Short Stories

by Ernest Hemingway

  “It’s as good as the water in the spring where we were when we first saw them,” his sister said. “It tastes even better after the chocolate.”

  “We can cook if you’re hungry.”

  “I’m not if you’re not.”

  “I’m always hungry. I was a fool not to go on and get the berries.”

  “No. You came back to find out.”

  “Look, Littless. I know a place back by the slashing we came through where we can get berries. I’ll cache everything and we can go in there through the timber all the way and pick a couple of pails full and then we’ll have them ahead for tomorrow. It isn’t a bad walk.”

  “All right. But I’m fine.”

  “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “No. Not at all now after the chocolate. I’d love to just stay and read. We had a nice walk when we were hunting.”

  “All right,” Nick said. “Are you tired from yesterday?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “We’ll take it easy. I’ll read Wuthering Heights.”

  “Is it too old to read out loud to me?”

  “No.”

  “Will you read it?”

  “Sure.”

  Crossing the Mississippi

  [Ed. Note: this story originally published in italics]

  The Kansas City train stopped at a siding just east of the Mississippi River and Nick looked out at the road that was half a foot deep with dust. There was nothing in sight but the road and a few dust-grayed trees. A wagon lurched along through the ruts, the driver slouching with the jolts of his spring seat and letting the reins hang slack on the horses’ backs.

  Nick looked at the wagon and wondered where it was going, whether the driver lived near the Mississippi and whether he ever went fishing. The wagon lurched out of sight up the road and Nick thought of the World Series game going on in New York. He thought of Happy Felsch’ s home run in the first game he had watched at the White Sox Park, Slim Solee swinging far forward, his knee nearly touching the ground and the white dot of the ball on its far trajectory toward the green fence at center field, Felsch, his head down, tearing for the stuffed white square at first base and then the exulting roar from the spectators as the ball landed in a knot of scrambling fans in the open bleachers.

  As the train started and the dusty trees and brown road commenced to move past, the magazine vendor came swaying down the aisle.

  “Got any dope on the Series?” Nick asked him.

  “White Sox won the final game,” the news butcher answered, making his way down the aisle of the chair car with the sea legs roll of a sailor. His answer gave Nick a comfortable glow. The White Sox had licked them. It was a fine feeling. Nick opened his Saturday Evening Post and commenced reading, occasionally looking out of the window to watch for any glimpse of the Mississippi. Crossing the Mississippi would be a big event he thought, and he wanted to enjoy every minute of it.

  The scenery seemed to flow past in a stream of road, telegraph poles, occasional houses and flat brown fields. Nick had expected bluffs for the Mississippi shore but finally, after an endless seeming bayou had poured past the window, he could see out of the window the engine of the train curving out onto a long bridge above a broad, muddy brown stretch of water. Desolate hills were on the far side that Nick could now see and on the near side a flat mud bank. The river seemed to move solidly downstream, not to flow but to move like a solid, shifting lake, swirling a little where the abutments of the bridge jutted out. Mark Twain, Huck Finn, Tom Sawyer, and LaSalle crowded each other in Nick’s mind as he looked up the flat, brown plain of slow-moving water. Anyhow I’ve seen the Mississippi, he thought happily to hunseli.

  Night Before Landing

  [Ed. Note: this story originally published in italics]

  Walking around the deck in the dark Nick passed the Polish officers sitting in a row of deck chairs. Someone was playing the mandolin. Leon Chocianowicz put out his foot in the dark.

  “Hey, Nick,” he said, “where you going?”

  “Nowhere. Just walking.”

  “Sit here. There’s a chair.”

  Nick sat in the empty chair and looked out at the men passing against the light from the sea. It was a warm night in June. Nick leaned back in the chair.

  “Tomorrow we get in,” Leon said. “I heard it from the wireless man.”

  “I heard it from the barber,” Nick said.

  Leon laughed and spoke in Polish to the man in the next deck chair. He leaned forward and smiled at Nick.

  “He doesn’t speak English,” Leon said. “He says he heard it from Gaby.”

  “Where’s Gaby?”

  “Up in a lifeboat with somebody.”

  “Where’s Galinski?”

  “Maybe with Gaby.”

  “No,” said Nick. “She told me she couldn’t stand him.” Gaby was the only girl on the boat. She had blonde hair which was always coming down, a loud laugh, a good body, and a bad odor of some sort. An aunt, who had not left her cabin since the boat sailed, was taking her back to her family in Paris. Her father had something to do with the French Line and she dined at the captain’s table.

