Infantry and infanticide: in A Farewell to Arms.

Pozorski, Aimee L.

ABSTRACT

When repositioned within the ambivalent beginnings of literary modernism, as well as within the genocidal history emerging at the time, the stillborn infant in Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms reveals the impossibility of assimilating the historical upheavals that he witnessed firsthand. Both the trench warfare of WWI and the 1915-1923 Armenian Genocide complicated for Hemingway the potential of modernity. This article proposes that we recast Hemingway's biography in terms of the tragic cultural moment during which he was writing and connect his figure of the dead, stillborn, and choking infant with the forces of history. Reading Hemingway's sense of history beside his dead infants suggests that what is choking is not simply Hemingway's infant, but also modernist discourse, and the criticism struggling to interpret it.

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Poor little kid. I wished the hell I'd been choked like that. No I didn't. Still there would not be all this dying to go through.

--Ernest Hemingway, 1929

WITH A FOCUS ON THE STILLBIRTH in Ernest Hemingway's 1929 A Farewell to Arms, this article reconsiders the beginnings of modernism, a literary tradition long admired for its radical break from past history and literary predecessors. Rather than expressing satisfaction with such a break, Hemingway's dead infant appears as an intrusive phenomenon testifying to a past that cannot easily be left behind. The trench warfare of World War I, the Greco-Turkish War of 1919-1922, and the 1915-1923 Armenian Genocide complicated modernists' interest in "the new" as these atrocities were only "modern" insofar as they employed killing machines and systemic warfare. Instead of confidence in this new approach to literary valuation, ambivalence came to the forefront to underwrite modernism as a field; after World War I, modernist literature was not simply ambivalent about modernity, but rather grew up out of ambivalence--an ambivalence betrayed by the repressed, overlooked, and unreadable figure of the dead infant.

The unreadable figure of the stillborn infant seems to mark a significant crisis in the field of modernism, a crisis that is symptomatically ignored as such? This article suggests that A Farewell to Arms demands a re-reading of modernism to posit the field itself as a kind of stillborn infant at the crisis point of its own self-realization. At this point of crisis, where the new modernism is still in its infancy, it seems impossible to abandon or to kill it. As a result, modernism grew up, despite itself. But still lurking within its passages of poetry and prose, the kernel of the past that cannot be so easily integrated resides--the dead, the murdered, the stillborn infant whose death defines the problem of bearing witness to trauma. This problem of representation emerges via the silent cry of modern infants, a contradiction in terms that fails to testify to the infants lost in the first part of the 20th century.

Ernest Hemingway's writing may appear, at first glance, as a most unlikely exemplar of modernist texts that bear witness to the silenced death of an infant. After all, Hemingway's mythology showcases a macho and unsentimental writer of hunting and fishing exhibitions, tales of love and war, heroic wounds, and true modernist apathy. A Farewell to Arms, for example, masquerades as a novel depicting the tragic love affair between Frederic Henry, an American ambulance driver at the Italian front during World War I, and Catherine Barkley, an English V.A.D. who treats injured soldiers there. (2) The novel begins with the usual portrayal of soldiers talking smart, getting drunk, and fantasizing about pretty nurses while simultaneously lamenting the pity of war. The novel continues to narrate the horror of war and the bonds of love among soldiers and between couples, bonds with the power to sustain characters through ambushes and defection, rain storms and injury.

For a war novel, however, A Farewell to Arms ends rather surprisingly, with the strangled and stillborn death Of Frederic's and Catherine's infant, and Catherine's subsequent death by hemorrhaging. In the last chapter, there is no real reference to war at all--except in Frederic's surprising 'comparison of the death of his infant son to the death of his fellow soldiers:

 Poor little kid. I wished the hell I'd been choked like that. No I
 didn't. Still there would not be all this dying to go through. Now
 Catherine would die. That was what you did. You died. You did
 not know what it was about. You never had time to learn. They
 threw you in and told you the rules and the first time they
 caught you off base they killed you. Or they killed you gratuitously
 like Aymo. Or gave you syphilis like Rinaldi. But they
 killed you in the end. You could count on that. Stay around and
 they would kill you. (AFTA 327)

The "Poor little kid" that opens this passage holds a certain appeal both as a description of--and address to--an infant. The entire passage works either as internal monologue or soliloquy to a dead child. The ambiguity allows Hemingway to consider both genocidal infanticide and trench warfare simultaneously and to hold in balance these two historical calamities underwriting his oeuvre. (3) In either the case of monologue or soliloquy, "choking" is depicted through both the form and the content of this passage--as both a deadly condition and a matter of style betraying Frederic's own choking. Frederic's choked and stiff interior monologue may appear to be his final word on war, his own "farewell to arms" But this passage also bids farewell to the infant, whose death becomes comprehensible as infanticide via a death-by-killing of the soldiers. This passage moves from a language of death in general to death by murder--from" That was what you did. You died' to "But they killed you in the end.... Stay around and they would kill you." A form of the verb "to die" occurs three times in this passage; later, it shifts to a focus on "to kill"--used four times. By the end, it becomes unclear who the "you" and the "they" are in this passage, indicating that--although a stillbirth is an unanticipated outcome of pregnancy--Frederic interprets the baby's death as murderous, as purposive in some unarticulated way.

For example, "But they killed you in the end" addresses not only soldiers at the front, but also Frederic's infant, as well as Catherine, his lover killed unwittingly by her choking infant. The final statement--"That was what you did. You died"--could as easily be addressed to the matricidal infant as to the soldiers Frederic laments. By establishing an analogy between a choking, murderous stillbirth and death at the front, Hemingway here translates the stillbirth as murder in two senses, with the infant's death ultimately appearing as "gratuitous" as Aymo's death.

