1장
The Last Good Time: Hemingway's Journey Through Friendship and Decline
Ernest Hemingway's life was a paradox of extraordinary success and devastating personal tragedy. By 1961, this literary giant possessed Nobel and Pulitzer Prizes, homes across the globe, and devoted friends-yet on July 2nd of that year, he put a shotgun to his head and ended his life. What drives a man with seemingly everything to such a desperate act? As his close companion for fourteen years, A.E. Hotchner witnessed Hemingway's adventures, triumphs, and ultimately his unraveling. While no one can definitively answer "why," Hotchner's intimate account brings us as close as possible to understanding the complex man behind the literary legend.
2장
First Encounters with "Papa"
My initial meeting with Hemingway came in 1948 Havana, where he took me aboard his beloved cabin cruiser Pilar, a 38-foot Wheeler Playmate that had become as legendary as its owner. The vessel, named after both the Spanish shrine Our Lady of Pilar and the fierce partisan character in For Whom the Bell Tolls, represented Hemingway's dual passion for both spirituality and adventure. He introduced his mate Gregorio Fuentes with tremendous respect: "Went to sea when he was four out of Lanzarote in the Canaries... got Pilar through three hurricanes with his absolute seamanship, is a peerless fisherman, and cooks the best pompano you ever tasted." Fuentes, then in his late fifties, embodied the kind of authentic maritime expertise that Hemingway deeply admired.
As we fished in the Gulf Stream's crystal waters, Hemingway revealed Pilar's secret wartime history. From 1942-1944, she served as a Q-boat under Naval Intelligence, disguised as a fishing vessel while hunting German submarines off Cuba's north shore. The boat was equipped with hidden machine guns and radio gear, while maintaining its casual fishing vessel appearance. Though they never directly engaged a U-boat, their intelligence network helped sink several Nazi submarines. Hemingway had assembled a crew of local fishermen who knew the waters intimately, transforming his beloved sport fishing boat into a covert military asset.
When we spotted a marlin that day, Ernest handed me the rod despite my inexperience - a gesture I later recognized as both a test and an invitation. With extraordinary patience, he guided me through the proper technique: the careful balance of tension and give, the importance of reading the fish's movements, and the stamina required for what could become an hours-long battle. After successfully landing the magnificent fish, he tentatively knighted me as a potential co-adventurer in what would become a thirteen-year partnership.
Six months later, I visited his home, Finca Vigia (Lookout Farm), a limestone villa sitting on thirteen acres in San Francisco de Paula, about fifteen miles outside Havana. This "charming ruin" as Hemingway affectionately called it, featured extensive tropical gardens, a swimming pool where he often entertained guests, and most remarkably, a massive ceiba tree sacred in voodoo growing through the house. Despite the tree's roots gradually splitting the interior walls, Ernest wouldn't allow it to be touched, respecting both local traditions and the tree's ancient presence.
The villa's interior revealed Hemingway's eclectic tastes and obsessions. The walls displayed magnificent animal heads from African safaris, with worn animal skins scattered across the traditional Cuban tiled floors. Books dominated every available space-over 5,000 volumes lined walls from floor to ceiling, ranging from classic literature to contemporary works, many annotated in his distinctive handwriting. His art collection reflected sophisticated taste, including works by Juan Gris, Miro, Masson, Klee, and Braque, most acquired during his Paris years.
His bedroom doubled as his workspace, though he never used the formal desk that sat perpetually cluttered with correspondence and manuscripts. Instead, he wrote standing at a makeshift station fashioned from a bookcase top with a portable typewriter, claiming it helped him maintain focus and energy. His bathroom walls displayed an obsessive chronicle, covered with handwritten records of blood pressure, weight, and medical data-an early sign of the health obsessions that would later consume him. These meticulous records, updated daily, revealed a man increasingly preoccupied with monitoring his physical decline, even as he maintained his legendary vigor in public.
