For Whom The Bell Tolls

by Эрнест Миллер Хемингуэй

  "Do you want a sheep hide for thy bed?" Pilar asked Robert Jordan softly.

  "Nay," he said. "Thank thee. I do not need it."

  "Sleep well," she said. "I will respond for thy material."

  Fernando had gone out with him and stood a moment where Robert Jordan had spread the sleeping robe.

  "You have a curious idea to sleep in the open, Don Roberto," he said standing there in the dark, muffled in his blanket cape, his carbine slung over his shoulder.

  "I am accustomed to it. Good night."

  "Since you are accustomed to it."

  "When are you relieved?"

  "At four."

  "There is much cold between now and then."

  "I am accustomed to it," Fernando said.

  "Since, then, you are accustomed to it-" Robert Jordan said politely.

  "Yes," Fernando agreed. "Now I must get up there. Good night, Don Roberto."

  "Good night, Fernando."

  Then he had made a pillow of the things he took off and gotten into the robe and then lain and waited, feeling the spring of the boughs under the flannelly, feathered lightness of the robe warmth, watching the mouth of the cave across the snow; feeling his heart beat as he waited.

  The night was clear and his head felt as clear and cold as the air. He smelled the odor of the pine boughs under him, the piney smell of the crushed needles and the sharper odor of the resinous sap from the cut limbs. Pilar, he thought. Pilar and the smell of death. This is the smell I love. This and fresh-cut clover, the crushed sage as you ride after cattle, wood-smoke and the burning leaves of autumn. That must be the odor of nostalgia, the smell of the smoke from the piles of raked leaves burning in the streets in the fall in Missoula. Which would you rather smell? Sweet grass the Indians used in their baskets? Smoked leather? The odor of the ground in the spring after rain? The smell of the sea as you walk through the gorse on a headland in Galicia? Or the wind from the land as you come in toward Cuba in the dark? That was the odor of the cactus flowers, mimosa and the sea-grape shrubs. Or would you rather smell frying bacon in the morning when you are hungry? Or coffee in the morning? Or a Jonathan apple as you bit into it? Or a cider mill in the grinding, or bread fresh from the oven? You must be hungry, he thought, and he lay on his side and watched the entrance of the cave in the light that the stars reflected from the snow.

  Some one came out from under the blanket and he could see whoever it was standing by the break in the rock that made the entrance. Then he heard a slithering sound in the snow and then whoever it was ducked down and went back in.

  I suppose she won't come until they are all asleep, he thought. It is a waste of time. The night is half gone. Oh, Maria. Come now quickly, Maria, for there is little time. He heard the soft sound of snow falling from a branch onto the snow on the ground. A little wind was rising. He felt it on his face. Suddenly he felt a panic that she might not come. The wind rising now reminded him how soon it would be morning. More snow fell from the branches as he heard the wind now moving the pine tops.

  Come now, Maria. Please come here now quickly, he thought. Oh, come here now. Do not wait. There is no importance any more to your waiting until they are asleep.

  Then he saw her coming out from under the blanket that covered the cave mouth. She stood there a moment and he knew it was she but he could not see what she was doing. He whistled a low whistle and she was still at the cave mouth doing something in the darkness of the rock shadow. Then she came running, carrying something in her hands and he saw her running long-legged through the snow. Then she was kneeling by the robe, her head pushed hard against him, slapping snow from her feet. She kissed him and handed him her bundle.

  "Put it with thy pillow," she said. "I took these off there to save time."

  "You came barefoot through the snow?"

  "Yes," she said, "and wearing only my wedding shirt."

  He held her close and tight in his arms and she rubbed her head against his chin.

  "Avoid the feet," she said. "They are very cold, Roberto."

  "Put them here and warm them."

  "Nay," she said. "They will warm quickly. But say quickly now that you love me."

  "I love thee."

  "Good. Good. Good."

  "I love thee, little rabbit."

  "Do you love my wedding shirt?"

  "It is the same one as always."

  "Yes. As last night. It is my wedding shirt."

  "Put thy feet here."

