Snows of KilimanjaroProvide a well demonstrated interpretation based on the following propositions: Harry of the past; Harry of the Now; Harry of the Future; as they are expressed in The Snows of KilimanjaroThe Snows of Kilimanjaro
Ernest Hemingway
Kilimanjaro is a snow-covered mountain 19,710 feet high, and is said to be the highest
mountain in Africa. Its western summit is called the Masai Ngaje Ngai, the House of God.
Close to the western summit there is the dried and frozen carcass of a leopard. No one has
explained what the leopard was seeking at that altitude.
The Snows of Kilimanjaro
THE MARVELLOUS THING IS THAT ITS painless, he said. Thats how you know when it
starts.
Is it really?
Absolutely. Im awfully sorry about the odor though. That must bother you.
Dont! Please dont.
Look at them, he said. Now is it sight or is it scent that brings them like that?
The cot the man lay on was in the wide shade of a mimosa tree and as he looked out past the
shade onto the glare of the plain there were three of the big birds squatted obscenely, while in
the sky a dozen more sailed, making quick-moving shadows as they passed.
Theyve been there since the day the truck broke down, he said. Todays the first time any
have lit on the ground. I watched the way they sailed very carefully at first in case I ever wanted
to use them in a story. Thats funny now.I wish you wouldnt, she said.
Im only talking, he said. Its much easier if I talk. But I dont want to bother you.
You know it doesnt bother me, she said. Its that Ive gotten so very nervous not being able
to do anything. I think we might make it as easy as we can until the plane comes.
Or until the plane doesnt come.
Please tell me what I can do. There must be something I can do.
You can take the leg off and that might stop it, though I doubt it. Or you can shoot me. Youre
a good shot now. I taught you to shoot, didnt I?
Please dont talk that way. Couldnt I read to you?
Read what?
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Anything in the book that we havent read.
I cant listen to it, he said. Talking is the easiest. We quarrel and that makes the time pass.
I dont quarrel. I never want to quarrel. Lets not quarrel any more. No matter how nervous we
get. Maybe they will be back with another truck today. Maybe the plane will come.
I dont want to move, the man said. There is no sense in moving now except to make it easier
for you.
Thats cowardly.
Cant you let a man die as comfortably as he can without calling him names? Whats the use of
clanging me?
Youre not going to die.
Dont be silly. Im dying now. Ask those bastards. He looked over to where the huge, filthy
birds sat, their naked heads sunk in the hunched feathers. A fourth planed down, to run quicklegged
and then waddle slowly toward the others.
They are around every camp. You never notice them. You cant die if you dont give up.
Where did you read that? Youre such a bloody fool.
You might think about some one else.
For Christs sake, he said, thats been my trade.
He lay then and was quiet for a while and looked across the heat shimmer of the plain to the
edge of the bush. There were a few Tommies that showed minute and white against the yellow
and, far off, he saw a herd of zebra, white against the green of the bush. This was a pleasant
camp under big trees against a hill, with good water, and close by, a nearly dry water hole
where sand grouse flighted in the mornings.
Wouldnt you like me to read? she asked. She was sitting on a canvas chair beside his cot.
Theres a breeze coming up.
No thanks.
Maybe the truck will come.
I dont give a damn about the truck.
I do.
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You give a damn about so many things that I dont.
Not so many, Harry.
What about a drink?
Its supposed to be bad for you. It said in Blacks to avoid all alcohol.
You shouldnt drink.
Molo! he shouted.
Yes Bwana.
Bring whiskey-soda.
Yes Bwana.
You shouldnt, she said. Thats what I mean by giving up. It says its
bad for you. I know its bad for you.
No, he said. Its good for me.
So now it was all over, he thought. So now he would never have a chance
to finish it. So this was the way it ended, in a bickering over a drink. Since
the gangrene started in his right leg he had no pain and with the pain the
horror had gone and all he felt now was a great tiredness and anger that this was the end of it.
For this, that now was coming, he had very little curiosity.
For years it had obsessed him; but now it meant nothing in itself. It was
strange how easy being tired enough made it.
Now he would never write the things that he had saved to write until he knew enough to write
them well. Well, he would not have to fail at trying to write them either. Maybe you could never
write them, and that was why you put them off and delayed the starting. Well he would never
know, now.
I wish wed never come, the woman said. She was looking at him holding the glass and biting
her lip. You never would have gotten anything like this in Paris. You always said you loved
Paris. We could have stayed in Paris or gone anywhere. Id have gone anywhere. I said Id go
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anywhere you wanted. If you wanted to shoot we could have gone shooting in Hungary and
been comfortable.
Your bloody money, he said.
Thats not fair, she said. It was always yours as much as mine. I left everything and I went
wherever you wanted to go and Ive done what you wanted to do But I wish wed never come
here.
You said you loved it.
I did when you were all right. But now I hate it. I dont see why that had to happen to your leg.
What have we done to have that happen to us?
I suppose what I did was to forget to put iodine on it when I first scratched it. Then I didnt
pay any attention to it because I never infect. Then, later, when it got bad, it was probably using
that weak carbolic solution when the other antiseptics ran out that paralyzed the minute blood
vessels and started the gangrene. He looked at her, What else’
I dont mean that.
If we would have hired a good mechanic instead of a half-baked Kikuyu driver, he would have
checked the oil and never burned out that bearing in the truck.
I dont mean that.
If you hadnt left your own people, your goddamned Old Westbury Saratoga, Palm Beach
people to take me on *Why, I loved you. Thats not fair. I love you now. Ill always love you
Dont you love me?
No, said the man. I dont think so. I never have.
Harry, what are you saying? Youre out of your head.
No. I havent any head to go out of.
Dont drink that, she said. Darling, please dont drink that. We have to do everything we
can.
You do it, he said. Im tired.
Now in his mind he saw a railway station at Karagatch and he was standing with his pack
and that was the headlight of the Simplon-Offent cutting the dark now and he was leaving
Thrace then after the retreat. That was one of the things he had saved to write, with, in the
morning at breakfast, looking out the window and seeing snow on the mountains in Bulgaffa
and Nansens Secretary asking the old man if it were snow and the old man looking at it and
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saying, No, thats not snow. Its too early for snow. And the Secretary repeating to the other
girls, No, you see. Its not snow and them all saying, Its not snow we were mistaken. But it
was the snow all right and he sent them on into it when he evolved exchange of populations.
And it was snow they tramped along in until they died that winter.
It was snow too that fell all Christmas week that year up in the Gauertal, that year they lived
in the woodcutters house with the big square porcelain stove that filled half the room, and
they slept on mattresses filled with beech leaves, the time the deserter came with his feet
bloody in the snow. He said the police were right behind him and they gave him woolen socks
and held the gendarmes talking until the tracks had drifted over.
In Schrunz, on Christmas day, the snow was so bright it hurt your eyes when you looked out
from the Weinstube and saw every one coming home from church. That was where they
walked up the sleigh-smoothed urine-yellowed road along the river with the steep pine hills,
skis heavy on the shoulder, and where they ran down the glacier above the Madlenerhaus,
the snow as smooth to see as cake frosting and as light as powder and he remembered the
noiseless rush the speed made as you dropped down like a bird.
They were snow-bound a week in the Madlenerhaus that time in the blizzard playing cards in
the smoke by the lantern light and the stakes were higher all the time as Herr Lent lost more.
Finally he lost it all. Everything, the Skischule money and all the seasons profit and then his
capital. He could see him with his long nose, picking up the cards and then opening, Sans
Voir. There was always gambling then. When there was no snow you gambled and when
there was too much you gambled. He thought of all the time in his life he had spent gambling.
But he had never written a line of that, nor of that cold, bright Christmas day with the
mountains showing across the plain that Barker had flown across the lines to bomb the
Austrian officers leave train, machine-gunning them as they scattered and ran. He
remembered Barker afterwards coming into the mess and starting to tell about it. And how
quiet it got and then somebody saying, You bloody murderous bastard.
Those were the same Austrians they killed then that he skied with later. No not the same.
Hans, that he skied with all that year, had been in the Kaiser Jagers and when they went
hunting hares together up the little valley above the saw-mill they had talked of the fighting
on Pasubio and of the attack on Perticara and Asalone and he had never written a word of
that. Nor of Monte Corona, nor the Sette Communi, nor of Arsiero.
