Throughout Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms, the central question plaguing its characters is one of why. The novel’s protagonist Frederic Henry and his compatriots do not ask how the war will be won (at least, not as time goes on), but why it began in the first place. What’s the point? Henry struggles with. Yes, there are other questions raised by those in the Italian army – more concrete ones, like when the war will end, who will win (or is winning), or where the next battle might take place. Answers to such questions are easy for Hemingway to give us in his plain, simple descriptions of events, but it’s not what the novel is concerned with; indeed, the reader already knows those answers, even if the characters do not. It is between the journalistic recounting of events given to us by Henry that we see him and his friends discussing the pointlessness of the war; he think he was a fool to join it. This goes further, as it becomes clear Henry is struggling with the bigger existential question, too: what’s the point of anything? Why does he exist, what’s the meaning of life, etc. – it might take many forms. But while Hemingway flirts with giving an answer, perhaps one such as love, religion, or pleasure, ultimately the message to take away is that this is the wrong question to ask. Hemingway is with fine saying people can find meaning for themselves, through anything. What’s equally important is that we should be asking a different question, that of the pragmatists: What will I do about it? (on the broadest level, the fact that one is alive). It is this question that, throughout different scenarios, Henry must time and again focus on. He does find some fulfillment – in religion, drinking, love – and these are all fine, but none are the answer to the meaning of life. Well, they’re not not the answer; Hemingway does not purport to know it. He just thinks he has the better question.

Henry’s existential question (what’s the point?) applies to both the war and his life. For the former, he clearly feels there is no meaning to be found in it; he is embarrassed, even, at any mention of sacredness or glory in regard to it (196). Henry is a reliable member of the ambulance corps, but he lacks passion for the war effort; at the beginning of the novel, most of his fulfillment is seemingly found in drinking and prostitutes. Does he think life meaningless, too? His role in the war could be argued to be meaningful enough to him – but even early on, Henry’s conversations with the priest of his regiment suggest he’s looking for something more, that life’s bigger questions confront him. Henry tells the priest that he “does not love,” and the priest replies that he will, one day – and then he will be happy (77). This turns out to be true: despite his supposed desires, Henry falls in love with Catherine, and he says it feels wonderful (100). He appears to then be quite content.

Most of the novel, however, does not detail Henry’s journey to find meaning, and even if he does find it in Catherine, this is suddenly taken away from him. The novel is instead about a number of things that happen to Henry which are outside of his control – and every time, we see him respond in the exact same way, as the ultimate pragmatist. It is an admirable trait, too: we first see it when an Austrian shell blows up the ditch in which Henry and the other ambulance drivers are sitting. “Porta feriti!” are the first words Henry shouts after being wounded – “take the wounded”– in order to help his friend Passini (59). He is aware enough to even cup his hands to make it louder. There are no cries of pain from him, no time spent processing what has just happened – only the question of what he should do, with the answer being trying to save his wounded friend. When Henry, much later, is told by the hotel porter of his impending arrest after deserting the army, his pragmatism shows again; his questions are, what time will they arrest me? What do you advise I do? When should we leave? (283). Henry rarely loses his cool, is never seen complaining, and does not worry much about things he cannot control. He rows steadily across the lake to Switzerland, quite accepting of the fact his hands are blistering terribly (304). While in line to be shot by the Italian military police, Henry calmly waits until the best moment before running and jumping into the nearby river (241). This is not to say Henry is not afraid of anything – indeed, many times he admits that he is (of battle, of his wound, of cramping in the river). But the main thing on his mind in times of trouble is that question: What should I do?

Henry is an admirable character, one to root for. He risks his life to get food for the other ambulance drivers (55). After being wounded, he insists that he is not deserving of a medal – even though he spent time trying to dress another’s wounds before his own (68). The priest has a certain affection for him, too. What, then, do we make of Catherine dying at the end of the novel? Was Henry looking for meaning in the wrong place? Is he being punished for something, like having an affair? But no; Catherine’s death does not symbolize anything more than the unfortunate happenings of life. Henry’s story is filled with ups and downs, many to do with Catherine: he meets her, but then is injured; he is alone and in pain in the hospital, but then she comes, and he heals; then, it is back to the war and near-death during the retreat, before returning to Catherine, escaping arrest, and finally a peaceful life in Switzerland. The point is – good things and bad things will happen, even to a good man like Henry. Just as while floating down the river he is at the mercy of the current, so too does he have little control over the events of his life. But Henry never truly despairs; he remains a pragmatist throughout.

