Short Stories

by Ernest Hemingway

  “Je veux aller à la chasse moi-même,” André said in his high, little boy’s voice.

  “Tu ne peux pas,” Fontan said. He turned to me.

  “lIs sont des sauvages, les boys, vous savez. Ils sont des sauvages. Ils veulent shooter les uns les autres.”

  “Je veux aller tout seul,” André said, very shrill and excited.

  “You can’t go,” Madame Fontan said. “You are too young.”

  “Je veux aller tout seul,” André said shrilly. “Je veux shooter les rats d’eau.”

  “What are rats d’eau?” I asked.

  “You don’t know them? Sure you know them. What they call the muskrats.”

  André had brought the twenty-two calibre rifle out from the cupboard and was holding it in his hands under the light.

  “lIs sont des sauvages,” Fontan explained. “lIs veulent shooter les uns les autres.”

  “Je veux aller tout seul,” André shrilled. He looked desperately along the barrel of the gun. “Je veux shooter les rats d’eau. Je connais beaucoup de rats d’eau.”

  “Give me the gun,” Fontan said. He explained again to me. “They’re savages. They would shoot one another.”

  André held tight on to the gun.

  “On peut looker. On ne fait pas de mal. On peut looker.”

  “Il est crazy pour le shooting,” Madame Fontan said. “Mais il est trop jeune.”

  André put the twenty-two calibre rifle back in the cupboard.

  “When I’m bigger I’ll shoot the muskrats and the jack rabbits too,” he said in English. “One time I went out with papa and he shot a jack rabbit just a little bit and I shot it and hit it.”

  “C’est vrai,” Fontan nodded. “Il a tué un jack.”

  “But he hit it first,” André said. “I want to go all by myself and shoot all by myself. Next year I can do it.” He went over in a corner and sat down to read a book. I had picked it up when we came into the kitchen to sit after supper. It was a library book—Frank on a Gunboat.

  “Il aime les books,” Madame Fontan said. “But it’s better than to run around at night with the other boys and steal things.”

  “Books are all right,” Fontan said. “Monsieur il fait les books.”

  “Yes, that’s so, all right. But too many books are bad,” Madame Fontan said. “Ici, c’est une maladie, les books. C’est comme les churches. Ici il y a trop de churches. En France il y a seulement les catholiques et les protestants—et très peu de protestants. Mais ici rien que de churches. Quand j’étais venu ici je disais, oh, my God, what are all the churches?”

  “C’est vrai,” Fontan said. “Il y a trop de churches.”

  “The other day,” Madame Fontan said, “there was a little French girl here with her mother, the cousin of Fontan, and she said to me, ‘En Amérique il ne faut pas être catholique. It’s not good to be catholique. The Americans don’t like you to be catholique. It’s like the dry law.’ I said to her, ‘What you going to be? Heh? It’s better to be catholique if you’re catholique.’ But she said, ‘No, it isn’t any good to be catholique in America.’ But I think it’s better to be catholique if you are. Ce n’est pas bon de changer sa religion. My God, no.”

  “You go to the mass here?”

  “No. I don’t go ‘in America, only sometimes in a long while. Mais je reste catholique. It’s no good to change the religion.”

  “On dit que Schmidt est catholique,” Fontan said.

  “On dit, mais on ne sait jamais,” Madame Fontan said. “I don’t think Schmidt is catholique. There’s not many catholique in America.”

  “We are catholique,” I said.

  “Sure, but you live in France,” Madame Fontan said. “Je ne crois pas que Schmidt est catholique. Did he ever live in France?”

  “Les Polacks sont catholiques,” Fontan said.

  “That’s true,” Madame Fontan said. “They go to church, then they fight with knives all the way home and kill each other all day Sunday. But they’re not real catholiques. They’re Polack catholiques. “

  “All catholiques are the same,” Fontan said. “One catholique is like another.”

  “I don’t believe Schmidt is catholique,” Madame Fontan said. “That’s awful funny if he’s catholique. Moi, je ne crois pas.”

  “Il est catholique,” I said.

  “Schmidt is catholique,” Madame Fontan mused. “I wouldn’t have believed it. My God, il est catholique.”

  “Marie va chercher de la bière,” Fontan said. “Monsieur a soif—moi aussi.”

  “Yes, all right,” Madame Fontan said from the next room. She went downstairs and we heard the stairs creaking. André sat reading in the corner. Fontan and I sat at the table, and he poured the beer from the last bottle into our two glasses, leaving a little in the bottom.

  “C’est un bon pays pour la chasse,” Fontan said. “J’aime beaucoup shooter les canards.”

  “Mais il y a très bonne chasse aussi en France,” I said.

  “C’est vrai,” Fontan said. “Nous avons beaucoup de gibier là-bas.”

