Pamplona in July

Ernest Hemingway

\\~oJG9;(SamPlona in July/'

P IN PAMPLONA, a white-walled, sun-baked town high up in the hills of~~~ Navarre, is held in the first two weeks of July each year the World's Se-~<f ries of bull fighting.

Bull fight fans from all Spain jam into the little town. Hotels doubletheir prices and fill every room. The cafes under the wide arcades thatrun around the Plaza de la Constitucion have every table crowded, thetall Pilgrim Father sombreros of Andalusia sitting over the same tablewith straw hats from Madrid and the flat blue Basque caps of Navarreand the Basque country.

Really beautiful girls, gorgeous, bright shawls over their shoulders,dark, dark-eyed, black-lace mantillas over their hair, walk with their es­corts in the crowds that pass from morning until night along the nar­row walk that runs between inner and outer belts of cafe tables underthe shade of the arcade out of the white glare of the Plaza de la Con­stitucion. All day and all night there is dancing in the streets. Bands ofblue-shirted peasants whirl and lift and swing behind a drum, fife andreed instruments in the ancient Basque Riau-Riau dances. And at nightthere is the throb of the big drums and the military band as the wholetown dances in the great open square of the Plaza.

We landed at Pamplona at night. The streets were solid with peopledancing. Music was pounding and throbbing. Fireworks were being setoff from the big public square. All the carnivals I had ever seen paleddown in comparison. A rocket exploded over our heads with a blinding

First published as "World's Series of Bull Fighting a Mad, Whirling Carnival" in the To­ronto Star Weekly, 1923; collected in *By-Line: Ernest Hemingway, edited by WilliamWhite, 1967.

burst and the stick came sping their fingers and wIbumped into us before westation bus. Finally I got th

We had wired and writtbeen saved. We were offereto the kitchen ventilator shbig row with the landlad)hands on her hips, and helus in a few words of Frencmake all her money for thewould come and that peocould show us a better roopreferable to sleep in the s1might be possible. We saidamicable. The landlady coingway sat down on our ru

"I can get you a room il1the landlady.

"How much?""Five dollars."

We started off through th,boy carrying our rucksack~

house with walls thick as "tile floor and two big, comfopened on to an iron grillcomfortable.

All night long the wildtimes in the night there w,bed and across the tiled fl04Men, blue-shirted, barehea,dance down the street behi

Just at daylight there wamilitary music. Herself was

"Come on;' she said. "Thstreet was full of people. Itall going in one direction.them.

The crowd was all going

99Pamplona in July

burst and the stick came swirling and whishing down. Dancers, snap­ping their fingers and whirling in perfect time through the crowd,bumped into us before we could get our bags down from the top of thestation bus. Finally I got the bags through the crowd to the hotel.

We had wired and written for rooms two weeks ahead. Nothing hadbeen saved. We were offered a single room with a single bed opening onto the kitchen ventilator shaft for seven dollars a day apiece. There was abig row with the landlady, who stood in front of her desk with herhands on her hips, and her broad Indian face perfectly placid, and toldus in a few words of French and much Basque Spanish that she had tomake all her money for the whole year in the next ten days. That peoplewould come and that people would have to pay what she asked. Shecould show us a better room for ten dollars apiece. We said it would bepreferable to sleep in the streets with the pigs. The landlady agreed thatmight be possible. We said we preferred it to such a hotel. All perfectlyamicable. The landlady considered. We stood our ground. Mrs. Hem­ingway sat down on our rucksacks.

"I can get you a room in a house in the town. You can eat here;' saidthe landlady.

"How much?""Five dollars!'

We started off through the dark, narrow, carnival-mad streets with aboy carrying our rucksacks. It was a lovely big room in an old Spanishhouse with walls thick as a fortress. A cool, pleasant room, with a redtile floor and two big, comfortable beds set back in an alcove. A window'opened on to an iron grilled porch out over the street. We were verycomfortable.

or All night long the wild music kept up in the street below. Several!,times in the night there was a wild roll of drumming, and I got out of;bed and across the tiled floor to the balcony. But it was always the same.tMen, blue-shirted, bareheaded, whirling and floating in a wild fantastic~. dance down the street behind the rolling drums and shrill fifes..C Just at daylight there was a crash of music in the street below. Real~•. military music. Herself was up, dressed, at the window.

"Come on;' she said. "They're all going somewhere." Down below theffstreet was full of people. It was five o'clock in the morning. They were,tan going in one direction. I dressed in a hurry and we started after~. them.

The crowd was all going toward the great public square. People were

lwn. Hotels double~ wide arcades thattable crowded, thelver the same tableue caps of Navarre

h up in the hills ofear the World's Se-

'er their shoulders,walk with their es­19ht along the nar­f cafe tables undere Plaza de la Con­ie streets. Bands ofld a drum, fife andmces. And at nightband as the whole

ing Carnival" in the To­~ay, edited by William

e solid with peopleDrks were being set.ad ever seen paledads with a blinding

It ~as really a double wooden fence, making a long entryway from themam street of the town into the bull ring itself. It made a runway abouttwo hundred and fifty yards long. People were jammed solid on eachside of it. Looking up it toward the main street.

Then far away there was a dull report."They're off:' everybody shouted."What is it?" I asked a man next to me who was'leaning far out over

the concrete rail."The bulls! They have released them from the corrals on the far side

of the city. They are racing through the city:'"Whew:' said Herself. "What do they do that for?"Then down the narrow fenced-in runway came a crowd of men and

boys running. Running as hard as they could go. The gate feeding into

pouring into it from every street and moving out of it toward the opencountry we could see through the narrow gaps in the high walls.

"Let's get some coffee:' said Herself."Do you think we've got time? Hey, what's going to happen?" I asked

a newsboy."Encierro:' he said scornfully. "The encierro commences at six

o'clock:'"What's the encierro?" I asked him."Oh, ask me to-morrow:' he said, and started to run. The entire

crowd was running now."I' h f£ve got to ave my co ee. No matter what it is:' Herself said.T~e ~aiter poured two streams of coffee and milk into the glass out

of hIS bIg kettles. The crowd was still running, coming from all thestreets that fed into the Plaza.

"What is this encierro anyway?" Herself asked, gulping the coffee."All I know is that they let the bulls out into the streets:'We started out after the crowd. Out of a narrow gate into a great yel­

l~w open sp~ce of country with the new concrete bull ring standinghIgh ~nd.white and black ';ith people. The yellow and red Spanish flagblowmg m the early mornmg breeze. Across the open and once insidethe bull ring, we mounted to the top looking toward the town. It cost apeseta to go up to the top. All the other levels were free. There were eas­ily twenty thousand people there. Everyone jammed on the outside ofthe big concrete amphitheatre, looking toward the yellow town with thebright red roofs, where a long wooden pen ran from the entrance of thecity gate across the open, bare ground to the bull ring.

100ERNEST HEMINGWAY

Pamplona in July

the bull ring was opened an,levels into the ring. Then t

harder. Straight up the long"Where are the bulls?" as1Then they came in sight.

set, black, glistening, sinistelrunning with them three stesolid mass, and ahead of thguard of the men and boys cbe chased through the stree1

A boy in his blue shirt, r,table leather wine bottle 1sprinted down the straightmade a jerky, sideways toss.lay there limp, the herd ru:crowd roared.

Everybody made a dash j

box just in time to see the bmen ran in a panic to each sran straight with the traine<that led to the pens.

That was the entry. EverySan Fermin at Pamplona tlreleased from their corralthrough the main street ofThe men who run ahead 0

been going on each year sinbus had his historic interviof Granada.

There are two things infighting bulls are not arowond, that the steers are reli4

Sometimes things go wroas they pile through into tand viciousness, his needleagain into the packed massplace for the men to get 0

climb over the barrera or r·in and take it. Eventually t]

RNEST HEMINGWAYPamplona in July 101

Jf it toward the open:he high walls.

~ to happen?" I asked

commences at six

Lto run. The entire

;' Herself said.ilk into the glass out:oming from all the

ulping the coffee.streets:'gate into a great yel­e bull ring standingand red Spanish flagpen and once insiderd the town. It cost afree. There were eas­ed on the outside ofV-ellow town with then the entrance of thelng.

g entryway from thelade a runway aboutnmed solid on each

leaning far out over

)rrals on the far side

?"a crowd of men and'he gate feeding into

the bull ring was opened and they all ran pell-mell under the entrancelevels into the ring. Then there came another crowd. Running evenharder. Straight up the long pen from the town.

"Where are the bulls?" asked Herself.Then they came in sight. Eight bulls galloping along, full tilt, heavy

set, black, glistening, sinister, their horns bare, tossing their heads. Andrunning with them three steers with bells on their necks. They ran in asolid mass, and ahead of them sprinted, tore, ran and bolted the rearguard of the men and boys of Pamplona who had allowed themselves tobe chased through the streets for a morning's pleasure.

A boy in his blue shirt, red sash, white canvas shoes with the inevi­table leather wine bottle hung from his shoulders, stumbled as hesprinted down the straightaway. The first bull lowered his head and tmade a jerky, sideways toss. The boy crashed up against the fence and ,lay there limp, the herd running solidly together passed him up. The)crowd roared.

