A Moveable Feast Part 8

'jean,' evan got up and called the waiter. 'two whiskies, please.'

jean brought the bottle and the gla.s.ses and two ten-franc saucers with the syphon. he used no measuring gla.s.s and poured the whisky until the gla.s.ses were more than three-quarters full. jean loved evan who often went out and worked with him at his garden in montrouge, out beyond the porte d'orleans, on jean's day off.

'you mustn't exaggerate,' evan said to the tall old waiter.

'they are two whiskies, aren't they?' the waiter asked.

we added water and evan said, 'take the first sip very carefully, hem. properly handled, they will hold us for some time.'

'are you taking any care of yourself?' i asked.

'yes, truly, hem. let's talk about something else, should we?'

there was no one sitting on the terrace and the whisky was warming us both, although i was better dressed for the fall than evan as i wore a sweats.h.i.+rt for underwear and then a s.h.i.+rt and a blue wool french sailor's sweater over the s.h.i.+rt.

'i've been wondering about dostoevsky,' i said. 'how can a man write so badly, so unbelievably badly, and make you feel so deeply?'

'it can't be the translation,' evan said. 'she makes the tolstoi come out well written.'

'i know. i remember how many times i tried to read war and peace war and peace until i got the constance garnett translation.' until i got the constance garnett translation.'

'they say it can be improved on,' evan'said. 'i'm sure it can although i don't know russian. but we both know translations. but it comes out as a h.e.l.l of a novel, the greatest i suppose, and you can read it over and over.'

'i know,' i said. 'but you can't read dostoevsky over and over. i had crime andpunishment crime andpunishment on a trip when we ran out of books down at schruns, and i couldn't read it again when we had nothing to read. i read the austrian papers and studied german until we found some trollope in tauchnitz.' on a trip when we ran out of books down at schruns, and i couldn't read it again when we had nothing to read. i read the austrian papers and studied german until we found some trollope in tauchnitz.'

'G.o.d bless tauchnitz,' evan said. the whisky had lost its burning quality and was now, when water was added, simply much too strong.

'dostoevsky was a s.h.i.+t, hem,' evan went on. 'he was best on s.h.i.+ts and saints. he makes wonderful saints. it's a shame we can't re-read him.'

'i'm going to try the brothers the brothers again. it was probably my fault.' again. it was probably my fault.'

'you can read some of it again. most of it. but then it will start to make you angry, no matter how great it is.'

'well, we were lucky to have had it to read the first time and maybe there will be a better translation.'

'but don't let it tempt you, hem.'

'i won't. i'm trying to do it so it will make it without you knowing it, and so the more you read it, the more there will be.'

well, i'm backing you in jean's whisky,' evan said.

'he'll get in trouble doing that,' i said.

'he's in trouble already,' evan said.

'how?'

'they're changing the management,' evan said. 'the new owners want to have a different clientele that will spend some money and they are going to put in an american bar. the waiters are going to be in white jackets, hem, and they have been ordered to be ready to shave off their moustaches.'

'they can't do that to andre and jean.'

'they shouldn't be able to, but they will.'

'jean has had a moustache all his life. that's a dragoon's moustache. he served in a cavalry regiment.'

'he's going to have to cut it off.'

i drank the last of the whisky.

'another whisky, monsieur?' jean asked. 'a whisky, monsieur s.h.i.+pman?' his heavy drooping moustache was a part of his thin, kind face, and the bald top of his head glistened under the strands of hair that were slicked across it. 'don't do it, jean,' i said.

'don't take a chance.' 'there is no chance,' he said, softly to us. 'there is much confusion. many are leaving. entendu, entendu, messeurs,' he said aloud. he went into the cafe and came out carrying the bottle of whisky, two large gla.s.ses, two ten-franc gold-rimmed saucers and a seltzer bottle. 'no, jean,' i said. messeurs,' he said aloud. he went into the cafe and came out carrying the bottle of whisky, two large gla.s.ses, two ten-franc gold-rimmed saucers and a seltzer bottle. 'no, jean,' i said.

he put the gla.s.ses down on the saucers and filled them almost to the brim with whisky and took the remains of the bottle back into the cafe. evan and i squirted a little seltzer into the gla.s.ses.

'it was a good thing dostoevsky didn't know jean,' evan said. 'he might have died of drink.' 'what are we going to do with these?' 'drink them," evans said. 'it's a protest.

it's direct action.' on the following monday when i went to the lilas to work in the morning, andre served me a bovril, bovril, which is a cup of beef extract and water. he was short and blond and where his stubby moustache had been, his lip was as bare as a priest's. he was wearing a white american barman's coat. 'and jean?' which is a cup of beef extract and water. he was short and blond and where his stubby moustache had been, his lip was as bare as a priest's. he was wearing a white american barman's coat. 'and jean?'

'he won't be in until tomorrow.' 'how is he?'

'it took him longer to reconcile himself. he was in a heavy cavalry regiment throughout the war. he had the croix de guerre and the medaille militaire.'