But why would Hemingway depict this death--this choking, airless, inaudible death of an infant at the end of a war novel--this "gratuitous" death amidst the ruins of World War I? The answer is not as simple as a corresponding analogy between the innocent and unexpected death Of soldiers and the innocent and unexpected death of an infant. After all, this figure of infanticide is not the first of its kind choking under the weight of an infant's death in Hemingway's career. For all of its masculinity, indifference, and apathetic romance, Hemingway's fiction bears witness to "all of the dying" Frederic laments in Farewell. And yet, like Frederic's farewell to arms, Hemingway's farewell to infants remains suspended, itself only choking in the place of an adequate witness. In so doing, this work transmits only traces of infanticide lingering from his reportage of the Greco-Turkish war of 1919-1922 as well as the ungraspable horror of trench warfare during World War I. (4)

The very existence of a scene of a choking child in A Farewell to Arms suggests that Hemingway found in his war correspondence something inassimilable--a fact of history irreducible to words in both the newspaper accounts and in historical memory. The fact that these dead infants return in Hemingway-'s fiction during the unlikeliest moment--a moment marking a farewell to arms--remarkably suggests another impossible farewell, a farewell to the young men and infants killed in history several years before. In evoking such history, Hemingway's work points to something larger than itself, something beyond the framework of the novel. (5) As this novel suggests, modernists like Hemingway felt that they had created a little more than a new literary tradition. Hemingway's stillborn infant--both a new life and instant death--seems to speak to an ambivalence about this "newness"--as, in some senses, a fixation on the new was associated also with unbearable body counts accompanying the new military technology at the turn of the 20th century.

A brief conversation in Farewell between the physician overseeing Catherine's labor and Frederic, the concerned father, illustrates the ambivalence surrounding a new baby or a new literary tradition through the figure of a scar. This conversation blurs the experience of the caesarean section that could potentially save Catherine's and Frederic's baby with the experience of modern warfare for the soldiers at the front. At this moment, the physician explains to Frederic that, were his own wife's life at risk in the delivery room, he would recommend the caesarean over a high forceps delivery. "What are the after effects?" Frederic asks with concern. "There are none," the physician answers, "There is only the scar" (AFTA 321). Despite the physician's confidence, as Farewell makes clear throughout, "the scar"--the scar on the body, like the scar on the memory, and the trace of intolerable deaths--is an after-effect unlikely to heal, an ever-visible reminder. The scar of Farewell ultimately connects the individual death of an infant with the collective deaths of modern warfare, illustrating that the choking death of Hemingway's stillborn infant is not a gratuitous symbol after all.

I. INFANTRY

The weight that the dead infant carries emerges as early as Farewell's own ambivalent beginning, which unexpectedly compares childbirth with trench warfare. In one of the most often cited passages of Farewell, Hemingway depicts burdened soldiers as pregnant women: "Their rifles were wet and under their capes the two leather cartridge boxes on the front of the belts, gray leather boxes heavy with the packs of clips of thin, long 6.5 mm cartridges, bulged forward under the capes so the men, passing on the road, marched as though they were six months gone with child" (4). Listing all of the equipment that weighs down the soldiers, Hemingway chooses an unlikely simile to end his difficult, even clumsy, sentence. The words "under their capes the two leather cartridge boxes on the front of the belts ..." stumble along as would a weighed-down soldier or pregnant woman. Situating "the two leather cartridge boxes" between two prepositional phrases--"under their capes" and "on the front of the belts"--gives these boxes a certain primacy. Later, we learn that these boxes contain small arms ammunition and are therefore responsible for the soldiers' tendency to "bulge forward."

Indeed, at first glance, the simile is appropriate here. As Haytock has aptly argued, "The soldiers will give birth not to a living being but to violence and death--foreshadowing the bloody and fatal end of Catherine's pregnancy" (70). However, despite its force, the equation of ammunition with the new life represented by a fetus takes an inexplicable turn by the end of that sentence. Hemingway writes" as though they were six months gone with child" (AFTA 4, emphasis added), not "as though they were pregnant," or "as though they were six months along with child." The crucial word "gone" betrays something more troubling here. The soldiers are "gone"--vulnerable to death, absent from life--just as Catherine's life is lost in pregnancy, and just as the infant has come and "gone" at precisely the same moment in the novel's last pages.

In post-World War I literature, the phrase "gone with child" takes on a curious double meaning. Typically, as Hemingway points out, the phrase "to be gone with child" means to be pregnant but its location in a war novel that ends with the death of an infant emphasizes that war and infanticide are often inextricable. For example, the death toll of the young men fighting in World War I caused concern over the infants these soldiers would never father, over the loss of futurity faced by the post-war generation. As such, the phrase "gone with child" paradoxically links birth and death at this crucial early moment in the novel. Whereas pregnancy is typically associated with the production of life, in Farewell it is associated with death and loss. As Nurse Ferguson, Catherine's friend, reminds her, "But you're God knows how many months gone with child" (AFTA 247).

The depiction of infants along with soldiers as both "there" and "gone" resonates throughout Farewell--from discussions of war, to discussions of babies, to discussions of both war and babies in the same line. For example, in her continued skepticism about Catherine's pregnancy, Nurse Ferguson warns Frederic that she did not Want Catherine "with any Of these war babies," (6) and later begins crying when considering Frederic's seduction of Catherine (AFTA 247). Clearly, in this context, a "war baby" is the result of a spontaneous union between two people who may never see each other again, each seeking solace in the other under strange circumstances in a strange place. However, this phrase also solidifies the tenable connection between the deaths of soldiers in war, and the deaths of the soldiers' babies. The phrase "war baby" alone suggests that these babies, born under the sign of war, are already slated for death; they are already dead, a significant subtext of literatures of genocide. Further, as is clear by the end, Farewell considers the number of soldiers killed as significant as the number of dead babies, reminding us of how infantry and infanticide shared--at one point in their etymologies--the same root word, "infant."

