who drinks alcohol, with a bottle of Marsala? No, he was a pitiful old man who could not
help what he was doing. He was sick and he could not help it and you should pity him.'
'I did at the time,' I said. 'But I was disappointed because he had such beautiful
manners.'
I took another sip of the eau-de-vie and pitied the old man and looked at Picasso's
nude of the girl with the basket of flowers. I had not started the conversation and thought
it had become a little dangerous. There were almost never any pauses in a conversation
with Miss Stein, but we had paused and there was something she wanted to tell me and I
filled my glass.
'You know nothing about any of this really, Hemingway,' she said. 'You've met
known criminals and sick people and vicious people. The main thing is that the act male
homosexuals commit is ugly and repugnant and afterwards they are disgusted with
themselves. They drink and take drugs, to palliate this, but they are disgusted with the act
and they are always changing partners and cannot be really happy.'
'I see.'
'In women it is the opposite. They do nothing that they are disgusted by and nothing
that is repulsive and afterwards they are happy and they can lead happy lives together.'
'I see,' I said. 'But what about so and so?'
'She's vicious,' Miss Stein said. 'She's truly vicious, so she can never be happy except
with new people. She corrupts people.'
'I understand.'
'You're sure you understand?'
There were so many things to understand in those days and I was glad when we
talked about something else. The park was closed so I had to walk down along it to the
rue de Vaugirard and around the lower end of the park. It was sad when the park was
closed and locked and I was sad walking around it instead of through it and in a hurry to
get home to the rue Cardinal Lemoine. The day had started out so brightly too. I would
have to work hard tomorrow. Work could cure almost anything, I believed then, and I
believe now. Then all I had to be cured of, I decided Miss Stein felt, was youth and
loving my wife. I was not at all sad when I got home to the rue Cardinal Lemoine and
told my newly acquired knowledge to my wife. In the night we were happy with our own
knowledge we already had and other new knowledge we had acquired in the mountains.
3 'Une Generation Perdue'
It was easy to get into the habit of stopping in at 27 rue de Fleurus late in the afternoon
for the warmth and the great pictures and the conversation. Often Miss Stein would have
no guests and she was always very friendly and for a long time she was affectionate.
When I had come back from trips that I had made to the different political conferences or
to the Near East or Germany for the Canadian paper and the news services that I worked
for she wanted me to tell her about all the amusing details. There were funny parts always
and she liked them and also what the Germans call gallows-humour stories. She wanted
to know the gay part of how the world was going; never the real, never the bad.
I was young and not gloomy and there were always strange and comic things that
happened in the worst time and Miss Stein liked to hear these. The other things I did not
talk of and wrote by myself.
When I had not come back from any trips and would stop in at the rue de Fleurus
after working I would try sometimes to get Miss Stein to talk about books. When I was
writing, it was necessary for me to read after I had written. If you kept thinking about it,
you would lose the thing that you were writing before you could go on with it the next
day. It was necessary to get exercise, to be tired in the body, and it was very good to
make love with whom you loved. That was better than anything. But afterwards, when
you were empty, it was necessary to read in order not to think or worry about your work
until you could do it again. I had learned already never to empty the well of my writing,
but always stop when there was still something there in the deep part of the well, and let
it refill at night from the springs that fed it.
To keep my mind off writing sometimes after I had worked I would read writers who
were writing then, such as Aldous Huxley, D. H. Lawrence or any who had books
published that I could get from Sylvia Beach's library or find along the quais.
'Huxley is a dead man,' Miss Stein said. 'Why do you want to read a dead man? Can't
you see he is dead?'
I could not see, then, that he was a dead man and I said that his books amused me
and kept me from thinking.
'You should only read what is truly good or what is frankly bad.'
'I've been reading truly good books all winter and all last winter and I'll read them
next winter, and I don't like frankly bad books.'
'Why do you read this trash? It is inflated trash, Hemingway. By a dead man.'
'I like to see what they are writing,' I said. 'And it keeps my mind off me doing it.'
'Who else do you read now?'
'D. H. Lawrence,' I said. 'He wrote some very good short stories, one called The
Prussian Officer'.
'I tried to read his novels. He's impossible. He's pathetic and preposterous. He writes
like a sick man.'
'I liked Sons and Lovers and The White Peacock' I said. 'Maybe that not so well. I
couldn't read Women in Love'
'If you don't want to read what is bad, and want to read something that will hold your
interest and is marvellous in its own way, you should read Marie Belloc Lowndes.'
I had never heard of her, and Miss Stein loaned me The Lodger, that marvellous
story of Jack the Ripper and another book about murder at a place outside Paris that could
only be Enghien-les-Bains. They were both splendid after-work books, the people
credible and the action and the terror never false. They were perfect for reading after you
had worked and I read all the Mrs Belloc Lowndes that there was. But there was only so
much and none as good as the first two and I never found anything as good for that empty
time of day or night until the first fine Simenon books came out.
I think Miss Stein would have liked the good Simenons - the first one I read was
either L'Ecluse Nume'ro I, or La Maison du Canal - but I am not sure because when I
knew Miss Stein she did not like to read French although she loved to speak it. Janet
Planner gave me the first two Simenons I ever read. She loved to read French and she had
read Simenon when he was a crime reporter.
In the three or four years that we were good friends I cannot remember Gertrude
Stein ever speaking well of any writer who had not written favourably about her work or
done something to advance her career except for Ronald Firbank and, later, Scott
Fitzgerald. When I first met her she did not speak of Sherwood Anderson as a writer but
spoke glowingly of him as a man and of his great, beautiful, warm Italian eyes and of his
kindness and his charm. I did not care about his great beautiful warm Italian eyes but I
liked some of his short stories very much. They were simply written and sometimes
beautifully written and he knew the people he was writing about and cared deeply for
them. Miss Stein did not want to talk about his stories but always about him as a person.