'i did not know he was so badly wounded.' 'no. he was wounded of course but it was the other sort of medaille militaire he has. for gallantry.' 'tell him i asked for him.'

'of course,' andre said. 'i hope it will not take him too long to reconcile himself.'

'please give him mr s.h.i.+pman's greeting too.' 'mr s.h.i.+pman is with him,' andre said.

'they are gardening together.'

16

An Agent of Evil

The last thing ezra said to me before he left the rue notre-dame-des-champs to go to rapallo was, 'hem, i want you to keep this jar of opium and give it to dunning only when he needs it.'

It was a large cold-cream jar and when i unscrewed the top the content was dark and sticky and it had the smell of very raw opium. ezra had bought it from an indian chief, he said, on the avenue de l'opera near the boulevard des italiens and it had been very expensive. i thought it must have come from the old hole in the wall bar which was a hangout for deserters and for dope peddlers during and after the first war.

The hole in the wall was a very narrow bar with a red-painted facade, little more than a pa.s.sageway, on the rue des italiens. at one time it had a rear exit into the sewers of paris from which you were supposed to be able to reach the catacombs. dunning was ralph cheever dunning, a poet who smoked opium and forgot to eat. when he was smoking too much he could only drink milk and he wrote in terza-rima terza-rima which endeared him to ezra who also found fine qualities in his poetry. he lived in the same courtyard where ezra had his studio and ezra had called me in to help him when dunning was dying a few weeks before ezra was to leave paris. which endeared him to ezra who also found fine qualities in his poetry. he lived in the same courtyard where ezra had his studio and ezra had called me in to help him when dunning was dying a few weeks before ezra was to leave paris.

'dunning is dying,' ezra's message said. 'please come at once.'

dunning looked like a skeleton as he lay on the mattress and he would certainly have eventually died of malnutrition but i finally convinced ezra that few people ever died while speaking in well-rounded phrases and that i had never known any man to die while speaking in terza-rima terza-rima and that i doubted even if dante could do it. ezra said he was not talking in and that i doubted even if dante could do it. ezra said he was not talking in terza-rima terza-rima and i said that perhaps it only sounded like and i said that perhaps it only sounded like terza-rima terza-rima because i had been asleep when he had sent for me. finally after a night with dunning waiting for death to come, the matter was put in the hands of a physician and dunning was taken to a private clinic to be disintoxicated. ezra guaranteed his bills and enlisted the aid of i do not know which lovers of poetry on dunning's behalf. only the delivery of the opium in any true emergency was left to me. it was a sacred charge coming from ezra and i only hoped i could live up to it and determine the state of a true emergency. because i had been asleep when he had sent for me. finally after a night with dunning waiting for death to come, the matter was put in the hands of a physician and dunning was taken to a private clinic to be disintoxicated. ezra guaranteed his bills and enlisted the aid of i do not know which lovers of poetry on dunning's behalf. only the delivery of the opium in any true emergency was left to me. it was a sacred charge coming from ezra and i only hoped i could live up to it and determine the state of a true emergency.

it came when ezra's concierge arrived one sunday morning at the sawmill yard and shouted up to the open window where i was studying the racing form, 'mtinsieurdunning est monte sur le toit et refuse categoriquement de descendre.' 'mtinsieurdunning est monte sur le toit et refuse categoriquement de descendre.'

dunning having climbed to the roof of the studio and refusing categorically to come down seemed a valid emergency and i found the opium jar and walked up the street with the concierge who was a small and intense woman very excited by the situation.

'monsieur has what is needed?' she asked me.

'absolutely,' i said. 'there will be no difficulty.'

'monsieur pound thinks of everything,' she said. 'he is kindness personified.'

'he is indeed,' i said. 'and i miss him every day.'

'let us hope that monsieur dunning will be reasonable.'

'i have what it takes,' i a.s.sured her.

when we reached the courtyard where the studios were the concierge said, 'he's come down.'

'he must have known i was coming,' i said.

i climbed the outside stairway that led to dunning's place and knocked. he opened the door. he was gaunt and seemed unusually tall.

'ezra asked me to bring you this,' i said and handed him the jar. 'he said you would know what it was.'

he took the jar and looked at it. then he threw it at me. it struck me on the chest or the shoulder and rolled down the stairs.

'you son of a b.i.t.c.h,' he said. 'you b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

'ezra said you might need it,' i said. he countered that by throwing a milk bottle.

'you are sure you don't need it?' i asked.

he threw another milk botde. i retreated and he hit me with yet another milk bottle in the back. then he shut the door.

i picked up the jar, which was only slightly cracked, and put it in my pocket.

'he did not seem to want the gift of monsieur pound,' i said to the concierge.

'perhaps he will be tranquil now,' she said.

'perhaps he has some of his own,' i said.

