(1926)

Ernest Hemingway

　　　　　　　　Book One


1


Robert Cohn was once middleweight boxing champion of Princeton. Do not think
that I am very much impressed by that as a boxing title, but it meant a lot to
Cohn. He cared nothing for boxing, in fact he disliked it, but he learned it
painfully and thoroughly to counteract the feeling of inferiority and shyness
he had felt on being treated as a Jew at Princeton. There was a certain inner
comfort in knowing he could knock down anybody who was snooty to him, although,
being very shy and a thoroughly nice boy, he never fought except in the gym.
He was Spider Kelly's star pupil. Spider Kelly taught all his young gentlemen
to box like featherweights, no matter whether they weighed one hundred and five
or two hundred and five pounds. But it seemed to fit Cohn. He was really very
fast. He was so good that Spider promptly overmatched him and got his nose
permanently flattened. This increased Cohn's distaste for boxing, but it gave
him a certain satisfaction of some strange sort, and it certainly improved his
nose. In his last year at Princeton he read too much and took to wearing spec-
tacles. I never met any one of his class who remembered him. They did not even
remember that he was middleweight boxing champion.

I mistrust all frank and simple people, especially when their stories hold
together, and I always had a suspicion that perhaps Robert Cohn had never been
middleweight boxing champion, and that perhaps a horse had stepped on his face,
or that maybe his mother had been frightened or seen something, or that he had,
maybe, bumped into something as a young child, but I finally had somebody ver-
ify the story from Spider Kelly. Spider Kelly not only remembered Cohn. He had
often wondered what had become of him.

Robert Cohn was a member, through his father, of one of the richest Jewish
families in New York, and through his mother of one of the oldest. At the mil-
itary school where he prepped for Princeton, and played a very good end on the
football team, no one had made him race-conscious. No one had ever made him
feel he was a Jew, and hence any different from anybody else, until he went
to Princeton. He was a nice boy, a friendly boy, and very shy, and it made
him bitter. He took it out in boxing, and he came out of Princeton with pain-
ful self-consciousness and the flattened nose, and was married by the first
girl who was nice to him. He was married five years, had three children,
lost most of the fifty thousand dollars his father left him, the balance of
the estate having gone to his mother, hardened into a rather unattractive
mould under domestic unhappiness with a rich wife; and just when he had made
up his mind to leave his wife she left him and went off with a miniature-
painter. As he had been thinking for months about leaving his wife and had
not done it because it would be too cruel to deprive her of himself, her
departure was a very healthful shock.

The divorce was arranged and Robert Cohn went out to the Coast. In Califor-
nia he fell among literary people and, as he still had a little of the fif-
ty thousand left, in a short time he was backing a review of the Arts. The
review commenced publication in Carmel, California, and finished in Prov-
incetown, Massachusetts. By that time Cohn, who had been regarded purely
as an angel, and whose name had appeared on the editorial page merely as
a member of the advisory board, had become the sole editor. It was his
money and he discovered he liked the authority of editing. He was sorry
when the magazine became too expensive and he had to give it up.

By that time, though, he had other things to worry about. He had been taken
in hand by a lady who hoped to rise with the magazine. She was very forceful,
and Cohn never had a chance of not being taken in hand. Also he was sure that
he loved her. When this lady saw that the magazine was not going to rise,
she became a little disgusted with Cohn and decided that she might as well
get what there was to get while there was still something available, so she
urged that they go to Europe, where Cohn could write. They came to Europe,
where the lady had been educated, and stayed three years. During these
three years, the first spent in travel, the last two in Paris, Robert Cohn
had two friends, Braddocks and myself. Braddocks was his literary friend.
I was his tennis friend.

The lady who had him, her name was Frances, found toward the end of the se-
cond year that her looks were going, and her attitude toward Robert changed
from one of careless possession and exploitation to the absolute determina-
tion that he should marry her. During this time Robert's mother had settled
an allowance on him, about three hundred dollars a month. During two years
and a half I do not believe that Robert Cohn looked at another woman. He
was fairly happy, except that, like many people living in Europe, he would
rather have been in America, and he had discovered writing. He wrote a novel,
and it was not really such a bad novel as the critics later called it, al-
though it was a very poor novel. He read many books, played bridge, played
tennis, and boxed at a local gymnasium.

I first became aware of his lady's attitude toward him one night after the
three of us had dined together. We had dined at l'Avenue's and afterward
went to the Cafe de Versailles for coffee. We had several _fines_ after the
coffee, and I said I must be going. Cohn had been talking about the two of
us going off somewhere on a weekend trip. He wanted to get out of town and
get in a good walk. I suggested we fly to Strasbourg and walk up to Saint
Odile, or somewhere or other in Alsace. "I know a girl in Strasbourg who
can show us the town," I said. Somebody kicked me under the table. I
thought it was accidental and went on: "She's been there two years and
knows everything there is to know about the town. She's a swell girl."

I was kicked again under the table and, looking, saw Frances, Robert's
lady, her chin lifting and her face hardening.

"Hell," I said, "why go to Strasbourg? We could go up to Bruges, or to
the Ardennes."

Cohn looked relieved. I was not kicked again. I said good-night and went
out. Cohn said he wanted to buy a paper and would walk to the corner with
me. "For God's sake," he said, "why did you say that about that girl in
Strasbourg for? Didn't you see Frances?"

"No, why should I? If I know an American girl that lives in Strasbourg
what the hell is it to Frances?"

"It doesn't make any difference. Any girl. I couldn't go, that would be
all."

"Don't be silly."

"You don't know Frances. Any girl at all. Didn't you see the way she look-
ed?"

"Oh, well," I said, "let's go to Senlis."

"Don't get sore."

"I'm not sore. Senlis is a good place and we can stay at the Grand Cerf
and take a hike in the woods and come home."

"Good, that will be fine."

"Well, I'll see you to-morrow at the courts," I said.

"Good-night, Jake," he said, and started back to the cafe.

"You forgot to get your paper," I said.

"That's so." He walked with me up to the kiosque at the corner. "You
are not sore, are you, Jake?" He turned with the paper in his hand.

"No, why should I be?"

"See you at tennis," he said. I watched him walk back to the cafe
holding his paper. I rather liked him and evidently she led him quite
a life.



2



That winter Robert Cohn went over to America with his novel, and it was
accepted by a fairly good publisher. His going made an awful row I heard,
and I think that was where Frances lost him, because several women were
nice to him in New York, and when he came back he was quite changed. He
was more enthusiastic about America than ever, and he was not so simple,
and he was not so nice. The publishers had praised his novel pretty high-
ly and it rather went to his head. Then several women had put themselves
out to be nice to him, and his horizons had all shifted. For four years
his horizon had been absolutely limited to his wife. For three years, or
almost three years, he had never seen beyond Frances. I am sure he had
never been in love in his life.

He had married on the rebound from the rotten time he had in college,
and Frances took him on the rebound from his discovery that he had not
been everything to his first wife. He was not in love yet but he real-
ized that he was an attractive quantity to women, and that the fact of
a woman caring for him and wanting to live with him was not simply a
divine miracle. This changed him so that he was not so pleasant to
have around. Also, playing for higher stakes than he could afford in
some rather steep bridge games with his New York connections, he had
held cards and won several hundred dollars. It made him rather vain
of his bridge game, and he talked several times of how a man could al-
ways make a living at bridge if he were ever forced to.

Then there was another thing. He had been reading W. H. Hudson. That
sounds like an innocent occupation, but Cohn had read and reread "The
Purple Land." "The Purple Land" is a very sinister book if read too
late in life. It recounts splendid imaginary amorous adventures of a
perfect English gentleman in an intensely romantic land, the scenery
of which is very well described. For a man to take it at thirty-four
as a guide-book to what life holds is about as safe as it would be
for a man of the same age to enter Wall Street direct from a French
convent, equipped with a complete set of the more practical Alger
books. Cohn, I believe, took every word of "The Purple Land" as
literally as though it had been an R. G. Dun report. You understand
me, he made some reservations, but on the whole the book to him was
sound. It was all that was needed to set him off. I did not realize
the extent to which it had set him off until one day he came into
my office.

"Hello, Robert," I said. "Did you come in to cheer me up?"

"Would you like to go to South America, Jake?" he asked.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. I never wanted to go. Too expensive. You can see all
the South Americans you want in Paris
anyway."

"They're not the real South Americans."

"They look awfully real to me."

I had a boat train to catch with a week's mail stories, and only
half of them written.

"Do you know any dirt?" I asked.

"No."

"None of your exalted connections getting divorces?"

"No; listen, Jake. If I handled both our expenses, would you go to
South America with me?"

"Why me?"

"You can talk Spanish. And it would be more fun with two of us."

"No," I said, "I like this town and I go to Spain in the summertime."

"All my life I've wanted to go on a trip like that," Cohn said. He
sat down. "I'll be too old before I can ever do
it."

"Don't be a fool," I said. "You can go anywhere you want. You've got
plenty of money."

"I know. But I can't get started."

"Cheer up," I said. "All countries look just like the moving pictures."

But I felt sorry for him. He had it badly.

"I can't stand it to think my life is going so fast and I'm not really
living it."

"Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bullfighters."

"I'm not interested in bull-fighters. That's an abnormal life. I want
to go back in the country in South America. We could have a great trip."

"Did you ever think about going to British East Africa to shoot?"

"No, I wouldn't like that."

"I'd go there with you."

"No; that doesn't interest me."

"That's because you never read a book about it. Go on and read a book
all full of love affairs with the beautiful shiny black princesses."

"I want to go to South America."

He had a hard, Jewish, stubborn streak.

"Come on down-stairs and have a drink."

"Aren't you working?"

"No," I said. We went down the stairs to the cafe on the ground floor.
I had discovered that was the best way to get rid of friends. Once you
had a drink all you had to say was: "Well, I've got to get back and get
off some cables," and it was done. It is very important to discover
graceful exits like that in the newspaper business, where it is such
an important part of the ethics that you should never seem to be work-
ing. Anyway, we went down-stairs to the bar and had a whiskey and soda.
Cohn looked at the bottles in bins around the wall. "This is a good
place," he said.

"There's a lot of liquor," I agreed.

"Listen, Jake," he leaned forward on the bar. "Don't you ever get the
feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage
of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to
live already?"

"Yes, every once in a while."

"Do you know that in about thirty-five years more we'll be dead?"

"What the hell, Robert," I said. "What the hell."

"I'm serious."

"It's one thing I don't worry about," I said.

"You ought to."

"I've had plenty to worry about one time or other. I'm through worrying."

"Well, I want to go to South America."

"Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn't make any difference.
I've tried all that. You can't get away from yourself by moving from one
place to another. There's nothing to that."

"But you've never been to South America."

"South America hell! If you went there the way you feel now it would be
exactly the same. This is a good town. Why don't you start living your
life in Paris?"

"I'm sick of Paris, and I'm sick of the Quarter."

"Stay away from the Quarter. Cruise around by yourself and see what hap-
pens to you."

"Nothing happens to me. I walked alone all one night and nothing happen-
ed except a bicycle cop stopped me and asked to see my papers."

"Wasn't the town nice at night?"

"I don't care for Paris."

So there you were. I was sorry for him, but it was not a thing you could
do anything about, because right away you ran up against the two stubborn-
nesses: South America could fix it and he did not like Paris. He got the
first idea out of a book, and I suppose the second came out of a book too.

"Well," I said, "I've got to go up-stairs and get off some cables."

"Do you really have to go?"

"Yes, I've got to get these cables off."

"Do you mind if I come up and sit around the office?"

"No, come on up."

He sat in the outer room and read the papers, and the Editor and Publisher
and I worked hard for two hours. Then I sorted out the carbons, stamped on
a by-line, put the stuff in a couple of big manila envelopes and rang for a
boy to take them to the Gare St. Lazare. I went out into the other room and
there was Robert Cohn asleep in the big chair. He was asleep with his head
on his arms. I did not like to wake him up, but I wanted to lock the office
and shove off. I put my hand on his shoulder. He shook his head. "I can't
do it," he said, and put his head deeper into his arms. "I can't do it. No-
thing will make me do it."

"Robert," I said, and shook him by the shoulder. He looked up. He smiled
and blinked.

"Did I talk out loud just then?"

"Something. But it wasn't clear."

"God, what a rotten dream!"

"Did the typewriter put you to sleep?"

"Guess so. I didn't sleep all last night."

"What was the matter?"

"Talking," he said.

I could picture it. I have a rotten habit of picturing the bedroom scenes
of my friends. We went out to the Cafe Napolitain to have an aperitif and
watch the evening crowd on the Boulevard.



3



It was a warm spring night and I sat at a table on the terrace of the Na-
politain after Robert had gone, watching it get dark and the electric signs
come on, and the red and green stop-and-go traffic-signal, and the crowd
going by, and the horse-cabs clippety-clopping along at the edge of the
solid taxi traffic, and the poules going by, singly and in pairs, look-
ing for the evening meal. I watched a good-looking girl walk past the ta-
ble and watched her go up the street and lost sight of her, and watched
another, and then saw the first one coming back again. She went by once
more and I caught her eye, and she came over and sat down at the table.
The waiter came up.

"Well, what will you drink?" I asked.

"Pernod."

"That's not good for little girls."

"Little girl yourself. Dites garcon, un pernod."

"A pernod for me, too."

"What's the matter?" she asked. "Going on a party?"

"Sure. Aren't you?"

"I don't know. You never know in this town."

"Don't you like Paris?"

"No."

"Why don't you go somewhere else?"

"Isn't anywhere else."

"You're happy, all right."

"Happy, hell!"

Pernod is greenish imitation absinthe. When you add water it turns
milky. It tastes like licorice and it has a good uplift, but it drops
you just as far. We sat and drank it, and the girl looked sullen.

"Well," I said, "are you going to buy me a dinner?"

She grinned and I saw why she made a point of not laughing. With her
mouth closed she was a rather pretty girl. I paid for the saucers and
we walked out to the street. I hailed a horse-cab and the driver pull-
ed up at the curb. Settled back in the slow, smoothly rolling fiacre
we moved up the Avenue de l'Opéra, passed the locked doors of the shops,
their windows lighted, the Avenue broad and shiny and almost deserted.
The cab passed the New York Herald bureau with the window full of clocks.

"What are all the clocks for?" she asked.

"They show the hour all over America."

"Don't kid me."

We turned off the Avenue up the Rue des Pyramides, through the traffic
of the Rue de Rivoli, and through a dark gate into the Tuileries. She
cuddled against me and I put my arm around her. She looked up to be
kissed. She touched me with one hand and I put her hand away.

"Never mind."

"What's the matter? You sick?"

"Yes."

"Everybody's sick. I'm sick, too."

We came out of the Tuileries into the light and crossed the Seine and
then turned up the Rue des Saints Peres.

"You oughtn't to drink pernod if you're sick."

"You neither."

"It doesn't make any difference with me. It doesn't make any difference
with a woman."

"What are you called?"

"Georgette. How are you called?"

"Jacob."

"That's a Flemish name."

"American too."

"You're not Flamand?"

"No, American."

"Good, I detest Flamands."

By this time we were at the restaurant. I called to the cocher to stop.
We got out and Georgette did not like the looks of the place. "This is no
great thing of a restaurant."

"No," I said. "Maybe you would rather go to Foyot's. Why don't you keep
the cab and go on?"

I had picked her up because of a vague sentimental idea that it would be
nice to eat with some one. It was a long time since I had dined with a poule,
and I had forgotten how dull it could be. We went into the restaurant, pass-
ed Madame Lavigne at the desk and into a little room. Georgette cheered up
a little under the food.

"It isn't bad here," she said. "It isn't chic, but the food is all
right."

"Better than you eat in Liege."

"Brussels, you mean."

We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and
showed all her bad teeth, and we touched glasses.

"You're not a bad type," she said. "It's a shame you're sick. We get on
well. What's the matter with you, anyway?"

"I got hurt in the war," I said.

"Oh, that dirty war."

We would probably have gone on and discussed the war and agreed that it was
in reality a calamity for civilization, and perhaps would have been better
avoided. I was bored enough. Just then from the other room some one called:
"Barnes! I say, Barnes! Jacob Barnes!

"It's a friend calling me," I explained, and went out.

There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs.
Braddocks, several people I did not know.

"You're coming to the dance, aren't you?" Braddocks asked.

"What dance?"

"Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?" Mrs. Braddocks put
in.

"You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from the end of the
table. She was tall and had a smile.

"Of course, he's coming," Braddocks said. "Come in and have coffee with us,
Barnes."

"Right."

"And bring your friend," said Mrs. Braddocks laughing. She was a Canadian
and had all their easy social graces.

"Thanks, we'll be in," I said. I went back to the small room.

"Who are your friends?" Georgette asked.

"Writers and artists."

"There are lots of those on this side of the river."

"Too many."

"I think so. Still, some of them make money."

"Oh, yes."

We finished the meal and the wine. "Come on," I said. "We're going to
have coffee with the others."

Georgette opened her bag, made a few passes at her face as she looked
in the little mirror, re-defined her lips with the lip-stick, and straigh-
tened her hat.

"Good," she said.

We went into the room full of people and Braddocks and the men at his ta-
ble stood up.

"I wish to present my fiancée, Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc," I said.
Georgette smiled that wonderful smile, and we shook hands all round.

"Are you related to Georgette Leblanc, the singer?" Mrs. Braddocks asked.

"Connais pas," Georgette answered.

"But you have the same name," Mrs. Braddocks insisted cordially.

"No," said Georgette. "Not at all. My name is Hobin."

"But Mr. Barnes introduced you as Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc. Surely
he did," insisted Mrs. Braddocks, who in the excitement of talking French
was liable to have no idea what she was saying.

"He's a fool," Georgette said.

"Oh, it was a joke, then," Mrs. Braddocks said.

"Yes," said Georgette. "To laugh at."

"Did you hear that, Henry?" Mrs. Braddocks called down the table to Brad-
docks. "Mr. Barnes introduced his fiancee as Mademoiselle Leblanc, and her
name is actually Hobin."

"Of course, darling. Mademoiselle Hobin, I've known her for a very long
time."

"Oh, Mademoiselle Hobin," Frances Clyne calIed, speaking French very rap-
idly and not seeming so proud and astonished as Mrs. Braddocks at its com-
ing out really French. "Have you been in Paris long? Do you like it here?
You love Paris, do you not?"

"Who's she?" Georgette turned to me. "Do I have to talk to her?"

She turned to Frances, sitting smiling, her hands folded, her head poised
on her long neck, her lips pursed ready to start talking again.

"No, I don't like Paris. It's expensive and dirty."

"Really? I find it so extraordinarily clean. One of the cleanest cities
in all Europe."

"I find it dirty."

"How strange! But perhaps you have not been here very long."

"I've been here long enough."

"But it does have nice people in it. One must grant that."

Georgette turned to me. "You have nice friends."

Frances was a little drunk and would have liked to have kept it up but
the coffee came, and Lavigne with the liqueurs, and after that we all
went out and started for Braddocks's dancing-club. The dancing-club was
a bal musette in the Rue de la Montagne Sainte Genevieve. Five nights
a week the working people of the Pantheon quarter danced there. One
night a week it was the dancingclub. On Monday nights it was closed.
When we arrived it was quite empty, except for a policeman sitting near
the door, the wife of the proprietor back of the zinc bar, and the pro-
prietor himself. The daughter of the house came down-stairs as we went
in. There were long benches, and tables ran across the room, and at the
far end a dancing-floor.

"I wish people would come earlier," Braddocks said. The daughter came
up and wanted to know what we would drink. The proprietor got up on a
high stool beside the dancing-floor and began to play the accordion. He
had a string of bells around one of his ankles and beat time with his
foot as he played. Every one danced. It was hot and we came off the
floor perspiring.

"My God," Georgette said. "What a box to sweat in!"

"It's hot."

"Hot, my God!"

"Take off your hat."

"That's a good idea."

Some one asked Georgette to dance, and I went over to the bar. It was
really very hot and the accordion music was pleasant in the hot night.
I drank a beer, standing in the doorway and getting the cool breath of
wind from the street. Two taxis were coming down the steep street. They
both stopped in front of the Bal. A crowd of young men, some in jerseys
and some in their shirt-sleeves, got out. I could see their hands and
newly washed, wavy hair in the light from the door. The policeman stand-
ing by the door looked at me and smiled. They came in. As they went in,
under the light I saw white hands, wavy hair, white faces, grimacing,
gesturing, talking. With them was Brett. She looked very lovely and
she was very much with them.

One of them saw Georgette and said: "I do declare. There is an actual
harlot. I'm going to dance with her, Lett. You watch me."

The tall dark one, called Lett, said: "Don't you be rash.".

The wavy blond one answered: "Don't you worry, dear." And with them was
Brett.

I was very angry. Somehow they always made me angry. I know they are
supposed to be amusing, and you should be tolerant, but I wanted to swing
on one, any one, anything to shatter that superior, simpering composure.
Instead, I walked down the street and had a beer at the bar at the next
Bal. The beer was not good and I had a worse cognac to take the taste
Out of my mouth. When I came back to the Bal there was a crowd on the
floor and Georgette was dancing with the tall blond youth, who danced
big-hippily, carrying his head on one side, his eyes lifted as he danced.
As soon as the music stopped another one of them asked her to dance.
She had been taken up by them. I knew then that they would all dance
with her. They are like that.

I sat down at a table. Cohn was sitting there. Frances was dancing.
Mrs. Braddocks brought up somebody and introduced him as Robert Pren-
tiss. He was from New York by way of Chicago, and was a rising new
novelist. He had some sort of an English accent. I asked him to have
a drink.

"Thanks so much," he said, "I've just had one."

"Have another."

"Thanks, I will then."

We got the daughter of the house over and each had a _fine a l'eau_.

"You're from Kansas City, they tell me," he said.

"Yes."

"Do you find Paris amusing?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

I was a little drunk. Not drunk in any positive sense but just enough
to be careless.

"For God's sake," I said, "yes. Don't you?"

"Oh, how charmingly you get angry," he said. "I wish I had that facul-
ty."

I got up and walked over toward the dancing-floor. Mrs. Braddocks
followed me. "Don't be cross with Robert," she said. "He's still only
a child, you know."

"I wasn't cross," I said. "I just thought perhaps I was going to
throw up."

"Your fiancée is having a great success," Mrs. Braddocks looked out
on the floor where Georgette was dancing in the arms of the tall, dark
one, called Lett.

"Isn't she?" I said.

"Rather," said Mrs. Braddocks.

Cohn came up. "Come on, Jake," he said, "have a drink." We walked over
to the bar. "What's the matter with you? You seem all worked up over
something?"

"Nothing. This whole show makes me sick is all."

Brett came up to the bar.

"Hello, you chaps."

"Hello, Brett," I said. "Why aren't you tight?"

"Never going to get tight any more. I say, give a chap a brandy and
soda."

She stood holding the glass and I saw Robert Cohn looking at her. He
looked a great deal as his compatriot must have looked when he saw the
promised land. Cohn, of course, was much younger. But he had that look
of eager, deserving expectation.

Brett was damned good-looking. She wore a slipover jersey sweater and
a tweed skirt, and her hair was brushed back like a boy's. She started
all that. She was built with curves like the hull of a racing yacht,
and you missed none of it with that wool jersey.

"It's a fine crowd you're with, Brett," I said.

"Aren't they lovely? And you, my dear. Where did you get it?"

"At the Napolitain."

"And have you had a lovely evening?"

"Oh, priceless," I said.

Brett laughed. "It's wrong of you, Jake. It's an insult to all of us.
Look at Frances there, and Jo."

This for Cohn's benefit.

"It's in restraint of trade," Brett said. She laughed again.

"You're wonderfully sober," I said.

"Yes. Aren't I? And when one's with the crowd I'm with, one can drink
in such safety, too." The music started and Robert Cohn said: "Will
you dance this with me, Lady Brett?" Brett smiled at him. "I've pro-
mised to dance this with Jacob," she laughed. "You've a hell of a bib-
lical name, Jake."

"How about the next?" asked Cohn.

"We're going," Brett said. "We've a date up at Montmartre."

Dancing, I looked over Brett's shoulder and saw Cohn, standing at the
bar, still watching her.

"You've made a new one there," I said to her.

"Don't talk about it. Poor chap. I never knew it till just now."

"Oh, well," I said. "I suppose you like to add them up."

"Don't talk like a fool."

"You do."

"Oh, well. What if I do?"

"Nothing," I said. We were dancing to the accordion and some one was
playing the banjo. It was hot and I felt happy. We passed close to
Georgette dancing with another one of them.

"What possessed you to bring her?"

"I don't know, I just brought her."

"You're getting damned romantic."

"No, bored."

"Now?"

"No, not now."

"Let's get out of here. She's well taken care of."

"Do you want to?"

"Would I ask you if I didn't want to?"

We left the floor and I took my coat off a hanger on the wall and put
it on. Brett stood by the bar. Cohn was talking to her. I stopped at
the bar and asked them for an envelope. The patronne found one. I took
a fifty-franc note from my pocket, put it in the envelope, sealed it,
and handed it to the patronne.

"If the girl I came with asks for me, will you give her this?" I said.
"If she goes out with one of those gentlemen, will you save this for me?"

"C'est entendu, Monsieur," the patronne said. "You go now? So early?"

"Yes," I said.

We started out the door. Cohn was still talking to Brett. She said
good night and took my arm. "Good night, Cohn," I said. Outside in the
street we looked for a taxi.

"You're going to lose your fifty francs," Brett said.

"Oh, yes."

"No taxis."

"We could walk up to the Pantheon and get one."

"Come on and we'll get a drink in the pub next door and send for one."

"You wouldn't walk across the street."

"Not if I could help it."

We went into the next bar and I sent a waiter for a taxi.

"Well," I said, "we're out away from them."

We stood against the tall zinc bar and did not talk and looked at
each other. The waiter came and said the taxi was outside. Brett
pressed my hand hard. I gave the waiter a franc and we went out.
"Where should I tell him?" I asked.

"Oh, tell him to drive around."

I told the driver to go to the Parc Montsouris, and got in, and
slammed the door. Brett was leaning back in the corner, her eyes
closed. I sat beside her. The cab started with a jerk. "Oh, dar-
ling, I've been so miserable," Brett said.



4



The taxi went up the hill, passed the lighted square, then on into
the dark, still climbing, then levelled out onto a dark street be-
hind St. Etienne du Mont, went smoothly down the asphalt, passed the
trees and the standing bus at the Place de la Contrescarpe, then
turned onto the cobbles of the Rue Mouffetard. There were lighted
bars and late open shops on each side of the street. We were sitting
apart and we jolted close together going down the old street. Brett's
hat was off. Her head was back. I saw her face in the lights from
the open shops, then it was dark, then I saw her face clearly as we
came out on the Avenue des Gobelins. The street was torn up and men
were working on the car-tracks by the light of acetylene flares.
Brett's face was white and the long line of her neck showed in the
bright light of the flares. The street was dark again and I kissed
her. Our lips were tight together and then she turned away and press-
ed against the corner of the seat, as far away as she could get. Her
head was down.

"Don't touch me," she said. "Please don't touch me."

"What's the matter?"

"I can't stand it."

"Oh, Brett."

"You mustn't. You must know. I can't stand it, that's all. Oh, dar-
ling, please understand!"

"Don't you love me?"

"Love you? I simply turn all to jelly when you touch me."

"Isn't there anything we can do about it?"

She was sitting up now. My arm was around her and she was leaning
back against me, and we were quite calm. She was looking into my eyes
with that way she had of looking that made you wonder whether she real-
ly saw out of her own eyes. They would look on and on after every one
else's eyes in the world would have stopped looking. She looked as
though there were nothing on earth she would not look at like that,
and really she was afraid of so many things.

"And there's not a damn thing we could do," I said.

"I don't know," she said. "I don't want to go through that hell again."

"We'd better keep away from each other."

"But, darling, I have to see you. It isn't all that you know."

"No, but it always gets to be."

"That's my fault. Don't we pay for all the things we do, though?"

She had been looking into my eyes all the time. Her eyes had differ-
ent depths, sometimes they seemed perfectly flat. Now you could see
all the way into them.

"When I think of the hell I've put chaps through. I'm paying for it
all now."

"Don't talk like a fool," I said. "Besides, what happened to me is
supposed to be funny. I never think about it."

"Oh, no. I'll lay you don't."

"'Well, let's shut up about it."

"I laughed about it too, myself, once." She wasn't looking at me. "A
friend of my brother's came home that way from Mons. It seemed like a
hell of a joke. Chaps never know anything, do they?"

"No," I said. "Nobody ever knows anything."

I was pretty well through with the subject. At one time or another I
had probably considered it from most of its various angles, including
the one that certain injuries or imperfections are a subject of merri-
ment while remaining quite serious for the person possessing them.

"It's funny," I said. "It's very funny. And it's a lot of fun, too,
to be in love."

"Do you think so?" her eyes looked flat again.

"I don't mean fun that way. In a way it's an enjoyable feeling."

"No," she said. "I think it's hell on earth."

"It's good to see each other."

"No. I don't think it is."

"Don't you want to?"

"I have to."

We were sitting now like two strangers. On the right was the Parc
Montsouris. The restaurant where they have the pool of live trout and
where you can sit and look out over the park was closed and dark. The
driver leaned his head around.

"Where do you want to go?" I asked. Brett turned her head away.

"Oh, go to the Select."

"Cafe Select," I told the driver. "Boulevard Montparnasse." We drove
straight down, turning around the Lion de Belfort that guards the pass-
ing Montrouge trams. Brett looked straight ahead. On the Boulevard Ras-
pail, with the lights of Montparnasse in sight, Brett said: "Would you
mind very much if I asked you to do something?"

"Don't be silly."

"Kiss me just once more before we get there."

When the taxi stopped I got out and paid. Brett came out putting on her
hat. She gave me her hand as she stepped down. Her hand was shaky. "I
say, do I look too much of a mess?" She pulled her man's felt hat down
and started in for the bar. Inside, against the bar and at tables, were
most of the crowd who had been at the dance.

"Hello, you chaps," Brett said. "I'm going to have a drink."

"Oh, Brett! Brett!" the little Greek portrait-painter, who called him-
self a duke, and whom everybody called Zizi, pushed up to her. "I got
something fine to tell you."

"Hello, Zizi," Brett said.

"I want you to meet a friend," Zizi said. A fat man came up.

"Count Mippipopolous, meet my friend Lady Ashley."

"How do you do?" said Brett.

"Well, does your Ladyship have a good time here in Paris?" asked Count
Mippipopolous, who wore an elk's tooth on his watchchain.

"Rather," said Brett.

"Paris is a fine town all right," said the count. "But I guess you have
pretty big doings yourself over in London."

"Oh, yes," said Brett. "Enormous."

Braddocks called to me from a table. "Barnes," he said, "have a drink.
That girl of yours got in a frightful row."

"What about?"

"Something the patronne's daughter said. A corking row. She was rather
splendid, you know. Showed her yellow card and demanded the patronne's
daughter's too. I say it was a row."

"What finally happened?"

"Oh, some one took her home. Not a bad-looking girl. Wonderful command
of the idiom. Do stay and have a drink."

"No," I said. "I must shove off. Seen Cohn?"

"He went home with Frances," Mrs. Braddock put in.

"Poor chap, he looks awfully down," Braddocks said.

"I dare say he is," said Mrs. Braddocks.

"I have to shove off," I said. "Good night."

I said good night to Brett at the bar. The count was buying champagne.
"Will you take a glass of wine with us, sir?" he asked.

"No. Thanks awfully. I have to go."

"Really going?" Brett asked.

"Yes," I said. "I've got a rotten headache."

"I'll see you to-morrow?"

"Come in at the office."

"Hardly."

"Well, where will I see you?"

"Anywhere around five o'clock."

"Make it the other side of town then."

"Good. I'll be at the Crillon at five."

"Try and be there," I said.

"Don't worry," Brett said. "I've never let you down, have I?"

"Heard from Mike?"

"Letter to-day."

"Good night, sir," said the count.

I went out onto the sidewalk and walked down toward the Boulevard St.
Michel, passed the tables of the Rotonde, still crowded, looked across
the Street at the Dome, its tables running out to the edge of the pave-
ment. Some one waved at me from a table, I did not see who it was and
went on. I wanted to get home. The Boulevard Montparnasse was deserted.
Lavigne's was closed tight, and they were stacking the tables outside
the Closerie des Lilas. I passed Ney's Statue standing among the new-
leaved chestnut-trees in the arc-light. There was a faded purple wreath
leaning against the base. I stopped and read the inscription: from the
Bonapartist Groups, some date; I forget. He looked very fine, Marshal
Ney in his top-boots, gesturing with his sword among the green new horse-
chestnut leaves. My flat was just across the street, a little way down
the Boulevard St. Michel.

There was a light in the concierge's room and I knocked on the door and
she gave me my mail. I wished her good night and went up-stairs. There
were two letters and some papers. I looked at them under the gas-light
in the dining-room. The letters were from the States. One was a bank
statement. It showed a balance of $2432.60. I got out my check-book and
deducted four checks drawn since the first of the month, and discovered
I had a balance of $1832.60. I wrote this on the back of the statement.
The other letter was a wedding announcement. Mr. and Mrs. Aloysius Kirby
announce the marriage of their daughter Katherine--I knew neither the
girl nor the man she was marrying. They must be circularizing the town.
It was a funny name. I felt Sure I could remember anybody with a name
like Aloysius. It was a good Catholic name. There was a crest on the a-
nnouncement. Like Zizi the Greek duke. And that count. The count was
funny. Brett had a title, too. Lady Ashley. To hell with Brett. To hell
with you, Lady Ashley.

I lit the lamp beside the bed, turned off the gas, and opened the wide
windows. The bed was far back from the windows, and I sat with the wind-
ows open and undressed by the bed. Outside a night train, running on the
street-car tracks, went by carrying vegetables to the markets. They were
noisy at night when you could not sleep. Undressing, I looked at myself
in the mirror of the big armoire beside the bed. That was a typically
French way to furnish a room. Practical, too, I suppose. Of all the ways
to be wounded. I suppose it was funny. I put on my pajamas and got into
bed. I had the two bull-fight papers, and I took their wrappers off. One
was orange. The other yellow. They would both have the same news, so
whichever I read first would spoil the other. Le Toril was the better paper,
so I started to read it. I read it all the way through, including the Pe-
tite Correspondance and the Cornigrams. I blew out the lamp. Perhaps I
would be able to sleep.

