Paula McLain - The Paris Wife

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hope that’s true,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I think I’m better off here.”

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

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

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

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

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