Men Without Women

by Ernest Hemingway

  The doctor told me that the major’s wife, who was very young and whom he had not married until he was definitely invalided out of the war, had died of pneumonia. She had been sick only a few days. No one expected her to die. The major did not come to the hospital for three days. Then he came at the usual hour, wearing a black band on the sleeve of his uniform. When he came back, there were large framed photographs around the wall, of all sorts of wounds before and after they had been cured by the machines. In front of the machine the major used were three photographs of hands like his that were completely restored. I do not know where the doctor got them. I always understood we were the first to use the machines. The photographs did not make much difference to the major because he only looked out of the window.

  HILLS LIKE WHITE ELEPHANTS

  The hills across the valley of the Ebro were long and white. On this side there was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines of rails in the sun. Close against the side of the station there was the warm shadow of the building and a curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads, hung across the open door into the bar, to keep out flies. The American and the girl with him sat at a table in the shade, outside the building. It was very hot and the express from Barcelona would come in forty minutes. It stopped at this junction for two minutes and went on to Madrid.

  “What should we drink?” the girl asked. She had taken off her hat and put it on the table.

  “It’s pretty hot,” the man said.

  “Let’s drink beer.”

  “Dos cervezas,” the man said into the curtain.

  “Big ones?” a woman asked from the doorway.

  “Yes. Two big ones.”

  The woman brought two glasses of beer and two felt pads. She put the felt pads and the beer glasses on the table and looked at the man and the girl. The girl was looking off at the line of hills. They were white in the sun and the country was brown and dry.

  “They look like white elephants,” she said.

  “I’ve never seen one,” the man drank his beer.

  “No, you wouldn’t have.”

  “I might have,” the man said. “Just because you say I wouldn’t have doesn’t prove anything.”

  The girl looked at the bead curtain. “They’ve painted something on it,” she said. “What does it say?”

  “Anis del Toro. It’s a drink.”

  “Could we try it?”

  The man called “Listen” through the curtain. The woman came out from the bar.

  “Four reales.”

  “We want two Anis del Toro.”

  “With water?”

  “Do you want it with water?”

  “I don’t know,” the girl said. “Is it good with water?”

  “It’s all right.”

  “You want them with water?” asked the woman.

  “Yes, with water.”

  “It tastes like licorice,” the girl said and put the glass down.

  “That’s the way with everything.”

  “Yes,” said the girl. “Everything tastes of licorice. Especially all the things you’ve waited so long for, like absinthe.”

  “Oh, cut it out.”

  “You started it,” the girl said. “I was being amused. I was having a fine time.”

  “Well, let’s try and have a fine time.”

  “All right. I was trying. I said the mountains looked like white elephants. Wasn’t that bright?”

  “That was bright.”

  “I wanted to try this new drink. That’s all we do, isn’t it—look at things and try new drinks?”

  “I guess so.”

  The girl looked across at the hills.

  “They’re lovely hills,” she said. “They don’t really look like white elephants. I just meant the coloring of their skin through the trees.”

  “Should we have another drink?”

  “All right.”

  The warm wind blew the bead curtain against the table.

  “The beer’s nice and cool,” the man said.

  “It’s lovely,” the girl said.

  “It’s really an awfully simple operation, Jig,” the man said. “It’s not really an operation at all.”

  The girl looked at the ground the table legs rested on.

  “I know you wouldn’t mind it, Jig. It’s really not anything. It’s just to let the air in.”

  The girl did not say anything.

  “I’ll go with you and I’ll stay with you all the time. They just let the air in and then it’s all perfectly natural.”

  “Then what will we do afterward?”

  “We’ll be fine afterward. Just like we were before.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “That’s the only thing that bothers us. It’s the only thing that’s made us unhappy.”

  The girl looked at the bead curtain, put her hand out and took hold of two of the strings of beads.

  “And you think then we’ll be all right and be happy?”

  “I know we will. You don’t have to be afraid. I’ve known lots of people that have done it.”

  “So have I,” said the girl. “And afterward they were all so happy.”

  “Well,” the man said, “if you don’t want to you don’t have to. I wouldn’t have you do it if you didn’t want to. But I know it’s perfectly simple.”

  “And you really want to?”

  “I think it’s the best thing to do. But I don’t want you to do it if you don’t really want to.”

  “And if I do it you’ll be happy and things will be like they were and you’ll love me?”

  “I love you now. You know I love you.”

  “I know. But if I do it, then it will be nice again if I say things are like white elephants, and you’ll like it?”

  “I’ll love it. I love it now but I just can’t think about it. You know how I get when I worry.”

  “If I do it you won’t ever worry?”

  “I won’t worry about that because it’s perfectly simple.”

  “Then I’ll do it. Because I don’t care about me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t care about me.”

  “Well, I care about you.”

  “Oh, yes. But I don’t care about me. And I’ll do it and then everything will be fine.”

