In Our Time

by Ernest Hemingway

  "Not in our lifetime," Bill said.

  "Gee, they'd go crazy," Nick said.

  "Do you remember when they got going that once before they had the train wreck?"

  "Boy!" Nick said, remembering.

  Bill reached over to the table under the window for the book that lay there, face down, where he had put it when he went to the door. He held his glass in one hand and the book in the other, leaning back against Nick's chair.

  "What are you reading?"

  "Richard Feverel."

  "I couldn't get into it."

  "It's all right," Bill said. "It ain't a bad book, Wemedge."

  "What else have you got I haven't read?" Nick asked.

  "Did you read the Forest Lovers?"

  "Yup. That's the one where they go to bed every night with the naked sword between them."

  "That's a good book, Wemedge."

  "It's a swell book. What I couldn't ever understand was what good the sword would do. It would have to stay edge up all the time because if it went over flat you could roll right over it and it wouldn't make any trouble."

  "It's a symbol," Bill said.

  "Sure," said Nick, "but it isn't practical."

  "Did you ever read Fortitude?"

  "It's fine," Nick said. "That's a real book. That's where his old man is after him all the time. Have you got any more by Walpole?"

  "The Dark Forest," Bill said. "It's about Russia."

  "What does he know about Russia?" Nick asked.

  "I don't know. You can't ever tell about those guys. Maybe he was there when he was a boy. He's got a lot of dope on it."

  "I'd like to meet him," Nick said.

  "I'd like to meet Chesterton," Bill said.

  "I wish he was here now," Nick said. "We'd take him fishing to the 'Voix tomorrow."

  "I wonder if he'd like to go fishing," Bill said.

  "Sure," said Nick. "He must be about the best guy there is. Do you remember the Flying Inn?"

  "'If an angel out of heaven

  Gives you something else to drink,

  Thank him for his kind intentions;

  Go and pour them down the sink.'"

  "That's right," said Nick. "I guess he's a better guy than Walpole."

  "Oh, he's a better guy, all right," Bill said.

  "But Walpole's a better writer."

  "I don't know," Nick said. "Chesterton's a classic."

  "Walpole's a classic, too," Bill insisted.

  "I wish we had them both here," Nick said. "We'd take them both fishing to the 'Voix tomorrow."

  "Let's get drunk," Bill said.

  "All right," Nick agreed.

  "My old man won't care," Bill said.

  "Are you sure?" said Nick.

  "I know it," Bill said.

  "I'm a little drunk now," Nick said.

  "You aren't drunk," Bill said.

  He got up from the floor and reached for the whisky bottle. Nick held out his glass. His eyes fixed on it while Bill poured.

  Bill poured the glass half full of whisky.

  "Put in your own water," he said. "There's just one more shot."

  "Got any more?" Nick asked.

  "There's plenty more but dad only likes me to drink what's open."

  "Sure," said Nick.

  "He says opening bottles is what makes drunkards," Bill explained.

  "That's right," said Nick. He was impressed. He had never thought of that before. He had always thought it was solitary drinking that made drunkards.

  "How is your dad?" he asked respectfully.

  "He's all right," Bill said. "He gets a little wild sometimes."

  "He's a swell guy," Nick said. He poured water into his glass out of the pitcher. It mixed slowly with the whisky. There was more whisky than water.

  "You bet your life he is," Bill said.

  "My old man's all right," Nick said.

  "You're damn right he is," said Bill.

  "He claims he's never taken a drink in his life," Nick said, as though announcing a scientific fact.

  "Well, he's a doctor. My old man's a painter. That's different."

  "He's missed a lot," Nick said sadly.

  "You can't tell," Bill said. "Everything's got its compensations."

  "He says he's missed a lot himself," Nick confessed.

  "Well, dad's had a tough time," Bill said.

  "It all evens up," Nick said.

  They sat looking into the fire and thinking of this profound truth.

  "I'll get a chunk from the back porch," Nick said. He had noticed while looking into the fire that the fire was dying down. Also he wished to show he could hold his liquor and be practical. Even if his father had never touched a drop Bill was not going to get him drunk before he himself was drunk.

