Ernest Hemingway

ACROSS THE RIVER AND INTO THE TREES
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CHAPTER XXVIII

THEY lay together now and did not speak and the Colo­nel felt her heart beat. It is easy to feel a heart beat under a black sweater knitted by someone in the family, and her dark hair lay, long and heavy, over his good arm. It isn’t heavy, he thought, it is lighter than anything there is. She lay, quiet and loving, and whatever it was that they possessed was in complete communication. He kissed her on the mouth, gently and hungrily, and then it was as though there was static, suddenly, when com­munications had been perfect.

“Richard,” she said. “I’m sorry about things.”

“Never be sorry,” the Colonel said. “Never discuss casualties, Daughter.”

“Say it again.”

“Daughter.”

“Will you tell me some happy things I can have for during the week and some more of war for my educa­tion?”

“Let’s skip war.”

“No. I need it for my education.”

“I do too,” the Colonel said. “Not maneuvers. You know, in our army once, a general officer through chicanery obtained the plan of the maneuver. He antici­pated every move of the enemy force and comported himself so brilliantly that he was promoted over many better men. And that was why we got smacked one time. That and the prevalence of week-ends.”

“We’re on a week-end now.”

“I know,” the Colonel said. “I can still count up to seven.”

“But are you bitter about everything?”

“No. It is just that I am half a hundred years old and I know things.”

“Tell me something more about Paris because I love to think of you and Paris in the week.”

“Daughter, why don’t you lay off Paris?”

“But I’ve been in Paris, and I will go back there again, and I want to know. It is the loveliest city in the world, next to our own, and I want to know some things truly to take with me.”

“We will go together and I will tell you there.”

“Thank you. But tell me a little now for this week only.”

“Leclerc was a high-born jerk as I think that I’ve ex­plained. Very brave, very arrogant, and extremely ambi­tious. He is dead, as I said.”

“Yes, you told me.”

“They say you should never speak ill of the dead. But I think it is the best time to speak truly of them. I have never said anything of a dead that I would not say to his face,” and he added, “in spades.”

“Let’s not talk about him. I have reclassified him in my mind.”

“What do you want then; picturesque?”

“Yes please. I have bad taste from reading the illus­trated papers. But I will read Dante all week while you are gone. I’ll go to mass each morning. That should be enough.”

“Go to Harry’s before lunch too.”

“I will,” she said. “Please tell me some picturesque.”

“Don’t you think we might better just go to sleep?”

“How can we go to sleep now when we have so little time? Feel this,” she said and pushed her whole head up under his chin until she forced his head back.

“All right, I’ll talk.”

“Give me your hand first to hold. I’ll have it in my hand when I read the Dante and do the other things.”

“Dante was an execrable character. More conceited than (...)

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