The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories

by Ernest Hemingway

  “I don’t know,” Mr. Frazer said. “It is rented.”

  “You gentlemen are friends of Cayetano?”

  “No,” said the big one. “We are friends of he who wounded him.”

  “We were sent here by the police,” the smallest one said.

  “We have a little place,” the big one said. “He and I,” indicating the one who did not drink. “He has a little place too,” indicating the small, dark one. “The police tell us we have to come—so we come.”

  “I am very happy you have come.”

  “Equally,” said the big one.

  “Will you have another little cup?”

  “Why not?” said the big one.

  “With your permission,” said the smallest one.

  “Not me,” said the thin one. “It mounts to my head.”

  “It is very good,” said the smallest one.

  “Why not try some,” Mr. Frazer asked the thin one. “Let a little mount to your head.”

  “Afterwards comes the headache,” said the thin one.

  “Could you not send friends of Cayetano to see him?” Frazer asked.

  “He has no friends.”

  “Every man has friends.”

  “This one, no.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He is a card-player.”

  “Is he good?”

  “I believe it.”

  “From me,” said the smallest one, “he won one hundred and eighty dollars. Now there is no longer one hundred and eighty dollars in the world.”

  “From me,” said the thin one, “he won two hundred and eleven dollars. Fix yourself on that figure.”

  “I never played with him,” said the fat one.

  “He must be very rich,” Mr. Frazer suggested.

  “He is poorer than we,” said the little Mexican. “He has no more than the shirt on his back.”

  “And that shirt is of little value now,” Mr. Frazer said. “Perforated as it is.”

  “Clearly.”

  “The one who wounded him was a card-player?”

  “No, a beet worker. He has had to leave town.”

  “Fix yourself on this,” said the smallest one. “He was the best guitar player ever in this town. The finest.”

  “What a shame.”

  “I believe it,” said the biggest one. “How he could touch the guitar.”

  “There are no good guitar players left?”

  “Not the shadow of a guitar player.”

  “There is an accordion player who is worth something,” the thin man said.

  “There are a few who touch various instruments,” the big one said. “You like music?”

  “How would I not?”

  “We will come one night with music? You think the sister would allow it? She seems very amiable.”

  “I am sure she would permit it when Cayetano is able to hear it.”

  “Is she a little crazy?” asked the thin one.

  “Who?”

  “That sister.”

  “No,” Mr. Frazer said. “She is a fine woman of great intelligence and sympathy.”

  “I distrust all priests, monks, and sisters,” said the thin one.

  “He had bad experiences when a boy,” the smallest one said.

  “I was acolyte,” the thin one said proudly. “Now I believe in nothing. Neither do I go to mass.”

  “Why? Does it mount to your head?”

  “No,” said the thin one. “It is alcohol that mounts to my head. Religion is the opium of the poor.”

  “I thought marijuana was the opium of the poor,” Frazer said.

  “Did you ever smoke opium?” the big one asked.

  “No.”

  “Nor I,” he said. “It seems it is very bad. One commences and cannot stop. It is a vice.”

  “Like religion,” said the thin one.

  “This one,” said the smallest Mexican, “is very strong against religion.”

  “It is necessary to be very strong against something,” Mr. Frazer said politely.

  “I respect those who have faith even though they are ignorant,” the thin one said.

  “Good,” said Mr. Frazer.

  “What can we bring you?” asked the big Mexican. “Do you lack for anything?”

  “I would be glad to buy some beer if there is good beer.”

  “We will bring beer.”

  “Another copita before you go?”

  “It is very good.”

  “We are robbing you.”

  “I can’t take it. It goes to my head. Then I have a bad headache and sick at the stomach.”

  “Good-by, gentlemen.”

  “Good-by and thanks.”

  They went out and there was supper and then the radio, turned to be as quiet as possible and still be heard, and the stations finally signing off in this order: Denver, Salt Lake City, Los Angeles, and Seattle. Mr. Frazer received no picture of Denver from the radio. He could see Denver from the Denver Post, and correct the picture from The Rocky Mountain News. Nor did he ever have any feel of Salt Lake City or Los Angeles from what he heard from those places. All he felt about Salt Lake City was that it was clean, but dull, and there were too many ballrooms mentioned in too many big hotels for him to see Los Angeles. He could not feel it for the ballrooms. But Seattle he came to know very well, the taxicab company with the big white cabs (each cab equipped with radio itself) he rode in every night out to the roadhouse on the Canadian side where he followed the course of parties by the musical selections they phoned for. He lived in Seattle from two o’clock on, each night, hearing the pieces that all the different people asked for, and it was as real as Minneapolis, where the revellers left their beds each morning to make that trip down to the studio. Mr. Frazer grew very fond of Seattle, Washington.