  Madame Fontan came up the stairs with the beer bottles in her hands. “Il est catholique,” she said. “My God, Schmidt est catholique.”

  “You think he’ll be the President?” Fontan asked.

  “No,” I said.

  The next afternoon I drove out to Fontan’s, through the shade of the town, then along the dusty road, turning up the side road and leaving the car beside the fence. It was another hot day. Madame Fontan carne to the back door. She looked like Mrs. Santa Claus, clean and rosy-faced and white-haired, and waddling when she walked.

  “My God, hello,” she said. “It’s hot, my God.” She went back into the house to get some beer. I sat on the back porch and looked through the screen and the leaves of the tree at the heat and, away off, the mountains. There were furrowed brown mountains, and above them three peaks and a glacier with snow that you could see through the trees. The snow looked very white and pure and unreal. Madame Fontan came out and put down the bottles on the table.

  “What you see out there?”

  “The snow.”

  “C’est joli, la neige.”

  “Have a glass, too.”

  “All right.”

  She sat down on a chair beside me. “Schmidt,” she said. “If he’s the President, you think we get the wine and beer all right?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Trust Schmidt.”

  “Already we paid seven hundred fifty-five dollars in fines when they arrested Fontan. Twice the police arrested us and once the governments. All the money we made all the time Fontan worked in the mines and I did washing. We paid it all. They put Fontan in jail. Il n’a jamais fait de mal à personne.”

  “He’s a good man,” I said. “It’s a crime.”

  “We don’t charge too much money. The wine one dollar a litre. The beer ten cents a bottle. We never sell the beer before it’s good. Lots of places they sell the beer right away when they make it, and then it gives everybody a headache. What’s the matter with that? They put Fontan in jail and they take seven hundred fifty-five dollars.”

  “It’s wicked,” I said. “Where is Fontan?”

  “He stays with the wine. He has to watch it now to catch it just right,” she smiled. She did not think about the money anymore. “Vous savez, il est crazy pour le vin. Last night he brought a little bit home with him, what you drank, and a little bit of the new. The last new. It ain’t ready yet, but he drank a little bit, and this morning he put a little bit in his coffee. Dans son café, vous savez! Il est crazy pour le vin! Il est comme ça. Son pays est comme ça. Where I live in the north they don’t drink any wine. Everybody drinks beer. By where we lived there was a big brewery right, near us. When I was a little girl I didn’t like the smell of the hops i
n the carts. Nor in the fields. J e n’aime pas les houblons. No, my God, not a bit. The man that owns the brewery said to me and my sister to go to the brewery and drink the beer, and then we’d like the hops. That’s true. Then we liked them all right. He had them give us the beer. We liked them all right then. But Fontan, il est crazy pour le vin. One time he killed a jack rabbit and he wanted me to cook it with a sauce with wine, make a black sauce with wine and butter and mushrooms and onion and everything in it, for the jack. My God, I make the sauce all right, and he eat it all and said, ‘La sauce est meilleure que le jack.’ Dans son pays c’est comme ça. Il y a beaucoup de gibier et de vin. Moi, j’aime les pommes de terre, le saucisson, et la bière, C’est bon, la bière. C’est très bon pour la santé.”

  “It’s good,” I said. “It and wine too.”

  “You’re like Fontan. But there was a thing here that I never saw. I don’t think you’ve ever seen it either. There were Americans came here and they put whiskey in the beer.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Oui. My God, yes, that’s true. Et aussi une femme qui a vornis sur la table!”

  “Comment? “

  “C’est vrai. Elle a vomis sur la table. Et après elle a vomis dans ses shoes. And afterward they come back and say they want to come again and have another party the next Saturday, and I say no, my God, no! When they came I locked the door.”

  “They’re bad when they’re drunk.”

  “In the wintertime when the boys go to the dance they come in the cars and wait outside and say to Fontan, ‘Hey, Sam, sell us a bottle wine,’ or they buy the beer, and then they take the moonshine out of their pockets in a bottle and pour it in the beer and drink it. My God, that’s the first time I ever saw that in my life. They put whiskey in the beer. My God, I don’t understand that!”

  “They want to get sick, so they’ll know they’re drunk.”

  “One time a fellow comes here came to me and said he wanted me to cook them a big supper and they drink one two bottles of wine, and their girls come too, and then they go to the dance. All right, I said. So I made a big supper, and when they come already they drank a lot. Then they put whiskey in the wine. My God, yes. I said to Fontan, ‘On va être malade!’ ‘Oui,’ il dit. Then these girls were sick, nice girls too, all-right girls. They were sick right at the table. Fontan tried to take them by the arm and show them where they could be sick all right in the cabinet, but the fellows said no, they were all right right there at the table.”

  Fontan had come in. “When they come again I locked the door. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not for hundred fifty dollars.’ My God, no.”

  “There is a word for such people when they do like that, in French,” Fontan said. He stood looking very old and tired from the heat.

