For Whom the Bell Tolls

by Ernest Hemingway

  I don't think he is going to take this much more, Robert Jordan thought to himself. He held the cup in one hand and his other hand rested, frankly now, on the pistol. He had slipped the safety catch and he felt the worn comfort of the checked grip chafed almost smooth and touched the round, cool companionship of the trigger guard. Pablo no longer looked at him but only at the woman. She went on, "Listen to me, drunkard. You understand who commands here?"

  "I command."

  "No. Listen. Take the wax from thy hairy ears. Listen well. I command."

  Pablo looked at her and you could tell nothing of what he was thinking by his face. He looked at her quite deliberately and then he looked across the table at Robert Jordan. He looked at him a long time contemplatively and then he looked back at the woman, again.

  "All right. You command," he said. "And if you want he can command too. And the two of you can go to hell." He was looking the woman straight in the face and he was neither dominated by her nor seemed to be much affected by her. "It is possible that I am lazy and that I drink too much. You may consider me a coward but there you are mistaken. But I am not stupid." He paused. "That you should command and that you should like it. Now if you are a woman as well as a commander, that we should have something to eat."

  "Maria," the woman of Pablo called.

  The girl put her head inside the blanket across the cave mouth. "Enter now and serve the supper."

  The girl came in and walked across to the low table by the hearth and picked up the enameled-ware bowls and brought them to the table.

  "There is wine enough for all," the woman of Pablo said to Robert Jordan. "Pay no attention to what that drunkard says. When this is finished we will get more. Finish that rare thing thou art drinking and take a cup of wine."

  Robert Jordan swallowed down the last of the absinthe, feeling it, gulped that way, making a warm, small, fume-rising, wet, chemical-change-producing heat in him and passed the cup for wine. The girl dipped it full for him and smiled.

  "Well, did you see the bridge?" the gypsy asked. The others, who had not opened their mouths after the change of allegiance, were all leaning forward to listen now.

  "Yes," Robert Jordan said. "It is something easy to do. Would you like me to show you?"

  "Yes, man. With much interest."

  Robert Jordan took out the notebook from his shirt pocket and showed them the sketches.

  "Look how it seems," the flat-faced man, who was named Primitivo, said. "It is the bridge itself."

  Robert Jordan with the point of the pencil explained how the bridge should be blown and the reason for the placing of the charges.

  "What simplicity," the scarred-faced brother, who was called Andres, said. "And how do you explode them?"

  Robert Jordan explained that too and, as he showed them, he felt the girl's arm resting on his shoulder as she looked. The woman of Pablo was watching too. Only Pablo took no interest, sitting by himself with a cup of wine that he replenished by dipping into the big bowl Maria had filled from the wineskin that hung to the left of the entrance to the cave.

  "Hast thou done much of this?" the girl asked Robert Jordan softly.

  "Yes."

  "And can we see the doing of it?"

  "Yes. Why not?"

  "You will see it," Pablo said from his end of the table. "I believe that you will see it."

  "Shut up," the woman of Pablo said to him and suddenly remembering what she had seen in the hand in the afternoon she was wildly, unreasonably angry. "Shut up, coward. Shut up, bad luck bird. Shut up, murderer."

  "Good," Pablo said. "I shut up. It is thou who commands now and you should continue to look at the pretty pictures. But remember that I am not stupid."

  The woman of Pablo could feel her rage changing to sorrow and to a feeling of the thwarting of all hope and promise. She knew this feeling from when she was a girl and she knew the things that caused it all through her life. It came now suddenly and she put it away from her and would not let it touch her, neither her nor the Republic, and she said, "Now we will eat. Serve the bowls from the pot, Maria."

