The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway

by Ernest Hemingway

  Ahead, close to the left bank, was a big log. Nick saw it was hollow; pointing up river the current entered it smoothly, only a little ripple spread each side of the log. The water was deepening. The top of the hollow log was gray and dry. It was partly in the shadow.

  Nick took the cork out of the grasshopper bottle and a hopper clung to it. He picked him off, hooked him and tossed him out. He held the rod far out so that the hopper on the water moved into the current flowing into the hollow log. Nick lowered the rod and the hopper floated in. There was a heavy strike. Nick swung the rod against the pull. It felt as though he were hooked into the log itself, except for the live feeling.

  He tried to force the fish out into the current. It came, heavily.

  The line went slack and Nick thought the trout was gone. Then he saw him, very near, in the current, shaking his head, trying to get the hook out. His mouth was clamped shut. He was fighting the hook in the clear flowing current.

  Looping in the line with his left hand, Nick swung the rod to make the line taut and tried to lead the trout toward the net, but he was gone, out of sight, the line pumping. Nick fought him against the current, letting him thump in the water against the spring of the rod. He shifted the rod to his left hand, worked the trout upstream, holding his weight, fighting on the rod, and then let him down into the net. He lifted him clear of the water, a heavy half circle in the net, the net dripping, unhooked him and slid him into the sack.

  He spread the mouth of the sack and looked down in at the two big trout alive in the water.

  Through the deepening water, Nick waded over to the hollow log. He took the sack off, over his head, the trout flopping as it came out of water, and hung it so the trout were deep in the water. Then he pulled himself up on the log and sat, the water from his trouser and boots running down into the stream. He laid his rod down, moved along to the shady end of the log and took the sandwiches out of his pocket. He dipped the sandwiches in the cold water. The current carried away the crumbs. He ate the sandwiches and dipped his hat full of water to drink, the water running out through his hat just ahead of his drinking.

  It was cool in the shade, sitting on the log. He took a cigarette out and struck a match to light it. The match sunk into the gray wood, making a tiny furrow. Nick leaned over the side of the log, found a hard place and lit the match. He sat smoking and watching the river.

  Ahead the river narrowed and went into a swamp. The river became smooth and deep and the swamp looked solid with cedar trees, their trunks close together, their branches solid. It would not be possible to walk through a swamp like that. The branches grew so low. You would have to keep almost level with the ground to move at all. You could not crash through the branches. That must be why the animals that lived in swamps were built the way they were, Nick thought.

  He wished he had brought something to read. He felt like reading. He did not feel like going on into the swamp. He looked down the river. A big cedar slanted all the way across the stream. Beyond that the river went into the swamp.

  Nick did not want to go in there now. He felt a reaction against deep wading with the water deepening up under his armpits, to hook big trout in places impossible to land them. In the swamp the banks were bare, the big cedars came together overhead, the sun did not come through, except in patches; in the fast deep water, in the half light, the fishing would be tragic. In the swamp fishing was a tragic adventure. Nick did not want it. He did not want to go down the stream any further today.

  He took out his knife, opened it and stuck it in the log. Then he pulled up the sack, reached into it and brought out one of the trout. Holding him near the tail, hard to hold, alive, in his hand, he whacked him against the log. The trout quivered, rigid. Nick laid him on the log in the shade and broke the neck of the other fish the same way. He laid them side by side on the log. They were fine trout.

  Nick cleaned them, slitting them from the vent to the tip of the jaw. All the insides and the gills and tongue came out in one piece. They were both males; long gray-white strips of milt, smooth and clean. All the insides clean and compact, coming out all together. Nick tossed the offal ashore for the minks to find.

  He washed the trout in the stream. When he held them back up in the water they looked like live fish. Their color was not gone yet. He washed his hands and dried them on the log. Then he laid the trout on the sack spread out on the log, rolled them up in it, tied the bundle and put it in the landing net. His knife was still standing, blade stuck in the log. He cleaned it on the wood and put it in his pocket.

  Nick stood up on the log, holding his rod, the landing net hanging heavy, then stepped into the water and splashed ashore. He climbed the bank and cut up into the woods, toward the high ground. He was going back to camp. He looked back. The river just showed through the trees. There were plenty of days coming when he could fish the swamp.

  L’ENVOI

  The king was working in the garden. He seemed very glad to see me. We walked through the garden. This is the queen, he said. She was clipping a rose bush. Oh how do you do, she said. We sat down at a table under a big tree and the king ordered whiskey and soda. We have good whiskey anyway, he said. The revolutionary committee, he told me, would not allow him to go outside the palace grounds. Plastiras is a very good man I believe, he said, but frightfully difficult. I think he did right though shooting those chaps. If Kerensky had shot a few men things might have been altogether different. Of course the great thing in this sort of an affair is not to be shot oneself!

  It was very jolly. We talked for a long time. Like all Greeks he wanted to go to America.

  The Undefeated

  MANUEL GARCIA CLIMBED THE STAIRS to Don Miguel Retana’s office. He set down his suitcase and knocked on the door. There was no answer. Manuel, standing in the hallway, felt there was someone in the room. He felt it through the door.

  “Retana,” he said, listening.

  There was no answer.

  He’s there, all right, Manuel thought.

  “Retana,” he said and banged the door.

  “Who’s there?” said someone in the office.

  “Me, Manolo,” Manuel said.

  “What do you want?” asked the voice.

  “I want to work,” Manuel said.

  Something in the door clicked several times and it swung open. Manuel went in, carrying his suitcase.

  A little man sat behind a desk at the far side of the room. Over his head was a bull’s head, stuffed by a Madrid taxidermist; on the walls were framed photographs and bull-fight posters.

  The little man sat looking at Manuel.

  “I thought they’d killed you,” he said.

  Manuel knocked with his knuckles on the desk. The little man sat looking at him across the desk.

  “How many corridas you had this year?” Retana asked.

  “One,” he answered.

  “Just that one?” the little man asked.

  “That’s all.”

  “I read about it in the papers,” Retana said. He leaned back in the chair and looked at Manuel.

  Manuel looked up at the stuffed bull. He had seen it often before. He felt a certain family interest in it. It had killed his brother, the promising one, about nine years ago. Manuel remembered the day. There was a brass plate on the oak shield the bull’s head was mounted on. Manuel could not read it, but he imagined it was in memory of his brother. Well, he had been a good kid.

  The plate said: “The Bull ‘Mariposa’ of the Duke of Veragua, which accepted 9 varas for 7 caballos, and caused the death of Antonio Garcia, Novillero, April 27, 1909.”

  Retana saw him looking at the stuffed bull’s head.

  “The lot the Duke sent me for Sunday will make a scandal,” he said. “They’re all bad in the legs. What do they say about them at the Café?”

  “I don’t know,” Manuel said. “I just got in.”

  “Yes,” Retana said. “You still have your bag.”

  He looked at Manuel, leaning back behind
the big desk.

  “Sit down,” he said. “Take off your cap.”

  Manuel sat down; his cap off, his face was changed. He looked pale, and his coleta pinned forward on his head, so that it would not show under the cap, gave him a strange look.

  “You don’t look well,” Retana said.

  “I just got out of the hospital,” Manuel said.

  “I heard they’d cut your leg off,” Retana said.

  “No,” said Manuel. “It got all right.”

  Retana leaned forward across the desk and pushed a wooden box of cigarettes toward Manuel.

  “Have a cigarette,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  Manuel lit it.

  “Smoke?” he said, offering the match to Retana.

  “No,” Retana waved his hand, “I never smoke.”

  Retana watched him smoking.

  “Why don’t you get a job and go to work?” he said.

  “I don’t want to work,” Manuel said. “I am a bullfighter.”