3장
The Writer's World: Process, Inspiration, and Habits
Ernest's writing process revealed the extraordinary discipline behind his deceptively simple prose. He typically worked from early morning until one o'clock, then "cooled out" before lunch. He wrote standing up at his makeshift desk, edited obsessively, and started each day by rereading everything written so far to maintain continuity and rhythm.
"True fiction must come from everything you've ever known, ever seen, ever felt, ever learned," he explained when discussing how he created characters like Catherine Barkley in A Farewell to Arms. She was primarily based on his Torino Red Cross nurse from WWI, with elements of his wives Hadley and Pauline blended in. Ernest filtered "realistic sludge" from his romantic concepts, refining actual experiences into art.
His approach to revision was relentless. When working on "Across the River and into the Trees," which began as a short story during his hospitalization in Italy, he explained: "All of my books started as short stories. I never sat down to write a novel." This process of expansion and refinement characterized his work.
Ernest once shared his two absolute rules about writing: "One is that if you make love while jamming on a novel, you're in danger of leaving the best parts in bed; the other is that integrity in a writer is like virginity in a woman-once lost, never recovered."
Despite his literary reputation, Ernest avoided most cultural offerings. He shunned theater, opera, ballet, and concerts. His New York pleasures were limited to exceptional prize fights, professional football on television, baseball games, and the circus, where he demonstrated remarkable rapport with animals, especially bears, speaking to them in strange, musical sounds that seemed to elicit responses.
His wardrobe was essentially a uniform: leather vests, knitted tan skullcap, and a gott mit uns leather belt taken from a dead Nazi. He owned one decent jacket from Hong Kong, two pairs of pants, one pair of shoes, and no underwear. His innate shyness made shopping an ordeal-he'd break into a sweat at the sight of sales counters, causing him to either buy the first thing shown or bolt before seeing merchandise.
4장
The Finca Vigia: A Haven for Friends and Animals
Life at Finca Vigia evolved into a vibrant microcosm of Ernest's diverse world, where an extraordinary collection of friends and animals coexisted in colorful harmony. The dinner regulars formed a fascinating group that reflected the political and cultural complexity of the era: Roberto Herrera, a soft-spoken Spanish doctor who had spent three years in Franco's prisons for his republican loyalties; Sinsky Dunabeitia, a boisterous Basque sea captain whose tales of maritime adventures would often dominate evening conversations; and Father Don Andres, affectionately nicknamed "Black Priest" - a former machine-gunner in the republican army who found refuge in Cuba after Spain's civil war. The dinner table regularly welcomed an eclectic mix including a Spanish grandee who had lost everything to Franco, a Key West gambler who claimed to never lose at cards, an outspoken anti-Batista politician whose predictions would later prove prophetic, and a retired pelota player whose stories of the Basque game captivated guests.
Ernest's fascination with dangerous animals manifested in his work with two five-year-old circus lions, a hobby that both thrilled and terrified visitors. He proudly displayed three deep scratches on his forearm from these training sessions, where he used nothing more than a rolled newspaper as a prop. He had developed an impressive routine where he would lie down while both cats placed their massive paws on his chest - a performance that drew gasps from observers. Mary, understanding both Ernest's value and vulnerability, had extracted a promise from him to suspend these risky exhibitions until "the big book" was completed, seeing clearly that her husband's security was both financial and physical.
Black Dog, a once-traumatized springer spaniel, became one of the finca's most beloved residents. Ernest had found him gun-shy and terrified, but through months of patient rehabilitation, transformed him into a confident companion. The dog adapted to Ernest's rigid writing schedule, though his natural preference was for lengthy naps in the Cuban sun. Ernest would often joke that Black Dog had become so comfortable in the writing studio that "he believed he was an accomplished author himself," often positioning himself at the desk when Ernest was away.
The finca maintained a strict routine Monday through Thursday, dedicated to writing and quiet contemplation, but weekends erupted into what locals called "Hemingway hurricanes" - boisterous gatherings that often lasted until dawn. Ernest steadfastly avoided dining at others' homes, having developed a deep mistrust of unfamiliar food and drink. He would often recount the cautionary tale of his last accepted dinner invitation, where sweet champagne had left him indisposed for ten days, affecting his writing schedule.