  “What?”

  “Cochon,” he said delicately, hesitating to use such a strong word. “They were like the cochon. C’est un mot très fort,” he apologized, “mais vomir sur la table—” he shook his head sadly.

  “Cochons,” I said. “That’s what they are —cochons. Salauds.”

  The grossness of the words was distasteful to Fontan. He was glad to speak of something else.

  “Il y a des gens très gentils, très sensibles, qui viennent aussi,” he said. “There are officers from the fort. Very nice men. Good fellas. Everybody that was ever in France they want to come and drink wine. They like wine all right.”

  “There was one man,” Madame Fontan said, “and his wife never lets him get out. So he tells her he’s tired, and goes to bed, and when she goes to the show he comes straight down here, sometimes in his pyjamas just with a coat over them. ‘Maria, some beer,’ he says, ‘for God’s sake.’ He sits in his pyjamas and drinks the beer, and then he goes up to the fort and gets back in bed before his wife comes home from the show.”

  “C’est un original,” Fontan said, “mais vraiment gentil. He’s a nice fella.”

  “My God, yes, nice fella all right,” Madame Fontan said. “He’s always in bed when his wife gets back from the show.”

  “I have to go away tomorrow,” I said. “To the Crow Reservation. We go there for the opening of the prairie chicken season.”

  “Yes? You come back here before you go away. You come back here all right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then the wine will be done,” Fontan said. “We’ll drink a bottle together.”

  “Three bottles,” Madame Fontan said.

  “I’ll be back,” I said.

  “We count on you,” Fontan said.

  “Good night,” I said.

  We got in early in the afternoon from the shooting trip. We had been up that morning since five o’clock. The day before we had had good shooting, but that morning we had not seen a prairie chicken. Riding in the open car, we were very hot and we stopped to eat our lunch out of the sun, under a tree beside the road. The sun was high and the patch of shade was very small. We ate sandwiches and crackers with sandwich filling on them, and were thirsty and tired, and glad when we finally were out and on the main road back to town. We came up behind a prairie dog town and stopped the car to shoot at the prairie dogs with the pistol. We shot two, but then stopped, because the bullets that missed glanced off the rocks and the dirt, and sung off across the fields, and beyond the fields there were some trees along a watercourse, with a house, and we did not want to get in trouble from stray bullets going toward the house. So we drove on, and finally were on the road coming downhill toward the outlying houses of the town. Across the plain we could see the mountains. They were blue that day, and the snow on the high mountains shone like glass. The summer was ending, but the new snow had not yet come to stay on the high mountains; there was only the old sun-melted snow and the ice, and from a long way away it shone very brightly.

  We wanted something cool and some shade. We were sunburned and our lips blistered from the sun and alkali dust. We turned up the side road to Fontan’s, stopped the car outside the house, and went in. It was cool inside the dining room. Madame Fontan was alone.

  “Only two bottles beer,” she said. “It’s all gone. The new is no good yet.”

  I gave her some birds. “That’s good,” she said. “All right. Thanks. That’s good.” She went out to put the birds away where it was cooler. When we finished the beer I stood up. “We have to go,” I said.

  “You come back tonight all right? Fontan he’s going to have the wine.”

  “We’ll come back before we go away.”

  “You go away?”

  “Yes. We have to leave in the morning.”

  “That’s too bad you go away. You come tonight. Fontan will have the wine. We’ll make a fête before you go.”

  “We’ll come before we go.”

  But that afternoon there were telegrams to send, the car to be gone over,—a tire had been cut by a stone and needed vulcanizing,—and, without the car, I walked into the town, doing things that had to be done before we could go. When it was suppertime I was too tired to go out. We did not want a foreign language. All we wanted was to go early to bed.

  As I lay in bed before I went to sleep, with all the things of the summer piled around ready to be packed, the windows open and the air coming in cool from the mountains, I thought it was a shame not to have gone to Fontan’s—but in a little while I was asleep. The next day we were busy all morning packing and ending the summer. We had lunch and were ready to start by two o’clock.

  “We must go and say good-bye to the Fontans,” I said.

  “Yes, we must.”

  “I’m afraid they expected us last night.”

  “I suppose we could have gone.”

  “I wish we’d gone.”

  We said good-bye to the man at the desk at the hotel, and to Larry and our other friends in the town, and then drove out to Fontan’s. Both Monsieur and Ma
dame were there. They were glad to see us. Fontan looked old and tired.

  “We thought you would come last night,” Madame Fontan said. “Fontan had three bottles of wine. When you did not come he drank it all up.”

  “We can only stay a minute,” I said. “We just came to say good-bye. We wanted to come last night. We intended to come, but we were too tired after the trip.”

  “Go get some wine,” Fontan said.

  “There is no wine. You drank it all up.”

  Fontan looked very upset.