tug: " . . . his float went under in a sharp descent with the line angling stiffly . . . and he brought the pole up against the pull of a fish that was strong and driving wildly and making the line hiss through the water" (1.1.6). Needless to say, this is no ordinary fish. The "sudden" occurrence may even signify along the lines of C.J. Jung's symbol-oriented depth psychology. Hemingway first learned about Jung in Paris, where the two submitted contributions to the same fledgling magazine, called "Transition" (Oldsey 63). And even if Hemingway did not have Jung specifically in mind here, the psychologist may still tell us something about what the writer was up to. "In alchemy," Jung claims, the fish is the mysterious prima materia, or initial material . . . the picis rotundus, the round fish in the sea, which must be cooked until it begins to shine . . . . According to certain texts it carries in its body the "dragon's stone," which many seek without knowing it. The fish exerts a magnetic attraction on human beings; it is a living stone out of which the elixir of immortality can be produced. (Von Franz 182-183) More pointedly, as a locus of creative energy, the fish is in some sense David's opposite, embodying the "pull" of feminine Otherness. Indeed, the wildly "driving" fish is explicitly related to Catherine, who will also "drive" wildly in her Buggati race car (3.11.3; 3.39.12; etc.). Similarly, the "tragic violence" of the "thrashing" fish evokes Catherine's own resistance to imposed limitations. David confirms the link later on, when he tries to convince himself that he is "lucky to have a wife that is a wild animal instead of a domestic animal . . ." (1.1.23). Almost despite himself, then, David confronts transcendent powers. The text, it would seem, stages the possibility of a "sea change" that will reconcile self and other, male and female. Nevertheless, the ideal set up is undercut by an array of meticulous details. For "the fish," which is intially designated as "it" (1.1.6), and thereby assumes an ungendered or indefinite pronomial identity, soon becomes a "he" (1.1.6-7): "the fish kept pulling . . . as he drove [so] that a quarter of the rod was forced under water" (1.1.6; emphasis added) (it is worth noting that the gender of confusion of the fish mirrors the gender confusion in the narrative as a whole). Like most of the hunted animals in Hemingway, then, the fish is ultimately masculine (like Catherine "herself"?), an opponent against whom the male protagonist might prove himself. Yet the masculine re-identification of the fish occurs primarily in the fictionalized consciousness of David and Andre: "The waiter," we are told, "had come out from the cafe and was very excited. He was talking by the young man's side saying, 'Hold him. Hold him' (1.1.6). In The Old Man and the Sea, Santiago ponders the self-referential gender attributions of "younger fishermen" who think "of the sea as masculine . . . . as a contestant or even an enemy" 62-(32-33). Macho types bent upon manly deeds, these "younger fisherman" sound a little foolish. While Santiago himself might ultimately be accused of such egotism, it is very clear that David and Andre transform the sea into an all-male realm, a place of contests rather than reconciliations. Accordingly, the potential for an expansion of consciousness gives way to retrenchment. For at the very moment that David's own masculine identity is threatened—the moment when his "pole" is "bent to the breaking point" (1.1.6)—he attempts to "ease the strain" by "walking along the jetty." We should not underestimate the urgency of David's predicament: "the strain" of a 15-pound bass, so I am told, would be considerable. Nevertheless, the author-narrator explicitly portrays David's strategy as a cool rationalization: "There was no way the young man could [further reduce the strain]," we are told, "except to get into the water with the fish and that did not make sense as the canal was deep" (1.1.6-7; emphasis added). I find this emphasis on making sense somewhat suspicious. For deepness does not deter Eddy of Islands in the Stream, who dives into the purple waters of the gulf stream in an effort to gaff David Hudson's big fish. Eddy, of course, is inebriated at the time, but his habitual drunkenness engenders selfless purity of motive and ability, as when he later saves David Hudson's life by shooting a hammerhead shark. Nor does the Nick Adams of "Big Two-Hearted River" quite display David's aversion to depth, although Nick does choose to avoid fishing "the swamp," another "tragic" enterprise (Collected Short Stories 231). The self-constricting implications of David Bourne's common sense emerge even more clearly when viewed in relation to the fishing scenes in Norman MacLean's "A River Runs Through It." MacLean's ideal fisherman, a fly caster who deplores the use of "worms" (10, etc.), repeatedly braves the swirling rapids of Montana's "Big Blackfoot River" (21-24, 108-109). David Bourne, on the other 63 hand, from his perch atop the artificial "jetty," assumes a comparably dispassionate and somewhat superficial stance. Constrained by circumstance, David does not confront the deeper implications of his encounter with the unknown. As the fishing episode in Eden proceeds, Hemingway continues to negotiate between the heroic and the ignoble. With Andre at his side, David leads the fish "around the end of the jetty," toward the town. "Softly does it," Andre incessantly urges. "Oh softly now. Softly for us all" (1.1.7). Andre's incantation explicitly suggests that David's anticipated landing of the fish will address an unspecified group need, setting up intertextual echoes with the myth studies of Frazer, Weston, and Eliot, whereby the hero transmits rejuvenating mysteries to his people. Jung is again useful in this regard: "The mystical fish," he writes, is "a harbinger of the unknown, [and] asserts itself with peculiar force, exercising an incomparably powerful influence on people in the mass" (Von Franz 184). Accordingly, "many" people gather as David leads the fish "past the terrace of the cafe," and on through the town (1.1.7). Interestingly, too, the narrator twice refers to David's following as a "procession" (1.1.8), which suggests that the event takes the form of a festival or fertility rite. Superficially, at least, David, the fisherman-artist, literally "channels" the elusive forces of the deep, promising a collective recovery of lost psychic treasures. Even Catherine is momentarily impressed by David's heroic deed, which interrupts and supercedes her quasi-literary letter writing. Upon seeing David's "procession" of followers from the hotel window, she shouts: "Oh what a wonderful fish! Wait for me! Wait for me'" (1.1.7). Catherine, who sounds a little silly at this point (in the more conventional sense of the word), overtly brings an aspect of mystical "wonder"-ment to the scene. Indeed, high 64 above everyone else, Catherine sees the event from the best possible angle: "She had seen the fish clearly from above and his length and the shine of him in the water and her husband with his bamboo pole bent almost double and the procession of people following" (1.1.7-8); she is that "ideally placed spectator" posited by Ivor Montagu in his discussion of cinematic camera angles. From her ideal vantage point, Catherine sees David as a wand-bearing messenger of light. The rounding of his rigid bamboo pole, in this context, perhaps evokes the androgynous flexibility that she has cherished all along. More specifically, given the fisherman-writer paradigm, David, in this pristine moment of "vision," embodies, for Catherine, the image of a self-transcending artist who harnesses magical powers. Yet there is also a sense in which David's endogamous route "up the canal" (1.1.7) reinscribes implications of closure and restriction, marking a return to the ordinary. "[W]e've beaten him," David declares, enforcing the extent to which the confrontation figures as a self-glorifying contest. "Don't say it," Andre cautions. "Don't say it. We must tire him. Tire him. Tire him" (1.1.7). "He's got my arm tired," David replies. Such fishing again differs from that in Islands in the Stream, where Hemingway describes the total exhaustion of David Hudson after his encounter with the broadbill. By comparison, David Bourne is only partially engaged. Moreover, the young David Hudson, who eventually loses his fish, is also less possessive than David Bourne: "Do you want me to take him?" Andre asks, anxious to get a piece of the action. "My God no," David says (1.1.7; emphasis added), uttering an expression that explicitly negates the metaphysical significance of the event. The ambiguity of the situation is confirmed by Andre's echoing of Catherine's softening objectives. "Hold him as softly as you can," Andre urges. "Soft with him. Softly. Softly. . . . Just easy, easy, easy. Softly, softly, £5 softly" (1.1.6-7). That is, David's fishing shirt, softened to promote brotherhood, now figures as the garb of one who uses softness to gain an advantage, to subdue and conquer. In this respect, it is also worth noting that Andre's advice both anticipates and debases Catherine's forthcoming love talk. The mystical quality of the episode becomes particularly suspect when Andre, David's male helper, withdraws the fish from the canal: the waiter bent down and brought his hands together from either side and then lifted the fish flopping with his thumbs in both his gills and moved up the bank of the canal with him. He was a heavy-fish and he held him high against his chest with the fish's head under his chin and his tail flopping against his thighs, [sic] (1.1.8) Andre displays a good deal of skill here, and knows exactly what he is doing. Yet the value of the prize he claims remains uncertain. Curiously, for example, the author-narrator twice describes the supposedly "wonderful" fish as "flopping." While the word realistically depicts the awkward movements of a fish out of water, the added stress it gains through repetition suggests that Hemingway's meaning is more than literal. Notably, too, the previously uncertain pronomial identity of the fish now gives way to outright confusion. Hemingway's use of the singular possessive pronoun "his" and the singular third-person pronoun "he" creates an obvious referential ambiguity. Indeed, the syntax of the passage conflates Andre with the fish he is holding: "He was a heavy fish and he held him high against his chest with the fish's head under his chin and his tail flopping against his thighs." Nor should we overlook the fact that Andre's method of holding the fish acts out a comparable overlay: the fish parallels the man, head to chin, tail to thigh. Given the 66 gathering metaphor of birth, I would suggest that Andre as midwife extracts from "the canal" a mirror image of his and David's masculinity. In a related way, this big, "flopping" fish hanging on Andre's front functions as an overblown (and therefore ironic) symbol of male potency. Indeed, I would suggest that the "flopping" movement of this thigh-banging fish gives added force to the sexual imagery of the scene: to state the matter as bluntly as possible, the metaphysical accomplishment of David and his waiter-friend is "fucked-up." Accordingly, the celebration that ensues is faintly reminiscent of the adulatory clippings, which, as already noted, applaud David's writerly heroism with "niggledy spit falseness." Full of formality and flattery, Andre goes so far as to kiss David. "Madame," he declares, after kissing Catherine, too, "it is necessary . . . . It is truly necessary. No one ever caught such a fish on such tackle" (1.1.8). Notwithstanding the primitiveness of David's bamboo pole, Andre's compliment seems a little excessive. David, meanwhile, asks to have the fish "weighed" (1.1.8), a reasonable enough request. Nevertheless, Hemingway's use of realistic detail is again problematical. For David's desire to weigh the fish explicitly reduces his phallic accomplishment to a matter of measurements. Put another way, the record-breaking size of the fish becomes a rather crude trope for David's questionable masculinity. Thomas Strychacz makes a similar point in his recent article on trophy-hunting in Green Hills of Africa. "[Kudu and rhino] [h]orns, fish, and rifles stand in for a phallic power that in turn represents the authority, toughness, and prowess of the inner man," Strychacz observes (37). "What scholarly appraisals of Hemingway's preoccupation with masculinity have rarely recognized, however," Strychacz adds, is that the specific details of "trophy hunting and display [are sometimes intended to] subvert the codes of masculinity so long attributed to Hemingway's male characters" (37). Back at the cafe, where the honeymooners cool off with pre-lunch aperitifs, the "wonderful" nature of the fishing episode undergoes further debasement. By this time, the once-shining bass has begun to fade: lying on a block of ice in a camion bound for Nimes, the bass or loup is "still silver and beautiful" but the fierce color of his dark, "gunmetal" back has "changed to grey" (1.1.8). Meanwhile, as the Bournes watch the fishing people of the town process the communal catch, Catherine poses a resonant question: "What are we going to do with the big fish?" she asks (1.1.10). "They're going to take him in [to Nimes] and sell him," David replies. "He's too big to cook here and they say it would be wicked to cut him up. Maybe he'll go right up to Paris. He'll end in some big restaurant. Or somebody very rich will buy him" (1.1.10). Significantly, then, "the big fish" is simply "too big." As an oversized commodity, it will follow a distinctive and rather dubious route, one that sounds suspiciously akin to David's own writerly fate. For "Paris," in the Hemingway lexicon, is a locus of artistic stardom, a "big restaurant" of talent. Moreover, when Marita appears, David will, indeed, be bought by "somebody very rich." "He was so beautiful in the water," Catherine recalls, nostalgically relying upon memory to preserve an inviolate image of the fish. "I couldn't believe him when I saw him out of the window," she adds, "and you with your mob following you" (1.1.10). Curiously, however, Catherine's reminiscence actually undermines the ideal she cherishes. For the ritualistic order of the "procession," suggestively reported by the ironic narrator, now figures, more accurately., perhaps, as the riotous chaos of a "mob," a gathering devoid of sense and purpose. Thus, despite Catherine's wish to maintain a "wonderful" fantasy, her retrospective account of the event is subtly tarnished. "We'll get a small [bass] for us to eat," David says, consolingly, to Catherine. "They're really wonderful," he claims, as if attempting to reconstitute her initial sense of the marvelous.