Short Stories

by Ernest Hemingway

  Then the main road went off to the left, skirting the woods and climbing the hill, while you went into the woods on the wide clay and shale road, cool under the trees, and broadened for them to skid out the hemlock bark the Indians cut. The hemlock bark was piled in long rows of stacks, roofed over with more bark, like houses, and the peeled logs lay huge and yellow where the trees had been felled. They left the logs in the woods to rot, they did not even clear away or burn the tops. It was only the bark they wanted for the tannery at Boyne City; hauling it across the lake on the ice in winter, and each year there was less forest and more open, hot, shadeless, weed-grown slashing.

  But there was still much forest then, virgin forest where the trees grew high before there were any branches and you walked on the brown, clean, springy-needled ground with no undergrowth and it was cool on the hottest days and they three lay against the trunk of a hemlock wider than two beds are long, with the breeze high in the tops and the cool light that came in patches, and Billy said:

  “You want Trudy again?”

  “You want to?”

  “Un Huh.”

  “Come on.”

  “No, here.”

  “But Billy—”

  “I no mind Billy. He my brother.”

  Then afterwards they sat, the three of them, listening for a black squirrel that was in the top branches where they could not see him. They were waiting for him to bark again because when he barked he would jerk his tail and Nick would shoot where he saw any movement. His father gave him only three cartridges a day to hunt with and he had a single-barrel twenty-gauge shotgun with a very long barrel.

  “Son of a bitch never move,” Billy said.

  “You shoot, Nickie. Scare him. We see him jump. Shoot him again,” Trudy said. It was a long speech for her.

  “I’ve only got two shells,” Nick said.

  “Son of a bitch,” said Billy.

  They sat against the tree and were quiet. Nick was feeling hollow and happy.

  “Eddie says he going to come some night sleep in bed with you sister Dorothy.”

  “What?”

  “He said.”

  Trudy nodded.

  “That’s all he want do,” she said. Eddie was their older half-brother. He was seventeen.

  “If Eddie Gilby ever comes at night and even speaks to Dorothy you know what I’d do to him? I’d kill him like this.” Nick cocked the gun and hardly taking aim pulled the trigger, blowing a hole as big as your hand in the head or belly of that half-breed bastard Eddie Gilby. “Like that. I’d kill him like that.”

  “He better not come then,” Trudy said. She put her hand in Nick’s pocket.

  “He better watch out plenty,” said Billy.

  “He’s big bluff,” Trudy was exploring with her hand in Nick’s pocket. “But don’t you kill him. You get plenty trouble.”

  “I’d kill him like that,” Nick said. Eddie Gilby lay on the ground with all his chest shot away. Nick put his foot on him proudly.

  “I’d scalp him,” he said happily.

  “No,” said Trudy. “That’s dirty.”

  “I’d scalp him and send it to his mother.”

  “His mother dead,” Trudy said. “Don’t you kill him, Nickie. Don’t you kill him for me.”

  “After I scalped him I’d throw him to the dogs.”

  Billy was very depressed. “He better watch out,” he said gloomily.

  “They’d tear him to pieces,” Nick said, pleased with the picture. Then, having scalped that half-breed renegade and standing, watching the dogs tear him, his face unchanging, he fell backward against the tree, held tight around the neck, Trudy holding, choking him, and crying, “No kill him! No kill him! No kill him! No. No. No. Nickie. Nickie. Nickie!”

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “No kill him.”

  “I got to kill him.”

  “He just a big bluff.”

  “All right,” Nickie said. “I won’t kill him unless he comes around the house. Let go of me.”

  “That’s good,” Trudy said. “You want to do anything now? I feel good now.”

  “If Billy goes away.” Nick had killed Eddie Gilby, then pardoned him his life, and he was a man now.

  “You go, Billy. You hang around all the time. Go on.”

  “Son a bitch,” Billy said. “I get tired this. What we come? Hunt or what?”

  “You can take the gun. There’s one shell.”

  “All right. I get a big black one all right.”

  “I’ll holler,” Nick said.

  Then, later, it was a long time after and Billy was still away.

  “You think we make a baby?” Trudy folded her brown legs together happily and rubbed against him. Something inside Nick had gone a long way away.

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “Make plenty baby what the hell.”

  They heard Billy shoot.

  “I wonder if he got one.”

  “Don’t care,” said Trudy.

  Billy came through the trees. He had the gun over his shoulder and he held a black squirrel by the front paws.

  “Look,” he said. “Bigger than a cat. You all through?”