Everybody made a dash for the inside of the ring, and we got into abox just in time to see the bulls come into the ring filled with men. Themen ran in a panic to each side. The bulls, still bunched solidly together,ran straight with the trained steers across the ring and into the entrancethat led to the pens.

That was the entry. Every morning during the bull fighting festival ofSan Fermin at Pamplona the bulls that are to fight in the afternoon arereleased from their corrals at six o'clock in the morning and racethrough the main street of the town for a mile and a half to the pen.The men who run ahead of them do it for the fun of the thing. It hasbeen going on each year since a couple of hundred years before Colum­bus had his historic interview with Queen Isabella in the camp outsideof Granada. /

There are two things in favor of there being no accidents. First, thatJ/fighting bulls are not aroused and vicious when they are together. Sec-ond, that the steers are relied upon to keep them moving.

Sometimes things go wrong, a bull will be detached from the herdas they pile through into the pen and with his crest up, a ton of speedand viciousness, his needle-sharp horns lowered, will charge again andagain into the packed mass ofmen and boys in the bull ring. There is noplace for the men to get out of the ring. It is too jammed for them toclimb over the barrera or red fence that rims the field. They have to stayin and take it. Eventually the steers get the bull out of the ring and into

*

Pamplona in July

Another comes right.cape waving, and won4~~j&'rent. Some (steers. Fighting bulls for other in build so th,combat animals, $2,00

their fighting spirit.The show comes of]

five-thirty when the]them stay up all night·ing event that will getfor six days running.

As far as I know weplona during the Feria

There were three ncloud bursts in the mgossa. For two days thto be suspended for tduring the middle of tit looked gloomier thnoon the clouds rollebright and hot and hibull fight I will perhap

There were rockets Iwhen we got into ouron the other side we c,in. All wearing their 0

in the arena. We pick~

our glasses. Only onelooking man, som~thiJbefore. Maera, dark, Sltoreros of all time. Th~fighter, a slim young j

All were wearing the stoo tight, old fashione,

There was the proplayed, the preliminarthe red fence with theithe door of the bull pe

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~~~

ERNEST -HEMINGWAY102? I (,Lv\-' '1..' ~sq,o(;V-o (tp?h J (l.

the pen. He may wound or kill thirty men before they can get him out.No armed men are allowed to oppose him. That is the chance thePamplona bull fight fans take every morning during the Feria. It is the

~pam lona tradition of giving the bulls a final shot at everyone in town

//~. ore they enter the pens. They will not leave until they come out intothe glare of the arena to die in the afternoon.

-- ~

Consequently Pamplona is tIie toughest bull fight town in the world.The amateur fight that comes immediately after the bulls have enteredthe pens proves that. Every seat in the great amphitheatre is packed.About three hundred men, with capes, odd pieces of cloth, old shirts,anything that will imitate a bull fighter's cape, are singing and dancingin the arena. There is a shout, and the bull pen opens. Out comes ayoung bull just as fast as he can come. On his horns are leather knobs toprevent his goring anyone. He charges and hits a man. Tosses him highin the air, and the crowd roars. The man comes down on the ground,and the bull goes for him, bumping him with his head. Worrying himwith his horns. Several amateur bull fighters are flopping their capes inhis face to make the bull charge and leave the man on the ground. Thenthe bull charges and bags another man. The crowd roars with delight.

Then the bull will turn like a cat and get somebody who has been act­ing very brave about ten feet behind him. Then he will toss a man overthe fence. Then he picks out one man and follows him in a wild twistingcharge through the entire crowd until he bags him. The barrera ispacked with men and boys sitting along the top, and the bull decides toclear them all off. He goes along, hooking carefully with his horn anddropping them off with a toss of his horns like a man pitching hay.

Each time the bull bags someone the crowd roars with joy. Most of it

;:

.s home talent stuff. The braver the man has been or the more elegantpass he has attempted with his cape before the bull gets him the morethe crowd roars. No one is armed. No one hurts or plagues the bull in

! any way. A man who grabbed the bull by the tail and tried to hang onI. .. '1"s hissed and booed by the crowd and the next tim.e he. tried it was\~ocked down by another man in the bull ring. NQ, one enjoys it all

/ more th~!1 the bull.As soon as he shows signs of tiring from his charges, the two old

steers, one brown and the other looking like a big Holstein, come trot­ting in and alongside the young bull who falls in behind theml~and follows them meekly on a tour of the arena and then out. J