'poor monsieur dunning,' she said.

the lovers of poetry that ezra had organized rallied to dunning's aid again eventually. my own intervention and that of the concierge had been unsuccessful. the jar of alleged opium which had been cracked i stored wrapped in waxed paper and carefully tied in one of an old pair of riding boots. when evan s.h.i.+pman and i were removing my personal effects from that apartment some years later the boots were still there but the jar was gone. i do not know why dunning threw the milk bottles at me unless he remembered my lack of credulity the night of his first dying, or whether it was only an innate dislike of my personality. but i remember the happiness that the phrase 'monsieur dunning, est monte sur le toit et refuse categoriquement dedescendre' 'monsieur dunning, est monte sur le toit et refuse categoriquement dedescendre' gave to evan s.h.i.+pman. he believed there was something symbolic about it. gave to evan s.h.i.+pman. he believed there was something symbolic about it.

i would not know. perhaps dunning took me for an agent of evil or of the police. i only know that ezra tried to be kind to dunning as he was kind to so many people and i always hoped dunning was as fine a poet as ezra believed him to be. for a poet he threw a very accurate milk bottle. but ezra, who was a very great poet, played a good game of tennis too. evan s.h.i.+pman, who was a very fine poet and who truly did not care if his poems were ever published, felt that it should remain a mystery.

'we need more true mystery in our lives, hem,' he once said to me. 'the completely unambitious writer and the really good unpublished poem are the things we lack most at this time. there is, of course, the problem of sustenance.'

17

Scott Fitzgerald

His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a b.u.t.terfly swings. at one time he understood it no more than the b.u.t.terfly did and he did not know His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a b.u.t.terfly swings. at one time he understood it no more than the b.u.t.terfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred. later he became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction and he learned to think and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it had been effortless. when it was brushed or marred. later he became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction and he learned to think and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it had been effortless.

The first time i ever met scott fitzgerald a very strange thing happened. many strange things happened with scott but this one i was never able to forget. he had come into the dingo bar in the rue delambre where i was sitting with some completely worthless characters, had introduced himself and introduced a tall, pleasant man who was with him as dunc chaplin, the famous pitcher. i had not followed princeton baseball and had never heard of dune chaplin but he was extraordinarily nice, unworried, relaxed and friendly and i much preferred him to scott.

Scott was a man then who looked like a boy with a face between handsome and pretty. he had very fair wavy hair, a high forehead, excited and friendly eyes and a delicate long-lipped irish mouth that, on a girl, would have been the mouth of a beauty.

His chin was well built and he had good ears and a handsome, almost beautiful, unmarked nose. this should not have added up to a pretty face, but that came from the colouring, the very fair hair and the mouth. the mouth worried you until you knew him and then it worried you more.

i was very curious to see him and i had been working very hard all day and it seemed quite wonderful that here should be scott fitzgerald and the great dunc chaplin whom i had never heard of but who was now my friend. scott did not stop talking and since i was embarra.s.sed by what he said - it was all about my writing and how great it was - i kept on looking at him closely and noticed instead of listening. we still went under the system, then, that praise to the face was open disgrace. scott had ordered champagne and he and dunc chaplin and i drank it together with, i think, some of the worthless characters. i do not think that dunc or i followed the speech very closely, for it was a speech and i kept on observing scott. he was lightly built and did not look in awfully good shape, his face being faintly puffy. his brooks brothers clothes fitted him well and he wore a white s.h.i.+rt with a b.u.t.toned-down collar and a guards' tie. i thought i ought to tell him about the tie, maybe, because they did have british in paris and one might come into the dingo - there were two there at the time - but then i thought the h.e.l.l with it and i looked at him some more. it turned out later he had bought the tie in rome.

i wasn't learning very much from looking at him now except that he had well-shaped, capable-looking hands, not too small, and when he sat down on one of the bar stools i saw that he had very short legs. with normal legs he would have been perhaps two inches taller. we had finished the first bottle of champagne and started on the second and the speech was beginning to run down.

both dunc and i were beginning to feel even better than we had felt before the champagne and it was nice to have the speech ending. until then i had felt that what a great writer i was had been carefully kept secret between myself and my wife and only those people we knew well enough to speak to. i was glad scott had come to the same happy conclusion as to this possible greatness, but i was also glad he was beginning to run out of the speech. but after the speech came the question period. you could study him and neglect to follow the speech, but the questions were inescapable.

scott, i was to find, believed that the novelist could find out what he needed to know by direct questioning of his friends and acquaintances. the interrogation was direct.

'ernest,' he said. 'you don't mind if i call you ernest, do you?'

'ask dunc,' i said.

don't be silly. this is serious. tell me, did you and your wife sleep together before you were married?'

'i don't know.'

'what do you mean, you don't know?'

'i don't remember.'

'but how can you not remember something of such importance?'

'i don't know,' i said. 'it is odd, isn't it?'

'it's worse than odd,' scott said. 'you must be able to remember.'

'i'm sorry. it's a pity, isn't it?'

'don't talk like some limey,' he-said. 'try to be serious and remember.'