"The Redemption of Jake Barnes": One Possible Epilogue for "The French Connection"
Oh, don't worry. I haven't gone crazy and self-indulgent and started scripting Severus and Hermione's adventures in Paris for the next 19 years. Actually, I didn't write this piece at all; it's a beautiful, Hemingway-inspired gift from bohemianspirit entitled The Redemption of Jake Barnes. I sent her "The French Connection" near Christmas for her perusal, and although she responded with a thoughtful and frankly amazing analysis of the story, she also sent me this more creative response to "The French Connection," illuminating one possible epilogue for the two of them.
I was completely and utterly thrilled. Still am, in fact. As I told her then, I deliberately chose not to tie down the story because I liked the idea of all the different futures that could be imagined for Hermione and Severus in their new home. It's incredibly tempting to follow the characters as far as they can go, but I wanted to leave the multiplicity of futures up to readers. As far as I'm concerned, the conclusion of the story isn't really an end; it's a beginning.
Do I have my own ideas about what they did afterward? Yes, of course. However, I like seeing what other people have imagined for them even more. This companion piece is very different from what I imagined in some ways, but in others it's perfectly in tune. It's very much in the spirit of it, and I hope that you all enjoy it as much as I did.
So, courtesy of bohemianspirit:
Notes: For those who aren't familiar with Hemingway, all you need to know is that "Hadley" refers to Hemingway's first wife (Elizabeth Hadley Richardson), whom he divorced in order to marry "Pauline"--his second wife, Pauline Pfeiffer. "Bumby" refers to Jack, Hemingway's son with Hadley. More information is here.
The Redemption of Jake Barnes
He'd taken an interest, to the point of obsession, in the life and works of Ernest Hemingway.
Hemingway, he said, had got his start in Paris. Come to Paris for a new beginning, fresh inspiration. Hemingway, too, had done his early writing in an ill-heated room in Paris. Severus had gone out scouring the shops till he found his prize: an old manual typewriter, the kind with keys that clicked and clacked the progress of every composition.
"Like Hemingway," guessed Hermione, the day he brought it home and began to use it.
Severus shrugged, and kept typing.
"Just don't go finding yourself a Pauline."
She said it lightly, but he stopped typing and stared at her, looking utterly stricken.
"I know you wouldn't," she apologized, in almost a whisper. "I was only teasing."
He turned abruptly to the typewriter. "Don't," was all he said, his face pinched.
For reasons known only to the inscrutable mind of Severus, he had not bought a desk or table to go with the typewriter. Instead, he had stacked a dozen or so large books, enough to bring it to a comfortable height when he sat cross-legged before it on the floor, looking out the window at the Paris sky.
After he had been writing for a couple of months, he allowed her to read some of what he had written: a few pages, a few stories, a few fragments of stories. It was surprisingly open, laying bare the most tender corners of the human soul--the last thing she would have expected him to write. Eloquence, she had certainly expected, but his eloquence nearly always failed him when conversation turned to matters of the heart; it was startling to see the same matters addressed in his writing with such lyricism and grace.
As he continued to write, and as she continued to read, it struck her that the medium of fiction freed him to speak in a way that he could rarely bring himself to do directly.
"I have a theory," he said one day. "About Jake Barnes."
"The Sun Also Rises. 1926. Hemingway's first novel."
He frowned, not moving his eyes from his typewriter. "I hold a hope," he slowly enunciated, letting his hands fall to his lap. "I know: He's only a fictional character. Still, I harbor a hope for him, that he did find love someday. Not Brett Ashley, the bitch. Someone who truly loved him, truly accepted him, as he was, wounded as he was. Somone wise enough to see that in spite of being wounded he was still capable of giving--and receiving--love."
He stopped speaking and resumed typing.
"Is that what you're writing about now?" asked Hermione.
"Rewrite Hemingway?" Severus snorted. "Of course not. I'm writing my own story."
The typewriter clacked on in a steady rhythm, patient, determined, filling the page, key by key, word by word. Hermione resumed reading.
"He regretted it all his life, you know."
Hermione looked up from the book in her hands. "What's that?"
"Hemingway. Leaving Hadley."
"Ah." Hermione nodded. "And Bumby," she added.
"And--"
His hands halted, hovered above the keys. His head lifted, slowly, turned slowly towards her, and his eyes met hers.
She nodded, once.
He had never looked so young, she thought, his face so full of wonder, hope--
And fear.