  “There aren’t any bullfighters any more,” Retana said.

  “I’m a bullfighter,” Manuel said.

  “Yes, while you’re in there,” Retana said.

  Manuel laughed.

  Retana sat, saying nothing and looking at Manuel.

  “I’ll put you in a nocturnal if you want,” Retana offered.

  “When?” Manuel asked.

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “I don’t like to substitute for anybody,” Manuel said. That was the way they all got killed. That was the way Salvador got killed. He tapped with his knuckles on the table.

  “It’s all I’ve got,” Retana said.

  “Why don’t you put me on next week?” Manuel suggested.

  “You wouldn’t draw,” Retana said. “All they want is Litri and Rubito and La Torre. Those kids are good.”

  “They’d come to see me get it,” Manuel said, hopefully.

  “No, they wouldn’t. They don’t know who you are any more.”

  “I’ve got a lot of stuff,” Manuel said.

  “I’m offering to put you on tomorrow night,” Retana said. “You can work with young Hernandez and kill two novillos after the Charlots.”

  “Whose novillos?” Manuel asked.

  “I don’t know. Whatever stuff they’ve got in the corrals. What the veterinaries won’t pass in the daytime.”

  “I don’t like to substitute,” Manuel said.

  “You can take it or leave it,” Retana said. He leaned forward over the papers. He was no longer interested. The appeal that Manuel had made to him for a moment when he thought of the old days was gone. He would like to get him to substitute for Larita because he could get him cheaply. He could get others cheaply too. He would like to help him though. Still he had given him the chance. It was up to him.

  “How much do I get?” Manuel asked. He was still playing with the idea of refusing. But he knew he could not refuse.

  “Two hundred and fifty pesetas,” Retana said. He had thought of five hundred, but when he opened his mouth it said two hundred and fifty.

  “You pay Villalta seven thousand,” Manuel said.

  “You’re not Villalta,” Retana said.

  “I know it,” Manuel said.

  “He draws it, Manolo,” Retana said in explanation.

  “Sure,” said Manuel. He stood up. “Give me three hundred, Retana.”

  “All right,” Retana agreed. He reached in the drawer for a paper.

  “Can I have fifty now?” Manuel asked.

  “Sure,” said Retana. He took a fifty-peseta note out of his pocket-book and laid it, spread out flat, on the table.

  Manuel picked it up and put it in his pocket.

  “What about a cuadrilla?” he asked.

  “There’s the boys that always work for me nights,” Retana said. “They’re all right.”

  “How about picadors?” Manuel asked.

  “They’re not much,” Retana admitted.

  “I’ve got to have one good pic,” Manuel said.

  “Get him then,” Retana said. “Go and get him.”

  “Not out of this,” Manuel said. “I’m not paying for any cuadrilla out of sixty duros.”

  Retana said nothing but looked at Manuel across the big desk.

  “You know I’ve got to have one good pic,” Manuel said.

  Retana said nothing but looked at Manuel from a long way off.

  “It isn’t right,” Manuel said.

  Retana was still considering him, leaning back in his chair, considering him from a long way away.

  “There’re the regular pics,” he offered.

  “I know,” Manuel said. “I know your regular pics.”

  Retana did not smile. Manuel knew it was over.

  “All I want is an even break,” Manuel said reasoningly. “When I go out there I want to be able to call my shots on the bull. It only takes one good picador.”

  He was talking to a man who was no longer listening.

  “If you want something extra,” Retana said, “go and get it. There will be a regular cuadrilla out there. Bring as many of your own pics as you want. The charlotada is over by 10.30.”

  “All right,” Manuel said. “If that’s the way you feel about it.”

  “That’s the way,” Retana said.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow night,” Manuel said.

  “I’ll be out there,” Retana said.

  Manuel picked up his suitcase and went out.

  “Shut the door,” Retana called.

  Manuel looked back. Retana was sitting forward looking at some papers. Manuel pulled the door tight until it clicked.

