ERNEST HEMINGWAY - Premium Edition. Ernest Hemingway
who was as charming when she was drunk as when she was sober.”
“You haven’t been around much, have you?”
“Yes, my dear. I have been around very much. I have been around a very great deal.”
“Drink your wine,” said Brett. “We’ve all been around. I dare say Jake here has seen as much as you have.”
“My dear, I am sure Mr. Barnes has seen a lot. Don’t think I don’t think so, sir. I have seen a lot, too.”
“Of course you have, my dear,” Brett said. “I was only ragging.”
“I have been in seven wars and four revolutions,” the count said.
“Soldiering?” Brett asked.
“Sometimes, my dear. And I have got arrow wounds. Have you ever seen arrow wounds?”
“Let’s have a look at them.”
The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood, his chest black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the light.
“You see them?”
Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts. “See on the back where they come out.” Above the small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick as a finger.
“I say. Those are something.”
“Clean through.”
The count was tucking in his shirt.
“Where did you get those?” I asked.
“In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old.”
“What were you doing?” asked Brett. “Were you in the army?”
“I was on a business trip, my dear.”
“I told you he was one of us. Didn’t I?” Brett turned to me. “I love you, count. You’re a darling.”
“You make me very happy, my dear. But it isn’t true.”
“Don’t be an ass.”
“You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don’t you find it like that?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“I know,” said the count. “That is the secret. You must get to know the values.”
“Doesn’t anything ever happen to your values?” Brett asked.
“No. Not any more.”
“Never fall in love?”
“Always,” said the count. “I am always in love.”
“What does that do to your values?”
“That, too, has got a place in my values.”
“You haven’t any values. You’re dead, that’s all.”
“No, my dear. You’re not right. I’m not dead at all.”
We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the Bois. It was a good dinner. Food had an excellent place in the count’s values. So did wine. The count was in fine form during the meal. So was Brett. It was a good party.
“Where would you like to go?” asked the count after dinner. We were the only people left in the restaurant. The two waiters were standing over against the door. They wanted to go home.
“We might go up on the hill,” Brett said. “Haven’t we had a splendid party?”
The count was beaming. He was very happy.
“You are very nice people,” he said. He was smoking a cigar again. “Why don’t you get married, you two?”
“We want to lead our own lives,” I said.
“We have our careers,” Brett said. “Come on. Let’s get out of this.”
“Have another brandy,” the count said.
“Get it on the hill.”
“No. Have it here where it is quiet.”
“You and your quiet,” said Brett. “What is it men feel about quiet?”
“We like it,” said the count. “Like you like noise, my dear.”
“All right,” said Brett. “Let’s have one.”
“Sommelier!” the count called.
“Yes, sir.”
“What is the oldest brandy you have?”
“Eighteen eleven, sir.”
“Bring us a bottle.”
“I say. Don’t be ostentatious. Call him off, Jake.”
“Listen, my dear. I get more value for my money in old brandy than in any other antiquities.”
“Got many antiquities?”
“I got a houseful.”
Finally we went up to Montmartre. Inside Zelli’s it was crowded, smoky, and noisy. The music hit you as you went in. Brett and I danced. It was so crowded we could barely move. The nigger drummer waved at Brett. We were caught in the jam, dancing in one place in front of him.
“Hahre you?”
“Great.”
“Thaats good.”
He was all teeth and lips.
“He’s a great friend of mine,” Brett said. “Damn good drummer.”
The music stopped and we started toward the table where the count sat. Then the music started again and we danced. I looked at the count. He was sitting at the table smoking a cigar. The music stopped again.
“Let’s go over.”
Brett started toward the table. The music started and again we danced, tight in the crowd.
“You are a rotten dancer, Jake. Michael’s the best dancer I know.”
“He’s splendid.”
“He’s got his points.”
“I like him,” I said. “I’m damned fond of him.”
“I’m going to marry him,” Brett said. “Funny. I haven’t thought about him for a week.”
“Don’t you write him?”
“Not I. Never write letters.”
“I’ll bet he writes to you.”
“Rather. Damned good letters, too.”
“When are you going to get married?”
“How do I know? As soon as we can get the divorce. Michael’s trying to get his mother to put up for it.”
“Could I help you?”
“Don’t be an ass. Michael’s people have loads of money.”
The music stopped. We walked over to the table. The count stood up.
“Very nice,” he said. “You looked very, very nice.”
“Don’t you dance, count?” I asked.
“No. I’m too old.”
“Oh, come off it,” Brett said.
“My dear, I would do it if I would enjoy it. I enjoy to watch you dance.”
“Splendid,” Brett said. “I’ll dance again for you some time. I say. What about your little friend,