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With Othello, a presence in Hemingway's writing throughout his career, Hemingway provides a key to unlock the subtexts of The Sun Also Rises, A Farewell to Arms, and Green Hills of Africa, allowing us to view the seven-eighths of the iceberg lying beneath the surface omissions and obfuscations of his narrators. The anti-Semitic narrator of the Sun Also Rises is the Hemingway version of "honest Iago." The narrator of A Farewell to Arms lives out Othello's fond desire to linger in a fool's paradise, sleeping the "sweet sleep" of not knowing that he has been betrayed. The perverse braggart who narrates Green Hills of Africa is an Othello who deliberately pursues the horns of the cuckold.

MIDWAY THROUGH HIS unflattering, unvarnished self-portrait in Green Hills of Africa, Hemingway--full of drunken confidence "and as sure of a shot at kudu the next morning as [he] would be sure of a shot at ducks from a good blind" (165)--says, "Call Garrick [Hemingway's nickname for a "theatrical" African bearer]. Tell him I'll put him in the cinema. Got a part for him.... Othello or the Moor of Venice.... They've been after me to write it for years ..." (166).

Hemingway is already "[writing] it," however, and in Green Hills of Africa, where Othello provides the key to the disreputable subtext, the seamy "love interest" of Hemingway's trick autobiography--an "absolutely true book" ("Foreword") perhaps, but one designed to mask a leering face. We are more advanced now than were readers of Green Hills of Africa in 1935. Hemingway biographies have taught us that their subject had wearied of his rich second wife, Pauline Pfeiffer (P.O.M. in GHOA); by the time of the 1933-34 African safari, Hemingway's second marriage was a mortally wounded beast (Lynn 403; Mellow 424; Meyers 244). Hemingway had departed his first marriage as an impecunious, guilt-crazed, exposed adulterer (Meyers 152, 180-1, 278; Lynn 312). Surely it would be pleasant for a change to bail out of marriage onto the Moral High Ground. But how to engineer this?

Throughout Green Hills of Africa, P.O.M. makes manifest her unambiguous adoration of Pop, white hunter and safari leader (e.g. 44, 209, 212, 214). "Pop was her ideal of how a man should be, brave, gentle, comic, never losing his temper, never bragging, never complaining except in a joke, tolerant, understanding, intelligent, drinking a little too much as a good man should" (64)--quite the opposite of Hemingway's portrayal of himself as a blustering, angry, complaining, intolerant, obtuse, drunken braggart, the Hemingway who, to a Masai's wondering "what do you do with the horns" of slaughtered game, replies that "in our tribe we give the horns to our wealthiest friends" (158). So Papa leaves Mama in camp with Pop, whom she finds "beautiful" (295), while Papa, an Othello pandering perversely for his Desdemona, beats the bush in a failed grail quest for the largest set of horns in Africa.

References to Othello appear throughout Hemingway's writing, early and late. In a 1921 article, "Condensing the Classics," Hemingway casts the story in modern dress: "Society girl, wed to African war hero, found strangled in bed ..." (DT 79-80). In Across the River and into the Trees (1950), Hemingway tediously informs us that Cantwell and Renata "were not Othello and Desdemona, thank God, although it was the same town and the girl was certainly better looking than the Shakespearean character, and the Colonel had fought as many, or more times than the garrulous Moor" (230). Though such references as these may not ring compellingly with significance, they suggest that Shakespeare's tragedy of sexual jealousy and psychopathic manipulation long held Hemingway's interest. "We have very primitive emotions," says Pop (GHOA 293); primitive emotions held great fascination for Hemingway, in art and life, and few emotions are more primitive than those which drive Othello: suspicion, envy, lust, murderous rage, the pursuit of vengeance, the suspicion that your own true love has deceived and destroyed you. And Hemingway's first love affair may have caused him to identify with the Moor: "I am afraid it is going to hurt you," wrote Agnes von Kurowsky in her "Dear Ernest" letter (7 March 1919). "[C]an you forgive me some day for ... deceiving you? ... I tried to make you understand a bit of what I was thinking, ... but, you acted like a spoiled child, & I couldn't keep on hurting you.... I expect to be married soon" (Villard 163). Whatever the reasons Othello held such continuing interest for him, Hemingway makes Shakespeare's tragedy central to an understanding of The Sun Also Rises and A Farewell to Arms--perhaps his two greatest works--as works of art.

