缆车又颠了一下就停了。开不过去啦，大雪给风刮得严严实实地积在车道上。冲刷高山裸露表层的狂风把面上的雪刮成一层坚硬的雪壳。尼克正在行李车厢里给滑雪板上蜡，他把靴子塞进靴尖铁夹里，牢牢扣住夹子。他从车厢边跳下，跳在硬梆梆的雪壳上，来一个弹跳旋转就蹲下身子，撑着滑雪杖，一溜烟滑下山坡。 乔治在下面白雪上时起时落，转眼就落得不见人影了。尼克顺着陡起陡伏的山坡滑下去时，这股冲势加上猛然下滑，把他弄得浑然忘却一切，只觉得身子有一股飞翔、下坠的奇妙感。他挺起身，稍稍来个上滑姿势，一下子他又往下滑，往下滑，冲下最后一个陡峭的长坡，越滑越快，越滑越快，积雪似乎从他脚下纷纷掉落。他一边蹲下身子，几乎坐到滑雪板上，一边尽量把重心放低，只见飞雪犹如沙暴，扑面而来，他知道速度太猛了。但他稳住了。他决不失手摔下来。随即一团被大风刮进坑里的柔软的雪把他绊倒了，滑雪板磕磕绊绊，他接连翻了几个筋斗就动弹不得了，觉得活象只挨了枪子的兔子，两腿交叉，滑雪板朝天翘起，鼻子耳朵里都是雪。 　　乔治站在坡下稍远的地方，噼噼啪啪的掸去风衣上的雪。 　　"你的姿势真美妙，尼克，"他对尼克大声叫道。"那堆烂糟糟的雪真该死。把我也这样绊了一交。" 　　"在峡谷滑雪不知什么生味儿？"尼克仰天躺着，乱踢滑雪板，挣扎站起来。 　　"你得靠左滑。因为谷底有堵栅栏，所以飞速冲下去得来个大旋身。" 　　"等等再说吧，咱们一起去滑。" 　　"不，你赶快先去吧。我想看你滑下峡谷。" 　　尼克.亚当斯赶过了乔治，宽阔的背部和金黄的头发上还隐隐有点雪，他的滑雪板开始先侧滑，再一下子猛冲下去，把晶莹的雪糁儿擦得嘶嘶响，随着他在起伏不定的峡谷里时上时下，看起来象浮上来又沉下去。他坚持靠左滑，末了，正当他冲向栅栏时，就紧紧并拢双膝，象拧紧螺旋似的旋转身子，滑雪板向右来个急转弯，扬起滚滚白雪，然后才慢慢减速，跟山坡和铁丝栅栏平行滑驶。 　　他抬头看看山上。乔治正屈膝，用外旋身姿势滑下山来；一条腿在前面弯着，另一条腿在后面拖着；滑雪板象虫子的细腿那样荡着，杖尖触到地面，掀起阵阵白雪，最后，他一腿下跪，一腿拖随，整个身子就来个漂亮的右转弯绕了过来，蹲着滑行，双腿一前一后，飞快移动，身子探出，防止旋转，两支滑雪杖象两个光点，把弧线衬托得更突出，一切都笼罩在漫天飞舞的白雪中。 　　"我就怕大转身，"乔治说，"雪太深了。你做的姿势真美妙。" 　　"我的腿也做不来外旋身，"尼克说。 　　尼克用滑雪板把铁丝栅栏最高一股铁丝压低了，乔治就滑了过去。尼克跟他来到大路上。他们沿路屈膝滑行，冲进一片松林。路面结着光亮的冰层，给拖运木料的骡马队弄脏了，染得一片橙红，一片烟黄的。两个人一直沿着路边那片雪地滑行。大路陡的往下倾斜通往小河，然后又笔直上坡。他们在林子里看得见一长排饱经风吹雨打，屋檐低矮的房子。从林子里看，这房子泛黄了。走近一看，窗框漆成绿色。油漆在剥落。尼克用一支滑雪杖把滑雪板的夹子敲松，踢掉滑雪板。 　　"咱们还是随身带着滑雪板上去好，"他说。 　　他扛着滑雪板，爬上陡峭的山路，边爬边把靴跟的铁钉扎进冰封的立脚点。他听见乔治紧跟在后，一边喘息，一边跺掉靴跟上的雪。他们把滑雪板堆放在客栈墙边，相互掸掉各人裤子上的雪，把靴子蹬蹬干净才走进去。 　　客栈里黑古隆咚的。一只大瓷炉在屋角亮着火光。天花板低矮。屋子四边酒渍斑斑的暗黑色桌子后面都摆着光溜溜的长椅。两个瑞士人坐在炉边，一边抽着烟斗，一边喝着两杯混浊的新酒。尼克和乔治脱去茄克衫，在炉子另一边靠墙坐下。隔壁房里的歌声停了，一个围着蓝围裙的姑娘走出门来看看他们想要什么。 　　"一瓶西昂酒，"尼克说，"行不行，吉奇？" 　　"行啊，"乔治说。"你对酒比我内行。我什么酒都爱喝。" 　　那姑娘出去了。 　　"没一项玩意儿真正比得上滑雪的吧，"尼克说。"你滑了老长一段路头一回歇下来的时候就有这么个感觉。" 　　"嘿，"乔治说。"真是妙不可言" 　　那姑娘拿酒进来，他们开来开去打不开瓶塞。最后还是尼克打开了。那姑娘出去，他们听见她在隔壁房里唱德语歌。 　　"酒里那些瓶塞渣子没关系，"尼克说。 　　"不知她有没有糕点。" 　　"咱们问问看。" 　　那姑娘进屋，尼克看见她围裙鼓鼓地遮着大肚子。不知她先头进来时我怎么没看见，他心想。 　　"你唱什么？"他问她。 　　"歌剧，德国歌剧。"她不愿谈论这话题。"你们要吃的话，我们有苹果馅奶酪卷。" 　　"她不大客气啊，是不？"乔治说。 　　"啊，算了。她不认识咱们，没准儿当咱们拿她唱歌开玩笑呢。她大概是从讲德语的地区来的，呆在这里脾气躁，后来没结婚肚子里就有了孩子，她脾气才躁了。" 　　"你怎么知道她没结婚？" 　　"没戒指啊。见鬼，这一带的姑娘都是弄大了肚子才结婚的。" 　　门开了，一帮子从大路那头来的伐木工人进了屋，在屋里把靴子上的雪跺掉，身上直冒水气。女招待给这帮人送来了三升新酒，他们分坐两桌，抽着烟，不作声，脱了帽，有的背靠着墙，有的趴在桌上。屋外，运木雪橇的马偶尔一仰脖子，铃铛就清脆地丁丁当当响。 　　乔治和尼克都高高兴兴。他们两人合得来。他们知道回去还有一大段路程呢。 　　"你几时得回学校去？"尼克问。 　　"今晚，"乔治答。"我得赶十点四十分从蒙特罗开出的车。" 　　"我真希望你能留下，明天咱们就能去滑雪了。" 　　"我得上学啊，"乔治说。"哎呀，尼克，难道你不希望咱们能在一起闲逛吗？带上滑雪板，乘上火车，到哪儿滑个痛快，滑好上路，找客栈投宿，再一直穿过奥伯兰，直奔瓦莱，跑遍恩加丁，随身背包里只带修理工具和替换内衣和睡衣，学校啊什么的，统统管他妈的。" 　　"对，就那样走遍施瓦兹瓦德。哎呀，好地方啊。" 　　"就是你今年夏天钓鱼的地方吧？" 　　"是啊。" 　　他们吃着苹果馅奶酪卷，喝光了剩酒。 　　乔治仰身靠着墙，闭上眼。 　　"喝了酒我总是这样感觉，"他说。 　　"感觉不好？"尼克问。 　　"不。感觉好，只是怪。" 　　"我明白，"尼克说。 　　"当然，"乔治说。 　　"咱们再来一瓶好吗？"尼克问。 　　"我不喝了，"乔治说。 　　他们坐在那儿，尼克双肘撑在桌上，乔治往墙上颓然一靠。 　　"海伦快生孩子了吧？"乔治说，身子离开墙凑到桌上。 　　"是啊。" 　　"几时？" 　　"明年夏末。" 　　"你高兴吗？" 　　"是啊。眼前。" 　　"你打算回美国去吗？" 　　"八成要回去吧。 　　"你想要回去吗？" 　　"不。" 　　"海伦呢？" 　　"不。" 　　乔治默默坐着。他瞧瞧空酒瓶和空酒杯。 　　"真要命不是？"他说。 　　"不。还说不上，"尼克说。 　　"为什么？" 　　"我不知道，"尼克说。 　　"你们今后在美国要一块儿滑雪吗？"乔治说。 　　"我不知道，"尼克说。 　　"山不多，"乔治说。 　　"不，"尼克说，"岩石太多。树木也太多，而且都太远。" 　　"是啊，"乔治说，"加利福尼亚就是这样。" 　　"是啊，"尼克说，"我到过的地方处处都这样。" 　　"是啊，"乔治说，"都是这样。" 　　瑞士人站起身，付了帐，走出去了。 　　"咱们是瑞士人就好了，"乔治说。 　　"他们都有大脖子的毛病，"尼克说。 　　"我不信，"乔治说。 　　"我也不信，"尼克说。 　　两人哈哈大笑。 　　"也许咱们再也没机会滑雪了，尼克，"乔治说。 　　"咱们一定得滑，"尼克说，"要是不能滑就没意义了。" 　　"咱们要去滑，没错儿，"乔治说。 　　"咱们一定得滑，"尼克附和说。 　　"希望咱们能就此说定了，"乔治说。 　　尼克站起身，他把风衣扣紧。他朝乔治弯下身子，拿起靠墙放着的两支滑雪杖。他把一支滑雪杖戳在地上。 　　"说定了没什么好处，"他说。 　　他们开了门出去了。天气很冷。雪结得硬梆梆。大路一直从山上通到松林里。 　　他们把刚才搁在客栈墙跟前的滑雪板拿起来。尼克戴上手套。乔治已经扛看滑雪板上路了。这下子他们可要一起跑回家了。

