hemingway, ernest - men without women-第24节
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2nd SoldierThey were a pretty yellow crowd。 When they seen him go up there they didnˇt want any of it。
1st SoldierThe women stuck all right。
2nd SoldierSure； they stuck all right。
1st SoldierYou see me slip the old spear into him？
2nd SoldierYouˇll get into trouble doing that some day。
1st SoldierIt was the least I could do for him。 Iˇll tell you he looked pretty good to me in there today。
Hebrew wine…sellerGentlemen； you know I got to close。
1st SoldierWeˇll have one more round。
2nd SoldierWhatˇs the use？ This stuff donˇt get you anywhere。 Come on； letˇs go。
1st SoldierJust another round。
3rd Soldier＇Getting up from the barrel。＇ No； come on。 Letˇs go。 I feel like hell tonight。
1st SoldierJust one more。
2nd SoldierNo； come on。 Weˇre going to go。 Good night； George。 Put it on the bill。
Wine…sellerGood night gentlemen。 ＇He looks a little worried。＇ You couldnˇt let me have a little something on account； Lootenant？〃
2nd SoldierWhat the hell； George！ Wednesdayˇs payday。
Wine…sellerItˇs all right； Lootenant。 Good night； gentlemen。
＇The three Roman soldiers go out the door into the street。＇
＇Outside in the street。＇
2nd SoldierGeorge is a kike just like all the rest of them。
1st SoldierOh； George is a nice fella。
2nd SoldierEverybodyˇs a nice fella to you tonight。
3rd SoldierCome on； letˇs go up to the barracks。 I feel like hell tonight。
2nd SoldierYou been out here too long。
3rd SoldierNo； it ainˇt that。 I feel like hell。
2nd SoldierYou been out here too long。 Thatˇs all。
CURTAIN
BANAL STORY
SO he ate an orange； slowly spitting out the seeds。 Outside； the snow was turning to rain。 Inside； the electric stove seemed to give no heat and rising from his writing…table； he sat down upon the stove。 How good it felt！ Here； at last； was life。
He reached for another orange。 Far away in Paris； Mascart had knocked Danny Frush cuckoo in the second round。 Far off in Mesopotamia； twenty…one feet of snow had fallen。 Across the world in distant Australia； the English cricketers were sharpening up their wickets。 There was Romance。
Patrons of the arts and letters have discovered The Forum； he read。 It is the guide； philosopher； and friend of the thinking minority。 Prize short…storieswill their authors write our best…sellers of tomorrow？〃
You will enjoy these warm； homespun； American tales； bits of real life on the open ranch； in crowded tenement or comfortable home； and all with a healthy undercurrent of humor。
I must read them； he thought。
He read on。 Our childrenˇs childrenwhat of them？ Who of them？ New means must be discovered to find room for us under the sun。 Shall this be done by war or can it be done by peaceful methods？〃
Or will we all have to move to Canada？〃
Our deepest convictionswill Science upset them？ Our civilizationis it inferior to older orders of things
And meanwhile； in the far…off dripping jungles of Yucatan； sounded the chopping of the axes of the gum…choppers。 Do we want big menor do we want them cultured？ Take Joyce。 Take President Coolidge。 What star must our college students aim at？ There is Jack Britton。 There is Dr Henry Van Dyke。 Can we reconcile the two？ Take the case of Young Stribling。
And what of our daughters who must take their own Soundings？ Nancy Hawthorne is obliged to make her own Soundings in the sea of life。 Bravely and sensibly she faces the problems which come to every girl of eighteen。
It was a splendid booklet。
Are you a girl of eighteen？ Take the case of a Joan of Arc。 Take the case of Bernard Shaw。 Take the case of Betsy Ross。
Think of these things in 1925 Was there a frisqu？ page in Puritan history？ Were there two sides to Pocahontas？ Did she have a fourth dimension？〃
Are modern paintingsand poetryArt？ Yes and No。 Take Picasso。
Have tramps codes of conduct？ Send your mind adventuring。
There is Romance everywhere。 Forum writers talk to the point； are possessed of humor and wit。 But they do not try to be smart and are never long…winded。
Live the full life of the mind； exhilarated by new ideas； intoxicated by the romance of the unusual。 He laid down the booklet。
