like saying good-by to a statue

It seems she had one hemorrhage after another. They couldn’t stop it. I went into the room and stayed with Catherine until she died. She was unconscious all the time, and it did not take her very long to die. Outside the room, in the hall, I spoke to the doctor, “Is there anything I can do to-night?” “No. There is nothing to do. Can I take you to your hotel?” “No, thank you. I am going to stay here a while.” “I know there is nothing to say. I cannot tell you—”

“No,” I said. “There’s nothing to say.” “Good-night,” he said. “I cannot take you to your hotel?” “No, thank you.” “It was the only thing to do,” he said. “The operation proved—” “I do not want to talk about it,” I said. “I would like to take you to your hotel.” “No, thank you.” He went down the hall. I went to the door of the room. “You can’t come in now,” one of the nurses said. “Yes I can,” I said. “You can’t come in yet.” “You get out,” I said. “The other one too.” But after I had got them out and shut the door and turned off the light it wasn’t any good. It was like saying good-by to a statue. After a while I went out and left the hospital and walked back to the hotel in the rain.


A Farewell to Arms By Ernest Hemingway. Scribner, 1929. p. 331, 332