  5

  Robert Jordan pushed aside the saddle blanket that hung over the mouth of the cave and, stepping out, took a deep breath of the cold night air. The mist had cleared away and the stars were out. There was no wind, and, outside now of the warm air of the cave, heavy with smoke of both tobacco and charcoal, with the odor of cooked rice and meat, saffron, pimentos, and oil, the tarry, wine-spilled smell of the big skin hung beside the door, hung by the neck and the four legs extended, wine drawn from a plug fitted in one leg, wine that spilled a little onto the earth of the floor, settling the dust smell; out now from the odors of different herbs whose names he did not know that hung in bunches from the ceiling, with long ropes of garlic, away now from the copper-penny, red wine and garlic, horse sweat and man sweat dried in the clothing (acrid and gray the man sweat, sweet and sickly the dried brushed-off lather of horse sweat), of the men at the table, Robert Jordan breathed deeply of the clear night air of the mountains that smelled of the pines and of the dew on the grass in the meadow by the stream. Dew had fallen heavily since the wind had dropped, but, as he stood there, he thought there would be frost by morning.

  As he stood breathing deep and then listening to the night, he heard first, firing far away, and then he heard an owl cry in the timber below, where the horse corral was slung. Then inside the cave he could hear the gypsy starting to sing and the soft chording of a guitar.

  "I had an inheritance from my father," the artificially hardened voice rose harshly and hung there. Then went on: "It was the moon and the sun "And though I roam all over the world "The spending of it's never done."

  The guitar thudded with chorded applause for the singer. "Good," Robert Jordan heard some one say. "Give us the Catalan, gypsy."

  "No."

  "Yes. Yes. The Catalan."

  "All right," the gypsy said and sang mournfully, "My nose is flat.

  "My face is black.

  "But still I am a man."

  "Ole!" some one said. "Go on, gypsy!"

  The gypsy's voice rose tragically and mockingly.

  "Thank God I am a Negro.

  "And not a Catalan!"

  "There is much noise," Pablo's voice said. "Shut up, gypsy."

  "Yes," he heard the woman's voice. "There is too much noise. You could call the guardia civil with that voice and still it has no quality."

  "I know another verse," the gypsy said and the guitar commenced.

  "Save it," the woman told him.

  The guitar stopped.

  "I am not good in voice tonight. So there is no loss," the gypsy said and pushing the blanket aside he came out into the dark.

  Robert Jordan watched him walk over to a tree and then come toward him.

  "Roberto," the gypsy said softly.

  "Yes, Rafael," he said. He knew the gypsy had been affected by the wine from his voice. He himself had drunk the two absinthes and some wine but his head was clear and cold from the strain of the difficulty with Pablo.

  "Why didst thou not kill Pablo?" the gypsy said very softly.

  "Why kill him?"

  "You have to kill him sooner or later. Why did you not approve of the moment?"

  "Do you speak seriously?"

  "What do you think they all waited for? What do you think the woman sent the girl away for? Do you believe that it is possible to continue after what has been said?"

  "That you all should kill him."

  "Que va," the gypsy said quietly. "That is your business. Three or four times we waited for you to kill him. Pablo has no friends."

  "I had the idea," Robert Jordan said. "But I left it."

  "Surely all could see that. Every one noted your preparations. Why didn't you do it?"

  "I thought it might molest you others or the woman."

  "Que va. And the woman waiting as a whore waits for the flight of the big bird. Thou art younger than thou appearest."

  "It i
s possible."

  "Kill him now," the gypsy urged.

  "That is to assassinate."

  "Even better," the gypsy said very softly. "Less danger. Go on. Kill him now."

  "I cannot in that way. It is repugnant to me and it is not how one should act for the cause."

  "Provoke him then," the gypsy said. "But you have to kill him. There is no remedy."

  As they spoke, the owl flew between the trees with the softness of all silence, dropping past them, then rising, the wings beating quickly, but with no noise of feathers moving as the bird hunted.

  "Look at him," the gypsy said in the dark. "Thus should men move."

  "And in the day, blind in a tree with crows around him," Robert Jordan said.

  "Rarely," said the gypsy. "And then by hazard. Kill him," he went on. "Do not let it become difficult."

  "Now the moment is passed."

  "Provoke it," the gypsy said. "Or take advantage of the quiet."

  The blanket that closed the cave door opened and light came out. Some one came toward where they stood.

  "It is a beautiful night," the man said in a heavy, dull voice. "We will have good weather."

  It was Pablo.