v~\J~

~~~,~

Another comes right in, and the charging and tossing, the ineffectualcape waving, and wonderful music arerepeated right over again. But al­~Aj£fer~nt. Some of the animals in this morning amateuiligJitaresteers. Fighting bulls from the best strain who had some imperfectionor other in build so they could never command the high prices paid forcombat animals, $2,000 to $3,000 apiece. But there is nothing lacking intheir fighting spirit.

The show comes off every morning. Everybody in town turns out atfive-thirty when the military bands go through the streets. Many ofthem stay up all night for it. We didn't miss one, and it is quelque sport­ing event that will get us both up at five-thirty o'clock in the morningfor six days running.

As far as I know we were the only English-speaking people in Pam­plona during the Feria of last year.

There were three minor earthquakes while we were there. Terrificcloud bursts in the mountains and the Ebro River flooded out Zara­gossa. For two days the bull ring was under water and the Corrida hadto be suspended for the first time in over a hundred years. That wasduring the middle of the fair. Everyone was desperate. On the third dayit looked gloomier than ever, poured rain all morning, and then atnoon the clouds rolled away up across the valley, the sun came outbright and hot and baking and that afternoon there was the greatestbull fight I will perhaps ever see.

There were rockets going up into the air and the arena was nearly fullwhen we got into our regular seats. The sun was hot and baking. Overon the other side we could see the bull fighters standing ready to comein. All wearing their oldest clothes because of the heavy, muddy goingin the arena. We picked out the three matadors of the afternoon withour glasses. Only one of them was new. Olmos, a chubby faced, jollylooking man, something like Tris Speaker. The others we had seen oftenbefore. Maera, dark, spare and deadly looking, one of the very greatesttoreros of all time. The third, young Algabeno, the son of a famous bullfighter, a slim young Andalusian with a charming Indian looking face.All were wearing the suits they had probably started bull fighting with,too tight, old fashioned, outmoded.

There was the procession of entrance, the wild bull fight musicplayed, the preliminaries were quickly over, the picadors retired alongthe red fence with their horses, the heralds sounded their trumpets andthe door of the bull pen swung open. The bull came out in a rush, saw a

\

103Pamplonain'uly ,/pc) ,EST HEMINGWAY

town in the world.bulls have entereditheatre is packed.If cloth, old shirts,Ilging and dancinglens. Out comes are leather knobs ton. Tosses him highvn on the ground,~ad. Worrying himping their capes inI the ground. Then)ars with delight.'who has been act­'ill toss a man over11 in a wild twistingm. The barrera isthe bull decides towith his horn and1 pitching hay.,vith joy. Most of itr the more elegantgets him the moreplagues the bull ind tried to hang onme he tried it wasC2-Qne_enjoys it all

arges, the two oldolstein, come trot­ndtheml~

then out. J

y can get him out.is the chance thethe Feria. It is the

: everyone in townhey come out into

104 ERNEST HEMINGWAY Pamplona in July

man standing near the barrera and charged him. The man vaulted overthe fence and the bull charged the barrera. He crashed into the fence infull charge and ripped a two by eight plank solidly out in a splinteringsmash. He broke his horn doing it and the crowd called for a new bull.The trained steers trotted in, the bull fell in meekly behind them, andthe three of them trotted out of the arena.

The next bull came in with the same rush. He was Maera's bull andafter perfect cape play Maera planted the banderillos. Maera is Herself'sfavorite bull fighter. And if you want to keep any conception of yourselfas a brave, hard, perfectly balanced, thoroughly competent man in yourwife's mind never take her to a real bull fight. I used to go into the ama­teur fights in the morning to try and win back a small amount ofher es­teem but the more I discovered that bull fighting required a very greatquantity of a certain type of courage ofwhich I had an almost completelack the more it became apparent that any admiration she might everredevelop for me would have to be simply an antidote to the real admi­ration for Maera and Villalta. You cannot compete with bull fighters on

t/their own ground. If anywhere. The only way most husbands are able tokeep any drag with their wives at all is that, first there are only a limitednumber of bull fighters, second there are only a limited number ofwives who have ever seen bull fights.

Maera planted his first pair of banderillos sitting down on the edge ofthe little step-up that runs around the barrera. He snarled at the bulland as the animal charged leaned back tight against the fence and as thehorns struck on either side of him, swung forward over the brute's headand planted the two darts in his hump. He planted the next pair thesame way, so near to us we could have leaned over and touched him.Then he went out to kill the bull and after he had made absolutely un­believable passes with the little red cloth of the muleta drew up hissword and as the bull charged Maera thrust. The sword shot out of hishand and the bull caught him. He went up in the air on the horns of thebull and then came down. Young Algabeno flopped his cape in thebull's face. The bull charged him and Maera staggered to his feet. Buthis wrist was sprained.

With his wrist sprained, so that every time he raised it to sight for athrust it brought beads of sweat out on his face, Maera tried again andagain to make his death thrust. He lost his sword again and again,picked it up with his left hand from the mud floor of the arena and

transferred it to the right fwent over. The bull nearlyup under us at the barrensize. I thought of prize fiBtheir hands.

There was almost no p~

on to the first bull and dr,rush. The picadors took tThere was the snort and cIthe wonderful defense bybull, and then Rosario OII

Once he flopped the caJgraceful swing. Then he .and the bull caught him aish the bull charged on iJhoisted him high in the ahim, driving his horns agahis head on his arms. 0madly in the bull's face.charged and got his manchased a man just in backning full tilt and as he puhim and caught him wicrowd. He rushed towardto his feet and all alone ­on until I thought he or tJhis feet and started away.

The bullturne~twith the cape. Once, twislow swing with the calheels, baffling the bull. j

never was such a scene atThere are no substitu1

wrist could not lift a s~

through the body. It wasHe handled them all.

Beautiful work with thehe killed, one after the ot

105Pamplona in July

The bullturne~t and charged Algabeno and Algabeno met himwith the cape. Once, twice, three times he made the perfect, floating,slow swing with the cape, perfectly, graceful, debonair, back on hisheels, baffling the bull. And he had command of the situation. Therenever was such a scene at any world's series game.

There are no substitute matadors allowed. Maera was finished. Hiswrist could not lift a sword for weeks. Olmos had been gored badlythrough the body. It was Algabeno's bull. This one and the next five.

He handled them all. Did it all. Cape play easy, graceful, confident.Beautiful work with the muleta. And serious, deadly killing. Five bullshe killed, one after the other, and each one was a separate problem to be

transferred it to the right for the thrust. Finally he made it and the bullwent over. The bull nearly got him twenty times. As he came in to standup under us at the barrera side his wrist was swollen to twice normalsize. I thought of prize fighters I had seen quit because they had hurttheir hands.

There was almost no pause while the mules galloped in and hitchedon to the first bull and dragged him out and the second came in with arush. The picadors took the first shock of him with their bull lances.There was the snort and charge, the shock and the mass against the sky,the wonderful defense by the picador with his lance that held off thebull, and then Rosario Olmos stepped out with his cape.

Once he flopped the cape at the bull and floated it around in an easygraceful swing. Then he tried the same swing, the classic "Veronica:'and the bull caught him at the end of it. Instead of stopping at the fin­ish the bull charged on in. He caught Olmos squarely with his horn,hoisted him high in the air. He fell heavily and the bull was on top ofhim, driving his horns again and again into him. Olmos lay on the sand,his head on his arms. One of his teammates was flopping his capemadly in the bull's face. The bull lifted his head for an instant andcharged and got his man. Just one terrific toss. Then he whirled andchased a man just in back of him toward the barrera. The man was run­ning full tilt and as he put his hand on the fence to vault it the bull hadhim and caught him with his horn, shooting him way up into thecrowd. He rushed toward the fallen man he had tossed who was gettingto his feet and all alone - Algabeno grabbed him by the tail. He hungon until I thought he or the bull would break. The wounded man got tohis feet and started away.

1 on the edge oftrled at the bullfence and as thethe brute's headle next pair thed touched him.~ absolutely un­ta drew up hisshot out of hishe horns of thelis cape in theto his feet. But

it to sight for a:ried again andain and ag~the arena and

Maera's bull and.1aera is Herself'sption of yourselftent man in yourgo into the ama­mount of her es­ired a very greatalmost completeI she might everto the real admi­1 bull fighters onlands are able tore only a limitedited number of

man vaulted overl into the fence inIt in a splintering~d for a new bull..ehind them, and

lST HEMINGWAY

ERNEST HEMINGWAY106

worked out with death. At the end there was nothing debonair abouthim. It was only a question if he would last through or if the bullswould get him. They were all very wonderful bulls.

"He is a very great kid:' said Herself. "He is only twenty:'

"I wish we knew him:' I said."Maybe we will some day:' she said. Then considered a moment. "He

will probably be spoiled by then:'They make twenty thousand a year.

--That was just three months ago. It seems in a different century now,( working in an office. It is a very long way from the sun baked town of[ Pamplona, where the men race through the streets in the mornings

\read of the bulls to the morning ride to work on a Bay-Caledonia car.

)}ut it is only fourteen days by water to Spain and there is no need for a, C3S@;re is always that room at 5 Calle deEs1a~a sO!J;l ifhe is

, 0 edee the family reputation as a bull fighter, must start very early./,0

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H. L. Mencke. .

The Hills of

IT WAS HOT WEATHER W

Tenn., but I went down thething of evangelical Christlthe Republic, despite the erwith a wasting disease. Thejazz from the stealthy radmoving into adolescence,mones by enlisting for mising instead. Even in DaytOlcution upon Scopes, therenine churches of the villa~

choked their yards. Only tto sustain themselves by thfor mail-order pantaloon~

