Islands in the Stream

by Ernest Hemingway

  “Who’s on the yacht?” Roger asked.

  “People. You wouldn’t like them.”

  “They seemed very nice.”

  “Do we have to talk that way?”

  “No,” Roger said.

  “You met the man of persistence. He’s the richest and the dullest. Can’t we just not talk about them? They’re all good and wonderful and dull as hell.”

  Young Tom came up with Andrew following him. They had been swimming far down the beach and when they had come out and seen the girl by David’s chair they had come running on the hard sand and Andrew had been left behind. He came up out of breath.

  “You could have waited,” he said to young Tom.

  “I’m sorry, Andy,” young Tom said. Then he said, “Good morning. We waited for you but then we went in.”

  “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  “You’re not late. We’re all going in again.”

  “I’ll stay out,” David said. “You all go in now. I’ve been talking too much anyway?”

  “You don’t have to worry about undertow,” young Tom told her. “It’s a long gradual slope.”

  “What about sharks and barracuda?”

  “Sharks only come in at night,” Roger told her. “Barracuda never bother you. They’d only hit you if the water was roily or muddy.”

  “If they just saw a flash of something and didn’t know what it was they might strike at it by mistake,” David explained. “But they don’t bite people in clear water. There’s nearly always barracuda around where we swim.”

  “You can see them float along over the sand right alongside of you,” young Tom said. “They’re very curious. But they always go away.”

  “If you had fish, though,” David told her, “like goggle-fishing and the fish on a stringer or in a bag, they’d go after the fish and they might hit you by accident because they’re so fast.”

  “Or if you were swimming in a bunch of mullet or a big school of sardines,” young Tom said. “They could hit you when they were slashing in after the school fish.”

  “You swim between Tom and me,” Andy said. “Nothing will bother you that way.”

  The waves were breaking heavily on the beach and the sandpipers and Wilson plover ran twinklingly out onto the hard new-wet sand as the water receded before the next wave broke.

  “Do you think we ought to swim when it’s this rough and we can’t see?”

  “Oh, sure,” David told her. “Just watch where you walk before you start to swim. It’s probably too rough for a sting ray to lie in the sand anyway.”

  “Mr. Davis and I will look after you,” young Tom said.

  “I’ll look after you,” Andy said.

  “If you bump into any fish in the surf they’re probably little pompanos,” David said. “They come in on the high tide to feed on the sand fleas. They’re awfully pretty in the water and they’re curious and friendly.”

  “It sounds a little like swimming in an aquarium,” she said.

  “Andy will teach you how to let the air out of your lungs to stay down deep,” David told her. “Tom will show you how not to get in trouble with morays.”

  “Don’t try to scare her, Dave,” young Tom said. “We’re not big kings of underwater like he is. But just because he’s a king of underwater, Miss Bruce—”

  “Audrey.”

  “Audrey,” Tom said and stopped.

  “What were you saying, Tommy?”

  “I don’t know,” young Tom said. “Let’s go in and swim.”

  Thomas Hudson worked on for a while. Then he went down and sat by David and watched the four of them in the surf. The girl was swimming without a cap and she swam and dove as sleek as a seal. She was as good a swimmer as Roger except for the difference in power. When they came in onto the beach and came walking toward the house on the hard sand, the girl’s hair was wet and went straight back from her forehead so there was nothing to trick the shape of her head and Thomas Hudson thought he had never seen a lovelier face nor a finer body. Except one, he thought. Except the one finest and loveliest. Don’t think about it, he told himself. Just look at this girl and be glad she’s here.

  “How was it?” he asked her.

  “Wonderful,” she smiled at him. “But I didn’t see any fish at all,” she told David.

  “You probably wouldn’t in so much surf,” David said. “Unless you bumped into them.”