-68 In the aftermath of the fishing episode, as David and Catherine linger over their aperitifs, the omnipresent problem of writing resurfaces. "Did you get the letters written?" David asks. "I wrote the one I had to write to the trustees. But I can't write letters," Catherine says (1.1.10). "You write wonderful letters," David replies, alluding to the humorous, loving messages that Catherine sent him before they were married (3.43.24). "Not anymore. I don't need to," Catherine says, reminding David, however obliquely, that they are now together all of the time, or should be, joined, as it were, in holy matrimony. Moving ever closer to a forthright statement of vocational insecurity, David contends: "There's no one I want to write to" (1.1.10). Seeing through David's evasions, Catherine directly confronts the underlying issue, switching the topic of conversation from letter-writing to book-writing. "But you'll write again though," she says, and openly acknowledges that, since their marriage, David has not "written anything at all" (1.1.10). With a faint trace of resentful cynicism, David affirms Catherine's confidence in him: "Sure," he says. "I'll always write. But I don't have to write yet" (1.1.10). David's seemingly innocuous use of the word "always" warrants attention as an unwitting declaration of artistic immortality; through his writing, David believes that he will live forever. In turn, David's statement indirectly places a future "distance" between himself and Catherine, the merely mortal woman and wife. In a related way, David's contention that he does not "have to write yet" (emphasis added) subtly but ominously suggests that his writing is an inexorable, uncontrollable desire, driven by unconscious motivations. At precisely this point, Catherine poses a crucial question, one that succinctly encapsulates her reformative motivations: "Do you think you'll 6S write differently married to me?" she asks (1.1.10). The aesthetic difference Catherine seeks raises profoundly moral and psychological issues that emerge from the manuscript as a whole. Whereas David, the individualist, has always, as he later concedes, written about himself, "for" himself (3.46.20.i-ii), Catherine now urges him to attempt a less self-centred, more androgynous art, a kind of writing that subordinates or relinquishes his male ego. More particularly, whereas David relentlessly seeks and asserts interpretative priority over himself, his life, and his work, Catherine invites him to forge consensual relationships, to replace male freedom with male commitment. In effect, then, Catherine raises a timeless artistic dilemma, involving the artist's tendencies toward detachment and autonomy. Tactfully, she challenges David to develop a more "permeable, adaptable self," in contrast to his "solid, discrete self." The problem, as such, bears upon Freud's "The Relationship of the Poet to Day-Dreaming" (1908), insofar as David, in his various roles as clipping reader and fisherman, betrays what Freud calls "ambitious, self-exalting wishes" (176). On a theoretical level, it is also worth noting that Kathy Willingham draws a connection between Catherine's reformative scheme and Helen Cixous' "ecriture feminine," a kind of writing that subordinates or relinquishes the ego in favour of an elemental fluidity, a new openness to life. These are notoriously difficult issues, to be sure, and' I do not mean to suggest that the full implications of Catherine's plea for difference are immediately apparent. Nevertheless, the details of the manuscript as a whole elaborate upon and affirm Catherine's view, which leads me to believe that the difference she tries to articulate matters deeply to Hemingway, if not to David. Indeed, there is a sense in which Hemingway, as author-narrator, stands very close to Catherine, permitting her to function as a carrier of 10 moral, artistic, and perhaps even socio-political value. David, in turn, who neither understands nor appreciates Catherine's plea, seems to embody a more traditional (and limited) subject position that Hemingway may have been trying to outgrow. David, after all, is a consummate craftsman who dedicates himself to the attainment of "perfect" form (3.39.2.iii), placing great value upon the "accuracy" of memory and observation (3.39.2.ii). As someone who aspires toward the exact rendering of a determinable reality, David proudly conceives of his writerly eye as the "diaphragm of a camera," and believes that his vision can be "concentrated," like a magnifying glass, "to the point where the heat shine[s] and the smoke [begins] to rise" (3.39.2.ii). Similarly, he values his creative mind as a photographic "darkroom" (, as a place where truthful images mysteriously develop. Catherine, however, seems to sense that David's camera-like eye is merciless, that the magnifying power of his writerly vision is both ruthlessly acquisitive and destructive. In this sense, David's likening of his image-making powers to a photographic "darkroom" reinscribes the "Other"-annihilating atrocities of Bluebeard's closet. For Catherine, in other words, David is guilty of a brutal reductionism: his art, she feels, figures as a kind of petrified iconography, tending toward a mythological permanence that denies the changeable texture of actual experience. Catherine, therefore, wants David to "write differently" insofar as she wants him to adopt a more fluid epistemology, to dislocate fixed perceptions through multiple perspectives. I would suggest, moreover, that the proof of Hemingway's commitment to Catherine's aesthetic views is in the textual pudding. For Hemingway, in writing The Garden of Eden manuscript itself, does, in fact, tell Catherine's story, a task that necessitates writing "differently." David, on the other hand, half-heartedly attempts such androgynous writing, but abandons it, opting, instead, to retreat into the all-male realm of his African stories. Even at this early juncture, David chooses to avoid the issue of writing "differently." "I don't know," he says, in response to Catherine's question. "I'll just write and then we'll see" ( "Could you write now?" Catherine asks, hopefully. David's reply reveals the isolation of his writerly stance: "I'd have to be by myself in my head and I don't want to be," he says. Undaunted, Catherine elaborates on her plan. She phrases her proposition in collective terms, resurrecting (and revising) the altruistic promise of the fishing episode: "Couldn't you write just a little something so that we would have it from here and always have it?" she pleads (1.1.11). Under Catherine's plan, then, the immortality of "always" becomes a shared experience. Ironically, however, David seems to think that Catherine's request is rather egotistical: she is, after all, asking him to write about their life together; more particularly, Catherine wants David to write about her. David flatly dismisses the notion: ""We'll always have it anyway," he says, implicitly devaluing Catherine's version of immortality. "Do you want another one of those?" he asks, attempting to appease his uncomfortably demanding wife in other ways. Notably, that is, David offers Catherine another drink instead of offering himself. "Yes," Catherine says, accepting the drink in place of something else. Catherine, in fact, now states that she will have another drink "[i]f" David wants one (1.1.11), momentarily retreating into a compliant, mirror-like, and wifely role. With their second round of cinzanos, the honeymooners sit together, in an uneasy truce, looking out to sea. Catherine, however, is about to disrupt the illusion of happiness. 1Z, NOTES 1 I paraphrase Wallace Stevens, who defined the subject of Hemingway's fiction as "extraordinary actuality" (qtd. by Steinke 62). Louis' first crusade occurred in 1248; the second took place in 1270 (see Appendix, Figure 1 for an example of crusade iconography). In "Pilar's Tale: The Myth and the Message," Blowing The Bridge: Essays on Hemingway's "For Whom the Bell Tolls" (1992), Robert Gadjusek notes the "elaborate sexual joking taking place" around the "use of mail as male" in The Garden of Eden. Although Gadjusek does not have space to expand on his observation, he pointedly observes that the joking occurs after David says farewell to the (male)man. Willingham goes on to cite Peter Griffin's biography of Hemingway's Paris years, Less Than a Treason, which discusses Van Gogh. "Peter Griffin," Willingham observes, "says that as a result of reading Van Gogh's letters in 1924, Hemingway became so touched by the artist's trials that he made a 'pilgrimage' to his home and to the asylum where Van Gogh had been institutionalized. Griffin suggests that Hemingway was moved by Van Gogh's 'suffering and sacrifice for the truth,' and adds, 'Ernest returned to Paris filled with compassion for the long-suffering artist who had wagered his life on this work.' As evidenced by his treatment of Catherine," Willingham concludes, "Hemingway shows a similar compassion for Catherine's aesthetic struggles" (68). K In A Woman and Catholicism: My Break with the Roman Catholic Church (1987), Sheelagh Conway discusses gender division in Catholic Mass in Ireland: "In the country churches . . . men and women were divided. All the men sat on the right-hand side of the church, and all the women on the left. The girls ^3 sat with their mothers and the boys with their fathers. There was never any reason given for this division. It probably had a lot to do with how women were perceived in the church. Women were the temptresses. Daughters of Eve who tempted Adam and led to the fall of the human race, women were carriers of sin. . . . Better, then, to put the dangerous sex on the left-hand side" (10). In a related book, Eunuchs for Heaven (1990), a study of the attitudes of the Catholic Church toward women, Uta Ranke-Heinemann discusses how women "have been excluded from the altar down through the centuries to the present day" (114-115). The deflationary significance of the fishing episode is further suggested toward the end of the Grau-du-Roi section of the Eden manuscript, when Catherine recalls a subsequent seaside adventure involving an eel (1.4.1). "He wasn't an eel really," Catherine states. "How could he make electricity? He looks like before electricity was invented. Before gas even or candles." The prehistoric eel, it would seem, embodies a dark aspect of reality. More pointedly, the eel, like the bass, might function as an emblem of David's authorial ego, suggesting the writer's useless isolation. That is, as a kind of sea monster, the bottom dwelling eel evokes David's own subtextual ugliness. 7 . Elise Miller employs these phrases in another context. See "The Feminization of American Realist Theory." American Literary Realism 23.1 (1989): 21-39. T-i CHAPTER TWO: SURPRISES AND CHANCES . . . metamorphosis is, at its deepest level, a transfiguration of the self, a kind of mystic union by which heaven and earth are present in a single individual. Leonard Barkan, The Gods Made Flesh (44). Amid the false happiness of Le Grau-du-Roi, Catherine conceives of a tonsorial "surprise" that leads to mysterious nocturnal "changes." Previous critics have regarded these plot developments as evidence of Catherine's supposed neuroticism, writing off her feminine difference under the label of madness. However, the scrupulously worked details of the narrative suggest that Hemingway's intended design is far more complex and sensitive than such readings would allow, indeed, I will be attempting to show that much of what Catherine says and does has profound psycho-spiritual implications. Thus, while the textual account of Catherine's personal and family history contains scattered hints of mental illness, there is a sense in which she temporarily rises above this biological trap. Paradoxically, then, Catherine emerges as both madwoman and visionary, as a character worthy of careful consideration in her own right. "It is for her," John Updike writes, in his exceptional review of the published novel, "that [Eden] will continue to be read" (87). David, on the other hand, regarded by a large constituency of readers as the affirmative "Hemingway hero," is deliberately portrayed in various states of *5 morbid self-involvement. Indeed, as the slowly developing Bluebeard paradigm suggests, David's ongoing detachment and programmatic flatness betray a deadly "sickness" in his own inner world. The gender-inflected sanity/madness binary should therefore be qualified, if not reversed. For as the two fictional antagonists collide on the fictional plane, Hemingway slants a majority of the battles in Catherine's favour, although David, with Marita at his side, will enjoy a hollow victory when the war is over. Such complexity is a tribute to Hemingway's art, revealing an authorial self-awareness and self-criticism that mitigates the male-chauvinist, "Papa" stereotype. Hemingway emerges as a writer who might be regarded as his own best critic. In this early portion of the manuscript, Hemingway continues to rely very heavily on food as a metaphor for the moral, sexual, and artistic issues he is exploring. Accordingly, the long-awaited lunch, when it finally arrives, offers a telling comment upon the stoicism of the male protagonist. It is, after all, David's repaste, insofar as he plans the meal in advance (1.1.3). An omniscient narrator provides a lengthy description of the affair: the hors d' oeuvres, we are told, consist of "celeri remoulade" ("crisp thin sliced celery root in mustard sauce" [sic.]), "small radishes," "new fresh onions," and "home pickled mushrooms . . . in a big glass jar"; the main course consists of fresh-grilled mackerel, with "grill marks show[ing] on the silver skin," melting butter, "sliced lemon," "fresh bread," "fried potatoes," and a "good light, dry, cheerful unknown white wine [sic]" ( It is a lunch of clear contrasts and crisp tastes: the spiced and pickled appetizers are piquant; the "dry" wine is cold, the fried potatoes are hot; the silver skin of the mackerel is chequered with "dark" grill marks; the mild taste of the fish is accented by lemon, and the baked bread is "fresh." As readers, we are treated to a feast of sharp discriminations. Here, at mid-day, the murky co-minglings and lingering aftertastes of breakfast are notably absent. The noon nourishment, by implication, leaves nothing to chance: worked out in full detail, it is cut and dried, black and white. More pointedly, in the wake of David's manly fishing adventure, everything is solid, straightforward, and conventional. Here, with the Apollonian sun high in the sky, stability reigns. Nor should we miss the writerly implications of this lunch in a text where eating contributes to a seemingly inexhaustible range of aesthetic metaphors and artist parables: David-the-gourmand orders his food much as David-the-artist orders his world, with a view to certainty, sharpness, and detail. David's authoritative connoisseurship leaves Catherine feeling vaguely dissatisfied. "We're not great conversationalists at meals," she observes. "Do I bore you, darling?" Catherine asks. When David laughs at the question, his wife becomes defensive, displaying an edge of resentment: "Don't laugh at me . . . " she says (1.1.11). David's next response further undermines the purported happiness of the honeymoon: "I wasn't [laughing at you]," he protests. "No. You don't bore me. I'd be happy looking at you if you never said a word" (1.1.11). The comment is literally true: that is, David would, in fact, "be happy," perhaps even happier, if Catherine did not talk, if she were just another mutely attractive, clearly defined dish, served to quell his visceral, aesthetic, and sexual appetites. Catherine, however, goes on to assert her own subjectivity: "I do say a word though. I don't just eat all the time" (1.1.11). Attempting to avoid an open breach, David counters with a compliment that actually reinforces his latent misogyny: "I love to watch you eat," he says (1.1.11). Hemingway is surely alert to the way in which David's peculiar "love" further pre-empts feminine discourse, turning the woman into a "watch[edj" object. To