The occasion was the play: Hemingway spent stretches of 1937 in besieged Madrid as a correspondent and partisan, quartered at the Hotel Florida, and wrote The Fifth Column there — a melodrama of counter-espionage starring Philip Rawlings, a hard-drinking American secretly working counterintelligence for the Republic, torn between the war's dirty necessities and a Vassar blonde named Dorothy. The theaters hesitated; Scribner solved the problem by binding the play with everything else — all forty-nine stories then in existence — and accidentally created the canonical Hemingway volume of its era.
The four stories new to book form lead the parade, and two are summits: 'The Snows of Kilimanjaro,' the dying writer on the plain running through every story he now will never write — Hemingway's own nightmare, given a corpse; and 'Macomber,' the safari triangle of cowardice, courage, and a wife with a rifle, owner of the most argued-over ending in American fiction. Behind them, the whole arc: In Our Time, Men Without Women, Winner Take Nothing, complete. The play divides readers — agitprop to some, tragic pragmatism to others, with its interrogation scenes read very differently after the Republic fell. The stories do not divide anyone.