  “Where’d you get him?”

  “Over there. Saw him jump first.”

  “Got to go home,” Nick said.

  “No,” said Trudy.

  “I got to get there for supper.”

  “All right.”

  “Want to hunt tomorrow?”

  “All right.”

  “You can have the squirrel.”

  “All right.”

  “Come out after supper?”

  “No.”

  “How you feel?”

  “Good.”

  “All right.”

  “Give me kiss on the face,” said Trudy.

  Now, as he rode along the highway in the car and it was getting dark, Nick was all through thinking about his father. The end of the day never made him think of him. The end of the day had always belonged to Nick alone and he never felt right unless he was alone at it. His father came back to him in the fall of the year, or in the early spring when there had been jacksnipe on the prairie, or when he saw shocks of corn, or when he saw a lake, or if he ever saw a horse and buggy, or when he saw, or heard, wild geese, or in a duck blind; remembering the time an eagle dropped through the whirling snow to strike a canvas-covered decoy, rising, his wings beating, the talons caught in the canvas. His father was with him, suddenly, in deserted orchards and in new-plowed fields, in thickets, on small hills, or when going through dead grass, whenever splitting wood or hauling water, by grist mills, cider mills and dams and always with open fires. The towns he lived in were not towns his father knew. After he was fifteen he had shared nothing with him.

  His father had frost in his beard in cold weather and in hot weather he sweated very much. He liked to work in the sun on the farm because he did not have to and he loved manual work, which Nick did not. Nick loved his father but hated the smell of him and once when he had to wear a suit of his father’s underwear that had gotten too small for his father it made him feel sick and he took it off and put it under two stones in the creek and said that he had lost it. He had told his father how it was when his father had made him put it on but his father had said it was freshly washed. It had been, too. When Nick had asked him to smell of it his father sniffed at it indignantly and said that it was clean and fresh. When Nick came home from fishing without it and said he lost it he was whipped for lying.

  Afterwards he had sat inside the woodshed with the door open, his shotgun loaded and cocked, looking across at his father sitting on the screen porch reading the paper, and thought, “I can blow him to hell. I can kill him.” Finally
he felt his anger go out of him and he felt a little sick about it being the gun that his father had given him. Then he had gone to the Indian camp, walking there in the dark, to get rid of the smell. There was only one person in his family that he liked the smell of; one sister. All the others he avoided all contact with. That sense blunted when he started to smoke. It was a good thing. It was good for a bird dog but it did not help a man.

  “What was it like, Papa, when you were a little boy and used to hunt with the Indians? “

  “I don’t know,” Nick was startled. He had not even noticed the boy was awake. He looked at him sitting beside him on the seat. He had felt quite alone but this boy had been with him. He wondered for how long. “We used to go all day to hunt black squirrels,” he said. “My father only gave me three shells a day because he said that would teach me to hunt and it wasn’t good for a boy to go banging around. I went with a boy named Billy Gilby and his sister Trudy. We used to go out nearly every day all one summer.”

  “Those are funny names for Indians.”

  “Yes, aren’t they,” Nick said.

  “But tell me what they were like.”

  “They were Ojibways,” Nick said. “And they were very nice.”

  “But what were they like to be with?”

  “It’s hard to say,” Nick Adams said. Could you say she did first what no one has ever done better and mention plump brown legs, flat belly, hard little breasts, well holding arms, quick searching tongue, the flat eyes, the good taste of mouth, then uncomfortably, tightly, sweetly, moistly, lovely, tightly, achingly, fully, finally, unendingly, never-endingly, never-to-endingly, suddenly ended, the great bird flown like an owl in the twilight, only it daylight in the woods and hemlock needles stuck against your belly. So that when you go in a place where Indians have lived you smell them gone and all the empty pain killer bottles and the flies that buzz do not kill the sweetgrass smell, the smoke smell and that other like a fresh cased marten skin. Nor any jokes about them nor old squaws take that away. Nor the sick sweet smell they get to have. Nor what they did finally. It wasn’t how they ended. They all ended the same. Long time ago good. Now no good.

  And about the other. When you have shot one bird flying you have shot all birds flying. They are all different and they fly in different ways but the sensation is the same and the last one is as good as the first. He could thank his father for that.

  “You might not like them,” Nick said to the boy. “But I think you would.”

  “And my grandfather lived with them too when he was a boy, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. When I asked him what they were like he said that he had many friends among them.”

  “Will I ever live with them?”

