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Authors: Ernest Hemingway
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he would have a Chambery Cassis. The waiter, who was tall and thin and bald on the top of his head with hair slicked over and who wore a heavy old-style dragoon moustache, repeated the order.
'No. Make it a fine a l'eau,' Ford said.
'A. fine a l'eau for Monsieur,' the waiter confirmed the order.
I had always avoided looking at Ford when I could and I always held my breath when I was near him in a closed room, but this was the open air and the fallen leaves blew along the sidewalks from my side of the table past his, so I took a good look at him, repented, and looked across the boulevard. The light was changed again and I had missed the change. I took a drink to see if his coming had fouled it, but it still tasted good.
'You're very glum,' he said.
'No.'
'Yes you are. You need to get out more. I stopped by to ask you to the little evenings we're giving in that amusing Bal Musette near the Place Contrescarpe on the rue Cardinal Lemoine.'
'I lived above it for two years before you come to Paris this last time.'
'How odd. Are you sure?'
'Yes,' I said. 'I'm sure. The man who owned it had a taxi and when I had to get a plane he'd take me out to the field, and we'd stop at the zinc bar of the Bal and drink a glass of white wine in the dark before we'd start for the airfield.'
'I've never cared for flying,' Ford said. 'You and your wife plan to come to the Bal Musette Saturday night. It's quite gay. I'll draw you a map so you can find it. I stumbled on it quite by chance.'
'It's under 74 rue Cardinal Lemoine,' I said. 'I lived on the third floor.'
'There's no number,' Ford said. 'But you'll be able to find it if you can find the Place Contrescarpe.'
I took another long drink. The waiter had brought Ford's drink and Ford was correcting him. 'It wasn't a brandy and soda,' he said helpfully but severely. 'I ordered a Chambery vermouth and Cassis.'
'It's all right, Jean,' I said. 'I'll take the/w. Bring Monsieur what he orders now.'
'What I ordered,' corrected Ford.
At that moment a rather gaunt man wearing a cape passed on the sidewalk. He was with a tall woman and he glanced at our table and then away and went on his way down the boulevard.
'Did you see me cut him?' Ford said. 'Did you see me cut him?'
'No. Who did you cut?' 'Belloc,' Ford said. 'Did I cut him!' 'I didn't see it,' I said.
'Why did you cut him?' 'For every good reason in the world,' Ford said. 'Did I cut him though!'
He was thoroughly and completely happy. I had never seen Belloc and I did not believe he had seen us. He looked like a man who had been thinking of something and had glanced at the table almost automatically. I felt badly that Ford had been rude to him, as, being a young man who was commencing his education, I had a high regard for him as an older writer. This is not understandable now but in those days it was a common occurrence.
I thought it would have been pleasant if Belloc had stopped at the table and I might have met him. The afternoon had been spoiled by seeing Ford but I thought Belloc might have made it better.
'What are you drinking brandy for?' Ford asked me. 'Don't you know it's fatal for a young writer to start drinking brandy?'
'I don't drink it very often,' I said. I was trying to remember what Ezra Pound had told me about Ford, that I must never be rude to him, that I must remember that he only lied when he was very tired, that he was really a good writer and that he had been through very bad domestic troubles. I tried hard to think of these things but the heavy, wheezing, ignoble presence of Ford himself, only touching-distance away, made it difficult. But I tried.
'Tell me why one cuts people,' I asked. Until then I had thought it was something only done in novels by Ouida. I had never been able to read a novel by Ouida, not even at some skiing place in Switzerland where reading matter had run out when the wet south wind had come and there were only the left-behind Tauchnitz editions of before the war.
But I was
'No. Make it a fine a l'eau,' Ford said.
'A. fine a l'eau for Monsieur,' the waiter confirmed the order.
I had always avoided looking at Ford when I could and I always held my breath when I was near him in a closed room, but this was the open air and the fallen leaves blew along the sidewalks from my side of the table past his, so I took a good look at him, repented, and looked across the boulevard. The light was changed again and I had missed the change. I took a drink to see if his coming had fouled it, but it still tasted good.
'You're very glum,' he said.
'No.'
'Yes you are. You need to get out more. I stopped by to ask you to the little evenings we're giving in that amusing Bal Musette near the Place Contrescarpe on the rue Cardinal Lemoine.'
'I lived above it for two years before you come to Paris this last time.'
'How odd. Are you sure?'
'Yes,' I said. 'I'm sure. The man who owned it had a taxi and when I had to get a plane he'd take me out to the field, and we'd stop at the zinc bar of the Bal and drink a glass of white wine in the dark before we'd start for the airfield.'
'I've never cared for flying,' Ford said. 'You and your wife plan to come to the Bal Musette Saturday night. It's quite gay. I'll draw you a map so you can find it. I stumbled on it quite by chance.'
'It's under 74 rue Cardinal Lemoine,' I said. 'I lived on the third floor.'
'There's no number,' Ford said. 'But you'll be able to find it if you can find the Place Contrescarpe.'
I took another long drink. The waiter had brought Ford's drink and Ford was correcting him. 'It wasn't a brandy and soda,' he said helpfully but severely. 'I ordered a Chambery vermouth and Cassis.'
'It's all right, Jean,' I said. 'I'll take the/w. Bring Monsieur what he orders now.'
'What I ordered,' corrected Ford.
At that moment a rather gaunt man wearing a cape passed on the sidewalk. He was with a tall woman and he glanced at our table and then away and went on his way down the boulevard.
'Did you see me cut him?' Ford said. 'Did you see me cut him?'
'No. Who did you cut?' 'Belloc,' Ford said. 'Did I cut him!' 'I didn't see it,' I said.
'Why did you cut him?' 'For every good reason in the world,' Ford said. 'Did I cut him though!'
He was thoroughly and completely happy. I had never seen Belloc and I did not believe he had seen us. He looked like a man who had been thinking of something and had glanced at the table almost automatically. I felt badly that Ford had been rude to him, as, being a young man who was commencing his education, I had a high regard for him as an older writer. This is not understandable now but in those days it was a common occurrence.
I thought it would have been pleasant if Belloc had stopped at the table and I might have met him. The afternoon had been spoiled by seeing Ford but I thought Belloc might have made it better.
'What are you drinking brandy for?' Ford asked me. 'Don't you know it's fatal for a young writer to start drinking brandy?'
'I don't drink it very often,' I said. I was trying to remember what Ezra Pound had told me about Ford, that I must never be rude to him, that I must remember that he only lied when he was very tired, that he was really a good writer and that he had been through very bad domestic troubles. I tried hard to think of these things but the heavy, wheezing, ignoble presence of Ford himself, only touching-distance away, made it difficult. But I tried.
'Tell me why one cuts people,' I asked. Until then I had thought it was something only done in novels by Ouida. I had never been able to read a novel by Ouida, not even at some skiing place in Switzerland where reading matter had run out when the wet south wind had come and there were only the left-behind Tauchnitz editions of before the war.
But I was
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