A Moveable Feast

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Authors: Ernest Hemingway
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sure, by some sixth sense, that people cut one another in her novels.

    'A gentleman,' Ford explained, 'will always cut a cad.'
    I took a quick drink of brandy.
    'Would he cut a bounder?' I asked.
    'It would be impossible for a gentleman to know a bounder.'
    'Then you can only cut someone you have known on terms of equality?' I pursued.
    'Naturally.'
    'How would one ever meet a cad?'
    'You might not know it, or the fellow could have become a cad.'
    'What is a cad?' I asked. 'Isn't he someone that one has to thrash within an inch of his life?'
    'Not necessarily,' Ford said.
    'Is Ezra a gentleman?' I asked.
    'Of course not,' Ford said. 'He's an American.'
    'Can't an American be a gentleman?'
    Terhaps John Quinn,' Ford explained. 'Certain of your ambassadors.'
    'Myron T. Herrick?'
    'Possibly.'
    'Was Henry James a gentleman?'
    'Very nearly.'
    'Are you a gentleman?'
    'Naturally. I have held His Majesty's commission.'
    'It's very complicated,' I said. 'Am I a gentleman?'
    'Absolutely not,' Ford said.
    'Then why are you drinking with me?'
    'I'm drinking with you as a promising young writer. As a fellow writer, in fact.'
    'Good of you,' I said.

    'You might be considered a gentleman in Italy,' Ford said magnanimously.
    'But I'm not a cad?'
    'Of course not, dear boy. Who ever said such a thing?'
    'I might become one,' I said sadly. 'Drinking brandy and all. That was what did for Lord Harry Hotspur in Trollope. Tell me, was Trollope a gentleman?'
    'Of course not.'
    'You're sure?'
    'There might be two opinions. But not in mine.'
    'Was Fielding? He was a judge.'
    'Technically, perhaps.'
    'Marlowe?'
    'Of course not.'
    'John Donne?'
    'He was a parson.'
    'It's fascinating,' I said.
    'I'm glad you're interested,' Ford said. 'I'll have a brandy and water with you before I go.'
    After Ford left it was dark and I walked over to the ktosque and bought a Paris-Sport Compkt, the final edition of the afternoon racing paper with the results at Auteuil, and the line on the next day's meeting at Enghien. The waiter Emile, who had replaced Jean on duty, came to the table to see the results of the last race at Auteuil. A great friend of mine who rarely came to the Lilas came over to the table and sat down, and just then as my friend was ordering a drink from Emile the gaunt man in the cape with the tall woman passed us on the sidewalk. His glance drifted towards the table and then away.
    'That's Hilaire Belloc,' I said to my friend. 'Ford was here this afternoon and cut him dead.'
    'Don't be a silly ass,' my friend said. 'That's Aleister Crowley, the diabolist. He's supposed to be the wickedest man in the world.'
    'Sorry,' I said.

    10 Birth of a New School
    The blue-backed notebooks, the two pencils and the pencil sharpener (a pocket knife was too wasteful), the marble-topped tables, the smell of early morning, sweeping out and mopping, and luck were all you needed. For luck you carried a horse chestnut and a rabbit's foot in your right pocket. The fur had been worn off the rabbit's foot long ago and the bones and the sinews were polished by wear. The claws scratched in the lining of your pocket and you knew your luck was still there.
    Some days it went so well that you could make the country so that you could walk into it through the timber to come out into the clearing and work up onto the high ground and see the hills beyond the arm of the lake. A pencil-lead might break off in the conical nose of the pencil sharpener and you would use the small blade of the penknife to clear it or else sharpen the pencil carefully with the sharp blade and then slip your arm through the sweat-salted leather of your pack strap to lift the pack again, get the other arm through and feel the weight settle on your back and feel the pine needles under your moccasins as you started down for the lake.
    Then you would hear someone say, 'Hi, Hem. What are you trying to do? Write in a cafe?'
    Your luck had run out and you shut the notebook. This was the worst thing that could

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