Green Hills of Africa. Ernest Hemingway

were they and what if he missed one when he got a shot, he wouldn’t, you never missed when it was really important, he was sure of that, that was one of the tenets of his faith, but what if he got excited and missed, and why didn’t he get any letters, what did the guide say kongoni for that time, they did, he knew they did, but he said nothing of all that, only, ‘Whatever you say’, a little desperately.

      ‘Come on, cheer up, you bastard,’ I said.

      ‘I’m cheerful. What’s the matter with you?’

      ‘Have a drink.’

      ‘I don’t want a drink. I want a kudu.’

      Later Pop said, ‘I thought he’d do well off by himself with no one to hurry him or rattle him. He’ll be all right. He’s a good lad.’

      ‘He wants someone to tell him exactly what to do and still leave him alone and not rattle him,’ I said. ‘It’s hell for him to shoot in front of everybody. He’s not a damned show-off like me.’

      ‘He made a damned fine shot at that leopard,’ Pop said.

      ‘Two of them,’ I said. ‘The second was as good as the first. Hell, he can shoot. On the range he’ll shoot the pants off of any of us. But he worries about it and I rattle him trying to get him to speed up.’

      ‘You’re a little hard on him sometimes,’ Pop said.

      ‘Hell, he knows me. He knows what I think of him. He doesn’t mind.’

      ‘I still think he’ll find himself off by himself,’ Pop said. ‘It’s just a question of confidence. He’s really a good shot.’

      ‘He’s got the best buff, the best waterbuck, and the best lion, now,’ I said. ‘He’s got nothing to worry about.’

      ‘The Memsahib has the best lion, brother. Don’t make any mistake about that.’

      ‘I’m glad of that. But he’s got a damned fine lion and a big leopard. Everything he has is good. We’ve got plenty of time. He’s got nothing to worry about. What the hell is he so gloomy about?’

      ‘We’ll get an early start in the morning so we can finish it off before it gets too hot for the little Memsahib.’

      ‘She’s in the best shape of any one.’

      ‘She’s marvellous. She’s like a little terrier.’

      We went out that afternoon and glassed the country from the hills and never saw a thing. That night after supper we were in the tent. P.O.M. disliked intensely being compared to a little terrier. If she must be like any dog, and she did not wish to be, she would prefer a wolfhound, something lean, racy, long-legged and ornamental. Her courage was so automatic and so much a simple state of being that she never thought of danger; then, too, danger was in the hands of Pop and for Pop she had a complete, clear-seeing, absolutely trusting adoration. Pop was her ideal of how a man should be, brave, gentle, comic, never losing his temper, never bragging, never complaining except in a joke, tolerant, understanding, intelligent, drinking a little too much as a good man should, and, to her eyes, very handsome.

      ‘Don’t you think Pop’s handsome?’

      ‘No,’ I said. ‘Droopy’s handsome.’

      ‘Droopy’s beautiful. But don’t you really think Pop’s handsome?’

      ‘Hell, no. I like him as well as any man I’ve ever known, but I’m damned if he’s handsome.’

      ‘I think he’s lovely looking. But you understand about how I feel about him, don’t you?’

      ‘Sure. I’m as fond of the bastard myself.’

      ‘But don’t you think he’s handsome, really?’

      ‘Nope.’

      Then, a little later:

      ‘Well, who’s handsome to you?’

      ‘Belmonte and Pop. And you.’

      ‘Don’t be patriotic,’ I said. ‘Who’s a beautiful woman?’

      ‘Garbo.’

      ‘Not any more. Josie is. Margot is.’

      ‘Yes, they are. I know I’m not.’

      ‘You’re lovely.’

      ‘Let’s talk about Mr. J. P. I don’t like you to call him Pop. It’s not dignified.’

      ‘He and I aren’t dignified together.’

      ‘Yes, but I’m dignified with him. Don’t you think he’s wonderful?’

      ‘Yes, and he doesn’t have to read books written by some female he’s tried to help get published saying how he’s yellow.’

      ‘She’s just jealous and malicious. You never should have helped her. Some people never forgive that.’

      ‘It’s a shame, though, with all that talent gone to malice and nonsense and self-praise. It’s a goddamned shame, really. It’s a shame you never knew her before she went to pot. You know a funny thing; she never could write dialogue. It was terrible. She learned how to do it from my stuff and used it in that book. She had never written like that before. She never could forgive learning that and she was afraid people would notice it, where she’d learned it, so she had to attack me. It’s a funny racket, really. But I swear she was nice before she got ambitious. You would have liked her then, really.’

      ‘Maybe, but I don’t think so,’ said P.O.M. ‘We have fun though, don’t we? Without all those people.’

      ‘God damn it if we don’t. I’ve had a better time every year since I can remember.’

      ‘But isn’t Mr. J. P. wonderful? Really?’

      ‘Yes. He’s wonderful.’

      ‘Oh, you’re nice to say it. Poor Karl.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Without his wife.’

      ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Poor Karl.’