  She was sitting on the sand with her hands clasped around her knees. Her hair hung, damp, to her shoulders and the two boys sat beside her. Roger lay on the sand in front of her with his forehead on his folded arms. Thomas Hudson opened the screen door and went inside the house and then upstairs to the porch to work on the picture. He thought that was the best thing for him to do.

  Below on the sand, where Thomas Hudson no longer watched them, the girl was looking at Roger.

  “Are you gloomy?” she asked him.

  “No.”

  “Thoughtful?”

  “A little maybe. I don’t know.”

  “On a day like this it’s nice not to think at all.”

  “All right. Let’s not think. Is it all right if I watch the waves?”

  “The waves are free.”

  “Do you want to go in again?”

  “Later.”

  “Who taught you to swim?” Roger asked her.

  “You did.”

  Roger raised his head and looked at her.

  “Don’t you remember the beach at Cap d’Antibes? The little beach. Not Eden Roc I used to watch you dive at Eden Roc.”

  “What the hell are you doing here and what’s your real name?”

  “I came to see you,” she said “And I suppose my name is Audrey Bruce.”

  “Should we go, Mr. Davis?” young Tom asked.

  Roger did not even answer him.

  “What your real name?”

  “I was Audrey Raeburn.”

  “And why did you come to see me?”

  “Because I wanted to. Was it wrong?”

  “I guess not,” Roger said. “Who said I was here?”

  “A dreadful man I met at a cocktail party in New York. You’d had a fight with him here. He said you were a beachcomber.”

  “Well it’s combed pretty neatly,” Roger said looking out to sea.

  “He said you were quite a few other things, too. None of them were very complimentary.”

  “Who were you at Antibes with?”

  “With mother and Dick Raeburn. Now do you remember?”

  Roger sat up and looked at her. Then he went over and put his arms around her and kissed her.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said.

  “Was it all right to come?” she asked.

  “You old brat,” Roger said. “Is it really you?”

  “Do I have to prove it? Couldn’t you just believe it?”

  “I don’t remember any secret marks.”

  “Do you like me now?”

  “I love you now.”

  “You couldn’t expect me to look like a colt forever. Do you remember when you told me I looked like a colt at Auteuil that time and I cried?”

  “It was a compliment, too. I said you looked like a colt by Tenniel out of Alice in Wonderland.”

  “I cried.”

  “Mr. Davis,” Andy said. “And Audrey. We boys are going to go and get some Cokes. Do you want any?”

  “No, Andy. You, brat?”

  “Yes. I’d love one.”

  “Come on, Dave.”

  “No. I want to hear it.”

  “You are a bastard for a brother sometimes,” young Tom said.

  “Bring me one, too,” David said. “Go right ahead, Mr. Davis, don’t mind me at all.”

  “I don’t mind you, Davy,” the girl said.

  “But where did you go and why are you Audrey Bruce?”

  “It’s sort of complicated.”

  “I guess it was.”

  “Mother married a man named Bruce finally.”

  “
I knew him.”

  “I liked him.”

  “I pass,” Roger said. “But why the Audrey?”

  “It’s my middle name. I took it because I didn’t like mother’s.”

  “I didn’t like mother.”

  “Neither did I. I liked Dick Raeburn and I liked Bill Bruce and I loved you and I loved Tom Hudson. He didn’t recognize me either, did he?”

  “I don’t know. He’s strange and he might not say. I know he thinks you look like Tommy’s mother.”

  “I wish I did.”

  “You do damned plenty enough.”

  “Truly you do,” David said. “That’s something I know about. I’m sorry, Audrey. I ought to shut up and go away.”

  “You didn’t love me and you didn’t love Tom.”

  “Oh yes, I did. You’ll never know.”

  “Where’s mother now?”

  “She’s married to a man named Geoffrey Townsend and lives in London.”

  “Does she still drug?”

  “Of course. And she’s beautiful.”

  “Really?”

  “No. She really is. This isn’t just filial piety.”

  “You had a lot of filial piety once.”