The estate operated with military precision thanks to a loyal staff: a meticulous houseboy who maintained Ernest's personal quarters, a chauffeur who knew every backroad in Havana, a Chinese cook whose fish dishes were legendary, three gardeners who maintained the lush tropical grounds, a carpenter who constantly repaired damage from the frequent parties, two maids who managed the endless flow of guests, and a dedicated fighting cock keeper who tended to Ernest's prized birds.
Among Ernest's most cherished possessions were first editions bearing personal inscriptions from literary giants: James Joyce's witty notes, F. Scott Fitzgerald's elegant dedications, Gertrude Stein's cryptic messages, and warmly personal inscriptions from Sherwood Anderson, John Dos Passos, Robert Benchley, Ford Madox Ford, and Ezra Pound. Perhaps most poignant was an old photo album containing a snapshot of five-year-old Ernest, beneath which his mother had written the haunting words: "Ernest was taught to shoot by Pa when 212 and when 4 could handle a pistol" - an innocent notation that would later carry the weight of dark prophecy.
5장
Hemingway's Spain: Bullfighting and The Dangerous Summer
The summer of 1959 became what Ernest called "one of the best seasons of his life"-a magnificent rebirth of the vitality that had been steadily diminishing since his plane crashes in Africa. He and Mary sailed to Spain in May, where Ernest planned to tour the bullfight circuit with Antonio Ordonez, documenting what would become known as "The Dangerous Summer" for Life magazine.
Spain's two greatest matadors-Luis Miguel Dominguin and Antonio Ordonez (who was married to Dominguin's beautiful sister)-were engaged in a series of mano a manos, rare deadly combats where two matadors split six brother bulls between them. The victor would be crowned El Numero Uno, champion of the world. Such duels happened perhaps once in a generation, with the last significant contest occurring when a young Dominguin challenged the legendary Manolete, who was fatally gored during their rivalry.
Though Ernest admired both men personally, he judged Antonio the superior matador, having achieved perfection in all three categories: cape, muleta and kill. He found Dominguin's performances cold and unemotional, while Antonio sometimes moved him deeply. Ernest had aligned himself with the young black-haired half-gypsy from Andalusia, whose matador father had been Ernest's friend thirty years earlier.
Our pattern became established: Bill Davis driving; Ernest with an ice bag of rosado wine between his feet; the back seat crammed with luggage and a wicker hamper of provisions; visits to Antonio's room before and after fights; late dinners with Antonio and his cuadrilla. We zigzagged across Spain from Barcelona to Burgos to Madrid and back again, with Ernest delighting in every sensory pleasure: succulent asparagus with white wine; Pamplona folk songs; country bread with Manchego cheese; storks nesting in chimneys; hawks hunting over heather-colored brambles.
In Pamplona for La Feria de San Fermin, Ernest maintained his staked-out table at the Cafe Choko, which became a magnet for waves of American college students drawn to Pamplona by The Sun Also Rises, published over thirty years earlier. They descended upon Ernest bearing books and T-shirts for autographing.
One day after lunch along the Irati River, Ernest and I sat on the pebbly bank watching hawks circle above and the women of our group napping on warm rock ledges across the river. "Nymphs on shelves in nature's store," Ernest said. "What a hell of a happy time." As a hawk plummeted with prey in its talons, Ernest remarked, "You know, Hotch, it's all better than The Sun Also Rises." I studied him-back against a beech trunk, lips pleasurably parted, old eyeglasses in his lap, patting a stray hound-and realized this summer was different from our previous adventures. This wasn't about revisiting memories; this summer, unlike the others, was young.
