開催終了12/17水 ｐｍ７半 The Snows of Kilimanjaro （Ernest Hemingway ） 先生 ：英国人Mさん
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2014年12月15日 01:18 更新
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【内容】 “The Snows of Kilimanjaro” by Ernest Hemingway
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【内容】 “The Snows of Kilimanjaro” by Ernest Hemingway
を先生の指導のもとやっていきます。
【先生】 某英国人Mさん（若い男性）
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また、確認の意味で、お食事不要の方は、お手数ですが、「食事不要」とご記入ください
お土産について：読書会中に皆でつまめる菓子、果物などのお土産は歓迎です。なお飲み物のお土産はご遠慮ください。（CafeBarKIYONOは飲食店です。お食事・飲料の持ち込みはできません。）
【定員】：8名
会場： 千代田区平河町2-2-5カフェバーKIYONO 電話5212-4146
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2014年12月14日 23:28
“The Snows of Kilimanjaro” by Ernest Hemingway
Kilimanjaro is a snow-covered mountain 19,710 feet high, and is said to be the highest
mountain in Africa. Its western summit is called the Masai "Ngaje Ngai," the House of
God. Close to the western summit there is the dried and frozen carcass of a leopard. No
one has explained what the leopard was seeking at that altitude.
The marvelous thing is that it’s painless," he said. "That's how you know when it
starts."
"Is it really?"
"Absolutely. I'm awfully sorry about the odor though. That must bother you."
"Don't! Please don't."
"Look at them," he said. "Now is it sight or is it scent that brings them like that?"
The cot the man lay on was in the wide shade of a mimosa tree and as he looked
out past the shade onto the glare of the plain there were three of the big birds squatted
obscenely, while in the sky a dozen more sailed, making quick-moving shadows as they
passed.
"They've been there since the day the truck broke down," he said. "Today's the first
time any have lit on the ground. I watched the way they sailed very carefully at first in
case I ever wanted to use them in a story. That's funny now.""I wish you wouldn't," she
said.
"I'm only talking," he said. "It's much easier if I talk. But I don't want to bother
you."
"You know it doesn't bother me," she said. "It's that I've gotten so very nervous not
being able to do anything. I think we might make it as easy as we can until the plane
comes."
"Or until the plane doesn't come."
"Please tell me what I can do. There must be something I can do.
"You can take the leg off and that might stop it, though I doubt it. Or you can shoot
me. You're a good shot now. I taught you to shoot, didn't I?"
"Please don't talk that way. Couldn't I read to you?"
"Read what?"
"Anything in the book that we haven't read."
"I can't listen to it," he said." Talking is the easiest. We quarrel and that makes the
time pass."
2014年12月14日 23:37
pass."
"I don't quarrel. I never want to quarrel. Let's not quarrel any more. No matter how
nervous we get. Maybe they will be back with another truck today. Maybe the plane will
come."
"I don't want to move," the man said. "There is no sense in moving now except to
make it easier for you."
"That's cowardly."
"Can't you let a man die as comfortably as he can without calling him names?
What's the use of clanging me?"
"You're not going to die." 2
"Don't be silly. I'm dying now. Ask those bastards." He looked over to where the
huge, filthy birds sat, their naked heads sunk in the hunched feathers. A fourth planed
down, to run quick-legged and then waddle slowly toward the others.
"They are around every camp. You never notice them. You can't die if you don't
give up."
"Where did you read that? You're such a bloody fool."
"You might think about some one else."
"For Christ's sake," he said, "that's been my trade."
He lay then and was quiet for a while and looked across the heat shimmer of the
plain to the edge of the bush. There were a few Tommies that showed minute and white
against the yellow and, far off, he saw a herd of zebra, white against the green of the bush.
This was a pleasant camp under big trees against a hill, with good water, and close by, a
nearly dry water hole where sand grouse flighted in the mornings.
"Wouldn't you like me to read?" she asked. She was sitting on a canvas chair
beside his cot. "There's a breeze coming up.
"No thanks."
"Maybe the truck will come."
"I don't give a damn about the truck."
"I do."
"You give a damn about so many things that I don't."
"Not so many, Harry."
"What about a drink?"
