Short Stories

by Ernest Hemingway

  Still this now, that he had, was very easy; and if it was no worse as it went on there was nothing to worry about. Except that he would rather be in better company.

  He thought a little about the company that he would like to have.

  No, he thought, when everything you do, you do too long, and do too late, you can’t expect to find the people still there. The people are all gone. The party’s over and you are with your hostess now.

  I’m getting as bored with dying as with everything else, he thought.

  “It’s a bore,” he said out loud.

  “What is, my dear?”

  “Anything you do too bloody long.”

  He looked at her face between him and the fire. She was leaning back in the chair and the firelight shone on her pleasantly lined face and he could see that she was sleepy. He heard the hyena make a noise just outside the range of the fire.

  “I’ve been writing,” he said. “But I got tired.”

  “Do you think you will be able to sleep?”

  “Pretty sure. Why don’t you turn in?”

  “I like to sit here with you.”

  “Do you feel anything strange?” he asked her.

  “No. Just a little sleepy.”

  “I do,” he said.

  He had just felt death come by again.

  “You know the only thing I’ve never lost is curiosity,” he said to her.

  “You’ve never lost anything. You’re the most complete man I’ve ever known.”

  “Christ,” he said. “How little a woman knows. What is that? Your intuition?”

  Because, just then, death had come and rested its head on the foot of the cot and he could smell its breath.

  “Never believe any of that about a scythe and a skull,” he told her. “It can be two bicycle policemen as easily, or a bird. Or it can have a wide snout like a hyena.”

  It had moved up on him now, but it had no shape anymore. It simply occupied space.

  “Tell it to go away.”

  It did not go away but moved a little closer.

  “You’ve got a hell of a breath,” he told her. “You stinking bastard.”

  It moved up closer to him still and now he could not speak to it, and when it saw he could not speak it came a little closer, and now he tried to send it away without speaking, but it moved in on him so its weight was all upon his chest, and while it crouched there and he could not move, or speak, he heard the woman say, “Bwana is asleep now. Take the cot up very gently and carry it into the tent.”

  He could not speak to tell her to make it go away and it crouched now, heavier, so he could not breathe. And then, while they lifted the cot, suddenly it was all right and the weight went from his chest.

  It was morning and had been morning for some time and he heard the plane. It showed very tiny and then made a wide circle and the boys ran out and lit the fires, using kerosene and piled on grass so there were two big smudges at each end of the level place and the morning breeze blew them toward the camp and the plane circled twice more, low this time, and then glided down and levelled off and landed smoothly and, coming walking toward him, was old Compton in slacks, a tweed jacket and a brown felt hat.

  “What’s the matter, old cock?” Compton said.

  “Bad leg,” he told him. “Will you have some breakfast?”

  “Thanks. I’ll just have some tea. It’s the Puss Moth, you know. I won’t be able to take the Memsahib. There’s only room for one. Your lorry is on the way.”

  Helen had taken Compton aside and was speaking to him. Compton came back more cheery than ever.

  “We’ll get you right in,” he said. “I’ll be back for the Mem. Now I’m afraid I’ll have to stop at Arusha to refuel. We’d better get going.”

  “What about the tea?”

  “I don’t really care about it, you know.”

  The boys had picked up the cot and carried it around the green tents and down along the rock and out on to the plain and along past the smudges that were burning brightly now, the grass all consumed, and the wind fanning the fire, to the little plane. It was difficult getting him in, but once he lay back in the leather seat, and the leg was stuck straight out to one side of the seat where Compton sat. Compton started the motor and got in. He waved to Helen and to the boys and, as the clatter moved into the old familiar roar, they swung around with Compie watching for warthog holes and roared, bumping, along the stretch between the fires and with the last bump rose and he saw them all standing below, waving, and the camp beside the hill, flattening now, and the plain spreading, clumps of trees, and the bush flattening, while the game trails ran now smoothly to the dry waterholes, and there was a new water that he had never known of. The zebra, small rounded backs now, and the wildebeeste, big-headed dots seeming to climb as they moved in long fingers across the plain, now scattering as the shadow came toward them, they were tiny now, and the movement had no gallop, and the plain as far as you could see, grey-yellow now and ahead old Compie’s tweed back and the brown felt hat. Then they were over the first hills and the wildebeeste were trailing up them, and then they were over mountains with sudden depths of green-rising forest and the solid bamboo slopes, and then the heavy forest again, sculpted into peaks and hollows until they crossed, and hills sloped down and then another plain, hot now, and purple brown, bumpy with heat and Compie looking back to see how he was riding. Then there were other mountains dark ahead.

