“A Clean, Well-Lighted Place”
is a short story written by Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961). It first
appeared in Scribner's Magazine
in 1933 and then included in Hemingway's anthology Winner
Take Nothing. Just like “Hills
Like White Elephants”, this story illustrates Hemingway's
masterful use of dialogue (rather than plot). In this story, the
dialogue is between a younger waiter and an older waiter, talking
about an old man drinking outside the cafe they are working in after
all the other customers had left.
Closing time in a cafe in Paris, c. 1935. (Image from Taxi-Library.Org)
A Clean, Well-Lighted
Place
It was very late and everyone had left
the cafe except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of the
tree made against the electric light. In the day time the street was
dusty, but at night the dew settled the dust and the old man liked to
sit late because he was deaf and now at night it was quiet and he
felt the difference. The two waiters inside the cafe knew that the
old man was a little drunk, and while he was a good client they knew
that if he became too drunk he would leave without paying, so they
kept watch on him.
"Last week he tried to commit
suicide," one waiter said.
"Why?"
"He was in despair."
"What about?"
"Nothing."
"How do you know it was nothing?"
"He has plenty of money."
They sat together at a table that was
close against the wall near the door of the cafe and looked at the
terrace where the tables were all empty except where the old man sat
in the shadow of the leaves of the tree that moved slightly in the
wind. A girl and a soldier went by in the street. The street light
shone on the brass number on his collar. The girl wore no head
covering and hurried beside him.
"The guard will pick him up,"
one waiter said.
"What does it matter if he gets
what he's after?"
"He had better get off the street
now. The guard will get him. They went by five minutes ago."
The old man sitting in the shadow
rapped on his saucer with his glass. The younger waiter went over to
him.
"What do you want?"
The old man looked at him. "Another
brandy," he said.
"You'll be drunk," the waiter
said. The old man looked at him. The waiter went away.
"He'll stay all night," he
said to his colleague. "I'm sleepy now. I never get into bed
before three o'clock. He should have killed himself last week."
The waiter took the brandy bottle and
another saucer from the counter inside the cafe and marched out to
the old man's table. He put down the saucer and poured the glass full
of brandy.
"You should have killed yourself
last week," he said to the deaf man. The old man motioned with
his finger. "A little more," he said. The waiter poured on
into the glass so that the brandy slopped over and ran down the stem
into the top saucer of the pile."Thank you," the old man
said. The waiter took the bottle back inside the cafe. He sat down at
the table with his colleague again.
"He's drunk now," he said.
"He's drunk every night."
"What did he want to kill himself
for?"
"How should I know."
"How did he do it?"
"He hung himself with a rope."
"Who cut him down?"
"His niece."
"Why did they do it?"
"Fear for his soul."
"How much money has he got?"
"He's got plenty."
"He's got plenty."
"He must be eighty years old."
"Anyway I should say he was
eighty."
"I wish he would go home. I never
get to bed before three o'clock. What kind of hour is that to go to
bed?"
"He stays up because he likes it."
"He's lonely. I'm not lonely. I
have a wife waiting in bed for me."
"He had a wife once too."
"A wife would be no good to him
now."
"You can't tell. He might be
better with a wife."
"His niece looks after him. You
said she cut him down."
"I know."
"I wouldn't want to be that old. An old man is a nasty thing."
"I wouldn't want to be that old. An old man is a nasty thing."
"Not always. This old man is
clean. He drinks without spilling. Even now, drunk. Look at him."
"I don't want to look at him. I
wish he would go home. He has no regard for those who must work."
The old man looked from his glass
across the square, then over at the waiters.
"Another brandy," he said,
pointing to his glass. The waiter who was in a hurry came over.
"Finished," he said, speaking
with that omission of syntax stupid people employ when talking to
drunken people or foreigners. "No more tonight. Close now."
"Another," said the old man.
"No. Finished." The waiter
wiped the edge of the table with a towel and shook his head.
The old man stood up, slowly counted
the saucers, took a leather coin purse from his pocket and paid for
the drinks, leaving half a peseta tip. The waiter watched him go down
the street, a very old man walking unsteadily but with dignity.
"Why didn't you let him stay and
drink?" the unhurried waiter asked. They were putting up the
shutters. "It is not half-past two."
"I want to go home to bed."
"What is an hour?"
"More to me than to him."
"An hour is the same."
"You talk like an old man
yourself. He can buy a bottle and drink at home."
"It's not the same."
"No, it is not," agreed the
waiter with a wife. He did not wish to be unjust. He was only in a
hurry.
"And you? You have no fear of
going home before your usual hour?"
"Are you trying to insult me?"
"No, hombre, only to make a joke."
"No," the waiter who was in a
hurry said, rising from pulling down the metal shutters. "I have
confidence. I am all confidence."
"You have youth, confidence, and a
job," the older waiter said."You have everything."
"And what do you lack?"
"Everything but work."
"You have everything I have."
"No. I have never had confidence
and I am not young."
"Come on. Stop talking nonsense
and lock up."
"I am of those who like to stay
late at the cafe," the older waiter said.
"With all those who do not want to
go to bed. With all those who need a light for the night."
"I want to go home and into bed."
"We are of two different kinds,"
the older waiter said. He was now dressed to go home. "It is not
only a question of youth and confidence although those things are
very beautiful. Each night I am reluctant to close up because there
may be some one who needs the cafe."
"Hombre, there are bodegas
open all night long."
"You do not understand. This is a
clean and pleasant cafe. It is well lighted. The light is very good
and also, now, there are shadows of the leaves."
"Good night," said the
younger waiter.
"Good night," the other said.
Turning off the electric light he continued the conversation with
himself, It was the light of course but it is necessary that the
place be clean and pleasant. You do not want music. Certainly you do
not want music. Nor can you stand before a bar with dignity although
that is all that is provided for these hours. What did he fear? It
was not a fear or dread, It was a nothing that he knew too well. It
was all anothing and a man was a nothing too. It was only that and
light was all it needed and a certain cleanness and order. Some lived
in it and never felt it but he knew it all was nada y pues nada y
nada y pues nada. ['Nothing for nothing and nothing for
nothing'--Sir G] Our nada who art in nada, nada be
thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada in nada
as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily nada
and nada us our nada as we nada our nadas
and nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada;
pues nada. Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee.
He smiled and stood before a bar with a shining steam pressure coffee
machine.
"What's yours?" asked the
barman.
"Nada."
"Otro loco mas,"
['Another crazy man'--Sir G] said the barman and turned away.
"A little cup," said the
waiter.
The barman poured it for him.
"The light is very bright and
pleasant but the bar is unpolished," the waiter said.
The barman looked at him but did not
answer. It was too late at night for conversation.
"You want another copita?"
the barman asked.
"No, thank you," said the
waiter and went out. He disliked bars and bodegas. A clean,
well-lighted cafe was a very different thing. Now, without thinking
further, he would go home to his room. He would lie in the bed and
finally, with daylight, he would go to sleep. After all, he said to
himself, it's probably only insomnia. Many must have it.
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