  "Bring one of the big beech chunks," Bill said. He was also being consciously practical.

  Nick came in with the log through the kitchen and in passing knocked a pan off the kitchen table. He laid the log down and picked up the pan. It had contained dried apricots, soaking in water. He carefully picked up all the apricots off the floor, some of them had gone under the stove, and put them back in the pan. He dipped some more water onto them from the pail by the table. He felt quite proud of himself. He had been thoroughly practical.

  He came in carrying the log and Bill got up from the chair and helped him put it on the fire.

  "That's a swell log," Nick said.

  "I'd been saving it for the bad weather," Bill said. "A log like that will burn all night."

  "There'll be coals left to start the fire in the morning," Nick said.

  "That's right," Bill agreed. They were conducting the conversation on a high plane.

  "Let's have another drink," Nick said.

  "I think there's another bottle open in the locker," Bill said. He kneeled down in the corner in front of the locker and brought out a square-faced bottle.

  "It's Scotch," he said.

  "I'll get some more water," Nick said. He went out into the kitchen again. He filled the pitcher with the dipper dipping cold spring water from the pail. On his way back to the living room he passed a mirror in the dining room and looked in it. His face looked strange. He smiled at the face in the mirror and it grinned back at him. He winked at it and went on. It was not his face but it didn't make any difference.

  Bill had poured out the drinks.

  "That's an awfully big shot," Nick said.

  "Not for us, Wemedge," Bill said.

  "What'll we drink to?" Nick asked, holding up the glass.

  "Let's drink to fishing," Bill said.

  "All right," Nick said. "Gentlemen, I give you fishing."

  "All fishing," Bill said. "Everywhere."

  "Fishing," Nick said. "That's what we drink to."

  "It's better than baseball," Bill said.

  "There isn't any comparison," said Nick. "How did we ever get talking about baseball?"

  "It was a mistake," Bill said. "Baseball is a game for louts."

  They drank all that was in their glasses.

  "Now let's drink to Chesterton."

  "And Walpole," Nick interposed.

  Nick poured out the liquor. Bill poured in the water. They looked at each other. They felt very fine.

  "Gentlemen," Bill said, "I give you Chesterton and Walpole."

  "Exactly, gentlemen," Nick said.

  They drank. Bill filled up the glasses. They sat down in the big chairs in front of the fire.

  "You were very wise, Wemedge," Bill said.

  "What do you mean?" asked Nick.

  "To bust off that Marge business," Bill said.

  "I guess so," said Nick.

  "It was the only thing to do. If you hadn't, by now you'd be back home working trying to get enough money to get married."

  Nick said nothing.

  "Once a man's married he's absolutely bitched," Bill went on. "He hasn't got anything more. Nothing. Not a damn thing. He's done for. You've seen the guys that get married."

&nbs
p; Nick said nothing.

  "You can tell them," Bill said. "They get this sort of fat married look. They're done for."

  "Sure," said Nick.

  "It was probably bad busting it off," Bill said. "But you always fall for somebody else and then it's all right. Fall for them but don't let them ruin you."

  "Yes," said Nick.

  "If you'd have married her you would have had to marry the whole family. Remember her mother and that guy she married."

  Nick nodded.

  "Imagine having them around the house all the time and going to Sunday dinners at their house, and having them over to dinner and her telling Marge all the time what to do and how to act."

  Nick sat quiet.

  "You came out of it damned well," Bill said. "Now she can marry somebody of her own sort and settle down and be happy. You can't mix oil and water and you can't mix that sort of thing any more than if I'd marry Ida that works for Strattons. She'd probably like it, too."

  Nick said nothing. The liquor had all died out of him and left him alone. Bill wasn't there. He wasn't sitting in front of the fire or going fishing tomorrow with Bill and his dad or anything. He wasn't drunk. It was all gone. All he knew was that he had once had Marjorie and that he had lost her. She was gone and he had sent her away. That was all that mattered. He might never see her again. Probably he never would. It was all gone, finished.