  And then instead of going on to Arusha they turned left, he evidently figured that they had the gas, and looking down he saw a pink sifting cloud, moving over the ground, and in the air, like the first snow in a blizzard, that comes from nowhere, and he knew the locusts were coming up from the south. Then they began to climb and they were going to the east it seemed, and then it darkened and they were in a storm, the rain so thick it seemed like flying through a waterfall, and then they were out and Compie turned his head and grinned and pointed and there, ahead, all he could see, as wide as all the world, great, high, and unbelievably white in the sun, was the top of Kilimanjaro. And then he knew that there was where he was going.

  Just then the hyena stopped whimpering in the night and started to make a strange, human, almost crying sound. The woman heard it and stirred uneasily. She did not wake. In her dream she was at the house on Long Island and it was the night before her daughter’s debut. Somehow her father was there and he had been very rude. Then the noise the hyena made was so loud she woke and for a moment she did not know where she was and she was very afraid. Then she took the flashlight and shone it on the other cot that they had carried in after Harry had gone to sleep. She could see his bulk under the mosquito bar but somehow he had gotten his leg out and it hung down alongside the cot. The dressings had all come down and she could not look at it.

  “Malo,” she called. “Malo! Malo!”

  Then she said, “Harry, Harry!” Then her voice rising, “Harry! Please. Oh Harry!”

  There was no answer and she could not hear him breathing.

  Outside the tent the hyena made the same strange noise that had awakened her. But she did not hear him for the beating of her heart.

  Old Man at the Bridge

  An old man with steel rimmed spectacles and very dusty clothes sat by the side of the road. There was a pontoon bridge across the river and carts, trucks, and men, women and children were crossing it. The mule-drawn carts staggered up the steep bank from the bridge with soldiers helping push against the spokes of the wheels. The trucks ground up and away heading out of it all and the peasants plodded along in the ankle deep dust. But the old man sat there without moving. He was too tired to go any farther.

  It was my business to cross the bridge, explore the bridgehead beyond and find out to what point the enemy had advanced. I did this and returned over the bridge. There were not so many carts now and very few people o
n foot, but the old man was still there.

  “Where do you come from?” I asked him.

  “From San Carlos,” he said, and smiled.

  That was his native town and so it gave him pleasure to mention it and he smiled.

  “I was taking care of animals,” he explained.

  “Oh,” I said, not quite understanding.

  “Yes,” he said, “I stayed, you see, taking care of animals. I was the last one to leave the town of San Carlos.”

  He did not look like a shepherd nor a herdsman and I looked at his black dusty clothes and his gray dusty face and his steel rimmed spectacles and said, “What animals were they?”

  “Various animals,” he said, and shook his head. “I had to leave them.”

  I was watching the bridge and the African looking country of the Ebro Delta and wondering how long now it would be before we would see the enemy, and listening all the while for the first noises that would signal that ever mysterious event called contact, and the old man still sat there.

  “What animals were they?” I asked.

  “There were three animals altogether,” he explained. “There were two goats and a cat and then there were four pairs of pigeons.”

  “And you had to leave them?” I asked.

  “Yes. Because of the artillery. The captain told me to go because of the artillery.”

  “And you have no family?” I asked, watching the far end of the bridge where a few last carts were hurrying down the slope of the bank.

  “No,” he said, “only the animals I stated. The cat, of course, will be all right. A cat can look out for itself, but I cannot think what will become of the others.”

  “What politics have you?” I asked.

  “I am without politics,” he said. “I am seventy-six years old. I have come twelve kilometers now and I think now I can go no further.”

  “This is not a good place to stop,” I said. “If you can make it, there are trucks up the road where it forks for Tortosa.”

  “I will wait a while,” he said, “and then I will go. Where do the trucks go?”

  “Towards Barcelona,” I told him.

  “I know no one in that direction,” he said, “but thank you very much. Thank you again very much.”

  He looked at me very blankly and tiredly, then said, having to share his worry with someone, “The cat will be all right, I am sure. There is no need to be unquiet about the cat. But the others. Now what do you think about the others?”

  “Why they’ll probably come through it all right.”

  “You think so?”

  “Why not,” I said, watching the far bank where now there were no carts.

  “But what will they do under the artillery when I was told to leave because of the artillery?”

  “Did you leave the dove cage unlocked?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then they’ll fly.”

