"Эрнест Хемингуэй. Big two-hearted river" - читать интересную книгу автора

done. He had made his camp. He was settled. Nothing could touch him. It was
a good place to camp. He was there, in the good place. He was in his home
where he had made it. Now he was hungry.
He came out, crawling under the cheesecloth. It was quite dark outside.
It was lighter in the tent.
Nick went over to the pack and found, with his fingers, a long nail in
a paper sack of nails, in the bottom of the pack. He drove it into the pine
tree, holding it close and hitting it gently with the flat of the ax. He
hung the pack up on the nail. All his supplies were in the pack. They were
off the ground and sheltered now.
Nick was hungry. He did not believe he had ever been hungrier. He
opened and emptied a can of pork and beans and a can of spaghetti into the
frying pan.
"I've got a right to eat this kind of stuff, if I'm willing to carry
it," Nick said. His voice sounded strange in the darkening woods. He did not
speak again.
He started a fire with some chunks of pine he got with the ax from a
stump. Over the fire he stuck a wire grill, pushing the four legs down into
the ground with his boot. Nick put the frying pan on the grill over the
flames. He was hungrier. The beans and spaghetti wanned. Nick stirred them
and mixed them together. They began to bubble, making little bubbles that
rose with difficulty to the surface. There was a good smell. Nick got out a
bottle of tomato catchup and cut four slices of bread. The little bubbles
were coming faster now. Nick sat down beside the fire and lifted the frying
pan off. He poured about half the contents out into the tin plate. It spread
slowly on the plate. Nick knew it was too hot. He poured on some tomato
catchup. He knew the beans and spaghetti were still too hot. He looked at
the fire, then at the tent, he was not going to spoil it all by burning his
tongue. For years he had never enjoyed fried bananas because he had never
been able to wait for them to cool. His tongue was very sensitive. He was
very hungry. Across the river in the swamp, in the almost dark, he saw a
mist rising. He looked at the tent once more. All right. He took a full
spoonful from the plate.
"Chrise," Nick said, "Geezus Chrise," he said happily.
He ate the whole plateful before he remembered the bread. Nick finished
the second plateful with the bread, mopping the plate shiny. He had not
eaten since a cup of coffee and a ham sandwich in the station restaurant at
St. Ignace. It had been a very fine experience. He had been that hungry
before, but had not been able to satisfy it. He could have made camp hours
before if he had wanted to. There were plenty of good places to camp on the
river. But this was good.
Nick tucked two big chips of pine under the grill. The fire flared up.
He had forgotten to get water for the coffee. Out of the pack he got a
folding canvas bucket and walked down the hill, across the edge of the
meadow, to the stream. The other bank was in the white mist. The grass was
wet and cold as he knelt on the bank and dipped the canvas bucket into the
stream. It bellied and pulled hard in the current. The water was ice cold.
Nick rinsed the bucket and carried it full up to the camp. Up away from the
stream it was not so cold.
Nick drove another big nail and hung up the bucket full of water. He