For Whom the Bell Tolls

by Ernest Hemingway

He sat now by the stream watching the clear water flowing between the rocks and, across the stream, he noticed there was a thick bed of watercress. He crossed the stream, picked a double handful, washed the muddy roots clean in the current and then sat down again beside his pack and ate the clean, cool green leaves and the crisp, peppery-tasting stalks. He knelt by the stream and, pushing his automatic pistol around on his belt to the small of his back so that it would not be wet, he lowered himself with a hand on each of two boulders and drank from the stream. The water was achingly cold.

  Pushing himself up on his hands he turned his head and saw the old man coming down the ledge. With him was another man, also in a black peasant's smock and the dark gray trousers that were almost a uniform in that province, wearing rope-soled shoes and with a carbine slung over his back. This man was bareheaded. The two of them came scrambling down the rock like goats.

  They came up to him and Robert Jordan got to his feet.

  "Salud, Camarada," he said to the man with the carbine and smiled.

  "Salud," the other said, grudgingly. Robert Jordan looked at the man's heavy, beard-stubbled face. It was almost round and his head was round and set close on his shoulders. His eyes were small and set too wide apart and his ears were small and set close to his head. He was a heavy man about five feet ten inches tall and his hands and feet were large. His nose had been broken and his mouth was cut at one corner and the line of the scar across the upper lip and lower jaw showed through the growth of beard over his face.

  The old man nodded his head at this man and smiled.

  "He is the boss here," he grinned, then flexed his arms as though to make the muscles stand out and looked at the man with the carbine in a half-mocking admiration. "A very strong man."

  "I can see it," Robert Jordan said and smiled again. He did not like the look of this man and inside himself he was not smiling at all.

  "What have you to justify your identity?" asked the man with the carbine.

  Robert Jordan unpinned a safety pin that ran through his pocket flap and took a folded paper out of the left breast pocket of his flannel shirt and handed it to the man, who opened it, looked at it doubtfully and turned it in his hands.

  So he cannot read, Robert Jordan noted.

  "Look at the seal," he said.

  The old man pointed to the seal and the man with the carbine studied it, turning it in his fingers.

  "What seal is that?"

  "Have you never seen it?"

  "No."

  "There are two," said Robert Jordan. "One is S. I. M., the service of the military intelligence. The other is the General Staff."

  "Yes, I have seen that seal before. But here no one commands but me," the other said sullenly. "What have you in the packs?"

  "Dynamite," the old man said proudly. "Last night we crossed the lines in the dark and all day we have carried this dynamite over the mountain."

  "I can use dynamite," said the man with the carbine. He handed back the paper to Robert Jordan and looked him over. "Yes. I have use for dynamite. How much have you brought me?"

  "I have brought you no dynamite," Robert Jordan said to him evenly. "The dynamite is for another purpose. What is your name?"

  "What is that to you?"

  "He is Pablo," said the old man. The man with the carbine looked at them both sullenly.

  "Good. I have heard much good of you," said Robert Jordan.

  "What have you heard of me?" asked Pablo.

  "I have heard that you are an excellent guerilla leader, that you are loyal to the republic and prove your loyalty through your acts, and that you are a man both serious and valiant. I bring you greetings from the General Staff."

  "Where did you hear all this?" asked Pablo. Robert Jordan registered that he was not taking any of the flattery.

  "I heard it from Buitrago to the Escorial," he said, naming all the stretch of country on the other side of the lines.

  "I know no one in Buitrago nor in Escorial," Pablo told him.

  "There are many people on the other side of the mountains who were not there before. Where are you from?"

  "Avila. What are you going to do with the dynamite?"

  "Blow up a bridge."

  "What bridge?"

  "That is my business."

  "If it is in this territory, it is my business. You cannot blow bridges close to where you live. You must live in one place and operate in another. I know my business. One who is alive, now, after a year, knows his business."

  "This is my business," Robert Jordan said. "We can discuss it together. Do you wish to help us with the sacks?"

  "No," said Pablo and shook his head.

