Hemingway

Round 3: "A Farewell To Arms"

I Found Ernest in New York. Or rather he found me. I was there on my way to the West Coast. It was my first trip to The States in twelve years and the newspapers gave me quite a write-up. Pictures in the paper and everything. He saw it and came around to the Plaza to see me. I was glad he had seen it.

He looked pretty low, I thought. But that awful Depression and the Prohibition stuff was enough to make anybody low. He had a clean shave though and didn't need a haircut. He even had a tie on. He never felt right in city clothes. Looked like a fireman out of uniform. Kept shaking his head sadly. I expected him to start congratulating me. But he didn't. Guess the Depression must have caught up with him over here. Too bad. Out of the frying pan into the fire, I thought.

"Hello," I said aloud.

"Hello," he said.

"Get some bad news?" I said.

"Yes," he said.

"About a book or something?" I said.

"No," he said. "About you. Is it true?"

"Is what true?" I said.

"That you are only getting five hundred?" he said.

There he goes again, I thought. Only five hundred he says. You'd think five hundred a week was peanuts to hear him talk. Looked like he was going to break out crying. I poured him a drink of twelve dollar Scotch fast. I knew he wouldn't let any tears dilute that. Bet he hasn't had any Scotch that good since he's been in New York, I thought.

"It's coming in every week," I said.

"Tear up your contract," he said.

"Why?" I said.

"The place is a graveyard for writers getting small dough," he said.

Still thinking about graveyards, I thought. I knew it wasn't sour grapes. Just a state of mind. You could see he really felt sorry for me.

"Ever been there?" I said.

"No," he said.

"Oh," I said.

"Refused four times that much last week," he said.

"Pretty good purse for a club fighter," I said. "Suppose I could get you a good bout out there. What would you really take?"

"Ten thousand," he said.

"A year?" I said.

"A week," he said.

"Oh," I said.

What are you going to do with a guy like that, I thought. Who ever heard of a writer getting ten grand a week? That's a half million a year. Must be kidding me. If I can get him a job in Hollywood I'll do it, I thought.

I said aloud, "How is the Depression hitting you?"

"What Depression?" he said.

"I wouldn't know," I said. "Heard things were pretty tough."

"Haven't noticed it," he said. "My last bout drew a big gate. Best seller. Bought a boat and a house in Key West. I'll be shooting at the New York State title in the Garden in my next one."

I rang up for some ice and some setups and when the bellboy came in with the ice he turned the knife. Held out a pencil and asked Ernest for an autograph. I reached for the pencil thinking the kid had made a mistake. I was the visiting celebrity. But the bellboy held on to the pencil and handed me the ice instead. "It's Mr. Hemingway's autograph I want," he said. "I can sell it for ten bucks anytime."

That's a hot one, I thought. Must be a gag.

"That your son, Ernest?" I said.

"Could be," he said.

The bellboy said, "I read A Farewell To Arms and it's a swell book."

"I've heard it well spoken of," Ernest said.

"So have we," my friends said.

"I must remember to read it," I said.

"You won't," Hemingway said.

I said farewell to New York the next day. A brass band met me at the station in Hollywood and escorted me in state to the studio. Then they forgot all about me. I couldn't learn the language. They would ask me how much I was getting and then stop speaking to me. I met an old newspaper pal of mine from Chicago named Charlie MacArthur. He was getting two grand a week, he told me. I didn't believe him until he showed me his contract. When he heard what I was getting he shook hands warmly with me. "Goodbye, pal," he said. "Nice seeing you." And he walked away. That guy Hemingway must be psychic, I thought. When I saw one of the movies they made of my stuff I hit out for Paris. Couldn't take it.

I tried to contact Ernest in New York but he was fishing in Key West. After three weeks in Paris I got another offer from Hollywood. The Fox studio wanted me for a Paris picture. They didn't even know I had ever been in Hollywood. I raised the ante a little this time but it still was not enough. Again I looked for Ernest. But he was still fishing.