  "Nay, that would be abusive. They will warm of themselves. They are warm to me. It is only that the snow has made them cold toward thee. Say it again."

  "I love thee, my little rabbit."

  "I love thee, too, and I am thy wife."

  "Were they asleep?"

  "No," she said. "But I could support it no longer. And what importance has it?"

  "None," he said, and felt her against him, slim and long and warmly lovely. "No other thing has importance."

  "Put thy hand on my head," she said, "and then let me see if I can kiss thee.

  "Was it well?" she asked.

  "Yes," he said. "Take off thy wedding shirt."

  "You think I should?"

  "Yes, if thou wilt not be cold."

  "Que va, cold. I am on fire."

  "I, too. But afterwards thou wilt not be cold?"

  "No. Afterwards we will be as one animal of the forest and be so close that neither one can tell that one of us is one and not the other. Can you not feel my heart be your heart?"

  "Yes. There is no difference."

  "Now, feel. I am thee and thou art me and all of one is the other. And I love thee, oh, I love thee so. Are you not truly one? Canst thou not feel it?"

  "Yes," he said. "It is true."

  "And feel now. Thou hast no heart but mine."

  "Nor any other legs, nor feet, nor of the body."

  "But we are different," she said. "I would have us exactly the same."

  "You do not mean that."

  "Yes I do. I do. That is a thing I had to tell thee."

  "You do not mean that."

  "Perhaps I do not," she said speaking softly with her lips against his shoulder. "But I wished to say it. Since we are different I am glad that thou art Roberto and I Maria. But if thou should ever wish to change I would be glad to change. I would be thee because I love thee so."

  "I do not wish to change. It is better to be one and each one to be the one he is."

  "But we will be one now and there will never be a separate one." Then she said, "I will be thee when thou are not there. Oh, I love thee so and I must care well for thee."

  "Maria."

  "Yes."

  "Maria."

  "Yes."

  "Maria."

  "Oh, yes. Please."

  "Art thou not cold?"

  "Oh, no. Pull the robe over thy shoulders."

  "Maria."

  "I cannot speak."

  "Oh, Maria. Maria. Maria."

  Then afterwards, close, with the night cold outside, in the long warmth of the robe, her head touching his cheek, she lay quiet and happy against him and then said softly, "And thou?"

  "Como tu," he said.

  "Yes," she said. "But it was not as this afternoon."

  "No."

  "But I loved it more. One does not need to die."

  "Ojala no," he said. "I hope not."

  "I did not mean that."

  "I know. I know what thou meanest. We mean the same."

  "Then why did you say that instead of what I meant?"

  "With a man there is a difference."

  "Then I am glad that we are different."

  "And so am I," he said. "But I understood about the dying. I only spoke thus, as a man, from habit. I feel the same as thee."

  "However thou art and however thou speakest is how I would have thee be."

  "And I love thee and I love thy name, Maria."

  "It is a common name."

  "No," he said. "It is not common."

  "N
ow should we sleep?" she said. "I could sleep easily."

  "Let us sleep," he said, and he felt the long light body, warm against him, comforting against him, abolishing loneliness against him, magically, by a simple touching of flanks, of shoulders and of feet, making an alliance against death with him, and he said, "Sleep well, little long rabbit."

  She said, "I am asleep already."

  "I am going to sleep," he said. "Sleep well, beloved." Then he was asleep and happy as he slept.

  But in the night he woke and held her tight as though she were all of life and it was being taken from him. He held her feeling she was all of life there was and it was true. But she was sleeping well and soundly and she did not wake. So he rolled away onto his side and pulled the robe over her head and kissed her once on her neck under the robe and then pulled the pistol lanyard up and put the pistol by his side where he could reach it handily and then he lay there in the night thinking.

  21

  A warm wind came with daylight and he could hear the snow melting in the trees and the heavy sound of its falling. It was a late spring morning. He knew with the first breath he drew that the snow had been only a freak storm in the mountains and it would be gone by noon. Then he heard a horse coming, the hoofs balled with the wet snow thumping dully as the horseman trotted. He heard the noise of a carbine scabbard slapping loosely and the creak of leather.