  “I know. I used to pray for everyone. Everything used to break my heart. I used to do First Fridays for mother to give her the grace of a happy death. You don’t know how I prayed for you, Roger.”

  “I wish it would have done more good,” Roger said.

  “So do I,” she said.

  “You can’t tell, Audrey. You never know when it may,” David said. “I don’t mean that Mr. Davis needs to be prayed for. I just mean about prayer technically.”

  “Thanks, Dave,” Roger said. “What ever became of Bruce?”

  “He died. Don’t you remember?”

  “No. I remember Dick Raeburn did.”

  “I imagine you do.”

  “I do.”

  Young Tom and Andy came back with the bottles of Coca-Cola and Andy gave a cold bottle to the girl and one to David.

  “Thank you,” she said. “It’s wonderful and cold.”

  “Audrey,” young Tom said. “I remember you now. You used to come to the studio with Mr. Raeburn. You never talked at all. You and I and Papa and Mr. Raeburn used to go to the different circuses and we used to go racing. But you weren’t as beautiful then.”

  “Sure she was,” Roger said. “Ask your father.”

  “I’m sorry about Mr. Raeburn dying,” young Tom said. “I remember him dying very well. He was killed by a bobsled that rode high over a turn and went into the crowd. He’d been very ill and Papa and I went to visit him. Then he was better after a while and he went to watch the bob races although he shouldn’t have. We weren’t there when he was killed. I’m sorry if talking about it upsets you, Audrey.”

  “He was a nice man,” Audrey said. “It doesn’t upset me, Tommy. It was a long time ago.”

  “Did you know either of us boys?” Andy asked her.

  “How could she, horseman? We weren’t born yet,” David said.

  “How was I to know?” Andy asked. “I can’t remember anything about France and I don’t think you remember much.”

  “I don’t pretend to. Tommy remembers France for all of us. Later on I’ll remember this island. And I can remember every picture papa ever painted that I’ve seen.”

  “Can you remember the racing ones?” Audrey asked.

  “Every one I’ve seen.”

  “I was in some of them,” Audrey said. “At Longchamps and at Auteuil and St. Cloud. It’s always the back of my head.”

  “I can remember the back of your head then,” young Tom said. “And your hair was down to your waist and I was two steps above you to see better. It was a hazy day the way it is in the fall when it’s blue smoky looking and we were in the upper stand right opposite the water jump and on our left was the bullfinch and the stone wall. The finish was on the side closer to us and the water jump was on the inner course of the track. I was always above and behind you to see better except when we were down at the track.”

  “I thought you were a funny little boy then.”

  “I guess I was. And you never talked. Maybe because I was so young. But wasn’t Auteuil a beautiful track though?”

  “Wonderful. I was there last year.”

  “Maybe we can go this year, Tommy,” David said. “Did you use to go to the races with her, too, Mr. Davis?”

  “No,” Roger said. “I was just her swimming teacher.”

  “You were my hero.”

  “Wasn’t papa ever your hero?” Andrew asked.

  “Of course he was. But I couldn’t let him be my hero as much as I wanted because he was married. When he and Tommy’s mother were divorced I wrote him a letter. It was very powerful and I was ready to take Tommy’s mother’s place in any way I could. But I never sent it because he married Davy’s and Andy’s mother.”

  “Things are certainly complicated,” young Tom said.

  “Tell us some more about Paris,” David said. “We ought to learn all we can if we’re going there now.”

  “Do you remember when we’d be down on the rail, Audrey, and how after the horses came over the last obstacle they would be coming straight down toward us and the way they would look coming bigger and bigger and the noise they would make on the turf when they would go past?”

  “And how cold it used to be and how we would get close to the big braziers to get warm and eat the sandwiches from the bar?”

  “I loved it in the fall,” young Tom said. “We used to ride back home in a carriage, an open one, do you remember? Out of the Bois and then along the river with it just getting dark and the burning leaves smell and the tugs towing barges on the river.”