  The Mexicans came and brought beer but it was not good beer. Mr. Frazer saw them but he did not feel like talking, and when they went he knew they would not come again. His nerves had become tricky and he disliked seeing people while he was in this condition. His nerves went bad at the end of five weeks, and while he was pleased they lasted that long yet he resented being forced to make the same experiment when he already knew the answer. Mr. Frazer had been through this all before. The only thing which was new to him was the radio. He played it all night long, turned so low he could barely hear it, and he was learning to listen to it without thinking.

  Sister Cecilia came into the room about ten o’clock in the morning on that day and brought the mail. She was very handsome, and Mr. Frazer liked to see her and to hear her talk, but the mail, supposedly coming from a different world, was more important. However, there was nothing in the mail of any interest.

  “You look so much better,” she said. “You’ll be leaving us soon.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Frazer said. “You look very happy this morning.”

  “Oh, I am. This morning I feel as though I might be a saint.” Mr. Frazer was a little taken aback at this.

  “Yes,” Sister Cecilia went on. “That’s what I want to be. A saint. Ever since I was a little girl I’ve wanted to be a saint. When I was a girl I thought if I renounced the world and went into the convent I would be a saint. That was what I wanted to be and that was what I thought I had to do to be one. I expected I would be a saint. I was absolutely sure I would be one. For just a moment I thought I was one. I was so happy and it seemed so simple and easy. When I awoke in the morning I expected I would be a saint, but I wasn’t. I’ve never become one. I want so to be one. All I want is to be a saint. That is all I’ve ever wanted. And this morning I feel as though I might be one. Oh, I hope I will get to be one.”

  “You’ll be one. Everybody gets what they want. That’s what they always tell me.”

  “I don’t know now. When I was a girl it seemed so simple. I knew I would be a saint. Only I believed it took time when I found it did not happen suddenly. Now it seems almost impossible.”

  “I’d say you had a good chance.”

  “
Do you really think so? No, I don’t want just to be encouraged. Don’t just encourage me. I want to be a saint. I want so to be a saint.”

  “Of course you’ll be a saint,” Mr. Frazer said.

  “No, probably I won’t be. But, oh, if I could only be a saint! I’d be perfectly happy.”

  “You’re three to one to be a saint.”

  “No, don’t encourage me. But, oh, if I could only be a saint! If I could only be a saint!”

  “How’s your friend Cayetano?”

  “He’s going to get well but he’s paralyzed. One of the bullets hit the big nerve that goes down through his thigh and that leg is paralyzed. They only found it out when he got well enough so that he could move.”

  “Maybe the nerve will regenerate.”

  “I’m praying that it will,” Sister Cecilia said. “You ought to see him.”

  “I don’t feel like seeing anybody.”

  “You know you’d like to see him. They could wheel him in here.”

  “All right.”

  * * *

  They wheeled him in, thin, his skin transparent, his hair black and needing to be cut, his eyes very laughing, his teeth bad when he smiled.

  “Hola, amigo! Que tal?”

  “As you see,” said Mr. Frazer. “And thou?”

  “Alive and with the leg paralyzed.”

  “Bad,” Mr. Frazer said. “But the nerve can regenerate and be as good as new.”

  “So they tell me.”

  “What about the pain?”

  “Not now. For a while I was crazy with it in the belly. I thought the pain alone would kill me.”

  Sister Cecilia was observing them happily.

  “She tells me you never made a sound,” Mr. Frazer said.

  “So many people in the ward,” the Mexican said deprecatingly. “What class of pain do you have?”

  “Big enough. Clearly not as bad as yours. When the nurse goes out I cry an hour, two hours. It rests me. My nerves are bad now.”

  “You have the radio. If I had a private room and a radio I would be crying and yelling all night long.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Hombre, si. It’s very healthy. But you cannot do it with so many people.”

  “At least,” Mr. Frazer said, “the hands are still good. They tell me you make your living with the hands.”

  “And the head,” he said, tapping his forehead. “But the head isn’t worth as much.”

  “Three of your countrymen were here.”

  “Sent by the police to see me.”

  “They brought some beer.”

  “It probably was bad.”

  “It was bad.”

  “Tonight, sent by the police, they come to serenade me.” He laughed, then tapped his stomach. “I cannot laugh yet. As musicians they are fatal.”

  “And the one who shot you?”

  “Another fool. I won thirty-eight dollars from him at cards. That is not to kill about.”

  “The three told me you win much money.”

  “And am poorer than the birds.”

  “How?”

  “I am a poor idealist. I am the victim of illusions.” He laughed, then grinned and tapped his stomach. “I am a professional gambler but I like to gamble. To really gamble. Little gambling is all crooked. For real gambling you need luck. I have no luck.”