  He was smoking one of the Russian cigarettes and in the glow, as he drew on the cigarette, his round face showed. They could see his heavy, long-armed body in the starlight.

  "Do not pay any attention to the woman," he said to Robert Jordan. In the dark the cigarette glowed bright, then showed in his hand as he lowered it. "She is difficult sometimes. She is a good woman. Very loyal to the Republic." The light of the cigarette jerked slightly now as he spoke. He must be talking with it in the corner of his mouth, Robert Jordan thought. "We should have no difficulties. We are of accord. I am glad you have come." The cigarette glowed brightly. "Pay no attention to arguments," he said. "You are very welcome here.

  "Excuse me now," he said. "I go to see how they have picketed the horses."

  He went off through the trees to the edge of the meadow and they heard a horse nicker from below.

  "You see?" the gypsy said. "Now you see? In this way has the moment escaped."

  Robert Jordan said nothing.

  "I go down there," the gypsy said angrily.

  "To do what?"

  "Que va, to do what. At least to prevent him leaving."

  "Can he leave with a horse from below?"

  "No."

  "Then go to the spot where you can prevent him."

  "Agustin is there."

  "Go then and speak with Agustin. Tell him that which has happened."

  "Agustin will kill him with pleasure."

  "Less bad," Robert Jordan said. "Go then above and tell him all as it happened."

  "And then?"

  "I go to look below in the meadow."

  "Good. Man. Good," he could not see Rafael's face in the dark but he could feel him smiling. "Now you have tightened your garters," the gypsy said approvingly.

  "Go to Agustin," Robert Jordan said to him.

  "Yes, Roberto, yes," said the gypsy.

  Robert Jordan walked through the pines, feeling his way from tree to tree to the edge of the meadow. Looking across it in the darkness, lighter here in the open from the starlight, he saw the dark bulks of the picketed horses. He counted them where they were scattered between him and the stream. There were five. Robert Jordan sat down at the foot of a pine tree and looked out across the meadow.

  I am tired, he thought, and perhaps my judgment is not good. But my obligation is the bridge and to fulfill that, I must take no useless risk of myself until I complete that duty. Of course it is sometimes more of a risk not to accept chances which are necessary to take but I have done this so far, trying to let the situation take its own course. If it is true, as the gypsy says, that they expected me to kill Pablo then I should have done that. But it was never clear to me that they did expect that. For a stranger to kill where he must work with the people afterwards is very bad. It may be done in action, and it may be done if backed by sufficient discipline, but in this case I think it would be very bad, although it was a temptation and seemed a short and simple way. But I do not believe anything is that short nor that simple in this country and, while I trust the woman absolutely, I could not tell how she would react to such a drastic thing. One dying in such a place can be very ugly, dirty and repugnant. You could not tell how she would react. Without the woman there is no organization nor any discipline here and with the woman it can be very good. It would be ideal if she would kill him, or if the gypsy would (but he will not) or if the sentry, Agustin, would. Anselmo will if I ask it, though he says he is against all killing. He hates him, I believe, and he already trusts me and believes in me as a representative of what he believes in. Only he and the woman really believe in the Republic as far as I can see; but it is too early to know that yet.

  As his eyes became used to the starlight he could see that Pablo was standing by one of the horses. The horse lifted his head from grazing; then dropped it impatiently. Pablo was standing by the horse, leaning against him, moving with him as he swung with the length of the picket rope and patting him on the neck. The horse was impatient at the tenderness while he was feeding. Robert Jordan could not see what Pablo was doing, nor hear what he was saying to the horse, but he could see that he was neither unpicketing nor saddling. He sat watching him, trying to think his problem out clearly.

  "Thou my big good little pony," Pablo was saying to the horse in the dark; it was the big bay stallion he was speaking to. "Thou lovely white-faced big beauty. Thou with the big neck arching like the viaduct of my pueblo," he stopped. "But arching more and much finer." The horse was snatching grass, swinging his head sideways as he pulled, annoyed by the man and his talking. "Thou art no woman nor a fool," Pablo told the bay horse. "Thou, oh, thou, thee, thee, my big little pony. Thou art no woman like a rock that is burning. Thou art no colt of a girl with cropped head and the movement of a foal still wet from its mother. Thou dost not insult nor lie nor not understand. Thou, oh, thee, oh my good big little pony."

