Battlefield Bells

Author: Hemingway
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2001-08-01
Features: This book is dedicated to Martha Gellhorn. No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod of earth be washed away by the sea, Europe is less, as well as if a promontory were. If one man dies, one less shall live. For so passes the bell that tolls for thee. Robert Jordan moved through the woods, from tree to tree, coming to the edge of the meadow. He looked out over the meadow in the dark, and under the stars, the open space seemed brighter, and he saw the dark shapes of the tied horses. He counted the horses scattered between him and the river. There were five of them. Robert Jordan sat down at the foot of a pine tree, looking out over the meadow before him. I’m tired, he thought, perhaps my judgment isn’t what it should be. But my responsibility is to blow up the bridge, and to succeed, I can’t take unnecessary risks before completing the task. Of course, to let slip a necessary opportunity can be more dangerous, but I’ve always done so, trying to let things take their course. If there really is what the Gypsies say, that they all count on me to kill Pablo, then I should do so. But I can’t make out whether they really expect me to do that. To have an outsider come to kill and then have to work with them afterward is very bad. It can be done in war, with the discipline that ensures it, but in the present situation, I think it’s very bad, though the method is attractive, seemingly straightforward and simple. But here, I don’t believe anything can be so straightforward and simple, though I fully trust that woman, I can’t be sure how she will react to such an extreme action. To die in such a situation could be very ugly, base, and repulsive. You can’t tell how she will react. Without this woman, there is no organization, no discipline here, but with her, things will go well. If she kills him, or if the Gypsies do (but they won’t), or if the sentinel Augustine does, that would be ideal. Anselmo would do it, if I asked him, though he says he opposes killing anyone. He hates Pablo, I believe, and he trusts me, trusting me as a symbol of the things he believes in. Only he and that woman truly believe in the Republic, as far as I can see; but it’s too early to draw such a conclusion. His eyes grew accustomed to the stars, and he could see Pablo standing by one of the horses. The horse lifted its head and stopped eating, then lowered it impatiently. Pablo was standing beside the horse, leaning against it. The horse trotted in a circle within the length of the reins, and he followed it, patting its neck from time to time. The horse was eating, impatient with such affection. Robert Jordan couldn’t see what Pablo was doing or hear what he was saying to the horse, but he could see that he wasn’t undoing the reins on the stake or preparing the saddle. He sat looking at Pablo, wanting to think through his problem clearly. “You, my big, little pony,” Pablo said to the horse in the dark; he was speaking to the large chestnut-colored horse: “You, my dear pale-faced beauty. You, your long neck bent like the dry bridge in my hometown.” He paused. “But bent more, much prettier.” The horse was chewing grass, and as it pulled it up, its head tilted to one side, distracted by the man and his words.