My head started to work. The old grievance. Well, it was a rotten way to
be wounded and flying on a joke front like the Italian. In the Italian hos-
pital we were going to form a society. It had a funny name in Italian. I
wonder what became of the others, the Italians. That was in the Ospedale
Maggiore in Milano, Padiglione Ponte. The next building was the Padiglione
Zonda. There was a statue of Ponte, or maybe it was Zonda. That was where
the liaison colonel came to visit me. That was funny. That was about the
first funny thing. I was all bandaged up. But they had told him about it.
Then he made that wonderful speech: "You, a foreigner, an Englishman" (any
foreigner was an Englishman) "have given more than your life." What a
speech! I would like to have it illuminated to hang in the office. He never
laughed. He was putting himself in my place, I guess. "Che mala fortuna!
Che mala fortuna!" I never used to realize it, I guess. I try and play it
along and just not make trouble for people. Probably I never would have had
any trouble if I hadn't run into Brett when they shipped me to England. I
suppose she only wanted what she couldn't have. Well, people were that way.
To hell with people. The Catholic Church had an awfully good way of handl-
ing all that. Good advice, anyway. Not to think about it. Oh, it was swell
advice. Try and take it sometime. Try and take it.

I lay awake thinking and my mind jumping around. Then I couldn't keep away
from it, and I started to think about Brett and all the rest of it went away.
I was thinking about Brett and my mind stopped jumping around and started to
go in sort of smooth waves. Then all of a sudden I started to cry. Then after
a while it was better and I lay in bed and listened to the heavy trams go by
and way down the street, and then I went to sleep.

I woke up. There was a row going on outside. I listened and I thought I
recognized a voice. I put on a dressing-gown and went to the door. The con-
cierge was talking down-stairs. She was very angry. I heard my name and
called down the stairs.

"Is that you, Monsieur Barnes?" the concierge called.

"Yes. It's me."

"There's a species of woman here who's waked the whole street up. What kind
of a dirty business at this time of night! She says she must see you. I've
told her you're asleep."

Then I heard Brett's voice. Half asleep I had been sure it was Georgette.
I don't know why. She could not have known my address.

"Will you send her up, please?"

Brett came up the stairs. I saw she was quite drunk. "Silly thing to do,"
she said. "Make an awful row. I say, you weren't asleep, were you?"

"What did you think I was doing?"

"Don't know. What time is it?"

I looked at the clock. It was half-past four. "Had no idea what hour it was,"
Brett said. "I say, can a chap sit down? Don't be cross, darling. Just left
the count. He brought me here."

"What's he like?" I was getting brandy and soda and glasses.

"Just a little," said Brett. "Don't try and make me drunk. The count? Oh,
rather. He's quite one of us."

"Is he a count?"

"Here's how. I rather think so, you know. Deserves to be, anyhow. Knows
hell's own amount about people. Don't know where he got it all. Owns a chain
of sweetshops in the States."

She sipped at her glass.

"Think he called it a chain. Something like that. Linked them all up. Told
me a little about it. Damned interesting. He's one of us, though. Oh, quite.
No doubt. One can always tell."

She took another drink.

"How do I buck on about all this? You don't mind, do you? He's putting up
for Zizi, you know."

"Is Zizi really a duke, too?"

"I shouldn't wonder. Greek, you know. Rotten painter. I rather liked the
count."

"Where did you go with him?"

"Oh, everywhere. He just brought me here now. Offered me ten thousand
dollars to go to Biarritz with him. How much is that in pounds?"

"Around two thousand."

"Lot of money. I told him I couldn't do it. He was awfully nice about it.
Told him I knew too many people in Biarritz."

Brett laughed.

"I say, you are slow on the up-take," she said. I had only sipped my bran-
dy and soda. I took a long drink. "That's better. Very funny," Brett said.
"Then he wanted me to go to Cannes with him. Told him I knew too many peo-
ple in Cannes. Monte Carlo. Told him I knew too many people in Monte Carlo.
Told him I knew too many people everywhere. Quite true, too. So I asked him
to bring me here."

She looked at me, her hand on the table, her glass raised. "Don't look like
that," she said. "Told him I was in love with you. True, too. Don't look
like that. He was damn nice about it. Wants to drive us out to dinner to-
morrow night. Like to go?"

"Why not?"

"I'd better go now."

"Why?"

"Just wanted to see you. Damned silly idea. Want to get dressed and come
down? He's got the car just up the Street."

"The count?"

"Himself. And a chauffeur in livery. Going to drive me around and have break-
fast in the Bois. Hampers. Got itall at Zelli's. Dozen bottles of Mumms. Tempt
you?"

"I have to work in the morning," I said. "I'm too far behind you now to catch
up and be any fun."

"Don't be an ass."

"Can't do it."

"Right. Send him a tender message?"

"Anything. Absolutely."

"Good night, darling."

"Don't be sentimental."

"You make me ill."

We kissed good night and Brett shivered. "I'd better go," she said. "Good
night, darling."

"You don't have to go."

"Yes."

We kissed again on the stairs and as I called for the cordon the concierge
muttered something behind her door. I went back upstairs and from the open win-
dow watched Brett walking up the street to the big limousine drawn up to the
curb under the arc-light. She got in and it started off. I turned around. On
the table was an empty glass and a glass half-full of brandy and soda. I took
them both out to the kitchen and poured the half-full glass down the sink. I
turned off the gas in the dining-room, kicked off my slippers sitting on the
bed, and got into bed. This was Brett, that I had felt like crying about. Then
I thought of her walking up the street and stepping into the car, as I had
last seen her, and of course in a little while I felt like hell again. It is
awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night
it is another thing.



5



In the morning I walked down the Boulevard to the Rue Soufflot for coffee
and brioche. It was a fine morning. The horse-chestnut trees in the Luxembourg
gardens were in bloom. There was the pleasant early-morning feeling of a hot
day. I read the papers with the coffee and then smoked a cigarette. The flow-
er-women were coming up from the market and arranging their daily stock. Stu-
dents went by going up to the law school, or down to the Sorbonne. The Boule-
vard was busy with trams and people going to work. I got on an S bus and rode
down to the Madeleine, standing on the back platform. From the Madeleine I
walked along the Boulevard des Capucines to the Opera, and up to my office.
I passed the man with the jumping frogs and the man with the boxer toys. I
stepped aside to avoid walking into the thread with which his girl assistant
manipulated the boxers. She was standing looking away, the thread in her fold-
ed hands. The man was urging two tourists to buy. Three more tourists had
stopped and were watching. I walked on behind a man who was pushing a roller
that printed the name CINZANO on the sidewalk in damp letters. All along peo-
ple were going to work. It felt pleasant to be going to work. I walked across
the avenue and turned in to my office.

Up-stairs in the office I read the French morning papers, smoked, and then
sat at the typewriter and got off a good morning's work. At eleven o'clock I
went over to the Quai d'Orsay in a taxi and went in and sat with about a do-
zen correspondents, while the foreign-office mouthpiece, a young Nouvelle
Revue Francaise diplomat in hornrimmed spectacles, talked and answered ques-
tions for half an hour. The President of the Council was in Lyons making a
speech, or, rather he was on his way back. Several people asked questions to
hear themselves talk and there were a couple of questions asked by news ser-
vice men who wanted to know the answers. There was no news. I shared a taxi
back from the Quai d'Orsay with Woolsey and Krum.

"What do you do nights, Jake?" asked Krum. "I never see you around."

"Oh, I'm over in the Quarter."

"I'm coming over some night. The Dingo. That's the great place, isn't it?"

"Yes. That, or this new dive, the Select."

"I've meant to get over," said Krum. "You know how it is, though, with a
wife and kids."

"Playing any tennis?" Woolsey asked.

"Well, no," said Krum. "I can't say I've played any this year. I've tried
to get away, but Sundays it's always rained, and the courts are so damned
crowded."

"The Englishmen all have Saturday off," Woolsey said.

"Lucky beggars," said Krum. "Well, I'll tell you. Some day I'm not going
to be working for an agency. Then I'll have plenty of time to get out in the
country."

"That's the thing to do. Live out in the country and have a little car."

"I've been thinking some about getting a car next year."

I banged on the glass. The chauffeur stopped. "Here's my street," I said.
"Come in and have a drink."

"Thanks, old man," Krum said. Woolsey shook his head. "I've got to file
that line he got off this morning." I put a two-franc piece in Krum's hand.

"You're crazy, Jake," he said. "This is on me."

"It's all on the office, anyway."

"Nope. I want to get it."

I waved good-by. Krum put his head out. "See you at the lunch on Wed-
nesday."

"You bet."

I went to the office in the elevator. Robert Cohn was waiting for me.

"Hello, Jake," he said. "Going out to lunch?"

"Yes. Let me see if there is anything new."

"Where will we eat?"

"Anywhere."

I was looking over my desk. "Where do you want to eat?"

"How about Wetzel's? They've got good hors d'oeuvres."

In the restaurant we ordered hors d'oeuvres and beer. The sommelier
brought the beer, tall, beaded on the outside of the stems, and cold.
There were a dozen different dishes of hors d'oeuvres.

"Have any fun last night?" I asked.

"No. I don't think so."

"How's the writing going?"

"Rotten. I can't get this second book going."

"That happens to everybody."

"Oh, I'm sure of that. It gets me worried, though."

"Thought any more about going to South America?"

"I mean that."

"Well, why don't you start off?"

"Frances."

"Well," I said, "take her with you."

"She wouldn't like it. That isn't the sort of thing she likes. She
likes a lot of people around."

"Tell her to go to hell."

"I can't. I've got certain obligations to her."

He shoved the sliced cucumbers away and took a pickled herring.

"What do you know about Lady Brett Ashley, Jake?"

"Her name's Lady Ashley. Brett's her own name. She's a nice girl,"
I said. "She's getting a divorce and she's going to marry Mike Camp-
bell. He's over in Scotland now. Why?"

"She's a remarkably attractive woman."

"Isn't she?"

"There's a certain quality about her, a certain fineness. She seems
to be absolutely fine and straight."

"She's very nice."

"I don't know how to describe the quality," Cohn said. "I suppose
it's breeding."

"You sound as though you liked her pretty well."

"I do. I shouldn't wonder if I were in love with her."

"She's a drunk," I said. "She's in love with Mike Campbell, and she's
going to marry him. He's going to be rich as hell some day."

"I don't believe she'll ever marry him."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. I just don't believe it. Have you known her a long time?"

"Yes," I said. "She was a V. A. D. in a hospital I was in during the
war."

"She must have been just a kid then."

"She's thirty-four now."

"When did she marry Ashley?"

"During the war. Her own true love had just kicked off with the dysen-
tery."

"You talk sort of bitter."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to. I was just trying to give you the facts."

"I don't believe she would marry anybody she didn't love."

"Well," I said. "She's done it twice."

"I don't believe it."

"Well," I said, "don't ask me a lot of fool questions if you don't
like the answers."

"I didn't ask you that."

"You asked me what I knew about Brett Ashley."

"I didn't ask you to insult her."

"Oh, go to hell."

He stood up from the table his face white, and stood there white and
angry behind the little plates of hors d'ceuvres.

"Sit down," I said. "Don't be a fool."

"You've got to take that back."

"Oh, cut out the prep-school stuff."

"Take it back."

"Sure. Anything. I never heard of Brett Ashley. How's that?"

"No. Not that. About me going to hell."

"Oh, don't go to hell," I said. "Stick around. We're just starting lunch."

Cohn smiled again and sat down. He seemed glad to sit down. What the hell
would he have done if he hadn't sat down? "You say such damned insulting
things, Jake."

"I'm sorry. I've got a nasty tongue. I never mean it when I say nasty
things."

"I know it," Cohn said. "You're really about the best friend I have,
Jake."

God help you, I thought. "Forget what I said," I said out loud. "I'm
sorry."

"It's all right. It's fine. I was just sore for a minute."

"Good. Let's get something else to eat."

After we finished the lunch we walked up to the Cafe de la Paix and had
coffee. I could feel Cohn wanted to bring up Brett again, but I held him
off it. We talked about one thing and another, and I left him to come to
the office.



6



At five o'clock I was in the Hotel Crillon waiting for Brett. She was
not there, so I sat down and wrote some letters. They were not very good
letters but I hoped their being on Crillon stationery would help them.
Brett did not turn up, so about quarter to six I went down to the bar
and had a Jack Rose with George the barman. Brett had not been in the
bar either, and so I looked for her up-stairs on my way out, and took
a taxi to the Cafe Select. Crossing the Seine I saw a string of barges
being towed empty down the current, riding high, the bargemen at the
sweeps as they came toward the bridge. The river looked nice. It was
always pleasant crossing bridges in Paris.

The taxi rounded the statue of the inventor of the semaphore1 engaged
in doing same, and turned up the Boulevard Raspail, and I sat back to
let that part of the ride pass. The Boulevard Raspail always made dull
riding. It was like a certain stretch on the P.L.M. between Fontaine-
bleau and Montereau that always made me feel bored and dead and dull
until it was over. I suppose it is some association of ideas that makes
those dead places in a journey. There are other streets in Paris as
ugly as the Boulevard Raspail. It is a street I do not mind walking
down at all. But I cannot stand to ride along it. Perhaps I had read
something about it once. That was the way Robert Cohn was about all
of Paris. I wondered where Cohn got that incapacity to enjoy Paris.
Possibly from Mencken. Mencken hates Paris, I believe. So many young
men get their likes and dislikes from Mencken.

The taxi stopped in front of the Rotonde. No matter what cafe in Mont-
parnasse you ask a taxi-driver to bring you to from the right bank of
the river, they always take you to the Rotonde. Ten years from now it
will probably be the Dome. It was near enough, anyway. I walked past
the sad tables of the Rotonde to the Select. There were a few people
inside at the bar, and outside, alone, sat Harvey Stone. He had a
pile of saucers in front of him, and he needed a shave.

"Sit down," said Harvey, "I've been looking for you."

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing. Just looking for you."

"Been out to the races?"

"No. Not since Sunday."

"What do you hear from the States?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

"What's the matter?"

"I don't know. I'm through with them. I'm absolutely through with
them."

He leaned forward and looked me in the eye.

"Do you want to know something, Jake?"

"Yes."

"I haven't had anything to eat for five days."

I figured rapidly back in my mind. It was three days ago that Har-
vey had won two hundred francs from me shaking poker dice in the New
York Bar.

"What's the matter?"

"No money. Money hasn't come," he paused. "I tell you it's strange,
Jake. When I'm like this I just want to be alone. I want to stay in
my own room. I'm like a cat."

I felt in my pocket.

"Would a hundred help you any, Harvey?"

"Yes."

"Come on. Let's go and eat."

"There's no hurry. Have a drink."

"Better eat."

"No. When I get like this I don't care whether I eat or not."

We had a drink. Harvey added my saucer to his own pile.

"Do you know Mencken, Harvey?"

"Yes. Why?"

"What's he like?"

"He's all right. He says some pretty funny things. Last time I had
dinner with him we talked about Hoffenheimer. 'The trouble is,' he
said, 'he's a garter snapper.' That's not bad."

"That's not bad."

"He's through now," Harvey went on. "He's written about all the
things he knows, and now he's on all the things he doesn't know."

"I guess he's all right," I said. "I just can't read him."

"Oh, nobody reads him now," Harvey said, "except the people that
used to read the Alexander Hamilton Institute."

"Well," I said. "That was a good thing, too."

"Sure," said Harvey. So we sat and thought deeply for a while.

"Have another port?"

"All right," said Harvey.

"There comes Cohn," I said. Robert Cohn was crossing the street.

"That moron," said Harvey. Cohn came up to our table.

"Hello, you bums," he said.

"Hello, Robert," Harvey said. "I was just telling Jake here that
you're a moron."

"What do you mean?"

"Tell us right off. Don't think. What would you rather do if you
could do anything you wanted?"

Cohn started to consider.

"Don't think. Bring it right out."

"I don't know," Cohn said. "What's it all about, anyway?"

"I mean what would you rather do. What comes into your head first.
No matter how silly it is."

"I don't know," Cohn said. "I think I'd rather play football again
with what I know about handling myself, now."

"I misjudged you," Harvey said. "You're not a moron. You're only a
case of arrested development."

"You're awfully funny, Harvey," Cohn said. "Some day somebody will
push your face in."

Harvey Stone laughed. "You think so. They won't, though. Because
it wouldn't make any difference to me. I'm not a fighter."

"It would make a difference to you if anybody did it."

"No, it wouldn't. That's where you make your big mistake. Because
you're not intelligent."

"Cut it out about me."

"Sure," said Harvey. "It doesn't make any difference to me. You
don't mean anything to me."

"Come on, Harvey," I said. "Have another porto."

"No," he said. "I'm going up the street and eat. See you later,
Jake."

He walked out and up the street. I watched him crossing the street
through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly sure of himself in the traf-
fic.

"He always gets me sore," Cohn said. "I can't stand him."

"I like him," I said. "I'm fond of him. You don't want to get sore
at him."

"I know it," Cohn said. "He just gets on my nerves."

"Write this afternoon?"

"No. I couldn't get it going. It's harder to do than my first book.
I'm having a hard time handling it."

The sort of healthy conceit that he had when he returned from America
early in the spring was gone. Then he had been sure of his work, only
with these personal longings for adventure. Now the sureness was gone.
Somehow I feel I have not shown Robert Cohn clearly. The reason is
that until he fell in love with Brett, I never heard him make one re-
mark that would, in any way, detach him from other people. He was nice
to watch on the tennis-court, he had a good body, and he kept it in
shape; he handled his cards well at bridge, and he had a funny sort
of undergraduate quality about him. If he were in a crowd nothing he
said stood out. He wore what used to be called polo shirts at school,
and may be called that still, but he was not professionally youthful.
I do not believe he thought about his clothes much. Externally he had
been formed at Princeton. Internally he had been moulded by the two
women who had trained him. He had a nice, boyish sort of cheerfulness
that had never been trained out of him, and I probably have not brought
it out. He loved to win at tennis. He probably loved to win as much as
Lenglen, for instance. On the other hand, he was not angry at being
beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis game went all to
pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him. He was
very nice about it.

Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Cafe Select, and Harvey
Stone had just crossed the street.

"Come on up to the Lilas," I said.

"I have a date."

"What time?"

"Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen."

"There she is."

Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a
very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and
smiled. We watched her cross the street.

"Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting
to talk to you."

"Hello, Frances," said Cohn. He smiled.

"Why, hello, Robert. Are you here?" She went on, talking rapidly.
"I've had the darndest time. This one"--shaking her head at Cohn--
"didn't come home for lunch."

"I wasn't supposed to."

"Oh, I know. But you didn't say anything about it to the cook. Then
I had a date myself, and Paula wasn't at her office. I went to the
Ritz and waited for her, and she never came, and of course I didn't
have enough money to lunch at the Ritz--"

"What did you do?"

"Oh, went out, of course." She spoke in a sort of imitation joyful
manner. "I always keep my appointments. No one keeps theirs, nowadays.
I ought to know better. How are you, Jake, anyway?"

"Fine."

"That was a fine girl you had at the dance, and then went off with
that Brett one."

"Don't you like her?" Cohn asked.

"I think she's perfectly charming. Don't you?"

Cohn said nothing.

"Look, Jake. I want to talk with you. Would you come over with me to
the Dome? You'll stay here, won't you, Robert? Come on, Jake."

We crossed the Boulevard Montparnasse and sat down at a table. A boy
came up with the Paris Times, and I bought one and opened it.

"What's the matter, Frances?"

"Oh, nothing," she said, "except that he wants to leave me."

"How do you mean?"

"Oh, he told every one that we were going to be married, and I told
my mother and every one, and now he doesn't want to do it."

"What's the matter?"

"He's decided he hasn't lived enough. I knew it would happen when he
went to New York."

She looked up, very bright-eyed and trying to talk inconsequentially.

"I wouldn't marry him if he doesn't want to. Of course I wouldn't. I
wouldn't marry him now for anything. But it does seem to me to be a
little late now, after we've waited three years, and I've just gotten
my divorce."

I said nothing.

"We were going to celebrate so, and instead we've just had scenes. It's
so childish. We have dreadful scenes, and he cries and begs me to be rea-
sonable, but he says he just can't do it."

"It's rotten luck."

"I should say it is rotten luck. I've wasted two years and a half on
him now. And I don't know now if any man will ever want to marry me.
Two years ago I could have married anybody I wanted, down at Cannes.
All the old ones that wanted to marry somebody chic and settle down
were crazy about me. Now I don't think I could get anybody."

"Sure, you could marry anybody."

"No, I don't believe it. And I'm fond of him, too. And I'd like to have
children. I always thought we'd have children."

She looked at me very brightly. "I never liked children much, but I
don't want to think I'll never have them. I always thought I'd have
them and then like them."

"He's got children."

"Oh, yes. He's got children, and he's got money, and he's got a rich
mother, and he's written a book, and nobody will publish my stuff, no-
body at all. It isn't bad, either. And I haven't got any money at all.
I could have had alimony, but I got the divorce the quickest way."

She looked at me again very brightly.

"It isn't right. It's my own fault and it's not, too. I ought to have
known better. And when I tell him he just cries and says he can't marry.
Why can't he marry? I'd be a good wife. I'm easy to get along with. I
leave him alone. It doesn't do any good."

"It's a rotten shame."

"Yes, it is a rotten shame. But there's no use talking about it, is
there? Come on, let's go back to the cafe."

"And of course there isn't anything I can do."

"No. Just don't let him know I talked to you. I know what he wants."
Now for the first time she dropped her bright, terribly cheerful man-
ner. "He wants to go back to New York alone, and be there when his
book comes out so when a lot of little chickens like it. That's what
he wants."

"Maybe they won't like it. I don't think he's that way. Really."

"You don't know him like I do, Jake. That's what he wants to do. I
know it. I know it. That's why he doesn't want to marry. He wants to
have a big triumph this fall all by himself."

"Want to go back to the cafe?"

"Yes. Come on."

We got up from the table--they had never brought us a drink-- and
started across the street toward the Select, where Cohn sat smiling at
us from behind the marble-topped table.

"Well, what are you smiling at?" Frances asked him. "Feel pretty ha-
ppy?"

"I was smiling at you and Jake with your secrets."

"Oh, what I've told Jake isn't any secret. Everybody will know it
soon enough. I only wanted to give Jake a decent version."

"What was it? About your going to England?"

"Yes, about my going to England. Oh, Jake! I forgot to tell you. I'm
going to England."

"Isn't that fine!"

"Yes, that's the way it's done in the very best families. Robert's
sending me. He's going to give me two hundred pounds and then I'm go-
ing to visit friends. Won't it be lovely? The friends don't know about
it, yet."

She turned to Cohn and smiled at him. He was not smiling now.

"You were only going to give me a hundred pounds, weren't you, Robert?
But I made him give me two hundred. He's really very generous. Aren't
you, Robert?"

I do not know how people could say such terrible things to Robert Cohn.
There are people to whom you could not say insulting things. They give
you a feeling that the world would be destroyed, would actually be des-
troyed before your eyes, if you said certain things. But here was Cohn
taking it all. Here it was, all going on right before me, and I did not
even feel an impulse to try and stop it. And this was friendly joking
to what went on later.

"How can you say such things, Frances?" Cohn interrupted.

"Listen to him. I'm going to England. I'm going to visit friends. Ever
visit friends that didn't want you? Oh, they'll have to take me, all
right. 'How do you do, my dear? Such a long time since we've seen you.
And how is your dear mother?' Yes, how is my dear mother? She put all
her money into French war bonds. Yes, she did. Probably the only person
in the world that did. 'And what about Robert?' or else very careful
talking around Robert. 'You must be most careful not to mention him,
my dear. Poor Frances has had a most unfortunate experience.' Won't
it be fun, Robert? Don't you think it will be fun, Jake?"

She turned to me with that terribly bright smile. It was very satis-
factory to her to have an audience for this. "And where are you going
to be, Robert? It's my own fault, all right. Perfectly my own fault.
When I made you get rid of your little secretary on the magazine I
ought to have known you'd get rid of me the same way. Jake doesn't
know about that. Should I tell him?"

"Shut up, Frances, for God's sake."

"Yes, I'll tell him. Robert had a little secretary on the magazine.
Just the sweetest little thing in the world, and he thought she was
wonderful, and then I came along and he thought I was pretty wonderful,
too. So I made him get rid of her, and he had brought her to Province-
town from Carmel when he moved the magazine, and he didn't even pay
her fare back to the coast. All to please me. He thought I was pretty
fine, then. Didn't you, Robert?

"You mustn't misunderstand, Jake, it was absolutely platonic with the
secretary. Not even platonic. Nothing at all, really. It was just that
she was so nice. And he did that just to please me. Well, I suppose
that we that live by the sword shall perish by the sword. Isn't that
literary, though? You want to remember that for your next book, Robert.

"You know Robert is going to get material for a new book. Aren't you,
Robert? That's why he's leaving me. He's decided I don't film well.
You see, he was so busy all the time that we were living together,
writing on this book, that he doesn't remember anything about us. So
now he's going out and get some new material. Well, I hope he gets
something frightfully interesting.

"Listen, Robert, dear. Let me tell you something. You won't mind,
will you? Don't have scenes with your young ladies. Try not to. Be-
cause you can't have scenes without crying, and then you pity your-
self so much you can't remember what the other person's said. You'll
never be able to remember any conversations that way. Just try and
be calm. I know it's awfully hard. But remember, it's for literature.
We all ought to make sacrifices for literature. Look at me. I'm going
to England without a protest. All for literature. We must all help
young writers. Don't you think so, Jake? But you're not a young writ-
er. Are you, Robert? You're thirty-four. Still, I suppose that is
young for a great writer. Look at Hardy. Look at Anatole France. He
just died a little while ago. Robert doesn't think he's any good,
though. Some of his French friends told him. He doesn't read French
very well himself. He wasn't a good writer like you are, was he, Ro-
bert? Do you think he ever had to go and look for material? What do
you suppose he said to his mistresses when he wouldn't marry them? I
wonder if he cried, too? Oh, I've just thought of something." She
put her gloved hand up to her lips. "I know the real reason why Ro-
bert won't marry me, Jake. It's just come to me. They've sent it to
me in a vision in the Cafe Select. Isn't it mystic? Some day they'll
put a tablet up. Like at Lourdes. Do you want to hear, Robert? I'll
tell you. It's so simple. I wonder why I never thought about it. Why,
you see, Robert's always wanted to have a mistress, and if he doesn't
marry me, why, then he's had one. She was his mistress for over two
years. See how it is? And if he marries me, like he's always promised
he would, that would be the end of all the romance. Don't you think
that's bright of me to figure that out? It's true, too. Look at him
and see if it's not. Where are you going, Jake?"

"I've got to go in and see Harvey Stone a minute."

Cohn looked up as I went in. His face was white. Why did he sit there?
Why did he keep on taking it like that? As I stood against the bar
looking out I could see them through the window. Frances was talking
on to him, smiling brightly, looking into his face each time she asked:
"Isn't it so, Robert?" Or maybe she did not ask that now. Perhaps she
said something else. I told the barman I did not want anything to drink
and went out through the side door. As I went out the door I looked
back through the two thicknesses of glass and saw them sitting there.
She was still talking to him. I went down a side street to the Boule-
vard Raspail. A taxi came along and I got in and gave the driver the
address of my flat.



7



As I started up the stairs the concierge knocked on the glass of the
door of her lodge, and as I stopped she came out. She had some letters
and a telegram.

"Here is the post. And there was a lady here to see you."

"Did she leave a card?"

"No. She was with a gentleman. It was the one who was here last night.
In the end I find she is very nice."

"Was she with a friend of mine?"

"I don't know. He was never here before. He was very large. Very, very
large. She was very nice. Very, very nice. Last night she was, perhaps,
a little--" She put her head on one hand and rocked it up and down.
"I'll speak perfectly frankly, Monsieur Barnes. Last night I found her
not so gentille. Last night I formed another idea of her. But listen
to what I tell you. She is tres, tres gentille. She is of very good
family. It is a thing you can see."

"They did not leave any word?"

"Yes. They said they would be back in an hour."

"Send them up when they come."

"Yes, Monsieur Barnes. And that lady, that lady there is some one. An
eccentric, perhaps, but quelqu'une, quelqu'une!"

The concierge, before she became a concierge, had owned a drink-selling
concession at the Paris race-courses. Her life-work lay in the pelouse,
but she kept an eye on the people of the pesage, and she took great
pride in telling me which of my guests were well brought up, which
were of good family, who were sportsmen, a French word pronounced with
the accent on the men. The only trouble was that people who did not
fall into any of those three categories were very liable to be told
there was no one home, chez Barnes. One of my friends, an extremely
underfed-looking painter, who was obviously to Madame Duzinell neither
well brought up, of good family, nor a sportsman, wrote me a letter
asking if I could get him a pass to get by the concierge so he could
come up and see me occasionally in the evenings.

I went up to the flat wondering what Brett had done to the concierge.
The wire was a cable from Bill Gorton, saying he was arriving on the
France. I put the mail on the table, went back to the bedroom, un-
dressed and had a shower. I was rubbing down when I heard the door-
bell pull. I put on a bathrobe and slippers and went to the door. It
was Brett. Back of her was the count. He was holding a great bunch
of roses.

"Hello, darling," said Brett. "Aren't you going to let us in?"

"Come on. I was just bathing."

"Aren't you the fortunate man. Bathing."

"Only a shower. Sit down, Count Mippipopolous. What will you drink?"

"I don't know whether you like flowers, sir," the count said, "but I
took the liberty of just bringing these roses."

"Here, give them to me." Brett took them. "Get me some water in this,
Jake." I filled the big earthenware jug with water in the kitchen,
and Brett put the roses in it, and placed them in the centre of the
dining-room table.

"I say. We have had a day."

"You don't remember anything about a date with me at the Crillon?"

"No. Did we have one? I must have been blind."

"You were quite drunk, my dear," said the count.

"Wasn't I, though? And the count's been a brick, absolutely."

"You've got hell's own drag with the concierge now."

"I ought to have. Gave her two hundred francs."

"Don't be a damned fool."

"His," she said, and nodded at the count.

"I thought we ought to give her a little something for last night.
It was very late."

"He's wonderful," Brett said. "He remembers everything that's happen-
ed."

"So do you, my dear."

"Fancy," said Brett. "Who'd want to? I say, Jake, do we get a drink?"

"You get it while I go in and dress. You know where it is."

"Rather."

While I dressed I heard Brett put down glasses and then a siphon,
and then heard them talking. I dressed slowly, sitting on the bed.
I felt tired and pretty rotten. Brett came in the room, a glass in
her hand, and sat on the bed.

"What's the matter, darling? Do you feel rocky?"

She kissed me coolly on the forehead.

"Oh, Brett, I love you so much."

"Darling," she said. Then: "Do you want me to send him away?"

"No. He's nice."

"I'll send him away."

"No, don't."

"Yes, I'll send him away."

"You can't just like that."

"Can't I, though? You stay here. He's mad about me, I tell you."

She was gone out of the room. I lay face down on the bed. I was hav-
ing a bad time. I heard them talking but I did not listen. Brett
came in and sat on the bed.

"Poor old darling." She stroked my head.

"What did you say to him?" I was lying with my face away from her.
I did not want to see her.

"Sent him for champagne. He loves to go for champagne."

Then later: "Do you feel better, darling? Is the head any better?"

"It's better."

"Lie quiet. He's gone to the other side of town."

"Couldn't we live together, Brett? Couldn't we just live together?"

"I don't think so. I'd just tromper1 you with everybody. You could-
n't stand it."

"I stand it now."

"That would be different. It's my fault, Jake. It's the way I'm made."

"Couldn't we go off in the country for a while?"

"It wouldn't be any good. I'll go if you like. But I couldn't live
quietly in the country. Not with my own true love."

"I know."

"Isn't it rotten? There isn't any use my telling you I love you."

"You know I love you."

"Let's not talk. Talking's all bilge. I'm going away from you, and
then Michael's coming back."

"Why are you going away?"

"Better for you. Better for me."

"When are you going?"

"Soon as I can."

"Where?"

"San Sebastian."

"Can't we go together?"

"No. That would be a hell of an idea after we'd just talked it out."

"We never agreed."

"Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't he obstinate, darling."

"Oh, sure," I said. "I know you're right. I'm just low, and when I'm
low I talk like a fool."

I sat up, leaned over, found my shoes beside the bed and put them
on. I stood up.

"Don't look like that, darling."

"How do you want me to look?"

"Oh, don't be a fool. I'm going away to-morrow."

"To-morrow?"

"Yes. Didn't I say so? I am."

"Let's have a drink, then. The count will be back."

"Yes. He should be back. You know he's extraordinary about buying
champagne. It means any amount to him."

We went into the dining-room. I took up the brandy bottle and pour-
ed Brett a drink and one for myself. There was a ring at the bell-
pull. I went to the door and there was the count. Behind him was
the chauffeur carrying a basket of champagne.

"Where should I have him put it, sir?" asked the count.

"In the kitchen," Brett said.

"Put it in there, Henry," the count motioned. "Now go down and get
the ice." He stood looking after the basket inside the kitchen door.
"I think you'll find that's very good wine," he said. "I know we
don't get much of a chance to judge good wine in the States now,
but I got this from a friend of mine that's in the business."

"Oh, you always have some one in the trade," Brett said.

"This fellow raises the grapes. He's got thousands of acres of
them."

"What's his name?" asked Brett. "Veuve Cliquot?"

"No," said the count. "Mumms. He's a baron."

"Isn't it wonderful," said Brett. "We all have titles. Why haven't
you a title, Jake?"

"I assure you, sir," the count put his hand on my arm. "It never
does a man any good. Most of the time it costs you money."

"Oh, I don't know. It's damned useful sometimes," Brett said.

"I've never known it to do me any good."

"You haven't used it properly. I've had hell's own amount of cre-
dit on mine."

"Do sit down, count," I said. "Let me take that stick."

The count was looking at Brett across the table under the gaslight.
She was smoking a cigarette and flicking the ashes on the rug. She
saw me notice it. "I say, Jake, I don't want to ruin your rugs.
Can't you give a chap an ash-tray?"