follow Robert Gadjusek's explication of a comparable paradigm in "An Alpine Idyll," the textual emphasis upon spectatorship suggests that David is so far detached from his wife that she merely serves to support his clinical observation of "Otherness." Indeed, the wordless orality of eating binds Catherine to the cycles of nature, foregrounding body over mind, flesh over spirit. David's voyeuristic watching, from this perspective, becomes an exercise in what Gadjusek calls "the mastery of process." Once again, a writerly analogy suggests itself. "In detachment and objective assessment of what he sees," Gadjusek claims, "the writer [in "An Alpine Idyll"] is creating the materials out of which his stories will come" (174). "The mouth of the woman," this critic concludes, becomes "a finely focused metaphor," relating to the artist's separatist dreams (171). Similarly, in The Garden of Eden, a male gaze surreptitiously asserts interpretative authority. Nevertheless, in a now familiar maneuver, Catherine deftly turns the tables, presenting David with a mouthful of words. . Insisting, again, upon her subjective presence, Catherine returns the compliment about eating: "You eat very nicely," she tells David, "and you eat fish as though you had invented it" (1.1.11). The friendly witticism is encoded, double-edged. For Catherine knows that David-the-author (a self-professed "inventive type") has, in fact, "invented" fish through his literary planning of the lunch. It follows that David's "nicely" civilized table manners suggest the divine prerogatives of an artist who both creates and consumes the world around him. Catherine continues in a more obviously ironic vein: "It's nice to see people eat nicely and functionally and without affectation," she says, describing David's writerly way of eating in a way that evokes the celebrated stylistic virtues of Ernest Hemingway. "It sounds like architecture," David says, troubled by 1-8 Catherine's puzzling exposed "It is sort of," she replies, aligning the mannerisms of Hemingway's authorial alter-ego with an overtly constructed art form, one that erects walls, that pays great heed to appearance, order, stability, and the arranged placement of parts. In fact, then, despite Catherine's statement to the contrary, "affectation" (as opposed to affection) might well typify the formal expertise of the gourmet-artist. The complex ironies of the dialogue mount as Catherine's unlicensed verbal barrage eventually silences her husband. Uneasily, David pours Catherine "another small glass of wine and fill[s] his own," attempting, perhaps, to maintain the traditional hierarchies. Still dissatisfied, Catherine presses for a more egalitarian intersubjectivity. "And you really don't get tired looking at me?" she asks. "I think sometimes you're just counting the freckles" (1.1.12). Overtly resorting to artistry, David now becomes a veritable sonneteer, drawing upon stylized language of romantic love to extol Catherine's beauty: "The lovely golden freckles on the dark golden skin," he says, "and the beautiful hair that doesn't know what colour it is because the sun and the sea can't decide" (1.1.12). Thus, David articulates a dream image of his bride, following the Pygmalion-like ways of the Petrarchan love tradition. In effect, he practices a form of godly seduction, opting for an unrealistic engagement. To borrow Shoshana Felman's comments on the genre, David's "oppressive gesture of representation" reassigns Catherine "to the status of a silent and submissive object, to something inherently spoken for" (137). Accordingly, Catherine is overpowered: "Oh," she says. "You don't have to stop if you don't want" (1.1.12). Forced into the role of object, the female antagonist now complies with her husband's desires and shows off her profile. Catherine, in other words, becomes David's "model" woman, silent and submissive. T-9 At precisely this moment, a waitress arrives with dessert, reinforcing the paradigm of female servitude. The aesthetic repercussions of the scene are suggested by the fact that the waitress presents (art)ichokes and wine, complying with David's previously placed order. Among Hemingway's many-sided metaphors, these "artichokes" initially seem to reflect David's artistic control. The waitress, meanwhile, smiles knowingly at Catherine, as if to acknowledge a j'oint understanding of the sexual economy upon which David's artistic authority is based. Catherine blushes, showing a rush of emotion that euphemistically connotes orgasm. Catherine's blush, by the way, foreshadows the eventual presence of Marita, a woman who frequently colors upon meeting the great writer. Feeling a little more comfortable, David "now" fills Catherine's glass, then his own. The lovers toast each other, and Catherine wistfully poses a question: "David," she asks, "will everything always be this wonderful?" (1.1.12). "Wine ought to be the same," he replies, "and surely artichokes will be. Fresh bread shouldn't change and neither should a fresh grilled mackerel" (1.1.12). Although Hemingway, as author-narrator, does not specify the tone of David's puzzling remark, I would suggest that the protagonist is being a little jaunty, perhaps even rakish. For while Catherine very explicitly returns to the theme of immortal love, in an effort to ward off impending loss, David directs his answer toward the physical world, uttering needlessly qualified conjectures about the permanence of concrete objects. Catherine, at any rate, senses that David is patronizing her: "I didn't mean that," she says, becoming more critical of his rhetorical flourishes. "Anyway," Catherine adds, "that sounds too much like poetry or the bible" (1.1.12). Implicitly, that is, Catherine places "David" in the role of an Old-Testament patriarch, suggesting that his somber declaration of external verities pre-empts internal spontaneity. 80 Attempting to avoid the "serious" undertones of the conversation, Catherine teasingly declares: "I have a big surprise. I didn't tell you did I?" (1.1.12). In fact, Catherine claims that she has "a very big big surprise" (1.1.13). Implicitly, therefore, Catherine's secret is more significant (literally twice the size) of David's "big fish." Later on, the omniscient narrator confirms that the two matters are somehow associated: ". . . there had been the big fish today and ordinarily there would have been much talk about that but this other [Catherine's suprise] was a big thing in the village too " (1.1.13). The other "big thing," Catherine explains, "is very simple but . . . very complicated" (1.1.13). "It's dangerous," she concedes, and implores David not to ask her about it. The new surprise, of course, relates to Catherine's androgynous aspirations, which, in turn, bear upon her desire to rehabilitate David's artistry. That is, Catherine's "surprise" informs her quest for spiritual wholeness, while furthering her complementary hope that David, the masculine realist, will begin to "write differently." Although she is not yet ready to divulge her plan, Catherine intends to get "a boy's haircut," and thereby to prompt contra-sexual self-exploration in both herself and David. If successful, Catherine's "big big suprise" will accomplish what David's "big fish" did not: the greater magnitude of the seemingly trivial tonsorial adventure might well soften the rigid boundaries between male and female, self and other, creating new possibilities for human compassion and well-being. Accordingly, the (art)ichoke dessert that David has requested now begins to reflect Catherine's preferences. For these "artichokes" function as anagrams, telling us that Catherine's "surprise" will "choke" the small self or "i" in David's "art." Whereas the early morning eggs subtly reinforced a gender polarity, the artichokes open up new possibilities: They ate the artichokes. They were big and very good. The leaves 81 plucked cleanly and each one was good and sound and firm at the base and then there was the vinaigrette sauce poured into the bowl of the cleaned hearts at the end. They ate them slowly and drank the Tavel. (1.1.13) Hemingway describes the consumption of the artichokes with a kind of liturgical gravity. Indeed, the honeymooners eat the artichokes "slowly," savouring "cleaned" and anointed "hearts." These suggestively cleansed hearts seem to promise a change of heart, and go well with "the Tavel," an indigenous and highly spirited Rose described by Catherine as "a great wine for people that are in love" (1.1.19). Most importantly, perhaps, the artichokes are "sound and firm at the base," possessing a texture that enriches and redeems Catherine's destructive enterprise. For Catherine's risky androgynous agenda, by implication, is equally "sound and firm at the base," presenting the possibility of Edenic salvation. Nevertheless, Hemingway embellishes the Bournes' lunch with a final, humorous touch: "After the artichokes," David and Catherine have "a fruit like a peach but with a smooth skin" (1.1.13). Along the margin of the manuscript page, the coyly indirect author instructs himself to be more forthright, to "name" the fruit. He accomplishes his intention in an added bit of dialogue. "What is it?" Catherine asks. "Brugnon," David replies (1.1.13), using the French term for "nectarine" (Larousse Gastronomigue 654). The pointed identification of the nectarines functions as a naturalized allusion to "nectar," a magical solution that confers immortality. Moreover, the mystical dessert fruit fits the dramatic context of the narrative, insofar as it evokes feminine malleability: for the smooth-skinned "Brugnon"—which the narrator immediately distinguishes from the larger, bearded peach—possesses, according to Larousse, "a melting, fragrant flesh" (654). Appropriately, though, the 82. "Brugnon" is something of a chameleon, a hybrid fruit whose tree occasionally produces the more masculine peach. Thus, Waverley Root's dictionary of food suggestively describes the nectarine as "a small, richly flavored peach so confused that if you plant its pits you may get nectarines or you may not" (283). The awaited "surprise" begins later that afternoon. "It's for you," Catherine tells David, as they lie together in bed. "It's for me too," she adds. "I won't pretend it's not. But it will do something to you. I'm sure but I shouldn't say it" (1.1.14). David,, however, is uncomfortable with such mysteries. "I like surprises but I like everything the way it is just now at this minute," he says (1.1.14). "You wouldn't have anything changed?" Catherine asks. "No nothing," David responds (1.1.14). Thus, David expresses a desire to prolong the state of womb-like regression that Le Grau-du-Roi affords; he prefers, in short, to remain in a neutral condition that effaces the very problem of selfhood. The denial of change bespeaks a desire to arrest life itself, a longing for suspension and stupefaction. Nevertheless, Catherine becomes adamant. "I'm going to do it," she claims, slipping out of bed (1.1.14). Ominously, Catherine then declares that she must "ride up to Aigues Mortes" (the city of dead waters), and insists upon going alone (1.1.14-15). She thereby follows the unpromising gestative channel of David's fishing venture, but with a noticeably different motive. Ambiguously situated both within and beside David's .centralized consciousness, the narratorial voice observes the female excursion: "She kissed [David] good bye and went down[stairs] and he watched her mount her bicycle and ride up the road riding smoothly and easily her hair blowing in the wind [sic]" (1.1.15). The series of images operate on at least two different levels, conveying the S3 irreducible ambiguities of Hemingway's Eden. For such innocence is both flighty and formidable, a combination of infantile naivete and childlike grace. If we have reason to believe that Catherine will not end well, perhaps her journey remains worth the taking. After Catherine departs, the omniscient narrator moves more closely into David's consciousness, initiating an extended soliloquy. The protagonist is badly shaken by what has occurred. Indeed, the afternoon sun, which warms the hotel room "too much" (, evokes a comparably uncomfortable mental heat within the protagonist himself. Scattered by conflicting impulses, David heads to the beach, knowing that he "should" swim, but feeling too tired to do so (1.1.15). In a quandary, he walks inland "for a way," through the marshy "salt grass," then doubles back to the cafe, where he settles down with a paper and a "fine a l'eau." That paper and the "fine a l'eau" are bourgeois accouterments, representative of David's desire for retrenchment and stability. The brandy and water, in particular, is a staid beverage, and mixes smoothly with simple illusions. Accordingly, David begins to rehash the pretense of honeymoon happiness, telling himself how "wonderful" things have been and how "truly happy" he is. The incongruities of the passage accumulate as the problem-ridden David, who takes his mid-afternoon drink as a cure for post-coital depression, tries to convince himself that after he and Catherine make love "there [is] no problem" (1.1.15). David proceeds to note that this is the first time he has drunk alone since the honeymoon began. In an effort to make himself feel better, he then reminds himself that he is not working, and that his only rules about drinking are never to drink before or during periods of work (1.1.16). These "rules" are of questionable merit, and constitute an early sign of David's progressive slippage into alcoholism. 