one, I heard, was a barber.theologians debated the cbut I soon found that the)ful, while interested in thepermit it to impede the itutes after I reached the viand introduced to the fa'corn liquor and half Coca

h'l, yoU).i'A

First published as a dispatch tohe "wrote it on a roaring hot ~

above the waist and with only aries,1926.

Big Two-Hearted RiverPart I

THE TRAIN WENT ON UP THE TRACK OUT

of sight, around one of the hills of burnt timber. Nick sat down on thebundle of canvas and bedding the baggage man had pitched out of thedoor of the baggage car. There was no town, nothing but the rails and theburned-over country. The thirteen saloons that had lined the one street ofSeney had not left a trace. The foundations of the Mansion House hotelstuck up above the ground. The stone was chipped and split by the fire.It was all that was left of the town of Seney. Even the surface had beenburned off the ground.

Nick looked at the burned-over stretch of hillside, where he had expectedto find the scattered houses of the town and then walked down the railroadtrack to the bridge over the river. The river was there. It swirled againstthe log spiles of the bridge. Nick looked down into the clear, brown water,colored from the pebbly bottom, and watched the trout keeping themselvessteady in the current with wavering fins. As he watched them they changedtheir positions by quick angles, only to hold steady in the fast water again.Nick watched them a long time.

He watched them holding themselves with their noses into the current,'many trout in deep, fast moving water, slightly distorted as he watchedfar down through the glassy convex surface of the pool, its surface pushingand swelling smooth against the resistance of the log-driven piles of thebridge. At the bottom of the pool were the big trout. Nick did not see them'at' first. Then he saw them at the bottom of the pool, big trout looking tohold themselves on the gravel bottom in a varying mist of gravel and sand,raised in spurts by the current.

Nick looked down into the pool from the bridge. It was a hot day. Akingfisher flew up the stream. It was a long time since Nick had lookedinto a stream and seen trout. They were very satisfactory. As the shadowof the kingfisher moved up the stream, a big trout shot upstream in a long

163

THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES OF ERNEST HEMINGWAY

angle, only his shadow marking the angle, then lost his shadow as hecame through the surface of the water, caught the sun, and then, as hewent back into the stream under the surface, his shadow seemed to floatdown the stream with the current, unresisting, to his post under the bridgewhere he tightened facing up into the current.

Nick's heart tightened as the trout moved. He felt all the old feeling.He turned and looked down the stream. It stretched away, pebbly­

bottomed with shallows and big boulders and a deep pool as it curvedaway around the foot of a bluff.

Nick walked back up the ties to where his pack lay in the cinders besidethe railway track. He was happy. He adjusted the pack harness around thebundle, pulling straps tight, slung the pack on his back, got his arms throughthe shoulder straps and took some of the pull off his shoulders by leaninghis forehead against the wide band of the tump-line. Still, it was too heavy.It was much too heavy. He had his leather rod-case in his hand and leaningforward to keep the weight of the pack high on his shoulders he walkedalong the road that paralleled the railway track, leaving the burned townbehind in the heat, and then turned off around a hill with a high, fire­scarred hill on either side onto a road that went back into the country. Hewalked along the road feeling the ache from the pull of the heavy pack.The road climbed steadily. It was hard work walking up-hill. His musclesached 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 wasall back of him.

From the time he had gotten down off the train and the baggage manhad thrown his pack out of the open car door things had been different.Seney was burned, the country was burned over and changed, but it didnot matter. It could not all be burned. He knew that. He hiked along theroad, sweating in the sun, climbing to cross the range of hills that separatedthe railway from the pine plains.

The road ran on, dipping occasionally, but always climbing. Nick wenton up. Finally the road after going parallel to the burnt hillside reachedthe top. Nick leaned back against a stump and slipped out of the packharness. Ahead of him, as far as he could see, was the pine plain. Theburned country stopped off at the left with the range of hills. On aheadislands of dark pine trees rose out of the plain. Far off to the left was theline of the river. Nick followed it with his eye and caught glints of thewater in the sun.

There was nothing but the pine plain ahead of him, until the far bluehills that marked the Lake Superior height of land. He could hardly seethem, faint and far away in the heat-light over the plain. If he looked toosteadily they were gone. But if he only half-looked they were there, thefar-off hills of the height of land.

Nick sat down against the charred stump and smoked a cigarette. Hispack balanced on the top of the stump, harness holding ready, a hollow

164

mold,He dipositi,

As:hopp<hopp<starte(not thwhirrijust 01

abouthe wawith itin the Ibefore,

,they wCare

wings.jointedwere dl

"Goaway s(

He tc'to ache

Nick:,it rested,He stooacross t

',hillside i

,hundred,(em, grc

r;.long un<'land the

Nick kthe river(~ othelti$>lid isla]the heatt.

~:~shed iHe wa~

plain. At. It co

rth to 1For son

)jJJands of

MINGWAY

; shadow as hemd then, as heseemed to floatlnder the bridge

e old feeling.away, pebbly­

'01 as it curved

~ cinders besideless around thels arms throughiers by leaningwas too heavy.nd and leaninglers he walkede burned townh a high, fire­lIe country. Hele heavy pack.II. His muscleshad left every­r needs. It was

baggage man)een different.ged, but it didked along thethat separated

l.g. Nick wentllside reachedt of the packne plain. ThelIs. On aheade left was theglints of the

1 the far blueld hardly seele looked too~re there, the

cigarette. Hisdy, a hollow

BIG TWO-HEARTED RIVER: PART I

Wlolded in it from his back. Nick sat smoking, looking out over the country.He did not need' to get his map out. He knew where he was from the:position of the river.

.As he smoked, his legs stretched out in front of him, he noticed a grass­,hopper walk along the ground and up onto his woolen sock. The grass­'.fl.opper was black. As he had walked along the road, climbing, he had;~tarted many grasshoppers from the dust. They were all black. They weretP0t the big grasshoppers with yellow and black or red and black wings:,whirring out from their black wing sheathing as they fly up. These werejust ordinary hoppers, but all a sooty black in color. Nick had wonderedabout them as he walked, without really thinking about them. Now, ashe watched the black hopper that was nibbling at the wool of his sockwith its fourway lip, he realized that they had all turned black from living.in the burned-over land. He realized that the fire must have come the yearibefore, but the grasshoppers were all black now. He wondered how longlthey would stay that way.

Carefully he reached his hand down and took hold of the hopper by the.wings. He turned him up, all his legs walking in the air, and looked at his'jointed belly. Yes, it was black too, iridescent where the back and headwere dusty.

"Go on, hopper," Nick said, speaking out loud for the first time. "Flyaway somewhere."

He tossed the grasshopper up into the air and watched him sail away,f,O a charcoal stump across the road.

Nick stood up. He leaned his back against the weight of his pack where,itrested upright on the stump and got his arms through the shoulder straps.;He stood with the pack on his back on the brow of the hill looking outaO'oss the country toward the distant river and then struck down the

'.hillside away from the road. Underfoot the ground was good walking. Two,hundred yards down the hillside the fire line stopped. Then it was sweet,fern, growing ankle high, to walk through, and clumps of jack pines; a'long undulating country with frequent rises and descents, sandy underfoot,and the country alive again.

Nick kept his direction by the sun. He knew where he wanted to strikethe river and he kept on through the pine plain, mounting small rises to~e other rises ahead of him and sometimes from the top of a rise a greatsolid island of pines off to his right or his left. He broke off some sprigs ofthe heathery sweet fern, and put them under his pack straps. The chafingcushed it and he smelled it as he walked.

He was tired and very hot, walking across the uneven, shadeless pineplain. At any time he knew he could strike the river by turning off to hisleft. It could not be more than a mile away. But he kept on toward thenorth to hit the river as far upstream as he could go in one day's walking.

For some time as he walked Nick had been in sight of one of the bigislands of pine standing out above the rolling high ground he was crossing.

165

166

THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES OF ERNEST HEMINGWAY

He dipped down and then as he came slowly up to the crest of the bridgehe turned and made toward the pine trees.

There was no underbrush in the island of pine trees. The trunks of thetrees went straight up or slanted toward each other. The trunks werestraight and brown without branches. The branches were high above. Someinterlocked to make a solid shadow on the brown forest floor. Aronnd thegrove of trees was a bare space. It was brown and soft underfoot as Nickwalked on it. This was the over-lapping of the pine needle floor, extendingout beyond the width of the high branches. The trees had grown tall andthe branches moved high, leaving in the sun this bare space they had oncecovered with shadow. Sharp at the edge of this extension of the forest floorcommenced the sweet fern.

Nick slipped off his pack and lay down in the shade. He lay on his backand looked up into the pine trees. His neck and back and the small of hisback rested as he stretched. The earth felt good against his back. He lookedup at the sky, through the branches, and then shut his eyes. He openedthem and looked up again. There was a wind high up in the branches. Heshut his eyes again and went to sleep.

Nick woke stiff and cramped. The sun was nearly down. His pack washeavy and the straps painful as he lifted it on. He leaned over with thepack on and picked up the leather rod-case and started out from the pinetrees across the sweet fern swale, toward the river. He knew it couldbe more than a mile.

He came down a hillside covered with stumps into a meadow. At theedge of the meadow flowed the river. Nick was glad to get to the river.He walked upstream through the meadow. His trousers were soaked withthe dew as he walked. Mter the hot day, the dew had come quickly and ,heavily. The river made no sound. It was too fast and smooth. At the edge;of the meadow, before he mounted to a piece of high ground to make .•~camp, Nick looked down the river at the trout rising. They were rising to 'insects come from the swamp on the other side of the stream when the (sun went down. The trout jumped out of water to take them. While Nick (walked through the little stretch of meadow alongside the stream, trout;had jumped high out of water. Now as he looked down the river, the!insects must be settling on the surface, for the trout were feeding steadilyall down the stream. As far down the long stretch as he could see, thetrout were rising, making circles all down the surface of the water, asthough it were starting to rain.