Undaunted by the inconvenient fact that The Sun Also Rises makes no mention of Shakespeare's tragedy, I propose that the novel is an intaglio, or reverse image, of Othello--that, paradoxically, Hemingway's narrator functions as both the novel's tragic hero and its Iago (Lockridge [1990] 50-51, 53-54).

When Barnes panders the love of his life into the bed of a teenage bullfighter, Barnes executes the novel's central action, resulting in the destruction of Robert Cohn, Barnes's hated rival for the affections of Lady Ashley, and in the destruction of Barnes, himself. What the remainder of Barnes's life promises after the crash (aside from drinking, fishing with the boys, the dubious pleasures involved in writing his autobiography) is a hopeless, soul-corroding passion, persisting like addiction or chronic disease, for a jaunty, alcoholic nymphomaniac who does not love him and never has. He comes to the latter realization as Lady Ashley natters endlessly on about the teenager she has just finished having sex with, thanks to Barnes (SAR 241-5). He has long been under the illusion that however much Lady Ashley renders her body unto other men, she truly loves only him. But her "own true love" (39, 55) has never been anyone but the boy who died of dysentery during the war and took all her life's meaning with him. So she seeks solace in drink, in indiscriminate sex, in having men fight over her because therefore she must be worth something, even though they're all worthless sorts. Occasionally she takes respite from this empty activity by seeking out men who tend to her needs with no wearying sexual demands--gay men are particularly good for this--or only feeble demands: Barnes, who has now sold his soul for nothing (Lockridge [1990] 52).

Cohn, who has been stabbed in the back by the very person he considers (God help him) to be his best friend (SAR 39), does not know what hit him, let alone the why of it. Utterly "ruined" (203), Cohn never even suspects that Barnes is in love with Lady Ashley; rather, Cohn believes that Barnes values her so little that he once he attempted to rescue Cohn from her clutches by describing her in the most unflattering terms (38-39). That Barnes might be "blind, unforgivingly jealous" of Cohn (99) remains entirely beyond his comprehension.

Why does Barnes feel a hatred sufficient for him to dispatch the woman he loves into the bed of a veritable icon of masculine sexual potency, merely to drive one of Lady Ashley's many cast-off lovers mad with jealousy? So Cohn has slept with her, so what? More or less in full view of Barnes, Lady Ashley beds other "chaps"--the teenager, a dipsomaniac she is on the verge of marrying, a wealthy man of the world from Greece--without arousing in Barnes anything like his malignant hatred of Cohn. Indeed, Barnes rather likes these other "chaps." Nor does Cohn pose Barnes any further threat as a rival; Lady Ashley has utterly dismissed Cohn, whom she contemptuously calls "that damned Jew" (SAR 184).

Barnes's motivation for taking revenge against Cohn, and at such enormous personal cost that victory is Pyrrhic at best, constitutes The Sun Also Rises's central dramatic issue, and here--as virtually everywhere in The Sun Also Rises--almost all published criticism takes Barnes literally, at his word. The most widely-reprinted essay on this novel, for example, tells us that in delivering Lady Ashley to Romero, Barnes acts "for love's sake" (Spilka 135). Though a bit tight-lipped in elucidating his own motives, Barnes does appear to make the critic's point. By loving Lady Ashley and having her "for a friend" even though he is unable to consummate his love, he explains in his Well-known exchange-of-values soliloquy, he has been "getting something for nothing. That only delayed the presentation of the bill" (SAR 148)--which comes when she informs Barnes that she is "in love with" Romero," hands Barnes his marching orders--"Let's go and find him"-- and Barnes snaps to (183-4). But what can Barnes think he has actually been "getting ... for nothing" from Lady Ashley, beyond a sadistically flaunted run of betrayals (e.g., "Who did you think I went down to San Sebastian with?" [81])? What "the woman" in Barnes's case has been giving him, for all his loving attentiveness, is a bounty in pain--nothing for something. Barnes does not play the pimp because he feels that he owes it to Lady Ashley; rather, he plays the pimp to punish the hated Robert Cohn, of whom Barnes is "blind, unforgivingly jealous" for Cohn's affair with Lady Ashley (99). Mike inadvertently gives voice to Barnes's unvoiced motive: "Brett's gone off with men. But they weren't ever Jews ..."(143). Barnes cannot tolerate the fact that Lady Ashley has been bedded by a Jew.