"It's supposed to be bad for you. It said in Black's to avoid all alcohol.
You shouldn't drink."
"Molo!" he shouted.
"Yes Bwana."
"Bring whiskey-soda."
"Yes Bwana."
"You shouldn't," she said. "That's what I mean by giving up. It says it's
bad for you. I know it's bad for you."
"No," he said. "It's good for me."
So now
2014年12月14日 23:39
So now it was all over, he thought. So now he would never have a chance
to finish it. So this was the way it ended, in a bickering over a drink. Since
the gangrene started in his right leg he had no pain and with the pain the
horror had gone and all he felt now was a great tiredness and anger that this was
the end of it. For this, that now was coming, he had very little curiosity.
For years it had obsessed him; but now it meant nothing in itself. It was
strange how easy being tired enough made it.
Now he would never write the things that he had saved to write until he knew
enough to write them well. Well, he would not have to fail at trying to write them either.
Maybe you could never write them, and that was why you put them off and delayed the
starting. Well he would never know, now.
"I wish we'd never come," the woman said. She was looking at him holding the
glass and biting her lip. "You never would have gotten anything like this in Paris. You
always said you loved Paris. We could have stayed in Paris or gone anywhere. I'd have gone anywhere. I said I'd go anywhere you wanted. If you wanted to shoot we could have
gone shooting in Hungary and been comfortable."
"Your bloody money," he said.
"That's not fair," she said. "It was always yours as much as mine. I left everything
and I went wherever you wanted to go and I've done what you wanted to do But I wish
we'd never come here."
"You said you loved it."
"I did when you were all right. But now I hate it. I don't see why that had to
happen to your leg. What have we done to have that happen to us?"
"I suppose what I did was to forget to put iodine on it when I first scratched it.
Then I didn't pay any attention to it because I never infect. Then, later, when it got bad, it
was probably using that weak carbolic solution when the other antiseptics ran out that
paralyzed the minute blood vessels and started the gangrene." He looked at her, "What
else'"
"I don't mean that."
2014年12月14日 23:40
"I don't mean that."
"If we would have hired a good mechanic instead of a half-baked Kikuyu driver,
he would have checked the oil and never burned out that bearing in the truck."
"I don't mean that."
"If you hadn't left your own people, your goddamned Old Westbury Saratoga,
Palm Beach people to take me on " *'Why, I loved you. That's not fair. I love you now. I'll
always love you Don't you love me?"
"No," said the man. "I don't think so. I never have."
"Harry, what are you saying? You're out of your head."
"No. I haven't any head to go out of."
"Don't drink that," she said. "Darling, please don't drink that. We have to do
everything we can."
"You do it," he said. "I'm tired."
Now in his mind he saw a railway station at Karagatch and he was standing with
his pack and that was the headlight of the Simplon-Offent cutting the dark now and he was
leaving Thrace then after the retreat. That was one of the things he had saved to write,
with, in the morning at breakfast, looking out the window and seeing snow on the
mountains in Bulgaffa and Nansen's Secretary asking the old man if it were snow and the
old man looking at it and saying, No, that's not snow. It's too early for snow. And the
Secretary repeating to the other girls, No, you see. It's not snow and them all saying, It's
not snow we were mistaken. But it was the snow all right and he sent them on into it when
he evolved exchange of populations. And it was snow they tramped along in until they
died that winter.
It was snow too that fell all Christmas week that year up in the Gauertal, that year
they lived in the woodcutter's house with the big square porcelain stove that filled half the
room, and they slept on mattresses filled with beech leaves, the time the deserter came
with his feet bloody in the snow. He said the police were right behind him and they gave
him woolen socks and held the gendarmes talking until the tracks had drifted over.
2014年12月14日 23:41
drifted over.
In Schrunz, on Christmas day, the snow was so bright it hurt your eyes when you
looked out from the Weinstube and saw every one coming home from church. That was
where they walked up the sleigh-smoothed urine-yellowed road along the river with the
steep pine hills, skis heavy on the shoulder, and where they ran down the glacier above the
Madlenerhaus, the snow as smooth to see as cake frosting and as light as powder and he
remembered the noiseless rush the speed made as you dropped down like a bird.