  "Maria," he said, and shook the girl's shoulder to waken her. "Keep thyself under the robe," and he buttoned his shirt with one hand and held the automatic pistol in the othet loosening the safety catch with his thumb. He saw the girl's cropped head disappear with a jerk under the robe and then he saw the horseman coming through the trees. He crouched now in the robe and holding the pistol in both hands aimed it at the man as he rode toward him. He had never seen this man before.

  The horseman was almost opposite him now. He was riding a big gray gelding and he wore a khaki beret, a blanket cape like a poncho, and heavy black boots. From the scabbard on the right of his saddle projected the stock and the long oblong clip of a short automatic rifle. He had a young, hard face and at this moment he saw Robert Jordan.

  He reached his hand down toward the scabbard and as he swung low, turning and jerking at the scabbard, Robert Jordan saw the scarlet of the formalized device he wore on the left breast of his khaki blanket cape.

  Aiming at the center of his chest, a little lower than the device, Robert Jordan fired.

  The pistol roared in the snowy woods.

  The horse plunged as though he had been spurred and the young man, still tugging at the scabbard, slid over toward the ground, his right foot caught in the stirrup. The horse broke off through the trees dragging him, bumping, face downward, and Robert Jordan stood up holding the pistol now in one hand.

  The big gray horse was galloping through the pines. There was a broad swath in the snow where the man dragged with a scarlet streak along one side of it. People were coming out of the mouth of the cave. Robert Jordan reached down and unrolled his trousers from the pillow and began to put them on.

  "Get thee dressed," he said to Maria.

  Overhead he heard the noise of a plane flying very high. Through the trees he saw where the gray horse had stopped and was standing, his rider still hanging face down from the stirrup.

  "Go catch that horse," he called to Primitivo who had started over toward him. Then, "Who was on guard at the top?"

  "Rafael," Pilar said from the cave. She stood there, her hair still down her back in two braids.

  "There's cavalry out," Robert Jordan said. "Get your damned gun up there."

  He heard Pilar call, "Agustin," into the cave. Then she went into the cave and then two men came running out, one with the automatic rifle with its tripod swung on his shoulder; the other with a sackful of the pans.

  "Get up there with them," Robert Jordan said to Anselmo. "You lie beside the gun and hold the legs still," he said.

  The three of them went up the trail through the woods at a run.

  The sun had not yet come up over the tops of the mountains and Robert Jordan stood straight buttoning his trousers and tightening his belt, the big pistol hanging from the lanyard on his wrist. He put the pistol in its holster on his belt and slipped the knot down on the lanyard and passed the ioop over his head.

  Somebody will choke you with that sometime, he thought. Well, this has done it. He took the pistol out of the holster, removed the clip, inserted one of the cartridges from the row alongside of the holster and shoved the clip back into the butt of the pistol.

  He looked through the trees to where Primitivo, holding the reins of the horse, was twisting the rider's foot out of the stirrup. The body lay face down in the snow and as he watched Primitivo was going through the pockets.

  "Come on," he called. "Bring the horse."

  As he knelt to put on his rope-soled shoes, Robert Jordan could feel Maria against his knees, dressing herself under the robe. She had no place in his life now.

  That cavalryman did not expect anything, he was thinking. He was not following horse tracks and he was not even properly alert, let alone alarmed. He was not even following the tracks up to the post. He must have been one of a patrol scattered out in these hills. But when the patrol misses him they will follow his tracks here. Unless the snow melts first, he thought. Unless something happens to the patrol.

  "You better get down below," he said to Pablo.

  They were all out of the cave now, standing there with the carbines and with grenades on their belts. Pilar held a leather bag of grenades toward Robert Jordan and he took three and put them in his pocket. He ducked into the cave, found his two packs, opened the one with the submachine gun in it and took out the barrel and stock, slipped the stock onto the forward assembly and put one clip into the gun and three in his pockets. He locked the pack and started for the door. I've got two pockets full of hardware, he thought. I hope the seams hold. He came out of the cave and said to Pablo, "I'm going up above. Can Agustin shoot that gun?"