She smiled, just a little, just enough.
He composed himself and turned back, pouring himself into his typing with renewed intensity.
- END -
Thank you once again, bohemianspirit! I'm delighted and flattered and deeply pleased that you shared this with me, and then offered me the opportunity to share it with others. You're wonderful!
I was completely and utterly thrilled. Still am, in fact. As I told her then, I deliberately chose not to tie down the story because I liked the idea of all the different futures that could be imagined for Hermione and Severus in their new home. It's incredibly tempting to follow the characters as far as they can go, but I wanted to leave the multiplicity of futures up to readers. As far as I'm concerned, the conclusion of the story isn't really an end; it's a beginning.
Do I have my own ideas about what they did afterward? Yes, of course. However, I like seeing what other people have imagined for them even more. This companion piece is very different from what I imagined in some ways, but in others it's perfectly in tune. It's very much in the spirit of it, and I hope that you all enjoy it as much as I did.
So, courtesy of bohemianspirit:
Notes: For those who aren't familiar with Hemingway, all you need to know is that "Hadley" refers to Hemingway's first wife (Elizabeth Hadley Richardson), whom he divorced in order to marry "Pauline"--his second wife, Pauline Pfeiffer. "Bumby" refers to Jack, Hemingway's son with Hadley. More information is here.
The Redemption of Jake Barnes
He'd taken an interest, to the point of obsession, in the life and works of Ernest Hemingway.
Hemingway, he said, had got his start in Paris. Come to Paris for a new beginning, fresh inspiration. Hemingway, too, had done his early writing in an ill-heated room in Paris. Severus had gone out scouring the shops till he found his prize: an old manual typewriter, the kind with keys that clicked and clacked the progress of every composition.
"Like Hemingway," guessed Hermione, the day he brought it home and began to use it.
Severus shrugged, and kept typing.
"Just don't go finding yourself a Pauline."
She said it lightly, but he stopped typing and stared at her, looking utterly stricken.
"I know you wouldn't," she apologized, in almost a whisper. "I was only teasing."
He turned abruptly to the typewriter. "Don't," was all he said, his face pinched.
For reasons known only to the inscrutable mind of Severus, he had not bought a desk or table to go with the typewriter. Instead, he had stacked a dozen or so large books, enough to bring it to a comfortable height when he sat cross-legged before it on the floor, looking out the window at the Paris sky.
After he had been writing for a couple of months, he allowed her to read some of what he had written: a few pages, a few stories, a few fragments of stories. It was surprisingly open, laying bare the most tender corners of the human soul--the last thing she would have expected him to write. Eloquence, she had certainly expected, but his eloquence nearly always failed him when conversation turned to matters of the heart; it was startling to see the same matters addressed in his writing with such lyricism and grace.
As he continued to write, and as she continued to read, it struck her that the medium of fiction freed him to speak in a way that he could rarely bring himself to do directly.
"I have a theory," he said one day. "About Jake Barnes."
"The Sun Also Rises. 1926. Hemingway's first novel."
He frowned, not moving his eyes from his typewriter. "I hold a hope," he slowly enunciated, letting his hands fall to his lap. "I know: He's only a fictional character. Still, I harbor a hope for him, that he did find love someday. Not Brett Ashley, the bitch. Someone who truly loved him, truly accepted him, as he was, wounded as he was. Somone wise enough to see that in spite of being wounded he was still capable of giving--and receiving--love."
He stopped speaking and resumed typing.
"Is that what you're writing about now?" asked Hermione.
"Rewrite Hemingway?" Severus snorted. "Of course not. I'm writing my own story."
The typewriter clacked on in a steady rhythm, patient, determined, filling the page, key by key, word by word. Hermione resumed reading.
"He regretted it all his life, you know."
Hermione looked up from the book in her hands. "What's that?"
"Hemingway. Leaving Hadley."
"Ah." Hermione nodded. "And Bumby," she added.
"And--"
His hands halted, hovered above the keys. His head lifted, slowly, turned slowly towards her, and his eyes met hers.
She nodded, once.
He had never looked so young, she thought, his face so full of wonder, hope--
And fear.
She smiled, just a little, just enough.
He composed himself and turned back, pouring himself into his typing with renewed intensity.
- END -
Thank you once again, bohemianspirit! I'm delighted and flattered and deeply pleased that you shared this with me, and then offered me the opportunity to share it with others. You're wonderful!