The ground rose, wooded and sandy, to overlook the meadow, the stretch·'of river and the swamp. Nick dropped his pack and rod-case and lookedfor a level piece of ground. He was very hungry and he wanted to make'his camp before he cooked. Between two jack pines, the ground was quite).level. He took the ax out of the pack and chopped out two projecting roots.)That leveled a piece of ground large enough to sleep on. He smoothed out:the sandy soil with his hand and pulled all the sweet fern bushes by their

UNGWAY

it of the bridge

~ trunks of thee trunks wereh above. SomeJr. Around thelerfoot as Nickoor, extending~rown tall andthey had oncethe forest floor

ay on his backtle small of hisiCk. He lookedes. He opened~ branches. He

His pack wasover with thefrom the pinew it could not

eadow. At the~t to the river.~e soaked withle quickly andh. At the edgeJund to makewere rising to~am when them. While Nick~ stream, troutthe river, the~eding steadilycould see, thethe water, as

ow, the stretchlse and lookedanted to makelund was quite:ojecting roots.smoothed out

lushes by their

BIG TWO-HEARTED RIVER: PART I

roots. His hands smelled good from the sweet fern. He smoothed the up­rooted earth. He did not want anything making lumps under the blankets.When he had the ground smooth, he spread his three blankets. One hefolded double, next to the ground. The other two he spread on top.

With the ax he slit off a bright slab of pine from one of the stumps andsplit it into pegs for the tent. He wanted them long and solid to hold inthe ground. With the tent unpacked and spread on the ground, the pack,leaning against a jackpine, looked much smaller. Nick tied the rope thatserved the tent for a ridge-pole to the trunk of one of the pine trees andpulled the tent up off the ground wit..;' the other end of the rope and tiedit to the other pine. The tent hung on the rope like a canvas blanket on aclothesline. Nick poked a pole he had cut up under the back peak of thecanvas and then made it a tent by pegging out the sides. He pegged thesides out taut and drove the pegs deep, hitting them down into the groundwith the flat of the ax until the rope loops were buried and the canvaswas drum tight.

Across the open mouth of the tent Nick fixed cheesecloth to keep outmosquitoes. He crawled inside under the mosquito bar with various thingsfrom the pack to put at the head of the bed under the slant of the canvas.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 unhappyall day. This was different though. Now things were done. There had beenthis to do. Now it was done. It had been a hard trip. He was very tired.That was done. He had made his camp. He was settled. Nothing couldtouch him. It was a good place to camp. He was there, in the good place.He was in his home where he had made it. Now he was hungry.

He came out, crawling under the cheesecloth. It was quite dark outside.It was lighter in the tent.

Nick went over to the pack and found, with his fingers, a long nail ina paper sack of nails, in the bottom of the pack. He drove it into the pinetree, holding it close and hitting it gently with the flat of the ax. He hungthe pack up on the nail. All his supplies were in the pack. They were offthe ground and sheltered now.

Nick was hungry. He did not believe he had ever been hungrier. Heopened and emptied a can of pork and beans and a can of spaghetti intothe frying pan.

"I've got a right to eat this kind of stuff, if I'm willing to carry it," Nicksaid. His voice sounded strange in the darkening woods. He did not speakagain.

He started a fire with some chunks of pine he got with the ax from astump. Over the fire he stuck a wire grill, pushing the four legs down intothe ground with his boot. Nick put the frying pan on the grill over theflames. He was hungrier. The beans and spaghetti warmed. Nick stirredthem and mixed them together. They began to bubble, making little bubbles

167

THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES OF ERNEST HEMINGWAY

that rose with difficulty to the surface. There was a good smell. Nick gotout a bottle of tomato catchup and cut four slices ofbread. The little bubbleswere coming faster now. Nick sat down beside the fire and lifted the fryingpan off. He poured about half the contents out into the tin plate. It spreadslowly on the plate. Nick knew it was too hot. He poured on some tomatocatchup. He knew the beans and spaghetti were still too hot. He lookedat the fire, then at the tent, he was not going to spoil it all by burning histongue. For years he had never enjoyed fried bananas because he hadnever been able to wait for them to cool. His tongue was very sensitive.He was very hungry. Across the river in the swamp, in the almost dark,he saw a mist rising. He looked at the tent once more. All right. He tooka full spoonful from the plate.

"Chrise," Nick said, "Geezus Chrise," he said happily.He ate the whole plateful before he remembered the bread. Nick finished

the second plateful with the bread, mopping the plate shiny. He had noteaten since a cup of coffee and a ham sandwich in the station restaurantat St. Ignace. It had been a very fine experience. He had been that hungrybefore, but had not been able to satisfy it. He could have made camp hoursbefore if he had wanted to. There were plenty of good places to camp onthe river. But this was good.

Nick tucked two big chips of pine under the grill. The fire flared up. Hehad forgotten to get water for the coffee. Out of the pack he got a foldingcanvas bucket and walked down the hilL across the edge of the meadow,to the stream. The other bank was in the white mist. The grass was wetand cold as he knelt on the bank and dipped the canvas bucket into thestream. It bellied and pulled hard in the current. The water was ice cold.Nick rinsed the bucket and carried it full up to the camp. Up away fromthe stream it was not so cold.

Nick drove another big nail and hung up the bucket full of water. Hedipped the coffee pot half full, put some more chips under the grill ontothe fire and put the pot on. He could not remember which way he madecoffee. He could remember an argument about it with Hopkins, but notwhich side he had taken. He decided to bring it to a boil. He rememberednow that was Hopkins's way. He had once argued about everything withHopkins. While he waited for the coffee to boil, he opened a small can ofapricots. He liked to open cans. He emptied the can of apricots out into atin cup. While he watched the coffee on the fire, he drank the juice syrupof the apricots, carefully at first to keep from spilling, then meditatively,sucking the apricots down. They were better than fresh apricots.

The coffee boiled as he watched. The lid came up and coffee and groundsran down the side of the pot. Nick took it off the grill. It was a triumphfor Hopkins. He put sugar in the empty apricot cup and poured some ofthe coffee out to cool. It was too hot to pour and he used his hat to holdthe handle of the coffee pot. He would not let it steep in the pot at all. Notthe first cup. It should be straight Hopkins all the way. Hop deserved that.

168

He was averhad ever knaspoke withotdollars in Te"came that hi5That would tHop did notconfidently t]right. HopkinRiver. It tookhis .22 calibewas to remersummer. TheaU cruise alaserious. Theynever saw H(

Nick dran!<bitter. Nick 1;

starting to W(

He spilled thefire. He lit a etl'Qusers, sitth

pillow andOutthrouge night WiTiet. Nick stse to his (vas, over]de a satis!

aio under 1

.eepy. He feleep.

GWAY

1. Nick got:tle bubbles1the fryinge. It spreadme tomatoHe lookedmrning hisIse he hadyo sensitive.most dark,it. He took

ck finishedIe had notrestaurant

1at hungryamp hourso camp on

Ted up. HeIt a foldinge meadow,ss was wetet into theis ice cold.away from

. water. He~ grill ontoy he made1S, but notmembered'thing withnall can of: out into ajuice syrupeditatively,ts.1dgroundsa triumph~d some ofllat to holdt at all. Noterved that.

BIG TWO-HEARTED RIVER: PART I

He was a very serious coffee drinker. He was the most serious man Nickhad ever known. Not heavy, serious. That was a long time ago. Hopkinsspoke without moving his lips. He had played polo. He made millions ofdollars in Texas. He had borrowed carfare to go to Chicago, when the wirecame that his first big well had come in. He could have wired for money.That would have been too slow. They called Hop's girl the Blonde Venus.Hop did not mind because she was not his real girl. Hopkins said veryconfidently that none of them would make fun of his real girl. He wasright. Hopkins went away when the telegram came. That was on the BlackRiver. It took eight days for the telegram to reach him. Hopkins gave awayhis .22 caliber Colt automatic pistol to Nick. He gave his camera to Bill. Itwas to remember him always by. They were all going fishing again nextsummer. The Hop Head was rich. He would get a yacht and they wouldall cruise along the north shore of Lake Superior. He was excited butserious. They said good-bye and all felt bad. It broke up the trip. Theynever saw Hopkins again. That was a long time ago on the Black River.

Nick drank the coffee, the coffee according to Hopkins. The coffee wasbitter. Nick laughed. It made a good ending to the story. His mind wasstarting to work. He knew he could choke it because he was tired enough.He spilled the coffee out of the pot and shook the grounds loose into thefire. He lit a cigarette and went inside the tent. He took off his shoes andtrousers, sitting on the blankets, rolled the shoes up inside the trousers fora pillow and got in between the blankets.

Out through the front of the tent he watched the glow of the fire, whenthe night wind blew on it. It was a quiet night. The swamp was perfectlyquiet. Nick stretched under the blanket comfortably. A mosquito hummedclose to his ear. Nick sat up and lit a match. The mosquito was on thecanvas, over his head. Nick moved the match quickly up to it. The mosquitomade a satisfactory hiss in the flame. The match went out. Nick lay downagain under the blanket. He turned on his side and shut his eyes. He wassleepy. He felt sleep coming. He curled up under the blanket and went tosleep.

169

Big Two-Hearted RiverPart II

IN THE MORNING THE SUN WAS UP AND

·.e tent was starting to get hot. Nick crawled out under the mosquito!tting stretched across the mouth of the tent, to look at the morning. The'ass was wet on his hands as he came out. He held his trousers and hisiOes in his hands. The sun was just up over the hill. There was the

dow, the river and the swamp. There were birch trees in the green ofe swamp on the other side of the river.

"The river was clear and smoothly fast in the early morning. Down abouttwo hundred yards were three logs all the way across the stream. Theymade the water smooth and deep above them. As Nick watched, a minkib'ossed the river on the logs and went into the swamp. Nick was excited.He was excited by the early morning and the river. He was really toohUrried to eat breakfast. but he knew he must. He built a little fire andpUt on the coffee pot.