The Sun Also Rises is virulent with anti-Semitism, and like his friends (e.g. l02, 162, 164, 177, 203), Barnes is anti-Semitic. According to Barnes, getting "his nose permanently flattened ... certainly improved [Cohn's] nose" (SAR 3); Cohn has "a hard, Jewish, stubborn streak" (10);"looking at" Lady Ashley, Cohn "[looks] a great deal as his compatriot must have looked when he saw the promised land ... that look of eager, deserving expectation" (22); to Bill's sarcastic remark regarding Cohn, "Haven't you got some more Jewish friends you could bring along?" Barnes replies, "You've got some fine ones yourself" (101). Efforts exist to explain away the anti-Semitism in The Sun Also Rises as an aesthetically irrelevant historical accident, a mirroring of the anti-Semitism of Hemingway's era, or an inconvenience due to the fact that Harold Loeb, on whom Cohn is based, just happened to be Jewish. Nevertheless, The Sun Also Rises's anti-Semitism raises the discomfort level of many who, though they love the novel, fear that the anti-Semitism constitutes a fatal aesthetic flaw.(1)

Anti-Semitism, however, is not a flaw in The Sun Also Riser,, it is the deepest flaw in the novel's narrator, the tragic flaw upon which Barnes's jealous hatred of Cohn is predicated. Barnes is "blind, unforgivingly jealous of" (99) Cohn because Cohn is a Jew. That the nymphomaniac Barnes loves has engaged in sexual intercourse with a Jew rends Barnes's Midwestern soul and spurs his back-stabbing revenge.

It is at least as central to Barnes, and to Hemingway's novel, that Cohn is a Jew as it is to Iago that Othello is a black. Iago confesses that his lust for vengeance derives in part from his suspicion that "the lusty Moor" has bedded Iago's wife, the very thought of which so "gnaws [Iago's] inwards" that "nothing can or shall content [his] soul" until he has "put the Moor ... into a jealousy so strong" that it is beyond all reason (II, i, 304-11). Thus Iago makes it entirely clear that one motive underlying his villainy is his racism. But Iago--arrogant, mendacious, two-faced, conniving, manipulative, perverse, misogynous, misanthropic, cynical, cunning, vicious, and generally evil-minded to begin with--is also furious that Othello has passed him over for promotion.

Barnes's anti-Semitism is his sole motive for punishing Cohn with a jealousy strong beyond all reason. This becomes dear only through a process of elimination, however, for Barnes is less forthright regarding the wellspring of his hatred than is Iago. Barnes spares himself the profound humiliation of naming anti-Semitism as his motive for destroying Cohn, because it reflects such discredit upon him (cf. 135). Unlike Shakespeare's Iago, Hemingway's has a conscience, a deep shame that gives him tragic stature (SL 229). Barnes is an honest confessor to the extent that he lays out all the incriminating concrete facts of his offense; he lies by omitting a clear blueprint of 1) his plot to destroy Cohn with jealousy, which involves planting a teenager, not a handkerchief, and 2) his racist motive. Much of The Sun Also Rises's difficulty, our feeling more than we understand (MF 75), derives from Barnes's understandable refusal to take the last ugly step of self-incrimination. The novel's difficulty lies in human nature, and in Hemingway's having entrusted his narrative to his own "honest Iago" (Othello, II, iii, 341).

Hemingway wrote of his ambition to "make you actually experience the thing" (SL 153), and his brilliant misdirection in The Sun Also Rises still tricks decent and intelligent souls into experiencing Barnes's detestation of Cohn to the point of sharing it. But Hemingway's Iago has perhaps manipulated a sufficiency of readers now into scapegoating Hemingway's Jewish Othello for lo! these three-score years and twelve.