  “Never?”

  “Never. I am completely without luck. Look, this cabron who shoots me just now. Can he shoot? No. The first shot he fires into nothing. The second is intercepted by a poor Russian. That would seem to be luck. What happens? He shoots me twice in the belly. He is a lucky man. I have no luck. He could not hit a horse if he were holding the stirrup. All luck.”

  “I thought he shot you first and the Russian after.”

  “No, the Russian first, me after. The paper was mistaken.”

  “Why didn’t you shoot him?”

  “I never carry a gun. With my luck, if I carried a gun I would be hanged ten times a year. I am a cheap card player, only that.” He stopped, then continued. “When I make a sum of money I gamble and when I gamble I lose. I have passed at dice for three thousand dollars and crapped out for the six. With good dice. More than once.”

  “Why continue?”

  “If I live long enough the luck will change. I have bad luck now for fifteen years. If I ever get any good luck I will be rich.” He grinned. “I am a good gambler, really I would enjoy being rich.”

  “Do you have bad luck with all games?”

  “With everything and with women.” He smiled again, showing his bad teeth.

  “Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  “And what is there to do?”

  “Continue, slowly, and wait for luck to change.”

  “But with women?”

  “No gambler has luck with women. He is too concentrated. He works nights. When he should be with the woman. No man who works nights can hold a woman if the woman is worth anything.”

  “You are a philosopher.”

  “No, hombre. A gambler of the small towns. One small town, then another, another, then a big town, then start over again.”

  “Then shot in the belly.”

  “The first time,” he said. “That has only happened once.”

  “I tire you talking?” Mr. Frazer suggested.

  “No,” he said. “I must tire you.”

  “And the leg?”

  “I have no great use for the leg. I am all right with the leg or not. I will be able to circulate.”

  “I wish you luck, truly, and with all my heart,” Mr. Frazer said.

  “Equally,” he said. “And that the pain stops.”

  “It will not last, certainly. It is passing. It is of no importance.”

  “That it passes quickly.”

  “Equally.”

  That night the Mexicans played the accordion and other instruments in the ward and it was cheerful and the noise of the inhalations and exhalations of the accordion, and of the bells, the traps, and the drum came down the corridor. In that ward there was a rodeo rider who had come out of the chutes on Midnight on a hot dusty afternoon with the big crowd watching, and now, with a broken back, was going to learn to work in leather and to cane chairs when he got well enough to leave the hospital. There was a carpenter who had fallen with a scaffolding and broken both ankles and both wrists. He had lit like a cat but without a cat’s resiliency. They could fix him up so that he could work again but it would take a long time. There was a boy from a farm, about sixteen years old, with a broken leg that had been badly set and was to be rebroken. There was Cayetano Ruiz, a small-town gambler with a paralyzed leg. Down the corridor Mr. Frazer could hear them all laughing and merry with the music made by the Mexicans who had been sent by the police. The Mexicans were having a good time. They came in, very excited, to see Mr. Frazer and wanted to know if there was anything he wanted them to play, and they came twice more to play at night of their own accord.

  The last time they played Mr. Frazer lay in his room with the door open and listened to the noisy, bad music and could not keep from thinking. When they wanted to know what he wished played, he asked for the Cucaracha, which has the sinister lightness and deftness of so many of the tunes men have gone to die to. They played noisily and with emotion. The tune was better than most of such tunes, to Mr. Frazer’s mind, but the effect was all the same.

  In spite of this introduction of emotion, Mr. Frazer went on thinking. Usually he avoided thinking all he could, except when he was writing, but now he was thinking about those who were playing and what the little one had said.

  Religion is the opium of the people. He believed that, that dyspeptic little joint-keeper. Yes, and music is the opium of the people. Old mount-to-the-head hadn’t thought of that. And now economics is the opium of the people; along with patriotism the opium of the people in Italy and Germany. What about sexual intercourse; was that an opium of the people? Of some of the people. Of some of the best of the people. B
ut drink was a sovereign opium of the people, oh, an excellent opium. Although some prefer the radio, another opium of the people, a cheap one he had just been using. Along with these went gambling, an opium of the people if there ever was one, one of the oldest. Ambition was another, an opium of the people, along with a belief in any new form of government. What you wanted was the minimum of government, always less government. Liberty, what we believed in, now the name of a MacFadden publication. We believed in that although they had not found a new name for it yet. But what was the real one? What was the real, the actual, opium of the people? He knew it very well. It was gone just a little way around the corner in that well-lighted part of his mind that was there after two or more drinks in the evening; that he knew was there (it was not really there of course). What was it? He knew very well. What was it? Of course; bread was the opium of the people. Would he remember that and would it make sense in the daylight? Bread is the opium of the people.