I found some ash-trays and spread them around. The chauffeur came
up with a bucket full of salted ice. "Put two bottles in it, Hen-
ry," the count called.

"Anything else, sir?"

"No. Wait down in the car." He turned to Brett and to me. "We'll
want to ride out to the Bois for dinner?"

"If you like," Brett said. "I couldn't eat a thing."

"I always like a good meal," said the count.

"Should I bring the wine in, sir?" asked the chauffeur.

"Yes. Bring it in, Henry," said the count. He took out a heavy
pigskin cigar-case and offered it to me. "Like to try a real A-
merican cigar?"

"Thanks," I said. "I'll finish the cigarette."

He cut off the end of his cigar with a gold cutter he wore on one
end of his watch-chain.

"I like a cigar to really draw," said the count. "Half the cigars
you smoke don't draw."

He lit the cigar, puffed at it, looking across the table at Brett.
"And when you're divorced, Lady Ashley, then you won't have a ti-
tle."

"No. What a pity."

"No," said the count. "You don't need a title. You got class all
over you."

"Thanks. Awfully decent of you."

"I'm not joking you," the count blew a cloud of smoke. "You got
the most class of anybody I ever seen. You got it. That's all."

"Nice of you," said Brett. "Mummy would be pleased. Couldn't you
write it out, and I'll send it in a letter to her."

"I'd tell her, too," said the count. "I'm not joking you. I never
joke people. Joke people and you make enemies. That's what I always
say."

"You're right," Brett said. "You're terribly right. I always joke
people and I haven't a friend in the world. Except Jake here."

"You don't joke him."

"That's it."

"Do you, now?" asked the count. "Do you joke him?"

Brett looked at me and wrinkled up the corners of her eyes.

"No," she said. "I wouldn't joke him."

"See," said the count. "You don't joke him."

"This is a hell of a dull talk," Brett said. "How about some of
that champagne?"

The count reached down and twirled the bottles in the shiny buc-
ket. "It isn't cold, yet. You're always drinking, my dear. Why
don't you just talk?"

"I've talked too ruddy much. I've talked myself all out to Jake."

"I should like to hear you really talk, my dear. When you talk
to me you never finish your sentences at all."

"Leave 'em for you to finish. Let any one finish them as they
like."

"It is a very interesting system," the count reached down and
gave the bottles a twirl. "Still I would like to hear you talk
some time."

"Isn't he a fool?" Brett asked.

"Now," the count brought up a bottle. "I think this is cool."

I brought a towel and he wiped the bottle dry and held it up.
"I like to drink champagne from magnums. The wine is better but
it would have been too hard to cool." He held the bottle, look-
ing at it. I put out the glasses.

"I say. You might open it," Brett suggested.

"Yes, my dear. Now I'll open it."

It was amazing champagne.

"I say that is wine," Brett held up her glass. "We ought to
toast something. 'Here's to royalty.'

"This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. You don't
want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. You lose the
taste."

Brett's glass was empty.

"You ought to write a book on wines, count," I said.

"Mr. Barnes," answered the count, "all I want out of wines
is to enjoy them."

"Let's enjoy a little more of this," Brett pushed her glass
forward. The count poured very carefully. "There, my dear.
Now you enjoy that slowly, and then you can get drunk."

"Drunk? Drunk?"

"My dear, you are charming when you are drunk."

"Listen to the man."

"Mr. Barnes," the count poured my glass full. "She is the on-
ly lady I have ever known who was as charming when she was
drunk as when she was sober."

"You haven't been around much, have you?"

"Yes, my dear. I have been around very much. I have been a-
round a very great deal."

"Drink your wine," said Brett. "We've all been around. I
dare say Jake here has seen as much as you have."

My dear, I am sure Mr. Barnes has seen a lot. Don t think I
don't think so, sir. I have seen a lot, too."

"Of course you have, my dear," Brett said. "I was only rag-
ging."

"I have been in seven wars and four revolutions," the count
said.

"Soldiering?" Brett asked.

"Sometimes, my dear. And I have got arrow wounds. Have you
ever seen arrow wounds?"

"Let's have a look at them."

The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his
shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood,
his chest black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the
light.

"You see them?"

Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white
welts. "See on the back where they come out." Above the
small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick
as a finger.

"I say. Those are something."

"Clean through."

The count was tucking in his shirt.

"Where did you get those?" I asked.

"In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old."

"What were you doing?" asked Brett. "Were you in the army?"

"I was on a business trip, my dear."

"I told you he was one of us. Didn't I?" Brett turned to
me. "I love you, count. You're a darling."

"You make me very happy, my dear. But it isn't true."

"Don't be an ass."

"You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much
that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don't you find it
like that?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

"I know," said the count. "That is the secret. You must get
to know the values."

"Doesn't anything ever happen to your values?" Brett asked.

"No. Not any more."

"Never fall in love?"

"Always," said the count. "I am always in love."

"What does that do to your values?"

"That, too, has got a place in my values."

"You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all."

"No, my dear. You're not right. I'm not dead at all."

We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left
the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the
Bois. It was a good dinner. Food had an excellent place in
the count's values. So did wine. The count was in fine form
during the meal. So was Brett. It was a good party.

"Where would you like to go?" asked the count after dinner.
We were the only people left in the restaurant. The two wai-
ters were standing over against the door. They wanted to go
home.

"We might go up on the hill," Brett said. "Haven't we had a
splendid party?"

The count was beaming. He was very happy.

"You are very nice people," he said. He was smoking a cigar
again. "Why don't you get married, you two?"

"We want to lead our own lives," I said.

"We have our careers," Brett said. "Come on. Let's get out
of this."

"Have another brandy," the count said.

"Get it on the hill."

"No. Have it here where it is quiet."

"You and your quiet," said Brett. "What is it men feel about
quiet?"

"We like it," said the count. "Like you like noise, my dear."

"All right," said Brett. "Let's have one."

"Sommelier!" the count called.

"Yes, sir."

"What is the oldest brandy you have?"

"Eighteen eleven, sir."

"Bring us a bottle."

"I say. Don't be ostentatious. Call him off, Jake."

"Listen, my dear. I get more value for my money in old bran-
dy than in any other antiquities."

"Got many antiquities?"

"I got a houseful."

Finally we went up to Montmartre. Inside Zelli's it was crowd-
ed, smoky, and noisy. The music hit you as you went in. Brett
and I danced. It was so crowded we could barely move. The nig-
ger drummer waved at Brett. We were caught in the jam, dancing
in one place in front of him.

"Hahre you?"

"Great."

"Thaats good."

He was all teeth and lips.

"He's a great friend of mine," Brett said. "Damn good drummer."

The music stopped and we started toward the table where the
count sat. Then the music started again and we danced. I look-
ed at the count. He was sitting at the table smoking a cigar.
The music stopped again.

"Let's go over."

Brett started toward the table. The music started and again we
danced, tight in the crowd.

"You are a rotten dancer, Jake. Michael's the best dancer I
know."

"He's splendid."

"He's got his points."

"I like him," I said. "I'm damned fond of him."

"I'm going to marry him," Brett said. "Funny. I haven't thought
about him for a week."

"Don't you write him?"

"Not I. Never write letters."

"I'll bet he writes to you."

"Rather. Damned good letters, too."

"When are you going to get married?"

"How do I know? As soon as we can get the divorce. Michael's
trying to get his mother to put up for it."

"Could I help you?"

"Don't be an ass. Michael's people have loads of money."

The music stopped. We walked over to the table. The count
stood up.

"Very nice," he said. "You looked very, very nice."

"Don't you dance, count?" I asked.

"No. I'm too old."

"Oh, come off it," Brett said.

"My dear, I would do it if I would enjoy it. I enjoy to watch
you dance."

"Splendid," Brett said. "I'll dance again for you some time.
I say. What about your little friend, Zizi?"

"Let me tell you. I support that boy, but I don't want to have
him around."

"He is rather hard."

"You know I think that boy's got a future. But personally I
don't want him around."

"Jake's rather the same way."

"He gives me the willys."

"Well," the count shrugged his shoulders. "About his future
you can't ever tell. Anyhow, his father was a great friend of
my father."

"Come on. Let's dance," Brett said.

We danced. It was crowded and close.

"Oh, darling," Brett said, "I'm so miserable."

I had that feeling of going through something that has all hap-
pened before. "You were happy a minute ago."

The drummer shouted: "You can't two time--"

"It's all gone."

"What's the matter?"

"I don't know. I just feel terribly."

". . . . . ." the drummer chanted. Then turned to his sticks.

"Want to go?"

I had the feeling as in a nightmare of it all being something
repeated, something I had been through and that now I must go
through again.

". . . . . ." the drummer sang softly.

"Let's go," said Brett. "You don't mind."

". . . . . ." the drummer shouted and grinned at Brett.

"All right," I said. We got out from the crowd. Brett went to
the dressing-room.

"Brett wants to go," I said to the count. He nodded. "Does she?
That's fine. You take the car. I'm going to stay here for a
while, Mr. Barnes."

We shook hands.

"It was a wonderful time," I said. "I wish you would let me get
this." I took a note out of my pocket.

"Mr. Barnes, don't be ridiculous," the count said.

Brett came over with her wrap on. She kissed the count and put
her hand on his shoulder to keep him from standing up. As we
went out the door I looked back and there were three girls at
his table. We got into the big car.

Brett gave the chauffeur the address of her hotel.

"No, don't come up," she said at the hotel. She had rung and
the door was unlatched.

"Really?"

"No. Please."

"Good night, Brett," I said. "I'm sorry you feel rotten."

"Good night, Jake. Good night, darling. I won't see you again."
We kissed standing at the door. She pushed me away. We kissed
again. "Oh, don't!" Brett said.

She turned quickly and went into the hotel. The chauffeur
drove me around to my flat. I gave him twenty francs and he
touched his cap and said: "Good night, sir," and drove off.
to bed.


　　　　　　　　Book Two


8


I did not see Brett again until she came back from San Sebastian. One
card came from her from there. It had a picture of the Concha, and said:
"Darling. Very quiet and healthy. Love to all the chaps. BRETT."

Nor did I see Robert Cohn again. I heard Frances had left for England
and I had a note from Cohn saying he was going out in the country for
a couple of weeks, he did not know where, but that he wanted to hold
me to the fishing-trip in Spain we had talked about last winter. I
could reach him always, he wrote, through his bankers.

Brett was gone, I was not bothered by Cohn's troubles, I rather enjoyed
not having to play tennis, there was plenty of work to do, I went often
to the races, dined with friends, and put in some extra time at the off-
ice getting things ahead so I could leave it in charge of my secretary
when Bill Gorton and I should shove off to Spain the end of June. Bill
Gorton arrived, put up a couple of days at the flat and went off to Vi-
enna. He was very cheerful and said the States were wonderful. New York
was wonderful. There had been a grand theatrical season and a whole
crop of great young light heavyweights. Any one of them was a good pr-
ospect to grow up, put on weight and trim Dempsey. Bill was very happy.
He had made a lot of money on his last book, and was going to make a
lot more. We had a good time while he was in Paris, and then he went
off to Vienna. He was coming back in three weeks and we would leave
for Spain to get in some fishing and go to the fiesta at Pamplona. He
wrote that Vienna was wonderful. Then a card from Budapest: "Jake,
Budapest is wonderful." Then I got a wire: "Back on Monday."

Monday evening he turned up at the flat. I heard his taxi stop and
went to the window and called to him; he waved and started up-stairs
carrying his bags. I met him on the stairs, and took one of the bags.

"Well," I said, "I hear you had a wonderful trip."

"Wonderful," he said. "Budapest is absolutely wonderful."

"How about Vienna?"

"Not so good, Jake. Not so good. It seemed better than it was."

"How do you mean?" I was getting glasses and a siphon.

"Tight, Jake. I was tight."

"That's strange. Better have a drink."

Bill rubbed his forehead. "Remarkable thing," he said. "Don't know
how it happened. Suddenly it happened."

"Last long?"

"Four days, Jake. Lasted just four days."

"Where did you go?"

"Don't remember. Wrote you a post-card. Remember that perfectly."

"Do anything else?"

"Not so sure. Possible."

"Go on. Tell me about it."

"Can't remember. Tell you anything I could remember."

"Go on. Take that drink and remember."

"Might remember a little," Bill said. "Remember something about a
prize-fight. Enormous Vienna prize-fight. Had a nigger in it. Re-
member the nigger perfectly."

"Go on."

"Wonderful nigger. Looked like Tiger Flowers, only four times as
big. All of a sudden everybody started to throw things. Not me.
Nigger'd just knocked local boy down. Nigger put up his glove.
Wanted to make a speech.

Awful noble-looking nigger. Started to make a speech. Then local
white boy hit him. Then he knocked white boy cold. Then everybody
commenced to throw chairs. Nigger went home with us in our car.
Couldn't get his clothes. Wore my coat. Remember the whole thing
now. Big sporting evening."

"What happened?"

"Loaned the nigger some clothes and went around with him to try
and get his money. Claimed nigger owed them money on account of
wrecking hall. Wonder who translated? Was it me?"

"Probably it wasn't you."

"You're right. Wasn't me at all. Was another fellow. Think we
called him the local Harvard man. Remember him now. Studying mu-
sic."

"How'd you come out?"

"Not so good, Jake. Injustice everywhere. Promoter claimed nigger
promised let local boy stay. Claimed nigger violated contract.
Can't knock out Vienna boy in Vienna. 'My God, Mister Gorton,'
said nigger, 'I didn't do nothing in there for forty minutes but
try and let him stay. That white boy musta ruptured himself swing-
ing at me. I never did hit him.' "

"Did you get any money?"

"No money, Jake. All we could get was nigger's clothes. Somebody
took his watch, too. Splendid nigger. Big mistake to have come to
Vienna. Not so good, Jake. Not so good."

"What became of the nigger?"

"Went back to Cologne. Lives there. Married. Got a family. Going
to write me a letter and send me the money I loaned him. Wonderful
nigger. Hope I gave him the right address."

"You probably did."

"Well, anyway, let's eat," said Bill. "Unless you want me to tell
you some more travel stories."

"Go on."

"Let's eat."

We went down-stairs and out onto the Boulevard St. Michel in the
warm June evening.

"Where will we go?"

"Want to eat on the island?"

"Sure."

We walked down the Boulevard. At the juncture of the Rue Denfert-
Rochereau with the Boulevard is a statue of two men in flowing
robes.

"I know who they are." Bill eyed the monument. "Gentlemen who
invented pharmacy. Don't try and fool me on Paris."

We went on.

"Here's a taxidermist's," Bill said. "Want to buy anything? Nice
stuffed dog?"

"Come on," I said. "You're pie-eyed."

"Pretty nice stuffed dogs," Bill said. "Certainly brighten up
your flat."

"Come on."

"Just one stuffed dog. I can take 'em or leave 'em alone. But
listen, Jake. Just one stuffed dog."

"Come on."

"Mean everything in the world to you after you bought it. Simple
exchange of values. You give them money. They give you a stuffed
dog."

"We'll get one on the way back."

"All right. Have it your own way. Road to hell paved with unbought
stuffed dogs. Not my fault."

We went on.

"How'd you feel that way about dogs so sudden?"

"Always felt that way about dogs. Always been a great lover of
stuffed animals."

We stopped and had a drink.

"Certainly like to drink," Bill said. "You ought to try it some
times, Jake."

"You're about a hundred and forty-four ahead of me."

"Ought not to daunt you. Never be daunted. Secret of my success.
Never been daunted. Never been daunted in public."

"Where were you drinking?"

"Stopped at the Crillon. George made me a couple of Jack Roses.
George's a great man. Know the secret of his success? Never been
daunted."

"You'll be daunted after about three more pernods."

"Not in public. If I begin to feel daunted I'll go off by myself.
I'm like a cat that way."

"When did you see Harvey Stone?"

"At the Crillon. Harvey was just a little daunted. Hadn't eaten
for three days. Doesn't eat any more. Just goes off like a cat.
Pretty sad."

"He's all right."

"Splendid. Wish he wouldn't keep going off like a cat, though.
Makes me nervous."

"What'll we do to-night?"

"Doesn't make any difference. Only let's not get daunted. Sup-
pose they got any hard-boiled eggs here? If they had hard-boiled
eggs here we wouldn't have to go all the way down to the island
to eat."

"Nix," I said. "We're going to have a regular meal."

"Just a suggestion," said Bill. "Want to start now?"

"Come on."

We started on again down the Boulevard. A horse-cab passed us.
Bill looked at it.

"See that horse-cab? Going to have that horse-cab stuffed for
you for Christmas. Going to give all my friends stuffed animals.
I'm a nature-writer."

A taxi passed, some one in it waved, then banged for the driver
to stop. The taxi backed up to the curb. In it was Brett.

"Beautiful lady," said Bill. "Going to kidnap us."

"Hullo!" Brett said. "Hullo!"

"This is Bill Gorton. Lady Ashley."

Brett smiled at Bill. "I say I'm just back. Haven't bathed even.
Michael comes in to-night."

"Good. Come on and eat with us, and we'll all go to meet him."

"Must clean myself."

"Oh, rot! Come on."

"Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine."

"Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe."

"Might do that. Now you're not talking rot."

We got in the taxi. The driver looked around.

"Stop at the nearest bistro," I said.

"We might as well go to the Closerie," Brett said. "I can't drink
these rotten brandies."

"Closerie des Lilas."

Brett turned to Bill.

"Have you been in this pestilential city long?"

"Just got in to-day from Budapest."

"How was Budapest?"

"Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful."

"Ask him about Vienna."

"Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city."

"Very much like Paris," Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the cor-
ners of her eyes.

"Exactly," Bill said. "Very much like Paris at this moment."

"You have a good start."

Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey
and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took another pernod.

"How are you, Jake?"

"Great," I said. "I've had a good time."

Brett looked at me. "I was a fool to go away," she said. "One's
an ass to leave Paris."

"Did you have a good time?"

"Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing."

"See anybody?"

"No, hardly anybody. I never went out."

"Didn't you swim?"

"No. Didn't do a thing."

"Sounds like Vienna," Bill said.

Brett wrinkled up the corners of her eyes at him.

"So that's the way it was in Vienna."

"It was like everything in Vienna."

Brett smiled at him again.

"You've a nice friend, Jake."

"He's all right," I said. "He's a taxidermist."

"That was in another country," Bill said. "And besides all the
animals were dead."

"One more," Brett said, "and I must run. Do send the waiter for
a taxi."

"There's a line of them. Right out in front."

"Good."

We had the drink and put Brett into her taxi.

"Mind you're at the Select around ten. Make him come. Michael
will be there."

"We'll be there," Bill said. The taxi started and Brett waved.

"Quite a girl," Bill said. "She's damned nice. Who's Michael?"

"The man she's going to marry."

"Well, well," Bill said. "That's always just the stage I meet
anybody. What'll I send them? Think they'd like a couple of
stuffed race-horses?"

"We better eat."

"Is she really Lady something or other?" Bill asked in the
taxi on our way down to the Ile Saint Louis.

"Oh, yes. In the stud-book and everything."

"Well, well."

We ate dinner at Madame Lecomte's restaurant on the far side
of the island. It was crowded with Americans and we had to
stand up and wait for a place. Some one had put it in the Am-
erican Women's Club list as a quaint restaurant on the Paris
quais as yet untouched by Americans, so we had to wait forty-
five minutes for a table. Bill had eaten at the restaurant in
1918, and right after the armistice, and Madame Lecomte made
a great fuss over seeing him.

"Doesn't get us a table, though," Bill said. "Grand woman,
though."

We had a good meal, a roast chicken, new green beans, mashed
potatoes, a salad, and some apple-pie and cheese.

"You've got the world here all right," Bill said to Madame
Lecomte. She raised her hand. "Oh, my God!"

"You'll be rich."

"I hope so."

After the coffee and a fine we got the bill, chalked up the
same as ever on a slate, that was doubtless one of the "quaint"
features, paid it, shook hands, and went out.

"You never come here any more, Monsieur Barnes," Madame Le-
comte said.

"Too many compatriots."

"Come at lunch-time. It's not crowded then."

"Good. I'll be down soon."

We walked along under the trees that grew out over the river
on the Quai d'Orleans side of the island. Across the river
were the broken walls of old houses that were being torn down.

"They're going to cut a street through."

"They would," Bill said.

We walked on and circled the island. The river was dark and
a bateau mouche went by, all bright with lights, going fast
and quiet up and out of sight under the bridge. Down the riv-
er was Notre Dame squatting against the night sky. We crossed
to the left bank of the Seine by the wooden foot-bridge from
the Quai de Bethune, and stopped on the bridge and looked down
the river at Notre Dame. Standing on the bridge the island
looked dark, the houses were high against the sky, and the
trees were shadows.

"It's pretty grand," Bill said. "God, I love to get back."

We leaned on the wooden rail of the bridge and looked up the
river to the lights of the big bridges. Below the water was
smooth and black. It made no sound against the piles of the
bridge. A man and a girl passed us. They were walking with
their arms around each other.

We crossed the bridge and walked up the Rue du Cardinal Le-
moine. It was steep walking, and we went all the way up to
the Place Contrescarpe. The arc-light shone through the leaves
of the trees in the square, and underneath the trees was an
S bus ready to start. Music came out of the door of the Negre
Joyeux. Through the window of the Cafe Aux Amateurs I saw the
long zinc bar. Outside on the terrace working people were
drinking. In the open kitchen of the Amateurs a girl was cook-
ing potato-chips in oil. There was an iron pot of stew. The
girl ladled some onto a plate for an old man who stood hold-
ing a bottle of red wine in one hand.

"Want to have a drink?"

"No," said Bill. "I don't need it."

We turned to the right off the Place Contrescarpe, walking
along smooth narrow streets with high old houses on both sides.
Some of the houses jutted out toward the street. Others were
cut back. We came onto the Rue du Pot de Fer and followed it
along until it brought us to the rigid north and south of the
Rue Saint Jacques and then walked south, past Val de Grace,
set back behind the courtyard and the iron fence, to the Bou-
levard du Port Royal.

"What do you want to do?" I asked. "Go up to the cafe and see
Brett and Mike?"

"Why not?"

We walked along Port Royal until it became Montparnasse, and
then on past the Lilas, Lavigne's, and all the little cafes,
Damoy's, crossed the street to the Rotonde, past its lights
and tables to the Select.

Michael came toward us from the tables. He was tanned and heal-
thy-looking.

"Hel-lo, Jake," he said. "Hel-lo! Hel-lo! How are you, old
lad?"

"You look very fit, Mike."

"Oh, I am. I'm frightfully fit. I've done nothing but walk.
Walk all day long. One drink a day with my mother at tea."

Bill had gone into the bar. He was standing talking with Brett,
who was sitting on a high stool, her legs crossed. She had no
stockings on.

"It's good to see you, Jake," Michael said. "I'm a little tight
you know. Amazing, isn't it? Did you see my nose?"

There was a patch of dried blood on the bridge of his nose.

"An old lady's bags did that," Mike said. "I reached up to help
her with them and they fell on me."

Brett gestured at him from the bar with her cigarette-holder
and wrinkled the corners of her eyes.

"An old lady," said Mike. "Her bags fell on me. Let's go in
and see Brett. I say, she is a piece. You are a lovely lady,
Brett. Where did you get that hat?"

"Chap bought it for me. Don't you like it?"

"It's a dreadful hat. Do get a good hat."

"Oh, we've so much money now," Brett said. "I say, haven't
you met Bill yet? You are a lovely host, Jake."

She turned to Mike. "This is Bill Gorton. This drunkard is
Mike Campbell. Mr. Campbell is an undischarged bankrupt."

"Aren't I, though? You know I met my ex-partner yesterday in
London. Chap who did me in."

"What did he say?"

"Bought me a drink. I thought I might as well take it. I say,
Brett, you are a lovely piece. Don't you think she's beautiful?"

"Beautiful. With this nose?"

"It's a lovely nose. Go on, point it at me. Isn't she a lovely
piece?"

"Couldn't we have kept the man in Scotland?"

"I say, Brett, let's turn in early."

"Don't be indecent, Michael. Remember there are ladies at this
bar."

"Isn't she a lovely piece? Don't you think so, Jake?"

"There's a fight to-night," Bill said. "Like to go?"

"Fight," said Mike. "Who's fighting?"

"Ledoux and somebody."

"He's very good, Ledoux," Mike said. "I'd like to see it, ra-
ther"--he was making an effort to pull himself together--"but
I can't go. I had a date with this thing here. I say, Brett,
do get a new hat."

Brett pulled the felt hat down far over one eye and smiled out
from under it. "You two run along to the fight. I'll have to
be taking Mr. Campbell home directly."

"I'm not tight," Mike said. "Perhaps just a little. I say,
Brett, you are a lovely piece."

"Go on to the fight," Brett said. "Mr. Campbell's getting dif-
ficult. What are these outbursts of affection, Michael?"

"I say, you are a lovely piece."

We said good night. "I'm sorry I can't go," Mike said. Brett
laughed. I looked back from the door. Mike had one hand on the
bar and was leaning toward Brett, talking. Brett was looking
at him quite coolly, but the corners of her eyes were smiling.

Outside on the pavement I said: "Do you want to go to the fight?"

"Sure," said Bill. "If we don't have to walk."

"Mike was pretty excited about his girl friend," I said in the
taxi.

"Well," said Bill. "You can't blame him such a hell of a lot."



9



The Ledoux-Kid Francis fight was the night of the 20th of June. It
was a good fight. The morning after the fight I had a letter from
Robert Cohn, written from Hendaye. He was having a very quiet time,
he said, bathing, playing some golf and much bridge. Hendaye had a
splendid beach, but he was anxious to start on the fishing-trip.
When would I be down? If I would buy him a double-tapered line he
would pay me when I came down.

That same morning I wrote Cohn from the office that Bill and I would
leave Paris on the 25th unless I wired him otherwise, and would meet
him at Bayonne, where we could get a bus over the mountains to Pam-
plona. The same evening about seven o'clock I stopped in at the Sel-
ect to see Michael and Brett. They were not there, and I went over
to the Dingo. They were inside sitting at the bar.

"Hello, darling." Brett put out her hand.

"Hello, Jake," Mike said. "I understand I was tight last night."

"Weren't you, though," Brett said. "Disgraceful business."

"Look," said Mike, "when do you go down to Spain? Would you mind if
we came down with you?"

"It would be grand."

"You wouldn't mind, really? I've been at Pamplona, you know. Brett's
mad to go. You're sure we wouldn't just be a bloody nuisance?"

"Don't talk like a fool."

"I'm a little tight, you know. I wouldn't ask you like this if I
weren't. You're sure you don't mind?"

"Oh, shut up, Michael," Brett said. "How can the man say he'd mind
now? I'll ask him later."

"But you don't mind, do you?"

"Don't ask that again unless you want to make me sore. Bill and I go
down on the morning of the 25th."

"By the way, where is Bill?" Brett asked.

"He's out at Chantilly dining with some people."

"He's a good chap."

"Splendid chap," said Mike. "He is, you know."

"You don't remember him," Brett said.

"I do. Remember him perfectly. Look, Jake, we'll come down the night
of the 25th. Brett can't get up in the morning."

"Indeed not!"

"If our money comes and you're sure you don't mind."

"It will come, all right. I'll see to that."

"Tell me what tackle to send for."

"Get two or three rods with reels, and lines, and some flies."

"I won't fish," Brett put in.

"Get two rods, then, and Bill won't have to buy one."

"Right," said Mike. "I'll send a wire to the keeper."

"Won't it be splendid," Brett said. "Spain! We will have fun."

"The 25th. When is that?"

"Saturday."

"We will have to get ready."

"I say," said Mike, "I'm going to the barber's."

"I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be
a good chap."

"We _have got the loveliest hotel," Mike said. "I think it's a bro-
thel!"

"We left our bags here at the Dingo when we got in, and they asked us
at this hotel if we wanted a room for the afternoon only. Seemed fright-
fully pleased we were going to stay all night."

"I believe it's a brothel," Mike said. "And _I_ should know."

"Oh, shut it and go and get your hair cut."

Mike went out. Brett and I sat on at the bar.

"Have another?"

"Might."

"I needed that," Brett said.

We walked up the Rue Delambre.

"I haven't seen you since I've been back," Brett said.

"No."

"How are you, Jake?"

"Fine."

Brett looked at me. "I say," she said, "is Robert Cohn going on this
trip?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Don't you think it will be a bit rough on him?"

"Why should it?"

"Who did you think I went down to San Sebastian with?"

"Congratulations," I said.

We walked along.

"What did you say that for?"

"I don't know. What would you like me to say?"

We walked along and turned a corner.

"He behaved rather well, too. He gets a little dull."

"Does he?"

"I rather thought it would be good for him."

"You might take up social service."

"Don't be nasty."

"I won't."

"Didn't you really know?"

"No," I said. "I guess I didn't think about it."

"Do you think it will be too rough on him?"

"That's up to him," I said. "Tell him you're coming. He can always not
come."

"I'll write him and give him a chance to pull out of it."

I did not see Brett again until the night of the 24th of June.

"Did you hear from Cohn?"

"Rather. He's keen about it."

"My God!"

"I thought it was rather odd myself."

"Says he can't wait to see me."

"Does he think you're coming alone?"

"No. I told him we were all coming down together. Michael and all."

"He's wonderful."

"Isn't he?"

They expected their money the next day. We arranged to meet at Pamplona.
They would go directly to San Sebastian and take the train from there.
We would all meet at the Montoya in Pamplona. If they did not turn up
on Monday at the latest we would go on ahead up to Burguete in the moun-
tains, to start fishing. There was a bus to Burguete. I wrote out an i-
tinerary so they could follow us.

Bill and I took the morning train from the Gare d'Orsay. It was a love-
ly day, not too hot, and the country was beautiful from the start. We
went back into the diner and had breakfast. Leaving the dining-car I
asked the conductor for tickets for the first service.

"Nothing until the fifth."

"What's this?"

There were never more than two servings of lunch on that train, and al-
ways plenty of places for both of them.

"They're all reserved," the dining-car conductor said. "There will be
a fifth service at three-thirty."

"This is serious," I said to Bill.

"Give him ten francs."

"Here," I said. "We want to eat in the first service."

The conductor put the ten francs in his pocket.

"Thank you," he said. "I would advise you gentlemen to get some sand-
wiches. All the places for the first four services were reserved at
the office of the company."

"You'll go a long way, brother," Bill said to him in English. "I suppose
if I'd given you five francs you would have advised us to jump off the
train."

"Comment?"

"Go to hell!" said Bill. "Get the sandwiches made and a bottle of wine.
You tell him, Jake."

"And send it up to the next car." I described where we were.

In our compartment were a man and his wife and their young son.

"I suppose you're Americans, aren't you?" the man asked. "Having a good
trip?"

"Wonderful," said Bill.

"That's what you want to do. Travel while you're young. Mother and I
always wanted to get over, but we had to wait a while."

"You could have come over ten years ago, if you'd wanted to," the wife
said. "What you always said was: 'See America first!' I will say we've
seen a good deal, take it one way and another."

"Say, there's plenty of Americans on this train," the husband said.
"They've got seven cars of them from Dayton, Ohio. They've been on a
pilgrimage to Rome, and now they're going down to Biarritz and Lourdes."

"So, that's what they are. Pilgrims. Goddam Puritans," Bill said.

"What part of the States you boys from?"

"Kansas City," I said. "He's from Chicago."

"You both going to Biarritz?"

"No. We're going fishing in Spain."

"Well, I never cared for it, myself. There's plenty that do out where
I come from, though. We got some of the best fishing in the State of
Montana. I've been out with the boys, but I never cared for it any."

"Mighty little fishing you did on them trips," his wife said.

He winked at us.

"You know how the ladies are. If there's a jug goes along, or a case of
beer, they think it's hell and damnation."

"That's the way men are," his wife said to us. She smoothed her comfort-
able lap. "I voted against prohibition to please him, and because I like
a little beer in the house, and then he talks that way. It's a wonder
they ever find any one to marry them."

"Say," said Bill, "do you know that gang of Pilgrim Fathers have corner-
ed the dining-car until half past three this afternoon?"

"How do you mean? They can't do a thing like that."

"You try and get seats."

"Well, mother, it looks as though we better go back and get another break-
fast."

She stood up and straightened her dress.

"Will you boys keep an eye on our things? Come on, Hubert."

They all three went up to the wagon restaurant. A little while after they
were gone a steward went through announcing the first service, and pil-
grims, with their priests, commenced filing down the corridor. Our friend
and his family did not come back. A waiter passed in the corridor with
our sandwiches and the bottle of Chablis, and we called him in.

"You're going to work to-day," I said.

He nodded his head. "They start now, at ten-thirty."

"When do we eat?"

"Huh! When do I eat?"

He left two glasses for the bottle, and we paid him for the sandwiches
and tipped him.

"I'll get the plates," he said, "or bring them with you."

We ate the sandwiches and drank the Chablis and watched the country out
of the window. The grain was just beginning to ripen and the fields were
full of poppies. The pastureland was green, and there were fine trees,
and sometimes big rivers and chateaux off in the trees.

At Tours we got off and bought another bottle of wine, and when we got
back in the compartment the gentleman from Montana and his wife and his
son, Hubert, were sitting comfortably.

"Is there good swimming in Biarritz?" asked Hubert.

"That boy's just crazy till he can get in the watei" his mother said.
"It's pretty hard on youngsters travelling."

"There's good swimming," I said. "But it's dangerous when it's rough."

"Did you get a meal?" Bill asked.

"We sure did. We set right there when they started to come in, and they
must have just thought we were in the party. One of the waiters said
something to us in French, and then they just sent three of them back."

"They thought we were snappers, all right," the man said. "It certainly
shows you the power of the Catholic Church. It's a pity you boys ain't
Catholics. You could get a meal, then, all right."

"I am," I said. "That's what makes me so sore."

Finally at a quarter past four we had lunch. Bill had been rather diffi-
cult at the last. He buttonholed a priest who was coming back with one
of the returning streams of pilgrims.

"When do us Protestants get a chance to eat, father?"

"I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?"

"It's enough to make a man join the Klan," Bill said. The priest looked
back at him.

Inside the dining-car the waiters served the fifth successive table d'hote
meal. The waiter who served us was soaked through. His white jacket was
purple under the arms.

"He must drink a lot of wine."

"Or wear purple undershirts."

"Let's ask him."