While the water was heating in the pot he took an empty bottle andwent down over the edge of the high ground to the meadow. The meadowwas wet with dew and Nick wanted to catch grasshoppers for bait beforethe sun dried the grass. He found plenty of good grasshoppers. They wereat the base of the grass stems. Sometimes they clung to a grass stem. Theywere cold and wet with the dew, and could not jump until the sun warmedthem. Nick picked them up, taking only the medium-sized brown ones,and put them into the bottle. He turned over a log and just under theshelter of the edge were several hundred hoppers. It was a grasshopperlodging house. Nick put about fifty of the medium browns into the bottle.While he was picking up the hoppers the others warmed in the sun andcommenced to hop away. They flew when they hopped. At first they madeone flight and stayed stiff when they landed, as though they were dead.

Nick knew that by the time he was through with breakfast they wouldbe as lively as ever. Without dew in the grass it would take him all day

173

THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES OF ERNEST HEMINGWAY

to catch a bottle full of good grasshoppers and he would have to crushmany of them, slamming at them with his hat. He washed his hands atthe stream. He was excited to be near it. Then he walked up to the tent.The hoppers were already jumping stiffly in the grass. In the bottle, warmedby the sun, they were jumping in a mass. Nick put in a pine stick as acork. It plugged the mouth of the bottle enough, so the hoppers could notget out and left plenty of air passage.

He had rolled the log back and knew he could get grasshoppers thereevery morning.

Nick laid the bottle full of jumping grasshoppers against a pine trunk.Rapidly he mixed some buckwheat flour with water and stirred it smooth,one cup of flour, one cup of water. He put a handful of coffee in the potand dipped a lump of grease out of a can and slid it sputtering across thehot skillet. On the smoking skillet he poured smoothly the buckwheatbatter. It spread like lava, the grease spitting sharply. Around the edgesthe buckwheat cake began to firm, then brown, then crisp. The surfacewas bubbling slowly to porousness. Nick pushed under the browned undersurface with a fresh pine chip. He shook the skillet sideways and the cakewas loose on the surface. I won't try and flop it, he thought. He slid thechip of clean wood all the way under the cake, and flopped it over ontoits face. It sputtered in the pan.

When it was cooked Nick regreased the skillet. He used all the batter.It made another big flapjack and one smaller one.

Nick ate a big flapjack and a smaller one, covered with apple butter. Heput apple butter on the third cake, folded it over twice, wrapped it in oiledpaper and put it in his shirt pocket. He put the apple butter jar back in thepack and cut bread for two sandwiches.

In the pack he found a big onion. He sliced it in two and peeled thesilky outer skin. Then he cut one half into slices and made onion sand­wiches. He wrapped them in oiled paper and buttoned them in the otherpocket of his khaki shirt. He turned the skillet upside down on the grill,drank the coffee, sweetened and yellow brown with the condensed milkin it, and tidied up the camp. It was a good camp.

Nick took his fly rod out of the leather rod-case, jointed it, and shovedthe rod-case back into the tent. He put on the reel and threaded the linethrough the guides. He had to hold it from hand to hand, as he threadedit, or it would slip back through its own weight. It was a heavy, doubletapered fly line. Nick had paid eight dollars for it a long time ago. It wasmade heavy to lift back in the air and come forward flat and heavy andstraight to make it possible to cast a fly which has no weight. Nick openedthe aluminum leader box. The leaders were coiled between the dampflannel pads. Nick had wet the pads at the water cooler on the train up toSt. Ignace. In the damp pads the gut leaders had softened and Nick umolledone and tied it by a loop at the end to the heavy fly line. He fastened ahook on the end of the leader. It was a small hook; very thin and springy.

174

Nick took it frtested the knot cgQod feeling. He

lIe started do,");lung from his nbottle. His landiwas a long flomttis, shoulder. Th\;Nick felt awk~ging from hi~ the breast p.1:+' lIe stepped inQis legs. His sho

"k,Rushing, the I

water was over 1~~" shoes. He lo(yp the bottle tod The first gras~

Slut into the wa~d came to th19c1d.ng. In a ql~sappeared.A 1

~LAnother hOPIBe was getting .;~ head and hij<:lwn through 1

sshopper toee on it. Nickolding the r,

sshopper in tand let it I

ent. It wenthere was att strike. Holeline with hiscurrent. Nicair. It bowe,e saw the tJ§hifting tanliO<. took thenst the curr-gravel colestooped, d

er still, withmouth, ther

NGWAY

lave to crushhis hands at

p to the tent.)ttle, warmedine stick as alers could not

lOppers there

a pine- trunk.~ed it smooth,fee in the potng across the.e buckwheatnd the edges'. The surface'Owned underand the cake

It. He slid thei it over onto

all the batter.

pIe butter. Heped it in oiledar back in the

Id peeled the~ onion sand­1 in the other1 on the grill,ndensed milk

t, and shoved~aded the lines he threadedleavy, doublele ago. It wasl1d heavy and. Nick opened:en the damphe train up toNick unrolledHe fastened a1 and springy.

BIG TWO-HEARTED RIVER: PART II

Nick took it from his hook book, sitting with the rod across his lap. Hetested the knot and the spring of the rod by pulling the line taut. It was agood feeling. He was careful not to let the hook bite into his finger.

He started down to the stream, holding his rod, the bottle of grasshoppershung from his neck by a thong tied in half hitches around the neck of thebottle. His landing net hung by a hook from his belt. Over his shoulderwas a long flour sack tied at each comer into an ear. The cord went overhis shoulder. The sack flapped against his legs.

Nick felt awkward and professionally happy with all his equipmenthanging from him. The grasshopper bottle swung against his chest. In hisshirt the breast pockets bulged against him with the lunch and his fly book.

He stepped into the stream. It was a shock. His trousers clung tight tohis legs. His shoes felt the gravel. The water was a rising cold shock.

Rushing, the current sucked against his legs. Where he stepped in, thewater was over his knees. He waded with the current. The gravel slid underhis shoes. He looked down at the swirl of water below each leg and tippedup the bottle to get a grasshopper.

The first grasshopper gave a jump in the neck of the bottle and wentout into the water. He was sucked under in the whirl by Nick's right legand came to the surface a little way down stream. He floated rapidly,kicking. In a quick circle, breaking the smooth surface of the water, hedisappeared. A trout had taken him.

Another hopper poked his face out of the bottle. His antennre wavered.He was getting his front legs out of the bottle to jump. Nick took him bythe head and held him while he threaded the slim hook under his chin,down through his thorax and into the last segments of his abdomen. Thegrasshopper took hold of the hook with his front feet, spitting tobaccojuice on it. Nick dropped him into the water.

Holding the rod in his right hand he let out line against the pull of thegrasshopper,in the current. He stripped off line from the reel with his lefthand and let it run free. He could see the hopper in the little waves of thecurrent. It went out of sight.

There was a tug on the line. Nick pulled against the taut line. It was hisfirst strike. Holding the now living rod across the current, he brought inthe line with his left hand. The rod bent in jerks, the trout pumping againstthe current. Nick knew it was a small one. He lifted the rod straight up inthe air. It bowed with the pull.

He saw the trout in the water jerking with his head and body againstthe shifting tangent of the line in the stream.

Nick took the line in his left hand and pulled the trout, thumping tiredlyagainst the current, to the surface. His back was mottled the clear, water­over-gravel color, his side flashing in the sun. The rod under his right arm,!"lick stooped, dipping his right hand into the current. He held the trout,never still, with his moist right hand, while he unhooked the barb fromhis mouth, then dropped him back into the stream.

175

THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES OF ERNEST HEMINGWAY

He hung unsteadily in the current, then settled to the bottom beside astone. Nick reached down his hand to touch him, his arm to the elbowunder water. The trout was steady in the moving stream, resting on thegraveL beside a stone. As Nick's fingers touched him, touched his smooth,cooL underwater feeling he was gone, gone in a shadow across the bottomof the stream.

He's all right, Nick thought. He was only tired.He had wet his hand before he touched the trout, so he would not

disturb the delicate mucus that covered him. If a trout was touched witha dry hand, a white fungus attacked the unprotected spot. Years beforewhen he had fished crowded streams, with fly fishermen ahead of himand behind him, Nick had again and again come on dead trout, furry withwhite fungus, drifted against a rock, or floating belly up in some pool. Nickdid not like to fish with other men on the river. Unless they were of yourparty, they spoiled it.

He wallowed down the stream, above his knees in the current, throughthe fifty yards of shallow water above the pile of logs that crossed thestream. He did not rebait his hook and held it in his hand as he waded.He was certain he could catch small trout in the shallows, but he did notwant them. There would be no big trout in the shallows this time of day.

Now the water deepened rp his thighs sharply and coldly. Ahead wasthe smooth dammed-back flood of water above the logs. The water wassmooth and dark; on the left, the lower edge of the meadow; on the rightthe swamp.

Nick leaned back against the current and took a hopper from the bottle.He threaded the hopper on the hook and spat on him for good luck. Thenhe pulled several yards of line from the reel and tossed the hopper outahead onto the fast, dark water. It floated down towards the logs, thenthe weight of the line pulled the bait under the surface. Nick held the rodin his right hand, letting the line run out through his fingers.

There was a long tug. Nick struck and the rod came alive and dangerous,bent double, the line tightening, coming out of water, tightening, all in aheavy, dangerous, steadypull. Nick felt the moment when the leader wouldbreak if the strain increased and let the line go.

The reel ratcheted into a mechanical shriek as the line went out in arush. Too fast. Nick could not check it. the line rushing out,the reel noterising as the line ran out.

With the core of the reel showing, his heart feeling stopped with theexcitement, leaning back against the current that mounted icily his thighs,Nick thumbed the reel hard with his left hand. It was awkward getting histhumb inside the fly reel frame.