They were snow-bound a week in the Madlenerhaus that time in the blizzard
playing cards in the smoke by the lantern light and the stakes were higher all the time as
Herr Lent lost more. Finally he lost it all. Everything, the Skischule money and all the
season's profit and then his capital. He could see him with his long nose, picking up the
cards and then opening, "Sans Voir." There was always gambling then. When there was
no snow you gambled and when there was too much you gambled. He thought of all the
time in his life he had spent gambling.
But he had never written a line of that, nor of that cold, bright Christmas day with
the mountains showing across the plain that Barker had flown across the lines to bomb the
Austrian officers' leave train, machine-gunning them as they scattered and ran. He
remembered Barker afterwards coming into the mess and starting to tell about it. And how
quiet it got and then somebody saying, ''You bloody murderous bastard.''
Those were the same Austrians they killed then that he skied with later. No not the
same. Hans, that he skied with all that year, had been in the Kaiser Jagers and when they
went hunting hares together up the little valley above the saw-mill they had talked of the
fighting on Pasubio and of the attack on Perticara and Asalone and he had never written a
word of that. Nor of Monte Corona, nor the Sette Communi, nor of Arsiero.
How many winters had he lived in the Vorarlberg and the Arlberg?
2014年12月14日 23:43
How many winters had he lived in the Vorarlberg and the Arlberg? It was four and
then he remembered the man who had the fox to sell when they had walked into Bludenz,
that time to buy presents, and the cherry-pit taste of good kirsch, the fast-slipping rush of
running powder-snow on crust, singing ''Hi! Ho! said Rolly!' ' as you ran down the last
stretch to the steep drop, taking it straight, then running the orchard in three turns and out
across the ditch and onto the icy road behind the inn. Knocking your bindings loose,
kicking the skis free and leaning them up against the wooden wall of the inn, the lamplight
coming from the window, where inside, in the smoky, new-wine smelling warmth, they
were playing the accordion.
"Where did we stay in Paris?" he asked the woman who was sitting by him in a
canvas chair, now, in Africa.
"At the Crillon. You know that."
"Why do I know that?"
"That's where we always stayed."
"No. Not always."
"There and at the Pavillion Henri-Quatre in St. Germain. You said you loved it
there."
"Love is a dunghill," said Harry. "And I'm the cock that gets on it to crow."
"If you have to go away," she said, "is it absolutely necessary to kill off everything
you leave behind? I mean do you have to take away everything? Do you have to kill your
horse, and your wife and burn your saddle and your armour?"
"Yes," he said. "Your damned money was my armour. My Sword and my
Armour."
"Don't."
"All right. I'll stop that. I don't want to hurt you.'
"It's a little bit late now." 5
"All right then. I'll go on hurting you. It's more amusing. The only thing I ever
really liked to do with you I can't do now."
"No, that's not true. You liked to do many things and everything you wanted to do
I did."
"Oh, for Christ sake stop bragging, will you?"
He looked at her and saw her crying.
2014年12月14日 23:45
He looked at her and saw her crying.
"Listen," he said. "Do you think that it is fun to do this? I don't know why I'm
doing it. It's trying to kill to keep yourself alive, I imagine. I was all right when we started
talking. I didn't mean to start this, and now I'm crazy as a coot and being as cruel to you as
I can be. Don't pay any attention, darling, to what I say. I love you, really. You know I
love you. I've never loved any one else the way I love you."
He slipped into the familiar lie he made his bread and butter by.
"You're sweet to me."
"You bitch," he said. "You rich bitch. That's poetry. I'm full of poetry now. Rot
and poetry. Rotten poetry."
"Stop it. Harry, why do you have to turn into a devil now?"
"I don't like to leave anything," the man said. "I don’t like to leave things behind."
* * *
It was evening now and he had been asleep. The sun was gone behind the hill and
there was a shadow all across the plain and the small animals were feeding close to camp;
quick dropping heads and switching tails, he watched them keeping well out away from
the bush now. The birds no longer waited on the ground. They were all perched heavily in
a tree. There were many more of them. His personal boy was sitting by the bed.
"Memsahib's gone to shoot," the boy said. "Does Bwana want?"