"No. He's too tired."

The train stopped for half an hour at Bordeaux and we went out through
the station for a little walk. There was not time to get in to the town.

Afterward we passed through the Landes and watched the sun set. There
were wide fire-gaps cut through the pines, and you could look up them
like avenues and see wooded hills way off. About seven-thirty we had
dinner and watched the country through the open window in the diner. It
was all sandy pine country full of heather. There were little clearings
with houses in them, and once in a while we passed a sawmill. It got
dark and we could feel the country hot and sandy and dark outside of
the window, and about nine o'clock we got into Bayonne. The man and his
wife and Hubert all shook hands with us. They were going on to LaNe-
gresse to change for Biarritz.

"Well, I hope you have lots of luck," he said.

"Be careful about those bull-fights."

"Maybe we'll see you at Biarritz," Hubert said.

We got off with our bags and rod-cases and passed through the dark sta-
tion and out to the lights and the line of cabs and hotel buses. There,
standing with the hotel runners, was Robert Cohn. He did not see us at
first. Then he started forward.

"Hello, Jake. Have a good trip?"

"Fine," I said. "This is Bill Gorton."

"How are you?"

"Come on," said Robert. "I've got a cab." He was a little near-sighted.
I had never noticed it before. He was looking at Bill, trying to make
him out. He was shy, too.

"We'll go up to my hotel. It's all right. It's quite nice."

We got into the cab, and the cabman put the bags up on the seat beside
him and climbed up and cracked his whip, and we drove over the dark
bridge and into the town.

"I'm awfully glad to meet you," Robert said to Bill. "I've heard so
much about you from Jake and I've read your books. Did you get my line,
Jake?"

The cab stopped in front of the hotel and we all got out and went in.
It was a nice hotel, and the people at the desk were very cheerful, and
we each had a good small room.



10



In the morning it was bright, and they were sprinkling the streets of the
town, and we all had breakfast in a cafe. Bayonne is a nice town. It is like
a very clean Spanish town and it is on a big river. Already, so early in the
morning, it was very hot on the bridge across the river. We walked out on the
bridge and then took a walk through the town.

I was not at all sure Mike's rods would come from Scotland in time, so we
hunted a tackle store and finally bought a rod for Bill up-stairs over a dry-
goods store. The man who sold the tackle was out, and we had to wait for him
to come back. Finally he came in, and we bought a pretty good rod cheap, and
two landing-nets.

We went out into the street again and took a look at the cathedral. Cohn
made some remark about it being a very good example of something or other, I
forget what. It seemed like a nice cathedral, nice and dim, like Spanish
churches. Then we went up past the old fort and out to the local Syndicat
d'Initiative office, where the bus was supposed to start from. There they
told us the bus service did not start until the 1st of July. We found out
at the tourist office what we ought to pay for a motor-car to Pamplona and
hired one at a big garage just around the corner from the Municipal Theatre
for four hundred francs. The car was to pick us up at the hotel in forty
minutes, and we stopped at the cafe on the square where we had eaten break-
fast, and had a beer. It was hot, but the town had a cool, fresh, early-
morning smell and it was pleasant sitting in the cafe. A breeze started to
blow, and you could feel that the air came from the sea. There were pigeons
out in the square, and the houses were a yellow, sun-baked color, and I did
not want to leave the cafe. But we had to go to the hotel to get our bags
packed and pay the bill. We paid for the beers, we matched and I think Cohn
paid, and went up to the hotel. It was only sixteen francs apiece for Bill
and me, with ten per cent added for the service, and we had the bags sent
down and waited for Robert Cohn. While we were waiting I saw a cockroach
on the parquet floor that must have been at least three inches long. I
pointed him out to Bill and then put my shoe on him. We agreed he must
have just come in from the garden. It was really an awfully clean hotel.

Cohn came down, finally, and we all went out to the car. It was a big,
closed car, with a driver in a white duster with blue collar and cuffs,
and we had him put the back of the car down. He piled in the bags and we
started off up the street and out of the town. We passed some lovely gar-
dens and had a good look back at the town, and then we were out in the
country, green and rolling, and the road climbing all the time. We passed
lots of Basques with oxen, or cattle, hauling carts along the road, and
nice farmhouses, low roofs, and all white-plastered. In the Basque country
the land all looks very rich and green and the houses and villages look
well-off and clean. Every village had a pelota court and on some of them
kids were playing in the hot sun. There were signs on the walls of the
churches saying it was forbidden to play pelota against them, and the
houses in the villages had red tiled roofs, and then the road turned off
and commenced to climb and we were going way up close along a hillside,
with a valley below and hills stretched off back toward the sea. You
couldn't see the sea. It was too far away. You could see only hills and
more hills, and you knew where the sea was.

We crossed the Spanish frontier. There was a little stream and a bridge,
and Spanish carabineers, with patent-leather Bonaparte hats, and short
guns on their backs, on one side, and on the other fat Frenchmen in kepis
and mustaches. They only opened one bag and took the passports in and
looked at them. There was a general store and inn on each side of the line.
The chauffeur had to go in and fill out some papers about the car and we
got out and went over to the stream to see if there were any trout. Bill
tried to talk some Spanish to one of the carabineers, but it did not go
very well. Robert Cohn asked, pointing with his finger, if there were
any trout in the stream, and the carabineer said yes, but not many.

I asked him if he ever fished, and he said no, that he didn't care for
it.

Just then an old man with long, sunburned hair and beard, and clothes
that looked as though they were made of gunny-sacking, came striding up
to the bridge. He was carrying a long staff, and he had a kid slung on
his back, tied by the four legs, the head hanging down.

The carabineer waved him back with his sword. The man turned without
saying anything, and started back up the white road into Spain.

"What's the matter with the old one?" I asked.

"He hasn't got any passport."

I offered the guard a cigarette. He took it and thanked me.

"What will he do?" I asked.

The guard spat in the dust.

"Oh, he'll just wade across the stream."

"Do you have much smuggling?"

"Oh," he said, "they go through."

The chauffeur came out, folding up the papers and putting them in the
inside pocket of his coat. We all got in the car and it started up the
white dusty road into Spain. For a while the country was much as it had
been; then, climbing all the time, we crossed the top of a Col,1 the
road winding back and forth on itself, and then it was really Spain.
There were long brown mountains and a few pines and far-off forests of
beech-trees on some of the mountainsides. The road went along the summit
of the Col and then dropped down, and the driver had to honk, and slow
up, and turn out to avoid running into two donkeys that were sleeping in
the road. We came down out of the mountains and through an oak forest,
and there were white cattle grazing in the forest. Down below there were
grassy plains and clear streams, and then we crossed a stream and went
through a gloomy little village, and started to climb again. We climbed
up and up and crossed another high Col and turned along it, and the road
ran down to the right, and we saw a whole new range of mountains off to
the south, all brown and baked-looking and furrowed in strange shapes.

After a while we came out of the mountains, and there were trees along
both sides of the road, and a stream and ripe fields of grain, and the
road went on, very white and straight ahead, and then lifted to a little
rise, and off on the left was a hill with an old castle, with buildings
close around it and a field of grain going right up to the walls and
shifting in the wind. I was up in front with the driver and I turned
around. Robert Cohn was asleep, but Bill looked and nodded his head.
Then we crossed a wide plain, and there was a big river off on the right
shining in the sun from between the line of trees, and away off you could
see the plateau of Pamplona rising out of the plain, and the walls of
the city, and the great brown cathedral, and the broken skyline of the
other churches. In back of the plateau were the mountains, and every
way you looked there were other mountains, and ahead the road stretch-
ed out white across the plain going toward Pamplona.

We came into the town on the other side of the plateau, the road slant-
ing up steeply and dustily with shade-trees on both sides, and then lev-
elling out through the new part of town they are building up outside the
old walls. We passed the bull-ring, high and white and concrete-looking
in the sun, and then came into the big square by a side street and stop-
ped in front of the Hotel Montoya.

The driver helped us down with the bags. There was a crowd of kids watch-
ing the car, and the square was hot, and the trees were green, and the
flags hung on their staffs, and it was good to get out of the sun and un-
der the shade of the arcade that runs all the way around the square. Mon-
toya was glad to see us, and shook hands and gave us good rooms looking
out on the square, and then we washed and cleaned up and went down-stairs
in the dining-room for lunch. The driver stayed for lunch, too, and after-
ward we paid him and he started back to Bayonne.

There are two dining-rooms in the Montoya. One is up-stairs on the second
floor and looks out on the square. The other is down one floor below the
level of the square and has a door that opens on the back street that the
bulls pass along when they run through the streets early in the morning on
their way to the ring. It is always cool in the down-stairs dining-room and
we had a very good lunch. The first meal in Spain was always a shock with
the hors d'ceuvres, an egg course, two meat courses, vegetables, salad, and
dessert and fruit. You have to drink plenty of wine to get it all down.
Robert Cohn tried to say he did not want any of the second meat course, but
we would not interpret for him, and so the waitress brought him something
else as a replacement, a plate of cold meats, I think. Cohn had been rather
nervous ever since we had met at Bayonne. He did not know whether we knew
Brett had been with him at San Sebastian, and it made him rather awkward.

"Well," I said, "Brett and Mike ought to get in to-night."

"I'm not sure they'll come," Cohn said.

"Why not?" Bill said. "Of course they'll come."

"They're always late," I said.

"I rather think they're not coming," Robert Cohn said.

He said it with an air of superior knowledge that irritated both of us.

"I'll bet you fifty pesetas they're here to-night," Bill said. He always
bets when he is angered, and so he usually bets foolishly.

"I'll take it," Cohn said. "Good. You remember it, Jake. Fifty pesetas."

"I'll remember it myself," Bill said. I saw he was angry and wanted to
smooth him down.

"It's a sure thing they'll come," I said. "But maybe not tonight."

"Want to call it off?" Cohn asked.

"No. Why should I? Make it a hundred if you like."

"All right. I'll take that."

"That's enough," I said. "Or you'll have to make a book and give me some
of it."

"I'm satisfied," Cohn said. He smiled. "You'll probably win it back at
bridge, anyway."

"You haven't got it yet," Bill said.

We went out to walk around under the arcade to the Cafe Irufla for coffee.
Cohn said he was going over and get a shave.

"Say," Bill said to me, "have I got any chance on that bet?"

"You've got a rotten chance. They've never been on time anywhere. If their
money doesn't come it's a cinch they won't get in tonight."

"I was sorry as soon as I opened my mouth. But I had to call him. He's all
right, I guess, but where does he get this inside stuff? Mike and Brett
fixed it up with us about coming down here."

I saw Cohn coming over across the square.

"Here he comes."

"Well, let him not get superior and Jewish."

"The barber shop's closed," Cohn said. "It's not open till four."

We had coffee at the Iruna, sitting in comfortable wicker chairs looking
out from the cool of the arcade at the big square. After a while Bill went
to write some letters and Cohn went over to the barber-shop. It was still
closed, so he decided to go up to the hotel and get a bath, and I sat out
in front of the cafe and then went for a walk in the town. It was very hot,
but I kept on the shady side of the streets and went through the market
and had a good time seeing the town again. I went to the Ayuntamiento and
found the old gentleman who subscribes for the bull-fight tickets for me
every year, and he had gotten the money I sent him from Paris and renewed
my subscriptions, so that was all set. He was the archivist, and all the
archives of the town were in his office. That has nothing to do with the
story. Anyway, his office had a green baize door and a big wooden door,
and when I went out I left him sitting among the archives that covered all
the walls, and I shut both the doors, and as I went out of the building
into the street the porter stopped me to brush off my coat.

"You must have been in a motor-car," he said.

The back of the collar and the upper part of the shoulders were gray with
dust.

"From Bayonne."

"Well, well," he said. "I knew you were in a motor-car from the way the
dust was." So I gave him two copper coins.

At the end of the street I saw the cathedral and walked up toward it. The
first time I ever saw it I thought the facade was ugly but I liked it now.
I went inside. It was dim and dark and the pillars went high up, and there
were people praying, and it smelt of incense, and there were some wonderful
big windows. I knelt and started to pray and prayed for everybody I thought
of, Brett and Mike and Bill and Robert Cohn and myself, and all the bull-
fighters, separately for the ones I liked, and lumping all the rest, then
I prayed for myself again, and while I was praying for myself I found I was
getting sleepy, so I prayed that the bull-fights would be good, and that it
would be a fine fiesta, and that we would get some fishing. I wondered if
there was anything else I might pray for and I thought I would like to have
some money, so I prayed that I would make a lot of money, and then I start-
ed to think how I would make it, and thinking of making money reminded me
of the count, and I started wondering about where he was, and regretting I
hadn't seen him since that night in Montmartre, and about something funny
Brett told me about him, and as all the time I was kneeling with my fore-
head on the wood in front of me, and was thinking of myself as praying, I
was a little ashamed, and regretted that I was such a rotten Catholic, but
realized there was nothing I could do about it, at least for a while, and
maybe never, but that anyway it was a grand religion, and I only wished I
felt religious and maybe I would the next time; and then I was out in the
hot sun on the steps of the cathedral, and the forefingers and the thumb
of my right hand were still damp, and I felt them dry in the sun. The sun-
light was hot and hard, and I crossed over beside some buildings, and walk-
ed back along sidestreets to the hotel.

At dinner that night we found that Robert Cohn had taken a bath, had had
a shave and a haircut and a shampoo, and something put on his hair after-
ward to make it stay down. He was nervous, and I did not try to help him
any. The train was due in at nine o'clock from San Sebastian, and, if Brett
and Mike were coming, they would be on it. At twenty minutes to nine we
were not half through dinner. Robert Cohn got up from the table and said
he would go to the station. I said I would go with him, just to devil him.
Bill said he would be damned if he would leave his dinner. I said we would
be right back.

We walked to the station. I was enjoying Cohn's nervousness. I hoped Brett
would be on the train. At the station the train was late, and we sat on a
baggage-truck and waited outside in the dark. I have never seen a man in
civil life as nervous as Robert Cohn--nor as eager. I was enjoying it. It
was lousy to enjoy it, but I felt lousy. Cohn had a wonderful quality of
bringing out the worst in anybody.

After a while we heard the train-whistle way off below on the other side
of the plateau, and then we saw the headlight coming up the hill. We went
inside the station and stood with a crowd of people just back of the gates,
and the train came in and stopped, and everybody started coming out through
the gates.

They were not in the crowd. We waited till everybody had gone through and
out of the station and gotten into buses, or taken cabs, or were walking
with their friends or relatives through the dark into the town. "I knew
they wouldn't come," Robert said. We were going back to the hotel.

"I thought they might," I said.

Bill was eating fruit when we came in and finishing a bottle of wine.

"Didn't come, eh?"

"No."

"Do you mind if I give you that hundred pesetas in the morning, Cohn?"
Bill asked. "I haven't changed any money here yet."

"Oh, forget about it," Robert Cohn said. "Let's bet on something else.
Can you bet on bull-fights?"

"You could," Bill said, "but you don't need to."

"It would be like betting on the war," I said. "You don't need any econo-
mic interest."

"I'm very curious to see them," Robert said.

Montoya came up to our table. He had a telegram in his hand. "It's for
you." He handed it to me. It read: "Stopped night San Sebastian."

"It's from them," I said. I put it in my pocket. Ordinarily I should have
handed it over.

"They've stopped over in San Sebastian," I said. "Send their regards to
you."

Why I felt that impulse to devil him I do not know. Of course I do know.
I was blind, unforgivingly jealous of what had happened to him. The fact
that I took it as a matter of course did not alter that any. I certainly
did hate him. I do not think I ever really hated him until he had that
little spell of superiority at lunch--that and when he went through all
that barbering. So I put the telegram in my pocket. The telegram came to
me, anyway.

"Well," I said. "We ought to pull out on the noon bus for Burguete. They
can follow us if they get in to-morrow night."

There were only two trains up from San Sebastian, an early morning train
and the one we had just met.

"That sounds like a good idea," Cohn said.

"The sooner we get on the stream the better."

"It's all one to me when we start," Bill said. "The sooner the better."

We sat in the Irufla for a while and had coffee and then took a little
walk out to the bull-ring and across the field and under the trees at the
edge of the cliff and looked down at the river in the dark, and I turned
in early. Bill and Cohn stayed out in the cafe quite late, I believe, be-
cause I was asleep when they came in.

In the morning I bought three tickets for the bus to Burguete. It was
scheduled to leave at two o'clock. There was nothing earlier. I was sit-
ting over at the Irufla reading the papers when I saw Robert Cohn coming
across the square. He came up to the table and sat down in one of the wick-
er chairs.

"This is a comfortable cafe," he said. "Did you have a good night, Jake?"

"I slept like a log."

"I didn't sleep very well. Bill and I were out late, too."

"Where were you?"

"Here. And after it shut we went over to that other cafe. The old man
there speaks German and English."

"The Cafe Suizo."

"That's it. He seems like a nice old fellow. I think it's a better cafe
than this one."

"It's not so good in the daytime," I said. "Too hot. By the way, I got
the bus tickets."

"I'm not going up to-day. You and Bill go on ahead."

"I've got your ticket."

"Give it to me. I'll get the money back."

"It's five pesetas."

Robert Cohn took out a silver five-peseta piece and gave it to me.

"I ought to stay," he said. "You see I'm afraid there's some sort of mis-
understanding."

"Why," I said. "They may not come here for three or four days now if they
start on parties at San Sebastian."

"That's just it," said Robert. "I'm afraid they expected to meet me at San
Sebastian, and that's why they stopped over."

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, I wrote suggesting it to Brett."

"Why in hell didn't you stay there and meet them, then?" I started to say,
but I stopped. I thought that idea would come to him by itself, but I do
not believe it ever did.

He was being confidential now and it was giving him pleasure to be able
to talk with the understanding that I knew there was something between him
and Brett.

"Well, Bill and I will go up right after lunch," I said.

"I wish I could go. We've been looking forward to this fishing all winter."
He was being sentimental about it. "But I ought to stay. I really ought. As
soon as they come I'll bring them right up."

"Let's find Bill."

"I want to go over to the barber-shop."

"See you at lunch."

I found Bill up in his room. He was shaving.

"Oh, yes, he told me all about it last night," Bill said. "He's a great
little confider. He said he had a date with Brett at San Sebastian."

"The lying bastard!"

"Oh, no," said Bill. "Don't get sore. Don't get sore at this stage of the
trip. How did you ever happen to know this fellow anyway?"

"Don't rub it in."

Bill looked around, half-shaved, and then went on talking into the mirror
while he lathered his face.

"Didn't you send him with a letter to me in New York last winter? Thank
God, I'm a travelling man. Haven't you got some more Jewish friends you
could bring along?" He rubbed his chin with his thumb, looked at it, and
then started scraping again.

"You've got some fine ones yourself."

"Oh, yes. I've got some darbs. But not alongside of this Robert Cohn. The
funny thing is he's nice, too. I like him. But he's just so awful."

"He can be damn nice."

"I know it. That's the terrible part."

I laughed.

"Yes. Go on and laugh," said Bill. "You weren't out with him last night
until two o'clock."

"Was he very bad?"

"Awful. What's all this about him and Brett, anyway? Did she ever have
anything to do with him?" He raised his chin up and pulled it from side
to side.

"Sure. She went down to San Sebastian with him."

"What a damn-fool thing to do. Why did she do that?"

"She wanted to get out of town and she can't go anywhere alone. She said
she thought it would be good for him."

"What bloody-fool things people do. Why didn't she go off with some of her
own people? Or you?"--he slurred that over--"or me? Why not me?" He looked
at his face carefully in the glass, put a big dab of lather on each cheek-
bone. "It's an honest face. It's a face any woman would be safe with."

"She'd never seen it."

"She should have. All women should see it. It's a face that ought to be
thrown on every screen in the country. Every woman ought to be given a copy
of this face as she leaves the altar. Mothers should tell their daughters
about this face. My son"--he pointed the razor at me--"go west with this
face and grow up with the country."

He ducked down to the bowl, rinsed his face with cold water, put on some
alcohol, and then looked at himself carefully in the glass, pulling down
his long upper lip.

My God. he said, isn't it an awful face?

He looked in the glass.

"And as for this Robert Cohn," Bill said, "he makes me sick, and he can
go to hell, and I'm damn glad he's staying here so we won't have him fish-
ing with us."

"You're damn right."

"We're going trout-fishing. We're going trout-fishing in the Irati River,
and we're going to get tight now at lunch on the wine of the country, and
then take a swell bus ride."

"Come on. Let's go over to the Irufla and start," I said.



11



It was baking hot in the square when we came out after lunch with our bags
and the rod-case to go to Burguete. People were on top of the bus, and others
were climbing up a ladder. Bill went up and Robert sat beside Bill to save a
place for me, and I went back in the hotel to get a couple of bottles of wine
to take with us. When I came out the bus was crowded. Men and women were sit-
ting on all the baggage and boxes on top, and the women all had their fans go-
ing in the sun. It certainiy was hot. Robert climbed down and I fitted into
the place he had saved on the one wooden seat that ran across the top.

Robert Cohn stood in the shade of the arcade waiting for us to start. A Basque
with a big leather wine-bag in his lap lay across the top of the bus in front
of our seat, leaning back against our legs. He offered the wine-skin to Bill
and to me, and when I tipped it up to drink he imitated the sound of a klaxon
motor-horn so well and so suddenly that I spilled some of the wine, and every-
body laughed. He apologized and made me take another drink. He made the klaxon
again a little later, and it fooled me the second time. He was very good at it.
The Basques liked it. The man next to Bill was talking to him in Spanish and
Bill was not getting it, so he offered the man one of the bottles of wine. The
man waved it away. He said it was too hot and he had drunk too much at lunch.
When Bill offered the bottle the second time he took a long drink, and then the
bottle went all over that part of the bus. Every one took a drink very politely,
and then they made us cork it up and put it away. They all wanted us to drink
from their leather wine-bottles. They were peasants going up into the hills.

Finally, after a couple more false klaxons, the bus started, and Robert Cohn
waved good-by to us, and all the Basques waved goodby to him. As soon as we
started out on the road outside of town it was cool. It felt nice riding high
up and close under the trees. The bus went quite fast and made a good breeze,
and as we went out along the road with the dust powdering the trees and down
the hill, we had a fine view, back through the trees, of the town rising up
from the bluff above the river. The Basque lying against my knees pointed out
the view with the neck of the wine-bottle, and winked at us. He nodded his
head.

"Pretty nice, eh?"

"These Basques are swell people," Bill said.

The Basque lying against my legs was tanned the color of saddleleather. He wore
a black smock like all the rest. There were wrinkles in his tanned neck. He turn-
ed around and offered his wine-bag to Bill. Bill handed him one of our bottles.
The Basque wagged a forefinger at him and handed the bottle back, slapping in the
cork with the palm of his hand. He shoved the wine-bag up.

"Arriba! Arriba!" he said. "Lift it up."

Bill raised the wine-skin and let the stream of wine spurt out and into his mouth,
his head tipped back. When he stopped drinking and tipped the leather bottle down
a few drops ran down his chin.

"No! No!" several Basques said. "Not like that." One snatched the bottle away from
the owner, who was himself about to give a demonstration. He was a young fellow
and he held the wine-bottle at full arms' length and raised it high up, squeezing
the leather bag with his hand so the stream of wine hissed into his mouth. He held
the bag out there, the wine making a flat, hard trajectory into his mouth, and he
kept on swallowing smoothly and regularly.

"Hey!" the owner of the bottle shouted. "Whose wine is that?"

The drinker waggled his little finger at him and smiled at us with his eyes. Then
he bit the stream off sharp, made a quick lift with the wine-bag and lowered it down
to the owner. He winked at us. The owner shook the wine-skin sadly.

We passed through a town and stopped in front of the posada, and the driver took on
several packages. Then we started on again, and outside the town the road commenced
to mount. We were going through farming country with rocky hills that sloped down
into the fields. The grain-fields went up the hill-sides. Now as we went higher there
was a wind blowing the grain. The road was white and dusty, and the dust rose under
the wheels and hung in the air behind us. The road climbed up into the hills and left
the rich grain-fields below. Now there were only patches of grain on the bare hillsides
and on each side of the water-courses. We turned sharply out to the side of the
road to give room to pass to a long string of six mules, following one after the other,
hauling a high-hooded wagon loaded with freight. The wagon and the mules were cov-
ered with dust. Close behind was another string of mules and another wagon. This
was loaded with lumber, and the arriero driving the mules leaned back and put on the
thick wooden brakes as we passed. Up here the country was quite barren and the
hills were rocky and hard-baked clay furrowed by the rain.

We came around a curve into a town, and on both sides opened out a sudden green valley.
A stream went through the centre of the town and fields of grapes touched the houses.

The bus stopped in front of a posada and many of the passengers got down, and a lot of
the baggage was unstrapped from the roof from under the big tarpaulins and lifted down.
Bill and I got down and went into the posada. There was a low, dark room with saddles
and harness, and hay-forks made of white wood, and clusters of canvas rope-soled shoes
and hams and slabs of bacon and white garlics and long sausages hanging from the roof.
It was cool and dusky, and we stood in front of a long wooden counter with two women
behind it serving drinks. Behind them were shelves stacked with supplies and goods.

We each had an aguardiente and paid forty centimes for the two drinks. I gave the wo-
man fifty centimes to make a tip, and she gave me back the copper piece, thinking I
had misunderstood the price.

Two of our Basques came in and insisted on buying a drink. So they bought a drink and
then we bought a drink, and then they slapped us on the back and bought another drink.
Then we bought, and then we all went out into the sunlight and the heat, and climbed
back on top of the bus. There was plenty of room now for every one to sit on the seat,
and the Basque who had been lying on the tin roof now sat between us. The woman who
had been serving drinks came out wiping her hands on her apron and talked to somebody
inside the bus. Then the driver came out swinging two flat leather mailpouches and
climbed up, and everybody waving we started off.

The road left the green valley at once, and we were up in the hills again. Bill and
the wine-bottle Basque were having a conversation. A man leaned over from the other
side of the seat and asked in English: "You're Americans?"

"Sure."

"I been there," he said. "Forty years ago."

He was an old man, as brown as the others, with the stubble of a white beard.

"How was it?"

"What you say?"

"How was America?"

"Oh, I was in California. It was fine."

"Why did you leave?"

"What you say?"

"Why did you come back here?"

"Oh! I come back to get married. I was going to go back but my wife she don't like to
travel. Where you from?"

"Kansas City."

"I been there," he said. "I been in Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City, Denver, Los An-
geles, Salt Lake City."

He named them carefully.

"How long were you over?"

"Fifteen years. Then I come back and got married."

"Have a drink?"

"All right," he said. "You can't get this in America, eh?"

"There's plenty if you can pay for it."

"What you come over here for?"

"We're going to the fiesta at Pamplona."

"You like the bull-fights?"

"Sure. Don't you?"

"Yes," he said. "I guess I like them."

Then after a little:

"Where you go now?"

"Up to Burguete to fish."

"Well," he said, "I hope you catch something."

He shook hands and turned around to the back seat again. The other Basques had been
impressed. He sat back comfortably and smiled at me when I turned around to look at
the country. But the effort of talking American seemed to have tired him. He did not
say anything after that.

The bus climbed steadily up the road. The country was barren and rocks stuck up
through the clay. There was no grass beside the road. Looking back we could see
the country spread out below. Far back the fields were squares of green and brown
on the hillsides. Making the horizon were the brown mountains. They were strangely
shaped. As we climbed higher the horizon kept changing. As the bus ground slowly
up the road we could see other mountains coming up in the south. Then the road
came over the crest, flattened out, and went into a forest. It was a forest of cork
oaks, and the sun came through the trees in patches, and there were cattle grazing
back in the trees. We went through the forest and the road came out and turned along
a rise of land, and out ahead of us was a rolling green plain, with dark mountains
beyond it. These were not like the brown, heat-baked mountains we had left behind.
These were wooded and there were clouds coming down from them. The green plain
stretched off. It was cut by fences and the white of the road showed through the
trunks of a double line of trees that crossed the plain toward the north. As we
came to the edge of the rise we saw the red roofs and white houses of Burguete a-
head strung out on the plain, and away off on the shoulder of the first dark moun-
tain was the gray metal-sheathed roof of the monastery of Roncesvalles.

"There's Roncevaux," I said.


"Where?"

"Way off there where the mountain starts."

"It's cold up here," Bill said.

"It's high," I said. "It must be twelve hundred metres."

"It's awful cold," Bill said.

The bus levelled down onto the straight line of road that ran to Burguete. We pass-
ed a crossroads and crossed a bridge over a stream. The houses of Burguete were a-
long both sides of the road. There were no side-streets. We passed the church and
the schoolyard, and the bus stopped. We got down and the driver handed down our
bags and the rod-case. A carabineer in his cocked hat and yellow leather cross-
straps came up.

"What's in there?" he pointed to the rod-case.

I opened it and showed him. He asked to see our fishing permits and I got them out.
He looked at the date and then waved us on.

"Is that all right?" I asked.

"Yes. Of course."

We went up the street, past the whitewashed stone houses, families sitting in their
doorways watching us, to the inn.

The fat woman who ran the inn came out from the kitchen and shook hands with us.
She took off her spectacles, wiped them, and put them on again. It was cold in the
inn and the wind was starting to blow outside. The woman sent a girl up-stairs with
us to show the room. There were two beds, a washstand, a clothes-chest, and a big,
framed steel-engraving of Nuestra Senora de Roncesvalles. The wind was blowing a-
gainst the shutters. The room was on the north side of the inn. We washed, put on
sweaters, and came down-stairs into the dining-room. It had a stone floor, low cei-
ling, and was oakpanelled. The shutters were all up and it was so cold you could
see your breath.

"My God!" said Bill. "It can't be this cold to-morrow. I'm not going to wade a
stream in this weather."

There was an upright piano in the far corner of the room beyond the wooden tables
and Bill went over and started to play.

"I got to keep warm," he said.

I went out to find the woman and ask her how much the room and board was. She put
her hands under her apron and looked away from me.

"Twelve pesetas."

"Why, we only paid that in Pamplona."

She did not say anything, just took off her glasses and wiped them on her apron.

"That's too much," I said. "We didn't pay more than that at a big hotel."

"We've put in a bathroom."

"Haven't you got anything cheaper?"

"Not in the summer. Now is the big season."

We were the only people in the inn. Well, I thought, it's only a few days.

"Is the wine included?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well," I said. "It's all right."

I went back to Bill. He blew his breath at me to show how cold it was, and went
on playing. I sat at one of the tables and looked at the pictures on the wall.
There was one panel of rabbits, dead, one of pheasants, also dead, and one panel
of dead ducks. The panels were all dark and smoky-looking. There was a cupboard
full of liqueur bottles. I looked at them all. Bill was still playing. "How about
a hot rum punch?" he said. "This isn't going to keep me warm permanently."

I went out and told the woman what a rum punch was and how to make it. In a few
minutes a girl brought a stone pitcher, steaming, into the room. Bill came over
from the piano and we drank the hot punch and listened to the wind.

"There isn't too much rum in that."

I went over to the cupboard and brought the rum bottle and poured a half-tumbler-
ful into the pitcher.

"Direct action," said Bill. "It beats legislation."

The girl came in and laid the table for supper.

"It blows like hell up here," Bill said.

The girl brought in a big bowl of hot vegetable soup and the wine. We had fried
trout afterward and some sort of a stew and a big bowl full of wild strawberries.
We did not lose money on the wine, and the girl was shy but nice about bringing it.
The old woman looked in once and counted the empty bottles.

After supper we went up-stairs and smoked and read in bed to keep warm. Once in
the night I woke and heard the wind blowing. It felt good to be warm and in bed.



12



When I woke in the morning I went to the window and looked out. It had cleared
and there were no clouds on the mountains. Outside under the window were some
carts and an old diligence, the wood of the roof cracked and split by the weather.
It must have been left from the days before the motor-buses. A goat hopped up on
one of the carts and then to the roof of the diligence. He jerked his head at the
other goats below and when I waved at him he bounded down.

Bill was still sleeping, so I dressed, put on my shoes outside in the hall, and
went down-stairs. No one was stirring down-stairs, so I unbolted the door and
went out. It was cool outside in the early morning and the sun had not yet dried
the dew that had come when the wind died down. I hunted around in the shed behind
the inn and found a sort of mattock, and went down toward the stream to try and
dig some worms for bait. The stream was clear and shallow but it did not look
trouty. On the grassy bank where it was damp I drove the mattock into the earth
and loosened a chunk of sod. There were worms underneath. They slid out of sight
as I lifted the sod and I dug carefully and got a good many. Digging at the edge
of the damp ground I filled two empty tobacco-tins with worms and sifted dirt on-
to them. The goats watched me dig.

When I went back into the inn the woman was down in the kitchen, and I asked her
to get coffee for us, and that we wanted a lunch. Bill was awake and sitting on
the edge of the bed.

"I saw you out of the window," he said. "Didn't want to interrupt you. What were
you doing? Burying your money?"

"You lazy bum!"

"Been working for the common good? Splendid. I want you to do that every morning."

"Come on," I said. "Get up."

"What? Get up? I never get up."

He climbed into bed and pulled the sheet up to his chin.

"Try and argue me into getting up."

I went on looking for the tackle and putting it all together in the tackle-bag.

"Aren't you interested?" Bill asked.

"I'm going down and eat."

"Eat? Why didn't you say eat? I thought you just wanted me to get up for fun.
Eat? Fine. Now you're reasonable. You go out and dig some more worms and I'll
be right down."

"Oh, go to hell!"

"Work for the good of all." Bill stepped into his underclothes. "Show irony and
pity."

I started out of the room with the tackle-bag, the nets, and the rod-case.

"Hey! come back!"

I put my head in the door.

"Aren't you going to show a little irony and pity?"

I thumbed my nose.

"That's not irony."

As I went down-stairs I heard Bill singing, "Irony and Pity. When you're feel-
ing. . . Oh, Give them Irony and Give them Pity. Oh, give them Irony. When
they're feeling. . . Just a little irony. Just a little pity.. ." He kept on
singing until he came down-stairs. The tune was: "The Bells are Ringing for Me
and my Gal." I was reading a week-old Spanish paper.
"What's all this irony and pity?"

"What? Don't you know about Irony and Pity?"

"No. Who got it up?"

"Everybody. They're mad about it in New York. It's just like the Fratellinis
used to be."