Cross Country Snow by Ernest Hemingway Chapter XII of Hemingway's short story collection, In Our Time, published in 1925. If it happened right down close in front of you, you could see Villalta snarl at the bull and curse him, and when the bull charged he swung back firmly like an oak when the wind hits it, his legs tight together, the muleta trailing and the sword following the curve behind. Then he cursed the bull, flopped the muleta at him, and swung back from the charge, his feet firm, the muleta curving and at each swing the crowd roaring. When he started to kill it was all in the same rush. The bull looking at him straight in front, hating. He drew out the sword from the folds of the muleta and sighted with the same movement and called to the bull, Toro! Toro! and the bull charged and Villalta charged and just for a moment they became one. Villalta became one with the bull and then it was over. Villalta standing straight and the red hilt of the sword sticking out dully between the bull's shoulders. Villalta, his hand up at the crowd and the bull roaring blood, looking straight at Villalta and his legs caving. ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________ The funicular car bucked once more and then stopped. It could not go further, the snow drifted solidly across the track. The gale scouring the exposed surface of the mountain had swept the snow surface into a wind-board crust. Nick, waxing his skis in the baggage car, pushed his boots into the toe irons and shut the clamp tight. He jumped from the car sideways onto the hard wind-board, made a jump turn and crouching and trailing his sticks slipped in a rush down the slope. On the white below George dipped and rose and dipped out of sight. The rush and the sudden swoop as he dropped down a steep undulation in the mountain side plucked Nick's mind out and left him only the wonderful flying, dropping sensation in his body. He rose to a slight up-run and then the snow seemed to drop out from under him as he went down, down, faster and faster in a rush down the last, long steep slope. Crouching so he was almost sitting back on his skis, trying to keep the center of gravity low, the snow driving like a sand-storm, he knew the pace was too much. But he held it. He would not let go and spill. Then a patch of soft snow, left in a hollow by the wind, spilled him and he went over and over in a clashing of skis, feeling like a shot rabbit, then stuck, his legs crossed, his skis sticking straight up and his nose and ears jammed full of snow. George stood a little further down the slope, knocking the snow from his wind jacket with big slaps. "You took a beauty, Mike," he called to Nick. "That's lousy soft snow. It bagged me the same way." "What's it like over the khud?" Nick kicked his skis around as he lay on his back and stood up. "You've got to keep to your left. It's a good fast drop with a Christy at the bottom on ac苞ount of a fence." "Wait a sec and we'll take it together." "No, you come on and go first. I like to see you take the khuds." Nick Adams came up past George, big back and blond head still faintly snowy, then his skis started slipping at the edge and he swooped down, hissing in the crystalline powder snow and seeming to float up and drop down as he went up and down the billowing khuds. He held to his left and at the end, as he rushed toward the fence, keeping his knees locked tight together and turning his body like tightening a screw brought his skis sharply around to the right in a smother of snow and slowed into a loss of speed parallel to the hillside and the wire fence. He