But back in Hollywood this time I got my chance to pay him back for that big favor he had done me at the Paris fights. I was working at MGM at the time. It was about a year later. I had not heard how he was doing. In Hollywood you never read or talk about anybody but yourself.

But somebody at MGM must have broken the rule. They had seen an item in O. O. McIntyre's column about Hemingway and me. I was right there on the lot so they sent for me. I was escorted with great deference into Louis B. Mayer's office. Did I know Hemingway? Sure I did. Could I get him to come out to Hollywood? Sure I could--for big money. How much would he want? Plenty.

Naturally I knew that ten grand a week was ridiculous and I also knew that Frances Marion was the highest paid writer on the lot at that moment. She was getting $2750 a week. So I told them they would have to pay him five thousand. No harm in asking, I thought.

They never batted an eye. You'd think it was five cents the way they agreed. I couldn't wait to get out of there to send him a telegram. Here it is:

Ernest Hemingway

Key West Florida

Got You Offer Five Thousand A Week Stop MGM Studio Stop Three Months Contract Stop Wire Acceptance Stop Congratulations

JED

Well, I thought, it will be nice seeing the old boy again. Five grand a week! Some stipend. I knew that he wasn't the kind of guy to stop talking to an old pal just because he was in the big sugar. Nice kind of a guy to have around to put the bite on now and then too. He'd never miss it. Makes a fellow feel good to help out an old pal. I felt swell and could hardly wait for his wire. Maybe we could get a house together in Beverly Hills with a big swimming pool and everything. I was wondering how long it would take him to get there when his wire came:

Jed Kiley

MGM Studios

Culver City California

Don't be silly stop

Ernest

There it was in black and white. I saved the telegram in case some psychiatrist in Key West might want to see it some day. How do you get that way? I thought. Five grand a week is twice as much as the President of the United States gets. And he says don't be silly. Why, F. Scott Fitzgerald was only getting a thousand on the same lot. I told Scott about it. He shook his head sadly.

"Maybe he's right," Scott said. "I heard he just turned down fifty thousand for the movie rights to A Farewell To Arms. Said he wants a hundred grand or nothing."

"What?" I said.

"That's right," Scott said. "And to think that I thought I was overpaid when they offered me ten for one of mine."

"He's not a writer," I said. "He's a business man."

"No," Scott said. "He is a great writer. If I didn't think so I wouldn't have tried to kill him that time."

"Kill him?" I said.

"Sure," Scott said. "I was the champ and when I read his stuff I knew he had something. So I dropped a heavy glass sky-light on his head at a drinking party. But you can't kill the guy. He's not human."

"Hurt him much?" I said.

"Not enough," Scott said. "Only twelve stitches."

"Too bad," I said.

I could have dropped a whole roof on him after that telegram. I was counting on a nice ten percent for getting him the job. Felt sorry for poor Scott too. Hollywood turned out to be a graveyard for him all right. He died soon after.

I left Hollywood in 1934. It was too lonely. Then one day in New York I saw a big headline in Variety. "Hemingway Gets 100 G'S For Farewell," it read. What do you know? I thought. He got it. That was tops in those days for movie rights to a novel. One hundred thousand smackers! Some purse.

Wonder if he can take it, I thought. Prosperity is harder to take than poverty. A lot of good men slow down when they get into the big money. Look at poor Scott Fitzgerald. He was a great champ until he started getting what he thought was big money. Then he never wrote another thing. The big time killed him. He was already punch drunk when I saw him in Hollywood. A has-been at 35.

Wonder if Ernest will keep slugging like he always said, or get out of shape too? Might even go high-hat. I didn't see how he could get the swelled-head. He had that, as big as it could stretch, ten years ago. Before he had a dime. He can dish it out, I thought, but can he take it?

I found out in the spring of '36.

Next Month:

Round 4: "Winner Take Nothing."

"It's Mr. Hemingway's autograph I want," said the bellboy.