A MOVEABLE FEAST

"Before these rich had come we had already been infiltrated by another rich using the oldest trick there is.  It is that an unmarried young woman becomes the temporary best friend of another young woman and then unknowingly, innocently and unrelentingly sets out to marry the husband.  When the husband is a writer and doing difficult work so that he is occupied much of the time and is not a good companion or partner to his wife for a big part of the day, the arrangement has advantages until you know how it works out.  The husband has two attractive girls around when he has finished work.  One is new and strange and if he has bad luck he gets to love them both.

Then, instead of the two of them and their child, there are three of them.  First it is stimulating and fun and it goes on that way for a while.  All things truly wicked start from an innocence.  So you live day by day and enjoy what you have and do not worry.  You lie and hate it and it destroys you and everyday is more dangerous, but you live day to day as in a war.

It is necessary that I leave Schruns and go to New York to rearrange publishers.  I did my business in New York and when I got back to Paris I should have caught the first train from the Gare de l'Est that would take me down to Austria.  But the girl I was in love with was in Paris then, and I did not take the first train, or the second or the third.

When I saw my wife again standing by the tracks as the train came in by the piled logs at the station, I wished I had died before I ever loved anyone but her.  She was smiling, the sun on her lovely face tanned by the snow and the sun, beautifully built, her hair red gold in the sun, grown out all winter awkwardly and beautifully, and Mr. Bumby standing with her, blond and chunky and with winter cheeks looking like a good Vorarlberg boy.

'Oh Tatie,' she said, when I was holding her in my arms, 'you're back and you made such a fine successful trip.  I love you and we've missed you so.'

I loved her and I loved no one else and we had a lovely magic time while we were alone.  I worked well and we made great trips, and I thought we were invulnerable again, and it wasn't until we were out of the mountains in late spring, and back in Paris that the other thing started again.

That was the end of the first part of Paris.  Paris was never to be the same again although it was always Paris and you changed as it changed.  We never went back to the Vorarlberg and neither did the rich.

There is never any ending to Paris and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other.  We always returned to it no matter who we were or how it was changed or with what difficulties , or ease, it  could be reached.  Paris was always worth it and you received return for whatever you brought to it.  But this is how Paris was in the early days when we were very poor and very happy."

Hemingway, Ernest.  A Moveable Feast. New York: Scribner. 210-11.

In regards to F. Scott Fitzgerald:

"His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly's wings.  At one time he understood it no more than the butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred.  Later he became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction and he learned to think and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it had been effortless."

Hemingway, Ernest.  A Moveable Feast. New York: Scribner. 147.