6장
The Bullfighter and The Freckled One
Antonio Ordonez declared he would make a matador of me ("El Pecas," The Freckled One) in repayment for teaching him baseball. After Ernest demonstrated my reflexes with our improvised throwing-and-catching routine, Antonio announced I would be the sobresaliente (substitute matador) at the next mano a mano in Ciudad Real.
When we arrived in Antonio's room before the corrida, two sword handlers awaited-one for me. Antonio had set out two matador suits, with my handler standing beside the ivory and black one. I would enter the ring as the sobresaliente, the substitute who kills bulls if both matadors are injured. Though I'd be merely masquerading, Spanish officials took such infractions seriously-I'd heard a friend of bullfighter Litri had spent a year in prison for impersonating a bullfighter.
The matador's costume proved astonishingly complex and tight, fitting like new skin and tied down so nothing could flap and attract the bull. When the time came to leave for the ring, Antonio prayed over his religious objects while I stood in a corner wishing I had something to pray over myself.
My nerves jolted when I saw the huge posters outside the bullring listing "ORDONEZ Y DOMINGUIN, SOBRESALIENTE: EL PECAS." As photographers surrounded us, I noticed a mortifying difference between Antonio, Dominguin and myself. "I am a positive disgrace to the United States of America," I told Ernest, who asked how many handkerchiefs I'd used in my pants. When I admitted ignorance of this bullfighter tradition, Ernest was incredulous: "Don't tell me you didn't use handkerchiefs! How did you think they got bulges like that?"
As the band struck up and the gates swung open, I followed Antonio and Dominguin into the ring, walking stiffly three steps behind them across what felt like four miles of sand. After saluting the President's box, I followed Antonio into the callejon where Ernest awaited. "How did it look?" I asked. "You had just the right amount of modesty and quiet confidence," he replied. "I felt like a bull's behind," I confessed.
7장
The Sixtieth Birthday: A Last Celebration
Mary Hemingway planned an extraordinary sixtieth birthday celebration for Ernest at La Consula, Bill Davis's colonnaded mansion in Churriana. Determined to make up for all Ernest's previously uncelebrated birthdays, she ordered champagne from Paris, Chinese foods from London, bacalao from Madrid, and hired a shooting booth, fireworks expert, flamenco dancers, musicians, waiters, barmen and cooks from across Spain.
The guest list included our regular Pamplona cuadrilla, Ernest's Pamplona and Madrid friends, the Maharajah of Jaipur with his maharanee and son, the Maharajah of Cooch Behar with his maharanee, General C. T. "Buck" Lanham from Washington, Ambassador and Mrs. David Bruce from Bonn, Madrid notables, old Paris pals, thirty of Antonio's friends, and Gianfranco Ivancich from Venice.
The party began at noon on July 21st and ended twenty-four hours later. Ernest danced, popped champagne, made funny toasts, and shot cigarettes from the lips of Antonio and the Maharajah of Cooch Behar. When the orchestra played Pamplona fiesta music, Antonio and Ernest led a riau-riau dance snaking through the grounds. The only solemn moment came when David Bruce, Ernest's wartime comrade, offered a simple toast that visibly moved Ernest.
The Valencia firecracker expert's display went awry when a rocket lodged in a royal palm tree, setting it ablaze. After perilous attempts to fight the fire with garden hoses failed, the Malaga fire department arrived in what Ernest described as a Mack Sennett-style hook and ladder. The firemen saved the tree and house, then joined the celebration, with Antonio racing around in the fire chief's helmet and raincoat, siren wailing.
After the last guests departed at noon the next day, Ernest and I swam before retiring. "What I enjoyed most," Ernest said, "is that these old friends still care enough to come so far. The thing about old friends now is that there are so few of them."
8장
The Shadows Gather: Illness and Paranoia
By January 1960, Ernest was immersed in writing "The Dangerous Summer" for Life magazine. What began as a modest assignment exploded into a mammoth 108,746-word manuscript that consumed him. His anxiety mounted as the piece grew far beyond the contracted length, leaving him unable to cut it down despite weeks of effort.
