Hemingway Out of Season
Hemingway Out of Season
Hemingway Out of Season
From Ernest Hemingway: The Sun Also Rises & Other Writings 1918–1926
(Library of America, 2020), pages 233–38.
First published in Three Stories and Ten Poems (1923); reprinted in In Our Time (1925).
Out of Season
E RNEST HEMINGWAY
Peduzzi leaned over and dug his flat, hard thumb and forefin-
ger in and tangled the moistened leaders.
“Have you some lead?”
“No.”
“You must have some lead.” Peduzzi was excited. “You must
have piombo. Piombo. A little piombo. Just here. Just above
the hook or your bait will float on the water. You must have it.
Just a little piombo.”
“Have you got some?”
“No.” He looked through his pockets desperately. Sifting
through the cloth dirt in the linings of his inside military pock-
ets. “I haven’t any. We must have piombo.”
“We can’t fish then,” said the young gentleman, and un-
jointed the rod, reeling the line back through the guides.
“We’ll get some piombo and fish tomorrow.”
“But listen, caro, you must have piombo. The line will lie
flat on the water.” Peduzzi’s day was going to pieces before his
eyes. “You must have piombo. A little is enough. Your stuff is
all clean and new but you have no lead. I would have brought
some. You said you had everything.”
The young gentleman looked at the stream discolored by
the melting snow. “I know,” he said, “we’ll get some piombo
and fish tomorrow.”
“At what hour in the morning? Tell me that.”
“At seven.”
The sun came out. It was warm and pleasant. The young
gentleman felt relieved. He was no longer breaking the law.
Sitting on the bank he took the bottle of marsala out of his
pocket and passed it to Peduzzi. Peduzzi passed it back. The
young gentleman took a drink of it and passed it to Peduzzi
again. Peduzzi passed it back again. “Drink,” he said, “drink.
It’s your marsala.” After another short drink the young gen-
tleman handed the bottle over. Peduzzi had been watching it
closely. He took the bottle very hurriedly and tipped it up. The
gray hairs in the folds of his neck oscillated as he drank, his eyes
fixed on the end of the narrow brown bottle. He drank it all.
The sun shone while he drank. It was wonderful. This was a
great day, after all. A wonderful day.
“Senta, caro! In the morning at seven.” He had called the
young gentleman caro several times and nothing had happened.
It was good marsala. His eyes glistened. Days like this stretched
out ahead. It would begin at seven in the morning.
They started to walk up the hill toward the town. The young
gentleman went on ahead. He was quite a way up the hill. Pe-
duzzi called to him.
“Listen, caro, can you let me take five lire for a favor?”
“For today?” asked the young gentleman frowning.
“No, not today. Give it to me today for tomorrow. I will pro-
vide everything for tomorrow. Pane, salami, formaggio, good
stuff for all of us. You and I and the signora. Bait for fishing,
minnows, not worms only. Perhaps I can get some marsala. All
for five lire. Five lire for a favor.”
The young gentleman looked through his pocketbook and
took out a two-lira note and two ones.
“Thank you, caro. Thank you,” said Peduzzi, in the tone of
one member of the Carleton Club accepting the Morning Post
from another. This was living. He was through with the hotel
garden, breaking up frozen manure with a dung fork. Life was
opening out.
“Until seven o’clock then, caro,” he said, slapping the young
gentleman on the back. “Promptly at seven.”
“I may not be going,” said the young gentleman putting his
purse back in his pocket.
“What,” said Peduzzi, “I will have minnows, Signor. Salami,
everything. You and I and the Signora. The three of us.”
“I may not be going,” said the young gentleman, “very
probably not. I will leave word with the padrone at the hotel
office.”