The lights were on in the bakery and outside it was the end of the day and I walked in the early dusk up the street and stopped outside the terrace of the Nègre de Toulouse restaurant where our red and white checkered napkins were in the wooden napkin rings in the napkin rack waiting for us to come to dinner. I read the menu mimeographed in purple ink and saw that the plat du jour was cassoulet. It made me hungry to read the name.
Mr. Lavigne, the proprietor, asked me how my work had gone and I said it had gone very well. He said he had seen me working on the terrace of the Closerie des Lilas early in the morning but he had not spoken to me because I was so occupied.
“You had the air of a man alone in the jungle,” he said.
“I am like a blind pig when I work.”
“But were you not in the jungle, Monsieur?”
“In the bush,” I said.
I went on up the street looking in the windows and happy with the spring evening and the people coming past. In the three principal cafés I saw people that I knew by sight and others that I knew to speak to. But there were always much nicer-looking people that I did not know that, in the evening with the lights just coming on, were hurrying to some place to drink together, to eat together and then to make love.
The people in the principal cafés might do the same thing or they might just sit and drink and talk and love to be seen by others. The people that I liked and had not met went to the big cafés because they were lost in them and no one noticed them and they could be alone in them and be together. The big cafés were cheap then too, and all had good beer and the apéritifs cost reasonable prices that were clearly marked on the saucers that were served with them.
On this evening I was thinking these wholesome but not original thoughts and feeling extraordinarily virtuous because I had worked well and hard on a day when I had wanted to go out to the races very badly. But at this time I could not afford to go to the races, even though there was money to be made there if you worked at it. It was before the days of saliva tests and other methods of detecting artificially encouraged horses and doping was very extensively practiced.
But handicapping beasts that are receiving stimulants, and detecting the symptoms in the paddock and acting on your perceptions, which sometimes bordered on the extrasensory, then backing them with money you cannot afford to lose, is not the way for a young man supporting a wife and child to get ahead in the full-time job of learning to write prose.
By any standards we were still very poor and I still made such small economies as saying that I had been asked out for lunch and then spending two hours walking in the Luxembourg gardens and coming back to describe the marvelous lunch to my wife. When you are twenty-five and are a natural heavyweight, missing a meal makes you very hungry. But it also sharpens all of your perceptions, and I found that many of the people I wrote about had very strong appetites and a great taste and desire for food, and most of them were looking forward to having a drink.
At the Nègre de Toulouse we drank the good Cahors wine from the quarter, the half, or the full carafe, usually diluting it about one-third with water. At home, over the sawmill, we had a Corsican wine that had great authority and a low price. It was a very Corsican wine and you could dilute it by half with water and still receive its message. In Paris, then, you could live very well on almost nothing and by skipping meals occasionally and never buying any new clothes, you could save and have luxuries.
Coming back from The Select now where I had sheered off at the sight of Harold Stearns who I knew would want to talk horses, those animals I was thinking of righteously and light-heartedly as the beasts that I had just foresworn. Full of my evening virtue I passed the collection of inmates at the Rotonde and, scorning vice and the collective instinct, crossed the boulevard to the Dôme. The Dôme was crowded too, but there were people there who had worked.
There were models who had worked and there were painters who had worked until the light was gone and there were writers who had finished a day’s work for better or for worse, and there were drinkers and characters, some of whom I knew and some that were only decoration.
I went over and sat down at a table with Pascin and two models who were sisters. Pascin had waved to me while I had stood on the sidewalk on the rue Delambre side wondering whether to stop and have a drink or not. Pascin was a very good painter and he was drunk; steady, purposefully drunk and making good sense. The two models were young and pretty. One was very dark, small, beautifully built with a falsely fragile depravity. The other was childlike and dull but very pretty in a perishable childish way. She was not as well built as her sister, but neither was anyone else that spring.
“The good and the bad sisters,” Pascin said. “I have money. What will you drink?”
“Une demi-blonde,” I said to the waiter.
“Have a whisky. I have money.”
“I like beer.”
“If you really liked beer, you’d be at Lipp’s. I suppose you’ve been working.”
“Yes.”
“It goes?”
“I hope so.”
“Good. I’m glad. And everything still tastes good?”
“Yes.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Do you want to bang her?” He looked toward the dark sister and smiled. “She needs it.”
“You probably banged her enough today.”
She smiled at me with her lips open. “He’s wicked,” she said. “But he’s nice.”
“You can take her over to the studio.”
“Don’t make piggishness,” the blonde sister said.
“Who spoke to you?” Pascin asked her.
“Nobody. But I said it.”
“Let’s be comfortable,” Pascin said. “The serious young writer and the friendly wise old painter and the two beautiful young girls with all of life before them.”
We sat there and the girls sipped at their drinks and Pascin drank another fine à l’eau and I drank the beer; but no one was comfortable except Pascin. The dark girl was restless and she sat on display turning her profile and letting the light strike the concave planes of her face and showing me her breasts under the hold of the black sweater. Her hair was cropped short and was sleek and dark as an oriental’s.
“You’ve posed all day,” Pascin said to her. “Do you have to model that sweater now at the café?”
“It pleases me,” she said.
“You look like a Javanese toy,” he said.
“Not the eyes,” she said. “It’s more complicated than that.”
“You look like a poor perverted little poupée.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But alive. That’s more than you.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Good,” she said. “I like proofs.”
“You didn’t have any today?”
“Oh that,” she said and turned to catch the last evening light on her face. “You were just excited about your work. He’s in love with canvases,” she said to me. “There’s always some kind of dirtiness.”
“You want me to paint you and pay you and bang you to keep my head clear, and be in love with you too,” Pascin said. “You poor little doll.”
“You like me, don’t you, Monsieur?” she asked me.
“Very much.”
“But you’re too big,” she said sadly.
“Everyone is the same size in bed.”
“It’s not true,” her sister said. “And I’m tired of this talk.”
“Look,” Pascin said. “If you think I’m in love with canvases, I’ll paint you tomorrow in water colors.”
“When do we eat?” her sister asked. “And where?”
“Will you eat with us?” the dark girl asked.
“No. I go to eat with my légitime.” That was what they said then. Now they say “my régulière.”
“You have to go?”
“Have to and want to.”
“Go on, then,” Pascin said. “And don’t fall in love with typewriting paper.”
“If I do, I’ll write with a pencil.”
“Water colors tomorrow,” he said. “All right, my children, I will drink another and then we eat where you wish.”
“Chez Viking,” the dark girl said.
“Me too,” her sister urged.
“All right,” Pascin agreed. “Good night, jeune homme. Sleep well.”
“You too.”
“They keep me awake,” he said. “I never sleep.”
“Sleep tonight.”
“After Chez Les Vikings?” He grinned with his hat on the back of his head. He looked more like a Broadway character of the Nineties than the lovely painter that he was, and afterwards, when he had hanged himself, I liked to remember him as he was that night at the Dôme. They say the seeds of what we will do are in all of us, but it always seemed to me that in those who make jokes in life the seeds are covered with better soil and with a higher grade of manure.
Ezra Pound and His Bel Esprit
Ezra Pound was always a good friend and he was always doing things for people. The studio where he lived with his wife Dorothy on the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs was as poor as Gertrude Stein’s studio was rich. It had