The idea that life will bring things we may not want, yet can’t control, is captured in nothing better than rain. Rain is present in the entire book: it is raining when Henry must part with Catherine and return to the war (168). It is raining when Aymo dies, and when the unnamed lieutenant-colonel is shot by the military police – indeed, it is raining for almost the entirety of the Italian retreat (228; 240). It rains when Catherine dies, too, and even during Passini’s death it is said to be raining dirt (55). Yet Henry never seems to be annoyed by it; in fact, he tells Catherine he likes the rain (134). Rain is the epitome of that which we cannot control, but not once does Henry express frustration or wonder why it must be raining, yet again. In fact, we also see that the rain shields the Italian line of retreat from enemy planes, as well as helping Henry and his friends stay out of sight of the Germans (212; 233). When Henry makes his daring escape and is bleeding viciously from his forehead, his rain-soaked coat provides water to clean the conspicuous blood off his face (246). So, it doesn’t seem that rain is meant to be taken as inherently bad or good. We only care about what happens in the rain; the book is ultimately much more about what Henry does than we what he thinks about the war, or the meaning of life (or rain). The lieutenant-colonel sums it up in his admonition of the military police: if they are going to shoot him, they should do it, but asking further questions is stupid (240). In other words, if one knows that they should do something, then go ahead and do it. Otherwise, answering this question is the only important thing.

The priest may offer a different compelling story, however – that Hemingway is pushing for meaning through Christianity, or love, or at least a step away from vices. The priest’s prophecy of Henry finding happiness through love seems to at least act as solid advice to a reader. And what could be a stronger love than that of God’s? The fact that Catherine dies, too, points towards an answer of life’s meaning being God over human love. Indeed, both Catherine and Henry state that they have no religion, but that the other is all they’ve got (123; 349). Catherine at one point even says Henry is her religion. This might be seen as classic Christian mistake: their human love is temporary, of course, and inevitably they lose each other when Catherine dies; perhaps they should have put their love into a relationship with God, then. It is notable, too, that Henry prays to God at the end when Catherine is close to death. This may be evidence that Henry ought to have become religious – now it is too late. However, there is no reason to think that when Henry walks away from the hospital he has a new sense of wanting to find God. There is also no indication that Catherine’s death could have been prevented, or avoided, or controlled; we still have the reminder of rain outside when Henry leaves. Nor does any larger reason for her death present itself, one dictated by God or otherwise. All that happens is Henry asking the doctor, “is there anything I can do tonight?” (355). We see him walking home in the rain, and immediately back to the question of what to do. And perhaps an even stronger refutation of any larger message of Christianity or love being “the answer” is Catherine herself. She is brave in the face of death; she does not want a priest, nor does she make any mention of God. She hates that it’s happening, but she doesn’t bother with pondering why.

Yes, Henry slips from his pragmatic ways during the dramatic sequence of the childbirth. He panics, wondering, what if Catherine should die? He prays to God. He asks what possible reason there would be for her to die – a hard question. But, ultimately, the ending of the book is not him grappling with an answer. We see that even when he does voice his worries and ask the “stupid” questions, nothing changes, and he simply slips back into his pragmatism. The priest once asks Henry what he believes in; Henry replies, “in sleep” (190). Sleep is concrete, it is real, easy to achieve, and good. It’s a pragmatic belief. One could argue that Henry changes, or is beginning to change – that his vulnerability (and praying) in the face of Catherine being in danger shows his true, best self. But Henry also tells Count Greffi near the end of the novel that he is not very devout (280). He says he will pray for the Count when he dies, but Henry does not even pray for Catherine when she passes. In fact, the game of billiards with the Count, if anything, shows that religion is not necessary for a good life. The Count is not a religious man, yet he seems quite fulfilled. He wants to become devout, but, like many things in the book, he speaks about it as if it’s outside his control (281). He says his life, like their game of pool, has been quite a pleasure, and as the two leave the table it almost seems like there is a reference to ascending to heaven – the line, “we will walk up the stairs together” follows their religious conversation, though at face value it is meant literally.

It’s important to note that the whole idea of pragmatism and dealing with the existential question is much more important when life is not going so well. Henry’s life gives us a look at both good and bad stretches, and it seems almost obvious that when things are going well, it is easy to be happy. Hemingway, through Henry’s time in Milan, paints a picture of drinking, talking with friends, and spending time with a lover. Switzerland, too, is a depiction of a good life; there is no search for meaning there, but Henry and Catherine living very contently. Nor is there much need for a very pragmatic mindset – we really only see it kick in when Henry faces troubling events. This is because when things are good people don’t really have existential problems. But the nice moments in the novel don’t need to be a roadmap for happiness; the main point is, when things are bad, it is better to ask what to do about it – not why things are the way they are.

Hemingway is not being a Nihilist. A Farewell to Arms, sad as it may be, is not saying that there is no point to life, though that may seem to be at least true of the war. However, Hemingway is not seeking to give an answer to the meaning of life, either. The novel, at its most basic level, tells us that bad things happen – we might as well, then, respond to them coolly. In a way, pragmatism is a solution to the existential problem – not by giving us a direct answer, but by telling us that there is a better question to focus on: what should I do? With endless things out of our control, we should not worry about the reasons for them or get caught up in negativity. We see Henry act this way in every instance – the ultimate pragmatist. He is left in a sad spot by the end, though, and it is not clear that he will find fulfillment or happiness. He might, though Hemingway does not want to state how, exactly. What is clear, however, is that Henry will be much better served by figuring out his next move than spending his days wondering why Catherine had to die.