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John William Tuohy lives in Washington DC
Hills like white elephants. A short story by Ernest Hemingway
The hills across the valley of the Ebro' were long and white. On this side there was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines of rails in the sun. Close against the side of the station there was the warm shadow of the building and a curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads, hung across the open door into the bar, to keep out flies. The American and the girl with him sat at a table in the shade, outside the building. It was very hot and the express from Barcelona would come in forty minutes. It stopped at this junction for two minutes and went on to Madrid. "What should we drink?" the girl asked. She had taken off her hat and put it on the table. "It's pretty hot," the man said. "Let's drink beer." "Dos cervezas," the man said into the curtain. "Big ones?" a woman asked from the doorway. "Yes. Two big ones." The woman brought two glasses of beer and two felt pads. She put the felt pads and the beer glasses on the table and looked at the man and the girl. The girl was looking off at the line of hills. They were white in the sun and the country was brown and dry. "They look like white elephants," she said. "I've never seen one," the man drank his beer. "No, you wouldn't have." "I might have," the man said. "Just because you say I wouldn't have doesn't prove anything." The girl looked at the bead curtain. "They've painted something on it," she said. "What does it say?" "Anis del Toro. It's a drink." "Could we try it?" The man called "Listen" through the curtain. The woman came out from the bar. "Four reales." "We want two Anis del Toro." "With water?" "Do you want it with water?" "I don't know," the girl said. "Is it good with water?" "It's all right." "You want them with water?" asked the woman. 1. River in the north of Spain. Ernest Hemingway 229 "Yes, with water." "It tastes like licorice," the girl said and put the glass down. "That's the way with everything." "Yes," said the girl. "Everything tastes of licorice. Especially all the things you've waited so long for, like absinthe." "Oh, cut it out." "You started it," the girl said. "I was being amused. I was having a fine time." "Well, let's try and have a fine time." "All right. I was trying. I said the mountains looked like white elephants. Wasn't that bright?" "That was bright." "I wanted to try this new drink. That's all we do, isn't it—look at things and try new drinks?" " I guess so." The girl looked across at the hills. "They're lovely hills," she said. "They don't really look like white elephants. I just meant the coloring of their skin through the trees." "Should we have another drink?" "All right." The warm wind blew the bead curtain against the table. "The beer's nice and cool," the man said. "It's lovely," the girl said. "It's really an awfully simple operation, Jig," the man said. "It's not really an operation at all." The girl looked at the ground the table legs rested on. " I know you wouldn't mind it, Jig. It's really not anything. It's just to let the air in." The girl did not say anything. "I'll go with you and I'll stay with you all the time. They just let the air in and then it's all perfectly natural." "Then what will we do afterward?" "We'll be fine afterward. Just like we were before." "What makes you think so?" "That's the only thing that bothers us. It's the only thing that's made us unhappy." The girl looked at the bead curtain, put her hand out and took hold of two of the strings of beads. "And you think then we'll be all right and be happy." "I know we will. You don't have to be afraid. I've known lots of people that have done it." "So have I," said the girl. "And afterward they were all so happy." "Well," the man said, "if you don't want to you don't have to. I wouldn't have you do it if you didn't want to. But I know it's perfectly simple." "And you really want to?" 230 Short Fiction " I think it's the best thing to do. But I don't want you to do it if you don't really want to." "And if I do it you'll be happy and things will be like they were and you'll love me?" "I love you now. You know I love you." "I know. But if I do it, then it will be nice again if I say things are like white elephants, and you'll like it?" "I'll love it. I love it now but I just can't think about it. You know how I get when I worry." "If I do it you won't ever worry?" " I won't worry about that because it's perfectly simple." "Then I'll do it. Because I don't care about me." "What do you mean?" " I don't care about me." "Well, I care about you." "Oh, yes. But I don't care about me. And I'll do it and then everything will be fine." " I don't want you to do it if you feel that way." The girl stood up and walked to the end of the station. Across, on the other side, were fields of grain and trees along the banks of the Ebro. Far away, beyond the river, were mountains. The shadow of a cloud moved across the field of grain and she saw the river through the trees. "And we could have all this," she said. "And we could have everything and every day