  "Let's have another drink," Nick said.

  Bill poured it out. Nick splashed in a little water.

  "If you'd gone on that way we wouldn't be here now," Bill said.

  That was true. His original plan had been to go down home and get a job. Then he had planned to stay in Charlevoix all winter so he could be near Marge. Now he did not know what he was going to do.

  "Probably we wouldn't even be going fishing tomorrow," Bill said. "You had the right dope, all right."

  "I couldn't help it," Nick said.

  "I know. That's the way it works out," Bill said.

  "All of a sudden everything was over," Nick said. "I don't know why it was. I couldn't help it. Just like when the three-day blows come now and rip all the leaves off the trees."

  "Well, it's over. That's the point," Bill said.

  "It was my fault," Nick said.

  "It doesn't make any difference whose fault it was," Bill said.

  "No, I suppose not," Nick said.

  The big thing was that Marjorie was gone and that probably he would never see her again. He had talked to her about how they would go to Italy together and the fun they would have. Places they would be together. It was all gone now.

  "So long as it's over that's all that matters," Bill said. "I tell you, Wemedge, I was worried while it was going on. You played it right. I understand her mother is sore as hell. She told a lot of people you were engaged."

  "We weren't engaged," Nick said.

  "It was all around that you were."

  "I can't help it," Nick said. "We weren't."

  "Weren't you going to get married?" Bill asked.

  "Yes. But we weren't engaged," Nick said.

  "What's the difference?" Bill asked judicially.

  "I don't know. There's a difference."

  "I don't see it," said Bill.

  "All right," said Nick. "Let's get drunk."

  "All right," Bill said. "Let's get really drunk."

  "Let's get drunk and then go swimming," Nick said.

  He drank off his glass.

  "I'm sorry as hell about her but what could I do?" he said.

  "You know what her mother was like!"

  "She was terrible," Bill said.

  "All of a sudden it was over," Nick said. "I oughtn't to talk about it."

  "You aren't," Bill said. "I talked about it and now I'm through. We won't ever speak about it again. You don't want to think about it. You might get back into it again."

  Nick had not thought about that. It had seemed so absolute. That was a thought. That made him feel better.

  "Sure," he said. "There's always that danger."

  He felt happy now. There was not anything that was irrevocable. He might go into town Saturday night. Today was Thursday.

  "There's always a chance," he said.

  "You'll have to watch yourself," Bill said.

  "I'll watch myself," he said.

  He felt happy. Nothing was finished. Nothing was ever lost. He would go into town on Saturday. He felt lighter, as he had felt before Bill started to talk about it. There was always a way out.

  "Let's take the guns and go down to the point and look for your dad," Nick said.

  "All right."

  Bill took down the two shotguns from the rack on the wall. He opened a box of shells. Nick put on his Mackinaw coat and his shoes. His shoes were stiff from the drying. He was still quite drunk but his head was clear.

  "How do you feel?" Nick asked.

  "Swell. I've just got a good edge on." Bill was buttoning up his sweater.

  "There's no use getting drunk."

  "No. We ought to get outdoors."

  They stepped out the door. The wind was blowing a gale.

  "The birds will lie right down in the grass with this," Nick said.

  They struck down toward the orchard.

  "I saw a woodcock this morning," Bill said.

  "Maybe we'll jump him," Nick said.

  "You can't shoot in this wind," Bill said.

  Outside now the Marge business was no longer so tragic. It was not even very important. The wind blew everything like that away.

  "It's coming right off the big lake," Nick said.

  Against the wind they heard the thud of a shotgun.

  "That's dad," Bill said. "He's down in the swamp."

  "Let's cut down that way," Nick said.

  "Let's cut across the lower meadow and see if we jump anything," Bill said.

  "All right," Nick said.

  None of it was important now. The wind blew it out of his head. Still he could always go into town Saturday night. It was a good thing to have in reserve.