  The old man turned toward him suddenly and spoke rapidly and furiously in a dialect that Robert Jordan could just follow. It was like reading Quevedo. Anselmo was speaking old Castilian and it went something like this, "Art thou a brute? Yes. Art thou a beast? Yes, many times. Hast thou a brain? Nay. None. Now we come for something of consummate importance and thee, with thy dwelling place to be undisturbed, puts thy fox-hole before the interests of humanity. Before the interests of thy people. I this and that in the this and that of thy father. I this and that and that in thy this. Pick up that bag."

  Pablo looked down.

  "Every one has to do what he can do according to how it can be truly done," he said. "I live here and I operate beyond Segovia. If you make a disturbance here, we will be hunted out of these mountains. It is only by doing nothing here that we are able to live in these mountains. It is the principle of the fox."

  "Yes," said Anselmo bitterly. "It is the principle of the fox when we need the wolf."

  "I am more wolf than thee," Pablo said and Robert Jordan knew that he would pick up the sack.

  "Hi. Ho . . . ," Anselmo looked at him. "Thou art more wolf than me and I am sixty-eight years old."

  He spat on the ground and shook his head.

  "You have that many years?" Robert Jordan asked, seeing that now, for the moment, it would be all right and trying to make it go easier.

  "Sixty-eight in the month of July."

  "If we should ever see that month," said Pablo. "Let me help you with the pack," he said to Robert Jordan. "Leave the other to the old man." He spoke, not sullenly, but almost sadly now. "He is an old man of great strength."

  "I will carry the pack," Robert Jordan said.

  "Nay," said the old man. "Leave it to this other strong man."

  "I will take it," Pablo told him, and in his sullenness there was a sadness that was disturbing to Robert Jordan. He knew that sadness and to see it here worried him.

  "Give me the carbine then," he said and when Pablo handed it to him, he slung it over his back and, with the two men climbing ahead of him, they went heavily, pulling and climbing up the granite shelf and over its upper edge to where there was a green clearing in the forest.

  They skirted the edge of the little meadow and Robert Jordan, striding easily now without the pack, the carbine pleasantly rigid over his shoulder after the heavy, sweating pack weight, noticed that the grass was cropped down in several places and signs that picket pins had been driven into the earth. He could see a trail through the grass where horses had been led to the stream to drink and there was the fresh manure of several horses. They picket them here to feed at night and keep them out of sight in the timber in the daytime, he thought. I wonder how many horses this Pablo has?

  He remembered now noticing, without realizing it, that Pablo's trousers were worn soapy shiny in the knees and thighs. I wonder if he has a pair of boots or if he rides in those alpargatas, he thought. He must have quite an outfit. But I don't like that sadness, he thought. That sadness is bad. That's the sadness they get before they quit or before they betray. That is the sadness that comes before the sell-out.

  Ahead of them a horse whinnied in the timber and then, through the brown trunks of the pine trees, only a little sunlight coming down through their thick, almost-touching tops, he saw the corral made by roping around the
tree trunks. The horses had their heads pointed toward the men as they approached, and at the foot of a tree, outside the corral, the saddles were piled together and covered with a tarpaulin.

  As they came up, the two men with the packs stopped, and Robert Jordan knew it was for him to admire the horses.

  "Yes," he said. "They are beautiful." He turned to Pablo. "You have your cavalry and all."

  There were five horses in the rope corral, three bays, a sorrel, and a buckskin. Sorting them out carefully with his eyes after he had seen them first together, Robert Jordan looked them over individually. Pablo and Anselmo knew how good they were and while Pablo stood now proud and less sad-looking, watching them lovingly, the old man acted as though they were some great surprise that he had produced, suddenly, himself.

  "How do they look to you?" he asked.

  "All these I have taken," Pablo said and Robert Jordan was pleased to hear him speak proudly.

  "That," said Robert Jordan, pointing to one of the bays, a big stallion with a white blaze on his forehead and a single white foot, the near front, "is much horse."

  He was a beautiful horse that looked as though he had come out of a painting by Velasquez.

  "They are all good," said Pablo. "You know horses?"

