ERNEST HEMINGWAY - Premium Edition. Ernest Hemingway

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СКАЧАТЬ same size. I laid them out, side by side, all their heads pointing the same way, and looked at them. They were beautifully colored and firm and hard from the cold water. It was a hot day, so I slit them all and shucked out the insides, gills and all, and tossed them over across the river. I took the trout ashore, washed them in the cold, smoothly heavy water above the dam, and then picked some ferns and packed them all in the bag, three trout on a layer of ferns, then another layer of fems, then three more trout, and then covered them with ferns. They looked nice in the ferns, and now the bag was bulky, and I put it in the shade of the tree.

      It was very hot on the dam, so I put my worm-can in the shade with the bag, and got a book out of the pack and settled down under the tree to read until Bill should come up for lunch.

      It was a little past noon and there was not much shade, but I sat against the trunk of two of the trees that grew together, and read. The book was something by A. E. W. Mason, and I was reading a wonderful story about a man who had been frozen in the Alps and then fallen into a glacier and disappeared, and his bride was going to wait twenty-four years exactly for his body to come out on the moraine, while her true love waited too, and they were still waiting when Bill came up.

      “Get any?” he asked. He had his rod and his bag and his net all in one hand, and he was sweating. I hadn’t heard him come up, because of the noise from the dam.

      “Six. What did you get?”

      Bill sat down, opened up his bag, laid a big trout on the grass. He took out three more, each one a little bigger than the last, and laid them side by side in the shade from the tree. His face was sweaty and happy.

      “How are yours?”

      “Smaller.”

      “Let’s see them.”

      “They’re packed.”

      “How big are they really?”

      “They’re all about the size of your smallest.”

      “You’re not holding out on me?”

      “I wish I were.”

      “Get them all on worms?”

      “Yes.”

      “You lazy bum!”

      Bill put the trout in the bag and started for the river, swinging the open bag. He was wet from the waist down and I knew he must have been wading the stream.

      I walked up the road and got out the two bottles of wine. They were cold. Moisture beaded on the bottles as I walked back to the trees. I spread the lunch on a newspaper, and uncorked one of the bottles and leaned the other against a tree. Bill came up drying his hands, his bag plump with ferns.

      “Let’s see that bottle,” he said. He pulled the cork, and tipped up the bottle and drank. “Whew! That makes my eyes ache.”

      “Let’s try it.”

      The wine was icy cold and tasted faintly rusty.

      “That’s not such filthy wine,” Bill said.

      “The cold helps it,” I said.

      We unwrapped the little parcels of lunch.

      “Chicken.”

      “There’s hard-boiled eggs.”

      “Find any salt?”

      “First the egg,” said Bill. “Then the chicken. Even Bryan could see that.”

      “He’s dead. I read it in the paper yesterday.”

      “No. Not really?”

      “Yes. Bryan’s dead.”

      Bill laid down the egg he was peeling.

      “Gentlemen,” he said, and unwrapped a drumstick from a piece of newspaper. “I reverse the order. For Bryan’s sake. As a tribute to the Great Commoner. First the chicken; then the egg.”

      “Wonder what day God created the chicken?”

      “Oh,” said Bill, sucking the drumstick, “how should we know? We should not question. Our stay on earth is not for long. Let us rejoice and believe and give thanks.”

      “Eat an egg.”

      Bill gestured with the drumstick in one hand and the bottle of wine in the other.

      “Let us rejoice in our blessings. Let us utilize the fowls of the air. Let us utilize the product of the vine. Will you utilize a little, brother?”

      “After you, brother.”

      Bill took a long drink.

      “Utilize a little, brother,” he handed me the bottle. “Let us not doubt, brother. Let us not pry into the holy mysteries of the hen-coop with simian fingers. Let us accept on faith and simply say—I want you to join with me in saying—What shall we say, brother?” He pointed the drumstick at me and went on. “Let me tell you. We will say, and I for one am proud to say—and I want you to say with me, on your knees, brother. Let no man be ashamed to kneel here in the great out-of-doors. Remember the woods were God’s first temples. Let us kneel and say: ‘Don’t eat that, Lady—that’s Mencken.’ ”

      “Here,” I said. “Utilize a little of this.”

      We uncorked the other bottle.

      “What’s the matter?” I said. “Didn’t you like Bryan?”

      “I loved Bryan,” said Bill. “We were like brothers.”

      “Where did you know him?”

      “He and Mencken and I all went to Holy Cross together.”

      “And Frankie Fritsch.”

      “It’s a lie. Frankie Fritsch went to Fordham.”

      “Well,” I said, “I went to Loyola with Bishop Manning.”

      “It’s a lie,” Bill said. “I went to Loyola with Bishop Manning myself.”

      “You’re cock-eyed,” I said.

      “On wine?”

      “Why not?”

      “It’s the humidity,” Bill said. “They ought to take this damn humidity away.”

      “Have another shot.”

      “Is this all we’ve got?”

      “Only the two bottles.”

      “Do you know what you are?” Bill looked at the bottle affectionately.

      “No,” I said.

      “You’re in the pay of the Anti-Saloon League.”

      “I СКАЧАТЬ