As he put on pressure the line tightened into sudden hardness andbeyond the logs a huge trout went high out of water. As he jumped, Nicklowered the tip of the rod. But he felt, as he dropped the tip to ease thestrain, the moment when the strain was too great; the hardness too tight.Of course, the leader had broken. There was .no mistaking the feeling when

176

all SpriIHis n

big a trlbulk of

Nick'much. :down.

The Iehand. Esteady (hook inof the hwas an~

been sostarted (ever hee

Nick (trousersthe logs.

He WI

from hisbelow tlfast curr,

He satback, theshallowsand whibark, grGwent awthe thrillout on t1until it g

He bailogs to gcthe logs 1

swamp s]On the

elm tree·its roots (the streaINick stOGof the str<and full (of the strcfrondssw

Nick sv

"lGWAY

tom beside ato the elbow:sting on theI his smooth,•s the bottom

e would notouched withYears beforehead of him1t, furry withne pool. Nickwere of your

rent, throught crossed theis he waded.ut he did not; time of day.7. Ahead wasIe water was; on the right

1m the bottle.>d luck. Thene hopper outhe logs, then: held the rods..d dangerous,mng, all in aleader would

rent out in athe reel note

ped with theily his thighs,rd getting his

lardness andjumped, Nickp to ease theless too tight.feeling when

BIG TWO-HEARTED RIVER: PART II

all spring left the line and it became dry and hard. Then it went slack.His mouth dry, his heart down, Nick reeled in. He had never seen so

big a trout. There was a heaviness, a power not to be held, and then thebulk of him, as he jumped. He looked as broad as a salmon.

Nick's hand was shaky. He reeled in slowly. The thrill had been toomuch. He felt, vaguely, a little sick, as though it would be better to sitdown.

The leader had broken where the hook was tied to it. Nick took it in hishand. He thought of the trout somewhere on the bottom, holding himselfsteady over the gravel, far down below the light, under the logs, with thehook in his jaw. Nick knew the trout's teeth would cut mrough the snellof me hook. The hook would imbed itself in his jaw. He'd bet the troutwas angry. Anything mat size would be angry. That was a trout. He hadbeen solidly hooked. Solid as a rock. He felt like a rock, too, before hestarted off. By God, he was a big one. By God, he was the biggest one Iever heard of.

Nick climbed out onto the meadow and stood, water running down histrousers and out of his shoes, his shoes squelchy. He went over and sat onme logs. He did not want to rush his sensations any.

He wriggled his toes in the water, in his shoes, and got out a cigarettefrom his breast pocket. He lit it and tossed the match into the fast waterbelow the logs. A tiny trout rose at the mitch, as it swung around in thefast current. Nick laughed. He would finish the cigarette.

He sat on the logs, smoking, drying in the sun, the sun warm on hisback, the river shallow ahead entering me woods, curving into the woods,shallows, light glittering, big water-smooth rocks, cedars along the bankand white birches, the logs warm in the sun, smooth to sit on, withoutbark, gray to the touch; slowly the feeling of disappointment left him. Itwent away slowly, the feeling of disappointment that came sharply afterme thrill that made his shoulders ache. It was all right now. His rod lyingout on the logs, Nick tied a new hook on the leader, pulling the gut tightuntil it grimped into itself in a hard knot.

He baited up, men picked up the rod and walked to the far end of thelogs to get into the water, where it was not too deep. Under and beyondme logs was a deep pool. Nick walked around the shallow shelf near theswamp shore until he came out on the shallow bed of the stream.

On the left, where the meadow ended and the woods began, a greatelm tree was uprooted. Gone over in a storm, it lay back into me woods,its roots clotted with dirt, grass growing in them, rising a solid bank besidethe stream. The river cut to the edge of the uprooted tree. From whereNick stood he could see deep channels, like ruts, cut in the shallow bedof the stream by the flow of me current. Pebbly where he stood and pebblyand full of boulders beyond; where it curved near the tree roots, the bedof me stream was marly and between the ruts of deep water green weedfronds swung in the current.

Nick swung the rod back over his shoulder and forward, and the line,

177

THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES OF ERNEST HEMINGWAY

curving forward, laid the grasshopper down on one of the deep channelsin the weeds. A trout struck and Nick hooked him.

Holding the rod far out toward the uprooted tree and sloshing backwardin the current, Nick worked the trout, plunging, the rod bending alive, outof the danger of the weeds into the open river. Holding the rod, pumpingalive against the current, Nick brought the trout in. He rushed, but alwayscame, the spring of the rod yielding to the rushes, sometimes jerking underwater, but always bringing him in. Nick eased downstream with the rushes.The rod above his head he led the trout over the net, then lifted.

The trout hung heavy in the net, mottled trout back and silver sides inthe meshes. Nick unhooked him; heavy sides, good to hold, big undershotjaw, and slipped him, heaving and big sliding, into the long sack that hungfrom his shoulders in the water.

Nick spread the mouth of the sack against the current and it filled, heavywith water. He held it up, the bottom in the stream, and the water pouredout through the sides. Inside at the bottom was the big trout, alive in thewater.

Nick moved downstream. The sack out ahead of him sunk heavy in thewater, pulling from his shoulders.

It was getting hot, the sun hot on the back of his neck.Nick had one good trout. He did not care about getting many trout. Now

the stream was shallow and wide. There were trees along both banks. Thetrees of the left bank made short shadows on the current in the forenoonsun. Nick knew there were trout in each shadow. In the afternoon, afterthe sun had crossed toward the hills, the trout would be in the cool shadowson the other side of the stream.

The very biggest ones would lie up close to the bank. You could alwayspick them up there on the Black. When the sun was down they all movedout into the current. Just when the sun made the water blinding in theglare before it went down, you were liable to strike a big trout anywherein the current. It was almost impossible to fish then, the surface of thewater was blinding as a mirror in the sun. Of course, you could fishupstream, but in a stream like the Black, or this, you had to wallow against.the current and in a deep place, the water piled up on you. It was no funto fish upstream with this much current.

Nick moved along through the shallow stretch watching the banks fordeep holes. A beech tree grew close beside the river, so that the brancheshung down into the water. The stream went back in under the leaves.There were always trout in a place like that.

Nick did not care about fishing that hole. He was sure he would get 1

hooked in the branches.It looked deep though. He dropped the grasshopper so the current took ';

it under water, back in under the overhanging branch. The line pulled;hard and Nick struck. The trout threshed heavily, half out of water in the"!leaves and branches. The line was caught. Nick pulled hard and the troutn

178

was off. He retstream.

Ahead, closepointing up riv~cl1 side of thwas gray and (

:Nick took thit~;fIe picked hout so that the$e.hollow log.alleavy strike.~re hooked il

He tried to f4tJ'Ohe line wer

lpm, very neal()ut. His mouttflqwing currenl. Looping in tl

line taut and tr""W. sight, the lil~thump in·tp his left hand·oJl.Jherod, anc~ater, a heavy~.him into thLJle spread th~ut alive in tlr;Through the

tgpk the sack ojand hung it soUl? .qn the log al~JQ the streamm~ ~og and too

". . es in the ccdwiches and

Ut through hisIt was cool in

ck a match. y furrow; Nict the match. HAhead the ri\ooth and dee]

together, thswamp like tl

ost level witJ

~EMINGWAY

loshing backwbending alive, 0

the rod, pumpin;Jshed, but alway:nes jerking undn with the rushesen lifted.tnd silver sides MllId, big undershoti19 sack that hung~

. '''1

nd it IDled, heavy:!the water pourec:frout, alive in the~

unk heavy in the'

nany trout. Now'lboth banks. Thelin the forenoorff

afternoon, after.:he cool shadows~

au could alwayS"1 they all moved:, blinding in the'trout anywhere'e surface of the;you could fisflJ

)wallow againstu. It was no fun:'

19 the banks fortat the branchesIder the leaves.

he current took i

The line pulled"of water in the'd and the trout,

BIG TWO-HEARTED RIVER: PART II

,~ 9ft'. He reeled in and holding the hook in his hand, walked down the~am.

ead, close to the left bank, was a big log. Nick saw it was hollow;:ting up river the current entered it smoothly, only a little ripple spread

:,* side of the log. The water was deepening. The top of the hollow loggray and dry. It was partly in the shadow.

.ick took the cork out of the grasshopper bottle and a hopper clung toe picked him off, hooked him and tossed him out. He held the rod farso that the hopper on the water moved into the current flowing intohollow log. Nick lowered the rod and the hopper floated in. There wasavy strike. Nick swung the rod against the pull. It felt as though he

re hooked into the log itself, except for the live feeling.e tried to force the fish out into the current. It came, heavily.

;he line went slack and Nick thought the trout was gone. Then he saw; very near, in the current, shaking his head, trying to get the hook

t. His mouth was clamped shut. He was fighting the hook in the clearlwing current.,ooping in the line with his left hand, Nick swung the rod to make the

.e taut and tried to lead the trout toward the net, but he was gone, out,sight, the line pumping. Nick fought him against the current, letting

thump in the water against the spring of the rod. He shifted the rodhis left hand, worked the trout upstream, holding his weight, fightingthe rod, and then let him down into the net. He lifted him clear of the

ater, a heavy half circle in the net, the net dripping, unhooked him and.~ him into the sack.

L:tIe spread the mouth of the sack and looked down in at the two bigqput alive in the water.,Through the deepening water, Nick waded over to the hollow log. He

tgok the sack off, over his head, the trout flopping as it came out of water,and hung it so the trout were deep in the water. Then he pulled himself~p on the log and sat, the water from his trouser and boots running downmto the stream. He laid his rod down, moved along to the shady end ofttl~ log and took the sandwiches out of his pocket. He dipped the sand­Y9ches in the cold water. The current carried away the crumbs. He ate thesandwiches and dipped his hat full of water to drink, the water runningout through his hat just ahead of his drinking.

It was cool in the shade, sitting on the log. He took a cigarette out andstruck a match to light it. The match sunk into the gray wood, making atiny furrow. Nick leaned over the side of the log, found a hard place andlit the match. He sat smoking and watching the river.

