The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway

by Ernest Hemingway

“What had I ought to give them?” Macomber asked. “A quid would be plenty,” Wilson told him. “You don’t want to spoil them.”

“You’ve got your lion,” Robert Wilson said to him, “and a damned fine one too.” Mrs. Macomber looked at Wilson quickly.

She looked at both these men as though she had never seen them before.

“Well, here’s to the lion,” Robert Wilson said. He smiled at her again and, not smiling, she looked curiously at her husband.

he was thirty-five years old, kept himself very fit, was good at court games, had a number of big-game fishing records, and had just shown himself, very publicly, to be a coward.

“It’s red today,” Macomber tried a joke. “No,” said Margaret. “It’s mine that’s red today. But Mr. Wilson’s is always red.” “Must be racial,” said Wilson. “I say, you wouldn’t like to drop my beauty as a topic, would you?” “I’ve just started on it.”

Margot looked at them both and they both saw that she was going to cry. Wilson had seen it coming for a long time and he dreaded it. Macomber was past dreading it.

“Women upset,” said Wilson to the tall man. “Amounts to nothing. Strain on the nerves and one thing’n another.”

“How strange!” said Macomber. “Not strange, really,” Wilson said. “Which would you rather do? Take a good birching or lose your pay?”

You ran into another white hunter and you asked, “How is everything going?” and he answered, “Oh, I’m still drinking their whisky,” and you knew everything had gone to pot.

You know in Africa no woman ever misses her lion and no white man ever bolts.” “I bolted like a rabbit,” Macomber said. Now what in hell were you going to do about a man who talked like that, Wilson wondered.

She had a very perfect oval face, so perfect that you expected her to be stupid. But she wasn’t stupid, Wilson thought, no, not stupid.

They are, he thought, the hardest in the world; the hardest, the cruelest, the most predatory and the most attractive and their men have softened or gone to pieces nervously as they have hardened. Or is it that they pick men they can handle? They can’t know that much at the age they marry, he thought. He was grateful that he had gone through his education on American women before now because this was a very attractive one.

“Why not let up on the bitchery just a little, Margot,” Macomber said, cutting the eland steak and putting some mashed potato, gravy and carrot on the down-turned fork that tined through the piece of meat. “I suppose I could,” she said, “since you put it so prettily.”

So, Robert Wilson thought to himself, she is giving him a ride, isn’t she? Or do you suppose that’s her idea of putting up a good show? How should a woman act when she discovers her husband is a bloody coward? She’s damn cruel but they’re all cruel. They govern, of course, and to govern one has to be cruel sometimes. Still, I’ve seen enough of their damn terrorism.

“I’d like to clear away that lion business,” Macomber said. “It’s not very pleasant to have your wife see you do something like that.”

it was not all over. It was neither all over nor was it beginning. It was there exactly as it happened with some parts of it indelibly emphasized and he was miserably ashamed at it. But more than shame he felt cold, hollow fear in him. The fear was still there like a cold slimy hollow in all the emptiness where once his confidence had been and it made him feel sick. It was still there with him now.

There was no one to tell he was afraid, nor to be afraid with him, and, lying alone,

The first one in is the one that counts.”

“It’s that damned roaring,” he said. “It’s been going on all night, you know.” “Why didn’t you wake me,” she said. “I’d love to have heard it.”

“My God,” said Macomber. “I hate that damned noise.” “It’s very impressive.” “Impressive. It’s frightful.”

“Why not shoot from where I am?” “You don’t shoot them from cars,” he heard Wilson saying in his ear. “Get out. He’s not going to stay there all day.”

Macomber had not thought how the lion felt as he got out of the car.

He only knew his hands were shaking and as he walked away from the car it was almost impossible for him to make his legs move. They were stiff in the thighs, but he could feel the muscles fluttering.

“I hit him,” Macomber said. “I hit him twice.” “You gut-shot him and you hit him somewhere forward,” Wilson said without enthusiasm.