looked up the hill. George was coming down in telemark position, kneeling; one leg forward and bent, the other trailing; his sticks hanging like some insect's thin legs, kicking up puffs of snow as they touched the surface and finally the whole kneeling, trailing figure coming around in a beautiful right curve, crouching, the legs shot forward and back, the body leaning out against the swing, the sticks accenting the curve like points of light, all in a wild cloud of snow. "I was afraid to Christy," George said, "the snow was too deep. You made a beauty." "I can't telemark with my leg," Nick said. Nick held down the top strand of the wire fence with his ski and George slid over. Nick followed him down to the road. They thrust bent-kneed along the road into a pine forest. The road became polished ice, stained orange and a tobacco yellow from the teams hauling logs. The skiers kept to the stretch of snow along the side. The road dipped sharply to a stream and then ran straight up-hill. Through the woods they could see a long, low-eaved, weather-beaten building. Through the trees it was a faded yellow. Closer the window frames were painted green. The paint was peeling. Nick knocked his clamps loose with one of his ski sticks and kicked off the skis. "We might as well carry them up here," he said. He climbed the steep road with the skis on his shoulder, kicking his heel nails into the icy footing. He heard George breathing and kicking in his heels just behind him. They stacked the skis against the side of the inn and slapped the snow off each other's trousers, stamped their boots clean, and went in. Inside it was quite dark. A big porcelain stove shone in the corner of the room. There was a low ceiling. Smooth benches back of dark, wine-stained tables were along each side of the rooms. Two Swiss sat over their pipes and two decies of cloudy new wine next to the stove. The boys took off their jackets and sat against the wall on the other side of the stove. A voice in the next room stopped singing and a girl in a blue apron came in through the door to see what they wanted to drink. "A bottle of Sion," Nick said. "Is that all right, Gidge?" "Sure," said George. "You know more about wine than I do. I like any of it." The girl went out. "There's nothing really can touch skiing, is there?" Nick said. "The way it feels when you first drop off on a long run." "Huh," said George. "It's too swell to talk about." The girl brought the wine in and they had trouble with the cork. Nick finally opened it. The girl went out and they heard her singing in German in the next room. "Those specks of cork in it don't matter," said Nick. "I wonder if she's got any cake." "Let's find out." The girl came in and Nick noticed that her apron covered swellingly her pregnancy. I wonder why I didn't see that when she first came in, he thought. "What were you singing?" he asked her. "Opera, German opera." She did not care to discuss the subject. "We have some apple strudel if you want it." "She isn't so cordial, is she?" said George. "Oh, well. She doesn't know us and she thought we were going to kid her about her singing, maybe. She's from up where they speak German probably and she's touchy about being here and then she's got that baby coming without being married and she's touchy." "How do you know she isn't married?" "No ring. Hell, no girls get married around here till they're knocked up." The door came