The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway

by Ernest Hemingway

Doesn’t do to talk too much about all this. Talk the whole thing away. No pleasure in anything if you mouth it up too much.”

“You’re both talking rot,” said Margot. “Just because you’ve chased some helpless animals in a motor car you talk like heroes.”

“You’ve gotten awfully brave, awfully suddenly,” his wife said contemptuously, but her contempt was not secure. She was very afraid of something.

Wilson now and, aiming carefully, shot again with the buffalo’s huge bulk almost on him and his rifle almost level with the on-coming head, nose out, and he could see the little wicked eyes and the head started to lower and he felt a sudden white-hot, blinding flash explode inside his head and that was all he ever felt.

Mrs. Macomber, in the car, had shot at the buffalo with the 6.5 Mannlicher as it seemed about to gore Macomber and had hit her husband about two inches up and a little to one side of the base of his skull.

“That was a pretty thing to do,” he said in a toneless voice. “He would have left you too.” “Stop it,” she said.

Why didn’t you poison him? That’s what they do in England.”

“I’m through now,” he said. “I was a little angry. I’d begun to like your husband.”

“That’s better,” Wilson said. “Please is much better. Now I’ll stop.”

All the old women in the camp had been helping her. The men had moved off up the road to sit in the dark and smoke out of range of the noise she made.

Just then the woman cried out. “Oh, Daddy, can’t you give her something to make her stop screaming?” asked Nick. “No. I haven’t any anæsthetic,” his father said. “But her screams are not important. I don’t hear them because they are not important.”

Later when he started to operate Uncle George and three Indian men held the woman still. She bit Uncle George on the arm and Uncle George said, “Damn squaw bitch!” and the young Indian who had rowed Uncle George over laughed at him.

“Oh, you’re a great man, all right,” he said.

“I’m terribly sorry I brought you along, Nickie,” said his father, all his post-operative exhilaration gone. “It was an awful mess to put you through.”

“Is dying hard, Daddy?” “No, I think it’s pretty easy, Nick. It all depends.”

In the early morning on the lake sitting in the stern of the boat with his father rowing, he felt quite sure that he would never die.

The road climbed steadily. It was hard work walking up-hill. His muscles ached and the day was hot, but Nick felt happy. He felt he had left everything behind, the need for thinking, the need to write, other needs. It was all back of him.

Seney was burned, the country was burned over and changed, but it did not matter. It could not all be burned. He knew that.

There was no underbrush in the island of pine trees. The trunks of the trees went straight up or slanted toward each other. The trunks were straight and brown without branches. The branches were high above.

Inside the tent the light came through the brown canvas. It smelled pleasantly of canvas. Already there was something mysterious and homelike. Nick was happy as he crawled inside the tent. He had not been unhappy all day. This was different though. Now things were done. There had been this to do. Now it was done.

His voice sounded strange in the darkening woods. He did not speak again.

“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.”

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

“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.”

“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.”

“All right. But you’ve got to realize——” “I realize,” the girl said. “Can’t we maybe stop talking?”

“Would you do something for me now?” “I’d do anything for you.” “Would you please please please please please please please stop talking?”

IT WAS LATE AND EVERY ONE HAD LEFT the café except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electric light. In the day time the street was dusty, but at night the dew settled the dust and the old man liked to sit late because he was deaf and now at night it was quiet and he felt the difference.

“Last week he tried to commit suicide,” one waiter said. “Why?” “He was in despair.” “What about?” “Nothing.” “How do you know it was nothing?” “He has plenty of money.”

“He’ll stay all night,” he said to his colleague. “I’m sleepy now. I never get into bed before three o’clock. He should have killed himself last week.”

“You should have killed yourself last week,” he said to the deaf man.

An old man is a nasty thing.” “Not always. This old man is clean. He drinks without spilling. Even now, drunk. Look at him.” “I don’t want to look at him.

“Another brandy,” he said, pointing to his glass. The waiter who was in a hurry came over. “Finished,” he said, speaking with that omission of syntax stupid people employ when talking to drunken people or foreigners. “No more tonight. Close now.” “Another,” said the old man.

He can buy a bottle and drink at home.” “It’s not the same.” “No, it is not,” agreed the waiter with a wife. He did not wish to be unjust. He was only in a hurry.

“You have youth, confidence, and a job,” the older waiter said. “You have everything.” “And what do you lack?” “Everything but work.” “You have everything I have.” “No. I have never had confidence and I am not young.” “Come on. Stop talking nonsense and lock up.”

“I am of those who like to stay late at the café,” the older waiter said. “With all those who do not want to go to bed. With all those who need a light for the night.” “I want to go home and into bed.” “We are of two different kinds,”

Each night I am reluctant to close up because there may be some one who needs the café.”

Turning off the electric light he continued the conversation with himself. It is the light of course but it is necessary that the place be clean and pleasant. You do not want music. Certainly you do not want music. Nor can you stand before a bar with dignity although that is all that is provided for these hours. What did he fear? It was not

fear or dread. It was a nothing that he knew too well. It was all a nothing and a man was nothing too. It was only that and light was all it needed and a certain cleanness and order.

Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee.