Creating Character in Ernest Hemingway's
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Kahini Magazine el The Problem of Pain: Creating Character in Ernest Hemingway’s “Cat in the Rain” Jordan Hartt Ernest Hemingway’s slim, 1,140-word short story “Cat in the Rain”—based on a true-life event and inspired by it-actually-happened dialogue—helps us think about one of the central questions of our writing: how to create character. Do we pull characters from real life, or invent them out of whole cloth. Do we lead our characters through the story, or do we allow them to lead us. What kind of a dance is it, this creating (or discovering) of character? Solutions and styles range all over the literary map. If you ask a thousand different writers, you will get a thousand different answers. For example, Vladimir Nabokov said: “my characters are galley slaves”—meaning, they did what he wanted them to do. “I take control of them,” says Toni Morrison, a sentiment also echoed by such writers as John Cheever, and Fay Weldon, among many others. Mario Vargas Llosa, on the other hand, says that “you can’t mold characters” (italics mine.) And Andre Dubus famously believed that only by letting go of all control of your characters would they emerge. Erskine Caldwell described his process like this: “I have no influence over them. I’m only an observer, recording. The story is always being told by the characters themselves. In fact, I’m often critical, or maybe ashamed, of what some of them say and do—their profanity or their immorality. But I have no control over it.” Bernard Malamud found a place in the middle, “My characters run away, but not far.” Or, as expanded upon by Robert Stone, “You construct characters and set them going in their own interior landscape, and what they find to talk about and what confronts them are, of course, the things that concern you most.” So the process of creating character—whether we control them through the story from start to finish, or simply observe them and record their behavior (or are these even the same thing, since we are, in the end, the ones who decide what to record and what not to?)— depends upon ourselves as individual writers, and finding what process works best for us, personally. For instance, some writers write long backstories of their characters in journals or notebooks, so that they know every aspect of the character they are writing. Others only know whatever they write on the page: that a character picked up a chipped cup, and drank the hot tea so quickly she burned her tongue, for instance. Kahini Magazine el Similarly, when it comes to finding character in the first place: do we draw on elements of real people we know, create entirely new characters, or some mixture of both? From Graham Greene: “One never knows enough about characters in real life to put them into novels. One gets started and then, suddenly, one can not remember what toothpaste they use; what are their views on interior decoration, and one is stuck utterly. No, major characters emerge; minor ones may be photographed.” From Maya Angelou: “Sometimes I make a character from a composite of three or four people, because the essence in any one person is not sufficiently strong to be written about.” Or Ernest Hemingway, responding to a Paris Review question about whether characters are taking from real life: “Of course they are not. Some come from real life. Mostly you invent people from a knowledge and understanding and experience of people.” What is the inspiration of our characters? How do we go from inspiration to characters that are real on the page? We know that characters can be created from one person (Hester Prynne was based on a real-world counterpart, for example) or from three or four or a dozen people, or invented completely. We also know that characters can be created by controlling them through the story, as in the work of Toni Morrison. We know that characters can be created by allowing them to control the story themselves, with us following behind. Whatever our process, how do we know when the character has fully come to life, in our story? Through character action, character dialogue, and character description. Hemingway’s story “Cat in the Rain” was inspired by a real-life incident with his real-life wife, Hadley. They lived in Paris, at the time, and Hadley wanted a cat, but Ernest felt they were too poor. During a visit to Italy in 1923, Hadley spotted a stray kitten hiding under a table in the rain, and said, “I want a cat. I want a cat now. If I can’t have long hair or any fun I can have a cat.” The resulting story, “Cat in the Rain” was one of the stories of the collection “In Our Time”—dedicated to Hadley—which came out in Paris in March of 1924. Character emerges—what a wonderful word that Graham Greene used—in this story through the slow accumulation of detail, and what is not included: the details omitted through Hemingway’s “iceberg theory” of omission. (“If a writer of prose knows enough of what he is writing about 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,” he wrote, in “Death in the Afternoon.” The dignity of movement of an ice- berg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water.”) Kahini Magazine el The story opens: “There were only two Americans stopping at the hotel.” This external authorial voice locates us, in nine words, with the transitory nature of the two main characters, and that they are in a culture not their own. The first line, sentence, or paragraph of a work of art—especially one as short as “Cat in the Rain”—often teaches us how to read what follows. As Gabriel García Márquez noted, “I have spent many months on a first paragraph, and once I get it, the rest just comes out very easily. In the first paragraph you solve most of the problems with your book. The theme is defined, the style, the tone. At least in my case, the first paragraph is a kind of sample of what the rest of the book is going to be.” While many writers, unlike García Márquez, don’t necessarily start the process with the first paragraph (for many writers, the opening is the last thing that they write), they are obviously the first words that a reader encounters, and therefore carry much of the contextualizing weight of the story: “They did not know any of the people they passed on the stairs on their way to and from their room,” the story continues. “Their room was on the second floor facing the sea. It also faced the public garden and the war monument. There were big palms and green benches in the public garden. In the good weather there was always an artist with his easel. Artists liked the way the palms grew and the bright colors of the hotels facing the gardens and the sea. Italians came from a long way off to look up at the war monument. It was made of bronze and glistened in the rain. It was raining. The rain dripped from the palm trees. Water stood in pools on the gravel paths. The sea broke in a long line in the rain and slipped back down the beach to come up and break again in a long line in the rain. The motor cars were gone from the square by the war monument. Across the square in the doorway of the cafe a waiter stood looking out of the empty square.” The opening continues in the vein of the external third-person authorial voice, who declines to enter at this point the consciousness of either of the characters. We are located not only in a specific time and place, but the weather of the rain serves as an additional pressure that will force the two American characters to have to spend time with one another: yet even now, they don’t. The woman looks out of the window, away from the husband; the husband opens a book: “The American wife stood at the window looking out. Outside right under their window a cat was crouched under one of the dripping green tables. The cat was trying to make herself so compact that she would not be dripped on. ‘I’m going down and get that kitty,’ the American wife said. ‘I’ll do it,’ her husband offered from the bed. ‘No, I’ll get it. The poor kitty out trying to keep dry under a table.’ The husband went on reading, lying propped up with the two pillows at the foot of the bed. ‘Don’t get wet,’ he said. As we’ve noted, character is created through three things: easily remembered through the acronym A.D.D: action, description, and dialogue. Kahini Magazine el We see character through action. (What do they do?) We see character through description. (What do they look like? How do they dress or maintain their bodies? This was much more frequently used in nineteenth-century novels: contemporary writers, particularly short story writers, attempt to paint character in as few paint-strokes as possible.) And we see character through dialogue. (What do they say?) Let’s look at this scene again, with this in mind: “The American wife stood at the window looking out.