Mrs. Hemingway

I've long thought Mary Chapin Carpenter (my favorite singer) should write a musical. In my dreams, she'd partner with someone like a Sondheim, though he's probably too grumpy for her style. Aside from being a superb singer, she is also a singular storyteller/truthteller and poet, as this song amply illustrates. It's about the breakup of Ernest Hemingway's marriage, told from his wife's point of view, with lines that are simply divine "the glassed-in cafe that held us like hothouse flowers." Sigh... (I'd sing her praises longer, but she's blocked me on Twitter, so there's that...)

Mrs. Hemingway- Mary Chapin CarpenterWe packed up our books and our dishesOur dreams and your worsted wool suitsWe sailed on the eighth of DecemberFarewell old Hudson RiverHere comes the seaAnd love was as new and as bright and as trueWhen I loved you and you loved meTwo steamer trunks in the carriageSafe arrival we cabled back homeIt was just a few days before ChristmasWe filled our stockings with wishesAnd walked for hoursArm and arm through the rain, to the glassed-in cafeThat held us like hot house flowersLiving in Paris, in attics and garretsWhere the coal merchants climb every stairThe dance hall next door is filled with sailors and whoresAnd the music floats up through the airThere's Sancerre and oysters, cathedrals and cloistersAnd time with its unerring aimFor now we can say we were lucky most daysAnd throw a rose into the SeineLove is the greatest deceiverIt hollows you out like a drumAnd suddenly nothing is certainAs if all the clouds closed the curtainsAnd blocked the sunAnd friends now are strangers in this city of dangersAs cold and as cruel as they comeSometimes I look at old picturesAnd smile at how happy we wereHow easy it was to be hungryIt wasn't for fame or for moneyIt was for loveNow my copper hair's grey as the stone on the quayIn the city where magic wasLiving in Paris, in attics and garretsWhere the coal merchants climb every stairThe dance hall next door is filled with sailors and whoresAnd the music floats up through the airThere's Sancerre and oysters, and Notre Dame's cloistersAnd time with its unerring aimAnd now we can say we were lucky most daysAnd throw a rose into the SeineAnd now I can say I was lucky most daysAnd throw a rose into the Seine