The girl came in with the coffee and buttered toast. Or, rather, it was bread
toasted and buttered.

"Ask her if she's got any jam," Bill said. "Be ironical with her."

"Have you got any jam?"

"That's not ironical. I wish I could talk Spanish."

The coffee was good and we drank it out of big bowls. The girl brought in a
glass dish of raspberry jam.

"Thank you."

"Hey! that's not the way," Bill said. "Say something ironical. Make some crack
about Primo de Rivera."

"I could ask her what kind of a jam they think they've gotten into in the Riff."

"Poor," said Bill. "Very poor. You can't do it. That's all. You don't under-
stand irony. You have no pity. Say something pitiful."

"Robert Cohn."

"Not so bad. That's better. Now why is Cohn pitiful? Be ironic."

He took a big gulp of coffee.

"Aw, hell!" I said. "It's too early in the morning."

"There you go. And you claim you want to be a writei too. You're only a news-
paper man. An expatriated newspaper man. You ought to be ironical the minute
you get out of bed. You ought to wake up with your mouth full of pity."

"Go on," I said. "Who did you get this stuff from?"

"Everybody. Don't you read? Don't you ever see anybody? You know what you are?
You're an expatriate. Why don't you live in New York? Then you'd know these
things. What do you want me to do? Come over here and tell you every year?"

"Take some more coffee," I said.

"Good. Coffee is good for you. It's the caffeine in it. Caffeine, we are here.
Caffeine puts a man on her horse and a woman in his grave. You know what's the
trouble with you? You're an expatriate. One of the worst type. Haven't you
heard that? Nobody that ever left their own country ever wrote anything worth
printing. Not even in the newspapers."

He drank the coffee.

"You're an expatriate. You've lost touch with the soil. You get precious.
Fake European standards have ruined you. You drink yourself to death. You be-
come obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not working. You are
an expatriate, see? You hang around cafes."

"It sounds like a swell life," I said. "When do I work?"

"You don't work. One group claims women support you. Another group claims
you're impotent."

"No," I said. "I just had an accident."

"Never mention that," Bill said. "That's the sort of thing that can't be
spoken of. That's what you ought to work up into a mystery. Like Henry's bi-
cycle."

He had been going splendidly, but he stopped. I was afraid he thought he
had hurt me with that crack about being impotent. I wanted to start him a-
gain.

"It wasn't a bicycle," I said. "He was riding horseback."

"I heard it was a tricycle."

"Well," I said. "A plane is sort of like a tricycle. The joystick works
the same way."

"But you don't pedal it."

"No," I said, "I guess you don't pedal it."

"Let's lay off that," Bill said.

"All right. I was just standing up for the tricycle."

"I think he's a good writer, too," Bill said. "And you're a hell of a good
guy. Anybody ever tell you were a good guy?"

"I'm not a good guy."

"Listen. You're a hell of a good guy, and I'm fonder of you than anybody on
earth. I couldn't tell you that in New York. It'd mean I was a faggot. That
was what the Civil War was about. Abraham Lincoln was a faggot. He was in
love with General Grant. So was Jefferson Davis. Lincoln just freed the
slaves on a bet. The Dred Scott case was framed by the Anti-Saloon League.
Sex explains it all. The Colonel's Lady and Judy O'Grady are Lesbians under
their skin."

He stopped.


"Want to hear some more?"

"Shoot," I said.

"I don't know any more. Tell you some more at lunch."

"Old Bill," I said.

"You bum!"

We packed the lunch and two bottles of wine in the rucksack, and Bill put
it on. I carried the rod-case and the landing-nets slung over my back. We
started up the road and then went across a meadow and found a path that
crossed the fields and went toward the woods on the slope of the first hill.
We walked across the fields on the sandy path. The fields were rolling and
grassy and the grass was short from the sheep grazing. The cattle were up
in the hills. We heard their bells in the woods.

The path crossed a stream on a foot-log. The log was surfaced off, and
there was a sapling bent across for a rail. In the flat pool beside the
stream tadpoles spotted the sand. We went up a steep bank and across the
rolling fields. Looking back we saw Burguete, white houses and red roofs,
and the white road with a truck going along it and the dust rising.

Beyond the fields we crossed another faster-flowing stream. A sandy road
led down to the ford and beyond into the woods. The path crossed the
stream on another foot-log below the ford, and joined the road, and we
went into the woods.

It was a beech wood and the trees were very old. Their roots bulked a-
bove the ground and the branches were twisted. We walked on the road be-
tween the thick trunks of the old beeches and the sunlight came through
the leaves in light patches on the grass. The trees were big, and the
foliage was thick but it was not gloomy. There was no undergrowth, only
the smooth grass, very green and fresh, and the big gray trees well
spaced as though it were a park.

"This is country," Bill said.

The road went up a hill and we got into thick woods, and the road kept
on climbing. Sometimes it dipped down but rose again steeply. All the
time we heard the cattle in the woods. Finally, the road came out on the
top of the hills. We were on the top of the height of land that was the
highest part of the range of wooded hills we had seen from Burguete.
There were wild strawberries growing on the sunny side of the ridge in
a little clearing in the trees.

Ahead the road came out of the forest and went along the shoulder of
the ridge of hills. The hills ahead were not wooded, and there were great
fields of yellow gorse. Way off we saw the steep bluffs, dark with trees
and jutting with gray stone, that marked the course of the Irati River.

"We have to follow this road along the ridge, cross these hills, go
through the woods on the far hills, and come down to the Irati valley,"
I pointed out to Bill.

"That's a hell of a hike."

"It's too far to go and fish and come back the same day, comfortably."

"Comfortably. That's a nice word. We'll have to go like hell to get
there and back and have any fishing at all."

It was a long walk and the country was very fine, but we were tired
when we came down the steep road that led out of the wooded hills into
the valley of the Rio de la Fabrica.

The road came out from the shadow of the woods into the hot sun. Ahead
was a river-valley. Beyond the river was a steep hill. There was a field
of buckwheat on the hill. We saw a white house under some trees on the
hillside. It was very hot and we stopped under some trees beside a dam
that crossed the river.

Bill put the pack against one of the trees and we jointed up the rods,
put on the reels, tied on leaders, and got ready to fish.

"You're sure this thing has trout in it?" Bill asked.

"It's full of them."

"I'm going to fish a fly. You got any McGintys?"

"There's some in there."

"You going to fish bait?"

"Yeah. I'm going to fish the dam here."

"Well, I'll take the fly-book, then." He tied on a fly. "Where'd I bet-
ter go? Up or down?"

"Down is the best. They're plenty up above, too."

Bill went down the bank.

"Take a worm can."

"No, I don't want one. If they won't take a fly I'll just flick it a-
round."

Bill was down below watching the stream.

"Say," he called up against the noise of the dam. "How about putting
the wine in that spring up the road?"

"All right," I shouted. Bill waved his hand and started down the stream.
I found the two wine-bottles in the pack, and carried them up the road
to where the water of a spring flowed out of an iron pipe. There was a
board over the spring and I lifted it and, knocking the corks firmly
into the bottles, lowered them down into the water. It was so cold my
hand and wrist felt numbed. I put back the slab of wood, and hoped no-
body would find the wine.

I got my rod that was leaning against the tree, took the bait-can and
landing-net, and walked out onto the dam. It was built to provide a head
of water for driving logs. The gate was up, and I sat on one of the
squared timbers and watched the smooth apron of water before the river
tumbled into the falls. In the white water at the foot of the dam it
was deep. As I baited up, a trout shot up out of the white water into
the falls and was carried down. Before I could finish baiting, another
trout jumped at the falls, making the same lovely arc and disappearing
into the water that was thundering down. I put on a good-sized sinker
and dropped into the white water close to the edge of the timbers of
the dam.

I did not feel the first trout strike. When I started to pull up I felt
that I had one and brought him, fighting and bending the rod almost dou-
ble, out of the boiling water at the foot of the falls, and swung him
up and onto the dam. He was a good trout, and I banged his head against
the timber so that he quivered out straight, and then slipped him into
my bag.

While I had him on, several trout had jumped at the falls. As soon as I
baited up and dropped in again I hooked another and brought him in the
same way. In a little while I had six. They were all about the same size.
I laid them out, side by side, all their heads pointing the same way,
and looked at them. They were beautifully colored and firm and hard from
the cold water. It was a hot day, so I slit them all and shucked out the
insides, gills and all, and tossed them over across the river. I took
the trout ashore, washed them in the cold, smoothly heavy water above
the dam, and then picked some ferns and packed them all in the bag,
three trout on a layer of ferns, then another layer of ferns, then
three more trout, and then covered them with ferns. They looked nice
in the ferns, and now the bag was bulky, and I put it in the shade of the
tree.

It was very hot on the dam, so I put my worm-can in the shade with the
bag, and got a book out of the pack and settled down under the tree to
read until Bill should come up for lunch.

It was a little past noon and there was not much shade, but I sat a-
gainst the trunk of two of the trees that grew together, and read. The
book was something by A. E. W. Mason, and I was reading a wonderful
story about a man who had been frozen in the Alps and then fallen into
a glacier and disappeared, and his bride was going to wait twenty-four
years exactly for his body to come out on the moraine, while her true
love waited too, and they were still waiting when Bill came up.

"Get any?" he asked. He had his rod and his bag and his net all in one
hand, and he was sweating. I hadn't heard him come up, because of the
noise from the dam.

"Six. What did you get?"

Bill sat down, opened up his bag, laid a big trout on the grass. He
took out three more, each one a little bigger than the last, and laid
them side by side in the shade from the tree. His face was sweaty and
happy.

"How are yours?"

"Smaller."

"Let's see them."

"They're packed."

"How big are they really?"

"They're all about the size of your smallest."

"You're not holding out on me?"

"I wish I were."

"Get them all on worms?"

"Yes."

"You lazy bum!"

Bill put the trout in the bag and started for the river, swinging the
open bag. He was wet from the waist down and I knew he must have been
wading the stream.

I walked up the road and got out the two bottles of wine. They were
cold. Moisture beaded on the bottles as I walked back to the trees. I
spread the lunch on a newspaper, and uncorked one of the bottles and
leaned the other against a tree. Bill came up drying his hands, his
bag plump with ferns.

"Let's see that bottle," he said. He pulled the cork, and tipped up
the bottle and drank. "Whew! That makes my eyes ache."

"Let's try it."

The wine was icy cold and tasted faintly rusty.

"That's not such filthy wine," Bill said.

"The cold helps it," I said.

We unwrapped the little parcels of lunch.

"Chicken."

"There's hard-boiled eggs."

"Find any salt?"

"First the egg," said Bill. "Then the chicken. Even Bryan could see
that."

"He's dead. I read it in the paper yesterday."

"No. Not really?"

"Yes. Bryan's dead."

Bill laid down the egg he was peeling.

"Gentlemen," he said, and unwrapped a drumstick from a piece of news-
paper. "I reverse the order. For Bryan's sake. As a tribute to the
Great Commoner. First the chicken; then the egg."

"Wonder what day God created the chicken?"

"Oh," said Bill, sucking the drumstick, "how should we know? We should
not question. Our stay on earth is not for long. Let us rejoice and be-
lieve and give thanks."

"Eat an egg."

Bill gestured with the drumstick in one hand and the bottle of wine in
the other.

"Let us rejoice in our blessings. Let us utilize the fowls of the air.
Let us utilize the product of the vine. Will you utilize a little, bro-
ther?"

"After you, brother."

Bill took a long drink.

"Utilize a little, brother," he handed me the bottle. "Let us not doubt,
brother. Let us not pry into the holy mysteries of the hencoop with
simian fingers. Let us accept on faith and simply say--I want you to
join with me in saying--What shall we say, brother?" He pointed the
drumstick at me and went on. "Let me tell you. We will say, and I for
one am proud to say--and I want you to say with me, on your knees, bro-
ther. Let no man be ashamed to kneel here in the great out-of-doors.
Remember the woods were God's first temples. Let us kneel and say:
'Don't eat that, Lady--that's Mencken.'

"Here," I said. "Utilize a little of this."

We uncorked the other bottle.

"What's the matter?" I said. "Didn't you like Bryan?"

"I loved Bryan," said Bill. "We were like brothers."

"Where did you know him?"

"He and Mencken and I all went to Holy Cross together."

"And Frankie Fritsch."

"It's a lie. Frankie Fritsch went to Fordham."

"Well," I said, "I went to Loyola with Bishop Manning."

"It's a lie," Bill said. "I went to Loyola with Bishop Manning myself."

"You're cock-eyed," I said.

"On wine?"

"Why not?"

"It's the humidity," Bill said. "They ought to take this damn humidity
away."

"Have another shot."

"Is this all we've got?"

"Only the two bottles."

"Do you know what you are?" Bill looked at the bottle affectionately.

"No," I said.

"You're in the pay of the Anti-Saloon League."

"I went to Notre Dame with Wayne B. Wheeler."

"It's a lie," said Bill. "I went to Austin Business College with
Wayne B. Wheeler. He was class president."

"Well," I said, "the saloon must go."

"You're right there, old classmate," Bill said. "The saloon must go,
and I will take it with me."

"You're cock-eyed."

"On wine?"

"On wine."

"Well, maybe I am."

"Want to take a nap?"

"All right."

We lay with our heads in the shade and looked up into the trees.

"You asleep?"

"No," Bill said. "I was thinking."

I shut my eyes. It felt good lying on the ground.

"Say," Bill said, "what about this Brett business?"

"What about it?"

"Were you ever in love with her?"

"Sure."

"For how long?"

"Off and on for a hell of a long time."

"Oh, hell!" Bill said. "I'm sorry, fella."

"It's all right," I said. "I don't give a damn any more."

"Really?"

"Really. Only I'd a hell of a lot rather not talk about it."

"You aren't sore I asked you?"

"Why the hell should I be?"

"I'm going to sleep," Bill said. He put a newspaper over his face.

"Listen, Jake," he said, "are you really a Catholic?"

"Technically."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know."

"All right, I'll go to sleep now," he said. "Don't keep me awake by
talking so much."

I went to sleep, too. When I woke up Bill was packing the rucksack.
Jt was late in the afternoon and the shadow from the trees was long
and went out over the dam. I was stiff from sleeping on the ground.

"What did you do? Wake up?" Bill asked. "Why didn't you spend the
night?" I stretched and rubbed my eyes.

"I had a lovely dream," Bill said. "I don't remember what it was a-
bout, but it was a lovely dream."

"I don't think I dreamt."

"You ought to dream," Bill said. "All our biggest business men have
been dreamers. Look at Ford. Look at President Coolidge. Look at Rock-
efeller. Look at Jo Davidson."

I disjointed my rod and Bill's and packed them in the rod-case. I put
the reels in the tackle-bag. Bill had packed the rucksack and we put
one of the trout-bags in. I carried the other.

"Well," said Bill, "have we got everything?"

"The worms."

"Your worms. Put them in there."

He had the pack on his back and I put the worm-cans in one of the out-
side flap pockets.

"You got everything now?"

I looked around on the grass at the foot of the elm-trees.

"Yes."

We started up the road into the woods. It was a long walk home to Bur-
guete, and it was dark when we came down across the fields to the road,
and along the road between the houses of the town, their windows light-
ed, to the inn.

We stayed five days at Burguete and had good fishing. The nights were
cold and the days were hot, and there was always a breeze even in the
heat of the day. It was hot enough so that it felt good to wade in a
cold stream, and the sun dried you when you came out and sat on the bank.
We found a stream with a pool deep enough to swim in. In the evenings
we played three-handed bridge with an Englishman named Harris, who had
walked over from Saint Jean Pied de Port and was stopping at the inn for
the fishing. He was very pleasant and went with us twice to the Irati
River. There was no word from Robert Cohn nor from Brett and Mike.



13



One morning I went down to breakfast and the Englishman, Harris,
was already at the table. He was reading the paper through specta-
cles. He looked up and smiled.

"Good morning," he said. "Letter for you. I stopped at the post
and they gave it me with mine."

The letter was at my place at the table, leaning against a coffee-
cup. Harris was reading the paper again. I opened the letter. It
had been forwarded from Pamplona. It was dated San Sebastian,
Sunday:

Dear Jake,

We got here Friday, Brett passed out on the train, so brought her
here for 3 days rest with old friends of ours. We go to Montoya
Hotel Pamplona Tuesday, arriving at I don't know what hour. Will
you send a note by the bus to tell us what to do to rejoin you
all on Wednesday. All our love and sorry to be late, but Brett
was really done in and will be quite all right by Tues. and is
practically so now. I know her so well and try to look after her
but it's not so easy. Love to all the chaps,

Michael.

"What day of the week is it?" I asked Harris.

"Wednesday, I think. Yes, quite. Wednesday. Wonderful how one
loses track of the days up here in the mountains."

"Yes. We've been here nearly a week."

"I hope you're not thinking of leaving?"

"Yes. We'll go in on the afternoon bus, I'm afraid."

"What a rotten business. I had hoped we'd all have another go
at the Irati together."

"We have to go into Pamplona. We're meeting people there."

"What rotten luck for me. We've had a jolly time here at Bur-
guete."

"Come on in to Pamplona. We can play some bridge there, and
there's going to be a damned fine fiesta."

"I'd like to. Awfully nice of you to ask me. I'd best stop on
here, though. I've not much more time to fish."

"You want those big ones in the Irati."

"I say, I do, you know. They're enormous trout there."

"I'd like to try them once more."

"Do. Stop over another day. Be a good chap."

"We really have to get into town," I said.

"What a pity."

After breakfast Bill and I were sitting warming in the sun on
a bench out in front of the inn and talking it over. I saw a
girl coming up the road from the centre of the town. She stop-
ped in front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wal-
let that hung against her skirt.

"Por ustedes?"

I looked at it. The address was: "Barnes, Burguete."

"Yes. It's for us."

She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple
of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn."

I handed it to Bill.

"What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked.

"What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for
the same price. 'I come Thursday'. That gives you a lot of
dope, doesn't it?"

"It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn."

"We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to
move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta.
Should we answer it?"

"We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be
snooty."

We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph
blank.

"What will we say?" Bill asked.

" 'Arriving to-night.' That's enough."

We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris
was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We
went through the monastery.

"It's remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out.
"But you know I'm not much on those sort of places."

"Me either," Bill said.

"It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't
not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day."

"It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked.
He liked Harris.

"I say not."

We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monaste-
ry.

"Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my
eyes deceive me?"

"It has the look of a pub," Bill said.

"It looks to me like a pub," I said.

"I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up
utilizing from Bill.

We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay.

He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not
take our money.

"I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you
chaps up here."

"We've had a grand time, Harris."

Harris was a little tight.

"I say. Really you don't know how much it means. I've not
had much fun since the war."

"We'll fish together again, some time. Don't you forget it,
Harris."

"We must. We have had such a jolly good time."

"How about another bottle around?"

"Jolly good idea," said Harris.

"This is mine," said Bill. "Or we don't drink it."

"I wish you'd let me pay for it. It does give me pleasure,
you know."

"This is going to give me pleasure," Bill said.

The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. We had kept the
same glasses. Harris lifted his glass.

"I say. You know this does utilize well."

Bill slapped him on the back.

"Good old Harris."

"I say. You know my name isn't really Harris. It's Wilson
Harris. All one name. With a hyphen, you know."

"Good old Wilson-Harris," Bill said. "We call you Harris
because we're so fond of you."

"I say, Barnes. You don't know what this all means to me."

"Come on and utilize another glass," I said.

"Barnes. Really, Barnes, you can't know. That's all."

"Drink up, Harris."

We walked back down the road from Roncesvalles with Harris
between us. We had lunch at the inn and Harris went with us
to the bus. He gave us his card, with his address in London
and his club and his business address, and as we got on the
bus he handed us each an envelope. I opened mine and there
were a dozen flies in it. Harris had tied them himself. He
tied all his own flies.

"I say, Harris--" I began.

"No, no!" he said. He was climbing down from the bus.
"They're not first-rate flies at all. I only thought if you
fished them some time it might remind you of what a good
time we had."

The bus started. Harris stood in front of the post-office.
He waved. As we started along the road he turned and walked
back toward the inn.

"Say, wasn't that Harris nice?" Bill said.

"I think he really did have a good time."

"Harris? You bet he did."

"I wish he'd come into Pamplona."

"He wanted to fish."

"Yes. You couldn't tell how English would mix with each oth-
er, anyway."

"I suppose not."

We got into Pamplona late in the afternoon and the bus stop-
ped in front of the Hotel Montoya. Out in the plaza they were
stringing electric-light wires to light the plaza for the fi-
esta. A few kids came up when the bus stopped, and a customs
officer for the town made all the people getting down from
the bus open their bundles on the sidewalk. We went into the
hotel and on the stairs I met Montoya. He shook hands with
us, smiling in his embarrassed way.

"Your friends are here," he said.

"Mr. Campbell?"

"Yes. Mr. Cohn and Mr. Campbell and Lady Ashley."

He smiled as though there were something I would hear about.

"When did they get in?"

"Yesterday. I've saved you the rooms you had."

"That's fine. Did you give Mr. Campbell the room on the plaza?"

"Yes. All the rooms we looked at."

"Where are our friends now?"

"I think they went to the pelota."

"And how about the bulls?"

Montoya smiled. "To-night," he said. "To-night at seven
o'clock they bring in the Villar bulls, and to-morrow come
the Miuras. Do you all go down?"

"Oh, yes. They've never seen a desencajonada."

Montoya put his hand on my shoulder.

"I'll see you there."

He smiled again. He always smiled as though bull-fighting were
a very special secret between the two of us; a rather shocking
but really very deep secret that we knew about. He always smile-
d as though there were something lewd about the secret to out-
siders, but that it was something that we understood. It would
not do to expose it to people who would not understand.

"Your friend, is he aficionado, too?" Montoya smiled at Bill.

"Yes. He came all the way from New York to see the San Fer-
mines."

"Yes?" Montoya politely disbelieved. "But he's not aficionado
like you."

He put his hand on my shoulder again embarrassedly.

"Yes," I said. "He's a real aficionado."

"But he's not aficionado like you are."

Aficion means passion. An aficionado is one who is passionate
about the bull-fights. All the good bull-fighters stayed at
Montoya's hotel; that is, those with aficion stayed there. The
commercial bullfighters stayed once, perhaps, and then did not
come back. The good ones came each year. In Montoya's room were
their photographs. The photographs were dedicated to Juanito
Montoya or to his sister. The photographs of bull-fighters Mon-
toya had really believed in were framed. Photographs of bull-
fighters who had been without aficion Montoya kept in a drawer
of his desk. They often had the most flattering inscriptions.
But they did not mean anything. One day Montoya took them all
out and dropped them in the waste-basket. He did not want them
around.

We often talked about bulls and bull-fighters. I had stopped
at the Montoya for several years. We never talked for very
long at a time. It was simply the pleasure of discovering what
we each felt. Men would come in from distant towns and before
they left Pamplona stop and talk for a few minutes with Montoya
about bulls. These men were aficionados. Those who were aficio-
nados could always get rooms even when the hotel was full. Mon-
toya introduced me to some of them. They were always very polite
at first, and it amused them very much that I should be an Ame-
rican. Somehow it was taken for granted that an American could
not have aficion. He might simulate it or confuse it with excite-
ment, but he could not really have it. When they saw that I had
aficion, and there was no password, no set questions that could
bring it out, rather it was a sort of oral spiritual examination
with the questions always a little on the defensive and never
apparent, there was this same embarrassed putting the hand on
the shoulder, or a Buen hombre." But nearly always there was
the actual touching. It seemed as though they wanted to touch
you to make it certain.

Montoya could forgive anything of a bull-fighter who had aficion.
He could forgive attacks of nerves, panic, bad unexplainable act-
ions, all sorts of lapses. For one who had aficion he could for-
give anything. At once he forgave me all my friends. Without his
ever saying anything they were simply a little something shameful
between us, like the spilling open of the horses in bull-fighting.

Bill had gone up-stairs as we came in, and I found him washing
and changing in his room.

"Well," he said, "talk a lot of Spanish?"

"He was telling me about the bulls coming in tonight."

"Let's find the gang and go down."

"All right. They'll probably be at the cafe."

"Have you got tickets?"

"Yes. I got them for all the unloadings."

"What's it like?" He was pulling his cheek before the glass,
looking to see if there were unshaved patches under the line of
the jaw.

"It's pretty good," I said. "They let the bulls out of the cages
one at a time, and they have steers in the corral to receive them
and keep them from fighting, and the bulls tear in at the steers
and the steers run around like old maids trying to quiet them
down."

"Do they ever gore the steers?"

"Sure. Sometimes they go right after them and kill them."

"Can't the steers do anything?"

"No. They're trying to make friends."

"What do they have them in for?"

"To quiet down the bulls and keep them from breaking their horns
against the stone walls, or goring each other."

"Must be swell being a steer."

We went down the stairs and out of the door and walked across the
square toward the cafe Iruna. There were two lonely looking ticket-
houses standing in the square. Their windows, marked SOL, SOL Y
SOMBRA, and SOMBRA, were shut. They would not open until the day
before the fiesta.

Across the square the white wicker tables and chairs of the Iruna
extended out beyond the Arcade to the edge of the street. I looked
for Brett and Mike at the tables. There they were. Brett and Mike
and Robert Cohn. Brett was wearing a Basque beret. So was Mike.
Robert Cohn was bare-headed and wearing his spectacles. Brett saw
us coming and waved. Her eyes crinkled up as we came up to the table.

"Hello, you chaps!" she called.

Brett was happy. Mike had a way of getting an intensity of feeling
into shaking hands. Robert Cohn shook hands because we were back.

"Where the hell have you been?" I asked.

"I brought them up here," Cohn said.

"What rot," Brett said. "We'd have gotten here earlier if you had-
n't come."

"You'd never have gotten here."

"What rot! You chaps are brown. Look at Bill."

"Did you get good fishing?" Mike asked. "We wanted to join you."

"It wasn't bad. We missed you."

"I wanted to come," Cohn said, "but I thought I ought to bring
them."

"You bring us. What rot."

"Was it really good?" Mike asked. "Did you take many?"

"Some days we took a dozen apiece. There was an Englishman up there."

"Named Harris," Bill said. "Ever know him, Mike? He was in the war,
too."

"Fortunate fellow," Mike said. "What times we had. How I wish those
dear days were back."

"Don't be an ass."

"Were you in the war, Mike?" Cohn asked.

"Was I not."

"He was a very distinguished soldier," Brett said. "Tell them about
the time your horse bolted down Piccadilly."

"I'll not. I've told that four times."

"You never told me," Robert Cohn said.

"I'll not tell that story. It reflects discredit on me."

"Tell them about your medals."

"I'll not. That story reflects great discredit on me."

"What story's that?"

"Brett will tell you. She tells all the stories that reflect dis-
credit on me."

"Go on. Tell it, Brett."

"Should I?"

"I'll tell it myself."

"What medals have you got, Mike?"

"I haven't got any medals."

"You must have some."

"I suppose I've the usual medals. But I never sent in for them.
One time there was this whopping big dinner and the Prince of Wales
was to be there, and the cards said medals will be worn. So natur-
ally I had no medals, and I stopped at my tailor's and he was im-
pressed by the invitation, and I thought that's a good piece of
business, and I said to him: 'You've got to fix me up with some
medals.' He said: 'What medals, sir?' And I said: 'Oh, any medals.
Just give me a few medals.' So he said: 'What medals have you,
sir?' And I said: 'How should I know?' Did he think I spent all
my time reading the bloody gazette? 'Just give me a good lot.
Pick them out yourself.' So he got me some medals, you know,
miniature medals, and handed me the box, and I put it in my
pocket and forgot it. Well, I went to the dinner, and it was
the night they'd shot Henry Wilson, so the Prince didn't come
and the King didn't come, and no one wore any medals, and all
these coves were busy taking off their medals, and I had mine
in my pocket."

He stopped for us to laugh.

"Is that all?"

"That's all. Perhaps I didn't tell it right."

"You didn't," said Brett. "But no matter."

We were all laughing.

"Ah, yes," said Mike. "I know now. It was a damn dull dinner,
and I couldn't stick it, so I left. Later on in the evening I
found the box in my pocket. What's this? I said. Medals? Bloody
military medals? So I cut them all off their backing--you know,
they put them on a strip--and gave them all around. Gave one
to each girl. Form of souvenir. They thought I was hell's own
shakes of a soldier. Give away medals in a night club. Dashing
fellow."

"Tell the rest," Brett said.

"Don't you think that was funny?" Mike asked. We were all
laughing. "It was. I swear it was. Any rate, my tailor wrote
me and wanted the medals back. Sent a man around. Kept on writ-
ing for months. Seems some chap had left them to be cleaned.
Frightfully military cove. Set hell's own store by them."
Mike paused. "Rotten luck for the tailor," he said.

"You don't mean it," Bill said. "I should think it would have
been grand for the tailor."

"Frightfully good tailor. Never believe it to see me now,"
Mike said. "I used to pay him a hundred pounds a year just
to keep him quiet. So he wouldn't send me any bills. Frightful
blow to him when I went bankrupt. It was right after the med-
als. Gave his letters rather a bitter tone."

"How did you go bankrupt?" Bill asked.

"Two ways," Mike said. "Gradually and then suddenly."

"What brought it on?"

"Friends," said Mike. "I had a lot of friends. False friends.
Then I had creditors, too. Probably had more creditors than
anybody in England."

"Tell them about in the court," Brett said.

"I don't remember," Mike said. "I was just a little tight."

"Tight!" Brett exclaimed. "You were blind!"

"Extraordinary thing," Mike said. "Met my former partner the
other day. Offered to buy me a drink."

"Tell them about your learned counsel," Brett said.

"I will not," Mike said. "My learned counsel was blind, too.
I say this is a gloomy subject. Are we going down and see
these bulls unloaded or not?"

"Let's go down."

We called the waiter, paid, and started to walk through the
town. I started off walking with Brett, but Robert Cohn came
up and joined her on the other side. The three of us walked
along, past the Ayuntamiento with the banners hung from the
balcony, down past the market and down past the steep street
that led to the bridge across the Arga. There were many peo-
ple walking to go and see the bulls, and carriages drove down
the hill and across the bridge, the drivers, the horses, and the
whips rising above the walking people in the street. Across the
bridge we turned up a road to the corrals. We passed a wine-
shop with a sign in the window: Good Wine 30 Centimes A Liter.

"That's where we'll go when funds get low," Brett said.

The woman standing in the door of the wine-shop looked at us
as we passed. She called to some one in the house and three
girls came to the window and stared. They were staring at
Brett.

At the gate of the corrals two men took tickets from the pe-
ople that went in. We went in through the gate. There were
trees inside and a iow, stone house. At the far end was the
stone wall of the corrals, with apertures in the stone that
were like loop-holes running all along the face of each cor-
ral. A ladder led up to the top of the wall, and people were
climbing up the ladder and spreading down to stand on the
walls that separated the two corrals. As we came up the lad-
der, walking across the grass under the trees, we passed the
big, gray painted cages with the bulls in them. There was
one bull in each travelling-box. They had come by train from
a bull-breeding ranch in Castile, and had been unloaded off
flat-cars at the station and brought up here to be let out
of their cages into the corrals. Each cage was stencilled
with the name and the brand of the bull-breeder.

We climbed up and found a place on the wall looking down into
the corral. The stone walls were whitewashed, and there was
straw on the ground and wooden feed-boxes and water-troughs
set against the wall.

"Look up there," I said.

Beyond the river rose the plateau of the town. All along the
old walls and ramparts people were standing. The three lines
of fortifications made three black lines of people. Above the
walls there were heads in the windows of the houses. At the
far end of the plateau boys had climbed into the trees.

"They must think something is going to happen," Brett said.

"They want to see the bulls."

Mike and Bill were on the other wall across the pit of the
corral. They waved to us. People who had come late were stand-
ing behind us, pressing against us when other people crowded
them.

"Why don't they start?" Robert Cohn asked.

A single mule was hitched to one of the cages and dragged it
up against the gate in the corral wall. The men shoved and
lifted it with crowbars into position against the gate. Men
were standing on the wall ready to pull up the gate of the
corral and then the gate of the cage. At the other end of the
corral a gate opened and two steers came in, swaying their
heads and trotting, their lean flanks swinging. They stood
together at the far end, their heads toward the gate where
the bull would enter.

"They don't look happy," Brett said.

The men on top of the wall leaned back and pulled up the door
of the corral. Then they pulled up the door of the cage.

I leaned way over the wall and tried to see into the cage.
It was dark. Some one rapped on the cage with an iron bar.
Inside something seemed to explode. The bull, striking into
the wood from side to side with his horns, made a great noise.
Then I saw a dark muzzle and the shadow of horns, and then,
with a clattering on the wood in the hollow box, the bull
charged and came out into the corral, skidding with his fore-
feet in the straw as he stopped, his head up, the great hump
of muscle on his neck swollen tight, his body muscles quiver-
ing as he looked up at the crowd on the stone walls. The two
steers backed away against the wall, their heads sunken, their
eyes watching the bull.

The bull saw them and charged. A man shouted from behind one
of the boxes and slapped his hat against the planks, and the
bull, before he reached the steer, turned, gathered himself
and charged where the man had been, trying to reach him be-
hind the planks with a half-dozen quick, searching drives
with the right horn.

"My God, isn't he beautiful?" Brett said. We were looking
right down on him.

"Look how he knows how to use his horns," I said. "He's got
a left and a right just like a boxer."

"Not really?"

"You watch."

"It goes too fast."

"Wait. There'll be another one in a minute."

They had backed up another cage into the entrance. In the far
corner a man, from behind one of the plank shelters, attracted
the bull, and while the bull was facing away the gate was pull-
ed up and a second bull came out into the corral.

He charged straight for the steers and two men ran out from
behind the planks and shouted, to turn him. He did not change
his direction and the men shouted: "Hah! Hah! Toro!" and waved
their arms; the two steers turned sideways to take the shock,
and the bull drove into one of the steers.

"Don't look," I said to Brett. She was watching, fascinated.

"Fine," I said. "If it doesn't buck you."

"I saw it," she said. "I saw him shift from his left to his
right horn."

"Damn good!"