How many winters had he lived in the Vorarlberg and the Arlberg? It was four and then he
remembered the man who had the fox to sell when they had walked into Bludenz, that time to
buy presents, and the cherry-pit taste of good kirsch, the fast-slipping rush of running
powder-snow on crust, singing Hi! Ho! said Rolly! as you ran down the last stretch to the
steep drop, taking it straight, then running the orchard in three turns and out across the ditch
and onto the icy road behind the inn. Knocking your bindings loose, kicking the skis free and
leaning them up against the wooden wall of the inn, the lamplight coming from the window,
where inside, in the smoky, new-wine smelling warmth, they were playing the accordion.
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Where did we stay in Paris? he asked the woman who was sitting by him in a canvas chair,
now, in Africa.
At the Crillon. You know that.
Why do I know that?
Thats where we always stayed.
No. Not always.
There and at the Pavillion Henri-Quatre in St. Germain. You said you loved it there.
Love is a dunghill, said Harry. And Im the cock that gets on it to crow.
If you have to go away, she said, is it absolutely necessary to kill off everything you leave
behind? I mean do you have to take away everything? Do you have to kill your horse, and your
wife and burn your saddle and your armour?
Yes, he said. Your damned money was my armour. My Sword and my Armour.
Dont.
All right. Ill stop that. I dont want to hurt you.
Its a little bit late now.
All right then. Ill go on hurting you. Its more amusing. The only thing I ever really liked to do
with you I cant do now.
No, thats not true. You liked to do many things and everything you wanted to do I did.
Oh, for Christ sake stop bragging, will you?
He looked at her and saw her crying.
Listen, he said. Do you think that it is fun to do this? I dont know why Im doing it. Its
trying to kill to keep yourself alive, I imagine. I was all right when we started talking. I didnt
mean to start this, and now Im crazy as a coot and being as cruel to you as I can be. Dont pay
any attention, darling, to what I say. I love you, really. You know I love you. Ive never loved
any one else the way I love you.
He slipped into the familiar lie he made his bread and butter by.
Youre sweet to me.
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You bitch, he said. You rich bitch. Thats poetry. Im full of poetry now. Rot and poetry.
Rotten poetry.
Stop it. Harry, why do you have to turn into a devil now?
I dont like to leave anything, the man said. I dont like to leave things behind.
* * *
It was evening now and he had been asleep. The sun was gone behind the hill and there was a
shadow all across the plain and the small animals were feeding close to camp; quick dropping
heads and switching tails, he watched them keeping well out away from the bush now. The
birds no longer waited on the ground. They were all perched heavily in a tree. There were many
more of them. His personal boy was sitting by the bed.
Memsahibs gone to shoot, the boy said. Does Bwana want?
Nothing.
She had gone to kill a piece of meat and, knowing how he liked to watch the game, she had
gone well away so she would not disturb this little pocket of the plain that he could see. She was
always thoughtful, he thought. On anything she knew about, or had read, or that she had ever
heard.
It was not her fault that when he went to her he was already over. How could a woman know
that you meant nothing that you said; that you spoke only from habit and to be comfortable?
After he no longer meant what he said, his lies were more successful with women than when he
had told them the truth.
It was not so much that he lied as that there was no truth to tell. He had had his life and it was
over and then he went on living it again with different people and more money, with the best of
the same places, and some new ones.
You kept from thinking and it was all marvellous. You were equipped with good insides so that
you did not go to pieces that way, the way most of them had, and you made an attitude that you
cared nothing for the work you used to do, now that you could no longer do it. But, in yourself,
you said that you would write about these people; about the very rich; that you were really not
of them but a spy in their country; that you would leave it and write of it and for once it would
be written by some one who knew what he was writing of. But he would never do it, because
each day of not writing, of comfort, of being that which he despised, dulled his ability and
softened his will to work so that, finally, he did no work at all. The people he knew now were all
much more comfortable when he did not work. Africa was where he had been happiest in the
good time of his life, so he had come out here to start again. They had made this safari with the
minimum of comfort. There was no hardship; but there was no luxury and he had thought that
he could get back into training that way. That in some way he could work the fat off his soul the
way a fighter went into the mountains to work and train in order to burn it out of his body.
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She had liked it. She said she loved it. She loved anything that was exciting, that involved a
change of scene, where there were new people and where things were pleasant. And he had felt
the illusion of returning strength of will to work. Now if this was how it ended, and he knew it
was, he must not turn like some snake biting itself because its back was broken. It wasnt this
womans fault. If it had not been she it would have been another. If he lived by a lie he should
try to die by it. He heard a shot beyond the hill.