Political tensions in Cuba were escalating, with anti-American sentiment visible everywhere-"CUBA SI! YANKEE NO!" banners hung throughout Havana, foreshadowing what Ernest grimly called "the last summer." His health deteriorated as well, with a concerning eye condition called keratitis sicca threatening his vision.
When I arrived in June to help with the manuscript, I found Ernest changed-his beard untrimmed, his scalp balding but covered with combed-forward hair, giving him the appearance of a Roman emperor. The oppressive heat of the finca, where we worked without air conditioning, matched the heaviness of Ernest's mood as he struggled with both his writing and his declining health, swallowing multiple medications each morning.
By late 1960, Ernest's paranoia had taken hold. He became convinced federal agents were following him, that his phones and car were bugged, and that auditors were examining his bank accounts at night. He believed Immigration was investigating him for "impairing the morals of a minor" regarding a young woman he was supporting, and that she had "turned state's evidence."
Even hunting, once his passion, brought no joy-during our pheasant hunt, he feared trespassing charges despite having permission, and when three perfect pheasant flew up before him, he couldn't bring himself to shoot. His paranoia continued to manifest at restaurants, where he would abruptly end meals, convinced random patrons were FBI agents.
Mary, desperate about Ernest's deteriorating condition, showed me a letter he'd written to his bank that devolved into gibberish. Ernest spent endless hours with his manuscript of A Moveable Feast but couldn't work on it. His talk of suicide had increased, sometimes standing at the gun rack, staring at distant mountains.
9장
The Final Chapter: Treatment and Tragedy
I arranged for a New York psychiatrist to consult with Vernon Lord, Ernest's local doctor. Vernon had already seen Ernest's deterioration and agreed to help by exaggerating Ernest's blood pressure readings to convince him he needed treatment. The psychiatrist diagnosed Ernest with a depressive-persecutory condition and recommended hospitalization. To avoid the stigma of psychiatric treatment, they arranged for Ernest to be admitted to the Mayo Clinic under Vernon Lord's name.
At Mayo, Ernest received eleven electric shock treatments during December. When I visited in January, he looked shockingly thin-173 pounds on a frame that normally held 210. Despite his appearance, he seemed restored, joking with doctors who treated him with celebrity status. He spoke of returning to work on his book, with no mention of his previous delusions.
But when we were alone, his paranoid delusions quickly resurfaced-he was convinced his room was bugged, the hospital phone tapped, and that one of the interns was a Fed in disguise. The electric shock treatments had not erased his persecutory beliefs. "What these shock doctors don't know is about writers and such things as remorse and contrition and what they do to them," he told me. "It was a brilliant cure but we lost the patient."
Mary rejected the Mayo doctors' suggestion to let Ernest return to Ketchum, feeling he wasn't ready. When I consulted with her before leaving for Europe, she told me she'd spoken with the psychiatrist, who strongly advocated completing Ernest's electrical treatment cycle followed by extensive psychotherapy. He urged transferring Ernest to The Institute of Living, warning that while this might generate inside-page news, it was preferable to front-page suicide headlines.
By late June, Mary wrote that the Mayo doctors had pressured her to let Ernest return to Ketchum-they'd already promised him this and claimed he was at "sixty to seventy percent of his normal self." Despite her fears and attempts to suggest the institute, Mary felt powerless against their medical authority and reluctantly agreed.
On July 2nd, 1961, Ernest Hemingway took his own life with a shotgun. Mary claimed he had accidentally discharged it while cleaning it, a cover story born from her inability to accept what had happened. I remembered Ernest once answering a journalist's question about death: "Yes-just another whore."
Instead of attending the funeral, I said goodbye to Ernest in Santa Maria Sopra Minerva in Rome, sitting at a deserted altar thinking about our times together from that first tentative meeting at the Floridita. All I could say was, "Good luck, Papa." I lit a candle, put money in the poor box, and spent the night wandering Rome's old streets.
Ernest had it right: Man is not made for defeat. Man can be destroyed but not defeated.