And meanwhile； stretched flat on a bed in a darkened room in the house in Triana； Manuel Garcia Maera lay with a tube in each lung； drowning with the pneumonia。 All the papers in Andalucia devoted special supplements to his death； which had been expected for some days。 Men and boys bought full…length colored pictures of him to remember him by； and lost the picture they had of him in their memories by looking at the lithographs。 Bullfighters were very relieved he was dead； because he did always in the bullring the things they could only do sometimes。 They all marched in the rain behind his coffin and there were one hundred and forty…seven bullfighters followed him out to the cemetery where they buried him in the tomb next to Joselito。 After the funeral every one sat in the caf？s out of the rain； and many colored pictures of Maera were sold to men who rolled them up and put them away in their pockets。
NOW I LAY ME
THAT night we lay on the floor in the room and I listened to the silk…worms eating。 The silk…worms fed in racks of mulberry leaves and all night you could hear them eating and a dropping sound in the leaves。 I myself did not want to sleep because I had been living for a long time with the knowledge that if I ever shut my eyes in the dark and let myself go； my soul would go out of my body。 I had been that way for a long time； ever since I had been blown up at night and felt it go out of me and go off and then come back。 I tried never to think about it； but it had started to go since； in the nights； just at the moment of going off to sleep； and I could only stop it by a very great effort。 So while now I am fairly sure that it will not really have gone out； yet then； that summer； I was unwilling to make the experiment。
I had different ways of occupying myself while I lay awake。 I would think of a trout stream I had fished along when I was a boy； and fish its whole length very carefully in my mind； fishing very carefully under all the logs； all the turns of the bank； the deep holes and the clear shallow stretches； sometimes catching trout and sometimes losing them。 I would stop fishing at noon to eat my lunch； sometimes on a log over the stream； sometimes on a high bank under a tree； and I always ate my lunch very slowly and watched the stream below me while I ate。 Often I ran out of bait because I would take only ten worms with me in a tobacco tin when I started。 When I had used them all I had to find more worms； and sometimes it was very difficult digging in the bank of the stream where the cedar trees kept out the sun and there was no grass but only the bare moist earth and often I could find no worms。 Always though I found some kind of bait； but one time in the swamp I could find no bait at all and had to cut up one of the trout I had caught and use him for bait。
Sometimes I found insects in the swamp meadows； in the grass or under ferns； and used them。 There were beetles and insects with legs like grass stems； and grubs in old rotten logs； white grubs with brown pinching heads that would not stay on the hook and emptied into nothing in the cold water； and wood ticks under logs where sometimes I found angle…worms that slipped into the ground as soon as the log was raised。 Once I used a salamander from under an old log。 The salamander was very small and neat and agile and a lovely color。 He had tiny feet that tried to hold on to the hook； and after that one time I never used a salamander； although I found them very often。 Nor did I use crickets； because of the way they acted about the hook。
Sometimes the stream ran through an open meadow； and in the dry grass I would catch grasshoppers and use them for bait and sometimes I would catch grasshoppers and toss them into the stream and watch them float along swimming on the stream and circling on the surface as the current took them and then disappear as a trout rose。 Sometimes I would fish four or five different streams in the night； starting as near as I could get to their source and fishing them down stream。 When I had finished too quickly and the time did not go； I would fish the stream over again； starting where it emptied into the lake and fishing back up stream； trying for all the trout I had missed coming down。 Some nights too I made up streams； and some of them were very exciting； and it was like being awake and dreaming。 Some of those streams I still remember and think that I have fished in them； and they are confused with streams I really know。 I gave them all names and went to them on the train and sometimes walked for miles to get to them。
But some nights I could not fish； and on those nights I was cold…awake and said my prayers over and over and tried to pray for all the people I had ever known。 That took up a great amount of time； for if you try to remember all the people you have ever known； going back to the earliest thing you rememberwhich was； with me； the attic of the house where I was born and my mother and fat