  “Why doesn’t she like Galinski?” Leon asked.

  “She said he looked like a porpoise.”

  Leon laughed again. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go find him and tell him.”

  They stood up and walked over to the rail. Overhead the lifeboats were swung out ready to be lowered. The ship was listed, the decks slanted and the lifeboats hung slanted and widely swinging. The water slipped softly, great patches of phosphorescent kelp churned out and sucked and bubbled under.

  “She makes good time,” Nick said, looking down at the water.

  “We’re in the Bay of Biscay.” Leon said. “Tomorrow we ought to see the land.”

  They walked around the deck and down a ladder back to the stern to watch the wake phosphorescent and turning like plowed land in perspective. Above them was the gun platform with two sailors walking up and down beside the gun black against the faint glow from the water.

  “They’re zigzagging,” Leon watched the wake.

  “All day.”

  “They say these boats carry the German mails and that’s why they’re never sunk.”

  “Maybe,” said Nick. “I don’t believe it.”

  “I don’t either. But it’s a nice idea. Let’s go find Galinski.”

  They found Galinski in his cabin with a bottle of cognac. He was drinking out of a tooth mug.

  “Hello, Anton.”

  “Hello, Nick. Hello, Leon. Haff a drink.”

  “You tell him, Nick.”

  “Listen, Anton. We’ve got a message for you from a beautiful lady.”

  “I know your beautiful lady. You take that beautiful lady and stick her up a funnel.”

  Lying on his back he put his feet against the springs and mattress of the upper berth and pushed.

  “Carper!” he shouted. “Hey, Carper! Wake up and drink.”

  Over the edge of the upper bunk looked a face. It was a round face with steel-rimmed spectacles.

  “Don’t ask me to drink when I’m drunk.”

  “Come on down and drink,” Galinski bellowed.

  “No,” from the upper berth. “Give me the liquor up here.”

  He had rolled over against the wall again.

  “He’s been drunk for two weeks,” Galinski said.

  “I’m sorry,” came the voice from the upper berth. “That can’t be an accurate statement because I only met you ten days ago.”

  “Haven’t you been drunk for two weeks, Carper,” Nick said.

  “Of course,” the Carper said, talking to the wall. “But Galinski has no right to say so.”

  Galinski jogged him up and down by pushing w
ith his feet.

  “I take it back, Carper,” he said. “I don’t think you’re drunk.”

  “Don’t make ridiculous statements,” the Carper said faintly.

  “What are you doing, Anton,” Leon asked.

  “Thinking about my girl in Niagara Falls.”

  “Come on, Nick,” said Leon. “We’ll leave this porpoise.”

  “Did she tell you I was a porpoise?” Galinski asked. “She told me I was a porpoise. You know what I said to her in French. ‘Mademoiselle Caby, you have got nothing that has any interest for me.’ Take a drink, Nick.”

  He reached out the bottle and Nick swallowed some of the brandy.

  “Leon?”

  “No. Come on, Nick. We’ll leave him.”

  “I go on duty with the men at midnight,” Galinski said.

  “Don’t get drunk,” Nick said.

  “I have never been drunk.”

  In the upper bunk the Carper muttered something.

  “What you say, Carper?”

  “I was calling on God to strike him.”

  “I have neffer been drunk,” Galinski repeated and poured the tooth mug half full of cognac.

  “Go on, God,” the Carper said. “Strike him.”

  “I have neffer been drunk. I have neffer slept with a woman.”

  “Come on. Do your stuff, God. Strike him.”

  “Come on, Nick. Let’s get out.”

  Galinski handed the bottle to Nick. He took a swallow and followed the tall Pole out.

  Outside the door they heard Galinski’s voice shouting, “I have neffer been drunk. I have neffer slept with a woman. I have neffer told a lie.”

  “Strike him,” came the Carper’s thin voice. “Don’t take that stuff from him, God. Strike him.”

  “They’re a fine pair,” Nick said.

  “What about this Carper? Where does he come from?”

  “He was two years in the ambulance before. They sent him home. He got fired out of college and now he’s going back.”

  “He drinks too much.”

  “He isn’t happy.”

  “Let’s get a bottle of wine and sleep out in a lifeboat.”

  “Come on.”

  They stopped at the smoking room bar and Nick bought a bottle of red wine. Leon stood at the bar, tall in his French uniform. Inside the smoking room two big poker games were going on. Nick would have liked to play but not on the last night. Everybody was playing. It was smoky and hot with all the portholes closed and shuttered. Nick looked at Leon. “Want to play?”

