spend it for?'
'Well,' she said.
'I know. It's been terribly hard and I've been tight and mean about money.'
'No,' she said. 'But—'
I knew how severe I had been and how bad things had been. The one who is doing
his work and getting satisfaction from it is not the one the poverty bothers. I thought of
bathtubs and showers and toilets that flushed as things that inferior people to us had or
that you enjoyed when you made trips, which we often made. There was always the
public bath-house down at the foot of the street by the river. My wife had never
complained once about these things any more than she cried about Chèvre d'Or when he
fell. She had cried for the horse, I remembered, but not for the money. I had been stupid
when she needed a grey lamb jacket and had loved it once she had bought it. I had been
stupid about other things too. It was all part of the fight against poverty that you never
win except by not spending. Especially if you buy pictures instead of clothes. But then
we did not think ever of ourselves as poor. We did not accept it. We thought we were
superior people and other people that we looked down on and rightly mistrusted were rich.
It had never seemed strange to me to wear sweatshirts for underwear to keep warm. It
only seemed odd to the rich. We ate well and cheaply and drank well and cheaply and
slept well and warm together and loved each other.
'I think we ought to go,' my wife said. 'We haven't been for such a long time. We'll
take a lunch and some wine. I'll make good sandwiches.'
'We'll go on the train and it's cheap that way. But let's not go if you don't think we
should. Anything we'd do today would be fun. It's a wonderful day.'
'I think we should go.'
'You wouldn't rather spend it some other way?'
'No,' she said arrogantly. She had the lovely high cheekbones for arrogance. 'Who are
we anyway?'
So we went out by the train from the Gare du Nord through the dirtiest and saddest
part of town and walked from the siding to the oasis of the track. It was early and we sat
on my raincoat on the fresh-cropped grass bank and had our lunch and drank from the
wine bottle and looked at the old grandstand, the brown wooden betting booths, the green
of the track, the darker green of the hurdles, and the brown shine of the water jumps and
the whitewashed stone walls and white posts and rails, the paddock under the new-leafed
trees and the first horses being walked to the paddock. We drank more wine and studied
the form in the paper and my wife lay down on the raincoat to sleep with the sun on her
face. I went over and found someone I knew from the old days at San Siro in Milano. He
gave me two horses.
'Mind, they're no investment. But don't let the price put you off.'
We won the first with half of the money that we had to spend and he paid twelve to
one, jumping beautifully, taking command on the far side of the course and coming in
four lengths ahead. We saved half of the money and put it away and bet the other half on
the second horse who broke ahead, led all the way over the hurdles and on the flat just
lasted to the finish line with the favourite gaining on him with every jump and the two
whips flailing.
We went to have a glass of champagne at the bar under the stand and wait for the
prices to go up.
'My, but racing is very hard on people,' my wife said. 'Did you see that horse come
up on him?'
'I can still feel it inside me.'
'What will he pay?'
'The cote was eighteen to one. But they may have bet him at the last.'
The horses came by, ours wet, with his nostrils working wide to breathe, the jockey
patting him.
'Poor him,' my wife said. 'We just bet.'
We watched them go on by and had another glass of champagne and then the
winning price came up: 85. That meant he paid eighty-five francs for ten.
'They must have put a lot of money on at the end,' I said.
But we had made plenty of money, big money for us, and now we had spring and
money too. I thought that was all we needed. A day like that one, if you split the
winnings one quarter for each to spend, left a half for racing capital. I kept the racing
capital secret and apart from all other capital.
Another day later that year when we had come back from one of our voyages and
had good luck at some track again we stopped at Prunier's on the way home, going in to
sit at the bar after looking at all the clearly priced wonders in the window. We had oysters
and crabe mexicaine with glasses of Sancerre. We walked back through the Tuilleries in
the dark and stood and looked through the Arc du Carrousel up across the dark gardens
with the lights of the Concorde behind the formal darkness and then the long rise of lights
towards the Arc de Triomphe. Then we looked towards the dark of the Louvre and I said,
'Do you really think that the three arches are in line? These two and the Sermione in
Milano?'
'I don't know, Tatie. They say so and they ought to know. Do you remember when
we came out into the spring on the Italian side of the St Bernard after the climb in the
snow, and you and Chink and I walked down all day in the spring to Aosta?'
'Chink called it "across the St Bernard in street shoes". Remember your shoes?'
'My poor shoes. Do you remember us having fruit cup at Biffi's in the Galleria with
Capri and fresh peaches and wild strawberries in a tall glass pitcher with ice?'
'That time was what made me wonder about the three arches.'
'I remember the Sermione. It's like this arch.'
'Do you remember the inn at Aigle where you and Chink sat in the garden that day
and read while I fished?'
'Yes, Tatie.'
I remembered the Rhone, narrow and grey and full of snow water and the two trout
streams on either side, the Stockalper and the Rhone canal. The Stockalper was really
clear that day and the Rhone canal was still murky.
'Do you remember when the horse-chestnut trees were in bloom and how I tried to
remember a story that Jim Gamble, I think, had told me about a wistaria vine and I
couldn't remember it?'
'Yes, Tatie, and you and Chink always talking about how to make things true,
writing them, and put them rightly and not describe. I remember everything. Sometimes
he was right and sometimes you were right. I remember the lights and textures and the
shapes you argued about.'
Now we had come out of the gateway through the Louvre and crossed the street
outside and were standing on the bridge leaning on the stone and looking down at the
river.
'We all three argued about everything and always specific things and we made fun of
each other. I remember everything we ever did and everything we ever said on the whole
trip,' Hadley said. 'I do really. About everything. When you and Chink talked I was
included. It wasn't like being a wife at Miss Stein's.'