84 Aided by another brandy, the protagonist tries to "concentrate" on his paper, but it does not "interest him as it should." David's troubles are difficult to diagnose. We might view him in a rather straightforward way, as a writer who secretly feels that he has married a "crazy woman," and that his supposed "happiness" cannot last. Yet Hemingway deliberately complicates David's mental expenditure, making it as circuitous and entangled as the protagonist's simultaneous stroll through the marsh. In attempting to explain what is going on here, I find Freud's distinction between "mourning" and "melancholia" helpful. Freud associates mourning with grief over the loss of a loved object, a situation that might apply to David's expected loss of Catherine. Such mourning is "normal," and would contribute to a perception of David as sensitive, sympathetic, and so on. Freud defines melancholia, on the other hand, as a more "circuitous" (162) and diseased condition in which an individual grieves not so much for the loss of the "Other," as for a loss of self. Succinctly put, melancholia entails the subject's narcissistic loss of self as loved object. Such a predicament might well address David's unspecified inner travail, his claustrophobic self-absorption. Indeed, the protagonist's peculiar discomfort in the box-like hotel room, his lethargy in the marsh or swamp, and his final inertia at the cafe, seem to convey the sort of "morbid disposition" identified by Freud (156). Under such a reading, the self David fears he is losing would seem to be that "masculine" non-essence that he constructs through "working," and, more particularly, from writing. For Catherine's "dangerous" androgynous undertaking presents a foreseeable threat to both the pen and the penis of the worried writer. Freud's essay is worthy of close attention, since he also claims that melancholia involves the return of hostility turned against the self. If David fits the melancholic paradigm, then, we might even see him in 85 a rather poignant light, as a self-conscious hero burdened by a sense of his own inner flaws. David's interior monologue, as it goes on, seems to support the full implications of Freud's definition of melancholia. Indeed, the interstices of David's self-talk reveal a tension between masculine self-assertion and androgynous self-effacement. Overtly, David continues to deny that any such tension exists: he is so happy with Catherine, he tells himself, that he has not thought "of writing nor of anything but being with this girl that he loved and was married to" (1.1.16). Moments later, however, David is less certain about where his loyalties lie. "It would be good to work again," he thinks, but that would come soon enough as he well knew and he must remember to be as unselfish about it as he could and make it clear that the enforced loneliness was regrettable and that he was not proud of it. He was sure she would be fine about it and she had her own resources but he hated to think of it, the work, starting when they were as they were now (1.1.16). On one level, David struggles to resolve a conflict confronted by all artists, involving the competing demands of life and art. Yet the language of the passage conveys a more intensely personal problem. For David hates "to think of it, the work, starting when they were as they were now." That hate amounts to a form of self-reproach, hinting at a sense of inner monstrousness. Indeed, "the work," which will "come soon enough as [David] well knows," figures as an irresistable, monopolizing force that obliterates all feminine distractions. Moreover, David's implicit condemnation of selfishness is loaded with conscience-soothing equivocations: "he must remember to be as unselfish about it as he could and make it clear that the enforced loneliness was regrettable and that he was not proud of it" (emphasis added). This is S6 terrible work, to be sure, marriage-wrenching work that inspires a strange mixture of dread and desire. And how, we might ask ourselves, will David handle Catherine, that imposing "she" who will merely "be fine about it," and who has "resources" of her own? In thinking about the enabling condition of his work, David ultimately dwells upon a "clarity" (1.1.16) that is both "sudden" and "deadly" (1.1.15). The creative metaphor builds upon previously noted passages in which David associates his writerly eye with a magnifying glass and photographic dark room. The requisite "clarity," therefore, seems to reinforce the Apollonian rigour of David's artistry, confirming the absolutism of his aesthetic values. David's "deadly" clarity," in this sense, reinscribes a potentially cruel objectivity. The deliberate exploration of such themes links Hemingway to earlier American writers such as Hawthorne and Poe, both of whom demonstrated a keen interest in the excesses of the artist. More particularly, David's "clarity" is reminiscent of Hawthorne's "Unpardonable Sin," evoking the moral culpability of an artist-observer who irreverently scrutinizes an existential void. This archetype of the artistic-consciousness-turned-cleaver, bent upon dissection and discrimination, brings us back to the gathering image of Bluebeard, a femicidal despot who sacrifices "Otherness" to personal vanity. Hemingway's ambivalent attitude toward David's artistry is especially evident in a deleted passage that occurs midway through the soliloquy. After David unconvincingly tells himself his lovemaking with Catherine is problem free, he goes on to recall how, with other women, "the sudden deadly clarity" had always come "after intercourse" (1.1.15). "It had always made him see things so clearly," we are told, "that there could never be any doubt" (1.1.15). The precise nature of the matter over which "there could never be any doubt" remains ambiguous. Nevertheless, the implication of the deleted 8^ phrase is disturbing. For David, we later find out, knows within himself an isolation and despair that overshadows human togetherness. Perhaps, then, his private knowledge, confined to the "clean, well-lighted place" of the artist's imagination, exposes Romantic hopes as lies, telling of meaningless intimacies in a godless universe. Indeed, David, it seems, is burdened by the kind of nihilism that Hemingway once described in a letter to John Dos Passos as "'that gigantic bloody emptiness and nothingness like couldn't ever fuck, fight [sic] write and was all for death.'" Significantly, however, David also senses that Catherine—the seemingly mad wife who urges him to "write differently"—is intent on counteracting his existential despair. For David realizes that Catherine understands "the clarity," and he wonders if that is why she has driven "beyond what they had for something new that nothing could break" (1.1.16). At some level, then, David recognizes that Catherine seeks a positive alternative to his own pessimism. The problematical nature of Catherine's undertaking is apparent upon her return. Newly shorn, she reappears while the writer-protagonist is staring at the "late afternoon sun," which, still befitting his own temperament, hangs "heavy" on the water. "Hello Darling," Catherine says, in a "throaty," passionate voice. She then comes "quickly" to the table, sits down, and lifts her chin, putting herself on display (1.1.16). The action both repeats and revises an earlier scene: whereas Catherine posed for David over lunch (1.1.12), she now poses for herself, showing off her tonsorial "surprise." Through carefully wrought nuances of action and repetition, then, Catherine claims a greater degree of subjectivity. The display continues: "She turned her head,' we are told, "and lifted her breasts and said, 'Kiss me please'" (1.1.16). Catherine's self-presentation culminates in a theatrical flourish. 88 "You see I'm a girl don't you?" she asks, rising to her feet, bracing her arms at her side, and repositioning her chin. "But now I'm a boy too," she declares, "and I can do anything and anything and anything" ( As some readers perceive her, Catherine is certifiably crazy at this point, a character given over to overt narcissism, nervous excitement, and presumptions of grandeur. Yet Catherine's (and Hemingway's) self-conscious emphasis upon representation problematizes a straightforward or literal reading of the scene, and of the book in general. Indeed, Catherine, is actually more "shifty" than "schizy." Her poses and proclamations are forms of camping or clowning, self-informed performances that acknowledge a masquerade. Put simply, Catherine is deliberately acting, staging her own exploits. Her verbal finale—"I can do anything and anything and anything"—is especially revealing in this respect. For the repetitive and exaggerated utterance, to paraphrase Bakhtin, mimics and judges itself, making language its own object of representation (87). Not unlike Gertrude Stein's "[a] rose is a rose is a rose," Catherine's "I can do anything and anything and anything" is a form of conditional discourse that undermines straightforward meaning. In both cases, there is an ironic distance between the speaker and the spoken word, an implied awareness that "reality" is fictional, constituted, in large part, by an infinitely circular web of words. Through ironic indirection, then, Catherine actually acknowledges her own limitations: as a performing actress, she burlesques imperial ambition, asserting Napoleonic prerogatives on the basis of a haircut; self-parody gives rise to a new form of playful heroism. In a related way, Catherine now emerges as an artist in her own right, as someone whose visionary "jouissance" outstrips David's solitary egotism. Cut with "no compromises," her hair is "brushed back," "smooth and sweeping" and SI "heavy as always." The back and sides, however, are cropped "short," exposing her neck and ears (1.1.16). The back, Catherine says, feels "free and light" (, but she is more interested in the short-cropped sides: "Feel on my cheek and feel in front of my ear," she urges David. "Run your hands up the side. That's the surprise. Now I'm a boy and girl too" [sic] (1.1.17). "Don't you like it at the sides?" she insists. "It isn't faked for phony. It's a real true boy's haircut and not from any beauty shop" (1.1.18). After Catherine explains that she went to the barber who cut David's hair "a week ago," Hemingway adds a full two pages to the manuscript, embellishing Catherine's trip to "the coiffeur." The substantial accretion reveals what makes "the sides" of Catherine's haircut so attractive: Catherine explicitly states that she now has "pattes," or sideburns, "cut square not slanted" ( Significantly, she observes that the coiffeur saved the sideburns "'for the last'" ( Implicitly, then, the "pattes" are the finishing touch or coup de grace, a final, careful detail that ensures the androgynous effect Catherine desires (see Appendix, Figure 2). The artistic implications of the cut have already been noted by Kathy Willingham. "Catherine creates a text," Willingham writes, "not with language, but with her body, . . . literally [embracing] the [Cixousian] avenue of artistic expression which 1'ecriture feminine advocates" (47). Confident of her accomplishment, Catherine insists upon' a second and third reading. "Look at the sides," she repeatedly urges David ( Moreover, as a self-conscious artist, Catherine pays careful attention to technique: "[My hair] grows down far enough [in front of my ears] so that when [the coiffeur] cropped it up [it was] just the way I wanted. The way I love it that your's goes [sic.]" ( "[H]aveing [sic] something to cut," she adds, " is why this is so good" (Ll.18.ii). In a very literal way, <?0 therefore, the metaphysical charge of the haircut reveals that which was hidden, an underlying form; the square-cut sideburns (en)gender self-definition, connoting male potency and force. Like her fisherman's shirt, then, Catherine's haircut is a form of "cross-dressing" that preempts rigid gender dichotomies. The soft facial down upon her cheeks merges into the coarseness of her pattes, evincing a carefully wrought sexual pluralism. Decribing herself as "half girl and half boy" (1.1.18), Catherine asserts a oneness derived from integrated differences rather than an inherent unity. More particularly, Catherine's paradoxical wholeness is a relational construct, another foreshadowing of her enthusiasm for Picasso's cubist compositions. Stressing the ordered flexibility of the cut, Catherine contends that it "will muss up well" ( "Stupid people will think it is strange," she says. "But we'll just be proud. I love to be proud" (1.1.18). "So do I," David replies, but pride, in his case, has a narrower base. "We'll start being proud now," he adds (1.1.18), unwittingly announcing the onset of irreconcilable differences. Given the metaphorical significance of food throughout the manuscript, it is worth noting that the final meal of the day consists primarily of meat and potatoes. Such solid, manly fare is, perhaps, suitable for the would-be "brother[s]" (1.1.17), but also affords hints of David's underlying hostility. The omniscient narrator describes the meal with uncharacteristic terseness: "They ate a steak for dinner, rare, with mashed potatoes and flageolets and a salad " (1.1.19). The emphatically "rare" steak is bloody, the potatoes are "mashed," and the "flageolets" or kidney beans are a rather indelicate vegetable compared to those sumptuous afternoon artichokes. Such heavy fare does, indeed, require a "salad," which Hemingway inserted into the manuscript 9/ as an afterthought. The intended meaning of this dinner emerges more clearly when it is viewed in relation to another particularly meaty meal, later in the manuscript. While in Spain, the Bournes visit an "old Posoda place," owned by a "middle aged, short, heavily built and square faced" man (3.9.9). Here, in a striking recurrence of minute detail, the Bournes dine upon "roast kid and a dish of white beans" (3.9.8), among other things. The restaurant has "thick stone walls" with high, narrow windows, and embodies an engrained cultural prejudice against Catherine's female questing. The talk in this place is tough, and the waiter refers to Catherine "as though he were speaking of a mare" (3.9.7). The "square faced" owner, meanwhile, insists that the Bournes "have some more meat of some kind" (3.9.9). "No . . . please," Catherine protests. "Just a salad" (3.9.9). As Catherine waits for the salad, she voices her own artistic aspirations and expresses a fear of dying (3.9.10-11). David, who belongs among the gallery of Spanish men, is unsympathetic (3.9.10-12). "I wish they'd bring the salad," Catherine says, feeling "cold and tight in her chest" (3.9.11-12). When the salad finally comes, it offers a temporary reprieve: "The salad came and its green-ness [sic] on the dark table and the sun on the plaza beyond the arcade took the cold feeling away" (3.9.12). The Grau-du-Roi dinner, as it develops, continues to foreshadow the sinister aspects of David's male response to Catherine's female quest. In a familiar scenario, the omniscient narrator permits us to eavesdrop upon David's thoughts as he watches Catherine: She had always looked, he thought, exactly her age which was now twenty one. He had been very proud of her for that. Tonight she did not look it and across the table he looked at the lines of her cheek bones that showed clear as he had never seen them sculptured before by the slanting rise where her hair was cropped above her high cheek bones and she smiled at him and her face was heart breaking in its sculpture. (1.1.19) David's artistic impressions add an almost indefinable gravity to Catherine's playful treatment of herself as an artifact. For while David appreciates Catherine's beauty, his perception of her sculpted face as "heart breaking" implies that he is experiencing some sort of acute distress. Once again, it is possible to regard David sympathetically, as a husband who is painfully in love with a woman who is, or is going, crazy. Nevertheless, Hemingway deliberately complicates the sentimental appeal of such a reading. For David, who looks "at the lines" of Catherine's cheekbones from "across the table," sits at an emotional distance from his wife. David, we gather, is particularly troubled by the fact that Catherine looks younger than her actual age of "twenty one." Implicitly, that is, Catherine's boyish haircut and smiling, childlike innocence carry pederastic associations for David, who re-envisions Catherine's "surprise" according to the unrevealed peculiarities of his own disposition. Hemingway confirms David's pederastic impulses later on in the manuscript, when the protagonist "invent[s]" a role for Catherine as his captive boy, and when Marita poses as his "Arab boy." In my view, moreover, the pederastic content of Eden is intended to cast asperions on David's well-guarded masculinity. Within the confines of Hemingway's fictional universe, then, "perversity," in both a sexual and creative sense, seems to necessitate certain value judgments. Indeed, the libidinal configurations Hemingway- is working with here ultimately point toward Gilles de Rais, a man often regarded as the real-life Bluebeard. De Rais, of course, led a kind of double life, publicly associating with Joan of Arc (a short-haired female saint), while privately abusing and murdering children. I do not mean to suggest that such a large constellation of issues