Ahead the river narrowed and went into a swamp. The river becamesmooth and deep and the swamp looked solid with cedar trees, their trunksdose together, their branches solid. It would not be possible to walk througha swamp like that. The branches grew so low. You would have to keepalmost level with the ground to move at all. You could not crash through

179

THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES OF ERNEST HEMINGWAY

the branches. That must be why the animals that lived in swamps werebuilt the way they were, Nick thought.

He wished he had brought something to read. He felt like reading. Hedid not feel like going on into the swamp. He looked down the river. Abig cedar slanted all the way across the stream. Beyond that the river wentinto the swamp.

Nick did not want to go in there now. He felt a reaction against deepwading with the water deepening up under his armpits, to hook big troutin places impossible to land them. In the swamp the banks were bare, thebig cedars came together overhead, the sun did not come through, exceptin patches; in the fast deep water, in the half light, the fishing would betragic. In the swamp fishing was a tragic adventure. Nick did not want it.He did not want to go down the stream any further today.

He took out his knife, opened it and stuck it in the log. Then he pulledup the sack, reached into it and brought out one of the trout. Holding himnear the tail, hard to hold, alive, in his hand, he whacked him against thelog. The trout quivered, rigid. Nick laid him on the log in the shade andbroke the neck of the other fish the same way. He laid them side by sideon the log. They were fine trout.

Nick cleaned them, slitting them from the vent to the tip of the jaw. Allthe insides and the gills and tongue came out in one piece. They were bothmales; long gray-white strips of milt, smooth and clean. All the insidesclean and compact, coming out all together. Nick tossed the offal ashorefor the minks to find.

He washed the trout in the stream. When he held them back up in thewater they looked like live fish. Their color was not gone yet. He washedhis hands and dried them on the log. Then he laid the trout on the sackspread out on the log, rolled them up in it, tied the bundle and put it inthe landing net. His knife was still standing, blade stuck in the log. Hecleaned it on the wood and put it in his pocket.

Nick stood up on the log, holding his rod, the landing net hanging heavy,then stepped into the water and splashed ashore. He climbed the bank andcut up into the woods, toward the high ground. He was going back tocamp. He looked back. The river just showed through the trees. There wereplenty of days coming when he could fish the swamp.

180

The king was w(through the gar,Oh how do youking ordered wJirevolutionary COl

Arounds. Plastir,1think he did rifJthings might halofan affair is m

It was very jOJ

to America.

Indian Camp

AT THE LAKE SHORE THERE WAS AN­

other rowboat drawn up. The two Indians stood waiting.Nick and his father got in the stern of the boat and the Indians shoved

it off and one of them got in to row. Uncle George sat in the stern of thecamp rowboat. The young Indian shoved the camp boat off and got in torow Uncle George.

The two boats started off in the dark. Nick heard the oarlocks of theother boat quite a way ahead of them in the mist. The Indians rowed withquick choppy strokes. Nick lay back with his father's arm around him. Itwas cold on the water. The Indian who was rowing them was workingvery hard, but the other boat moved further ahead in the mist all the time.

"Where are we going, Dad?" Nick asked."Over to the Indian camp. There is an Indian lady very sick.""Oh," said Nick.Across the bay they found the other boat beached. Uncle George was

smoking a cigar in the dark. The young Indian pulled the boat way up onthe beach. Uncle George gave both the Indians cigars.

They walked up from the beach through a meadow that was soakingwet with dew, following the young Indian who carried a lantern. Thenthey went into the woods and followed a trail that led to the logging roadthat ran back into the hills. It was much lighter on the logging road as thetimber was cut away on both sides. The young Indian stopped and blewout his lantern and they all walked on along the road.

They came around a bend and a dog came out barking. Ahead were thelights of the shanties where the Indian bark-peelers lived. More dogs rushedout at them. The two Indians sent them back to the shanties. In the shantynearest the road there was a light in the window. An old woman stoodin the doorway holding a lamp.

Inside on a wooden bunk lay a young Indian woman. She had been

67

THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES OF ERNEST HEMINGWAY

trying to have her baby for two days. All the old women in the camp hadbeen helping her. The men had moved off up the road to sit in the darkand smoke out of range of the noise she made. She screamed just as Nickand the two Indians followed his father and Uncle George into the shanty.She lay in the lower bunk, very big under a quilt. Her head was turnedto one side. In the upper bunk was her husband. He had cut his foot verybadly with an ax three days before. He was smoking a pipe. The roomsmelled very bad.

Nick's father ordered some water to be put on the stove, and while itwas heating he spoke to Nick.

"This lady is going to have a baby, Nick," he said."I know," said Nick."Vou don't know," said his father. "Listen to me. What she is going

through is called being in labor. The baby wants to be born and she wantsit to be born. All her muscles are trying to get the baby born. That is whatis happening when she screams."

"I see," Nick said.Just then the woman cried out."Gh, Daddy, can't you give her something to make her stop screaming?"

asked Nick."No. I haven't any an~sthetic," his father said. "But her screams are

not important. I don't hear them because they are not important."The husband in the upper bunk rolled over against the wall.The woman in the kitchen motioned to the doctor that the water was

hot. Nick's father went into the kitchen and poured about half of the waterout of the big kettle into a basin. Into the water left in the kettle he putseveral things he unwrapped from a handkerchief.

"Those must boil," he said, and began to scrub his hands in the basinof hot water with a cake of soap he had brought from the camp. Nickwatched his father's hands scrubbing each other with the soap. While hisfather washed his hands very carefully and thoroughly, he talked.

"Vou see, Nick, babies are supposed to be born head first but sometimesthey're not. When they're not they make a lot of trouble for everybody.Maybe I'll have to operate on this lady. We'll know in a little while."

When he was satisfied with his hands he went in and went to work."Pull back that quilt, will you, George?" he said. ''I'd rather not touch

it."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 Georgesaid, "Damn squaw bitch!" and the young Indian who had rowed UncleGeorge over laughed at him. Nick held the basin for his father. It all tooka long time. His father picked the baby up and slapped it to make it breatheand handed it to the old woman.

"See, it's a boy, Nick," he said. "How do you like being an interne?"Nick said, "All right." He was looking away so as not to see what his

father was doing.

68

"ThereNick d"Now,

this or n<Nick dHis fatJ

stood upUncle 4

''I'll pIthe Indialooked vanything.

'Tll beshould b.need."

He wasroom afte

"That'swith a ja<

Uncle <"Gh, y<" Ought

sufferers ipretty qui

He pull<wet. He nhand andthroat hacpool wheropen raZOJ

"Take !'

There ""had a gooctipped the

It wasjuroad back

"I'm tenpost-operat

"Do ladi"No, tha"Why di"I don't"Do mar"Not ver"Do mar"Hardly I

JGWAY

le camp hadin the darkjust as Nick) the shanty.was turned

his foot very~. The room

and while it

she is goingld she wantsThat is what

screaming?"

. screams arertant."all.le water wasf of the waterkettle he put

, in the basine camp. Nick'ap. While his:alked.lut sometimesor everybody.tie while."~nt to work.her not touch

e Indian menUncle Georgel rowed Uncle:ler. It all tooklake it breathe

an interne?") see what his

INDIAN CAMP

"There. That gets it," said his father and put something into the basin.Nick didn't look at it."Now," his father said, "there's some stitches to put in. vou can watch

this or not, Nick, just as you like. I'm going to sew up the incision I made."Nick did not watch. His curiosity had been gone for a long time.His father finished and stood up. Uncle George and the three Indian men

stood up. Nick put the basin out in the kitchen.Uncle George looked at his arm. The young Indian smiled reminiscently.''I'll put some peroxide on that. George," the doctor said. He bent over

the Indian woman. She was quiet now and her eyes were closed. Shelooked very pale. She did not know what had become of the baby oranything.

''I'll be back in the morning," the doctor said, standing up. "The nurseshould be here from St. Ignace by noon and she'll bring everything weneed."

He was feeling exalted and talkative as football players are in the dressingroom after a game.

"That's one for the medical journaL George," he said. "Doing a C~sarian

with a jack-knife and sewing it up with nine-foot, tapered gut leaders."Uncle George was standing against the wall, looking at his arm."Oh, you're a great man, all right." he said."Ought to have a look at the proud father. They're usually the worst

sufferers in these little affairs," the doctor said. "I must say he took it allpretty quietly."

He pulled back the blanket from the Indian's head. His hand came awaywet. He mounted on the edge of the lower bunk with the lamp in onehand and looked in. The Indian lay with his face toward the wall. Histhroat had been cut from ear to ear. The blood had flowed down into apool where his body sagged the bunk. His head rested on his left arm. Theopen razor lay, edge up, in the blankets.

"Take Nick out of the shanty, George," the doctor said.There was no need of that. Nick, standing in the door of the kitchen,

had a good view of the upper bunk when his father, the lamp in one hand,tipped the Indian's head back.

It was just beginning to be daylight when they walked along the loggingroad back toward the lake.

''I'm terribly sorry I brought you along, Nickie," said his father, all hispost-operative exhilaration gone. "It was an awful mess to put you through."

"Do ladies always have such a hard time having babies?" Nick asked."No, that was very, very exceptional.""Why did he kill himself, Daddy?""1 don't know, Nick. He couldn't stand things, I guess.""Do many men kill themselves, Daddy?""Not very many, Nick.""Do many women?""Hardly ever."

69

THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES OF ERNEST HEMINGWAY

"Don't they ever?""Oh, yes. They do sometimes.""Daddy?""Yes.""Where did Uncle George go?""He'll tum up all right.""Is dying hard, Daddy?""No, I think it's pretty easy, Nick. It all depends."They were seated in the boat, Nick in the stem, his father rowing. The

sun was coming up over the hills. A bass jumped, making a circle in thewater. Nick trailed his hand in the water. It felt warm in the sharp chillof the morning.

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

70

Minarets stUtwerejammeawere haulingwith everythialong keepinfjthe bridge. Cthrough themin the carts crwas a womarcrying. Scarea