"Infantry" comes originally from the French infanterie and the Italian infanteria, meaning "foot-soldiery" which itself derives from infante, meaning "a youth, foot-soldier." The root of this word is the Latin infantem, meaning "infant." The primary definition of "infantry," of course, is "the body of foot-soldiers; foot-soldiers, collectively; that part of an army which consists of men who march and maneuver On foot and are armed with small arms, now a rifle" (OED). Farewell is grounded in the language of arms-bearing infantry from the beginning, using the term in such sentences as "The road here was below the level of the river bank and all along the side of the sunken road there were holes dug in the bank with infantry in them" (46). The holes dug in the bank here conjure both the image of graves--with the infant(ry) buried within--as well as the symbolic and sonic connection between "womb" and "tomb." A few pages later, the novel reveals the fate of the soldier: "They hang you. They come and make you be a solider again. Not in the auto-ambulance, in the infantry" (50). Again, this passage foreshadows the stillborn's fate through a linguistic address marked bE the second-person pronoun "you." This time, however, the soldier-as-youth, as infante, is susceptible to death by hanging, similar to a stillbirth caused by the strangulation of an infant by his own umbilical cord.

Not only does the novel evoke infanticide under the sign of infantry, but also it evokes soldiers under the sign of infants. For example, during an exchange between Rinaldi and Frederic, two grown men refer to each other as "baby," as in: "Well, baby;" "Old baby;" "I see that, baby;" "This is a terrible war, baby;" "Oh baby, how you've Come back to me" (166-68). This repetition emphasizes the second definition of "infantry": "Infants collectively, or as a body" as in the OED's examples of its usages in W. Browne (1613-16): "No carefull nurse would wet her watchfull eye /When any pang should gripe her infantry;" the Reader (1863): "There was one A.B.C. book, or pretty nearly one, for the whole 'infantry' of the Country"; and Needham (1896): "The little dirty Infantry, which swarms UP and down in Alleys and Lanes."

While "infant" originally comes from a different root, "enfant" in both Old French and French, it was eventually picked up by the Italian language--as was "infantry"--as infante, meaning "child" The preceding Latin root is infans, meaning "before speech." Today, the primary definition of "infant" is: "A child during the earliest period of life (or still unborn); now most usually applied to a child in arms, a babe," as used in Tennyson's 1850 In Memoriam: "An infant crying in the night / An infant crying for the light / And with no language but a cry" (OED). In 1850, a time not yet entirely skeptical of the cost of modernity, Tennyson assigns the universal language of the cry to an infant--a language that eventually becomes distorted in the figures of the 20th century.

Yet, what does it mean for the infant not to have that language, or, more precisely, not to have a cry--his voice choked by gasps for air? As if foreshadowing this unimaginable circumstance, Frederic says upon his infant's birth, "I did not want to see him move or hear him cry" (AFTA 325). Frederic's desire is fulfilled, as later in the scene, Frederic learns of the horrific fate of this child:

 "May I speak to you?" I said to the nurse. She came out in the
 hall with me. I walked a little way down the hall.

 "What's the matter with the baby?" I asked.

 "Didn't you know?"

 "No"

 "He wasn't alive."

 "He was dead?"

 "They couldn't start him breathing. The cord was caught
 around his neck or something."

 "So he's dead."

 "Yes. It's such a shame. He was such a fine big boy. I thought you
 knew." (326-327)

As this dialogue shows, the fate of the infant is not only horrific, but also unbelievable--so unbelievable that the fact of his death needs to be clarified three times: "He wasn't alive"; "He was dead?"; "So he's dead." Further, this is no simple stillbirth. The infant was choked by his umbilical cord--hanged like the infantrymen in the service. The nurse's "or something" at the end of her explanation is completely inadequate to the moment, radically ineffectual in acknowledging Frederic's distress. The fact is, the infant was suffocated by hanging--by an inadequate oxygen supply, and the "or something" is used as a linguistic tempering of the news. The cord was caught around the infant's neck, preventing air from getting to his lungs, and therefore, preventing him from making a sound and from testifying to his own life and simultaneous death. For without air, a baby cannot cry--at once a medical fact, but also an important literary maneuver for Hemingway--a modernist writer, perhaps choking himself on the wars he had witnessed and the inadequacy of language to depict them.

Not only is the infant--like Hemingway--suffering under the weight of the war, but Catherine is, as well. That Catherine demands a gas mask throughout the birthing scene is no accident, as the novel is explicit about the merits of such a device. Catherine asks for an anesthetic, probably nitrous oxide, on numerous occasions to ease the pain of childbirth: "'Couldn't my husband give me the gas?.... I want it now" Catherine said. She held the mask tight to her face. I turned the dial to number two and when Catherine put down the mask I turned it off. It was very good of the doctor to let me do something" (AFTA 317). A few pages later, Catherine repeats, "'Give it to me. Give it to me: She clutched hold of the mask and breathed short and deeps pantingly, making the respirator click. Then she gave a long sigh and the doctor reached with his left hand and lifted away the mask" (319). (7) Strikingly, Hemingway's linguistic references to the gas mask evoke soldiers' gas masks during World War I--as if there were no difference between medical masks used to deliver anesthetic gas and military masks used to keep toxic gas out. With such an uncanny resonance between childbirth, on the one hand, and trench warfare, on the other, it is difficult not to hear the shouts of suffocating soldiers in Catherine's pleas.

Although gas masks are not a featured part of the novel Frederic ominously tells us that his gas mask hangs "in an oblong tin can" in his room with Rinaldi (AFTA 11). A powerful symbol for the horrors of modern technology and its insignificance in tempering the war's fatal blows, the gas mask appears to refer beyond itself to a more universal worry about death and loss. Catherine's figure gasping for the mask mirrors the gasping soldier, as depicted in Wilfred Owen's 1920 war poem, "Dulce Et Decorum Est." The differences between Catherine's request and the soldier's lie in the life-threatening situation each one experiences. Owens's depiction of gas, for example, is more directly bound up with the impact of war at the front:

 Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling,
 Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
 But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
 And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime ...
 Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
 As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. (1276)

At first glance, deadly war in the trenches could not be more different from birth in the hospital. The two scenes meet, however, around the paradox of being heard when death appears imminent--as both the medical gas mask and the military gas mask simultaneously stifle speech and promise a future in which to be heard.

Like Hemingway, Owen worries about the children who learn "the lie" of nationalism. Concerned similarly with war's effects on children, both Hemingway and Owen treat the lost innocence of children resulting from World War I and, perhaps most crucially, the cultural experience of losing a child. In their insistence upon the horror of technological warfare impossible to abate with such life-savers as the modern gas mask, "Dulce," and Farewell point up the implications of this war for children, and indeed, for infants. The impact is not simply loss of a parent, or even loss of a pure ideological perspective. As Hemingway's fiction underscores, war kills the potential for a new generation, as well as childish innocence and ideals.

II. INFANTICIDE

When repositioned within the ambivalent beginnings of literary modernism, as well as within the genocidal history emerging at the time, Hemingway's dead infants reveal the impossibility of assimilating Such historical upheavals. Both the trench warfare of World War I and the 1915-1923 Armenian Genocide complicated this generation of writers' interest in "the new," as these atrocities were only "modern" insofar as they employed killing machines and systematic warfare. (8) Waiter Kalaidjian asks in "The Edge of Modernism: Genocide and the Poetics of Traumatic Memory," "What did it mean in the mid-1910's to pick up, for the first time, any major daily paper around the world and read such headlines as 'Armenians are Sent to Perish in Desert: Turks Accused of Plan to Exterminate Whole Populations,' 'Turks Depopulate Towns of Armenia,' and '1,500,000 Armenians Starve'?" (110). The question is meant, in part, to be rhetorical, as to learn for the first time of a government's plans "to exterminate whole populations" would be unspeakably horrific; it seems difficult to find meaning in genocide. Further, the "edge" in the essay's title refers not only to the lacerating sharpness of such a discovery, but also to the limits of such discoveries. Kalaidjian calls the events reported in these headlines--and, indeed, the event of reading such headlines--evidence of a "shocking ... new age of modernism" (110), an age of unexpected and undesired "newness."

This "shocking new age" began as early as April 1915, when the Turkish Press began justifying "solutions" to the "Armenian Question." By that September, Turkey's minister of the interior inscribed a deliberate policy to "destroy completely all Armenians living in Turkey" (qtd. in Dobkin 41, 44), as well as most of the non-Muslim population living within the Ottoman Empire under Turkish rule. Many victims, including 500,000 Assyrians and 350,000 Greeks as well as Armenians, were killed through a death march in the Ottoman Empire into the Syrian Desert. Dohkin describes the deportations as--by now--"chillingly familiar, especially when one remembers that the victims of the last, most hideous phase were almost exclusively women and children" (43). According to one report, "It depended on the whim of the moment whether a Kurd cut a woman down or carried her away into the hills. When they were carried away, their babies were left on the ground or dashed against the stones" (Dobkin 44).

All told, the Turkish government exterminated more than a million Armenians between 1915-1923. During the Greco-Turkish war of 1919-1922, the Armenians sided with the Greeks only to be severely punished when Turkey took control of Smyrna on 9 September 1922, pillaged Armenian and Greek homes and stores, and killed thousands of Armenians and Greeks (Armenian National Institute; Dobkin 131-167). According to Dobkin, the aftermath was not much better, as the Turks met on Smyrna's quai to continue their revenge: "And when the night grew black enough for the Turks to begin their nightly orgy, the destroyers would sweep their searchlights over the quay in an effort to inhibit rape and slaughter, and turn up their phonographs on deck to drown out the screams with strains of 'Humoresque' or the swelling tones of Caruso singing from Pagliacci" (Dobkin 183). Hemingway would go on to report this scene in the "Introduction by the Author" that opens the 1930 edition of In Our Time. The story, later retitled "On the Quai at Smyrna," is based on a description of the scene by a British officer: "The strange thing was, he said, how they screamed every night at midnight, I do not know why they screamed at that time. We were in the harbor and they were all on the pier and at midnight they started screaming. We used to turn the searchlight on them to quiet them" (IOT 9).

Despite the fact that Hemingway did not arrive in Constantinople to cover the conflict until 30 September 1922, following the defeat of the Greeks in Smyrna, he was able to capture the horror of the war's aftermath effectively (Meyers 97). Hemingway's involvement produced fourteen articles for the Toronto Star, some of which later appeared fictionalized in In Our Time. During his reporting days, for example, Hemingway described refugees fleeing the Turkish side of the river for the Greek sanctuary of Karagatch in a Toronto Star article entitled "A Silent Ghastly Procession Wends Way from Thrace" (BL 51-52).

Hemingway's journalistic account of this retreat ends with a focus on women and children--in particular, on an unexpected scene of childbirth in the middle of the road: "Women and kids were in the carts crouched with mattresses, mirrors, sewing machines, bundles. There was a woman having a kid with a young girl holding a blanket over her and crying. Scared sick looking at it. It rained all through the evacuation" (BL 51). Jeffrey Meyers emphasizes that this particular scene of a woman giving birth "in extremis" occurs often in the accounts of this war, and that this journalistic account exemplifies Hemingway's "bare, direct, intense, elemental effect" attained from a relentless repetition of key words: rain, mud, carts, cattle, bridge, kids (102).