  It would have been very interesting for Robert Jordan to have heard Pablo speaking to the bay horse but he did not hear him because now, convinced that Pablo was only down checking on his horses, and having decided that it was not a practical move to kill him at this time, he stood up and walked back to the cave. Pablo stayed in the meadow talking to the horse for a long time. The horse understood nothing that he said; only, from the tone of the voice, that they were endearments and he had been in the corral all day and was hungry now, grazing impatiently at the limits of his picket rope, and the man annoyed him. Pablo shifted the picket pin finally and stood by the horse, not talking now. The horse went on grazing and was relieved now that the man did not bother him.

  6

  Inside the cave, Robert Jordan sat on one of the rawhide stools in a corner by the fire listening to the woman. She was washing the dishes and the girl, Maria, was drying them and putting them away, kneeling to place them in the hollow dug in the wall that was used as a shelf.

  "It is strange," she said. "That El Sordo has not come. He should have been here an hour ago."

  "Did you advise him to come?"

  "No. He comes each night."

  "Perhaps he is doing something. Some work."

  "It is possible," she said. "If he does not come we must go to see him tomorrow."

  "Yes. Is it far from here?"

  "No. It will be a good trip. I lack exercise."

  "Can I go?" Maria asked. "May I go too, Pilar?"

  "Yes, beautiful," the woman said, then turning her big face, "Isn't she pretty?" she asked Robert Jordan. "How does she seem to thee? A little thin?"

  "To me she seems very well," Robert Jordan said. Maria filled his cup with wine. "Drink that," she said. "It will make me seem even better. It is necessary to drink much of that for me to seem beautiful."

  "Then I had better stop," Robert Jordan said. "Already thou seemest beautiful and more."

&
nbsp; "That's the way to talk," the woman said. "You talk like the good ones. What more does she seem?"

  "Intelligent," Robert Jordan said lamely. Maria giggled and the woman shook her head sadly. "How well you begin and how it ends, Don Roberto."

  "Don't call me Don Roberto."

  "It is a joke. Here we say Don Pablo for a joke. As we say the Senorita Maria for a joke."

  "I don't joke that way," Robert Jordan said. "Camarada to me is what all should be called with seriousness in this war. In the joking commences a rottenness."

  "Thou art very religious about thy politics," the woman teased him. "Thou makest no jokes?"

  "Yes. I care much for jokes but not in the form of address. It is like a flag."

  "I could make jokes about a flag. Any flag," the woman laughed. "To me no one can joke of anything. The old flag of yellow and gold we called pus and blood. The flag of the Republic with the purple added we call blood, pus and permanganate. It is a joke."

  "He is a Communist," Maria said. "They are very serious gente."

  "Are you a Communist?"

  "No I am an anti-fascist."

  "For a long time?"

  "Since I have understood fascism."

  "How long is that?"

  "For nearly ten years."

  "That is not much time," the woman said. "I have been a Republican for twenty years."

  "My father was a Republican all his life," Maria said. "It was for that they shot him."

  "My father was also a Republican all his life. Also my grandfather," Robert Jordan said.

  "In what country?"

  "The United States."

  "Did they shoot them?" the woman asked.

  "Que va," Maria said. "The United States is a country of Republicans. They don't shoot you for being a Republican there."

  "All the same it is a good thing to have a grandfather who was a Republican," the woman said. "It shows a good blood."

  "My grandfather was on the Republican national committee," Robert Jordan said. That impressed even Maria.

  "And is thy father still active in the Republic?" Pilar asked.

  "No. He is dead."

  "Can one ask how he died?"

  "He shot himself."

  "To avoid being tortured?" the woman asked.

  "Yes," Robert Jordan said. "To avoid being tortured."

  Maria looked at him with tears in her eyes. "My father," she said, "could not obtain a weapon. Oh, I am very glad that your father had the good fortune to obtain a weapon."