something wrong with them,' I said, trying to cheer up the lunch.
'You haven't.' He gave me all his charm and more, and then he marked himself for death.
'You mean I am not marked for death?' I asked. I could not help it.
'No. You're marked for Life.' He capitalized the word.
'Give me time,' I said.
He wanted a good steak, rare, and I ordered two tournedos with sauce Bearnaise. I figured the butter would be good for him.
'What about a red wine?' he asked. The sommelier came and I ordered a Chateauneuf du Pape. I would walk it off afterwards along the quais. He could sleep it off, or do what he wanted to. I might take mine some place, I thought.
It came as we finished the steak and french-fried potatoes and were two-thirds through the Chateauneuf du Pape which is not a luncheon wine.
'There's no use beating around the bush,' he said. 'You know you're to get the award, don't you?'
'Am I?' I said. 'Why?'
'You're to get it,' he said. He started to talk about my writing and I stopped listening.
It made me feel sick for people to talk about my writing to my face, and I looked at him and his marked-for-death look and I thought, you con man conning me with your con.
I've seen a battalion in the dust on the road, a third of them for" death or worse and no special marks on them, the dust for all, and you and your marked-for-death look, you con man, making a living out of your death. Now you will con me. Con not, that thou be not conned. Death was not conning with him. It was coming all right.
'I don't think I deserve it, Ernest,' I said, enjoying using my own name, that I hated, to him. 'Besides, Ernest, it would not be ethical, Ernest.'
'It's strange we have the same name, isn't it?'
'Yes, Ernest,' I said. 'It's a name we must both live up to. You see what I mean, don't you, Ernest?'
'Yes, Ernest,' he said. He gave me complete, sad Irish understanding and the charm.
So I was always very nice to him and to his magazine and when he had his haemorrhages and left Paris, asking me to see his magazine through the printers, who did not read English, I did that. I had seen one of the haemorrhages, it was very legitimate, and I knew that he would die all right, and it pleased me at that time, which was a difficult time in my life, to be extremely nice to him, as it pleased me to call him Ernest.
Also, I liked and admired his co-editor. She had not promised me any award. She only wished to build a good magazine and pay her contributors well.
One day, much later, I met Joyce who was walking along the Boulevard St-Germain after having been to a matinee alone. He liked to listen to the actors, although he could not see them. He asked me to have a drink with him and we went to the Deux-Magots and ordered dry sherry although you will always read that he drank only Swiss white wine.
'How about Walsh?' Joyce said.
'A such and such alive is a such and such dead,' I said.
'Did he promise you that award?' Joyce asked.
'Yes.'
'I thought so,' Joyce said.
'Did he promise it to you?'
'Yes,' Joyce said. After a time he asked, 'Do you think he promised it to Pound?'
'I don't know.'
'Best not to ask him,' Joyce said. We left it at that. I told Joyce of my first meeting with him in Ezra's studio with the girls in the long fur coats and it made him happy to hear the story.
15 Evan Shipman at the Lilas
From the day I had found Sylvia Beach's library I had read all of Turgenev, what had been published in English of Gogol, the Constance Garnett translations of Tolstoi and the English translations of Chehov. In Toronto, before we had ever come to Paris, I had been told Katherine Mansfield was a good short-story writer, even a great short-story writer, but trying to read her after Chehov was like hearing the carefully artificial tales of a young old-maid compared to those of an articulate and knowing physician who was a good and simple writer. Mansfield was like near-beer. It was better to drink water. But Chehov was not water except for
'You haven't.' He gave me all his charm and more, and then he marked himself for death.
'You mean I am not marked for death?' I asked. I could not help it.
'No. You're marked for Life.' He capitalized the word.
'Give me time,' I said.
He wanted a good steak, rare, and I ordered two tournedos with sauce Bearnaise. I figured the butter would be good for him.
'What about a red wine?' he asked. The sommelier came and I ordered a Chateauneuf du Pape. I would walk it off afterwards along the quais. He could sleep it off, or do what he wanted to. I might take mine some place, I thought.
It came as we finished the steak and french-fried potatoes and were two-thirds through the Chateauneuf du Pape which is not a luncheon wine.
'There's no use beating around the bush,' he said. 'You know you're to get the award, don't you?'
'Am I?' I said. 'Why?'
'You're to get it,' he said. He started to talk about my writing and I stopped listening.
It made me feel sick for people to talk about my writing to my face, and I looked at him and his marked-for-death look and I thought, you con man conning me with your con.
I've seen a battalion in the dust on the road, a third of them for" death or worse and no special marks on them, the dust for all, and you and your marked-for-death look, you con man, making a living out of your death. Now you will con me. Con not, that thou be not conned. Death was not conning with him. It was coming all right.
'I don't think I deserve it, Ernest,' I said, enjoying using my own name, that I hated, to him. 'Besides, Ernest, it would not be ethical, Ernest.'
'It's strange we have the same name, isn't it?'
'Yes, Ernest,' I said. 'It's a name we must both live up to. You see what I mean, don't you, Ernest?'
'Yes, Ernest,' he said. He gave me complete, sad Irish understanding and the charm.
So I was always very nice to him and to his magazine and when he had his haemorrhages and left Paris, asking me to see his magazine through the printers, who did not read English, I did that. I had seen one of the haemorrhages, it was very legitimate, and I knew that he would die all right, and it pleased me at that time, which was a difficult time in my life, to be extremely nice to him, as it pleased me to call him Ernest.
Also, I liked and admired his co-editor. She had not promised me any award. She only wished to build a good magazine and pay her contributors well.
One day, much later, I met Joyce who was walking along the Boulevard St-Germain after having been to a matinee alone. He liked to listen to the actors, although he could not see them. He asked me to have a drink with him and we went to the Deux-Magots and ordered dry sherry although you will always read that he drank only Swiss white wine.
'How about Walsh?' Joyce said.
'A such and such alive is a such and such dead,' I said.
'Did he promise you that award?' Joyce asked.
'Yes.'
'I thought so,' Joyce said.
'Did he promise it to you?'
'Yes,' Joyce said. After a time he asked, 'Do you think he promised it to Pound?'
'I don't know.'
'Best not to ask him,' Joyce said. We left it at that. I told Joyce of my first meeting with him in Ezra's studio with the girls in the long fur coats and it made him happy to hear the story.
15 Evan Shipman at the Lilas
From the day I had found Sylvia Beach's library I had read all of Turgenev, what had been published in English of Gogol, the Constance Garnett translations of Tolstoi and the English translations of Chehov. In Toronto, before we had ever come to Paris, I had been told Katherine Mansfield was a good short-story writer, even a great short-story writer, but trying to read her after Chehov was like hearing the carefully artificial tales of a young old-maid compared to those of an articulate and knowing physician who was a good and simple writer. Mansfield was like near-beer. It was better to drink water. But Chehov was not water except for
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