She shot very well this good, this rich bitch, this kindly caretaker and destroyer of his talent.
Nonsense. He had destroyed his talent himself. Why should he blame this woman because she
kept him well? He had destroyed his talent by not using it, by betrayals of himself and what he
believed in, by drinking so much that he blunted the edge of his perceptions, by laziness, by
sloth, and by snobbery, by pride and by prejudice, by hook and by crook. What was this? A
catalogue of old books? What was his talent anyway? It was a talent all right but instead of
using it, he had traded on it. It was never what he had done, but always what he could do. And
he had chosen to make his living with something else instead of a pen or a pencil. It was
strange, too, wasnt it, that when he fell in love with another woman, that woman should
always have more money than the last one? But when he no longer was in love, when he was
only lying, as to this woman, now, who had the most money of all, who had all the money there
was, who had had a husband and children, who had taken lovers and been dissatisfied with
them, and who loved him dearly as a writer, as a man, as a companion and as a proud
possession; it was strange that when he did not love her at all and was lying, that he should be
able to give her more for her money than when he had really loved.
We must all be cut out for what we do, he thought. However you make your living is where your
talent lies. He had sold vitality, in one form or another, all his life and when your affections are
not too involved you give much better value for the money. He had found that out but he would
never write that, now, either. No, he would not write that, although it was well worth writing.
Now she came in sight, walking across the open toward the camp. She was wearing jodphurs
and carrying her rifle. The two boys had a Tommie slung and they were coming along behind
her. She was still a good-looking woman, he thought, and she had a pleasant body. She had a
great talent and appreciation for the bed, she was not pretty, but he liked her face, she read
enormously, liked to ride and shoot and, certainly, she drank too much. Her husband had died
when she was still a comparatively young woman and for a while she had devoted herself to her
two just-grown children, who did not need her and were embarrassed at having her about, to
her stable of horses, to books, and to bottles. She liked to read in the evening before dinner and
she drank Scotch and soda while she read. By dinner she was fairly drunk and after a bottle of
wine at dinner she was usually drunk enough to sleep.
That was before the lovers. After she had the lovers she did not drink so much because she did
not have to be drunk to sleep. But the lovers bored her. She had been married to a man who
had never bored her and these people bored her very much.
Then one of her two children was killed in a plane crash and after that was over she did not
want the lovers, and drink being no anaesthetic she had to make another life. Suddenly, she
had been acutely frightened of being alone. But she wanted some one that she respected with
her.
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It had begun very simply. She liked what he wrote and she had always envied the life he led.
She thought he did exactly what he wanted to. The steps by which she had acquired him and
the way in which she had finally fallen in love with him were all part of a regular progression in
which she had built herself a new life and he had traded away what remained of his old life.
He had traded it for security, for comfort too, there was no denying that, and for what else? He
did not know. She would have bought him anything he wanted. He knew that. She was a
damned nice woman too. He would as soon be in bed with her as any one; rather with her,
because she was richer, because she was very pleasant and appreciative and because she never
made scenes. And now this life that she had built again was coming to a term because he had
not used iodine two weeks ago when a thorn had scratched his knee as they moved forward
trying to photograph a herd of waterbuck standing, their heads up, peering while their nostrils
searched the air, their ears spread wide to hear the first noise that would send them rushing
into the bush. They had bolted, too, before he got the picture.
Here she came now. He turned his head on the cot to look toward her. Hello, he said.
I shot a Tommy ram, she told him. Hell make you good broth and Ill have them mash some
potatoes with the Klim. How do you feel?
Much better.
Isnt that lovely? You know I thought perhaps you would. You were sleeping when I left.
I had a good sleep. Did you walk far?
No. Just around behind the hill. I made quite a good shot on the Tommy.
You shoot marvellously, you know.
I love it. Ive loved Africa. Really. If youre all right its the most fun that Ive ever had. You
dont know the fun its been to shoot with you. Ive loved the country.
I love it too.
Darling, you dont know how marvellous it is to see you feeling better. I couldnt stand it when
you felt that way. You wont talk to me like that again, will you? Promise me?
No, he said. I dont remember what I said.