  “Do you really remember it that well? You were an awfully small boy.”

  “I remember every bridge on the river from Suresnes to Charenton,” Tommy told her.

  “You can’t.”

  “I can’t name them. But I’ve got them in my head.”

  “I don’t believe you can remember them all. And part of the river’s ugly and many of the bridges are.”

  “I know it. But I was there a long time after I knew you, and papa and I used to walk the whole river. The ugly parts and the beautiful parts and I’ve fished a lot of it with different friends of mine.”

  “You really fished in the Seine?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did papa fish it, too?”

  “Not so much. He used to fish sometimes at Charenton. But he wanted to walk when he finished work and so we would walk until I got too tired and then get a bus back some way. After we had some money we used to take taxis or horsecabs.”

  “You must have had money when we were going to the races.”

  “I think we did that year,” Tommy said. “I can’t remember that. Sometimes we had money and sometimes we didn’t.”

  “We always had money,” Audrey said. “Mother never married anyone who didn’t have lots of money.”

  “Are you rich, Audrey?” Tommy asked.

  “No,” the girl said. “My father spent his money and lost his money after he married mother and none of my stepfathers ever made any provision for me.”

  “You don’t have to have money,” Andrew said to her.

  “Why don’t you live with us?” young Tom asked her. “You’d be fine with us.”

  “It sounds lovely. But I have to make a living.”

  “We’re going to Paris,” Andrew said. “You come along. It will be wonderful. You and I can go and see all the arrondissements together.”

  “I’ll have to think it over,” the girl said.

  “Do you want me to make you a drink to help you decide?” David said. “That’s what they always do in Mr. Davis’s books.”

  “Don’t ply me with liquor.”

  “That’s an old white slaver’s trick,” young Tom said. “Then the next thing they know they’re in Buenos Aires.”

  “They must give them s
omething awfully strong,” David said. “That’s a long trip.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything much stronger than the way Mr. Davis makes martinis,” Andrew said. “Make her a martini, please, Mr. Davis.”

  “Do you want one, Audrey?” Andrew asked.

  “Yes. If it’s not too long before lunch.”

  Roger got up to make them and young Tom came over and sat by her. Andrew was sitting at her feet.

  “I don’t think you ought to take it, Audrey,” he said. “It’s the first step. Remember ce n’est que le premier pas qui conte.”

  Up on the porch Thomas Hudson kept on painting. He could not keep from hearing their talk but he had not looked down at them since they had come in from swimming. He was having a difficult time staying in the carapace of work that he had built for his protection and he thought, if I don’t work now I may lose it. Then he thought that there would be time to work when they were all gone. But he knew he must keep on working now or he would lose the security he had built for himself with work. I will do exactly as much as I would have done if they were not here, he thought. Then I will clear up and go down and the hell with thinking of Raeburn or of the old days or of anything. But as he worked he felt a loneliness coming into him already. It was next week when they would leave. Work, he told himself. Get it right and keep your habits because you are going to need them.

  When he had finished work and gone down to join them, Thomas Hudson was still thinking about the painting and he said “Hi” to the girl and then looked away from her. Then he looked back.

  “I couldn’t help hearing it,” he said. “Or overhearing it. I’m glad we’re old friends.”

  “So am I. Did you know?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Let’s get lunch. Are you dry, Audrey?”

  “I’ll change in the shower,” she said. “I have a shirt and the skirt to this.”

  “Tell Joseph and Eddy that we’re ready,” Thomas Hudson said to young Tom. “I’ll show you the shower, Audrey.”

  Roger went into the house.

  “I thought I shouldn’t be here under false pretenses,” Audrey said.

  “You weren’t.”

  “Don’t you think I could be any good for him?”

  “You might. What he needs is to work well to save his soul. I don’t know anything about souls. But he misplaced his the first time he went out to the Coast.”

  “But he’s going to write a novel now. A great novel.”