  Chapter V

  They shot the six cabinet ministers at half-past six in the morning against the wall of a hospital. There were pools of water in the courtyard. There were wet dead leaves on the paving of the courtyard. It rained hard. All the shutters of the hospital were nailed shut. One of the ministers was sick with typhoid. Two soldiers carried him downstairs and out into the rain. They tried to hold him up against the wall but he sat down in a puddle of water. The other five stood very quietly against the wall. Finally the officer told the soldiers it was no good trying to make him stand up. When they fired the first volley he was sitting down in the water with his head on his knees.

  The Battler

  Nick stood up. He was all right. He looked up the track at the lights of the caboose going out of sight around the curve. There was water on both sides of the track, then tamarack swamp.

  He felt of his knee. The pants were torn and the skin was barked. His hands were scraped and there were sand and cinders driven up under his nails. He went over to the edge of the track down the little slope to the water and washed his hands. He washed them carefully in the cold water, getting the dirt out from the nails. He squatted down and bathed his knee.

  That lousy crut of a brakeman. He would get him some day. He would know him again. That was a fine way to act.

  "Come here, kid," he said. "I got something for you."

  He had fallen for it. What a lousy kid thing to have done. They would never suck him in that way again.

  "Come here, kid, I got something for you." Then wham and he lit on his hands and knees beside the track.

  Nick rubbed his eye. There was a big bump coming up. He would have a black eye, all right. It ached already. That son of a crutting brakeman.

  He touched the bump over his eye with his fingers. Oh, well, it was only a black eye. That was all he had gotten out of it. Cheap at the price. He wished he could see it. Could not see it looking into the water, though. It wa
s dark and he was a long way off from anywhere. He wiped his hands on his trousers and stood up, then climbed the embankment to the rails.

  He started up the track. It was well ballasted and made easy walking, sand and gravel packed between the ties, solid walking. The smooth roadbed like a causeway went on ahead through the swamp. Nick walked along. He must get to somewhere.

  Nick had swung on to the freight train when it slowed down for the yards outside of Walton Junction. The train, with Nick on it, had passed through Kalkaska as it started to get dark. Now he must be nearly to Mancelona. Three or four miles of swamp. He stepped along the track, walking so he kept on the ballast between the ties, the swamp ghostly in the rising mist. His eye ached and he was hungry. He kept on hiking, putting the miles of track back of him. The swamp was all the same on both sides of the track.

  Ahead there was a bridge. Nick crossed it, his boots ringing hollow on the iron. Down below the water showed black between the slits of ties. Nick kicked a loose spike and it dropped into the water. Beyond the bridge were hills. It was high and dark on both sides of the track. Up the track Nick saw a fire.

  He came up the track toward the fire carefully. It was off to one side of the track, below the railway embankment. He had only seen the light from it. The track came out through a cut and where the fire was burning the country opened out and fell away into woods. Nick dropped carefully down the embankment and cut into the woods to come up to the fire through the trees. It was a beechwood forest and the fallen beechnut burrs were under his shoes as he walked between the trees. The fire was bright now, just at the edge of the trees. There was a man sitting by it. Nick waited behind the tree and watched. The man looked to be alone. He was sitting there with his head in his hands looking at the fire. Nick stepped out and walked into the firelight.

  The man sat there looking into the fire. When Nick stopped quite close to him he did not move.

  "Hello!" Nick said.

  The man looked up.

  "Where did you get the shiner?" he said.

  "A brakeman busted me."

  "Off the through freight?"

  "Yes."

  "I saw the bastard," the man said. "He went through here 'bout an hour and a half ago. He was walking along the top of the cars slapping his arms and singing."

  "The bastard!"

  "It must have made him feel good to bust you," the man said seriously.

  "I'll bust him."

  "Get him with a rock sometime when he's going through," the man advised.

  "I'll get him."

  "You're a tough one, aren't you?"

  "No," Nick answered.

  "All you kids are tough."

  "You got to be tough," Nick said.

  "That's what I said."

  The man looked at Nick and smiled. In the firelight Nick saw that his face was misshapen. His nose was sunken, his eyes were slits, he had queer-shaped lips. Nick did not perceive all this at once, he only saw the man's face was queerly formed and mutilated. It was like putty in color. Dead looking in the firelight.