“Stay here, Margot,” Macomber said to his wife. His mouth was very dry and it was hard for him to talk. “Why?” she asked. “Wilson says to.”

“I don’t want to go in there,” said Macomber. It was out before he knew he’d said it.

The next thing he knew he was running; running wildly, in panic in the open, running toward the stream.

Once he had reached over and taken his wife’s hand without looking at her and she had removed her hand from his.

Macomber did not know how Wilson felt about things either. He did not know how his wife felt except that she was through with him. His wife had been through with him before but it never lasted. He was very wealthy, and would be much wealthier, and he knew she would not leave him ever now. That was one of the few things that he really knew.

His wife had been a great beauty and she was still a great beauty in Africa, but she was not a great enough beauty any more at home to be able to leave him and better herself and she knew it and he knew it. She had missed the chance to leave him and he knew it.

Margot was too beautiful for Macomber to divorce her and Macomber had too much money for Margot ever to leave him.

“Out to get a breath of air.” “That’s a new name for it. You are a bitch.” “Well, you’re a coward.”

Well, why doesn’t he keep his wife where she belongs? What does he think I am, a bloody plaster saint? Let him keep her where she belongs. It’s his own fault.

“Why don’t you stay in camp?” “Not for anything,” she told him. “Why not order her to stay in camp?” Wilson said to Macomber. “You order her,” said Macomber coldly.

“If you make a scene I’ll leave you, darling,” Margot said quietly. “No, you won’t.” “You can try it and see.” “You won’t leave me.” “No,” she said. “I won’t leave you and you’ll behave your self.” “Behave myself? That’s a way to talk. Behave myself.” “Yes. Behave yourself.” “Why don’t you try behaving?” “I’ve tried it so long. So very long.”

Women are a nuisance on safari.

He had hunted for a certain clientele, the international, fast, sporting set, where the women did not feel they were getting their money’s worth unless they had shared that cot with the white hunter. He despised them when he was away from them although he liked some of them well enough at the time, but he made his living by them; and their standards were his standards as long as they were hiring him.

She looked younger today, more innocent and fresher and not so professionally beautiful. What’s in her heart God knows, Wilson thought.

“Not from the car, you fool!” and he had no fear, only hatred of Wilson,

“Let’s get the drink,” said Macomber. In his life he had never felt so good. In the car Macomber’s wife sat very white-faced. “You were marvellous, darling,” she said to Macomber. “What a ride.”

Wouldn’t mention it to any one though. It’s illegal if that’s what you mean.” “It seemed very unfair to me,” Margot said, “chasing those big helpless things in a motor car.”

He expected the feeling he had had about the lion to come back but it did not. For the first time in his life he really felt wholly without fear. Instead of fear he had a feeling of definite elation.

“Can we go in after him now?” asked Macomber eagerly. Wilson looked at him appraisingly. Damned if this isn’t a strange one, he thought. Yesterday he’s scared sick and today he’s a ruddy fire eater.

Macomber felt a wild unreasonable happiness that he had never known before. “By God, that was a chase,” he said. “I’ve never felt any such feeling. Wasn’t it marvellous, Margot?” “I hated it.” “Why?” “I hated it,” she said bitterly. “I loathed it.”

“You know, I’d like to try another lion,” Macomber said. “I’m really not afraid of them now. After all, what can they do to you?” “That’s it,” said Wilson. “Worst one can do is kill you.

‘By my troth, I care not; a man can die but once; we owe God a death and let it go which way it will, he that dies this year is quit for the next.’

He was very embarrassed, having brought out this thing he had lived by, but he had seen men come of age before and it always moved him. It was not a matter of their twenty-first birthday.

Beggar had probably been afraid all his life. Don’t know what started it. But over now.

He’d seen it in the war work the same way. More of a change than any loss of virginity. Fear gone like an operation. Something else grew in its place. Main thing a man had. Made him into a man. Women knew it too. No bloody fear.