This particular newspaper reportage eventually became chapter three of Hemingway's Paris in our time (1924), but it also resonates beyond Hemingwars early writing, reappearing unexpectedly in his later novel, Farewell. In the rainy retreat from Caporetto, for instance, many of the same factors emerge--except, in this case, the rain and the journey seem to function symbolically, rather than as historical fact:

 In the night many peasants had joined the column from the
 roads of the country and in the column there were carts loaded
 with household goods; there were mirrors projecting up between
 mattresses and chickens and ducks tied to carts. There
 was a sewing-machine ahead of us in the rain. They had saved
 the most valuable things. On some carts the women sat huddled
 from the rain and others walked beside the carts keeping as close
 to them as they could. (AFTA 198)

This passage significantly resembles the historical account of the "Ghastly Procession" from Thrace. (9) In particular, the carts in each passage are loaded with the same household materials: mattresses, mirrors, sewing machines, and poultry. What is missing from this latter passage, however, are the "bundles" These bundles are replaced, instead, with the phrase, "the most valuable things." The replacement of "bundles" with "the most valuable things"--whereof an infant is the most valuable of all--establishes a metonymic relation between "bundle," "the most valuable things" and the stillborn infant who neither moves nor cries when Frederic sees him for the first time (325).

This lifeless' and silent infant has roots in "On the Quai at Smyrna"--a fragment informed by Hemingway's days as a reporter during the Greco-Turkish War. Beginning with: "The strange thing was, he said, how they screamed every night at midnight" the piece contrasts this regular screaming with silence and death encountered on the quai: "The worst he said, were the women-with dead babies. You couldn't get the women to give up their dead babies. They'd have babies dead for six days. Wouldn't give them up. Nothing you could do about it" (IOT 10). The anonymous "he" in these sentences is a British senior officer whom Hemingway interviewed as a reporter. The story, in other words, is not simply fiction, but fact. Hemingway's emphasis is undeniably on the "dead babies"--a phrase repeated three times, as if the first mention is not enough to be believed, and emphasis and repetition can make the horrible fact of the "dead babies" or "babies dead" more understandable. Further, as the British officer recalls, "You didn't mind the women who were having babies as you did those with the dead ones. They had them all right. Surprising how few of them died. You just covered them over with something and let them go to it" (11). Itself a story emphasizing Hemingway's ambivalent beginnings--the very first story reporting the birth and death of infants in this early collection--"On the Quai at Smyrna" confuses life with death, with Hemingway's curt "They had them all right" ambiguously referring to babies both living and dead.

This confusion results from Hemingway's use of pronouns without antecedents. The passage begins with, "They had them all right," a vague and general statement that exists between a sentence about "the dead ones" and a sentence beginning "Surprising how few of them died" (IOT 11) Within this referential confusion, the interpretive question likely becomes: what did these women have? Were they carrying dead babies or live babies? Even after the sentence ending "how few of them died," the officer continues: "You just covered them over," as if to say, "you just covered over the dead babies" (IOT 11). The officer means to say, "You cover over the women having live babies." In all of its ambiguity, the passage refuses to allow this important aspect of the cultural memory of the Greeks and Armenians--the fact of the deaths of their babies--itself to be covered over. In referring to the live babies, Hemingway could therefore be said to invoke the dead along with them, recalling the first genocide of this century.

III. CRITICAL MOMENTS

The inexplicable infant that resonates with the infantry of World War I and the Armenian genocide of 1915-1923 did not always hold such exemplary status in early drafts of Farewell, however. Even Hemingway's drafts illustrate the profound difficulty of testifying to the death of an infant. As Michael Reynolds has discovered, the newborn baby was alive in the early drafts of the novel, but Hemingway changed this after he moved to Key West. As Reynolds suggests, "A live baby would have been another loose end that Hemingway did not want. More importantly, a live baby would have been a sign of hope--life would go on. A Farewell to Arms is a massive defeat; there could be no sentimental hope left in the end" (43). For Hemingway, the stillborn rejects hope in favor of failure, a non-reparative reminder of the tragic, war-time past and the impossibility of adequately bearing witness to the deaths of his milieu.

While reading A Farewell as a text refusing voice and hope after a generation of genocide, Reynolds fails to acknowledge even the possibility that Hemingway's infamous figure carries symbolic meaning by referring to his point of emphasis as "a live baby" and "a dead baby." Were the passage taken out of context, one could imagine that Reynolds here is talking about an historical document. In other words, the figure of the infant here has turned into an actual baby via. Reynolds's rhetoric. Reynolds, for example, while discussing the thirty-two variant endings' of this novel, reveals that while most end with the stillbirth, "one variant has the baby alive. In the first draft of the manuscript, Hemingway had left the baby alive; by the time he wrote the first ending, he had rejected this idea. Sometime in May 1929, he wrote an insert of MS-641, once more reviving the baby. Ultimately, the baby appeared stillborn" (45). (10) With such careful traction on the history of this baby, Reynolds's essay reveals a particular investment in the life of this infant, like Hemingway, treating the figure as one would discuss an infant in the world. With such repeated phrases as "the baby alive" and "reviving the baby," Reynolds's essay reads much like a medical tract such as Clarence Hemingway's 1908 "Sudden Death that May Come to a Recently Delivered Mother." In fact, given this medical rhetoric, one might think that Hemingway is himself a physician who killed an infant, or, conversely wanted an infant to live. Early on, we learn, "Hemingway had left the baby alive," and in May 1929, he "once more [revived] the baby"--indicating not only this critic's relation to the infant as new life, but also giving Hemingway the power to save or to murder an infant simply with his words. The baby, in other words, takes on a life after the novel.