The steer was down now, his neck stretched out, his head twis-
ted, he lay the way he had fallen. Suddenly the bull left off
and made for the other steer which had been standing at the
far end, his head swinging, watching it all. The steer ran
awkwardly and the bull caught him, hooked him lightly in the
flank, and then turned away and looked up at the crowd on the
walls, his crest of muscle rising. The steer came up to him
and made as though to nose at him and the bull hooked perfun-
ctorily. The next time he nosed at the steer and then the two
of them trotted over to the other bull.

When the next bull came out, all three, the two bulls and the
steer, stood together, their heads side by side, their horns
against the newcomer. In a few minutes the steer picked the
new bull up, quieted him down, and made him one of the herd.
When the last two bulls had been unloaded the herd were all
together.

The steer who had been gored had gotten to his feet and stood
against the stone wall. None of the bulls came near him, and
he did not attempt to join the herd.

We climbed down from the wall with the crowd, and had a last
look at the bulls through the loopholes in the wall of the cor-
ral. They were all quiet now, their heads down. We got a car-
riage outside and rode up to the cafe. Mike and Bill came in
half an hour later. They had stopped on the way for several
drinks.

We were sitting in the cafe.

"That's an extraordinary business," Brett said.

"Will those last ones fight as well as the first?" Robert
Cohn asked. "They seemed to quiet down awfully fast."

"They all know each other," I said. "They're only dangerous
when they're alone, or only two or three of them together."

"What do you mean, dangerous?" Bill said. "They all looked
dangerous to me."

"They only want to kill when they're alone. Of course, if you
went in there you'd probably detach one of them from the herd,
and he'd be dangerous."

"That's too complicated," Bill said. "Don't you ever detach
me from the herd, Mike."

"I say," Mike said, "they were fine bulls, weren't they? Did
you see their horns?"

"Did I not," said Brett. "I had no idea what they were like."

"Did you see the one hit that steer?" Mike asked. "That was
extraordinary."

"It's no life being a steer," Robert Cohn said.

"Don't you think so?" Mike said. "I would have thought you'd
loved being a steer, Robert."

"What do you mean, Mike?"

"They lead such a quiet life. They never say anything and
they're always hanging about so."

We were embarrassed. Bill laughed. Robert Cohn was angry. Mike
went on talking.

"I should think you'd love it. You'd never have to say a word.
Come on, Robert. Do say something. Don't just sit there."

"I said something, Mike. Don't you remember? About the steers."

"Oh, say something more. Say something funny. Can't you see
we're all having a good time here?"

"Come off it, Michael. You're drunk," Brett said.

"I'm not drunk. I'm quite serious. Is Robert Cohn going to fol-
low Brett around like a steer all the time?"

"Shut up, Michael. Try and show a little breeding."

"Breeding be damned. Who has any breeding, anyway, except the
bulls? Aren't the bulls lovely? Don't you like them, Bill? Why
don't you say something, Robert? Don't sit there looking like
a bloody funeral. What if Brett did sleep with you? She's slept
with lots of better people than you."

"Shut up," Cohn said. He stood up. "Shut up, Mike."

"Oh, don't stand up and act as though you were going to hit me.
That won't make any difference to me. Tell me, Robert. Why do
you follow Brett around like a poor bloody steer? Don't you
know you're not wanted? I know when I'm not wanted. Why don't
you know when you're not wanted? You came down to San Sebasti-
an where you weren't wanted, and followed Brett around like a
bloody steer. Do you think that's right?"

"Shut up. You're drunk."

"Perhaps I am drunk. Why aren't you drunk? Why don't you ever
get drunk, Robert? You know you didn't have a good time at San
Sebastian because none of our friends would invite you on any
of the parties. You can't blame them hardly. Can you? I asked
them to. They wouldn't do it. You can't blame them, now. Can
you? Now, answer me. Can you blame them?"

"Go to hell, Mike."

"I can't blame them. Can you blame them? Why do you follow
Brett around? Haven't you any manners? How do you think it
makes me feel?"

"You're a splendid one to talk about manners," Brett said.
"You've such lovely manners."

"Come on, Robert," Bill said.

"What do you follow her around for?"

Bill stood up and took hold of Cohn.

"Don't go," Mike said. "Robert Cohn's going to buy a drink."

Bill went off with Cohn. Cohn's face was sallow. Mike went
on talking. I sat and listened for a while. Brett looked dis-
gusted.

"I say, Michael, you might not be such a bloody ass," she
interrupted. "I'm not saying he's not right, you know." She
turned to me.

The emotion left Mike's voice. We were all friends together.

"I'm not so damn drunk as I sounded," he said.

"I know you're not," Brett said.

"We're none of us sober," I said.

"I didn't say anything I didn't mean."

"But you put it so badly," Brett laughed.

"He was an ass, though. He came down to San Sebastian where
he damn well wasn't wanted. He hung around Brett and just look-
ed at her. It made me damned well sick."

"He did behave very badly," Brett said.

"Mark you. Brett's had affairs with men before. She tells me
all about everything. She gave me this chap Cohn's letters to read.
I wouldn't read them."

"Damned noble of you."

"No, listen, Jake. Brett's gone off with men. But they weren't
ever Jews, and they didn't come and hang about afterward."

"Damned good chaps," Brett said. "It's all rot to talk about
it. Michael and I understand each other."

"She gave me Robert Cohn's letters. I wouldn't read them."

"You wouldn't read any letters, darling. You wouldn't read
mine."

"I can't read letters," Mike said. "Funny, isn't it?"

"You can't read anything."

"No. You're wrong there. I read quite a bit. I read when I'm
at home."

"You'll be writing next," Brett said. "Come on, Michael. Do
buck up. You've got to go through with this thing now. He's
here. Don't spoil the fiesta."

"Well, let him behave, then."

"He'll behave. I'll tell him."

"You tell him, Jake. Tell him either he must behave or get out."

"Yes," I said, "it would be nice for me to tell him."

"Look, Brett. Tell Jake what Robert calls you. That is perfect,
you know."

"Oh, no. I can't."

"Go on. We're all friends. Aren't we all friends, Jake?"

"I can't tell him. It's too ridiculous."

"I'll tell him."

"You won't, Michael. Don't be an ass."

"He calls her Circe," Mike said. "He claims she turns men
into swine. Damn good. I wish I were one of these literary
chaps."

"He'd be good, you know," Brett said. "He writes a good let-
ter."

"I know," I said. "He wrote me from San Sebastian."

"That was nothing," Brett said. "He can write a damned amu-
sing letter."

"She made me write that. She was supposed to be ill."

"I damned well was, too."

"Come on," I said, "we must go in and eat."

"How should I meet Cohn?" Mike said.

"Just act as though nothing had happened."

"It's quite all right with me," Mike said. "I'm not embarras-
sed."

"If he says anything, just say you were tight."

"Quite. And the funny thing is I think I was tight."

"Come on," Brett said. "Are these poisonous things paid for?
I must bathe before dinner."

We walked across the square. It was dark and all around the
square were the lights from the cafes under the arcades. We
walked across the gravel under the trees to the hotel.

They went up-stairs and I stopped to speak with Montoya.

"Well, how did you like the bulls?" he asked.

"Good. They were nice bulls."

"They're all right"--Montoya shook his head--"but they're
not too good."

"What didn't you like about them?"

"I don't know. They just didn't give me the feeling that
they were so good."

"I know what you mean."

"They're all right."

"Yes. They're all right."

"How did your friends like them?"

"Fine."

"Good," Montoya said.

I went up-stairs. Bill was in his room standing on the bal-
cony looking out at the square. I stood beside him.

"Where's Cohn?"

"Up-stairs in his room."

"How does he feel?"

"Like hell, naturally. Mike was awful. He's terrible when
he's tight."

"He wasn't so tight."

"The hell he wasn't. I know what we had before we came to
the cafe."

"He sobered up afterward."

"Good. He was terrible. I don't like Cohn, God knows, and
I think it was a silly trick for him to go down to San Se-
bastian, but nobody has any business to talk like Mike."

"How'd you like the bulls?"

"Grand. It's grand the way they bring them out."

"To-morrow come the Miuras."

"When does the fiesta start?"

"Day after to-morrow."

"We've got to keep Mike from getting so tight. That kind of
stuff is terrible."

"We'd better get cleaned up for supper."

"Yes. That will be a pleasant meal."

"Won't it?"

As a matter of fact, supper was a pleasant meal. Brett wore
a black, sleeveless evening dress. She looked quite beauti-
ful. Mike acted as though nothing had happened. I had to go
up and bring Robert Cohn down. He was reserved and formal,
and his face was still taut and sallow, but he cheered up
finally. He could not stop looking at Brett. It seemed to
make him happy. It must have been pleasant for him to see
her looking so lovely, and know he had been away with her
and that every one knew it. They could not take that away
from him. Bill was very funny. So was Michael. They were
good together.

It was like certain dinners I remember from the war. There
was much wine, an ignored tension, and a feeling of things
coming that you could not prevent happening. Under the wine
I lost the disgusted feeling and was happy. It seemed they
were all such nice people.



14



I do not know what time I got to bed. I remember undressing,
putting on a bathrobe, and standing out on the balcony. I
knew I was quite drunk, and when I came in I put on the light
over the head of the bed and started to read. I was reading
a book by Turgenieff. Probably I read the same two pages over
several times. It was one of the stories in "A Sportsman's
Sketches." I had read it before, but it seemed quite new.
The country became very clear and the feeling of pressure
in my head seemed to loosen. I was very drunk and I did not
want to shut my eyes because the room would go round and
round. If I kept on reading that feeling would pass.

I heard Brett and Robert Cohn come up the stairs. Cohn said
good night outside the door and went on up to his room. I
heard Brett go into the room next door. Mike was already in
bed. He had come in with me an hour before. He woke as she
came in, and they talked together. I heard them laugh. I
turned off the light and tried to go to sleep. It was not
necessary to read any more. I could shut my eyes without ge-
tting the wheeling sensation. But I could not sleep. There
is no reason why because it is dark you should look at
things differently from when it is light. The hell there
isn't!

I figured that all out once, and for six months I never
slept with the electric light off. That was another bright
idea. To hell with women, anyway. To hell with you, Brett
Ashley.

Women made such swell friends. Awfully swell. In the first
place, you had to be in love with a woman to have a basis
of friendship. I had been having Brett for a friend. I had
not been thinking about her side of it. I had been getting
something for nothing. That only delayed the presentation
of the bill. The bill always came. That was one of the
swell things you could count on.

I thought I had paid for everything. Not like the woman pays
and pays and pays. No idea of retribution or punishment.
Just exchange of values. You gave up something and got some-
thing else. Or you worked for something. You paid some way
for everything that was any good. I paid my way into enough
things that I liked, so that I had a good time. Either you
paid by learning about them, or by experience, or by taking
chances, or by money. Enjoying living was learning to get
your money's worth and knowing when you had it. You could
get your money's worth. The world was a good place to buy
in. It seemed like a fine philosophy. In five years, I thought,
it will seem just as silly as all the other fine philosophies
I've had.

Perhaps that wasn't true, though. Perhaps as you went along
you did learn something. I did not care what it was all
about. All I wanted to know was how to live in it. Maybe if
you found out how to live in it you learned from that what
it was all about.

I wished Mike would not behave so terribly to Cohn, though.
Mike was a bad drunk. Brett was a good drunk. Bill was a
good drunk. Cohn was never drunk. Mike was unpleasant after
he passed a certain point. I liked to see him hurt Cohn.
I wished he would not do it, though, because afterward it
made me disgusted at myself. That was morality; things
that made you disgusted afterward. No, that must be immor-
ality. That was a large statement. What a lot of bilge I
could think up at night. What rot, I could hear Brett say
it. What rot! When you were with the English you got into
the habit of using English expressions in your thinking.
The English spoken language--the upper classes, anyway--
must have fewer words than the Eskimo. Of course I didn't
know anything about the Eskimo. Maybe the Eskimo was a
fine language. Say the Cherokee. I didn't know anything
about the Cherokee, either. The English talked with in-
flected phrases. One phrase to mean everything. I liked
them, though. I liked the way they talked. Take Harris.
Still Harris was not the upper classes.

I turned on the light again and read. I read the Turgen-
ieff. I knew that now, reading it in the oversensitized
state of my mind after much too much brandy, I would re-
member it somewhere, and afterward it would seem as
though it had really happened to me. I would always have
it. That was another good thing you paid for and then
had. Some time along toward daylight I went to sleep.

The next two days in Pamplona were quiet, and there were
no more rows. The town was getting ready for the fiesta.
Workmen put up the gate-posts that were to shut off the
side streets when the bulls were released from the cor-
rals and came running through the streets in the morning
on their way to the ring. The workmen dug holes and fit-
ted in the timbers, each timber numbered for its regular
place. Out on the plateau beyond the town employees of
the bull-ring exercised picador horses, galloping them
stiff-legged on the hard, sun-baked fields behind the
bull-ring. The big gate of the bull-ring was open, and
inside the amphitheatre was being swept. The ring was
rolled and sprinkled, and carpenters replaced weakened
or cracked planks in the barrera. Standing at the edge
of the smooth rolled sand you could look up in the empty
stands and see old women sweeping out the boxes.

Outside, the fence that led from the last Street of the
town to the entrance of the bull-ring was already in place
and made a long pen; the crowd would come running down
with the bulls behind them on the morning of the day of
the first bull-fight. Out across the plain, where the
horse and cattle fair would be, some gypsies had camped
under the trees. The wine and aguardiente sellers were
putting up their booths. One booth advertised ANIS DEL
TORO. The cloth sign hung against the planks in the hot
sun. In the big square that was the centre of the town
there was no change yet. We sat in the white wicker
chairs on the terrasse of the cafe and watched the mo-
torbuses come in and unload peasants from the country
coming in to the market, and we watched the buses fill
up and start out with peasants sitting with their saddle-
bags full of the things they had bought in the town. The
tall gray motor-buses were the only life of the square
except for the pigeons and the man with a hose who sprin-
kled the gravelled square and watered the streets.

In the evening was the paseo. For an hour after dinner
every one, all the good-looking girls, the officers from
the garrison, all the fashionable people of the town,
walked in the street on one side of the square while the
cafe tables filled with the regular after-dinner crowd.

During the morning I usually sat in the cafe and read the
Madrid papers and then walked in the town or out into the
country. Sometimes Bill went along. Sometimes he wrote in
his room. Robert Cohn spent the mornings studying Spanish
or trying to get a shave at the barber-shop. Brett and
Mike never got up until noon. We all had a vermouth at
the cafe. It was a quiet life and no one was drunk. I
went to church a couple of times, once with Brett. She
said she wanted to hear me go to confession, but I told
her that not only was it impossible but it was not as in-
teresting as it sounded, and, besides, it would be in a
language she did not know. We met Cohn as we came out of
church, and although it was obvious he had followed us,
yet he was very pleasant and nice, and we all three went
for a walk out to the gypsy camp, and Brett had her for-
tune told.

It was a good morning, there were high white clouds above
the mountains. It had rained a little in the night and it
was fresh and cool on the plateau, and there was a wonder-
ful view. We all felt good and we felt healthy, and I felt
quite friendly to Cohn. You could not be upset about any-
thing on a day like that.

That was the last day before the fiesta.



15



At noon of Sunday, the 6th of July, the fiesta exploded.
There is no other way to describe it. People had been com-
ing in all day from the country, but they were assimilated
in the town and you did not notice them. The square was as
quiet in the hot sun as on any other day. The peasants were
in the outlying wine-shops. There they were drinking, get-
ting ready for the fiesta. They had come in so recently
from the plains and the hills that it was necessary that
they make their shifting in values gradually. They could
not start in paying cafe prices. They got their money's
worth in the wine-shops. Money still had a definite value
in hours worked and bushels of grain sold. Late in the fi-
esta it would not matter what they paid, nor where they
bought.

Now on the day of the starting of the fiesta of San Fermin
they had been in the wine-shops of the narrow streets of
the town since early morning. Going down the streets in
the morning on the way to mass in the cathedral, I heard
them singing through the open doors of the shops. They
were warming up. There were many people at the eleven
o'clock mass. San Fermin is also a religious festival.

I walked down the hill from the cathedral and up the
street to the cafe on the square. It was a little before
noon. Robert Cohn and Bill were sitting at one of the
tables. The marble-topped tables and the white wicker
chairs were gone. They were replaced by cast-iron tables
and severe folding chairs. The cafe was like a battleship
stripped for action. Today the waiters did not leave you
alone all morning to read without asking if you wanted
to order something. A waiter came up as soon as I sat
down.

"What are you drinking?" I asked Bill and Robert.

"Sherry," Cohn said.

"Jerez," I said to the waiter.

Before the waiter brought the sherry the rocket that
announced the fiesta went up in the square. It burst
and there was a gray ball of smoke high up above the
Theatre Gayarre, across on the other side of the plaza.
The ball of smoke hung in the sky like a shrapnel burst,
and as I watched, another rocket came up to it, trickl-
ing smoke in the bright sunlight. I saw the bright
flash as it burst and another little cloud of smoke ap-
peared. By the time the second rocket had burst there
were so many people in the arcade, that had been empty
a minute before, that the waiter, holding the bottle
high up over his head, could hardly get through the
crowd to our table. People were coming into the square
from all sides, and down the street we heard the pipes
and the fifes and the drums coming. They were playing
the riau-riau music,1 the pipes shrill and the drums
pounding, and behind them came the men and boys dancing.
When the fifers stopped they all crouched down in the
street, and when the reedpipes and the fifes shril
led, and the flat, dry, hollow drums tapped it out a-
gain, they all went up in the air dancing. In the crowd
you saw only the heads and shoulders of the dancers go-
ing up and down.

In the square a man, bent over, was playing on a reed-
pipe, and a crowd of children were following him shout-
ing, and pulling at his clothes. He came out of the
square, the children following him, and piped them past
the cafe and down a side street. We saw his blank pock-
marked face as he went by, piping, the children close
behind him shouting and pulling at him.

"He must be the village idiot," Bill said. "My God!
look at that!"

Down the street came dancers. The street was solid with
dancers, all men. They were all dancing in time behind
their own fifers and drummers. They were a club of some
sort, and all wore workmen's blue smocks, and red hand-
kerchiefs around their necks, and carried a great banner
on two poles. The banner danced up and down with them
as they came down surrounded by the crowd.

"Hurray for Wine! Hurray for the Foreigners!" was paint-
ed on the banner.

"Where are the foreigners?" Robert Cohn asked.

"We're the foreigners," Bill said.

All the time rockets were going up. The cafe tables were
all full now. The square was emptying of people and the
crowd was filling the cafes.

"Where's Brett and Mike?" Bill asked.

"I'll go and get them," Cohn said.

"Bring them here."

The fiesta was really started. It kept up day and night
for seven days. The dancing kept up, the drinking kept
up, the noise went on. The things that happened could
only have happened during a fiesta. Everything became
quite unreal finally and it seemed as though nothing
could have any consequences. It seemed out of place to
think of consequences during the fiesta. All during the
fiesta you had the feeling, even when it was quiet, that
you had to shout any remark to make it heard. It was
the same feeling about any action. It was a fiesta and
it went on for seven days.

That afternoon was the big religious procession. San
Fermin was translated from one church to another. In
the procession were all the dignitaries, civil and rel-
igious. We could not see them because the crowd was too
great. Ahead of the formal procession and behind it
danced the riau-riau dancers. There was one mass of yel-
low shirts dancing up and down in the crowd. All we could
see of the procession through the closely pressed people
that crowded all the side streets and curbs were the great
giants, cigar-store Indians, thirty feet high, Moors, a
King and Queen, whirling and waltzing solemnly to the
riau-riau.

They were all standing outside the chapel where San Fer-
min and the dignitaries had passed in, leaving a guard of
soldiers, the giants, with the men who danced in them
standing beside their resting frames, and the dwarfs mov-
ing with their whacking bladders2 through the crowd. We
started inside and there was a smell of incense and people
filing back into the church, but Brett was stopped just
inside the door because she had no hat, so we went out
again and along the street that ran back from the chapel
into town. The street was lined on both sides with people
keeping their place at the curb for the return of the
procession. Some dancers formed a circle around Brett and
started to dance. They wore big wreaths of white garlics
around their necks. They took Bill and me by the arms and
put us in the circle. Bill started to dance, too. They
were all chanting. Brett wanted to dance but they did not
want her to. They wanted her as an image to dance around.
When the song ended with the sharp riau-riau! they rushed
us into a wine-shop.

We stood at the counter. They had Brett seated on a wine-
cask. It was dark in the wine-shop and full of men singing,
hard-voiced singing. Back of the counter they drew the wine
from casks. I put down money for the wine, but one of the
men picked it up and put it back in my pocket.

"I want a leather wine-bottle," Bill said.

"There's a place down the street," I said. "I'll go get a
couple."

The dancers did not want me to go out. Three of them were
sitting on the high wine-cask beside Brett, teaching her to
drink out of the wine-skins. They had hung a wreath of gar-
lics around her neck. Some one insisted on giving her a
glass. Somebody was teaching Bill a song. Singing it into
his ear. Beating time on Bill's back.

I explained to them that I would be back. Outside in the
street I went down the street looking for the shop that
made leather winebottles. The crowd was packed on the side-
walks and many of the shops were shuttered, and I could not
find it. I walked as far as the church, looking on both
sides of the street. Then I asked a man and he took me by
the arm and led me to it. The shutters were up but the door
was open.

Inside it smelled of fresh tanned leather and hot tar. A
man was stencilling completed wine-skins. They hung from
the roof in bunches. He took one down, blew it up, screwed
the nozzle tight, and then jumped on it.

"See! It doesn't leak."

"I want another one, too. A big one."

He took down a big one that would hold a gallon or more,
from the roof. He blew it up, his cheeks puffing ahead of
the wine-skin, and stood on the bota holding on to a chair.

"What are you going to do? Sell them in Bayonne?"

"No. Drink out of them."

He slapped me on the back.

"Good man. Eight pesetas for the two. The lowest price."

The man who was stencilling the new ones and tossing them
into a pile stopped.

"It's true," he said. "Eight pesetas is cheap."

I paid and went out and along the street back to the wine-
shop. It was darker than ever inside and very crowded. I
did not see Brett and Bill, and some one said they were in
the back room. At the counter the girl filled the two wine-
skins for me. One held two litres. The other held five lit-
res. Filling them both cost three pesetas sixty centimos.
Some one at the counter, that I had never seen before, tried
to pay for the wine, but I finally paid for it myself. The
man who had wanted to pay then bought me a drink. He would
not let me buy one in return, but said he would take a rinse
of the mouth from the new wine-bag. He tipped the big five-
litre bag up and squeezed it so the wine hissed against the
back of his throat.

"All right," he said, and handed back the bag.

In the back room Brett and Bill were sitting on barrels sur-
rounded by the dancers. Everybody had his arms on everybody
else's shoulders, and they were all singing. Mike was sitting
at a table with several men in their shirt-sleeves, eating
from a bowl of tuna fish, chopped onions and vinegar. They
were all drinking wine and mopping up the oil and vinegar
with pieces of bread.

"Hello, Jake. Hello!" Mike called. "Come here. I want you to
meet my friends. We're all having an hors d'oeuvre."

I was introduced to the people at the table. They supplied
their names to Mike and sent for a fork for me.

"Stop eating their dinner, Michael," Brett shouted from the
wine-barrels.

"I don't want to eat up your meal," I said when some one hand-
ed me a fork.

"Eat," he said. "What do you think it's here for?"

I unscrewed the nozzle of the big wine-bottle and handed it
around. Every one took a drink, tipping the wine-skin at arm's
length.

Outside, above the singing, we could hear the music of the
procession going by.

"Isn't that the procession?" Mike asked.

"Nada," some one said. "It's nothing. Drink up. Lift the bot-
tle."

"Where did they find you?" I asked Mike.

"Some one brought me here," Mike said. "They said you were
here."

"Where's Cohn?"

"He's passed out," Brett called. "They've put him away some-
where."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know."

"How should we know," Bill said. "I think he's dead."

"He's not dead," Mike said. "I know he's not dead. He's just
passed out on Anis del Mono."

As he said Anis del Mono one of the men at the table looked
up, brought out a bottle from inside his smock, and handed it
to me.

"No," I said. "No, thanks!"

"Yes. Yes. Arriba! Up with the bottle!"

I took a drink. It tasted of licorice and warmed all the way.
I could feel it warming in my stomach.

"Where the hell is Cohn?"

"I don't know," Mike said. "I'll ask. Where is the drunken
comrade?" he asked in Spanish.

"You want to see him?"

"Yes," I said.

"Not me," said Mike. "This gent."

The Anis del Mono man wiped his mouth and stood up.

"Come on."

In a back room Robert Cohn was sleeping quietly on some wine-
casks. It was almost too dark to see his face. They had cov-
ered him with a coat and another coat was folded under his
head. Around his neck and on his chest was a big wreath of
twisted garlics.

"Let him sleep," the man whispered. "He's all right."

Two hours later Cohn appeared. He came into the front room
still with the wreath of garlics around his neck. The Spani-
ards shouted when he came in. Cohn wiped his eyes and grinned.

"I must have been sleeping," he said.

"Oh, not at all," Brett said.

"You were only dead," Bill said.

"Aren't we going to go and have some supper?" Cohn asked.

"Do you want to eat?"

"Yes. Why not? I'm hungry."

"Eat those garlics, Robert," Mike said. "I say. Do eat those
garlics."

Cohn stood there. His sleep had made him quite all right.

"Do let's go and eat," Brett said. "I must get a bath."

"Come on," Bill said. "Let's translate Brett to the hotel."

We said good-bye to many people and shook hands with many peo-
ple and went out. Outside it was dark.

"What time is it do you suppose?" Cohn asked.

"It's to-morrow," Mike said. "You've been asleep two days."

"No," said Cohn, "what time is it?"

"It's ten o'clock."

"What a lot we've drunk."

"You mean what a lot we've drunk. You went to sleep."

Going down the dark streets to the hotel we saw the skyrockets
going up in the square. Down the side streets that led to the
square we saw the square solid with people, those in the centre
all dancing.

It was a big meal at the hotel. It was the first meal of the
prices being doubled for the fiesta, and there were several
new courses. After the dinner we were out in the town. I rem-
ember resolving that I would stay up all night to watch the
bulls go through the streets at six o'clock in the morning,
and being so sleepy that I went to bed around four o'clock.
The others stayed up.

My own room was locked and I could not find the key, so I went
up-stairs and slept on one of the beds in Cohn's room. The
fiesta was going on outside in the night, but I was too sleepy
for it to keep me awake. When I woke it was the sound of the
rocket exploding that announced the release of the bulls from
the corrals at the edge of town. They would race through the
streets and out to the bull-ring. I had been sleeping heavily
and I woke feeling I was too late. I put on a coat of Cohn's
and went out on the balcony. Down below the narrow street was
empty. All the balconies were crowded with people. Suddenly a
crowd came down the street. They were all running, packed close
together. They passed along and up the street toward the bull-
ring and behind them came more men running faster, and then
some stragglers who were really running. Behind them was a lit-
tle bare space, and then the bulls galloping, tossing their
heads up and down. It all went out of sight around the corner.
One man fell, rolled to the gutter, and lay quiet. But the bulls
went right on and did not notice him. They were all running
together.

After they went out of sight a great roar came from the bull-
ring. It kept on. Then finally the pop of the rocket that meant
the bulls had gotten through the people in the ring and into
the corrals. I went back in the room and got into bed. I had
been standing on the stone balcony in bare feet. I knew our
crowd must have all been out at the bull-ring. Back in bed, I
went to sleep.

Cohn woke me when he came in. He started to undress and went
over and closed the window because the people on the balcony
of the house just across the street were looking in.

"Did you see the show?" I asked.

"Yes. We were all there."

"Anybody get hurt?"

"One of the bulls got into the crowd in the ring and tossed six
or eight people."

"How did Brett like it?"

"It was all so sudden there wasn't any time for it to bother
anybody."

"I wish I'd been up."

"We didn't know where you were. We went to your room but it was
locked."

"Where did you stay up?"

"We danced at some club."

"I got sleepy," I said.

"My gosh! I'm sleepy now," Cohn said. "Doesn't this thing ever
stop?"

"Not for a week."

Bill opened the door and put his head in.

"Where were you, Jake?"

"I saw them go through from the balcony. How was it?"

"Grand."

"Where you going?"

"To sleep."

No one was up before noon. We ate at tables set out under the
arcade. The town was full of people. We had to wait for a table.
After lunch we went over to the Irufla. It had filled up, and
as the time for the bull-fight came it got fuller, and the tables
were crowded closer. There was a close, crowded hum that came e-
very day before the bull-fight. The cafe did not make this same
noise at any other time, no matter how crowded it was. This hum
went on, and we were in it and a part of it.

I had taken six seats for all the fights. Three of them were bar-
reras, the first row at the ring-side, and three were sobrepuertos,
seats with wooden backs, half-way up the amphitheatre. Mike thought
Brett had best sit high up for her first time, and Cohn wanted to
sit with them. Bill and I were going to sit in the barreras, and
I gave the extra ticket to a waiter to sell. Bill said something
to Cohn about what to do and how to look so he would not mind the
horses. Bill had seen one season of bull-fights.

"I'm not worried about how I'll stand it. I'm only afraid I may
be bored," Cohn said.

"You think so?"

"Don't look at the horses, after the bull hits them," I said to
Brett. "Watch the charge and see the picador try and keep the bull
off, but then don't look again until the horse is dead if it's
been hit."

"I'm a little nervy about it," Brett said. "I'm worried whether
I'll be able to go through with it all right."

"You'll be all right. There's nothing but that horse part that
will bother you, and they're only in for a few minutes with each
bull. Just don't watch when it's bad."

"She'll be all right," Mike said. "I'll look after her."

"I don't think you'll be bored," Bill said.

"I'm going over to the hotel to get the glasses and the wine-
skin," I said. "See you back here. Don't get cock-eyed."

"I'll come along," Bill said. Brett smiled at us.

We walked around through the arcade to avoid the heat of the
square.

"That Cohn gets me," Bill said. "He's got this Jewish superiority
so strong that he thinks the only emotion he'll get out of the
fight will be being bored."

"We'll watch him with the glasses," I said.

"Oh, to hell with him!"

"He spends a lot of time there."

"I want him to stay there."

In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya.

"Come on," said Montoya. "Do you want to meet Pedro Romero?"

"Fine," said Bill. "Let's go see him."

We followed Montoya up a flight and down the corridor.

"He's in room number eight," Montoya explained. "He's getting
dressed for the bull-fight."

Montoya knocked on the door and opened it. It was a gloomy room
with a little light coming in from the window on the narrow street.
There were two beds separated by a monastic partition. The electric
light was on. The boy stood very straight and unsmiling in his bull-
fighting clothes. His jacket hung over the back of a chair. They
were just finishing winding his sash. His black hair shone under
the electric light. He wore a white linen shirt and the swordhand-
ler finished his sash and stood up and stepped back. Pedro Romero
nodded, seeming very far away and dignified when we shook hands.
Montoya said something about what great aficionados we were, and
that we wanted to wish him luck. Romero listened very seriously.
Then he turned to me. He was the best-looking boy I have ever seen.

"You go to the bull-fight," he said in English.

"You know English," I said, feeling like an idiot.

"No," he answered, and smiled.

One of three men who had been sitting on the beds came up and asked
us if we spoke French. "Would you like me to interpret for you? Is
there anything you would like to ask Pedro Romero?"

We thanked him. What was there that you would like to ask? The boy
was nineteen years old, alone except for his sword-handlet and the
three hangers-on, and the bull-fight was to commence in twenty min-
utes. We wished him "Mucha suerte," shook hands, and went out. He
was standing, straight and handsome and altogether by himself, a-
lone in the room with the hangers-on as we shut the door.

"He's a fine boy, don't you think so?" Montoya asked.

"He's a good-looking kid," I said.

"He looks like a torero," Montoya said. "He has the type."

"He's a fine boy."

"We'll see how he is in the ring," Montoya said.

We found the big leather wine-bottle leaning against the wall in
my room, took it and the field-glasses, locked the door, and went
down-stairs.

It was a good bull-fight. Bill and I were very excited about Pedro
Romero. Montoya was sitting about ten places away. After Romero had
killed his first bull Montoya caught my eye and nodded his head.
This was a real one. There had not been a real one for a long time.
Of the other two matadors, one was very fair and the other was pass-
able. But there was no comparison with Romero, although neither of
his bulls was much.

Several times during the bull-fight I looked up at Mike and Brett
and Cohn, with the glasses. They seemed to be all right. Brett did
not look upset. All three were leaning forward on the concrete rail-
ing in front of them.

"Let me take the glasses," Bill said.

"Does Cohn look bored?" I asked.

"That kike!"

Outside the ring, after the bull-fight was over, you could not
move in the crowd. We could not make our way through but had to be
moved with the whole thing, slowly, as a glacier, back to town. We
had that disturbed emotional feeling that always comes after a bull-
fight, and the feeling of elation that comes after a good bullfight.
The fiesta was going on. The drums pounded and the pipe music was
shrill, and everywhere the flow of the crowd was broken by patches
of dancers. The dancers were in a crowd, so you did not see the in-
tricate play of the feet. All you saw was the heads and shoulders
going up and down, up and down. Finally, we got out of the crowd
and made for the cafe. The waiter saved chairs for the others, and
we each ordered an absinthe and watched the crowd in the square and
the dancers.

"What do you suppose that dance is?" Bill asked.

"It's a sort of jota."

"They're not all the same," Bill said. "They dance differently to
all the different tunes."

"It's swell dancing."

In front of us on a clear part of the street a company of boys were
dancing. The steps were very intricate and their faces were intent
and concentrated. They all looked down while they danced. Their
rope-soled shoes tapped and spatted on the pavement. The toes touch-
ed. The heels touched. The balls of the feet touched. Then the music
broke wildly and the step was finished and they were all dancing on
up the street.

"Here come the gentry," Bill said.

They were crossing the street.

"Hello, men," I said.

"Hello, gents!" said Brett. "You saved us seats? How nice."

"I say," Mike said, "that Romero what'shisname is somebody. Am I
wrong?"

"Oh, isn't he lovely," Brett said. "And those green trousers."

"Brett never took her eyes off them."

"I say, I must borrow your glasses to-morrow."

"How did it go?"

"Wonderfully! Simply perfect. I say, it is a spectacle!"

"How about the horses?"