Late in A Farewell to Arms, Catherine Barkley ventures a fleeting, but direct, reference to Othello. Is she attempting to let Hemingway's narrator, Frederic Henry, in on something? To run past him a hint concerning the game of cat-and-mouse she has been playing ever since their encounter in the hospital garden (AFTA 29-32)? Good luck!--though one day even Frederic Henry might stumble across the passage to which Catherine refers and actually read it. Will Shakespeare then double for the "letter" Catherine "meant to write [Lieutenant Henry] ... if anything happened, but ... didn't ..." (330)--the letter in which she might, perhaps, in a moment of candor, have spelled out to him the truth behind their relationship?

"Othello with his occupation gone," is how Catherine refers to the narrator of A Farewell to Arms (257). Regressing to the intellectual and spiritual coarseness that often characterize him, ex-Lieutenant Henry promptly dismisses the comparison: "Othello was a nigger, I said" (257). Hemingway, however, has just unveiled the silent epigraph of A Farewell to Arms, the camouflaged source of its title, to be Othello's powerful response to Iago who has just poisoned Othello's soul with suspicion and jealousy:
 Thou has set me on the rack. I swear 'tis better to be much abus'd Than but
 to know't a little.... What sense had I of her stol'n hours of lust? I
 saw't not, thought it not, it harmed not me. I slept the next night well,
 was free and merry; I found not Cassio's kisses on her lips. He that is
 robbed, not wanting what is stol'n, Let him not know't and he's not robbed
 at all.... I had been happy if the general camp, Pioners and all, had
 tasted her sweet body, So I had nothing known. O, now forever Farewell the
 tranquil mind! Farewell content! Farewell the plumed troop and the big wars
 That make ambition virtue! O, farewell, Farewell the neighing steed and the
 shrill trump, The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, The royal
 banner and all quality, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war! And,
 O you mortal engines, whose rude throats The immortal Jove's dread clamors
 counterfeit, Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone! (III, iii, 335 ff.)

Othello voices an anthem to the bliss that is ignorance. There are forms of knowing that carve into the soul wounds too deep to bear. "[C]an you forgive me some day for ... deceiving you?" "I had been happy ... [s]o I had nothing known."

"What you don't know can't hurt you" could stand as the motto of Frederic Henry, whose narrative embodies, without his knowledge, his function for Catherine as a stand-in! and prop to buttress her obsession with her fiance of eight years, blown "all to bits" (AFTA 20) on the Somme.

As should now be clear to any mildly alert reader, Catherine Barkley sets her game in motion in Chapter VI, in the hospital garden, when she enlists the lieutenant in playing the role of her fiance, back from the grave (AFTA 29-32).
 I pressed her hand, "Dear Catherine."

 "It sounds very funny now--Catherine. You don't pronounce it very much
 alike. But you're very nice." (31)

Lieutenant Henry may not pronounce "Catherine ... very much" like that other "nice boy" (18), but apparently he will do, because this is wartime, good men are hard to find (cf. 19), and he is, at least "not Italian" (18). As it turn out, he does just fine until her death--and after, as the clueless narrator of "their" love story. That all along Catherine deceives the good lieutenant by making love to a fantasy-fiance in her mind is a reality he could not bear. Driven by the agonizing grief and guilt that still consume her after a full year in mourning, Catherine Barkley does not abnegate herself to the narrator, whose name escapes her lips only once (AFTA 29), but to a fantasy. Through willed, deliberate, conscious projection, Catherine resurrects her lost love into the only afterlife available to her, for Catherine is not religious (313). She firmly believes, and emphatically informs the narrator in their initial encounter, that death "is the end of it" (19)--unless one is suddenly inspired to create a one-sided, therapeutic game of "pretend," employing some serendipitous, unsuspecting, and physically palatable stooge. Having lighted upon this brilliant strategy for coping with her grief, Catherine is free to capture lost opportunity, to correct the past by "[doing] something for" her lost true love (19). "He could have had anything he wanted if [she] would have known" (19) that he would soon be lost to her forever. Now he can have it all; she can give it to him, in the secret garden of her mind, projecting her fantasy upon the blank screen of Lieutenant Henry, pretending he is someone else. "Maybe she would pretend that I was her boy that was killed" (37), Hemingway's narrator muses idly, not seeing that the game has already begun in the garden, as Catherine feeds him his lines and he dutifully repeats them, not getting the point, never getting it. She even coaches him in her acting method so that he won't inadvertently let the sexual nature of their relationship slip out: "[D]arling, when you're going under the ether just think about something else--not us.... Because people get very blabby under an anesthetic.... [Think about] anything but us. Think about ... any other girl" (103).(2)