Hemingway critics might be better served to take lessons in reading from the paradoxically historical figures that emerge in Reynolds's criticism and to recast Hemingway's biography in terms of the tragic cultural moment during which he was writing. Reynolds points up most effectively how the figures of infanticide in Hemingway's prose are irreducible to any one life experience or to a specific mistrust. Hemingway's ambivalence about life and art, his witnessing of loss and of birth, and his place in the larger modernist tradition, all complicate the status of this child. When considered at all, this figure has been reduced either to biographical evidence of Hemingway's frustration with women or to overt symbolism for the stifled creativity of a writer. In so doing, Hemingway criticism generally fails to connect Hemingway's figure of the dead infant with the forces of history and to the modernist literary tradition. Reading Hemingway's sense of history beside his dead infants, I propose, suggests that what is choking is not simply Hemingway's infant, but also modernist discourse, and the criticism struggling to interpret it.

As George Monteiro and others have noted, critics typically discuss the biographical sources for the novel, as well as the "imagistic and symbolic deployment of rain.... Catherine's delivery scene, Frederic Henry's denunciation of abstract patriotic words, and the novel's conclusion" (Monteiro 12). Even when considering Catherine's delivery scene, however, such critics as Judith Fetterley, Peter Griffin, and Jeffrey Meyers have been far more interested in Catherine's death in childbirth than in the infant's death by strangulation. Generally, critics argue that Hemingway's fiction provides an outlet for his fantasies by allowing him to punish his lovers through fictionally portraying the deaths of a mother and her infant. (11)

Many biographical readings focus on Agnes von Kurowsky's rejection of Hemingway as a suitor. For Meyers, "Her rejection may have driven Hemingway to strive for success as a writer and to recreate Agnes as Catherine in A Farewell to Arms. In the novel, though not in actual life, the submissive Catherine becomes the hero's mistress and is 'punished' by death in childbirth" (41). Meyers goes on to argue that the loss of [Hemingway's] creative work when he was in Lausanne probably influenced his fictional portrayal of the loss of Catherine Barkley's baby in Montreux. In the novel, he vicariously got rid of the unwanted infant just as Hadley (subconsciously, if not deliberately) got rid of the manuscripts that had kept them apart, day and night" (Meyers 70).

When not focusing on biographical elements in this striking and final scene in Farewell, critics focus on symbolism--particularly, on how the inexplicable image of the dead infant represents the dangerous world of love or the impossibility of building a home. For example, Judith Fetterley argues that Catherine's womb:

 carrying an embryo secure, warm and nourished, is an obvious
 analogue for the world which Frederic creates with her. But at
 the end of the novel we discover that Catherine's womb is, in
 fact, a chamber of horrors filled with blood and death. In an
 ironic reversal of expectations, the real danger to Frederic Henry
 turns out not to be the world of war, the outer world which
 seems so obviously threatening, but the world of love, the inner
 world which seems so overtly secure. (128)

Further, Peter Griffin concludes that "The baby, symbol of the home Frederic and Catherine tried to create, is born with the umbilical cord around its neck, strangled in the womb" (187).

To read the dead infant as a symbol for an inner world of love that is equally as threatening as the outer world of war, however, seems to miss the echoes of Hemingway's previous concern with dead infants--with infanticide through genocide--in his early oeuvre. Rather than analyze Hemingway's stillborn, murdered, and literary infants as symptoms of his infamous biography, I suggest a new reading of this figure--joined as it is to the other overlooked literary deaths of infants in the 20th century--as much more than a symbol, but rather a trace of unassimilated history that gestures beyond itself to retell a murderous history. The novel's enigmatic figure of the stillborn's strangled cry testifies not to Hemingway's troubled personal life, but rather to a deeply problematic modern world.

IV. CHOKING ON LANGUAGE

Further, the strangled cry of the infant parallels the strangled cry of the fiction writer who cannot be satisfied with the way language inadequately conveys the forces of history. Such dissatisfaction raises the issue of voice in modernist literature in general and its connection with the problem of writing. In response to the radical failure of language to depict the events of the first quarter of the century, Hemingway chose the aesthetic of understatement rather than bold literary experimentation, a primary and celebrated characteristic of modernism. As such, the simplicity of Hemingway's prose results from his desire to portray disturbing, emotionally devastating material such as infant death, genocide, and other atrocities. Like his predecessors', Hemingway's writing is immersed in tragedy, but the magnitude of social dislocations in Hemingway's time also provokes a massive suppression of sentiment and pathos, balancing verbal control with the deeply unsettling themes he chooses for his fiction.

The image of the dead child, for example, while it epitomizes Hemingway's paucity of affect, also points up the inaudible cry Of the narrator who reflects upon the stillbirth of his son. This apparent linguistic deficiency, however, instills one kind of response to the horror--perhaps an ethical response--that does not fully rely upon verbosity. It appears as if there are no words to convey the choking death of a child. All Hemingway provides, instead, are fits and starts when Frederic recalls his reaction to the news of his son's death:

 I sat down on the chair in front of a table where there were
 nurses' reports hung on clips at the side and looked out of the
 window. I could see nothing but the dark and the rain falling
 across the light from the window. So that was it. The baby was
 dead. That was why the doctor looked so tired. Buy why had
 they acted the way they did in the room with him? They supposed
 he would come around and start breathing probably. I
 had no religion but I knew he ought to have been baptized. But
 what if he never breathed at all. He hadn't. Except in Catherine.
 I'd felt him kick there often enough. But I hadn't for a week.
 Maybe he was choked all the time. (AFTA 327)

At first, this passage is strikingly removed from the scene of the infant's death, but even the nurses' reports remind Frederic of the death of his son recorded there. Frederic's thoughts are purposefully scattered, with each new idea preventing reflection on the one before: The baby was dead; the doctor looked tired; I had no religion; and the baby lived and breathed--but only in Catherine. Even narrative temporality is skewed here, as Frederic moves from the present articulated in the past tense ("the baby was dead") to the actual past ("the doctor looked tired") to the present again articulated in the past-tense ("I had no religion but I knew ...") and back to past ("he hadn't" breathed at all). Within this profound disorientation, there exists a glut of emotion, but it is located only between the phrases, never actually erupting into the objectivity of the language. The affective dimension of the unexpected death Of an infant never could be captured by such objectivity. We know only from the words on the page that "that was it. The baby was dead"--but the disjointed phrases, affective distance, strings of prepositions, and misused punctuation betray something else.