"I couldn't help looking at them."

"She couldn't take her eyes off them," Mike said. "She's an extra-
ordinary wench."

"They do have some rather awful things happen to them," Brett
said. "I couldn't look away, though."

"Did you feel all right?"

"I didn't feel badly at all."

"Robert Cohn did," Mike put in. "You were quite green, Robert."

"The first horse did bother me," Cohn said.

"You weren't bored, were you?" asked Bill.

Cohn laughed.

"No. I wasn't bored. I wish you'd forgive me that."

"It's all right," Bill said, "so long as you weren't bored."

"He didn't look bored," Mike said. "I thought he was going to be
sick."

"I never felt that bad. It was just for a minute."

"I thought he was going to be sick. You weren't bored, were you,
Robert?"

"Let up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said it."

"He was, you know. He was positively green."

"Oh, shove it along, Michael."

"You mustn't ever get bored at your first bull-fight, Robert,"
Mike said. "It might make such a mess."

"Oh, shove it along, Michael," Brett said.

"He said Brett was a sadist," Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist.
She's just a lovely, healthy wench."

"Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked.

"Hope not."

"He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, heal-
thy stomach."

"Won't be healthy long."

Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter
brought the absinthe glasses.

"Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn.

"No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show."

"Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said.

"I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said.

"They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never
notice anything disgusting."

"It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a
dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse."

"The bulls were fine," Cohn said.

"They were very good," Mike said.

"I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her
glass of absinthe.

"She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said.

"They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a
child."

"He's a damned good-looking boy," I said. "When we were up in
his room I never saw a better-looking kid."

"How old do you suppose he is?"

"Nineteen or twenty."

"Just imagine it."

The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the
first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill
and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not
think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either,
except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There
were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside
Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her
about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged
the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the
point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that
it became more something that was going on with a definite end,
and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her
watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with
his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him,
smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Rom-
ero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the
last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smooth-
ly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull,
and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used
to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why
she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others.

Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and
pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like
corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks
of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of
danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an un-
pleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, be-
cause he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and
always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time.
He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how
something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridi-
culous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since
the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing
a technique that simulated this appearance of danger in order
to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was
really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his pur-
ity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated
the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he pre-
pared him for the killing.

"I've never seen him do an awkward thing," Brett said.

"You won't until he gets frightened," I said.

"He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned
much."

"He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever
learn what he was born with."

"And God, what looks," Brett said.

"I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-
fighter chap," Mike said.

"I wouldn't be surprised."

"Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him.
Tell her how they beat their old mothers."

"Tell me what drunks they are."

"Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their
time beating their poor old mothers."

"He looks that way," Brett said.

"Doesn't he?" I said.

They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips
cracked, the men ran, and the mules, straining forward, their
legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and the bull, one horn up,
his head on its side, swept a swath smoothly across the sand and
out the red gate.

"This next is the last one."

"Not really," Brett said. She leaned forward on the barrera.
Romero waved his picadors to their places, then stood, his cape
against his chest, looking across the ring to where the bull
would come out.

After it was over we went out and were pressed tight in the
crowd.

"These bull-fights are hell on one," Brett said. "I'm limp as
a rag."

"Oh, you'll get a drink," Mike said.

The next day Pedro Romero did not fight. It was Miura bulls,
and a very bad bull-fight. The next day there was no bull-fight
scheduled. But all day and all night the fiesta kept on.



16



In the morning it was raining. A fog had come over the mountains
from the sea. You could not see the tops of the mountains. The
plateau was dull and gloomy, and the shapes of the trees and the
houses were changed. I walked out beyond the town to look at the
weather. The bad weather was coming over the mountains from the
sea.

The flags in the square hung wet from the white poles and the
banners were wet and hung damp against the front of the houses,
and in between the steady drizzle the rain came down and drove
every one under the arcades and made pools of water in the square,
and the streets wet and dark and deserted; yet the fiesta kept
up without any pause. It was only driven under cover.

The covered seats of the bull-ring had been crowded with people
sitting out of the rain watching the concourse of Basque and Nav-
arrais dancers and singers, and afterward the Val Carlos dancers
in their costumes danced down the street in the rain, the drums
sounding hollow and damp, and the chiefs of the bands riding a-
head on their big, heavy-footed horses, their costumes wet, the
horses' coats wet in the rain. The crowd was in the cafes and
the dancers came in, too, and sat, their tight-wound white legs
under the tables, shaking the water from their belled caps, and
spreading their red and purple jackets over the chairs to dry.
It was raining hard outside.

I left the crowd in the cafe and went over to the hotel to get
shaved for dinner. I was shaving in my room when there was a
knock on the door.

"Come in," I called.

Montoya walked in.

"How are you?" he said.

"Fine," I said.

"No bulls to-day."

"No," I said, "nothing but rain."

"Where are your friends?"

"Over at the Iruna."

Montoya smiled his embarrassed smile.

"Look," he said. "Do you know the American ambassador?"

"Yes," I said. "Everybody knows the American ambassador."

"He's here in town, now."

"Yes," I said. "Everybody's seen them."

"I've seen them, too," Montoya said. He didn't say anything.
I went on shaving.

"Sit down," I said. "Let me send for a drink."

"No, I have to go."

I finished shaving and put my face down into the bowl and
washed it with cold water. Montoya was standing there looking
more embarrassed.

"Look," he said. "I've just had a message from them at the
Grand Hotel that they want Pedro Romero and Marcial Lalanda
to come over for coffee to-night after dinner."

"Well," I said, "it can't hurt Marcial any."

"Marcial has been in San Sebastian all day. He drove over
in a car this morning with Marquez. I don't think they'll
be back tonight."

Montoya stood embarrassed. He wanted me to say something.

"Don't give Romero the message," I said.

"You think so?"

"Absolutely."

Montoya was very pleased.

"I wanted to ask you because you were an American," he said.

"That's what I'd do."

"Look," said Montoya. "People take a boy like that. They don't
know what he's worth. They don't know what he means. Any for-
eigner can flatter him. They start this Grand Hotel business,
and in one year they're through."

"Like Algabeno," I said.

"Yes, like Algabeno."

"They're a fine lot," I said. "There's one American woman down
here now that collects bull-fighters."

"I know. They only want the young ones."

"Yes," I said. "The old ones get fat."

"Or crazy like Gallo."

"Well," I said, "it's easy. All you have to do is not give him
the message."

"He's such a fine boy," said Montoya. "He ought to stay with
his own people. He shouldn't mix in that stuff."

"Won't you have a drink?" I asked.

"No," said Montoya, "I have to go." He went out.

I went down-stairs and out the door and took a walk around
through the arcades around the square. It was still raining.
I looked in at the Irufla for the gang and they were not there,
so I walked on around the square and back to the hotel. They
were eating dinner in the down-stairs dining-room.

They were well ahead of me and it was no use trying to catch
them. Bill was buying shoe-shines for Mike. Bootblacks opened
the street door and each one Bill called over and started to
work on Mike.

"This is the eleventh time my boots have been polished," Mike
said. "I say, Bill is an ass."

The bootblacks had evidently spread the report. Another came
in.

"Limpia botas?" he said to Bill.

"No," said Bill. "For this Senor."

The bootblack knelt down beside the one at work and started on
Mike's free shoe that shone already in the electric light.

"Bill's a yell of laughter," Mike said.

I was drinking red wine, and so far behind them that I felt a
little uncomfortable about all this shoe-shining. I looked a-
round the room. At the next table was Pedro Romero. He stood up
when I nodded, and asked me to come over and meet a friend. His
table was beside ours, almost touching. I met the friend, a Ma-
drid bullfight critic, a little man with a drawn face. I told
Romero how much I liked his work, and he was very pleased. We
talked Spanish and the critic knew a little French. I reached
to our table for my winebottle, but the critic took my arm.
Romero laughed.

"Drink here," he said in English.

He was very bashful about his English, but he was really very
pleased with it, and as we went on talking he brought out words
he was not sure of, and asked me about them. He was anxious to
know the English for Corrida de toros, the exact translation.
Bull-fight he was suspicious of. I explained that bull-fight
in Spanish was the lidia of a toro. The Spanish word corrida
means in English the running of bulls--the French translation
is Course de taureaux. The critic put that in. There is no
Spanish word for bull-fight.

Pedro Romero said he had learned a little English in Gibraltar.
He was born in Ronda. That is not far above Gibraltar. He start-
ed bull-fighting in Malaga in the bull-fighting school there.
He had only been at it three years. The bull-fight critic joked
him about the number of Malagueno expressions he used. He was
nineteen years old, he said. His older brother was with him as
a banderillero, but he did not live in this hotel. He lived in
a smaller hotel with the other people who worked for Romero. He
asked me how many times I had seen him in the ring. I told him
only three. It was really only two, but I did not want to ex-
plain after I had made the mistake.

"Where did you see me the other time? In Madrid?"

"Yes," I lied. I had read the accounts of his two appearances
in Madrid in the bull-fight papers, so I was all right.

"The first or the second time?"

"The first."

"I was very bad," he said. "The second time I was better. You
remember?" He turned to the critic.

He was not at all embarrassed. He talked of his work as some-
thing altogether apart from himself. There was nothing conceit-
ed or braggartly about him.

"I like it very much that you like my work," he said. "But you
haven't seen it yet. To-morrow, if I get a good bull, I will
try and show it to you."

When he said this he smiled, anxious that neither the bull-
fight critic nor I would think he was boasting.

"I am anxious to see it," the critic said. "I would like to
be convinced."

"He doesn't like my work much." Romero turned to me. He was
serious.

The critic explained that he liked it very much, but that so
far it had been incomplete.

"Wait till to-morrow, if a good one comes out."

"Have you seen the bulls for to-morrow?" the critic asked me.

"Yes. I saw them unloaded."

Pedro Romero leaned forward.

"What did you think of them?"

"Very nice," I said. "About twenty-six arrobas. Very short
horns. Haven't you seen them?"

"Oh, yes," said Romero.

"They won't weigh twenty-six arrobas," said the critic.

"No," said Romero.

"They've got bananas for horns," the critic said.

"You call them bananas?" asked Romero. He turned to me and
smiled. "You wouldn't call them bananas?"

"No," I said. "They're horns all right."

"They're very short," said Pedro Romero. "Very, very short.
Still, they aren't bananas."

"I say, Jake," Brett called from the next table, "you have
deserted us."

"Just temporarily," I said. "We're talking bulls."

"You are superior."

"Tell him that bulls have no balls," Mike shouted. He was drunk.

Romero looked at me inquiringly.

"Drunk," I said. "Borracho! Muy borracho!"

"You might introduce your friends," Brett said. She had not
stopped looking at Pedro Romero. I asked them if they would
like to have coffee with us. They both stood up. Romero's face
was very brown. He had very nice manners.

I introduced them all around and they started to sit down, but
there was not enough room, so we all moved over to the big ta-
ble by the wall to have coffee. Mike ordered a bottle of Fun-
dador and glasses for everybody. There was a lot of drunken
talking.

"Tell him I think writing is lousy," Bill said. "Go on, tell
him. Tell him I'm ashamed of being a writer."

Pedro Romero was sitting beside Brett and listening to her.

"Go on. Tell him!" Bill said.

Romero looked up smiling.

"This gentleman," I said, "is a writer."

Romero was impressed. "This other one, too," I said, pointing
at Cohn.

"He looks like Villalta," Romero said, looking at Bill. "Rafael,
doesn't he look like Villalta?"

"I can't see it," the critic said.

"Really," Romero said in Spanish. "He looks a lot like Villalta.
What does the drunken one do?"

"Nothing."

"Is that why he drinks?"

"No. He's waiting to marry this lady."

"Tell him bulls have no balls!" Mike shouted, very drunk, from
the other end of the table.

"What does he say?"

"He's drunk."

"Jake," Mike called. "Tell him bulls have no balls!"

"You understand?" I said.

"Yes."

I was sure he didn't, so it was all right.

"Tell him Brett wants to see him put on those green pants."

"Pipe down, Mike."

"Tell him Brett is dying to know how he can get into those pants."

"Pipe down."

During this Romero was fingering his glass and talking with
Brett. Brett was talking French and he was talking Spanish and
a little English, and laughing.

Bill was filling the glasses.

"Tell him Brett wants to come into--"

"Oh, pipe down, Mike, for Christ's sake!"

Romero looked up smiling. "Pipe down! I know that," he said.

Just then Montoya came into the room. He started to smile at me,
then he saw Pedro Romero with a big glass of cognac in his hand,
sitting laughing between me and a woman with bare shoulders, at
a table full of drunks. He did not even nod.

Montoya went out of the room. Mike was on his feet proposing a
toast. "Let's all drink to--" he began. "Pedro Romero," I said.
Everybody stood up. Romero took it very seriously, and we touch-
ed glasses and drank it down, I rushing it a little because Mike
was trying to make it clear that that was not at all what he was
going to drink to. But it went off all right, and Pedro Romero
shook hands with every one and he and the critic went out toge-
ther.

"My God! he's a lovely boy," Brett said. "And how I would love
to see him get into those clothes. He must use a shoe-horn."

"I started to tell him," Mike began. "And Jake kept interrupting
me. Why do you interrupt me? Do you think you talk Spanish bett-
er than I do?"

"Oh, shut up, Mike! Nobody interrupted you."

"No, I'd like to get this settled." He turned away from me. "Do
you think you amount to something, Cohn? Do you think you belong
here among us? People who are out to have a good time? For God's
sake don't be so noisy, Cohn!"

"Oh, cut it out, Mike," Cohn said.

"Do you think Brett wants you here? Do you think you add to the
party? Why don't you say something?"

"I said all I had to say the other night, Mike."

"I'm not one of you literary chaps." Mike stood shakily and lean-
ed against the table. "I'm not clever. But I do know when I'm not
wanted. Why don't you see when you're not wanted, Cohn? Go away.
Go away, for God's sake. Take that sad Jewish face away. Don't you
think I'm right?"

He looked at us.

"Sure," I said. "Let's all go over to the Iruna."

"No. Don't you think I'm right? I love that woman."

"Oh, don't start that again. Do shove it along, Michael," Brett
said.

"Don't you think I'm right, Jake?"

Cohn still sat at the table. His face had the sallow, yellow
look it got when he was insulted, but somehow he seemed to be
enjoying it. The childish, drunken heroics of it. It was his a-
ffair with a lady of title.

"Jake," Mike said. He was almost crying. "You know I'm right.
Listen, you!" He turned to Cohn: "Go away! Go away now!"

"But I won't go, Mike," said Cohn.

"Then I'll make you!" Mike started toward him around the table.
Cohn stood up and took off his glasses. He stood waiting, his
face sallow, his hands fairly low, proudly and firmly waiting
for the assault, ready to do battle for his lady love.

I grabbed Mike. "Come on to the cafe," I said. "You can't hit
him here in the hotel."

"Good!" said Mike. "Good idea!"

We started off. I looked back as Mike stumbled up the stairs
and saw Cohn putting his glasses on again. Bill was sitting at
the table pouring another glass of Fundador. Brett was sitting
looking straight ahead at nothing.

Outside on the square it had stopped raining and the moon was
trying to get through the clouds. There was a wind blowing. The
military band was playing and the crowd was massed on the far
side of the square where the fireworks specialist and his son
were trying to send up fire balloons. A balloon would start up
jerkily, on a great bias, and be torn by the wind or blown a-
gainst the houses of the square. Some fell into the crowd. The
magnesium flared and the fireworks exploded and chased about
in the crowd. There was no one dancing in the square. The gra-
vel was too wet.

Brett came out with Bill and joined us. We stood in the crowd
and watched Don Manuel Orquito, the fireworks king, standing
on a little platform, carefully starting the balloons with
sticks, standing above the heads of the crowd to launch the
balloons off into the wind. The wind brought them all down,
and Don Manuel Orquito's face was sweaty in the light of his
complicated fireworks that fell into the crowd and charged and
chased, sputtering and cracking, between the legs of the people.
The people shouted as each new luminous paper bubble careened,
caught fire, and fell.

"They're razzing Don Manuel," Bill said.

"How do you know he's Don Manuel?" Brett said.

"His name's on the programme. Don Manuel Orquito, the pirotec-
nico of esta ciudad."

"Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A collection of globos illum-
inados. That's what the paper said."

The wind blew the band music away.

"I say, I wish one would go up," Brett said. "That Don Manuel
chap is furious."

"He's probably worked for weeks fixing them to go off, spelling
out 'Hail to San Fermin,' " Bill said.

"Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A bunch of bloody globos il-
luminados."

"Come on," said Brett. "We can't stand here."

"Her ladyship wants a drink," Mike said.

"How you know things," Brett said.

Inside, the cafe was crowded and very noisy. No one noticed us
come in. We could not find a table. There was a great noise go-
ing on.

"Come on, let's get out of here," Bill said.

Outside the paseo was going in under the arcade. There were some
English and Americans from Biarritz in sport clothes scattered
at the tables. Some of the women stared at the people going by
with lorgnons. We had acquired, at some time, a friend of Bill's
from Biarritz. She was staying with another girl at the Grand
Hotel. The other girl had a headache and had gone to bed.

"Here's the pub," Mike said. It was the Bar Milano, a small,
tough bar where you could get food and where they danced in the
back room. We all sat down at a table and ordered a bottle of
Fundador. The bar was not full. There was nothing going on.

"This is a hell of a place," Bill said.

"It's too early."

"Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't
want to sit here on a night like this."

"Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look
at the English."

"They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?"

"They come from Biarritz," Mike said. "They come to see the last
day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta."

"I'll festa them," Bill said.

"You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to
Bill's friend. "When did you come here?"

"Come off it, Michael."

"I say, she is a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I
been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. Have we met?
Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English."

"I'll festa them," Bill said. "What the hell are they doing at
this fiesta?"

"Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the
bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate
the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill."

Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going to-
ward the cafe. Rockets were going up in the square.

"I'm going to sit here," Brett said.

"I'll stay with you," Cohn said.

"Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere.
Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?"

"I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt
a little tight."

"What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're
tight, go to bed. Go on to bed."

"Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My
God! I'm so sick of him!"

"He doesn't add much to the gayety."

"He depresses me so."

"He's behaved very badly."

"Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well."

"He's probably waiting just outside the door now."

"Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't be-
lieve it didn't mean anything."

"I know."

"Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the
whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too."

"It's been damned hard on Mike."

"Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine."

"Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper
chance."

"You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me.

"I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said.

"Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot."

"All right. Talk about anything you like."

"Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I
feel rather awful to-night."

"You've got Mike."

"Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?"

"Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn
around and seeing him with you."

"Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any
worse than I do."

Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept
looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall.

"Want to go for a walk?"

"Yes. Come on."

I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender.

"Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves
are rotten."

We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy.

"Come on," said Brett.

As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from under the
arcade.

"He was there," Brett said.

"He can't be away from you."

"Poor devil!"

"I'm not sorry for him. I hate him, myself."

"I hate him, too," she shivered. "I hate his damned suffer-
ing."

We walked arm in arm down the side Street away from the
crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and
wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the
edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out
from their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden
bursts of music.

"Want to go in?"

"No."

We walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone wall
of the fortifications. I spread a newspaper on the stone
and Brett sat down. Across the plain it was dark, and we
could see the mountains. The wind was high up and took the
clouds across the moon. Below us were the dark pits of the
fortifications. Behind were the trees and the shadow of
the cathedral, and the town silhouetted against the moon.

"Don't feel bad," I said.

"I feel like hell," Brett said. "Don't let's talk."

We looked out at the plain. The long lines of trees were
dark in the moonlight. There were the lights of a car on
the road climbing the mountain. Up on the top of the moun-
tain we saw the lights of the fort. Below to the left was
the river. It was high from the rain, and black and smooth.
Trees were dark along the banks. We sat and looked out.
Brett stared straight ahead. Suddenly she shivered.

"It's cold."

"Want to walk back?"

"Through the park."

We climbed down. It was clouding over again. In the park
it was dark under the trees.

"Do you still love me, Jake?"

"Yes," I said.

"Because I'm a goner," Brett said.

"How?"

"I'm a goner. I'm mad about the Romero boy. I'm in love
with him, I think."

"I wouldn't be if I were you."

"I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up in-
side."

"Don't do it."

"I can't help it. I've never been able to help anything."

"You ought to stop it."

"How can I stop it? I can't stop things. Feel that?"

Her hand was trembling.

"I'm like that all through."

"You oughtn't to do it."

"I can't help it. I'm a goner now, anyway. Don't you see
the difference?"

"No."

"I've got to do something. I've got to do something I real-
ly want to do. I've lost my self-respect."

"You don't have to do that."

"Oh, darling, don't be difficult. What do you think it's
meant to have that damned Jew about, and Mike the way he's
acted?"

"Sure."

"I can't just stay tight all the time."

"No."

"Oh, darling, please stay by me. Please stay by me and see
me through this."

"Sure."

"I don't say it's right. It is right though for me. God
knows, I've never felt such a bitch."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Come on," Brett said. "Let's go and find him."

Together we walked down the gravel path in the park in the
dark, under the trees and then out from under the trees and
past the gate into the Street that led into town.

Pedro Romero was in the cafe. He was at a table with other
bullfighters and bull-fight critics. They were smoking ci-
gars. When we came in they looked up. Romero smiled and
bowed. We sat down at a table half-way down the room.

"Ask him to come over and have a drink."

"Not yet. He'll come over."

"I can't look at him."

"He's nice to look at," I said.

"I've always done just what I wanted."

"I know."

"I do feel such a bitch."

"Well," I said.

"My God!" said Brett, "the things a woman goes through."

"Yes?"

"Oh, I do feel such a bitch."

I looked across at the table. Pedro Romero smiled. He said
something to the other people at his table, and stood up.
He came over to our table. I stood up and we shook hands.

"Won't you have a drink?"

"You must have a drink with me," he said. He seated himself,
asking Brett's permission without saying anything. He had
very nice manners. But he kept on smoking his cigar. It went
well with his face.

"You like cigars?" I asked.

"Oh, yes. I always smoke cigars."

It was part of his system of authority. It made him seem old-
er. I noticed his skin. It was clear and smooth and very brown.
There was a triangular scar on his cheek-bone. I saw he was
watching Brett. He felt there was something between them. He
must have felt it when Brett gave him her hand. He was being
very careful. I think he was sure, but he did not want to make
any mistake.

"You fight to-morrow?" I said.

"Yes," he said. "Algabeno was hurt to-day in Madrid. Did you
hear?"

"No," I said. "Badly?"

He shook his head.

"Nothing. Here," he showed his hand. Brett reached out and
spread the fingers apart.

"Oh!" he said in English, "you tell fortunes?"

"Sometimes. Do you mind?"

"No. I like it." He spread his hand flat on the table. "Tell
me I live for always, and be a millionaire."

He was still very polite, but he was surer of himself. "Look,"
he said, "do you see any bulls in my hand?"

He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small.

"There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all
nervous now. She looked lovely.

"Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said
to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more."

"It's a good hand," Brett said. "I think he'll live a long
time."

"Say it to me. Not to your friend."

"I said you'd live a long time."

"I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die."

I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He
shook his head.

"No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends."

I translated to Brett.

"You kill your friends?" she asked.

"Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill
me." He looked at her across the table.

"You know English well."

"Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let
anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks Eng-
lish."

"Why?" asked Brett.

"It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet."

"Why not?"

"They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that."

"What are bull-fighters like?"

He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed
the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face.

"Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked
exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural
again. "No. I must forget English."

"Don't forget it, yet," Brett said.

"No?"

"No."

"All right."

He laughed again.

"I would like a hat like that," Brett said.

"Good. I'll get you one."

"Right. See that you do."

"I will. I'll get you one to-night."

I stood up. Romero rose, too.

"Sit down," I said. "I must go and find our friends and bring
them here."

He looked at me. It was a final look to ask if it were under-
stood. It was understood all right.

"Sit down," Brett said to him. "You must teach me Spanish."

He sat down and looked at her across the table. I went out. The
hard-eyed people at the bull-fighter table watched me go. It
was not pleasant. When I came back and looked in the cafe,
twenty minutes later, Brett and Pedro Romero were gone. The
coffee-glasses and our three empty cognac-glasses were on the
table. A waiter came with a cloth and picked up the glasses
and mopped off the table.



17



Outside the Bar Milano I found Bill and Mike and Edna. Edna
was the girl's name.

"We've been thrown out," Edna said.

"By the police," said Mike. "There's some people in there that
don't like me."

"I've kept them out of four fights," Edna said. "You've got to
help me."

Bill's face was red.

"Come back in, Edna," he said. "Go on in there and dance with
Mike."

"It's silly," Edna said. "There'll just be another row."

"Damned Biarritz1 swine," Bill said.

"Come on," Mike said. "After all, it's a pub. They can't occupy
a whole pub."

"Good old Mike," Bill said. "Damned English swine come here and
insult Mike and try and spoil the fiesta."

"They're so bloody," Mike said. "I hate the English."

"They can't insult Mike," Bill said. "Mike is a swell fellow.
They can't insult Mike. I won't stand it. Who cares if he is a
damn bankrupt?" His voice broke.

"Who cares?" Mike said. "I don't care. Jake doesn't care. Do
you care?"

"No," Edna said. "Are you a bankrupt?"

"Of course I am. You don't care, do you, Bill?"

Bill put his arm around Mike's shoulder.

"I wish to hell I was a bankrupt. I'd show those bastards."

"They're just English," Mike said. "It never makes any differ-
ence what the English say."

"The dirty swine," Bill said. "I'm going to clean them out."

"Bill," Edna looked at me. "Please don't go in again, Bill.
They're so stupid."

"That's it," said Mike. "They're stupid. I knew that was what
it was."

"They can't say things like that about Mike," Bill said.

"Do you know them?" I asked Mike.

"No. I never saw them. They say they know me."

"I won't stand it," Bill said.

"Come on. Let's go over to the Suizo," I said.

"They're a bunch of Edna's friends from Biarritz," Bill said.

"They're simply stupid," Edna said.

"One of them's Charley Blackman, from Chicago," Bill said.

"I was never in Chicago," Mike said.

Edna started to laugh and could not stop.

"Take me away from here," she said, "you bankrupts."

"What kind of a row was it?" I asked Edna. We were walking
across the square to the Suizo. Bill was gone.

"I don't know what happened, but some one had the police call-
ed to keep Mike out of the back room. There were some people
that had known Mike at Cannes. What's the matter with Mike?"

"Probably he owes them money," I said. "That's what people
usually get bitter about."

In front of the ticket-booths out in the square there were
two lines of people waiting. They were sitting on chairs or
crouched on the ground with blankets and newspapers around
them. They were waiting for the wickets to open in the morn-
ing to buy tickets for the bull-fight. The night was clearing
and the moon was out. Some of the people in the line were
sleeping.

At the Cafe Suizo we had just sat down and ordered Fundador
when Robert Cohn came up.

"Where's Brett?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"She was with you."

"She must have gone to bed."

"She's not."

"I don't know where she is."

His face was sallow under the light. He was standing up.

"Tell me where she is."

"Sit down," I said. "I don't know where she is."

"The hell you don't!"

"You can shut your face."

"Tell me where Brett is."

"I'll not tell you a damn thing."

"You know where she is."

"If I did I wouldn't tell you."

"Oh, go to hell, Cohn," Mike called from the table. "Brett's
gone off with the bull-fighter chap. They're on their honey-
moon."

"You shut up."

"Oh, go to hell!" Mike said languidly.

"Is that where she is?" Cohn turned to me.

"Go to hell!"

"She was with you. Is that where she is?"

"Go to hell!"

"I'll make you tell me"--he stepped forward--"you damned pimp."

I swung at him and he ducked. I saw his face duck sideways in
the light. He hit me and I sat down on the pavement. As I start-
ed to get on my feet he hit me twice. I went down backward under
a table. I tried to get up and felt I did not have any legs. I
felt I must get on my feet and try and hit him. Mike helped me
up. Some one poured a carafe of water on my head. Mike had an
arm around me, and I found I was sitting on a chair. Mike was
pulling at my ears.

"I say, you were cold," Mike said.

"Where the hell were you?"

"Oh, I was around."

"You didn't want to mix in it?"

"He knocked Mike down, too," Edna said.

"He didn't knock me out," Mike said. "I just lay there."

"Does this happen every night at your fiestas?" Edna asked.
"Wasn't that Mr. Cohn?"

"I'm all right," I said. "My head's a little wobbly."

There were several waiters and a crowd of people standing around.

"Vaya!" said Mike. "Get away. Go on."

The waiters moved the people away.

"It was quite a thing to watch," Edna said. "He must be a boxer."

"He is."

"I wish Bill had been here," Edna said. "I'd like to have seen
Bill knocked down, too. I've always wanted to see Bill knocked
down. He's so big."

"I was hoping he would knock down a waiter," Mike said, "and get
arrested. I'd like to see Mr. Robert Cohn in jail."

"No," I said.

"Oh, no," said Edna. "You don't mean that."

"I do, though," Mike said. "I'm not one of these chaps likes be-
ing knocked about. I never play games, even."

Mike took a drink.

"I never liked to hunt, you know. There was always the danger of
having a horse fall on you. How do you feel, Jake?"

"All right."

"You're nice," Edna said to Mike. "Are you really a bankrupt?"

"I'm a tremendous bankrupt," Mike said. "I owe money to everybo-
dy. Don't you owe any money?"

"Tons."

"I owe everybody money," Mike said. "I borrowed a hundred pese-
tas from Montoya to-night."

"The hell you did," I said.

"I'll pay it back," Mike said. "I always pay everything back."

"That's why you're a bankrupt, isn't it?" Edna said.

I stood up. I had heard them talking from a long way away. It
all seemed like some bad play.

"I'm going over to the hotel," I said. Then I heard them talk-
ing about me.

"Is he all right?" Edna asked.

"We'd better walk with him."

"I'm all right," I said. "Don't come. I'll see you all later."

I walked away from the cafe. They were sitting at the table. I
looked back at them and at the empty tables. There was a waiter
sitting at one of the tables with his head in his hands.

Walking across the square to the hotel everything looked new and
changed. I had never seen the trees before. I had never seen the
flagpoles before, nor the front of the theatre. It was all diff-
erent. I felt as I felt once coming home from an out-of-town foot-
ball game. I was carrying a suitcase with my football things in
it, and I walked up the street from the station in the town I had
lived in all my life and it was all new. They were raking the
lawns and burning leaves in the road, and I stopped for a long
time and watched. It was all strange. Then I went on, and my feet
seemed to be a long way off, and everything seemed to come from
a long way off, and I could hear my feet walking a great distance
away. I had been kicked in the head early in the game. It was
like that crossing the square. It was like that going up the
stairs in the hotel. Going up the stairs took a long time, and I
had the feeling that I was carrying my suitcase. There was a
light in the room. Bill came out and met me in the hall.

"Say," he said, "go up and see Cohn. He's been in a jam, and
he's asking for you."

"The hell with him."

"Go on. Go on up and see him."

I did not want to climb another flight of stairs.

"What are you looking at me that way for?"

"I'm not looking at you. Go on up and see Cohn. He's in bad
shape."

"You were drunk a little while ago," I said.

"I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and see Cohn. He
wants to see you."

"All right," I said. It was just a matter of climbing more
stairs. I went on up the stairs carrying my phantom suitcase.
I walked down the hail to Cohn's room. The door was shut and I
knocked.

"Who is it?"

"Barnes."

"Come in, Jake."

I opened the door and went in, and set down my suitcase. There
was no light in the room. Cohn was lying, face down, on the bed
in the dark.

"Hello, Jake."

"Don't call me Jake."

I stood by the door. It was just like this that I had come home.
Now it was a hot bath that I needed. A deep, hot bath, to lie
back in.

"Where's the bathroom?" I asked.

Cohn was crying. There he was, face down on the bed, crying.

He had on a white polo shirt, the kind he'd worn at Princeton.

"I'm sorry, Jake. Please forgive me."

"Forgive you, hell."

"Please forgive me, Jake."

I did not say anything. I stood there by the door.

"I was crazy. You must see how it was."

"Oh, that's all right."

"I couldn't stand it about Brett."

"You called me a pimp."

I did not care. I wanted a hot bath. I wanted a hot bath in deep
water.

"I know. Please don't remember it. I was crazy."

"That's all right."

He was crying. His voice was funny. He lay there in his white
shirt on the bed in the dark. His polo shirt.

"I'm going away in the morning."

He was crying without making any noise.

"I just couldn't stand it about Brett. I've been through hell,
Jake. It's been simply hell. When I met her down here Brett treat-
ed me as though I were a perfect stranger. I just couldn't stand
it. We lived together at San Sebastian. I suppose you know it. I
can't stand it any more."

He lay there on the bed.

"Well," I said, "I'm going to take a bath."

"You were the only friend I had, and I loved Brett so."

"Well," I said, "so long."

"I guess it isn't any use," he said. "I guess it isn't any damn
use."

"What?"

"Everything. Please say you forgive me, Jake."

"Sure," I said. "It's all right."

"I felt so terribly. I've been through such hell, Jake. Now ever-
ything's gone. Everything."

"Well," I said, "so long. I've got to go."

He rolled over sat on the edge of the bed, and then stood up.

"So long, Jake," he said. "You'll shake hands, won't you?"

"Sure. Why not?"

We shook hands. In the dark I could not see his face very well.

"Well," I said, "see you in the morning."

"I'm going away in the morning."

"Oh, yes," I said.

I went out. Cohn was standing in the door of the room.

"Are you all right, Jake?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," I said. "I'm all right."

I could not find the bathroom. After a while I found it. There
was a deep stone tub. I turned on the taps and the water would
not run. I sat down on the edge of the bath-tub. When I got up
to go I found I had taken off my shoes. I hunted for them and
found them and carried them down-stairs. I found my room and
went inside and undressed and got into bed.

I woke with a headache and the noise of the bands going by in
the street. I remembered I had promised to take Bill's friend
Edna to see the bulls go through the street and into the ring.
I dressed and went down-stairs and out into the cold early
morning. People were crossing the square, hurrying toward the
bull-ring. Across the square were the two lines of men in
front of the ticket-booths. They were still waiting for the
tickets to go on sale at seven o'clock. I hurried across the
street to the cafe. The waiter told me that my friends had
been there and gone.

"How many were they?"

"Two gentlemen and a lady."

