For Whom the Bell Tolls

by Ernest Hemingway

“Why do you speak in such a brutal manner, Pilar?” Maria said to her. “I love thee very much but thou art acting very barbarous.” “It is possible that I am barbarous,” Pilar said. “Listen, inglés. Do you know what you are going to say to El Sordo?” “Yes.” “Because he is a man of few words unlike me and thee and this sentimental menagerie.” “Why do you talk thus?” Maria asked again, angrily. “I don’t know,” said Pilar as she strode along. “Why do you think?” “I do not know.” “At times many things tire me,” Pilar said angrily. “You understand? And one of them is to have forty-eight years. You hear me? Forty-eight years and an ugly face. And another is to see panic in the face of a failed bullfighter of Communist tendencies when I say, as a joke, I might kiss him.” “It’s not true, Pilar,” the boy said. “You did not see that.” “Qué va, it’s not true. And I obscenity in the milk of all of you.