  "Yes."

  "Less bad," said Pablo. "Do you see a defect in one of these?"

  Robert Jordan knew that now his papers were being examined by the man who could not read.

  The horses all still had their heads up looking at the man. Robert Jordan slipped through between the double rope of the corral and slapped the buckskin on the haunch. He leaned back against the ropes of the enclosure and watched the horses circle the corral, stood watching them a minute more, as they stood still, then leaned down and came out through the ropes.

  "The sorrel is lame in the off hind foot," he said to Pablo, not looking at him. "The hoof is split and although it might not get worse soon if shod properly, she could break down if she travels over much hard ground."

  "The hoof was like that when we took her," Pablo said.

  "The best horse that you have, the white-faced bay stallion, has a swelling on the upper part of the cannon bone that I do not like."

  "It is nothing," said Pablo. "He knocked it three days ago. If it were to be anything it would have become so already."

  He pulled back the tarpaulin and showed the saddles. There were two ordinary vaquero's or herdsman's saddles, like American stock saddles, one very ornate vaquero's saddle, with hand-tooled leather and heavy, hooded stirrups, and two military saddles in black leather.

  "We killed a pair of guardia civil," he said, explaining the military saddles.

  "That is big game."

  "They had dismounted on the road between Segovia and Santa Maria del Real. They had dismounted to ask papers of the driver of a cart. We were able to kill them without injuring the horses."

  "Have you killed many civil guards?" Robert Jordan asked.

  "Several," Pablo said. "But only these two without injury to the horses."

  "It was Pablo who blew up the train at Arevalo," Anselmo said. "That was Pablo."

  "There was a foreigner with us who made the explosion," Pablo said. "Do you know him?"

  "What is he called?"

  "I do not remember. It was a very rare name."

  "What did he look like?"

  "He was fair, as you are, but not as tall and with large hands and a broken nose."

  "Kashkin," Robert Jordan said. "That would be Kashkin."

  "Yes," said Pablo. "It was a very rare name. Something like that. What has become of him?"

  "He is dead since April."

  "That is what happens to everybody," Pablo said, gloomily. "That is the way we will all finish."

  "That is the way all men end," Anselmo said. "That is the way men have always ended. What is the matter with you, man? What hast thou in the stomach?"

  "They are very strong," Pablo said. It was as though he were talking to himself. He looked at the horses gloomily. "You do not realize how strong they are. I see them always stronger, always better armed. Always with more material. Here am I with horses like these. And what can I look forward to? To be hunted and to die. Nothing more."

  "You hunt as much as you are hunted," Anselmo said.

  "No," said Pablo. "Not any more. And if we leave these mountains now, where can we go? Answer me that? Where now?"

  "In Spain there are many mountains. There are the Sierra de Gredos if one leaves here."

  "Not for me," Pablo said. "I am tired of being hunted. Here we are all right. Now if you blow a bridge here, we will be hunted. If they know we are here and hunt for us with planes, they will find us. If they send Moors to hunt us out, they will find us and we must go. I am tired of all this. You hear?" He turned to Robert Jordan. "What right have you, a foreigner, to come to me and tell me what I must do?"

  "I have not told you anything you must do," Robert Jordan said to him.

  "You will though," Pablo said. "There. There is the badness."

  He pointed at the two heavy packs that they had lowered to the ground while they had watched the horses. Seeing the horses had seemed to bring this all to a head in him and seeing that Robert Jordan knew horses had seemed to loosen his tongue. The three of them stood now by the rope corral and the patchy sunlight shone on the coat of the bay stallion. Pablo looked at him and then pushed with his foot against the heavy pack. "There is the badness."

  "I come only for my duty," Robert Jordan told him. "I come under orders from those who are conducting the war. If I ask you to help me, you can refuse and I will find others who will help me. I have not even asked you for help yet. I have to do what I am ordered to do and I can promise you of its importance. That I am a foreigner is not my fault. I would rather have been born here."

  "To me, now, the most important is that we be not disturbed here," Pablo said. "To me, now, my duty is to those who are with me and to myself."

  "Thyself. Yes," Anselmo said. "Thyself now since a long time. Thyself and thy horses. Until thou hadst horses thou wert with us. Now thou art another capitalist more."

  "That is unjust," said Pablo. "I expose the horses all the time for the cause."

  "Very little," said Anselmo scornfully. "Very little in my judgment. To steal, yes. To eat well, yes. To murder, yes. To fight, no."

  "You are an old man who will make himself trouble with his mouth."

  "I am an old man who is afraid of no one," Anselmo told him. "Also I am an old man without horses."

  "You are an old man who may not live long."

  "I am an old man who will live until I die," Anselmo said. "And I am not afraid of foxes."

  Pablo said nothing but picked up the pack.

  "Nor of wolves either," Anselmo said, picking up the other pack. "If thou art a wolf."

  "Shut thy mouth," Pablo said to him. "Thou art an old man who always talks too much."

  "And would do whatever he said he would do," Anselmo said, bent under the pack. "And who now is hungry. And thirsty. Go on, guerilla leader with the sad face. Lead us to something to eat."

  It is starting badly enough, Robert Jordan thought. But Anselmo's a man. They are wonderful when they are good, he thought. There is no people like them when they are good and when they go bad there is no people that is worse. Anselmo must have known what he was doing when he brought us here. But I don't like it. I don't like any of it.

  The only good sign was that Pablo was carrying the pack and that he had given him the carbine. Perhaps he is always like that, Robert Jordan thought. Maybe he is just one of the gloomy ones.

  No, he said to himself, don't fool yourself. You do not know how he was before; but you do know that he is going bad fast and without hiding it. When he starts to hide it he will have made a decision. Remember that, he told himself. The first friendly thing he does, he will have made a decision. They are awfully good horses, though, he thought, beautiful horses. I wonder what could make me feel the way those h
orses make Pablo feel. The old man was right. The horses made him rich and as soon as he was rich he wanted to enjoy life. Pretty soon he'll feel bad because he can't join the Jockey Club, I guess, he thought. Pauvre Pablo. Il a manque son Jockey.

  That idea made him feel better. He grinned, looking at the two bent backs and the big packs ahead of him moving through the trees. He had not made any jokes with himself all day and now that he had made one he felt much better. You're getting to be as all the rest of them, he told himself. You're getting gloomy, too. He'd certainly been solemn and gloomy with Golz. The job had overwhelmed him a little. Slightly overwhelmed, he thought. Plenty overwhelmed. Golz was gay and he had wanted him to be gay too before he left, but he hadn't been.

  All the best ones, when you thought it over, were gay. It was much better to be gay and it was a sign of something too. It was like having immortality while you were still alive. That was a complicated one. There were not many of them left though. No, there were not many of the gay ones left. There were very damned few of them left. And if you keep on thinking like that, my boy, you won't be left either. Turn off the thinking now, old timer, old comrade. You're a bridge-blower now. Not a thinker. Man, I'm hungry, he thought. I hope Pablo eats well.

  2

  They had come through the heavy timber to the cup-shaped upper end of the little valley and he saw where the camp must be under the rim-rock that rose ahead of them through the trees.

  That was the camp all right and it was a good camp. You did not see it at all until you were up to it and Robert Jordan knew it could not be spotted from the air. Nothing would show from above. It was as well hidden as a bear's den. But it seemed to be little better guarded. He looked at it carefully as they came up.

  There was a large cave in the rim-rock formation and beside the opening a man sat with his back against the rock, his legs stretched out on the ground and his carbine leaning against the rock. He was cutting away on a stick with a knife and he stared at them as they came up, then went on whittling.

  "Hola," said the seated man. "What is this that comes?"

  "The old man and a dynamiter," Pablo told him and lowered the pack inside the entrance to the cave. Anselmo lowered his pack, too, and Robert Jordan unslung the rifle and leaned it against the rock.

  "Don't leave it so close to the cave," the whittling man, who had blue eyes in a dark, good-looking lazy gypsy face, the color of smoked leather, said. "There's a fire in there."