'I wish I could remember the story about the wistaria vine.'
'It wasn't important. It was the vine that was important, Tatie.'
'Do you remember I brought some wine from Aigle home to the chalet? They sold it
to us at the inn. They said it should go with the trout. We brought it wrapped in copies of
La Gazette de Lausanne, I think.'
"The Sion wine was even better. Do you remember how Mrs Gangeswisch cooked
the trout au bleu when we got back
to the chalet? They were such wonderful trout, Tatie, and we drank the Sion wine
and ate out on the porch with the mountainside dropping off below and we could look
across the lake and see the Dent du Midi with the snow half down it and the trees at the
mouth of the Rhone where it flowed into the lake.'
'We always miss Chink in the winter and the spring.'
'Always. And I miss him now when it is gone.'
Chink was a professional soldier and had gone out to Mons from Sandhurst. I had
met him first in Italy and he had been my best friend and then our best friend for a long
time. He spent his leaves with us then.
'He's going to try to get leave this next spring. He wrote last week from Cologne.'
'I know. We should live in this time now and have every minute of it.'
'We're watching the water now as it hits this buttress. Look what we can see when
we look up the river.'
We looked and there it all was: our river and our city and the island of our city.
'We're too lucky,' she said. 'I hope Chink will come. He takes care of us.'
'He doesn't think so.'
'Of course not.'
'He thinks we explore together.'
'We do. But it depends on what you explore.'
We walked across the bridge and were on our own side of the river.
'Are you hungry again?' I said. 'Us. Talking and walking.'
'Of course, Tatie. Aren't you?'
'Let's go to a wonderful place and have a truly grand dinner.'
'Where?'
'Michaud's?'
'That's perfect and it's so close.'
So we walked up the rue des Saints-Peres to the corner of the rue Jacob, stopping and
looking in the windows at pictures and at furniture. We stood outside of Michaud's
restaurant reading the posted menu. Michaud's was crowded and we waited for people to
come out, watching the tables where people already had their coffee.
We were hungry again from walking and Michaud's was an exciting and expensive
restaurant for us. It was where Joyce ate with his family then, he and his wife against the
wall, Joyce peering at the menu through his thick glasses, holding the menu up in one
hand; Nora by him, a hearty but delicate eater; Giorgio thin, foppish, sleek-headed from
the back; Lucia with heavy curly hair, a girl not quite yet grown; all of them talking
Italian.
Standing there I wondered how much of what we had felt on the bridge was just
hunger. I asked my wife and she said, 'I don't know, Tatie. There are so many sorts of
hunger. In the spring there are more. But that's gone now. Memory is hunger.'
I was being stupid, and looking in the window and seeing two tournedos being
served I knew I was hungry in a simple way.
'You said we were lucky today. Of course we were. But we had very good advice
and information.'
She laughed.
'I didn't mean about the racing. You're such a literal boy. I meant lucky other ways.'
'I don't think Chink cares for racing,' I said, compounding my stupidity.
'No. He'd only care for it if he were riding.'
'Don't you want to go racing any more?'
'Of course. And now we can go whenever we want again.'
'But you really want to go?'
'Of course. You do, don't you?'
It was a wonderful meal at Michaud's after we got in; but when we had finished and
there was no question of hunger any more, the feeling that had been like hunger when we
were on the bridge was still there when we caught the bus home. It was there when we
came in the room and after we had gone to bed and made love in the dark, it was there.
When I woke with the windows open and the moonlight on the roofs of the tall houses, it
was there. I put my face away from the moonlight into the shadow but I could not sleep
and lay awake thinking about it. We had both wakened twice in the night and my wife
slept sweetly now with the moonlight on her face. I had to try to think it out and I was too
stupid. Life had seemed so simple that morning when I had wakened and found the false
spring and heard the pipes of the man with his herd of goats and gone out and bought the
racing paper.
But Paris was a very old city and we were young and nothing was simple there, not
even poverty, nor sudden money, nor the moonlight, nor right and wrong, nor the
breathing of someone who lay beside you in the moonlight.
7 The End of an Avocation
We went racing together many more times that year and other years after I had worked in
the early mornings, and Hadley enjoyed it and sometimes she loved it. But it was not the
climbs in the high mountain meadows above the last forest, nor nights coming home to
the chalet, nor was it climbing with Chink, our best friend, over a high pass into new
country. It was not really racing either. It was gambling on horses. But we called it racing.
Racing never came between us, only people could do that; but for a long time it
stayed close to us like a demanding friend. That was a generous way to think of it. I, the
one who was so righteous about people and their destructiveness, tolerated this friend that
was the falsest, most beautiful, most exciting, vicious, and demanding because she could
be profitable. To make it profitable was more than a full-time job and I had no time for
that. But I justified it to myself because I wrote it, even though in the end, when
everything I had written, was lost, there was only one racing story that survived, because
it was out in the mails.
I was going to races alone more now and I was involved in them and getting too
mixed up with them. I worked two tracks in their season when I could, Auteuil and
Enghien. It took full-time work to try to handicap intelligently and you could make no
money that way. That was just how it worked out on paper. You could buy a newspaper
that gave you that.
You had to watch a jumping race from the top of the stands at Auteuil and it was a
fast climb up to see what each horse did and see the horse that might have won and did
not, and see why or maybe how he did not do what he could have done. You watched the
prices and all the shifts of odds each time a horse you were following would start, and
you had to know how he was working and finally get to know when the stable would try
with him. He always might be beaten when he tried; but you should know by then what
his chances were.
It was hard work but at Auteuil it was beautiful to watch each day they raced when