  “No. Let’s drink the wine and talk.”

  “Let’s get two bottles then.”

  They went out of the hot room onto the deck carrying the bottles. It was not hard to climb out onto one of the lifeboats although it scared Nick to look down at the water as he climbed out on the davits. Inside the boat they made themselves comfortable with life belts to lie back against the thwarts. There was a feeling of being between the sea and the sky. It was not like being on the throbbing of the big boat.

  “This is good,” said Nick.

  “I sleep in one of these every night.”

  “I’d be afraid I’d walk in my sleep,” Nick said. He was uncorking the wine. “I sleep on the deck.”

  He handed the bottle to Leon. “Keep this and open the other bottle for me,” the Pole said.

  “You take it,” Nick said. He drew the cork from the second bottle and clinked it across the dark with Leon. They drank.

  “You’ll get better wine than this in France,” Leon said.

  “I won’t be in France.”

  “I forgot. I wish we were going to soldier together.”

  “I wouldn’t be any good,” Nick said. He looked over the gunwale of the boat at the dark water below. He had been frightened coming out on the davits.

  “I wonder if I’ll be scared,” he said.

  “No,” Leon said. “I don’t think so.”

  “It will be fun to see all the planes and that stuff.”

  “Yes,” said Leon. “I am going to fly as soon as I can transfer.”

  “I couldn’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You mustn’t think about being scared.”

  “I don’t. Really I don’t. I never worry about it. I just thought because it made me feel funny coming out onto the boat just now.”

  Leon lay on his side, the bottle straight up beside his head.

  “We don’t have to think about being scared,” he said. “We’re not that kind.”

  “The Carper’s scared,” Nick said.

  “Yes. Galinski told me.”

  “That’s what he was sent back for. That’s why he’s drunk all the time.”

  “He’s not like us,” Leon said. “Listen, Nick. You and me, we’ve got something in us.”

  “I know. I feel that way. Other people can get killed but not me. I feel that absolutely.”

  “That’s it. That’s what we’ve got.”

  “I wanted to get into the Canadian army but they wouldn’t take me.”

  “I know. You told me.”

  They both drank. Nick lay back and looked at the cloud of smoke from the funnel against the sky. The sky was beginning to lighten. Maybe the moon was going to come up.

  “Have you got a girl, Leon?”

  “No.”

  “None at all?”

  “No.”

  “I got one,” Nick said.

  “You live with her?”

  “We’re engaged.”

  “I never slept with a girl.”

  “I’ve been with them in houses.”

  Leon took a drink. The bottle angled blackly from his mouth against the sky.

  “That isn’t what I mean. I done that. I don’t like it. I mean sleep all night with one you love.”

  “My girl would have slept with me.”

  “Sure. If she loved you she’d sleep with you.”

  “We’re going to get married.”

  “Nick Sat Against the Wall . . .”

  Nick sat against the wall of the church where they had dragged him to be clear of machine gun fire in the street. Both legs stuck out awkwardly. He had been hit in the spine. His face was sweaty and dirty. The sun shone on his face. The day was very hot. Rinaldi, big-backed, his equipment sprawling, lay face downward against the wall. Nick looked straight ahead brilliantly. The pink wall of the house opposite had fallen out from the roof, and an iron bedstead hung twisted toward the street. Two Austrian dead lay in the rubble in the shade of the house. Up the street were other dead. Things were getting forward in the town. It was going well. Stretcher-bearers would be along any time now. Nick turned his head and looked down at Rinaldi. “Senta, Rinaldi, senta. You and me, we’ve made a separate peace.” Rinaldi lay still in the sun, breathing with difficulty. “We’re not patriots.” Nick turned his head away, smiling sweatily. Rinaldi was a disappointing audience.

  Summer People

  [Ed. Note: this story originally published in italics]

  Halfway down the gravel road from Rortons Bay, the town, to the lake there was a spring. The water came up in a tile sunk beside the road, lipping over the cracked edge of the tile and flowing away through the close-growing mint into the swamp. In the dark Nick put his arm down into the spring but could not hold it there because of the cold. He felt the featherings of the sand spouting up from the spring cones at the bottom against his fingers. Nick thought, I wish I could put all of myself in there. I bet that would fix me. He pulled his arm out and sat down at the edge of the road. It was a hot night.