This betrayal comes particularly with a couple of the shortest sentences, with the exception of the fragmented dialogue, in the entire novel: "So that was it. The baby was dead." Nine syllables compose both sentences, each ending with the hard and sure stops of the "t" and "d" sounds. The fact of the death is no longer an open question as in the previous conversation with the nurse. These are among the last two declarative sentences in the passage. What follows is vertiginous speculation, whether marked as a question or not: "But why had they acted the way they did in the room with him?" followed by "They supposed he would come around ... probably"; followed by "But what if he never breathed at all." Compellingly, this last question: "But what if he never breathed at all," and the last of this section: "Maybe he was choked the whole time" reverberate with Uncertainty. They are questions, but not marked as such. The "maybe" here is like the nurse's "or something"--extra words to get through to the fact of the infant's death.

It is difficult for Frederic to take in this death because it is inextricably bound up with his own life. The close relationship between father and son, life and death, emerges in the final sentences of this passage: "But what if he never breathed at all. He hadn't. Except in Catherine. I'd felt him kick there often enough. But I hadn't for a week. Maybe he was choked the whole time." While the syntactical links clearly demarcate the baby's experiences from Frederic's experiences, nonetheless there is a powerful symbolic resonance between Frederic's emotional state and the baby's medical state. Just as the baby is hanged, Frederic chokes on his emotions, evoking the sense that Frederic dies with the baby, as in : "But what if he never breathed at all. ... I hadn't for a week." In this moment, the death of the child crosses the life of the father--signifying Frederic's emotional death in tandem with his son's. Ultimately, if we interpret the son as "choked the whole time" (significantly written in the passive voice, refusing to assign agency to the umbilical cord), at least for a week, it becomes clear that he would not, could not, cry upon birth. The passage does not say as much. What is really said, using Hemingway's fraction, lies seven-eighths beneath the surface. What we are left knowing, even feeling, despite the passage's emotive silence, is that Frederic is also choking at this moment--"choking the whole time," failing adequately to convey the fact of his infant's death.

Hemingway's modernist approach to depicting the death of an infant--and all of the history it conjures--speaks paradoxically through Hemingway's own "iceberg aesthetic," an anti-aesthetic that speaks through silence. The literary form of Hemingway's silences, for example, the passages in which characters say little in order to emphasize the magnitude of the moment, parallel the silence of the infant's cry in the penultimate chapter of Farewell. In Hemingway, this understatement is perhaps no clearer than Frederic's reaction to his stillborn son: "So that was it," he reflects. "The baby was dead" (AFTA 327)--a brilliant example of this well-known aesthetic first portrayed in a Kansas City Star article, "Mix War, Art, and Dancing" on 21 April 1918). (12) In "Mix War, Art and Dancing," as Meyers claims, Hemingway explained for the first time, "his seminal idea that a skilled writer may omit things he knows, yet make the reader feel them as strongly as if he had actually stated them" (Meyers 25). Beneath, for example, "So that was it. The baby was dead," lies a surge of inexplicable, indeed, inaudible emotions, never stated in journalistic discourse, but felt all the same. In this way, Hemingway's prose style itself functions both as "audible" and "inaudible"--with that which is not explicitly stated paradoxically having the largest impact. According to Hemingway," If a writer of prose knows enough about 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. The dignity of the movement of an ice-berg is due to only one-eighth of it being above the water'" (DIA 192). For Hemingway, the one-eighth on the surface--"The baby was dead"--might evoke another seven-eighths of memory and empathy. Because of language's inadequacy to report traumatic events, less is more.

This infamous aesthetic has garnered significant critical response. (13) But perhaps the most articulate description is from Thomas Wolfe, at the time a young contemporary of Hemingway, lauding Hemingway's "superb concision": Hemingway "says one thing and suggests ten more ... his words not only pull their own weight in a sentence, they also pull a very rich weight of profound and moving association and inference" (qtd. in Monteiro 2). However, it is not exactly the understatement that interests me, but rather the inaudibility of the narrative voice. Hemingway compels an updated reading precisely because of his respect for the unspeakability of atrocity.

Such literary silences in the face of powerful emotions, while a powerful aesthetic, were criticized harshly with regard to Hemingway's fiction. In the, words of Stark Young, for example: "There are a good many pages where Mr. Hemingway is doing what we know as getting away with murder. Short statements saying pretty little presuppose a profound meaning in the silences" (91). However, Hemingway's silences seem to be a way of preventing anyone, literally, from "getting away with murder." In his rendition of human cries in silence--the inaudible cry of the stillborn infant--Hemingway's work underscores the simultaneous urgency and impossibility of communicating trauma in history.

