The first, and only, book I’ve read by Ernest Hemingway is A Moveable Feast. In addition to offering insight into his days spent writing, he also spoke tenderly and somewhat sadly about his relationship with his first wife, Hadley Richardson. After finishing Feast, I wanted to read more, so when I heard about The Paris Wife I couldn’t resist.
Paula McLain’s fictional account of Paris in the glorious 1920s told from Hadley’s viewpoint feels real and authentic. (McLain studied several biographies of Hadley, A Moveable Feast, correspondence between the couple, as well as works by the Hemingways’ friends F. Scott Fitzgerald and Gertrude Stein.) Where Feast is seen through Ernest’s eyes, The Paris Wife tells Hadley’s story – how she loved Ernest, and why she ultimately had to let him go become the great Papa Hemingway.
Hadley met Ernest in Chicago in 1920 when she was 28 and thinking her chance at love had passed her by. Why, by the standards of the day, she was practically an old maid! How surprised she was when this handsome wannabe-writer took an interest in her at her friend’s party. And even more surprised when a letter arrived “Special Delivery” the day after she returned home to St. Louis.
“You on the train and me here and everything emptier now you’re gone. Tell me are you real?”
Wouldn’t you swoon if you read those words in a letter marked “Special Delivery”? I know I would. (Of course, I’d swoon if I received anything handwritten from a fellow – much more romantic than a text or email.)
The book follows the couple as their love burns bright along the Seine, as Ernest struggles to write what’s true on his Corona typewriter, and as Hadley encourages him with every draft and revision. Until Ernest, always looking for the next big thing, moves on, forcing Hadley to let him go.
“I can’t quarrel with you anymore and I can’t see you much either, because it hurts too much. We’ll always be friends – delicate friends, and I’ll love you ’til I die, you know.”
Though the two went on to marry others (Ernest several times), they kept in touch over the years, and it’s obvious from later writings that the love they shared in Paris never went away. Ernest himself said so:
“No one you love is ever truly lost.”