we make it more impossible." "What did you say?" "I said we could have everything." "We can have everything." "No, we can't." "We can have the whole world." "No, we can't." "We can go everywhere." "No, we can't. It isn't ours any more." "It's ours." "No, it isn't. And once they take it away, you never get it back." "But they haven't taken it away." "We'll wait and see." "Come on back in the shade," he said. "You mustn't feel that way." "I don't feel any way," the girl said. "I just know things." " I don't want you to do anything that you don't want to do—" "Nor that isn't good for me," she said. "I know. Could we have another beer?" "All right. But you've got to realize—" "I realize," the girl said. "Can't we maybe stop talking?" They sat down at the table and the girl looked across at the hills on the dry side of the valley and the man looked at her and at the table. "You've got to realize," he said, "that I don't want you to do it if you Ernest Hemingway 231 don't want to. I'm perfectly willing to go through with it if it means any-thing to you." "Doesn't it mean anything to you? We could get along." "Of course it does. But I don't want anybody but you. I don't want any one else. And I know it's perfectly simple." "Yes, you know it's perfectly simple." "It's all right for you to say that, but I do know it." "Would you do something for me now?" "I'd do anything for you." "Would you please please please please please please please stop talking?" He did not say anything but looked at the bags against the wall of the station. There were labels on them from all the hotels where they had spent nights. "But I don't want you to," he said, "I don't care anything about it." "I'll scream," the girl said. The woman came out through the curtains with two glasses of beer and put them down on the damp felt pads. "The train comes in five minutes," she said. "What did she say?" asked the girl. "That the train is coming in five minutes." The girl smiled brightly at the woman, to thank her. "I'd better take the bags over to the other side of the station," the man said. She smiled at him. "All right. Then come back and we'll finish the beer." He picked up the two heavy bags and carried them around the station to the other tracks. He looked up the tracks but could not see the train. Coming back, he walked through the barroom, where people waiting for the train were drinking. He drank an Anis at the bar and looked at the people. They were all waiting reasonably for the train. He went out through the bead curtain. She was sitting at the table and smiled at him. "Do you feel better?" he asked. "I feel fine," she said. "There's nothing wrong with me. I feel fine."
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The Necklace by Guy de Maupassant
The girl was one of those pretty
and charming young creatures who sometimes are born, as if by a slip of fate,
into a family of clerks. She had no dowry, no expectations, no way of being
known, understood, loved, married by any rich and distinguished man; so she let
herself be married to a little clerk of the Ministry of Public Instruction.
She dressed plainly because she
could not dress well, but she was unhappy as if she had really fallen from a
higher station; since with women there is neither caste nor rank, for beauty,
grace and charm take the place of family and birth. Natural ingenuity, instinct
for what is elegant, a supple mind are their sole hierarchy, and often make of
women of the people the equals of the very greatest ladies.
Mathilde suffered ceaselessly,
feeling herself born to enjoy all delicacies and all luxuries. She was
distressed at the poverty of her dwelling, at the bareness of the walls, at the
shabby chairs, the ugliness of the curtains. All those things, of which another
woman of her rank would never even have been conscious, tortured her and made
her angry. The sight of the little Breton peasant who did her humble housework
aroused in her despairing regrets and bewildering dreams. She thought of silent
antechambers hung with Oriental tapestry, illumined by tall bronze candelabra,
and of two great footmen in knee breeches who sleep in the big armchairs, made
drowsy by the oppressive heat of the stove. She thought of long reception halls
hung with ancient silk, of the dainty cabinets containing priceless curiosities
and of the little coquettish perfumed reception rooms made for chatting at five
o'clock with intimate friends, with men famous and sought after, whom all women
envy and whose attention they all desire.
When she sat down to dinner,
before the round table covered with a tablecloth in use three days, opposite
her husband, who uncovered the soup tureen and declared with a delighted air,
"Ah, the good soup! I don't know anything better than that," she
thought of dainty dinners, of shining silverware, of tapestry that peopled the
walls with ancient personages and with strange birds flying in the midst of a
fairy forest; and she thought of delicious dishes served on marvellous plates
and of the whispered gallantries to which you listen with a sphinxlike smile
while you are eating the pink meat of a trout or the wings of a quail.
