Across the River and Into the Trees by Ernest Hemingway Read Free Book Online Page A

“Writer.”
    He added to himself, not wishing to confuse Jackson, nor be difficult, as he had been with the man several times that day, writer, poet, national hero, phraser of the dialectic of Fascism, macabre egotist, aviator, commander, or rider, in the first of the fast torpedo attack boats, Lieutenant Colonel of Infantry without knowing how to command a company, nor a platoon properly, the great, lovely writer of Notturno whom we respect, and jerk.
    Up ahead now there was a crossing place of gondolas at the Santa Maria del Giglio and, beyond, was the wooden dock of the Gritti.
    “That’s the hotel where we are stopping at, Jackson.”
    The Colonel indicated the three story, rose colored, small, pleasant palace abutting on the Canal. It had been a dependence of the Grand Hotel—but now it was its own hotel and a very good one. It was probably the best hotel, if you did not wish to be fawned on, or fussed over, or over-flunkied, in a city of great hotels, and the Colonel loved it.
    “It looks O.K. to me, sir,” Jackson said.
    “It is O.K.,” the Colonel said.
    The motor boat came gallantly up beside the piling of the dock. Every move she makes, the Colonel thought, is a triumph of the gallantry of the aging machine. We do not have war horses now like old Traveller, or Marbot’s Lysette who fought, personally, at Eylau. We have the gallantry of worn-through rods that refuse to break; the cylinder head that does not blow though it has every right to, and the rest of it.
    “We’re at the dock, sir,” Jackson said.
    “Where the hell else would we be, man. Jump out while I settle with this sportsman.”
    He turned to the boatman and said, “That was thirty five hundred, wasn’t it?”
    “Yes, my Colonel.”
    “I’ll not forget about the over-age jeep engine. Take this and buy your horse some oats.”
    The porter, who was taking the bags from Jackson, heard this and laughed.
    “No veterinarian will ever fix his horse.”
    “She still runs,” the boatman said.
    “But she doesn’t win any races,” the porter said. “How are you, my Colonel?”
    “I couldn’t be better,” the Colonel said. “How are all the members of the Order?”
    “All members are well.”
    “Good,” said the Colonel. “I will go in and see the Grand Master.”
    “He is waiting for you, my Colonel.”
    “Let us not keep him waiting, Jackson,” the Colonel said. “You may proceed to the lobby with this gentleman and tell them to sign me in. See the sergeant gets a room,” he said to the porter. “We’re here for the night only.”
    “The Baron Alvarito was here looking for you.”
    “I’ll find him at Harry’s.”
    “Good, my Colonel.”
    “Where is the Grand Master?”
    “I’ll find him for you.”
    “Tell him I’ll be in the bar.”

CHAPTER VII
    THE bar was just across from the lobby of the Gritti, although lobby, the Colonel thought, was not the accurate term to describe that gracious entrance. Didn’t Giotto describe a circle, he thought? No, that was in math. What he remembered and loved best as an anecdote about that painter was: “It was easy,” said Giotto as he drew the perfect circle. Who the hell had said that and where?
    “Good evening, Privy Counsellor,” he said to the barman, who was not a full paid-up member of the order but whom he did not wish to offend. “What can I do for you?”
    “Drink, my Colonel.”
    The Colonel looked out of the windows and the door of the bar onto the waters of the Grand Canal. He could see the big black hitching post for the gondolas and the late afternoon winter light on the wind-swept water. Across the Canal was the old Palace and a wood barge, black and broad, was coming up the Canal, her bluff bows pushing up a wave even though she had the wind behind her.
    “Make it a very dry Martini,” the Colonel said. “A double.”
    Just then the Grand Master came into the room. He was wearing his formal attire as a head waiter. He was truly handsome as a man should