To preserve her dead fiance's afterlife, Catherine strives to isolate her relationship with Lieutenant Henry (AFTA 132, 297, 303). She refuses to marry him, even after the real world has invaded her playground by getting her pregnant. Catherine "would have married [her fiance] or anything" (19)--but despite her dedication to convention illustrated by her long and virginal engagement and by her concern, expressed above, that others might learn of her illicit affair (see also 43, 92), she refuses to marry Lieutenant Henry during a period when few stigmas carried greater censure than "Unwed Mother." When the narrator pressures Catherine for marriage, she wraps her rejection in hyperbole--"You're my religion. You're all I've got"--and eases him off the subject (114-6). Why badger her for the puny role of husband when he is her "religion"? Catherine considers pregnancy a cosmic accident beyond her control 038), but marriage, a deliberate choice that involves commitment to a flesh-and-blood other man and taking his name, would be too real. Marriage to Frederic Henry would constitute unfaithfulness to her dead fiance, and Catherine is "very faithful" (116)--in her fashion.

"It's a rotten game," Catherine warns the narrator at its outset. "What game?" he asks. "Don't be dull" she says. He's "not dull, on purpose," he says. Just dull. "Nice" and "dull" (AFTA 31)--and therefore the perfect patsy, who does not know the stakes, or even what game he's in, though maybe it's "like bridge" (30). These are the last words that Hemingway gives to Catherine Barkley: "It's just a dirty trick" (331).

Better that Lieutenant Henry linger in a fool's paradise, sleeping the "sweet sleep" whose loss Othello mourns. The narrator of A Farewell to Arms does not see the truth, does not think it, though Hemingway's narrative embodies it. Frederic Henry unwittingly lives out Othello's fond wish to be forever unknowing, rather than "to know't" even "a little."

"If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about," writes Hemingway, "he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them" (DIA 192). Hemingway's narrator in A Farewell to Arms is blind to the seven-eighths of Catherine, known to Hemingway, that lie beneath the surface: what motivates her. It is Catherine's effort to resurrect her dead love that gives the novel its story, its narrative drive, its plot. Hemingway's narrator shows unknowingly that A Farewell to Arms's prime mover is Catherine Barkley.

Hemingway's Iago, Jake Barnes, with full knowledge of who he is and the great evil he has done, deliberately submerges this knowledge. By contrast, Hemingway's Othello, Frederic Henry, is the embodiment of unknowing. Full self-knowledge of his offense and his motive for committing it form the seven-eighths of the iceberg that Barnes submerges in his narrative. Lieutenant Henry blinds the reader by being, himself, blind to what lies submerged beneath the surface of Catherine Barkley. Thus Hemingway's narrators raise the barriers to understanding that living people raise, that we raise in our efforts to account for our selves and our lives. Hemingway mystifies simply by "showing it as it is" (SL 354).


(1.) For an overview of the anti-Semitism issue in The Sun Also Rises: Waldhorn 239. Also: Meyers 155-9; Reynolds 53-4; Waldhorn 103; Lynn 161, 292; SL 62-3, 93, 96-7, 354; NAS 246. Donaldson indicates that anti-Semitism plays a part in Barnes's pathological belittling of Cohn (30-2).