is readily <?3 apparent in the dinner passage at hand, but that David's artistic scrutiny of the short-haired Catherine, across a meaty table, prepares us for the subsequent development of such themes. The rare steak, after all, will soon be replaced by "roast kid" (emphasis added). Catherine, meanwhile, attempts to reassure David that all is well, that her short hair will not turn him into a monster. "You're nice, David," she says, "and I love you and nothing is dangerous when we love each other" (1.1.19; emphasis added). "Maybe we ought to eat cheese to be respectable," Catherine adds (1.1.19), sensing that her boyishly youthful appearance invests the honeymoon with an aura of disrepute. And back in the hotel room, after dinner, the honeymooners lie in bed, with "the top sheet" gone (1.1.19). The conspicuous absence of a protective covering, on this chilly spring evening, seems to imply Catherine's desire to shed all security blankets, to venture beyond the claustrophobic wrappings of orthodox sexuality. Indeed, Catherine now initiates a preliminary change of address, calling David "Dave" (1.1.19). Catherine's timely shortening of her husband's biblical name reflects her brotherly agenda, connoting an affection among equals. "Dave," Catherine asks, "you don't mind if we've gone to the devil do you?" (1.1.19). Closer, say, to Blake than to Milton, Catherine speaks with a subversive humour: suspicious of conventional morality, she is the gnostic advocate of "good vices" (1.1.3), seeking the divine in the forbidden. Put simply, for Catherine, a latter-day Eve, going "to the devil" is a necessary journey, a positive step toward freedom and self-realization. Predictably, however, the honeymooners do not see eye to eye on such matters. "No girl," David says (1.1.19), claiming that he does not, in fact, "mind" if they have "gone to the devil," even as his gender-specific use of the word "girl" contradicts or denies Catherine's androgynous redefinition of herself. In a related way, by employing the word "girl," "David"-turned-"Dave" indirectly refutes his diminutive stature. Indeed, David's subsequent sexual advances connote an all-embracing masculinity: with his "arms" "tight around [Catherine's] breasts," he "open[s] and closets] his fingers," feeling "the hard erect freshness" of her nipples (1.1.19). The Bluebeardlike oppressiveness of that "tight," squeezing grip physically imprisons Catherine, the would-be changer, within certain ideological definitions of "woman" as passive love-object. To borrow the language of feminist theory, Catherine ensures, "by an interplay of reflections," David's own "self-sufficiency as a subject"; the woman serves "as a mediator" in the man's "specular relationship with himself" (Felman 148). More importantly, perhaps, Catherine's objections suggest Hemingway's theoretical awareness: "Don't call me girl," she tells David, and admonishes him to "leave" her breasts. "They're just my dowry," Catherine explains, explicitly derogating her breasts as negotiable signs in a male-centred sexual economy. "They'll be there," Catherine assures David. "Feel my cheeks," she urges, redirecting David's attention toward her sideburns (1.1.20). "Oh it feels so wonderful and good and clean and new. Please love me David the way I am," Catherine says. "Please understand and love me" (1.1.20). Catherine,' in other words, seems to be telling David that her androgynous self is "the way" she really is. The obvious sincerity of Catherine's plea reaffirms her significance as a female character who is determined to pursue a complex form of self-discovery. In her attempt to guide the lovemaking, the newly sculptured Catherine asks David to remember a "sculpture in the Rodin Museum" (1.1.20). Shortly <\5 thereafter (1.1.22), a deletion in the manuscript reveals that Catherine is referring to Rodin's "The Metamorphoses of Ovid" (Appendix, Figure 3), a work whose central theme is change. Accordingly, Rodin's "Metamorphoses" becomes an important signpost in Eden, functioning as a tangible image of Catherine's aspirations. For Catherine, at least, Rodin figures as an informed artist, someone capable of expressing her subversive desire for wholeness. In a related way, Catherine seems to believe that Rodin possesses the sort of androgynous understanding that she is hoping to cultivate in David. As Mark Spilka explains, the "Metamorphoses" embodies an "edenic invitation to forbidden mysteries and disturbing sexual ambiguities" (286-287). In turn, the sculpture promises the sort of psycho-spiritual renewal Catherine seeks. Yet the "disturbing" ambiguities Spilka mentions simultaneously convey the "dangerous" aspect of Catherine's androgynous undertaking, a danger that Catherine attempts to downplay. Indeed, some of Rodin's related compositions, particularly those grouped together under the heading "Femmes Damnees" or "Damned Women, are clearly pessimistic (Appendix, Figure 3). Thus, whereas Catherine jokes about going "to the devil," Rodin, in a more serious mood, would eventually situate the "Metamorphoses" in the upper-regions of his master work, "The Gates of Hell," a kind of nightmare in stone. Rilke captures the consequent enigma of the "Metamorphoses" in his appraisal of Rodin's "The Eternal Idol" (Appendix, Figure 5), another couple study: "There is something of the atmosphere of a Purgatorio in this work," Rilke writes. "A heaven is at hand but is not yet attained; a hell is near [and] is not yet forgotten" (qtd. by Sutton 82). Because Catherine's androgynous sexual experimentation in some way imitates Rodin's "The Metamorphoses of Ovid," the sculpture itself warrants careful attention. Instead of depicting a specific incident in Ovid's 16 mythological book of changes, Rodin freely renders a woodland, Ovid-like scene, involving strange, half-human forms: a bestial, satyr-like man kneels over a recumbent, nymph-like woman, cradling her in his arms; the supine female lies crosswise upon the male's lap, with her buttocks resting upon the platform of his thighs. The androgynous complexity of the piece depends largely on a single, striking detail. For an unnaturally muscular breast, a mysterious combination of masculine hardness and feminine softness, is plainly visible upon the man's chest. The woman, on the other hand, is overwhelmingly "feminine," in the conventional sense of the word. Her exposed abdomen conveys a softness and vulnerability, and she has crossed her arms over her face, as if fearing the satyr's approach. Nevertheless, the scene retains an almost inexpressible tenderness. For the monstrous sartyr might also be viewed as a nurturing figure. He is, after all, apparently undergoing a kind of feminizing "change." In this respect, his breast-endowed torso may afford shelter from past wrongs. Similarly, while the sartyr presses his fearsome, heavily boned face against the nymph's right temple, the gesture might be more sympathetic than aggressive. Catherine uses Rodin freely, much as Rodin uses Ovid freely, and does not intend to recreate allegorically the circumstances of "The Metamorphoses." "Now try and be good and not think and only feel," she says, mentally preparing David for changes that exceed the socially established boundaries of convention. "Don't think," she urges. "Don't think at all" (1.1.20). In describing David's compliance, the narrator echoes Catherine's injunction, insinuating that David is only half-heartedly involved: "He lay back," we are told, "and did not think at all" (1.1.20). "Are you changing like in the sculpture?" Catherine asks, a question that seems to imply, at this point, at least, some definable equivalence between artifact and action. Indeed, Catherine seems to be asking David, the Bluebeardesque writer, to experience the feminization of Rodin's satyr. Viewed in this way, Catherine's request fits her larger scheme of intentions, which involve an androgynous remaking or reforming of David and his art. David, however, proves uncooperative. "Will you try [to change]?" Catherine asks. "No," David replies. Thus, the writer enacts a kind of passive resistance, and refuses to participate in Catherine's imaginings. Catherine, however, proceeds. A circumspect omniscient narrator describes what happens next: David, we are told, "lay there and he felt something and then her hand holding him and searching and he helped with his hands and then lay back in the dark and did not think at all and only felt the weight and the strangeness . . . " (1.1.20). Despite the deliberate ambiguity of Hemingway's syntax, it is fairly obvious that Catherine uses "her hand" to sodomize David. On a symbolic level, the action feminizes him, reinforcing the sort of male androgyny that Rodin's satyr seems to represent. "Now you can't tell who is who can you?" Catherine asks, implying- that David is both the man and the woman in this strange tryst. Yet it is not clear, at this point, whether Catherine herself is feminine, masculine, or both; she, too, seems to have undergone some sort of change, but perhaps her invasive finger simply points toward a reversal of the old male-female binaries. From this perspective, Catherine now objectifies David the way he has previously objectified her. The scene is problematical in other ways, too. For anal eroticism, a taboo in the heterosexual hegemonies of the West, often functions as a trope for debasement in European and American literature (Henderson 5), and Hemingway clearly exploits this Eurocentric application later on in the manuscript, where the "Arab boy" anal sex that occurs between David and Marita is implicitly "rough" (3.45.2) or "dirty like pornography" (3.45.22). The % strong current of authorial irony running throughout the novel might also provide good reason to be sceptical of Catherine's experiment: perhaps Catherine's tonsorial clippings and the attendant lovemaking simply reinscribe the narcissism of David's literary clippings. Alternatively, given the almost exclusive emphasis, thus far, upon -what David is or is not feeling, feminist critics, in particular, might be inclined to regard Catherine as a mere characterological instrument in a male-authored homosexual fantasy. In a similar fashion, I, too, as a male critic, might be accused of "distorting" the text in order to live out some unrealized fantasy of my own. As the scene continues, the lovemaking becomes even more problematical. "Now will you please be that way now?" Catherine asks. "Will you? Will you? Will you please?" she begs (1.1.21; emphasis added). Catherine's latest request registers a subtle change in the sexual dynamic: she now wants David to experience an exclusively feminine identification, to change completely, and be like the nymph in the statue: "Will you change and be my girl and let me take you?" she implores (1.1.21). Then, as if to complete the gender turn around, Catherine imagines David as herself, while she becomes "Peter": "You are changeing [sic]," she said. "Oh you are. You are. Yes you are and you're my girl Catherine." "You're Catherine." "No. I'm Peter. You're my wonderful Catherine. You're my beautiful lovely Catherine. You were so good to change. Oh thank you Catherine so much. Please know and understand. I'm going to make love to you forever." (1.1.21) The subjective emphasis in the scene now shifts to Catherine, who realizes what might be regarded as a kind of ultimate narcissistic dream. For Catherine, at the most obvious level, succeeds in making love to herself. Accordingly most Eden critics have focused on the censurable overtones of the event, dismissing Catherine's role swapping as an example of her growing pathology. Nevertheless, I would maintain that Hemingway's design remains more affirmative than the critical consensus allows, that Catherine's taboo-breaking is qualitatively different from Marita's. Indeed, Hemingway, to my mind, plays the anal-sex taboo both ways, depending on the characters involved. For Catherine's fantasy of making love to herself is in some sense a perfect expression of the androgynous capacities at issue throughout the manuscript. Paradoxically, that is, Catherine's self-love is self-transcending, permitting her to know the "Other" in herself. Nor is Catherine's lovemaking entirely wasted upon David, who also gains some undefined androgynous knowledge: "He knew now," the omniscient narrator tells us, "and it was like the statue. The one there are no photographs of and of which no reproductions are sold" (1.1.21). At the most obvious level, the restricted content of Catherine's source material reinforces the flaunting of social taboos, but the ban on reproduction also differentiates Catherine's "art" from David's, which spawns innumerable copies, photographs, and comments. Indeed, I would suggest that Catherine's clippings do, in fact, take her beyond the publicity, hype, and egotism of David's clippings, toward a genuinely ecstatic, untranslatable state of mystical insight. In a related way, the unquestionable sincerity of Catherine's puzzling and often desperate lovemaking evinces a reverence, an emotional honesty, that is lacking in Marita's follow-up performances. Yet if Catherine's actions are to be convincingly idealized, one must still attempt to account, in some way, for what she actually does: if Catherine wants to "change" things for the better, why must she do it in this I way? A potential answer to this question lies in David's attitude toward money, which, in turn, is intricately bound to his sense of masculinity. Earlier on, for example, I demonstrated how David's calculation of expected book profits become the measure of his strangely pinched selfhood. We also know that David feels emasculated by the "two big" checks Catherine receives from the (male)man. Nor does the connection between money, manliness, and emasculation appear only in the Grau-du-Roi section of the manuscript. When in Spain, for example, David discusses money with Andrew Murray. "You have money," Andy tells David. "Use it intelligently" (3.11.2). "The money is hers," David replies. "It's not all that simple" (3.11.2). "Who complicates it?" Andy asks. "Don't try to tell me she does. She may complicate plenty of • things for you but she won't complicate money" (3.11.2). David, however, cannot get past his self-imposed (i.e., irrational) money worries, and continues to feel uncomfortable about "the figures in his bank balances" well into the La Napoule section of the manuscript. It is ironically appropriate, therefore, that when Catherine eventually burns David's African stories she offers to pay him twice their estimated value. For although David is disgusted by the offer, it precisely reflects his well-established pattern of monetary concerns. And that pattern of concern, according to Freud, has an "anal constitution" (548): "we have accustomed ourselves," Freud writes, "to trace back interest in money, in so far as it is of a libidinal and not a rational character, to excremental pleasure . . . " (549). I will have more to say about David's specifically scatological satisfactions in Chapter Seven, and merely wish to point out here that David's unspecified hang-ups might entail an intended anal subtext. It follows that Catherine's desire to free David up by inserting a finger into his anus may carry a certain poetic justice. 