She had no gowns, no jewels,
nothing. And she loved nothing but that. She felt made for that. She would have
liked so much to please, to be envied, to be charming, to be sought after.
She had a friend, a former
schoolmate at the convent, who was rich, and whom she did not like to go to see
any more because she felt so sad when she came home.
But one evening her husband
reached home with a triumphant air and holding a large envelope in his hand.
"There," said he,
"there is something for you."
She tore the paper quickly and
drew out a printed card which bore these words:
The Minister of Public
Instruction and Madame Georges Ramponneau request the honor of M. and Madame
Loisel's company at the palace of the Ministry on Monday evening, January 18th.
Instead of being delighted, as
her husband had hoped, she threw the invitation on the table crossly,
muttering:
"What do you wish me to do
with that?"
"Why, my dear, I thought you
would be glad. You never go out, and this is such a fine opportunity. I had
great trouble to get it. Every one wants to go; it is very select, and they are
not giving many invitations to clerks. The whole official world will be
there."
She looked at him with an
irritated glance and said impatiently:
"And what do you wish me to
put on my back?"
He had not thought of that. He
stammered:
"Why, the gown you go to the
theatre in. It looks very well to me."
He stopped, distracted, seeing
that his wife was weeping. Two great tears ran slowly from the corners of her
eyes toward the corners of her mouth.
"What's the matter? What's
the matter?" he answered.
By a violent effort she conquered
her grief and replied in a calm voice, while she wiped her wet cheeks:
"Nothing. Only I have no
gown, and, therefore, I can't go to this ball. Give your card to some colleague
whose wife is better equipped than I am."
He was in despair. He resumed:
"Come, let us see, Mathilde.
How much would it cost, a suitable gown, which you could use on other
occasions--something very simple?"
She reflected several seconds,
making her calculations and wondering also what sum she could ask without
drawing on herself an immediate refusal and a frightened exclamation from the
economical clerk.
Finally she replied hesitating:
"I don't know exactly, but I
think I could manage it with four hundred francs."
He grew a little pale, because he
was laying aside just that amount to buy a gun and treat himself to a little
shooting next summer on the plain of Nanterre, with several friends who went to
shoot larks there of a Sunday.
But he said: "Very well. I
will give you four hundred francs. And try to have a pretty gown."
The day of the ball drew near and
Madame Loisel seemed sad, uneasy, anxious. Her frock was ready, however. Her
husband said to her one evening:
"What is the matter? Come,
you have seemed very queer these last three days."
And she answered: "It annoys
me not to have a single piece of jewelry, not a single ornament, nothing to put
on. I shall look poverty-stricken. I would almost rather not go at all."
"You might wear natural
flowers," said her husband. "They're very stylish at this time of
year. For ten francs you can get two or three magnificent roses."
She was not convinced.
"No; there's nothing more
humiliating than to look poor among other women who are rich."
"How stupid you are!"
her husband cried. "Go look up your friend, Madame Forestier, and ask her
to lend you some jewels. You're intimate enough with her to do that."
She uttered a cry of joy:
"True! I never thought of
it."
The next day she went to her friend
and told her of her distress.
Madame Forestier went to a
wardrobe with a mirror, took out a large jewel box, brought it back, opened it
and said to Madame Loisel:
"Choose, my dear."
She saw first some bracelets,
then a pearl necklace, then a Venetian gold cross set with precious stones, of
admirable workmanship. She tried on the ornaments before the mirror, hesitated
and could not make up her mind to part with them, to give them back. She kept
asking:
"Haven't you any more?"
"Why, yes. Look further; I
don't know what you like."
Suddenly she discovered, in a
black satin box, a superb diamond necklace, and her heart throbbed with an
immoderate desire. Her hands trembled as she took it. She fastened it round her
throat, outside her high-necked waist, and was lost in ecstasy at her
reflection in the mirror.
Then she asked, hesitating,
filled with anxious doubt:
"Will you lend me this, only
this?"