"Nothing."
She had gone to kill a piece of meat and, knowing how he liked to watch the game,
she had gone well away so she would not disturb this little pocket of the plain that he
could see. She was always thoughtful, he thought. On anything she knew about, or had
read, or that she had ever heard.
It was not her fault that when he went to her he was already over. How could a
woman know that you meant nothing that you said; that you spoke only from habit and to
be comfortable? After he no longer meant what he said, his lies were more successful with
women than when he had told them the truth.
It was not so much that he lied as that there was no truth to tell. He had had his life
2014年12月14日 23:47
He had had his life
and it was over and then he went on living it again with different people and more money,
with the best of the same places, and some new ones.
You kept from thinking and it was all marvellous. You were equipped with good
insides so that you did not go to pieces that way, the way most of them had, and you made
an attitude that you cared nothing for the work you used to do, now that you could no
longer do it. But, in yourself, you said that you would write about these people; about the
very rich; that you were really not of them but a spy in their country; that you would leave
it and write of it and for once it would be written by some one who knew what he was
writing of. But he would never do it, because each day of not writing, of comfort, of being
that which he despised, dulled his ability and softened his will to work so that, finally, he
did no work at all. The people he knew now were all much more comfortable when he did
not work. Africa was where he had been happiest in the good time of his life, so he had 6
come out here to start again. They had made this safari with the minimum of comfort.
There was no hardship; but there was no luxury and he had thought that he could get back
into training that way. That in some way he could work the fat off his soul the way a
fighter went into the mountains to work and train in order to burn it out of his body.
She had liked it. She said she loved it. She loved anything that was exciting, that
involved a change of scene, where there were new people and where things were pleasant.
And he had felt the illusion of returning strength of will to work. Now if this was how it
ended, and he knew it was, he must not turn like some snake biting itself because its back
was broken. It wasn't this woman's fault. If it had not been she it would have been another.
If he lived by a lie he should try to die by it. He heard a shot beyond the hill.
She shot very well this good,
2014年12月14日 23:48
She shot very well this good, this rich bitch, this kindly caretaker and destroyer of
his talent. Nonsense. He had destroyed his talent himself. Why should he blame this
woman because she kept him well? He had destroyed his talent by not using it, by
betrayals of himself and what he believed in, by drinking so much that he blunted the edge
of his perceptions, by laziness, by sloth, and by snobbery, by pride and by prejudice, by
hook and by crook. What was this? A catalogue of old books? What was his talent
anyway? It was a talent all right but instead of using it, he had traded on it. It was never
what he had done, but always what he could do. And he had chosen to make his living
with something else instead of a pen or a pencil. It was strange, too, wasn't it, that when he
fell in love with another woman, that woman should always have more money than the
last one? But when he no longer was in love, when he was only lying, as to this woman,
now, who had the most money of all, who had all the money there was, who had had a
husband and children, who had taken lovers and been dissatisfied with them, and who
loved him dearly as a writer, as a man, as a companion and as a proud possession; it was
strange that when he did not love her at all and was lying, that he should be able to give
her more for her money than when he had really loved.
We must all be cut out for what we do, he thought. However you make your living
is where your talent lies. He had sold vitality, in one form or another, all his life and when
your affections are not too involved you give much better value for the money. He had
found that out but he would never write that, now, either. No, he would not write that,
although it was well worth writing.
2014年12月14日 23:51
No, he would not write that,
although it was well worth writing.
Now she came in sight, walking across the open toward the camp. She was
wearing jodphurs and carrying her rifle. The two boys had a Tommie slung and they were
coming along behind her. She was still a good-looking woman, he thought, and she had a
pleasant body. She had a great talent and appreciation for the bed, she was not pretty, but
he liked her face, she read enormously, liked to ride and shoot and, certainly, she drank
too much. Her husband had died when she was still a comparatively young woman and for
a while she had devoted herself to her two just-grown children, who did not need her and
were embarrassed at having her about, to her stable of horses, to books, and to bottles. She
liked to read in the evening before dinner and she drank Scotch and soda while she read.
By dinner she was fairly drunk and after a bottle of wine at dinner she was usually drunk
enough to sleep.
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