(2.) For Catherine as role-player: Lockridge ([1988]), Spanier, Tyler, and Wexler. Two recent discussions of A Farewell to Arms/Othello (Wilson's and Sylvester's) share little with mine beyond the overlap of raw subject matter. E.g., Wilson: "This essay tries to explain how Frederic is indeed, by the end of [A Farewell to Arms], a far cry from the Moor, how `Othello with his occupation gone' and Frederic with his occupation gone are two very different characters" (52). In its emphasis on contrasting Lieutenant Henry with Othello (the differences between these two being, I suspect, potentially infinite in number) the essay reflects Hemingway's narrator, who allows non-essentials (he's "not black ... not jealous," etc. [Wilson 52]) to distract him from an awareness of what is going on.


Donaldson, Scott. "Humor in The Sun Also Rises." In Wagner-Martin. 19-41.

Hemingway, Ernest. Across the River and Into the Trees. New York: Scribner's, 1950.

--. Dateline: Toronto: The Complete Toronto Star Dispatches, 1920-1924. Ed. William White. New York: Scribner's, 1985.

--. Death in the Afternoon. New York: Scribner's, 1932.

--. Ernest Hemingway: Selected Letters, 1917-1961. Ed. Carlos Baker. New York: Scribner's, 1981.

--. A Farewell to Arms. New York: Scribner's, 1929.

--. Green Hills of Africa. New York: Scribner's, 1935.

--. A Moveable Feast. New York: Scribner's, 1964.

--. The Nick Adams Stories. New York: Scribner's, 1972.

--. The Sun Also Rises. 1926. New York: Scribner's, 1970.

Lockridge, Ernest. "Faithful in her Fashion: Catherine Barkley, the Invisible Hemingway Heroine." The Journal of Narrative Technique 18 (1988): 170-8.

--. "`Primitive Emotions': A Tragedy of Revenge Called The Sun Also Rises." The Journal of Narrative Technique 20 (1990): 42-55.

Lynn, Kenneth. Hemingway. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1987.

Mellow, James R. Hemingway: A Life Without Consequences. Boston: Houghton Miffln, 1992.

Meyers, Jeffrey. Hemingway: A Biography. New York: Perennial Library-Harper, 1985.

Reynolds, Michael S. "The Sun in Its Time: Recovering the Historical Context." In Wagner-Martin 43-64.

Shakespeare, William. Othello. Shakespeare: The Complete Works. Ed. G.B. Harrison. New York Harcourt, 1952. 1056-99.

Spanier, Sandra Whipple. "Hemingway's Unknown Soldier: Catherine Barkley, the Critics, and the Great War." New Essays on A Farewell to Arms. Ed. Scott Donaldson. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1990. 75-108.

Spilka, Mark. "The Death of Love in The Sun Also Rises." Hemingway: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. Robert P. Weeks. Englewood Cliffs: Prentice, 1962. 127-38.

Sylvester, Bickford. "The Sexual Impasse to Romantic Order in Hemingway's Fiction: A Farewell to Arms, Othello, `Orpen,' and the Hemingway Canon." Hemingway: Up in Michigan Perspectives. Ed. Frederic J. Svoboda and Joseph J. Waldmeir. East Lansing: Michigan State UP, 1995 177-87.

Tyler, Lisa. "Passion and Grief in A Farewell to Arms: Ernest Hemingway's Retelling of Wuthering Heights." The Hemingway Review 14.2 (Spring 1995): 79-96.

Villard, Henry Serrano and James Nagel. Eds. Hemingway in Love and War: The Lost Diary of Agnes yon Kurowsky, her Letters, and Correspondence of Ernest Hemingway. Boston: Northeastern UP, 1989.

Wagner-Martin, Linda. Ed. New Essays on The Sun Also Rises. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1987.

Waldhorn, Arthur. A Reader's Guide to Ernest Hemingway. New York: Noonday-Farrar, 1972.

Wexler, Joyce. "E.R.A. for Hemingway: A Feminist Defense of A Farewell to Arms." Georgia Review 35 (1981): 111-23.

Wilson, Andrew J. "Bidding Goodbye to the Plumed Troops and the Big Wars: The Presence of Othello in A Farewell to Arms." The Hemingway Review 15.2 (Spring 1996): 52-66.
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Date:Sep 22, 1998

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