"Why, yes, certainly."
She threw her arms round her
friend's neck, kissed her passionately, then fled with her treasure.
The night of the ball arrived.
Madame Loisel was a great success. She was prettier than any other woman
present, elegant, graceful, smiling and wild with joy. All the men looked at
her, asked her name, sought to be introduced. All the attaches of the Cabinet
wished to waltz with her. She was remarked by the minister himself.
She danced with rapture, with
passion, intoxicated by pleasure, forgetting all in the triumph of her beauty,
in the glory of her success, in a sort of cloud of happiness comprised of all
this homage, admiration, these awakened desires and of that sense of triumph
which is so sweet to woman's heart.
She left the ball about four
o'clock in the morning. Her husband had been sleeping since midnight in a
little deserted anteroom with three other gentlemen whose wives were enjoying
the ball.
He threw over her shoulders the
wraps he had brought, the modest wraps of common life, the poverty of which
contrasted with the elegance of the ball dress. She felt this and wished to
escape so as not to be remarked by the other women, who were enveloping
themselves in costly furs.
Loisel held her back, saying:
"Wait a bit. You will catch cold outside. I will call a cab."
But she did not listen to him and
rapidly descended the stairs. When they reached the street they could not find
a carriage and began to look for one, shouting after the cabmen passing at a
distance.
They went toward the Seine in
despair, shivering with cold. At last they found on the quay one of those
ancient night cabs which, as though they were ashamed to show their shabbiness
during the day, are never seen round Paris until after dark.
It took them to their dwelling in
the Rue des Martyrs, and sadly they mounted the stairs to their flat. All was
ended for her. As to him, he reflected that he must be at the ministry at ten
o'clock that morning.
She removed her wraps before the
glass so as to see herself once more in all her glory. But suddenly she uttered
a cry. She no longer had the necklace around her neck!
"What is the matter with
you?" demanded her husband, already half undressed.
She turned distractedly toward
him.
"I have--I have--I've lost
Madame Forestier's necklace," she cried.
He stood up, bewildered.
"What!--how?
Impossible!"
They looked among the folds of
her skirt, of her cloak, in her pockets, everywhere, but did not find it.
"You're sure you had it on
when you left the ball?" he asked.
"Yes, I felt it in the
vestibule of the minister's house."
"But if you had lost it in the
street we should have heard it fall. It must be in the cab."
"Yes, probably. Did you take
his number?"
"No. And you--didn't you
notice it?"
"No."
They looked, thunderstruck, at
each other. At last Loisel put on his clothes.
"I shall go back on foot,"
said he, "over the whole route, to see whether I can find it."
He went out. She sat waiting on a
chair in her ball dress, without strength to go to bed, overwhelmed, without
any fire, without a thought.
Her husband returned about seven
o'clock. He had found nothing.
He went to police headquarters,
to the newspaper offices to offer a reward; he went to the cab
companies--everywhere, in fact, whither he was urged by the least spark of
hope.
She waited all day, in the same
condition of mad fear before this terrible calamity.
Loisel returned at night with a
hollow, pale face. He had discovered nothing.
"You must write to your
friend," said he, "that you have broken the clasp of her necklace and
that you are having it mended. That will give us time to turn round."
She wrote at his dictation.
At the end of a week they had
lost all hope. Loisel, who had aged five years, declared:
"We must consider how to
replace that ornament."
The next day they took the box
that had contained it and went to the jeweler whose name was found within. He
consulted his books.
"It was not I, madame, who
sold that necklace; I must simply have furnished the case."
Then they went from jeweler to
jeweler, searching for a necklace like the other, trying to recall it, both
sick with chagrin and grief.
They found, in a shop at the
Palais Royal, a string of diamonds that seemed to them exactly like the one
they had lost. It was worth forty thousand francs. They could have it for
thirty-six.
So they begged the jeweler not to
sell it for three days yet. And they made a bargain that he should buy it back
for thirty-four thousand francs, in case they should find the lost necklace
before the end of February.
Loisel possessed eighteen
thousand francs which his father had left him. He would borrow the rest.