Because he witnessed such incommunicable events in history, Hemingway became deeply-mistrustful of language's capacity for reference. This mistrust is evidenced, in part, by the crucially chosen silences in his own fiction. For Hemingway, it is not simply that historical atrocity, such as the war-related death Of an infant, is incommunicable, but that all language fails at some level. As the meta-fictional subtexts of Farewell indicate, by 1929, Hemingway no longer knew what could be explained and how, what the stakes were, and who understood him (AFTA 18, 31, 39). This mistrust is most aptly revealed in Frederic's famous statement: "I was always embarrassed by the words sacred, glorious, and sacrifice" (184-185). A part of the embarrassment is that reality never can quite live up to the lofty status of these words, nor even to such elevated language itself. For example, Hemingway wrote in a 7 June 1929 letter to Maxwell Perkins (discussing the problem of censorship): "No one that has read the Mss. has been shocked by words. The words do not stand out unless you put a ring round them" (68). This statement initially seems a bit disingenuous, as Hemingway was infamous for using shocking words. But the point is actually well-taken: What is so shocking about Hemingway is not necessarily the words, but the absence of them, and his general understanding of how words can fail, even for a writer of fiction. What stands out is a lack of words, as noted in such statements as, "so that was it" Clearly, that cannot be "it"; by the time we learn of the stillbirth, for example, we know Frederic too well to believe that such language as "that was it" provides closure regarding this loss.

Focusing particularly upon unspeakable losses in Hemingway's canon--losses in history and their depiction in fiction--illustrates the shortfall of biographical readings linking, for example, the death of the infant with Hemingway's rejection of fatherhood. The figure of the stillborn infant at the novel's end is not simply a symbol for some larger meaning, but rattier, it is the larger meaning: an inexplicable literariness linking loss and life as incompatibles. While the death of the infant and Catherine inside the novel may not correspond perfectly to Hemingway's life and his fiction, the novel does translate tremendous losses from the outside: World War I, the slaughter enforced by the Turkish government, the suicide of Hemingway's father, the stock market crash of 1929. His reflections in a 1948 preface to Farewell speak to how the forces of history may have had an unreadable impact on his own writing:

 This book was written in Paris, France, Key West, Florida, Piggott,
 Arkansas, Kansas City, Missouri, Sheridan, Wyoming, and
 the first draft of it was finished near Big Horn in Wyoming. It
 was begun in the last winter months of 1928 and the first draft
 was finished in September of that year. It was rewritten in the
 fall and winter of 1928 in Key West and the final writing was
 finished in Paris in the spring of 1929.

 During the time I was writing the first draft, my second son
 Patrick was delivered in Kansas City by caesarean section and
 while I was rewriting my father killed himself in Oak Park,
 Illinois. I was not quite thirty years old when I finished the
 book and the day it was published was the day the stock market
 crashed. (vii)

This introduction not only addresses Hemingway's personal losses, but also his gains: His second son was born in 1928. Yet this new life is also complicated by the father's suicide--as one life begins, another ends. What is so literary--and even literal--about the stillborn death of the infant at the end of Farewell is the particular way it binds together the son's birth and the father's death around a failed caesarean. The scar, in Hemingway's text, as it turns out, is not simply the narrative mark of the imprint on Catherine's body. Instead, this inexplicable dead infant also signifies the scars of history--scars that Hemingway's journalism seemed inadequate to expose. And in journalism's failure to address these scars, a new form of literature emerged in its place--the choking death of an infant whose cry is unheard, a muffled farewell still trying to speak.

NOTES

(1.) For readings of modernism and crises, see especially Bradbury and McFarlane, (29) page 29 and Eysteinsson, page (47).

(2.) V.A.D. stands for Volunteer Aid Detachment, "a short cut" to becoming a nurse, as Catherine tells Frederic (25). For a more thorough discussion of Catherine's role as a V.A.D., see Haytock, (68) and Marcus (124-125).

(3.) Like Jennifer Haytock, I propose that fruitful connections can be drawn between In Our Time and A Farewell to Arms, particularly around the unexpected relationship between childbirth and World War I.

(4.) See Marjorie Dobson Housepian, The Smyrna Affair, esp. 94, 202, 207.

(5.) On this point, I am in agreement with Alex Vernon, who recently argued in this journal that "we can connect war and gender through Hemingway both on and beyond the personal level" (36). Whereas Vernon's reading of A Farewell to Arms focuses on the connection at the level of the individual soldier, my reading focuses on the cultural effects of genocide and modernity in general.

(6.) See James Nagel for a lucid interpretation of Catherine's thoughts about the birth control and abortion that might have kept her alive in the end (173).

(7.) The references to gas during this delivery scene are many. See in particular pages 320-322.

(8.) For more complete discussions of the Armenian genocide, see Balakian, Bryce, Libaridian, Hovannisian, Kalaidjian, and Dobkin.

(9.) As fellow journalist Lincoln Steffens recalls, the connection between Hemingway's journalism and his fiction is no accident. According to Steffens, Hemingway's first assignment at the Genoa Economic Conference gave Hemingway "a quick course in cabalese and within a week" (qtd. in Meyers, 94; from Lincoln Steffens, Letters, ed. Ella Winter and Granville Hicks [New York, 1938] p. 868).

(10.) Bernard Oldsey is also interested in these many variants, clustering them into his own categories entitled, "The Nada Ending," "The Fitzgerald Ending," "The Religious Ending," "The Live-Baby Ending," "The Morning-After Ending," "The Funeral Ending," "The Original Scribner's Magazine Ending," and "The Ending" (49).

(11.) Perhaps the content was not so much affected as the voice--the "elegiac narrative voice" that emerges here "out of his personal pain in 1927-28" (Monteiro 12).

(12.) Hemingway writes: "It was the first dance for soldiers to be given under the auspices of the War Camp Community Service" (1), a minimalist discussion of the excitement of the soldiers and the sexual energy of the dance.

(13.) See Hoffer, Moreland, Nakjavani, Nanny, Quick, and Strong.

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AIMEE L. POZORSKI

Central Connecticut State University