  "Yes," Pablo said. He was watching Primitivo leading up the horse.

  "Mira que caballo," he said. "Look, what a horse."

  The big gray was sweating and shivering a little and Robert Jordan patted him on the withers.

  "I will put him with the others," Pablo said.

  "No," Robert Jordan said. "He has made tracks into here. He must make them out."

  "True," agreed Pablo. "I will ride him out and will hide him and bring him in when the snow is melted. Thou hast much head today, Ingles."

  "Send some one below," Robert Jordan said. "We've got to get up there."

  "It is not necessary," Pablo said. "Horsemen cannot come that way. But we can get out, by there and by two other places. It is better not to make tracks if there are planes coming. Give me the bota with wine, Pilar."

  "To go off and get drunk," Pilar said. "Here, take these instead." He reached over and put two of the grenades in his pockets.

  "Que va, to get drunk," Pablo said. "There is gravity in the situation. But give me the bota. I do not like to do all this on water."

  He reached his arms up, took the reins and swung up into the saddle. He grinned and patted the nervous horse. Robert Jordan saw him rub his leg along the horse's flank affectionately.

  "Que caballo mas bonito," he said and patted the big gray again. "Que caballo mas hermoso. Come on. The faster this gets out of here the better."

  He reached down and pulled the light automatic rifle with its ventilated barrel, really a submachine gun built to take the 9 mm. pistol cartridge, from the scabbard, and looked at it. "Look how they are armed," he said. "Look at modern cavalry."

  "There's modern cavalry over there on his face," Robert Jordan said. "Vamonos."

  "Do you, Andres, saddle and hold the horses in readiness. If you hear firing bring them up to the woods behind the gap. Come with thy arms and leave the women to hold the horses. Fernando, see that my sacks are brought also. Above all, that my sacks are brought careful
ly. Thou to look after my sacks, too," he said to Pilar. "Thou to verify that they come with the horses. Vamonos," he said. "Let us go."

  "The Maria and I will prepare all for leaving," Pilar said. Then to Robert Jordan, "Look at him," nodding at Pablo on the gray horse, sitting him in the heavy-thighed herdsman manner, the horse's nostrils widening as Pablo replaced the clip in the automatic rifle. "See what a horse has done for him."

  "That I should have two horses," Robert Jordan said fervently.

  "Danger is thy horse."

  "Then give me a mule," Robert Jordan grinned.

  "Strip me that," he said to Pilar and jerked his head toward where the man lay face down in the snow. "And bring everything, all the letters and papers, and put them in the outside pocket of my sack. Everything, understand?"

  "Yes."

  "Vamonos," he said.

  Pablo rode ahead and the two men followed in a single file in order not to track up the snow. Robert Jordan carried the submachine gun muzzle down, carrying it by its forward hand grip. I wish it took the same ammunition that saddle gun takes, he thought. But it doesn't. This is a German gun. This was old Kashkin's gun.

  The sun was coming over the mountains now. A warm wind was blowing and the snow was melting. It was a lovely late spring morning.

  Robert Jordan looked back and saw Maria now standing with Pilar. Then she came running up the trail. He dropped behind Primitivo to speak to her.

  "Thou," she said. "Can I go with thee?"

  "No. Help Pilar."

  She was walking behind him and put her hand on his arm.

  "I'm coming."

  "Nay."

  She kept on walking close behind him.

  "I could hold the legs of the gun in the way thou told Anselmo."

  "Thou wilt hold no legs. Neither of guns nor of nothing."

  Walking beside him she reached forward and put her hand in his pocket.

  "No," he said. "But take good care of thy wedding shirt."

  "Kiss me," she said, "if thou goest."

  "Thou art shameless," he said.

  "Yes," she said. "Totally."

  "Get thee back now. There is much work to do. We may fight here if they follow these horse tracks."

  "Thou," she said. "Didst thee see what he wore on his chest?"