  “I don’t want you to do it if you feel that way.”

  The girl stood up and walked to the end of the station. Across, on the other side, were fields of grain and trees along the banks of the Ebro. Far away, beyond the river, were mountains. The shadow of a cloud moved across the field of grain and she saw the river through the trees.

  “And we could have all this,” she said. “And we could have everything and every day we make it more impossible.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said we could have everything.”

  “We can have everything.”

  “No, we can’t.”

  “We can have the whole world.”

  “No, we can’t.”

  “We can go everywhere.”

  “No, we can’t. It isn’t ours any more.”

  “It’s ours.”

  “No, it isn’t. And once they take it away, you never get it back.”

  “But they haven’t taken it away.”

  “We’ll wait and see.”

  “Come on back in the shade,” he said. “You mustn’t feel that way.”

  “I don’t feel any way,” the girl said. “I just know things.”

  “I don’t want you to do anything that you don’t want to do—”

  “Nor that isn’t good for me,” she said. “I know. Could we have another beer?”

  “All right. But you’ve got to realize—”

  “I realize,” the girl said. “Can’t we maybe stop talking?”

  They sat down at the table and the girl looked across at the hills on the dry side of the valley and the man looked at her and at the table.

  “You’ve got to realize,” he said, �
�that I don’t want you to do it if you don’t want to. I’m perfectly willing to go through with it if it means anything to you.”

  “Doesn’t it mean anything to you? We could get along.”

  “Of course it does. But I don’t want anybody but you. I don’t want any one else. And I know it’s perfectly simple.”

  “Yes, you know it’s perfectly simple.”

  “It’s all right for you to say that, but I do know it.”

  “Would you do something for me now?”

  “I’d do anything for you.”

  “Would you please please please please please please please stop talking?”

  He did not say anything but looked at the bags against the wall of the station. There were labels on them from all the hotels where they had spent nights.

  “But I don’t want you to,” he said, “I don’t care anything about it.”

  “I’ll scream,” the girl said.

  The woman came out through the curtains with two glasses of beer and put them down on the damp felt pads. “The train comes in five minutes,” she said.

  “What did she say?” asked the girl.

  “That the train is coming in five minutes.”

  The girl smiled brightly at the woman, to thank her.

  “I’d better take the bags over to the other side of the station,” the man said. She smiled at him.

  “All right. Then come back and we’ll finish the beer.”

  He picked up the two heavy bags and carried them around the station to the other tracks. He looked up the tracks but could not see the train. Coming back, he walked through the barroom, where people waiting for the train were drinking. He drank an Anis at the bar and looked at the people. They were all waiting reasonably for the train. He went out through the bead curtain. She was sitting at the table and smiled at him.

  “Do you feel better?” he asked.

  “I feel fine,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I feel fine.”

  THE KILLERS

  The door of Henry’s lunch-room opened and two men came in. They sat down at the counter.

  “What’s yours?” George asked them.

  “I don’t know,” one of the men said. “What do you want to eat, Al?”

  “I don’t know,” said Al. “I don’t know what I want to eat.”

  Outside it was getting dark. The street-light came on outside the window. The two men at the counter read the menu. From the other end of the counter Nick Adams watched them. He had been talking to George when they came in.

  “I’ll have a roast pork tenderloin with apple sauce and mashed potatoes,” the first man said.

  “It isn’t ready yet.”

  “What the hell do you put it on the card for?”

  “That’s the dinner,” George explained. “You can get that at six o’clock.”

  George looked at the clock on the wall behind the counter.

  “It’s five o’clock.”

  “The clock says twenty minutes past five,” the second man said.

  “It’s twenty minutes fast.”

  “Oh, to hell with the clock,” the first man said. “What have you got to eat?”

  “I can give you any kind of sandwiches,” George said. “You can have ham and eggs, bacon and eggs, liver and bacon, or a steak.”

  “Give me chicken croquettes with green peas and cream sauce and mashed potatoes.”

  “That’s the dinner.”

  “Everything we want’s the dinner, eh? That’s the way you work it.”

  “I can give you ham and eggs, bacon and eggs, liver—”

  “I’ll take ham and eggs,” the man called Al said. He wore a derby hat and a black overcoat buttoned across the chest. His face was small and white and he had tight lips. He wore a silk muffler and gloves.

  “Give me bacon and eggs,” said the other man. He was about the same size as Al. Their faces were different, but they were dressed like twins. Both wore overcoats too tight for them. They sat leaning forward, their elbows on the counter.

  “Got anything to drink?” Al asked.

  “Silver beer, beyo, ginger-ale,” George said.

  “I mean you got anything to drink?”

  “Just those I said.”

  “This is a hot town,” said the other. “What do they call it?”

  “Summit.”

  “Ever hear of it?” Al asked his friend.

  “No,” said the friend.

  “What do you do here nights?” Al asked.

