In the town of Mâcon Hemingway bought four more bottles of wine which they drank as they needed, and Hemingway was delighted to see how much Fitzgerald was excited by drinking from the bottle, as “…a girl might be excited by going swimming for the first time without a bathing suit.

But toward the end of the afternoon Fitzgerald had begun to worry about his health (he was a dreadful hypochondriac), telling Hemingway two gruesome stories about friends of his who had died of congestion of the lungs recently through getting wet.

An argument then broke out between the two of them when Hemingway said that his friends had probably suffered from pneumonia. Fitzgerald then told Hemingway that he, Hemingway, new nothing about medicine even if his father had been a doctor, and that congestion of the lungs was a malady indigenous to Europe, and that Hemingway’s father, and therefore Hemingway, only knew about American diseases. Hemingway reminded Fitzgerald that his father had studied medicine in Europe as well as America. But Fitzgerald was having none of it, explaining that congestion of the lungs was recently new to Europe and consequently Hemingway’s father could not have studied the disease when he was in Europe back in the 19th century. Hemingway then went on to explain that doctors from around the world exchanged knowledge, which meant that most doctors were familiar with most diseases and that Fitzgerald should stop talking and worrying and drink some more wine which would make him feel better.

And it did for a while until Fitzgerald asked Hemingway to head for the nearest big town because he felt a fever and delirium coming on, which were the classic signs of European congestion of lungs, and that they must hurry.

” How long before we reach a town?” asked Fitzgerald.

” About twenty-five minutes.”

Hemingway was losing his patience.

It then began to rain heavily and Hemingway pulled the car into a small roadside café where the two men talked about death – and drank far too much wine – with Fitzgerald becoming more and more depressed, especially when Hemingway – in an attempt to put things in perspective – told Fitzgerald about the death and destruction he’d seen in Italy during the Great War, and during the Greco-Turkish war, which Hemingway had covered as a correspondent. It didn’t help.

Eventually they reached the town of Châlon-sur-Saôn (some 50 kilometres north of Lyon), booked into a small hotel where Fitzgerald went straight to bed complaining of a high temperature.

Hemingway (always the practical one) sent their clothes to be dried, ordered two whiskey and hot lemonades, took Fitzgerald’s pulse and temperature – which were normal – and ordered a meal for himself.

Fitzgerald then asked the Oak Parker to promise him that he would look after Zelda and their daughter Scotty when he, Fitzgerald, died in the night. Hemingway told him to drink his whiskey and hot lemonade and to stop being ridiculous because he wasn’t going to die that night, and that he didn’t have a temperature and therefore wasn’t going to get congestion of the lungs, European or any other sort of congestion.

A fierce argument arose with Hemingway wishing he wasn’t wasting so much time with this lunatic writer and that he’d never agreed to go to Lyon in the first place.

But Fitzgerald began to calm down, and Hemingway knew he couldn’t stay angry with Fitzgerald for long.

Hemingway also knew that Fitzgerald knew that drunks, in those days, often died of pneumonia, and that Fitzgerald knew he was a drunk – even if it only took a couple of drinks. Hemingway knew it was the fear of that which had brought on the stupidity and the arguments.

To Be Continued…