You dont have to destroy me. Do you? Im only a middle-aged woman who loves you and
wants to do what you want to do. Ive been destroyed two or three times already. You wouldnt
want to destroy me again, would you?
Id like to destroy you a few times in bed, he said.
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Yes. Thats the good destruction. Thats the way were made to be destroyed. The plane will be
here tomorrow.
How do you know?
Im sure. Its bound to come. The boys have the wood all ready and the grass to make the
smudge. I went down and looked at it again today. Theres plenty of room to land and we have
the smudges ready at both ends.
What makes you think it will come tomorrow?
Im sure it will. Its overdue now. Then, in town, they will fix up your leg and then we will have
some good destruction. Not that dreadful talking kind.
Should we have a drink? The sun is down.
Do you think you should?
Im having one.
Well have one together. Molo, letti dui whiskey-soda! she called.
Youd better put on your mosquito boots, he told her.
Ill wait till I bathe . . .
While it grew dark they drank and just before it was dark and there was no longer enough light
to shoot, a hyena crossed the open on his way around the hill.
That bastard crosses there every night, the man said. Every night for two weeks.
Hes the one makes the noise at night. I dont mind it. Theyre a filthy animal though.
Drinking together, with no pain now except the discomfort of lying in the one position, the
boys lighting a fire, its shadow jumping on the tents, he could feel the return of acquiescence in
this life of pleasant surrender. She was very good to him. He had been cruel and unjust in the
afternoon. She was a fine woman, marvellous really. And just then it occurred to him that he
was going to die.
It came with a rush; not as a rush of water nor of wind; but of a sudden, evil-smelling
emptiness and the odd thing was that the hyena slipped lightly along the edge of it.
What is it, Harry? she asked him.
Nothing, he said. You had better move over to the other side. To windward.
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Did Molo change the dressing?
Yes. Im just using the boric now.
How do you feel?
A little wobbly.
Im going in to bathe, she said. Ill be right out. Ill eat with you and then well put the cot in.
So, he said to himself, we did well to stop the quarrelling. He had never quarrelled much with
this woman, while with the women that he loved he had quarrelled so much they had finally,
always, with the corrosion of the quarrelling, killed what they had together. He had loved too
much, demanded too much, and he wore it all out.
He thought about alone in Constantinople that time, having quarrelled in Paris before he had
gone out. He had whored the whole time and then, when that was over, and he had failed to
kill his loneliness, but only made it worse, he had written her, the first one, the one who left
him, a letter telling her how he had never been able to kill it How when he thought he saw
her outside the Regence one time it made him go all faint and sick inside, and that he would
follow a woman who looked like her in some way, along the Boulevard, afraid to see it was
not she, afraid to lose the feeling it gave him. How every one he had slept with had only made
him miss her more. How what she had done could never matter since he knew he could not
cure himself of loving her. He wrote this letter at the Club, cold sober, and mailed it to New
York asking her to write him at the of fice in Paris. That seemed safe. And that night missing
her so much it made him feel hollow sick inside, he wandered up past Maxims, picked a girl
up and took her out to supper. He had gone to a place to dance with her afterward, she
danced badly, and left her for a hot Armenian slut, that swung her belly against him so it
almost scalded. He took her away from a British gunner subaltern after a row. The gunner
asked him outside and they fought in the street on the cobbles in the dark. Hed hit him twice,
hard, on the side of the jaw and when he didnt go down he knew he was in for a fight. The
gunner hit him in the body, then beside his eye. He swung with his left again and landed and
the gunner fell on him and grabbed his coat and tore the sleeve off and he clubbed him twice
behind the ear and then smashed him with his right as he pushed him away. When the gunner
went down his head hit first and he ran with the girl because they heard the M.P. s coming.
They got into a taxi and drove out to Rimmily Hissa along the Bosphorus, and around, and
back in the cool night and went to bed and she felt as over-ripe as she looked but smooth,
rose-petal, syrupy, smooth-bellied, big-breasted and needed no pillow under her buttocks,
and he left her before she was awake looking blousy enough in the first daylight and turned
up at the Pera Palace with a black eye, carrying his coat because one sleeve was missing.
That same night he left for Anatolia and he remembered, later on that trip, riding all day
through fields of the poppies that they raised for opium and how strange it made you feel,
finally, and all the distances seemed wrong, to where they had made the attack with the
newly arrived Constantine officers, that did not know a god-damned thing, and the artillery
had fired into the troops and the British observer had cried like a child.