101 Let me elaborate. By prodding David as she does, Catherine perhaps focuses on a physical zone that correlates with David's emotional problems. Indeed, moving beyond the rather obvious unity of anality and money, one might regard David's underside as the debased "seat" of his personality. For the dark hole that Catherine enters might represent a kind of bio-psychic dungeon, connoting the violence, hostility, and egotism that Catherine elsewhere associates with Bluebeard's closet. In this sense, Catherine's transgressive crossing of a forbidden bodily threshhold might legitimately take on a redemptive significance: the shocking invasion becomes a necessary act of exposure. Viewed in such a way, Catherine's actions might also be related to the cleansing enema that Catherine Barkley gives Frederick Henry, just before his "leg operation" in A Farewell to Arms. But whereas Catherine Barkley is a passive nurse, who later promises to do whatever Frederick wants, Catherine Bourne is a more assertive caretaker, a woman determined to claim a new identity for both herself and her husband. If we become prepared to grant the possiblity of a deliberately engrained idealism in the lovemaking scene, Catherine's use of the word "Peter" raises some interesting questions. "Have you always been Peter?" David later asks. "No," Catherine replies. "I just made it up tonight" (1.1.22). Catherine's response is a pun, involving her phallic role in the lovemaking and the related act of making "it up." But there is probably more to the name than this. Indeed, given Hemingway's frequent use of biblical names, and of the New Testament in general, Peter of the Synoptic Gospels warrants at least some consideration as Catherine's spontaneously adopted alter-ego. The biblical Peter, at any rate, generates a number of intriguing intertextual parallels. For, as previously noted, Catherine's surprises and changes take place immediately after David catches his "big fish," and Peter the apostle receives |05L Christ's calling at the Sea of Galilee, a transformative incident also associated with a marvelous and uncontainable catch of fish (Luke 5:1-10). Peter, moreover, goes on to become "a fisher of men," and the same might be said of Catherine, whose sexual experiments surpass David's piscatorial skills. Elsewhere in the gospels, of course, it is Peter who recognizes Christ-the-divine, gaining the keys to the kingdom of heaven and "the power to bind and to loose" (Matthew 16: 13-14). And while Peter remains both impetuous and fallible, he maintains a preferred position and is the first apostle to see the resurrected Christ. Thus far, only Arnold Weinstein has appreciated the potential complexity of Catherine's undertaking. "Hemingway," this critic writes, seems to have discovered that lovemaking is the ideal cubist arena, the place where bodies and names metamorphose, offer recombinant possibilities only hinted at in the earlier texts. The bedroom is the new atelier for the artist, and this is because sexual desire is now seen to be the great dismantling,. demiurgic force, equipped with a creative and associative-dissociative power akin to nuclear fission. The woman's bid for power is spectacularly multileveled: she takes the lead, she initiates the male, she inaugurates the morphological play and role swapping; finally, she boasts an endless potency (could David do as much?) and makes us see that her form of erotic activity makes of intercourse a kind of pleasure that could go on forever. (197) Weinstein*s analysis reinforces the extent to which Catherine's lovemaking figures as an affirmative, healing gesture. Indeed, Weinstein implicitly reminds us that Hemingway himself is writing "differently," in Catherine's 103 sense of the term (1.1.10), so as to deconstruct and falsify the rigid binaries of a mere David-like writer. Accordingly, as Catherine's lovemaking continues under the light of the moon (1.1.21), David's solar "clarity" gives way to a lunar diffusion. "You look so lovely in this light," Catherine tells her husband, allusively hinting at the possibility of a "Transfiguration." "[l]t works," she declares, affirming "the dark magic" of the change. "I didn't know if it would happen. But it did" (1.1.22). And later still, as the moon rises, the intensity of the changes builds. "Now it's really the way T thought it," Catherine says. "Now we have done it. Now we really have it" (1.1.23). Predictably, however, the psychological toll of such experimentation is extreme: following a pattern common in mystical experience, Catherine undergoes much shaking and crying before succumbing to exhaustion and sleep. "More than sex, more even than the body is being altered here," Weinstein explains. "These are forbidden rituals" that transport the honeymooners far beyond the post-war Riviera (198). In turn, Catherine becomes a teacher, leading David toward new ontological and artistic possibilities. David, however, remains a half-hearted participant in the nocturnal revolution. The protagonist develops an addictive dependency on the bottle of wine at his bedside, a fact that raises further questions about the meaning of his self-professed drinking "rules." Indeed, this particular bottle of wine, which David uses to alleviate the stress of Catherine's experiments, seems to embody his craving for masculine workmanship. In a related way, the bottle itself becomes a finely focused metaphor for David's besieged insularity: "Maybe you ought to drink out of it first now," he tells his wife (1.1.21). Catherine takes the comment as a "nice joke," but David has clearly lost I0f whatever sense of humour he may have once had. "[l]nside himself," the,male protagonist says a private good-bye to his bed partner: the young man put his arms around the girl and held her very tight to him and felt her lovely breasts against his chest and kissed her on her dear mouth. He held her close and hard and inside himself he said goodbye and then goodbye and goodbye . . . his heart said good-bye Catherine good-bye my lovely girl good-bye and good-luck and good-bye. (1.1.22-23) Once again, we might read "with" David and "against" him. If we choose to regard David's seemingly lyrical "good-bye" as a legitimate expression of grief, he comes off sounding like a loving husband who is saddened at the prospect of his wife's supposed madness. Yet David's long "good-bye" might also be regarded as somewhat abrupt. In this respect, it is interesting to note how "the young man" again imprisons "the girl" in his physical grip, but even more possessively than before: this time, he holds her "very tight" (emphasis added). Moreover, the lyricism of David's language almost certainly reveals a rather sentimental, overdetermined itemization of female body parts: David feels Catherine's "lovely breasts" and kisses her on her "dear mouth" (emphasis added). The next day, at the cafe, immediately after Catherine associates David with Bluebeard, she introduces "an idea" that further undermines her husband's egocentric desire for power and control. As always, the bill of fare sets the emotional tone. "What is there that's real?" Catherine asks, desiring a drink that is neither false nor imitative nor compensatory. Catherine's search for a "real" spirit provides a clue to the larger issues in the manuscript, reinscribing her metaphysical quest at the level of concrete detail. \05 Interestingly, David recommends Armagnac brandy and Perrier water—a singularly stimulating highball whose golden hue and potent force evokes the transformative mysteries of alchemy. This beverage, David declares with a discernible note of reluctance, is "real enough." Tn fact, the writer, now a practitioner of chemical arts, portrays the Armagnac as a medicinal tonic that will "fix" their troubles (1.3.1). Catherine approves, entertaining an unspoken implication that the "fresh clean healthy ugly taste" of the brandy will clean out their diseased insides. "For heroes," David says, wryly toasting (or roasting) Catherine's quest for spiritual transcendence (l.^.?; 1.3.1). "I don't mind being a hero," Catherine insists, inspired by her "idea," and by "the heavy brandy," which, as the narrator pointedly observes, has come "alive" with "the cold Perrier" (1.3.2). After a few more "long sips" of what David bemusedly calls "the hero medicine" (1.3.5), Catherine is ready to "speak out": "All right Davie," she says. "Who? Crockett I suppose. I thought why do we have to wait. Why do we have to be stuffy*7 Why don't we do it now When it can never be more fun? You'd naturally have a time now after you've finished a book when you wouldn't work and maybe it would be terribly hard to get started and maybe it wouldn't be good if you tried too soon. I know this because you told me. Didn't you? T remember. So now we can do whatever we want let's do it now and you can write afterwards and probably better than if you just tried now and worried". (1.3.5) Put simply, Catherine proposes that she and David should use her "spendable" trust benefits to prolong their honeymoon. But her "project," which she describes as "terribly constructive and even sound" (1.3.?; 1.3.3-4), involves 106 more than moneyed leisure. For Catherine's seemingly banal conception of "fun" (read fulfillment) raises the disconcerting prospect of total freedom. Indeed, doing "it" (fully living), in Catherine's mind, necessitates a brave departure from all "stuffy" social conventions; in her quest for direct and immediate experience, for something that is "real," she is prepared to abandon propriety. Her plan—which stresses the primacy of inner motivation over external behavior—notably lacks a definite outline, and does not entail any specific course of action (1.3.5). There is, in fact, a spontaneous, orgasmic urgency about Catherine's idea, a sense of liberation that follows from the intense sexual energy of the previous evening: "now we can do whatever we want let's do it now," she says (emphasis added). The plan, therefore, entails a deep regard for seemingly deviant behaviour. In dubbing her husband "Davie Crockett," Catherine invites him to explore the moral wilderness of their own psyches, to accept the polymorphous play of desire. The sheer openness of such a proposal ironically undermines David's male scripts. For the name "Crockett," a homonymic pun on "cock it," is about as male as it gets, amounting to a parody of heroic norms. In a related way, Catherine's programme displaces the kind of male violence she alludes to in her reference to Bluebeard. For while Bluebeard pretends to grant his wife freedom, telling her that she may "open everything [and] go anywhere," he mitigates his generosity with a severe restriction, barring her from a certain room in his mansion. The conflictual premise of permission and prohibition, a restatement of Jehovah's divine injunction in the garden, engenders the crisis of transgression around which Perrault's tale revolves. Catherine, on the other hand, does not await the measured favors of a law-giving husband, nor does she complicate her precept with limitations. Her distinctly revisionary pronouncement, which calls for spontaneity rather than obedience, applies both |0? unconditionally and equally, opening all doors. TTie house cleaning Catherine has in mind, her call for an all-embracing unity, ultimately challenges the subject-object dualism upon which David's male superiority is based. Fission, in this scheme, functions as the prelude to fusion, engendering a "both-and" rather than an "either-or" world. "We'll do everything you want" she reassures her husband (1.3.5), trading authority for reciprocity. Dazed by the onset of female initiatives, David offers a kind of misinformed resistance. Unable to grasp Catherine's mental shift, he remains mired in oppositional terms. For David immediately assumes that if they are going to do everything he wants, they will not be able to do anything she wants: "What about us doing something that you want to do?" he asks (1.3.5). Catherine hardens at precisely this moment, making it very clear that she vehemently rejects traditional patterns of female subjugation. "Darling," she replies, bristling, "don't don't don't ever worry about me not doing what T want to do" (1.3.5). At face value, the declaration might cast Catherine in the role of man-destroying shrew, a reading that certainly fits the conventional wisdom about Hemingway's portrayals of assertive women. On another level, however, Catherine's animus is a valid response to oppressive, patriarchal forces that would deny her individuality. In this sense, perhaps, Catherine's anger affirmatively reveals a bedrock of determination beneath her overt jouissance, suggesting that she is playing for keeps. It follows that the "rough" assertion imparts an especially sharp sting to David's besieged ego, since Catherine, given independence, can, in fact, do what she wants to do, with or without her husband's permission. "T see," says David, who, standing at a hostile distance, cannot really see at all. David's lingering ambivalence is signalled by the fact that "the [large] hero drink" does not, now, "taste so good" to him. Accordingly, he orders "a 108 fresh bottle of Perrier" and makes a "short" Armagnac, without ice (1.3.6). The modified highball, less imposing than before, connotes David's own sense of emasculation: unable to meet Catherine's tall order, the shrunken hero absent-mindedly savours a shorter, cubeless drink. Inevitably, David's thoughts turn to his own brand of "deadly" clear writing, the last reserve of male dominance. "[But] what if T want to write?" he asks, erroneously implying that Catherine has forbidden him to do so. "The minute you're not going to do something it will make you want to do it," he says (1.3.6). David's truism ironically reinscribes the prohibition-transgression paradigm that underlies the patriarchal worlds of Jehovah and Bluebeard. David, in other words, with some justification, perhaps, now imagines himself as a victim of tyrannical oppression. Catherine, however, immediately points out David's misreading of her verbal text: "If you feel like writing write," she says. "All we said was that we'd do what we wanted and go where we wanted and not worry about money or not writing. Nobody said anything about worrying if you wrote. Did they?" Catherine demands. "No," David concedes, without feeling any better. A narratorial aside confirms the protagonist's uneasiness: "[Sjomewhere," we are told, "something had been said and now he could not remember it because he had been thinking ahead" (1.3.7). I would suggest that the "something" Catherine has said involves a consensual way of being, and that David has "been thinking ahead" to the loss of an individualistic career, destiny, and selfhood. "If you want to write and you feel like writing you go ahead and write and I'll amuse myself," Catherine maintains. "I don't have to leave you when you write do I?" she asks. Significantly, though, David does not answer. For Hemingway's Bluebeardesque artist must, indeed, "leave" the feminine behind, trading androgynous togetherness for masculine isolation. 