open and a gang of woodcutters from up the road came in, stamping their boots and steaming in the room. The waitress brought in three litres of new wine for the gang and they sat at the two tables, smoking and quiet, with their hats off, leaning back against the wall or forward on the table. Outside the horses on the wood sledges made an occasional sharp jangle of bells as they tossed their heads. George and Nick were happy. They were fond of each other. They knew they had the run back home ahead of them. "When have you got to go back to school?" Nick asked. "Tonight," George answered. "I've got to get the ten-forty from Montreux." "I wish you could stick over and we could do the Dent du Lys tomorrow." "I got to get educated," George said. "Gee, Mike, don't you wish we could just bum to茆ether? Take our skis and go on the train to where there was good running and then go on and put up at pubs and go right across the Oberland and up the Valais and all through the Engaline and just take repair kit and extra sweaters and pyjamas in our rucksacks and not give a damn about school or anything." "Yes, and go through the Schwartzwald that way. Gee, the swell places." "That's where you went fishing last summer, isn't it?" "Yes." They ate the strudel and drank the rest of the wine. George leaned back against the wall and shut his eyes. "Wine always makes me feel this way," he said. "Feel bad?" Nick asked. "No. I feel good, but funny." "I know," Nick said. "Sure," said George. "Should we have another bottle?" Nick asked. "Not for me," George said. They sat there, Nick leaning his elbows on the table, George slumped back against the wall. "Is Helen going to have a baby?" George said, coming down to the table from the wall. "Yes." "When?" "Late next summer." "Are you glad?" "Yes. Now." "Will you go back to the States?" "I guess so." "Do you want to?" "No." "Does Helen?" "No." George sat silent. He looked at the empty bottle and the empty glasses. "It's hell, isn't it?" he said. "No. Not exactly," Nick said. "Why not?" "I don't know," Nick said. "Will you ever go skiing together in the States?" George said. "I don't know," said Nick. "The mountains aren't much," George said. "No," said Nick. "They're too rocky. There's too much timber and they're too far away." "Yes," said George, "that's the way it is in California." "Yes," Nick said, "that's the way it is every趴here I've ever been." "Yes," said George, "that's the way it is." The Swiss got up and paid and went out. "I wish we were Swiss," George said. "They've all got goiter," said Nick. "I don't believe it," George said. "Neither do I," said Nick. They laughed. "Maybe we'll never go skiing again, Nick," George said. "We've got to," said Nick. "It isn't worth while if you can't." "We'll go, all right," George said. "We've got to," Nick agreed. "I wish we could make a promise about it," George said. Nick stood up. He buckled his wind jacket tight. He leaned over George and picked up the two ski poles from against the wall. He stuck one of the ski poles into the floor. "There isn't any good in promising," he said. They opened the door and went out. It was very cold. The snow had crusted hard. The road ran up the hill into the pine trees. They took down their skis from where they leaned against the wall in the inn. Nick put on his gloves. George was already started up the road, his skis on his shoulder. Now they would have the run home together.