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That was the day hed first seen dead men wearing white ballet skirts and upturned shoes
with pompons on them. The Turks had come steadily and lumpily and he had seen the skirted
men running and the of ficers shooting into them and running then themselves and he and the
British observer had run too until his lungs ached and his mouth was full of the taste of
pennies and they stopped behind some rocks and there were the Turks coming as lumpily as
ever. Later he had seen the things that he could never think of and later still he had seen much
worse. So when he got back to Paris that time he could not talk about it or stand to have it
mentioned. And there in the cafe as he passed was that American poet with a pile of saucers
in front of him and a stupid look on his potato face talking about the Dada movement with a
Roumanian who said his name was Tristan Tzara, who always wore a monocle and had a
headache, and, back at the apartment with his wife that now he loved again, the quarrel all
over, the madness all over, glad to be home, the office sent his mail up to the flat. So then the
letter in answer to the one hed written came in on a platter one morning and when he saw
the hand writing he went cold all over and tried to slip the letter underneath another. But his
wife said, Who is that letter from, dear? and that was the end of the beginning of that.
He remembered the good times with them all, and the quarrels. They always picked the finest
places to have the quarrels. And why had they always quarrelled when he was feeling best?
He had never written any of that because, at first, he never wanted to hurt any one and then
it seemed as though there was enough to write without it. But he had always thought that he
would write it finally. There was so much to write. He had seen the world change; not just the
events; although he had seen many of them and had watched the people, but he had seen the
subtler change and he could remember how the people were at different times. He had been in
it and he had watched it and it was his duty to write of it; but now he never would.
How do you feel? she said. She had come out from the tent now after her bath.
All right.
Could you eat now? He saw Molo behind her with the folding table and the other boy with the
dishes.
I want to write, he said.
You ought to take some broth to keep your strength up.
Im going to die tonight, he said. I dont need my strength up.
Dont be melodramatic, Harry, please, she said.
Why dont you use your nose? Im rotted half way up my thigh now. What the hell should I
fool with broth for? Molo bring whiskey-soda.
Please take the broth, she said gently.
All right.
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The broth was too hot. He had to hold it in the cup until it cooled enough to take it and then he
just got it down without gagging.
Youre a fine woman, he said. Dont pay any attention to me.
She looked at him with her well-known, well-loved face from Spur and Town & Country, only a
little the worse for drink, only a little the worse for bed, but Town & Country never showed
those good breasts and those useful thighs and those lightly small-of-back-caressing hands,
and as he looked and saw her well-known pleasant smile, he felt death come again.
in.
This time there was no rush. It was a puff, as of a wind that makes a candle flicker and the
flame go tall.
They can bring my net out later and hang it from the tree and build the fire up. Im not going
in the tent tonight. Its not worth moving. Its a clear night. There wont be any rain.
So this was how you died, in whispers that you did not hear. Well, there would be no more
quarrelling. He could promise that. The one experience that he had never had he was not going
to spoil now. He probably would. You spoiled everything. But perhaps he wouldnt.
You cant take dictation, can you?
I never learned, she told him.
Thats all right.
There wasnt time, of course, although it seemed as though it telescoped so that you might put
it all into one paragraph if you could get it right.
There was a log house, chinked white with mortar, on a hill above the lake. There was a bell
on a pole by the door to call the people in to meals. Behind the house were fields and behind
the fields was the timber. A line of lombardy poplars ran from the house to the dock. Other
poplars ran along the point. A road went up to the hills along the edge of the timber and
along that road he picked blackberries. Then that log house was burned down and all the
guns that had been on deer foot racks above the open fire place were burned and afterwards
their barrels, with the lead melted in the magazines, and the stocks burned away, lay out on
the heap of ashes that were used to make lye for the big iron soap kettles, and you asked
Grandfather if you could have them to play with, and he said, no. You see they were his guns
still and he never bought any others. Nor did he hunt any more. The house was rebuilt in the
same place out of lumber now and painted white and from its porch you saw the poplars and
the lake beyond; but there were never any more guns. The barrels of the guns that had hung
on the deer feet on the wall of the log house lay out there on the heap of ashes and no one ever
touched them.
13
In the Black Forest, after the war, we rented a trout stream and there were two ways to walk