  “They eat the dinner,” his friend said. “They all come here and eat the big dinner.”

  “That’s right,” George said.

  “So you think that’s right?” Al asked George.

  “Sure.”

  “You’re a pretty bright boy, aren’t you?”

  “Sure,” said George.

  “Well, you’re not,” said the other little man. “Is he, Al?”

  “He’s dumb,” said Al. He turned to Nick. “What’s your name?”

  “Adams.”

  “Another bright boy,” Al said. “Ain’t he a bright boy, Max?”

  “The town’s full of bright boys,” Max said.

  George put the two platters, one of ham and eggs, the other of bacon and eggs, on the counter. He set down two side-dishes of fried potatoes and closed the wicket into the kitchen.

  “Which is yours?” he asked Al.

  “Don’t you remember?”

  “Ham and eggs.”

  “Just a bright boy,” Max said. He leaned forward and took the ham and eggs. Both men ate with their gloves on. George watched them eat.

  “What are you looking at?” Max looked at George.

  “Nothing.”

  “The hell you were. You were looking at me.”

  “Maybe the boy meant it for a joke, Max,” Al said.

  George laughed.

  “You don’t have to laugh,” Max said to him. “You don’t have to laugh at all, see?”

  “All right,” said George.

  “So he thinks it’s all right.” Max turned to Al. “He thinks it’s all right. That’s a good one.”

  “Oh, he’s a thinker,” Al said. They went on eating.

  “What’s the bright boy’s name down the counter?” Al asked Max.

  “Hey, bright boy,” Max said to Nick. “You go around on the other side of the counter with your boy friend.”

  “What’s the idea?” Nick asked.

  “There isn’t any idea.”

  “You better go around, bright boy,” Al said. Nick went around behind the counter.

  “What’s the idea?” George asked.

  “None of your damn business,” Al said. “Who’s out in the kitchen?”

  “The nigger.”

  “What do you mean the nigger?”

  “The nigger that cooks.”

  “Tell him to come in.”

  “What’s the idea?”

  “Tell him to come in.”

  “Where do you think you are?”

  “We know damn well where we are,” the man called Max said. “Do we look silly?”

  “You talk silly,” Al said to him. “What the hell do you argue with this kid for? Listen,” he said to George, “tell the nigger to come out here.”

  “What are you going to do to him?”

  “Nothing. Use your head, bright boy. What would we do to a nigger?”

  George opened the slit that opened back into the kitchen. “Sam,” he called. “Come in here a minute.”

  The door to the kitchen opened and the nigger came in. “What was it?” he asked. The two men at the counter took a look at him.

  “All right, nigger. You stand right there,” Al said.

  Sam, the nigger, standing in his apron, looked at the two men sitting at the counter. “Yes, sir,” he said. Al got down from his stool.

  “I’m going back to the kitchen with the nigger and bright boy,” he said. “Go on back to the kitchen, nigger. You go with him, bright boy.” The little
man walked after Nick and Sam, the cook, back into the kitchen. The door shut after them. The man called Max sat at the counter opposite George. He didn’t look at George but looked in the mirror that ran along back of the counter. Henry’s had been made over from a saloon into a lunch-counter.

  “Well, bright boy,” Max said, looking into the mirror, “why don’t you say something?”

  “What’s it all about?”

  “Hey, Al,” Max called, “bright boy wants to know what it’s all about.”

  “Why don’t you tell him?” Al’s voice came from the kitchen.

  “What do you think it’s all about?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you think?”

  Max looked into the mirror all the time he was talking.

  “I wouldn’t say.”

  “Hey, Al, bright boy says he wouldn’t say what he thinks it’s all about.”

  “I can hear you, all right,” Al said from the kitchen. He had propped open the slit that dishes passed through into the kitchen with a catsup bottle. “Listen, bright boy,” he said from the kitchen to George. “Stand a little further along the bar. You move a little to the left, Max.” He was like a photographer arranging for a group picture.

  “Talk to me, bright boy,” Max said. “What do you think’s going to happen?”

  George did not say anything.

  “I’ll tell you,” Max said. “We’re going to kill a Swede. Do you know a big Swede named Ole Andreson?”

  “Yes.”

  “He comes here to eat every night, don’t he?”

  “Sometimes he comes here.”

  “He comes here at six o’clock, don’t he?”

  “If he comes.”

  “We know all that, bright boy,” Max said. “Talk about something else. Ever go to the movies?”

  “Once in a while.”

  “You ought to go to the movies more. The movies are fine for a bright boy like you.”

  “What are you going to kill Ole Andreson for? What did he ever do to you?”

  “He never had a chance to do anything to us. He never even seen us.”

  “And he’s only going to see us once,” Al said from the kitchen.

  “What are you going to kill him for, then?” George asked.

  “We’re killing him for a friend. Just to oblige a friend, bright boy.”