  “I don’t know,” Nick said. “That’s up to you.”

  “How old will I be when I get a shotgun and can hunt by myself.”

  “Twelve years old if I see you are careful.”

  “I wish I was twelve now.”

  “You will be, soon enough.”

  “What was my grandfather like? I can’t remember him except that he gave me an air rifle and an American flag when I came over from France that time. What was he like?”

  “He’s hard to describe. He was a great hunter and fisherman and he had wonderful eyes.”

  “Was he greater than you?”

  “He was a much better shot and his father was a great wing shot too.”

  “I’ll bet he wasn’t better than you.”

  “Oh, yes he was. He shot very quickly and beautifully. I’d rather see him shoot than any man I ever knew. He was always very disappointed in the way I shot.”

  “Why do we never go to pray at the tomb of my grandfather?”

  “We live in a different part of the country. It’s a long way from here.”

  “In France that wouldn’t make any difference. In France we’d go. I think I ought to go to pray at the tomb of my grandfather.”

  “Sometime we’ll go.”

  “I hope we won’t live somewhere so that I can never go to pray at your tomb when you are dead.”

  “We’ll have to arrange it.”

  “Don’t you think we might all be buried at a convenient place? We could all be buried in France. That would be fine.”

  “I don’t want to be buried in France,” Nick said.

  “Well, then, we’ll have to get some convenient place in America. Couldn’t we all be buried out at the ranch?”

  “That’s an idea.”

  “Then I could stop and pray at the tomb of my grandfather on the way to the ranch.”

  “You’re awfully practical.”

  “Well, I don’t feel good never to have even visited the tomb of my grandfather.”

  “We’ll have to go,” Nick said. “I can see we’ll have to go.”

  The Denunciation

  Chicote’s in the old days in Madrid was a place sort of like The Stork, without the music and the debutantes, or the Waldorf’s men’s bar if they let girls in. You know, they came in, but it was a man’s place and they didn’t have any status. Pedro Chicote was the proprietor and he had one of those personalities that make a place. He was a great bartender and he was always pleasant, always cheerful, and he had a lot of zest. Now zest is a rare enough thing and few people have it for long. It should not be confused with showmanship either. Chicote had it and it was not faked or put on. He was also modest, simple and friendly. He really was as nice and pleasant and still as marvelously efficient as George, the chasseur at the Ritz bar in Paris, which is about the strongest comparison you can make to anyone who has been around, and he ran a fine bar.

  In those days the snobs among the rich young men of Madrid hung out at something called the Nuevo Club and the good guys went to Chicote’s. A lot of people went there that I did not like, the same as at The Stork, say, but I was never in Chicote’s that it wasn’t pleasant. One reason was that you did not talk politics there. There were cafés where you went for politics and nothing else but you didn’t talk politics at Chicote’s. You talked plenty of the other five subjects though and in the evening the best looking girls in the town showed up there and it was the place to start an evening from, all right, and we had all started some fine ones from there.

  Then it was the place where you dropped in to find out who was in town, or where they had gone to if they were out of town. And if it was summer, and there was no one in town, you could always sit and enjoy a drink because the waiters were all pleasant.

  It was like a club only you didn’t have to pay any dues and you could pick a girl up there. It was the best bar in Spain, certainly, and I think one of the best bars in the world, and all of us that used to hang out there had a great affection for it.

  Another thing was that the drinks were wonderful. If you ordered a Martini it was made with the best gin that money could buy, and Chicote had a barrel whiskey that came from Scotland that was so much better than the advertised brands that it was pitiful to compare it with ordinary Scotch. Well, when the revolt started, Chicote was up at San Sebastian running the summer place he had there. He is still running it and they say it is the best bar in Franco’s Spain. The waiters took over the Madrid place and they are still running it, but the good liquor is all gone now.

  Most of Chicote’s old customers are on Franco’s side; but some of them are on the Government side. Because it was a very cheerful place, and because really cheerful people are usually the bravest, and the bravest get killed quickest, a big part of Chicote’s old customers are now dead. The barrel whiskey has all been gone for many months now and we finished the last of the yellow gin in May of 1938. There’s not much there to go for now so I suppose Luis Delgado, if he had come to Madrid a little later, might have stayed away from there and not gotten into that trouble. But when he came to Madrid in the month of November of 1937 they still ha
d the yellow gin and they still had Indian Quinine water. They do not seem worth risking your life for, so maybe he just wanted to have a drink in the old place. Knowing him, and knowing the place in the old days it would be perfectly understandable.