'What about his novels?' I asked her. She did not want to talk about Anderson's
works any more than she would talk about Joyce. If you brought up Joyce twice, you
would not be invited back. It was like mentioning one general favourably to another
general. You learned not to do it the first time you made the mistake. You could always
mention a general, though, that the general you were talking to had beaten. The general
you were talking to would praise the beaten general greatly and go happily into detail on
how he had beaten him.
Anderson's stories were too good to make happy conversation. I was prepared to tell
Miss Stein how strangely poor his novels were, but this would have been bad too because
it was criticizing one of her most loyal supporters. When he wrote a novel finally called
Dark Laughter, so terribly bad, silly and affected that I could not keep from criticizing it
in a parody,* Miss Stein was very angry. I had attacked someone that was a part of her
apparatus. But for a long time before that she was not angry. She, herself, began to praise
Sherwood lavishly after he had cracked up as a writer. [* The Torrents of Spring.]
She was angry at Ezra Pound because he had sat down too quickly on a small, fragile
and, doubtless, uncomfortable chair, that it is quite possible he had been given on purpose,
and had either cracked or broken it. That he was a great poet and a gentle and generous
man and could have accommodated himself in a normal-size chair was not considered.
The reasons for her dislike of Ezra, skilfully and maliciously put, were invented years
later.
It was when we had come back from Canada and were living in the rue Notre-Damedes-
Champs and Miss Stein and I were still good friends that Miss Stein made the remark
about the lost generation. She had some ignition trouble with the old Model T Ford she
then drove and the young man who worked in the garage and had served in the last year
of the war had not been adept, or perhaps had not broken the priority of other vehicles, in
repairing Miss Stein's Ford. Anyway he had not been serieux and had been corrected
severely by the patron of the garage after Miss Stein's protest. The patron had said to him,
'You are all a generation perdue.'
'That's what you are. That's what you all are,' Miss Stein said. 'All of you young
people who served in the war. You are a lost generation.'
'Really?' I said.
'You are,' she insisted. 'You have no respect for anything. You drink yourselves to
death . . .'
'Was the young mechanic drunk?' I asked.
'Of course not.'
'Have you ever seen me drunk?'
'No. But your friends are drunk.'
'I've been drunk,' I said. 'But I don't come here drunk.'
'Of course not. I didn't say that.'
'The boy's patron was probably drunk by eleven o'clock in the morning,' I said.
'That's why he makes such lovely phrases.'
'Don't argue with me, Hemingway,' Miss Stein said. 'It does no good at all. You're all
a lost generation, exactly as the garage keeper said.'
Later when I wrote my first novel I tried to balance Miss Stein's quotation from the
garage keeper with one from Ecclesiastes. But that night walking home I thought about
the boy in the garage and if he had ever been hauled in one of those vehicles when they
were converted to ambulances. I remembered how they used to burn out their brakes
going down the mountain roads with a full load of wounded and braking in low and
finally using the reverse, and how the last ones were driven over the mountainside empty,
so they could be replaced by big Fiats with a good H-shift and metal-to-metal brakes. I
thought of Miss Stein and Sherwood Anderson and egotism and mental laziness versus
discipline and I thought who is calling who a lost generation? Then as I was getting up to
the Closerie des Lilas with the light on my old friend, the statue of Marshal Ney with his
sword out and the shadows of the trees on the bronze, and he alone there and nobody
behind him and what a fiasco he'd made of Waterloo, I thought that all generations were
lost by something and always had been and always would be and I stopped at the Lilas to
keep the statue company and drank a cold beer before going home to the flat over the
sawmill. But sitting there with the beer, watching the statue and remembering how many
days Ney had fought, personally, with the rearguard on the retreat from Moscow that
Napoleon had ridden away from in the coach with Caulaincourt, I thought of what a
warm and affectionate friend Miss Stein had been and how beautifully she had spoken of
Apollinaire and of his death on the day of the Armistice in 1918 with the crowd shouting
'a bas Guillaume' and Apollinaire, in his delirium, thinking they were crying against him,
and I thought, I will do my best to serve her and see she gets justice for the good work
she had done as long as I can, so help me God and Mike Ney. But the hell with her lostgeneration
talk and all the dirty, easy labels. When I got home and into the courtyard and
upstairs and saw my wife and my son and his cat, F. Puss, all of them happy and a fire in
the fireplace, I said to my wife, 'You know, Gertrude is nice, anyway.'
'Of course, Tatie.'
'But she does talk a lot of rot sometimes.'
'I never hear her,' my wife said. 'I'm a wife. It's her friend that talks to me.'
4 Shakespeare and Company
In those days there was no money to buy books. I borrowed books from the rental library
of Shakespeare and Company, which was the library and bookstore of Sylvia Beach at 12
rue de l'Odeon. On a cold windswept street, this was a warm, cheerful place with a big
stove in winter, tables and shelves of books, new books in the window, and photographs
on the wall of famous writers both dead and living. The photographs all looked like
snapshots and even the dead writers looked as though they had really been alive. Sylvia
had a lively, sharply sculptured face, brown eyes that were as alive as a small animal's
and as gay as a young girl's, and wavy brown hair that was brushed back from her fine
forehead and cut thick below her ears and at the line of the collar of the brown velvet
jacket she wore. She had pretty legs and she was kind, cheerful and interested, and loved
to make jokes and gossip. No one that I ever knew was nicer to me.
I was very shy when I first went into the bookshop and I did not have enough money
on me to join the rental library. She told me I could pay the deposit any time I had the
money and made me out a card and said I could take as many books as I wished.