  He went down the stairs and out of the door into the hot brightness of the street. It was very hot in the street and the light on the white buildings was sudden and hard on his eyes. He walked down the shady side of the steep street toward the Puerta del Sol. The shade felt solid and cool as running water. The heat came suddenly as he crossed the intersecting streets. Manuel saw no one he knew in all the people he passed.

  Just before the Puerta del Sol he turned into a café.

  It was quiet in the café. There were a few men sitting at tables against the wall. At one table four men played cards. Most of the men sat against the wall smoking, empty coffee-cups and liqueur-glasses before them on the tables. Manuel went through the long room to a small room in back. A man sat at a table in the corner asleep. Manuel sat down at one of the tables.

  A waiter came in and stood beside Manuel’s table.

  “Have you seen Zurito?” Manuel asked him.

  “He was in before lunch,” the waiter answered. “He won’t be back before five o’clock.”

  “Bring me some coffee and milk and a shot of the ordinary,” Manuel said.

  The waiter came back into the room carrying a tray with a big coffee-glass and a liqueur-glass on it. In his left hand he held a bottle of brandy. He swung these down to the table and a boy who had followed him poured coffee and milk into the glass from two shiny, spouted pots with long handles.

  Manuel took off his cap and the waiter noticed his pigtail pinned forward on his head. He winked at the coffee-boy as he poured out the brandy into the little glass beside Manuel’s coffee. The coffee-boy looked at Manuel’s pale face curiously.

  “You fighting here?” asked the waiter, corking up the bottle.

  “Yes,” Manuel said. “Tomorrow.”

  The waiter stood there, holding the bottle on one hip.

  “You in the Charlie Chaplins?” he asked.

  The coffee-boy looked away, embarrassed.

  “No. In the ordinary.”

  “I thought they were going to have Chaves and Hernandez,” the waiter said.

  “No. Me and another.”

  “Who? Chaves or Hernandez?”

  “Hernandez, I think.”

  “What’s the matter with Chaves?”

  “He got hurt.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Ret
ana.”

  “Hey, Looie,” the waiter called to the next room, “Chaves got cogida.”

  Manuel had taken the wrapper off the lumps of sugar and dropped them into his coffee. He stirred it and drank it down, sweet, hot, and warming in his empty stomach. He drank off the brandy.

  “Give me another shot of that,” he said to the waiter.

  The waiter uncorked the bottle and poured the glass full, slopping another drink into the saucer. Another waiter had come up in front of the table. The coffee-boy was gone.

  “Is Chaves hurt bad?” the second waiter asked Manuel.

  “I don’t know,” Manuel said, “Retana didn’t say.”

  “A hell of a lot he cares,” the tall waiter said. Manuel had not seen him before. He must have just come up.

  “If you stand in with Retana in this town, you’re a made man,” the tall waiter said. “If you aren’t in with him, you might just as well go out and shoot yourself.”

  “You said it,” the other waiter who had come in said. “You said it then.”

  “You’re right I said it,” said the tall waiter. “I know what I’m talking about when I talk about that bird.”

  “Look what he’s done for Villalta,” the first waiter said.

  “And that ain’t all,” the tall waiter said. “Look what he’s done for Marcial Lalanda. Look what he’s done for Nacional.”

  “You said it, kid,” agreed the short waiter.

  Manuel looked at them, standing talking in front of his table. He had drunk his second brandy. They had forgotten about him. They were not interested in him.

  “Look at that bunch of camels,” the tall waiter went on. “Did you ever see this Nacional II?”

  “I seen him last Sunday, didn’t I?” the original waiter said.

  “He’s a giraffe,” the short waiter said.

  “What did I tell you?” the tall waiter said. “Those are Retana’s boys.”

  “Say, give me another shot of that,” Manuel said. He had poured the brandy the waiter had slopped over in the saucer into his glass and drank it while they were talking.