109 "Should we have lunch?" David asks, changing the subject. "I know, I'm stupid," he says. "I'm stupid too," Catherine replies, "and I said it stupidly. But it isn't a stupid thing." David agrees: "It's a very trusting thing," he says. "If we don't have trust what have we7" Catherine asks, obliquely raising the possibility that the Bournes may, in fact, have nothing. "Is [the Armagnac] better with the cold Perrier and without the ice'7" Catherine inquires, demonstrating a curiosity about David's suggestively shortened condition. "I think so," he says, uncertainly. "Make me one then please," Catherine responds. "Short like yours. And then let's let it start . . ." (1.3.7). On this sexually inflected note, Hemingway sends the honeymooners on their way, into a long, hot summer. Notes The special value that Catherine attaches to Tavel might reflect the distinguished history of the wine. Larousse Gastronomique notes that the wine was a favorite among Catholic priests in the region of Avignon. The spirited Rose, according to The Encyclopedia of Food and Wine, was also shipped to the Vatican. However, such circumstances might also fuel Hemingway's habitual irony. The possibility of an ironic inversion becomes likely, I think, after Catherine's night "change," when David (the writer-priest) compulsively quaffs the Tavel straight from the bottle. 9 Robert Gadjusek and Robert Fleming have already pointed out that Hemingway's thematic treatment of artistic inhumanity is closely related to similar elements in the work of Poe and Hawthorne. Gadjusek's study of "An Alpine Idyll," referred to elsewhere in this chapter, is especially instructive. "The artist's godlike creative function," Gadjusek writes, no makes him or her precisely the one to sacrifice nature to personal ends: the greater such idealism and the more rarefied such vision, the more fantasy and imagination play fast and loose with nature and the greater the de-formations nature suffers. The artist is ever the one who, often in serene detachment and necessary transcendence of materials can, like Whistler, paint a picture of his mother as merely "An Arrangement in Grey and Black," and can, like Hawthorne's and Poe's artists and scientists and imaginative adventurers, translate living flesh to a tone, a pigment, an area of color, a balance on a canvas, or a formal compositional problem. Hawthorne's Aylmer of "The Birthmark" and his Ethan Brand, and Poe's narrator of "Ligeia" and his artist of "The Oval Portrait," all sacrifice their women, however loved, to their absolutist fantasies of art or high, cold abstract perfection. In the work of Edgar Allan Poe a host of Ligeias and women on rue Morgues are the cost of their or their narrator's broken ties with the real world and their unworldly desire to transcend the cycles of the earthly process. Master of horror, Poe is also the writer who most fully explores the murderous cost of the imaginative creator's inhuman, creative vanity. Nathaniel Hawthorne's "Man in the Steeple" well knew-that although he could gain a betterf and more accurate detached view of the world from his height, he had to descend finally and rejoin mankind in the below. Hemingway, who studied the problem, never doubted that the descent to the valley was the necessary balance for the mountain journey. (I"7?) Robert Fleming, in "Perversion and the Writer in 'The Sea Change,'" explicitly links Hemingway's conception of writerly "perversion" to Hawthorne's "Unpardonable Sin," a connection argued for above. HI 3 Susan Beegel cites the passage from an unpublished letter in "Ernest Hemingway's 'A Lack of Passion"* (65). David's perception of Catherine's desire to find "something" that "nothing could break" recalls several passages in A Farewell to Arms. Thinking of Catherine Barkley, Frederic Henry ponders a well-known Hemingway proverb: If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so o^ course it kills them. The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. (?49) Later in the novel, on the operating table, Catherine confirms the point: "I'm not brave anymore, darling. I'm all broken. They've broken me. I know it now." C*?3) Rodin named the "Damned Women" series after a particular poem in Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du Mai (1857). As free embellishments of the poem upon which they are based, Rodin's "Damned Women" sculptures depict two lesbian lovers in the throes of a voracious, seemingly insatiable passion. A portion of the relatively languid poetic script reads as follows: In the pale clearness of the dull lamps, On the deep cushions all steeped in perfume, Hippolyte dreamed of powerful caresses Which would part the curtain of her youthful naivete. She watched the distant sky with a troubled eye, Through the storm of her innocence, Like a voyager who returns in memory To the blue horizons he passed in the morning. \\h Sluggish tears fell from her eyes as she reclined With a deadened look, stuporous, enjoying dismal pleasure. Her arms were limp, tossed aside like useless weapons. Wholly passive, she flaunted all her fragile beauty. Completely confident, calm and full of joy, Delphine covets her with ardent eyes, Like a strong animal who surveys his prey After having caught it with gnashing teeth. Strong beauty kneels before frail beauty. Magnificent, [Delphine] pleasurably tastes the wine of her triumph, stretching toward [Hippolyte] As if to receive a sweet thank you. (my translation) Although Baudelaire's "Femmes Damnees" seems fairly mild by today's standards, it was one of the poems censored out of the original volume. 113 CHAPTER THREE: THE PROJECT Tamed, madness preserves all the appearances of its reign. It now takes part in the measures of reason and in the labor of truth. It plays on the surface of things and in the glitter of daylight, over all the workings of appearances, over the ambiguity of reality and illusion, over all that indeterminate web, ever rewoven and broken, which both unites and separates truth and appearance. It hides and manifests, it utters truth and falsehood, it is light and shadow. It shimmers, a central and indulgent figure, already precarious in this baroque age. Michel Foucault, Madness and Civilization (36). After leaving Grau-du-Roi, the honeymooning Bournes drive across to Hendaye, on the South Eastern coast of France, then move down to Madrid. Hemingway's brief accounts of these two places are fully realized, and provide interesting reading. I will deal with the Spanish locale, in particular, later on. For now, however, I would like to begin discussing the important dramatic developments that occur in the lengthy La Napoule section of the manuscript. Upon returning to the French Mediterranean, David and Catherine take up residence in a remote and uninhabited hotel situated atop a pine-covered hill along the Esterel coastline (3.16.1), "four kilometers" outside of La Napoule (3.43.10). Here, Catherine intends to be "sensible" about her quest for selfhood ( "How would it be," she asks David, 114 "if I just let things go along and let them happen and we see how they turn out?" (3.15.17). Catherine's "wait-and-see" attitude imbues her self-described "project" of spiritual transcendence with an improvisational freedom. "Let's love each other and do what we can for each other," she declares (3.15.13-14). In turn, David reluctantly begins to write about the androgynous honeymoon, as if to appease Catherine's wish that he might learn to "write differently." Yet David's heart is not in the work he does for Catherine. Indeed, the protagonist's honeymoon story, briefly excerpted within Hemingway's own, ultimately figures as a failed, inner version of the outer work that both envelops and transcends it. Glancing ahead, I would suggest that David's honeymoon narrative also provides a less explicitly set off but still identifiable parallel artifact to his forthcoming African stories, which are much more to his liking (see Appendix, Figure 6, for a diagram of the mise-en-abyme pattern). David's latent animosity is suggested by Hemingway's intensified use of the Bluebeard motif as an artist parable. Indeed, the "long low rose colored Provencal house [sic]" (3.16.1), where the newlyweds stay, functions as a carefully blueprinted stage, permitting Hemingway to re-enact, modify, and otherwise embellish the events that occur in Bluebeard's mansion, another many-chambered country dwelling. On the whole, the Bluebeard parallel remains more suggestive than exact, but provides an increasingly irresistible "angle" upon David's writerly ways. For it is at this point in the narrative that David emerges as the guardian of his private work room. Given Catherine's overt reference to Bluebeard, Hemingway is surely aware of the fairy tale precedent for such behaviour, and even goes so far as to discuss the "key ring" David uses to lock his forbidden chamber (3.17.3; etc.). It is also worth noting that just as Perrault situates Bluebeard's secret room at "the 115 further end of the long gallery on the ground floor" (Carter 43), Hemingway places David's work room "at the further end" of the "long low hotel" (3.16.1-2). And later on, of course, as the plot thickens, Catherine breaks into the forbidden place, arousing David's anger. In effect, then, David-as-Bluebeard upholds the remnants of an older, patriarchal order amid Catherine's androgynous schemes. It follows that the Bournes' circular return to the Riviera signifies their failure to achieve any real progress. Mere tourists in "the dead summer season" (, David and Catherine are all but dead themselves. The underlying dysphoria of La Napoule becomes apparent as the omniscient narrator's introductory survey of the setting moves into David's consciousness. From the terrace of the hotel, David sees Catherine's "dark blue" Bugatti "coming along the road that border[s] the sea" (3.16.4). Catherine's new vehicle—a legendary, custom-made race car—functions as a superb emblem of her metaphysical aspirations (Appendix, Figure 7). indeed, Ettiore Bugatti, the designer of Catherine's car, was himself an artist. Ken Purdy describes this automobile pioneer as "one of a kind, greatly gifted, independent, impractical" (130). And C. F. Caunter writes that Bugattis "were notable for their progressive and original technical characteristics blended with an individual artistry of design" (56). According to Caunter, moreover, the excellence of the Bugatti cars was "typified by the combined grace and effectiveness of [their trademark] heart-shaped radiator" (56). The metaphorical suggestiveness of Catherine's new car might even remind us of the "driving" bass, back at Le Grau-du-Roi, which, in its "tragic violence," kept straining toward "the open sea." Indeed, David reinforces Catherine's identity as a "wild animal" (1.1.24) by noting the "snarl" of Bugatti. As in 1(6 the earlier fishing scene, however, David resists such border-crossing energy. For David's elevated stance upon "the terrace" is roughly equivalent to his position on "the jetty," re-establishing a hierarchical and self-protective relationship between a male subject and a mysterious "Other." As the scene progresses, the protagonist intensifies his watchfulness, presumably exerting the "deadly clarity" of his writerly vision. David's close attention leads to an imaginative reconfiguration: "It [the Bugatti] does look like a bug," he tells himself. Thus, from his hilltop perspective, David effects a "change" of his own, turning Catherine into a mere insect. The derogatory subtext of David's comment becomes very clear toward the end of the manuscript, when he privately tells Marita that "[t]he Bug is comic really" (3.45.21). "It's treason to say so," David says, "but it is" (3.45.21). Under the belittling eye of the artist, then, Catherine becomes the proverbial fly on the fresco, prowling over an artistic realm she can neither know nor appreciate. "That's the only place she can open it up," David thinks, as he watches the Bugatti race along a "flat" straight. "She might as well," he tells himself. In keeping with David's geographical and emotional distance, there is a faint trace of laconic condescension in this mental shrug, a submerged implication that Catherine "might as well" make the most of her car, since she has so little else. "She's driving sound and solid now," David tells himself (3.16.4), silently complimenting Catherine on her ability to handle the car, but that word "now" also implies that, in David's mind, Catherine might "crack-up" at any time. The tension of the scene mounts as Catherine approaches. Hemingway's omniscient commentary continues to be structured by character perception as we are told that "[t]he car was quieted as she came up the road to the back of the house. Then it was silent . . . " (3.16.5). A moment later, Catherine II*-appears: "she came walking down the gravelled path, bare headed, dark faced, incredibly dark-skinned, wearing a striped shirt, a skirt and espadrilles and carrying a bulky straw marketing sack [sic]" (3.16.5). This exhaustive account of Catherine's appearance suggests that Hemingway is again using detail both literally and metaphorically. On what might be considered an "objective" level, the description seems to imply that Catherine has "gone native," as it were. Her attire, or lack thereof, is very different from the long-sleeved cashmere sweater, scarf, and skirt that she wears at Sunday mass in Le Grau-du-Roi. "Dark faced" and "incredibly dark-skinned," the sandal-clad Catherine is, indeed, becoming "a negro" (1.3.3), moving toward a kind of polymorphous, African primitivism. But the image we are given of Catherine also tells us something about David's subjective response to her. It is interesting, for example, that David surveys Catherine from top to bottom, with his habitual "clarity." The male gaze, in this respect, seems to exert a rather critical, if not leveling force. Indeed, the reference to Catherine's bare head precisely echoes Jake Barnes'.first-person view of the bare-headed (and short-haired) Brett, when she enters the "bal musette," accompanied by a gaggle of homosexual men. In the earlier novel, as in this later novel, the woman's bare-headedness is both alluring and threatening, a sign of sexual freedom. Under the circumstances, then, Jake and David are two of a kind, hostile men frustrated by a sense of their own emasculation. In a related way, Catherine's "bulky straw marketing sack" is both womblike and testicular, ironically reinforcing her androgynous propensities. Even more ironically, however, that "marketing sack" also reflects back upon David's writerly "bag," suggesting his dubious commercialism. For David, Hemingway tells us, takes the bag from Catherine (3.16.5). 118 We now find out that Catherine is bored and depressed by the ongoing pettiness of the marriage: "I don't know whether I'm a good wife or a pack rat," she says, wryly associating her shopping trip with the fulfillment of wifely responsibilities. For Catherine, that is, the generically "good wife," a woman who stocks up on material needs and novelties, is little more than "a pack rat." And given David's recent treatment of Catherine as a bug-like specimen, her language evinces the legitimizing internal consistency that we have come to expect. Indeed, Marita, a woman who satisfies all David's needs, will later perfect the "pack rat" role. "What were you doing there on the flat?" David asks, as if to change the subject. "I didn't look at the revs. I just listened to them come up," Catherine explains, perhaps revealing a certain carelessness. "May I have a drink?" she asks (3.16.