  “Yes, certainly they’ll fly. But the others. It’s better not to think about the others,” he said.

  “If you are rested I would go,” I urged. “Get up and try to walk now.”

  “Thank you,” he said and got to his feet, swayed from side to side and then sat down backwards in the dust.

  “I was taking care of animals,” he said dully, but no longer to me. “I was only taking care of animals.”

  There was nothing to do about him. It was Easter Sunday and the Fascists were advancing toward the Ebro. It was a gray overcast day with a low ceiling so their planes were not up. That and the fact that cats know how to look after themselves was all the good luck that old man would ever have.

  On the Quai at Smyrna

  The strange thing was, he said, how they screamed every night at midnight. I do not know why they screamed at that time. We were in the harbor and they were all on the pier and at midnight they started screaming. We used to turn the searchlight on them to quiet them. That always did the trick. We’d run the searchlight up and down over them two or three times and they stopped it. One time I was senior officer on the pier and a Turkish officer came up to me in a frightful rage because one of our sailors had been most insulting to him. So I told him the fellow would be sent on ship and be most severely punished. I asked him to point him out. So he pointed out a gunner’s mate, most inoffensive chap. Said he’d been most frightfully and repeatedly insulting; talking to me through an interpreter. I couldn’t imagine how the gunner’s mate knew enough Turkish to be insulting. I called him over and said, “And just in case you should have spoken to any Turkish officers.”

  “I haven’t spoken to any of them, sir.”

  “I’m quite sure of it,” I said, “but you’d best go on board ship and not come ashore again for the rest of the day.”

  Then I told the Turk the man was being sent on board ship and would be most severely dealt with. Oh most rigorously. He felt topping about it. Great friends we were.

  The worst, he said, were the women with dead babies. You couldn’t get the women to give up their dead babies. They’d have babies dead for six days. Wouldn’t give them up. Nothing you could do about it. Had to take them away finally. Then there was an old lady, most extraordinary case. I told it to a doctor and he said I was lying. We were clearing them off the pier, had to clear off the dead ones, and this old woman was lying on a sort of litter. They said, “Will you have a look at her, sir?” So I had a look at her and just then she died and went absolutely stiff. Her legs drew up and she drew up from the waist and went quite rigid. Exactly as though she had been dead overnight. She was quite dead and absolutely rigid. I told a medical chap about it and he told me it was impossible.

  They were all out there on the pier and it wasn’t at all like an earthquake or that sort of thing because they never knew about the Turk. They never knew what the old Turk would do. You remember when they ordered us not to come in to take off anymore? I had the wind up when we came in that morning. He had any amount of batteries and could have blown us clean out of the water. We were going to come in, run close along the pier, let go the front and rear anchors and then shell the Turkish quarter of the town. They would have blown us out of water but we would have blown the town simply to hell. They just fired a few blank charges at us as we came in. Kemal came down and sacked the Turkish commander. For exceeding his authority or some such thing. He got a bit above himself. It would have been the hell of a mess.

  You remember the harbor. There were plenty of nice things floating around in it. That was the only time in my life I got so I dreamed about things. You didn’t mind the women who were having babies as you did those with the dead ones. They had them all right. Surprising how few of them died. You just covered them over with something and let them go to it: They’d always pick out the darkest place in the hold to have them. None of them minded anything once they got off the pier.

  The Greeks were nice chaps too. When they evacuated they had all their baggage animals they couldn’t take off with them so they just broke their forelegs and dumped them into the shallow water. All those mules with their forelegs broken pushed over into the shallow water. It was all a pleasant business. My word yes a most pleasant business.

  Indian Camp

  At the lake shore there was another rowboat drawn up. The two Indians stood waiting.

  Nick and his father got in the stern of the boat and the Indians shoved it off and one of them got in to row. Uncle George sat in the stern of the camp rowboat. The young Indian shoved the camp boat off and got in to row Uncle George.

  The two boats started off in the dark. Nick heard the oarlocks of the other boat quite a way ahead of them in the mist. The Indians rowed with quick choppy strokes. Nick lay back with his father’s arm around him. It was cold on the water. The Indian who was rowing them was working very hard, but the other boat moved further ahead in the mist all the time.

&n
bsp; “Where are we going, Dad?” Nick asked.

  “Over to the Indian camp. There is an Indian lady very sick.”

  “Oh,” said Nick.

  Across the bay they found the other boat beached. Uncle George was smoking a cigar in the dark. The young Indian pulled the boat way up on the beach. Uncle George gave both the Indians cigars.