He did borrow, asking a thousand
francs of one, five hundred of another, five louis here, three louis there. He
gave notes, took up ruinous obligations, dealt with usurers and all the race of
lenders. He compromised all the rest of his life, risked signing a note without
even knowing whether he could meet it; and, frightened by the trouble yet to
come, by the black misery that was about to fall upon him, by the prospect of
all the physical privations and moral tortures that he was to suffer, he went to
get the new necklace, laying upon the jeweler's counter thirty-six thousand
francs.
When Madame Loisel took back the
necklace Madame Forestier said to her with a chilly manner: "You should
have returned it sooner; I might have needed it."
She did not open the case, as her
friend had so much feared. If she had detected the substitution, what would she
have thought, what would she have said? Would she not have taken Madame Loisel for
a thief?
Thereafter Madame Loisel knew the
horrible existence of the needy. She bore her part, however, with sudden
heroism. That dreadful debt must be paid. She would pay it. They dismissed
their servant; they changed their lodgings; they rented a garret under the
roof.
She came to know what heavy
housework meant and the odious cares of the kitchen. She washed the dishes,
using her dainty fingers and rosy nails on greasy pots and pans. She washed the
soiled linen, the shirts and the dishcloths, which she dried upon a line; she
carried the slops down to the street every morning and carried up the water,
stopping for breath at every landing. And dressed like a woman of the people,
she went to the fruiterer, the grocer, the butcher, a basket on her arm, bargaining,
meeting with impertinence, defending her miserable money, sou by sou.
Every month they had to meet some
notes, renew others, obtain more time.
Her husband worked evenings,
making up a tradesman's accounts, and late at night he often copied manuscript
for five sous a page.
This life lasted ten years.
At the end of ten years they had
paid everything, everything, with the rates of usury and the accumulations of
the compound interest.
Madame Loisel looked old now. She
had become the woman of impoverished households--strong and hard and rough.
With frowsy hair, skirts askew and red hands, she talked loud while washing the
floor with great swishes of water. But sometimes, when her husband was at the
office, she sat down near the window and she thought of that gay evening of
long ago, of that ball where she had been so beautiful and so admired.
What would have happened if she
had not lost that necklace? Who knows? who knows? How strange and changeful is
life! How small a thing is needed to make or ruin us!
But one Sunday, having gone to
take a walk in the Champs Elysees to refresh herself after the labors of the
week, she suddenly perceived a woman who was leading a child. It was Madame
Forestier, still young, still beautiful, still charming.
Madame Loisel felt moved. Should
she speak to her? Yes, certainly. And now that she had paid, she would tell her
all about it. Why not?
She went up.
"Good-day, Jeanne."
The other, astonished to be
familiarly addressed by this plain good-wife, did not recognize her at all and
stammered:
"But--madame!--I do not
know---- You must have mistaken."
"No. I am Mathilde
Loisel."
Her friend uttered a cry.
"Oh, my poor Mathilde! How
you are changed!"
"Yes, I have had a pretty
hard life, since I last saw you, and great poverty--and that because of
you!"
"Of me! How so?"
"Do you remember that
diamond necklace you lent me to wear at the ministerial ball?"
"Yes. Well?"
"Well, I lost it."
"What do you mean? You
brought it back."
"I brought you back another
exactly like it. And it has taken us ten years to pay for it. You can
understand that it was not easy for us, for us who had nothing. At last it is
ended, and I am very glad."
Madame Forestier had stopped.
"You say that you bought a
necklace of diamonds to replace mine?"
"Yes. You never noticed it,
then! They were very similar."
And she smiled with a joy that
was at once proud and ingenuous.
Madame Forestier, deeply moved,
took her hands.
"Oh, my poor Mathilde! Why,
my necklace was paste! It was worth at most only five hundred francs!"
Write this down and look at it every now and then because it's true
“America is a vast conspiracy to make you happy.” John Updike
Always remember that the news, left or right, makes it's money by selling tragedy, pain, and suffering and making America and Americans out to be mean, petty and vindictive.
“Always read something that
“Always read something that will make you look good if you die
in the middle of it.” P.J. O’Rourke
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