^). "I'm sorry," David says, behaving with that "bloody false politeness" that his wife elsewhere detests. Significantly, Catherine goes on to request straight "Gin," or, as she puts it, "[t]he old charwoman's special" (3.16.6). Such language again plays on degrading female stereotypes, marking a demotion from "good wife" to drunken servant. Once again, moreover, alcohol is "medicine" (3.16.7); but plain gin, which Catherine describes as "just medicine" (; emphasis added), is a far cry from Armagnac and Perrier, the "hero medicine" (emphasis added) of Le Grau-du-Roi. Interestingly, too, Catherine informs David that "[tjhere's some [gin] in the sack" (3.16.6), a comment that, among other things, reinforces the extent to which David's writerly masculinity determines the "charwoman" image. For Catherine also describes the general contents of the bag as a "treasure trove," employing a phrase that evokes and subverts the value of the male-spawned African stories as forthcoming treasures (or jewels). Mirthfully, Catherine then professes to be "sorry too" (3.16.6), mimicking David's false politeness. Catherine, we gather, is "sorry" for much more, for her own excesses, say, and, possibly, for marrying David in the first place. "Here's to nothing," she says, as if feeling empty inside. In an effort to make herself feel better, Catherine then recalls David's recent work on the honeymoon narrative. "Anyway you worked," she says (3.16.6), finding some solace in David's attempt to "write differently" (1.1.10). Catherine, that is, seems to hope that David's new way of writing will confirm her androgynous aspirations by reflecting them. In this sense, the work-in-progress becomes, for Catherine, a kind of private testament, a text that gives birth to a new kind of selfhood. "Could I have a dry clean martini now?" she asks. "I don't like to drink like a slut" (3.16.7). Thus, upon thinking of the honeymoon narrative, and its androgynous content, Catherine explicitly rejects a descending order of images that bear upon patriarchal definitions of womanhood: "good wife," "pack rat," "charwoman," and, finally, "slut." I should emphasize, once again, that Catherine stops where Marita begins. Indeed, the omniscient narrator tells us that Catherine "took the drink and sipped it and looked out at the sea and the wrinkled line the movement of the air made on the water" (3.16.7). This careful notation of controlled drinking and renewed vision negotiates a tenuous shift from trivia to meaning, from depression to renewed mysticism. More specifically, this stirring of the waters evokes the free flowing lines of the different writing Catherine hopes for, revealing a pattern that is not a prison, contours that do not arrest, directions that do not end. It is Rodin's "The Metamorphoses of Ovid" all over again: a subjectively perceived texture that liberates psychic potential. Articulating her transcendent aims, Catherine claims that she misses "ecstacy." The early-Greek derivation of the word, which links "ekstasis" to IZO "insanity" and "bewilderment," can be invoked to render Catherine's critically ascribed identity as a deluded woman or over-reaching Eve. Yet Catherine, as we have already seen, self-consciously manipulates these sexist stereotypes for her own purposes, and she continues to do so: "I know ecstacy is the name of a cat," Catherine says, "and I've been happy all right and God knows I've been as good as I know how but I miss ecstacy. If I was a cat I'd miss it" (3.16.8; emphasis added). Hemingway wrote about cats often, with varying intentions, but E. Roger Stephenson's outstanding essay on "Hemingway's Women," subtitled "Cats Don't Live in the Mountains," helps us to see that the hypothetical "cat" named ecstacy, to whom Catherine refers, is a whore. In discussing Frederick Henry's identification of Catherine Barkeley as "Cat," immediately after much textual talk about Milan whores, Stephenson points out that "cats" also live in "cathouses" or brothels (40). We should note, too, that David Bourne, like Frederick Henry, occasionally shortens the name of his own Catherine to "Cat" (1.3.3.; etc.). Nevertheless, Catherine Bourne herself, a deeply tanned "wild animal," reveals that she actually belongs to a less domesticated order of felines: "I'm lion color," she explains, elsewhere, "and they can go dark" (1.4.3). Thus, as a "lion," Catherine is better, more noble, than the crazy and/or whorelike "Cat" she now alludes to. At a deeper level, then, Catherine can also be viewed as a character who uses "ecstasy" in the post-classical sense of the word, as a synonym for mystical insight. "The very precondition of [such] ecstacy," Mark Luyster writes, is "abandoning the ego or mask, more than most of us can manage. . . . Only in ecstacy do we discover the truth of our being: that the life that everywhere surrounds us is us" (124). David, meanwhile, appears irritated by Catherine's expression of desire. Touchy as always on vocational matters, he misunderstands the gist of Catherine's remarks, indicating that he is perfectly willing to drop the narrative and try something else: "I've worked well for a month," David says. "The hell with that. I can always work" (3.16.7). David repeats the point several times, in a variety of ways, as if dwelling upon a term of indentured servitude. "I've worked hard for a month," he says next, recalling his "promise" to abide by Catherine's project. This time, however, David avoids any qualitative statment about his work. "I made the promise and I'll keep it," he tells himself. Then, as if trying to prove something, David silently measures his loyalty: "I've worked for one quarter of the time we've been together," he tells himself." But the statistic is less impressive than David would like to believe, and recalls his less-than-half-hearted, "jetty" engagement with the Grau-du-Roi sea bass, which, initially at least, could only force "a quarter of the rod" under water (1.1.6). By way of an inserted afterthought, David again claims to have "worked well," but a deleted portion of accretion is more telling: "It's a hell of a story if I've done it as I should," David thinks (3.16.7-10). "[A] hell of a story," indeed, belonging, no doubt on Rodin's "Gates of Hell." David, however, is not sure that he has "done it as [he] should" (3.16.10). The omniscient narrator, moreover, tells us that David realizes he '"took money'" in exchange for his writerly services. This unspoken thought rehashes the messy business of David's money complex, while ironically revealing that he conceives of himself as a prostitute, as an artist who has sold his talent for money. At some level, perhaps, the thought is true enough, but it also reinforces the loveless nature of David's enterprise. As the dialogue proceeds, we witness a kind of verbal sparring match, full of telling obliquities and innuendo. David, for example, projects his own frustration onto Catherine: "I know it's been boreing [sic] for you," he tells her, alluding to his month of work on the honeymoon story. The self-pitying gist of such condolences then becomes remarkably transparent: "There's nothing duller than a writer when he's writing," David maintains. "It's the dullest thing there is except doing it" (; emphasis added). Later on, however, when David writes his own stories, "doing it" greatly excites him. In effect, then, David hides private objections to his part in "the project" by mustering forth rather banal and unreliable statements about the hardships of his metier. The screening mechanism piques Catherine: "Don't let's be martyrs. . . They're what's really dull," she replies. On the one hand, Catherine's comment rightfully turns David's "suffering-artist" pose into an untenable cliche. Yet by using the sardonically inflected "let's" (emphasis added), Catherine includes herself in the realm of would-be martyrs, a proposition that warrants more serious consideration. For Hemingway's Catherine, who defies the rules of her time, may bear an intended relation to St. Catherine of Alexandria, who was martyred upon a flaming wheel for defying Roman authority. Moreover, Marita allusively relates Catherine's exploits to Joan of Arc, simultaneously reinforcing David's role as Gilles de Rais, or Bluebeard. In some sense, therefore, Catherine _is "a bloody martyr" (3.16.11), but not, perhaps, a very "dull" one. Accordingly, there might well be an element of self-conscious and/or authorial irony in Catherine's overt denial of tragic status. A string of contradictions ensues. "And please don't say I've been bored," Catherine adds. "That makes me a failure" (3.16.10). Given the "danger" of Catherine's androgynous schemes, "failure" carries a fatal heft, signifying madness and death. "You haven't been a failure. You've been wonderful," David replies, echoing Catherine's Utopian values without actually 123 believing in them. Exasperated by David's condescension, Catherine now appropriates and undermines David's language: "I haven't been wonderful," she says, "I've had a fine time" (3.16.11). Catherine's use of the word "fine" gives a bitter twist to David's previously noted certainty that his wife would be "fine" about the "enforced loneliness" of his masculinist writing. Indeed, the recurrence of the word here, in the context of David's attempt to write "differently," suggests that very little, if anything, has changed. At this point, Catherine cynically reviews her progress thus far. Among other things, she mentions her recent reading, suggestively placing "Proust" first on the list (3.16.11). Proust seems to afford a precedent for the kind of androgynous writing that Catherine wants David to undertake. In the Madrid section of the manuscript, however, where Proust becomes a topic of conversation, Catherine expresses some reservations about his work, implying that the homosexual content lacks metaphysical reach: "I know I shouldn't judge it out of context," Catherine says, "but it wasn't really instructive though, the Gomorrhe part at least" (3.9.3-4). David, meanwhile, is much harder on Proust, and accuses Catherine of talking like him (3.9.3). And when Catherine claims that "most writing is so worthless," David bitterly tells her that she has "Proust now," forecasting his own unmanly role as the writer of the honeymoon narrative. "Fuck Proust," Catherine replies, rejecting the implication that she simply wants a male patsy. "They say it's been done," David says, unwittingly reminding us of what Catherine has already "done" to him. But despite the rough treatment Proust receives in passages of dialogue, he remains, in some sense, a model for Hemingway himself, who undertakes the different writing David balks at. Indeed, Arnold Weinstein (193), and Rose Marie Burwell (198-199) have noted the Proustian design of the manuscript, commenting upon a wraithlike, proliferated style that is not as haphazard as IZ4 it may seem. In a related way, Milton L. Miller's description of Proust as "the most self-revealing of all authors" (263) is particularly relevant to the Hemingway of Eden. Appropriately, Catherine's creative frustration eventually centres on the childless state of her marriage: "[l]f you think we're going to go to a dirty French doctor and have him poke things inside of me and take your juices that belong to me and make slides of them and try to mess up our lives—" she says, before David interrupts (3.16.12-13). Catherine's outburst raises important questions about the cause and significance of her barrenness, but for now I would merely like to note that the sort of clinical objectification she abhors typifies David's detachment, affording still another artist parable. The parallel function of "that dirty French doctor" becomes a little clearer moments later, when Catherine resumes her tirade: "I'd like to have a chance to talk to that insuperable faker. That semen; stealer. That degrading filthy minded old quack. . . .He's obscene. He's my enemy" (3.16.17). Catherine is, of course, talking to David at precisely this moment, and even draws our attention to the fact: "[T]ry not to mind if I talk," she says (3.16.11). Moreover, Catherine will also lay similar charges against David, accusing him of fraudulence (3.38.11; 3.39.13-15), obscenity (3.38.4,14; 3.39.13), and malice (3.38.7). Thus, the imaginary doctor, whose scientific metier involves internal examinations and slides, does, indeed, bear a curious resemblance to David the writer, whose pictorial imagination variously figures as a magnifying glass and photographic "dark room." It follows that in lampooning the semen-stealing doctor, Catherine issues a veiled critique of David's masturbatory self-involvement. More obviously, in claiming David's creative "juices" for herself, Catherine simultaneously emphasizes her rightful claim upon the writerly "juice" needed to father the narrative of her erotic adventures. 125 As the conflict heats up, Catherine's talk attains a kind of manic intensity. Returning to the subject of a child, she says: "[A]nd as for that fucking patter of little feet. Probably running to the stables to ask the garageman for an ax [sic] to kill mummy" (3.16.13). Once again, Catherine's discourse warrants careful interpretation. On a literal level, we might simply understand her to mean that she hates children. Nevertheless, much of what Catherine says about children at this stage in the manuscript might also be read as a deliberate bluff, akin to her "I can do anything and anything and anything" speech. For the axe-murder scenario again suggests that Catherine is using a given language or cultural script so as to demonstrate that she does not accept nor wholly conform to its attendant set of values. The "given language" at issue, in this case, clearly derives from the British mystery novel, and, more particularly, from the world of second-rate thrillers. In turn, the axe murder that Catherine describes self-evidently belongs to "the common tongue," reinscribing the underlying patterns of femicidal aggression in Eden. By implication, then, the sort of maternal dismemberment Catherine envisions, at the hands of a child, vividly reinforces her fears of Bluebeard's closet. The verbal turbulence ultimately leads to metafictional complexities. Impressed by Catherine's wit, David ponders the murder Catherine describes: ""Wouldn't the garage man give her a spanner?" he asks, obviously impressed. "What is a spanner?" Catherine inquires. "For what they're always using them for it must be either a wrench or a tire iron," David says. "Be careful how you spell tyre," Catherine replies, warning David about the variant British spelling of "tire." In effect, then, Catherine insinuates that her dazzling conversation deserves to be written down. But that task of recording is 126 actually performed by Hemingway himself, rather than David, who will eventually withdraw his writerly services. Thus, Hemingway orchestrates a modest "frame break," calling attention to Eden's status as a literary artifact. The technique occurs elsewhere in the Hemingway canon, most often in the lesser read short stories, such as "A Natural History of the Dead." Hemingway embellishes the metafictional implications of the dialogue, to the point where Catherine, in particular, explictly discusses "the book" she wants David to write— a "book" we know as the failed, inner version of Hemingway's outer narrative. "Have you got a spanner in the book?" Catherine asks David, suggestively associating his writing with the second-rate fiction she has already alluded to. Catherine's question develops her status as a self-consciously fictional character, while affording an authorial clue to future events. For the "spanner" at issue need not be limited to David's literal definition of "wrench" or "tire iron." In a colloquial sense, perhaps, Catherine asks David if he has "thrown a spanner into the works," if he has included something or someone who might disrupt the marital me