That was all right. Bill and Mike were with Edna. She had
been afraid last night they would pass out. That was why I
was to be sure to take her. I drank the coffee and hurried
with the other people toward the bull-ring. I was not groggy
now. There was only a bad headache. Everything looked sharp
and clear, and the town smelt of the early morning.

The stretch of ground from the edge of the town to the bull-
ring was muddy. There was a crowd all along the fence that
led to the ring, and the outside balconies and the top of
the bull-ring were solid with people. I heard the rocket and
I knew I could not get into the ring in time to see the bulls
come in, so I shoved through the crowd to the fence. I was
pushed close against the planks of the fence. Between the
two fences of the runway the police were clearing the crowd
along. They walked or trotted on into the bull-ring. Then
people commenced to come running. A drunk slipped and fell.
Two policemen grabbed him and rushed him over to the fence.
The crowd were running fast now. There was a great shout
from the crowd, and putting my head through between the
boards I saw the bulls just coming out of the street into
the long running pen. They were going fast and gaining on
the crowd. Just then another drunk started out from the
fence with a blouse in his hands. He wanted to do capework
with the bulls. The two policemen tore out, collared him,
one hit him with a club, and they dragged him against the
fence and stood flattened out against the fence as the last
of the crowd and the bulls went by. There were so many peo-
ple running ahead of the bulls that the mass thickened and
slowed up going through the gate into the ring, and as the
bulls passed, galloping together, heavy, muddy-sided, horns
swinging, one shot ahead, caught a man in the running crowd
in the back and lifted him in the air. Both the man's arms
were by his sides, his head went back as the horn went in,
and the bull lifted him and then dropped him. The bull pick-
ed another man running in front, but the man disappeared
into the crowd, and the crowd was through the gate and into
the ring with the bulls behind them. The red door of the
ring went shut, the crowd on the outside balconies of the
bull-ring were pressing through to the inside, there was a
shout, then another shout.

The man who had been gored lay face down in the trampled
mud. People climbed over the fence, and I could not see the
man because the crowd was so thick around him. From inside
the ring came the shouts. Each shout meant a charge by some
bull into the crowd. You could tell by the degree of inten-
sity in the shout how bad a thing it was that was happening.
Then the rocket went up that meant the steers had gotten the
bulls out of the ring and into the corrals. I left the fence
and started back toward the town.

Back in the town I went to the cafe to have a second coffee
and some buttered toast. The waiters were sweeping out the
cafe and mopping off the tables. One came over and took my
order.

"Anything happen at the encierro?"

"I didn't see it all. One man was badly cogido."

"Where?"

"Here." I put one hand on the small of my back and the other
on my chest, where it looked as though the horn must have
come through. The waiter nodded his head and swept the crumbs
from the table with his cloth.

"Badly cogido," he said. "All for sport. All for pleasure."

He went away and came back with the long-handled coffee and
milk pots. He poured the milk and coffee. It came out of the
long spouts in two streams into the big cup. The waiter nodd-
ed his head.

"Badly cogido through the back," he said. He put the pots
down on the table and sat down in the chair at the table.
"A big horn wound. All for fun. Just for fun. What do you
think of that?"

"I don't know."

"That's it. All for fun. Fun, you understand."

"You're not an aficionado?"

"Me? What are bulls? Animals. Brute animals." He stood up
and put his hand on the small of his back. "Right through
the back. A cornada right through the back. For fun--you un-
derstand."

He shook his head and walked away, carrying the coffee-pots.
Two men were going by in the street. The waiter shouted to
them. They were grave-looking. One shook his head. "Muerto!"
he called.

The waiter nodded his head. The two men went on. They were
on some errand. The waiter came over to my table.

"You hear? Muerto. Dead. He's dead. With a horn through him.
All for morning fun. Es muy flamenco."

"It's bad."

"Not for me," the waiter said. "No fun in that for me."

Later in the day we learned that the man who was killed was
named Vicente Girones, and came from near Tafalla. The next
day in the paper we read that he was twenty-eight years old,
and had a farm, a wife, and two children. He had continued
to come to the fiesta each year after he was married. The
next day his wife came in from Tafalla to be with the body,
and the day after there was a service in the chapel of San
Fermin, and the coffin was carried to the railway-station by
members of the dancing and drinking society of Tafalla. The
drums marched ahead, and there was music on the fifes, and
behind the men who carried the coffin walked the wife and
two children.. . . Behind them marched all the members of
the dancing and drinking societies of Pamplona, Estella, Ta-
falla, and Sanguesa who could stay over for the funeral.
The coffin was loaded into the baggage-car of the train,
and the widow and the two children rode, sitting, all three
together, in an open third-class railwaycarriage. The train
started with a jerk, and then ran smoothly, going down grade
around the edge of the plateau and out into the fields of
grain that blew in the wind on the plain on the way to Taf-
alla.

The bull who killed Vicente Girones was named Bocanegra,
was Number 118 of the bull-breeding establishment of San-
chez Taberno, and was killed by Pedro Romero as the third
bull of that same afternoon. His ear was cut by popular ac-
clamation and given to Pedro Romero, who, in turn, gave it
to Brett, who wrapped it in a handkerchief belonging to my-
self, and left both ear and handkerchief, along with a num-
ber of Muratti cigarette-stubs, shoved far back in the
drawer of the bed-table that stood beside her bed in the
Hotel Montoya, in Pamplona.

Back in the hotel, the night watchman was sitting on a
bench inside the door. He had been there all night and
was very sleepy. He stood up as I came in. Three of the
waitresses came in at the same time. They had been to the
morning show at the bull-ring. They went upstairs laughing.
I followed them up-stairs and went into my room. I took
off my shoes and lay down on the bed. The window was open
onto the balcony and the sunlight was bright in the room.
I did not feel sleepy. It must have been half past three
o'clock when I had gone to bed and the bands had waked me
at six. My jaw was sore on both sides. I felt it with my
thumb and fingers. That damn Cohn. He should have hit
somebody the first time he was insulted, and then gone
away. He was so sure that Brett loved him. He was going
to stay, and true love would conquer all. Some one knock-
ed on the door.

"Come in."

It was Bill and Mike. They sat down on the bed.

"Some encierro," Bill said. "Some encierro."

"I say, weren't you there?" Mike asked. "Ring for some
beer, Bill."

"What a morning!" Bill said. He mopped off his face. "My
God! what a morning! And here's old Jake. Old Jake, the
human punching-bag."

"What happened inside?"

"Good God!" Bill said, "what happened, Mike?"

"There were these bulls coming in," Mike said. "Just ahead
of them was the crowd, and some chap tripped and brought
the whole lot of them down."

"And the bulls all came in right over them," Bill said.

"I heard them yell."

"That was Edna," Bill said.

"Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts."

"One bull went along the barrera and hooked everybody o-
ver."

"They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary," Mike
said.

"What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arrest-
ing chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the
bulls."

"The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said.

"It took about an hour."

"It was really about a quarter of an houi" Mike objected.

"Oh, go to hell," Bill said. "You've been in the war. It
was two hours and a half for me."

"Where's that beer?" Mike asked.

"What did you do with the lovely Edna?"

"We took her home just now. She's gone to bed."

"How did she like it?"

"Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning."

"She was impressed," Mike said.

"She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said.
"She likes action."

"I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said.

"What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!"

"How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked.

"Sore," I said.

Bill laughed.

"Why didn't you hit him with a chair?"

"You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out,
too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him
just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down
in the street, and Jake was lying under a table."

"Where did he go afterward?" I asked.

"Here she is," Mike said. "Here's the beautiful lady with
the beer."

The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and
glasses down on the table.

"Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said.

"Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill.

"Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-
bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, hold-
ing the glass close to the bottle.

"Really?" Bill asked.

"Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap
in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor,
bloody bull-fighter."

"No."

"Yes."

"What a night!" Bill said.

"He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then Cohn
wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an honest woman
of her, I imagine. Damned touching scene."

He took a long drink of the beer.

"He is an ass."

"What happened?"

"Brett gave him what for. She told him off. I think she
was rather good."

"I'll bet she was," Bill said.

"Then Cohn broke down and cried, and wanted to shake hands
with the bull-fighter fellow. He wanted to shake hands with
Brett, too."

"I know. He shook hands with me."

"Did he? Well, they weren't having any of it. The bull-
fighter fellow was rather good. He didn't say much, but he
kept getting up and getting knocked down again. Cohn couldn't
knock him out. It must have been damned funny."

"Where did you hear all this?"

"Brett. I saw her this morning."

"What happened finally?"

"It seems the bull-fighter fellow was sitting on the bed.
He'd been knocked down about fifteen times, and he wanted
to fight some more. Brett held him and wouldn't let him get
up. He was weak, but Brett couldn't hold him, and he got up.
Then Cohn said he wouldn't hit him again. Said he couldn't
do it. Said it would be wicked. So the bull-fighter chap
sort of rather staggered over to him. Cohn went back against
the wall.

"'So you won't hit me?'

"'No,' said Cohn. 'I'd be ashamed to.'

"So the bull-fighter fellow hit him just as hard as he could
in the face, and then sat down on the floor. He couldn't get
up, Brett said. Cohn wanted to pick him up and carry him to
the bed. He said if Cohn helped him he'd kill him, and he'd
kill him anyway this morning if Cohn wasn't out of town. Cohn
was crying, and Brett had told him off, and he wanted to
shake hands. I've told you that before."

"Tell the rest," Bill said.

"It seems the bull-fighter chap was sitting on the floor.
He was waiting to get strength enough to get up and hit Cohn
again. Brett wasn't having any shaking hands, and Cohn was
crying and telling her how much he loved her, and she was
telling him not to be a ruddy ass. Then Cohn leaned down to
shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow.

No hard feelings, you know. All for forgiveness. And the
bull-fighter chap hit him in the face again."

"That's quite a kid," Bill said.

"He ruined Cohn," Mike said. "You know I don't think Cohn
will ever want to knock people about again."

"When did you see Brett?"

"This morning. She came in to get some things. She's look-
ing after this Romero lad."

He poured out another bottle of beer.

"Brett's rather cut up. But she loves looking after people.
That's how we came to go off together. She was looking after
me."

"I know," I said.

"I'm rather drunk," Mike said. "I think I'll stay rather
drunk. This is all awfully amusing, but it's not too plea-
sant. It's not too pleasant for me."

He drank off the beer.

"I gave Brett what for, you know. I said if she would go about
with Jews and bull-fighters and such people, she must expect
trouble." He leaned forward. "I say, Jake, do you mind if I
drink that bottle of yours? She'll bring you another one."

"Please," I said. "I wasn't drinking it, anyway."

Mike started to open the bottle. "Would you mind opening
it?" I pressed up the wire fastener and poured it for him.

"You know," Mike went on, "Brett was rather good. She's al-
ways rather good. I gave her a fearful hiding about Jews and
bullfighters, and all those sort of people, and do you know
what she said: 'Yes. I've had such a hell of a happy life
with the British aristocracy!'

He took a drink.

"That was rather good. Ashley, chap she got the title from,
was a sailor, you know. Ninth baronet. When he came home he
wouldn't sleep in a bed. Always made Brett sleep on the floor.
Finally, when he got really bad, he used to tell her he'd
kill her. Always slept with a loaded service revolver. Brett
used to take the shells out when he'd gone to sleep. She
hasn't had an absolutely happy life, Brett. Damned shame,
too. She enjoys things so."

He stood up. His hand was shaky.

"I'm going in the room. Try and get a little sleep."

He smiled.

"We go too long without sleep in these fiestas. I'm going
to start now and get plenty of sleep. Damn bad thing not to
get sleep. Makes you frightfully nervy."

"We'll see you at noon at the Iruna," Bill said.

Mike went out the door. We heard him in the next room.

He rang the bell and the chambermaid came and knocked at
the door.

"Bring up half a dozen bottles of beer and a bottle of Fun-
dador," Mike told her.

"Si, Senorito."

"I'm going to bed," Bill said. "Poor old Mike. I had a hell
of a row about him last night."

"Where? At that Milano place?"

"Yes. There was a fellow there that had helped pay Brett
and Mike out of Cannes, once. He was damned nasty."

"I know the story."

"I didn't. Nobody ought to have a right to say things about
Mike."

"That's what makes it bad."

"They oughtn't to have any right. I wish to hell they didn't
have any right. I'm going to bed."

"Was anybody killed in the ring?"

"I don't think so. Just badly hurt."

"A man was killed outside in the runway."

"Was there?" said Bill.



18



At noon we were all at the cafe. It was crowded. We were eat-
ing shrimps and drinking beer. The town was crowded. Every
street was full. Big motor-cars from Biarritz and San Sebas-
tian kept driving up and parking around the square. They
brought people for the bullfight. Sight-seeing cars came up,
too. There was one with twentyfive Englishwomen in it. They
sat in the big, white car and looked through their glasses at
the fiesta. The dancers were all quite drunk. It was the last
day of the fiesta.

The fiesta was solid and unbroken, but the motor-cars and tou-
rist-cars made little islands of onlookers. When the cars emp-
tied, the onlookers were absorbed into the crowd. You did not
see them again except as sport clothes, odd-looking at a table
among the closely packed peasants in black smocks. The fiesta
absorbed even the Biarritz English so that you did not see
them unless you passed close to a table. All the time there
was music in the street. The drums kept on pounding and the
pipes were going. Inside the cafes men with their hands grip-
ping the table, or on each other's shoulders, were singing the
hard-voiced singing.

"Here comes Brett," Bill said.

I looked and saw her coming through the crowd in the square,
walking, her head up, as though the fiesta were being staged
in her honor, and she found it pleasant and amusing.

"Hello, you chaps!" she said. "I say, I have a thirst."

"Get another big beer," Bill said to the waiter.

"Shrimps?"

"Is Cohn gone?" Brett asked.

"Yes," Bill said. "He hired a car."

The beer came. Brett started to lift the glass mug and her
hand shook. She saw it and smiled, and leaned forward and
took a long sip.

"Good beer."

"Very good," I said. I was nervous about Mike. I did not
think he had slept. He must have been drinking all the time,
but he seemed to be under control.

"I heard Cohn had hurt you, Jake," Brett said.

"No. Knocked me out. That was all."

"I say, he did hurt Pedro Romero," Brett said. "He hurt him
most badly."

"How is he?"

"He'll be all right. He won't go out of the room."

"Does he look badly?"

"Very. He was really hurt. I told him I wanted to pop out and
see you chaps for a minute."

"Is he going to fight?"

"Rather. I'm going with you, if you don't mind."

"How's your boy friend?" Mike asked. He had not listened to
anything that Brett had said.

"Brett's got a bull-fighter," he said. "She had a Jew named
Cohn, but he turned out badly."

Brett stood up.

"I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Micha-
el."

"How's your boy friend?"

"Damned well," Brett said. "Watch him this afternoon."

"Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody
bullfighter."

"Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk to you,
Jake."

"Tell him all about your bull-fighter," Mike said. "Oh, to
hell with your bull-fighter!" He tipped the table so that all
the beers and the dIsh of shrimps went over in a crash.

"Come on," Brett said. "Let's get out of this."

In the crowd crossing the square I said: "How is it?"

"I'm not going to see him after lunch until the fight. His
people come in and dress him. They're very angry about me, he
says."

Brett was radiant. She was happy. The sun was out and the day
was bright.

"I feel altogether changed," Brett said. "You've no idea,
Jake."

"Anything you want me to do?"

"No, just go to the fight with me."

"We'll see you at lunch?"

"No. I'm eating with him."

We were standing under the arcade at the door of the hotel.
They were carrying tables out and setting them up under the
arcade.

"Want to take a turn out to the park?" Brett asked. "I don't
want to go up yet. I fancy he's sleeping."

We walked along past the theatre and out of the square and a-
long through the barracks of the fair, moving with the crowd
between the lines of booths. We came out on a cross-street that
led to the Paseo de Sarasate. We could see the crowd walking
there, all the fashionably dressed people. They were making the
turn at the upper end of the park.

"Don't let's go there," Brett said. "I don't want staring at
just now."

We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain
and the clouds from the sea.

"I hope the wind goes down," Brett said. "It's very bad for
him."

"So do I."

"He says the bulls are all right."

"They're good."

"Is that San Fermin's?"

Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel.

"Yes. Where the show started on Sunday."

"Let's go in. Do you mind? I'd rather like to pray a little
for him or something."

We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very light-
ly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them
as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at
one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stif-
fen beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead.

"Come on," she whispered throatily. "Let's get out of here. Makes
me damned nervous."

Outside in the hot brightness of the Street Brett looked up at
the tree-tops in the wind. The praying had not been much of a
success.

"Don't know why I get so nervy in church," Brett said. "Never
does me any good."

We walked along.

"I'm damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've
the wrong type of face.

"You know," Brett said, "I'm not worried about him at all. I just
feel happy about him."

"Good."

"I wish the wind would drop, though."

"It's liable to go down by five o'clock."

"Let's hope."

"You might pray," I laughed.

"Never does me any good. I've never gotten anything I prayed for.
Have you?"

"Oh, yes."

"Oh, rot," said Brett. "Maybe it works for some people, though
you don't look very religious, Jake."

"I'm pretty religious."

"Oh, rot," said Brett. "Don't start proselyting to-day. To-day's
going to be bad enough as it is."

It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless
way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in
front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already sev-
eral were filled with people eating.

"Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad."

"Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German maitre d'hotel
said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned
to him:

"Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?"

"No, ma'am."

"Good," said Brett.

"Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his
dirty little pink-and-white smile.

"Iss madam eating here?"

"No," Brett said.

"Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff."

"Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad
shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs.
He bowed and did not smile.

"I'll see you at the cafe," Brett said. "Thank you, so much,
Jake."

We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight
down the hail and into Romero's room. She did not knock. She
simply opened the door, went in, and closed it behind her.

I stood in front of the door of Mike's room and knocked. There
was no answer. I tried the knob and it opened. Inside the room
was in great disorder. All the bags were opened and clothing was
strewn around. There were empty bottles beside the bed. Mike lay
on the bed looking like a death mask of himself. He opened his
eyes and looked at me.

"Hello, Jake," he said very slowly. "I'm getting a lit tle sleep.
I've want ed a lit tle sleep for a long time."

"Let me cover you over."

"No. I'm quite warm."

"Don't go. I have n't got ten to sleep yet."

"You'll sleep, Mike. Don't worry, boy."

"Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "But her Jew has gone
away."

He turned his head and looked at me.

"Damned good thing, what?"

"Yes. Now go to sleep, Mike. You ought to get some sleep."

"I'm just start ing. I'm go ing to get a lit tie sleep."

He shut his eyes. I went Out of the room and turned the door to
quietly. Bill was in my room reading the paper.

"See Mike?"

"Yes."

"Let's go and eat."

"I won't eat down-stairs with that German head waiter. He was
damned snotty when I was getting Mike up-stairs."

"He was snotty to us, too."

"Let's go out and eat in the town."

We went down the stairs. On the stairs we passed a girl coming
up with a covered tray.

"There goes Brett's lunch," Bill said.

"And the kid's," I said.

Outside on the terrace under the arcade the German head waiter
came up. His red cheeks were shiny. He was being polite.

"I haff a tabul for two for you gentlemen," he said.

"Go sit at it," Bill said. We went on out across the street.

We ate at a restaurant in a side street off the square. They
were all men eating in the restaurant. It was full of smoke
and drinking and singing. The food was good and so was the
wine. We did not talk much. Afterward we went to the cafe and
watched the fiesta come to the boiling-point. Brett came over
soon after lunch. She said she had looked in the room and that
Mike was asleep.

When the fiesta boiled over and toward the bull-ring we went
with the crowd. Brett sat at the ringside between Bill and me.
Directly below us was the callejon, the passageway between the
stands and the red fence of the barrera. Behind us the concrete
stands filled solidly. Out in front, beyond the red fence, the
sand of the ring was smooth-rolled and yellow. It looked a lit-
tle heavy from the rain, but it was dry in the sun and firm and
smooth. The swordhandlers and bull-ring servants came down the
callejon carrying on their shoulders the wicker baskets of
fighting capes and muletas. They were bloodstained and compact-
ly folded and packed in the baskets. The sword-handlers opened
the heavy leather sword-cases so the red wrapped hilts of the
sheaf of swords showed as the leather case leaned against the
fence. They unfolded the dark-stained red flannel of the mule-
tas and fixed batons in them to spread the stuff and give the
matador something to hold. Brett watched it all. She was absorb-
ed in the professional details.

"He's his name stencilled on all the capes and muletas," she
said. "Why do they call them muletas?"

"I don't know."

"I wonder if they ever launder them."

"I don't think so. It might spoil the color."

"The blood must stiffen them," Bill said.

"Funny," Brett said. "How one doesn't mind the blood."

Below in the narrow passage of the callejon the sword-handlers
arranged everything. All the seats were full. Above, all the
boxes were full. There was not an empty seat except in the Pres-
ident's box. When he came in the fight would start. Across the
smooth sand, in the high doorway that led into the corrals, the
bull-fighters were standing, their arms furled in their capes,
talking, waiting for the signal to march in across the arena.
Brett was watching them with the glasses.

"Here, would you like to look?"

I looked through the glasses and saw the three matadors. Romero
was in the centre, Belmonte on his left, Marcial on his right.
Back of them were their people, and behind the banderilleros,
back in the passageway and in the open space of the corral, I
saw the picadors. Romero was wearing a black suit. His tricorn-
ered hat was low down over his eyes. I could not see his face
clearly under the hat, but it looked badly marked. He was look-
ing straight ahead. Marcial was smoking a cigarette guardedly,
holding it in his hand. Belmonte looked ahead, his face wan and
yellow, his long wolf jaw out. He was looking at nothing. Nei-
ther he nor Romero seemed to have anything in common with the
others. They were all alone. The President came in; there was
handclapping above us in the grand stand, and I handed the glas-
ses to Brett. There was applause. The music started. Brett look-
ed through the glasses.

"Here, take them," she said.

Through the glasses I saw Belmonte speak to Romero. Marcial
straightened up and dropped his cigarette, and, looking straight
ahead, their heads back, their free arms swinging, the three mat-
adors walked out. Behind them came all the procession, opening
out, all striding in step, all the capes furled, everybody with
free arms swinging, and behind rode the picadors, their pics ris-
ing like lances. Behind all came the two trains of mules and the
bull-ring servants. The matadors bowed, holding their hats on,
before the President's box, and then came over to the barrera be-
iow us. Pedro Romero took off his heavy gold-brocaded cape and
handed it over the fence to his sword-handler. He said something
to the sword-handler. Close below us we saw Romero's lips were
puffed, both eyes were discolored. His face was discolored and
swollen. The sword-handler took the cape, looked up at Brett,
and came over to us and handed up the cape.

"Spread it out in front of you," I said.

Brett leaned forward. The cape was heavy and smoothly stiff with
gold. The sword-handler looked back, shook his head, and said some-
thing. A man beside me leaned over toward Brett.

"He doesn't want you to spread it," he said. "You should fold it
and keep it in your lap."

Brett folded the heavy cape.

Romero did not look up at us. He was speaking to Belmonte. Bel-
monte had sent his formal cape over to some friends. He looked
across at them and smiled, his wolf smile that was only with the
mouth. Romero leaned over the barrera and asked for the water-jug.
The sword-handler brought it and Romero poured water over the per-
cale of his fighting-cape, and then scuffed the lower folds in the
sand with his slippered foot.

"What's that for?" Brett asked.

"To give it weight in the wind."

"His face looks bad," Bill said.

"He feels very badly," Brett said. "He should be in bed."

The first bull was Belmonte's. Belmonte was very good. But because
he got thirty thousand pesetas and people had stayed in line all
night to buy tickets to see him, the crowd demanded that he should
be more than very good. Belmonte's great attraction is working
close to the bull. In bull-fighting they speak of the terrain of
the bull and the terrain of the bull-fighter. As long as a bull-
fighter stays in his own terrain he is comparatively safe. Each
time he enters into the terrain of the bull he is in great danger.
Belmonte, in his best days, worked always in the terrain of the
bull. This way he gave the sensation of coming tragedy. People went
to the corrida to see Belmonte, to be given tragic sensations, and
perhaps to see the death of Belmonte. Fifteen years ago they said
if you wanted to see Belmonte you should go quickly, while he was
still alive. Since then he has killed more than a thousand bulls.
When he retired the legend grew up about how his bull-fighting had
been, and when he came out of retirement the public were disappoint-
ed because no real man could work as close to the bulls as Belmonte
was supposed to have done, not, of course, even Belmonte.

Also Belmonte imposed conditions and insisted that his bulls should
not be too large, nor too dangerously armed with horns, and so the
element that was necessary to give the sensation of tragedy was not
there, and the public, who wanted three times as much from Belmonte,
who was sick with a fistula,1 as Belmonte had ever been able to give,
felt defrauded and cheated, and Belmonte's jaw came further out in
contempt, and his face turned yellower, and he moved with greater
difficulty as his pain increased, and finally the crowd were act-
ively against him, and he was utterly contemptuous and indifferent.
He had meant to have a great afternoon, and instead it was an after-
noon of sneers, shouted insults, and finally a volley of cushions
and pieces of bread and vegetables, thrown down at him in the plaza
where he had had his greatest triumphs. His jaw only went further
out. Sometimes he turned to smile that toothed, longjawed, lipless
smile when he was called something particularly insulting, and always
the pain that any movement produced grew stronger and stronger, until
finally his yellow face was parchment color, and after his second
bull was dead and the throwing of bread and cushions was over, after
he had saluted the President with the same wolf-jawed smile and con-
temptuous eyes, and handed his sword over the barrera to be wiped,
and put back in its case, he passed through into the callejon and
leaned on the barrera below us, his head on his arms, not seeing,
not hearing anything, only going through his pain. When he looked
up, finally, he asked for a drink of water. He swallowed a little, rins-
ed his mouth, spat the water, took his cape, and went back into the
ring.

Because they were against Belmonte the public were for Romero. From
the moment he left the barrera and went toward the bull they applaud-
ed him. Belmonte watched Romero, too, watched him always without
seeming to. He paid no attention to Marcial. Marcial was the sort of
thing he knew all about. He had come out of retirement to compete
with Marcial, knowing it was a competition gained in advance. He had
expected to compete with Marcial and the other stars of the decadence
of bull-fighting, and he knew that the sincerity of his own bull-
fighting would be so set off by the false aesthetics of the bull-
fighters of the decadent period that he would only have to be in the
ring. His return from retirement had been spoiled by Romero. Romero
did always, smoothly, calmly, and beautifully, what he, Belmonte,
could only bring himself to do now sometimes. The crowd felt it, e-
ven the people from Biarritz, even the American ambassador saw it,
finally. It was a competition that Belmonte would not enter because
it would lead only to a bad horn wound or death. Belmonte was no
longer well enough. He no longer had his greatest moments in the
bull-ring. He was not sure that there were any great moments. Things
were not the same and now life only came in flashes. He had flashes
of the old greatness with his bulls, but they were not of value be-
cause he had discounted them in advance when he had picked the bulls
out for their safety, getting out of a motor and leaning on a fence,
looking over at the herd on the ranch of his friend the bull-breeder.
So he had two small, manageable bulls withoui much horns, and when
he felt the greatness again coming, just a little of it through the
pain that was always with him, it had been discounted and sold in
advance, and it did not give him a good feeling. It was the great-
ness, but it did not make bull-fighting wonderful to him any more.

Pedro Romero had the greatness. He loved bull-fighting, and I think
he loved the bulls, and I think he loved Brett. Everything of which
he could control the locality he did in front of her all that after-
noon. Never once did he look up. He made it stronger that way, and
did it for himself, too, as well as for her. Because he did not look
up to ask if it pleased he did it all for himself inside, and it
strengthened him, and yet he did it for her, too. But he did not do
it for her at any loss to himself. He gained by it all through the
afternoon.

His first "quite" was directly below us. The three matadors take the
bull in turn after each charge he makes at a picador. Belmonte was
the first. Marcial was the second. Then came Romero. The three of
them were standing at the left of the horse. The picador, his hat
down over his eyes, the shaft of his pic angling sharply toward the
bull, kicked in the spurs and held them and with the reins in his
left hand walked the horse forward toward the bull. The bull was
watching. Seemingly he watched the white horse, but really he watch-
ed the triangular steel point of the pic. Romero, watching, saw the
bull start to turn his head. He did not want to charge. Romero flick-
ed his cape so the color caught the bull's eye. The bull charged
with the reflex, charged, and found not the flash of color but a
white horse, and a man leaned far over the horse, shot the steel
point of the long hickory shaft into the hump of muscle on the bull's
shoulder, and pulled his horse sideways as he pivoted on the pic,
making a wound, enforcing the iron into the bull's shoulder, making
him bleed for Belmonte.

The bull did not insist under the iron. He did not really want to
get at the horse. He turned and the group broke apart and Romero
was taking him out with his cape. He took him out softly and smooth-
ly, and then stopped and, standing squarely in front of the bull,
offered him the cape. The bull's tail went up and he charged, and
Romero moved his arms ahead of the bull, wheeling, his feet firmed.
The dampened, mud-weighted cape swung open and full as a sail fills,
and Romero pivoted with it just ahead of the bull. At the end of
the pass they were facing each other again. Romero smiled. The bull
wanted it again, and Romero's cape filled again, this time on the
other side. Each time he let the bull pass so close that the man
and the bull and the cape that filled and pivoted ahead of the bull
were all one sharply etched mass. It was all so slow and so control-
led. It was as though he were rocking the bull to sleep. He made
four veronicas2 like that, and finished with a half-veronica that
turned his back on the bull and came away toward the applause,
his hand on his hip, his cape on his arm, and the bull watching his
back going away.

In his own bulls he was perfect. His first bull did not see well.
After the first two passes with the cape Romero knew exactly how
bad the vision was impaired. He worked accordingly. It was not
brilliant bull-fighting. It was only perfect bull-fighting. The crowd
wanted the bull changed. They made a great row. Nothing very
fine could happen with a bull that could not see the lures, but
the President would not order him replaced.

"Why don't they change him?" Brett asked.

"They've paid for him. They don't want to lose their money."

"It's hardly fair to Romero."

"Watch how he handles a bull that can't see the color."

"It's the sort of thing I don't like to see."

It was not nice to watch if you cared anything about the person
who was doing it. With the bull who could not see the colors of
the capes, or the scarlet flannel of the muleta, Romero had to
make the bull consent with his body. He had to get so close that
the bull saw his body, and would start for it, and then shift the
bull's charge to the flannel and finish out the pass in the class-
ic manner. The Biarritz crowd did not like it. They thought Romero
was afraid, and that was why he gave that little sidestep each
time as he transferred the bull's charge from his own body to the
flannel. They preferred Belmonte's imitation of himself or Marci-
al's imitation of Belmonte. There were three of them in the row
behind us.

"What's he afraid of the bull for? The bull's so dumb he only
goes after the cloth."

"He's just a young bull-fighter. He hasn't learned it yet."

"But I thought he was fine with the cape before."

"Probably he's nervous now."

Out in the centre of the ring, all alone, Romero was going on
with the same thing, getting so close that the bull could see
him plainly, offering the body, offering it again a little close-
r, the bull watching dully, then so close that the bull thought
he had him, offering again and finally drawing the charge and
then, just before the horns came, giving the bull the red cloth
to follow with that little, almost imperceptible, jerk that so
offended the critical judgment of the Biarritz bull-fight experts.

"He's going to kill now," I said to Brett. "The bull's still
strong. He wouldn't wear himself out."

Out in the centre of the ring Romero profiled in front of the bull,
drew the sword out from the folds of the muleta, rose on his toes,
and sighted along the blade. The bull charged as Romero charged.
Romero's left hand dropped the muleta over the bull's muzzle to
blind him, his left shoulder went forward between the horns as the
sword went in, and for just an instant he and the bull were one,
Romero way out over the bull, the right arm extended high up to
where the hilt of the sword had gone in between the bull's shoul-
ders. Then the figure was broken. There was a little jolt as Rome-
ro came clear, and then he was standing, one hand up, facing the
bull, his shirt ripped out from under his sleeve, the white blow-
ing in the wind, and the bull, the red sword hilt tight between
his shoulders, his head going down and his legs settling.

"There he goes," Bill said.

Romero was close enough so the bull could see him. His hand still
up, he spoke to the bull. The bull gathered himself, then his head
went forward and he went over slowly, then all over, suddenly,
four feet in the air.

They handed the sword to Romero, and carrying it blade down, the
muleta in his other hand, he walked over to in front of the Pres-
ident's box, bowed, straightened, and came over to the barrera
and handed over the sword and muleta.

"Bad one," said the sword-handler.

"He made me sweat," said Romero. He wiped off his face. The sword-
handler handed him the water-jug. Romero wiped his lips. It hurt
him to drink Out of the jug. He did not look up at us.

Marcial had a big day. They were still applauding him when Rom-
ero's last bull came in. It was the bull that had sprinted out and
killed the man in the morning running.

During Romero's first bull his hurt face had been very noticeable.
Everything he did showed it. All the concentration of the awkwardly
delicate working with the bull that could not see well brought it
out. The fight with Cohn had not touched his spirit but his face
had been smashed and his body hurt. He was wiping all that out now.
Each thing that he did with this bull wiped that out a little
cleaner. It was a good bull, a big bull, and with horns, and it
turned and recharged easily and surely. He was what Romero wanted
in bulls.

When he had finished his work with the muleta and was ready to
kill, the crowd made him go on. They did not want the bull killed
yet, they did not want it to be over. Romero went on. It was like
a course in bull-fighting. All the passes he linked up, all com-
pleted, all slow, templed and smooth. There were no tricks and no
mystifications. There was no brusqueness. And each pass as it
reached the summit gave you a sudden ache inside. The crowd did
not want it ever to be finished.

The bull was squared on all four feet to be killed, and Romero
killed directly below us. He killed not as he had been forced to
by the last bull, but as he wanted to. He profiled directly in
front of the bull, drew the sword out of the folds of the muleta
and sighted along the blade. The bull watched him. Romero spoke
to the bull and tapped one of his feet. The bull charged and Rome-
ro waited for the charge, the muleta held low, sighting along the
blade, his feet firm. Then without taking a step forward, he be-
came one with the bull, the sword was in high between the shoul-
ders, the bull had followed the low-swung flannel, that disappe-
ared as Romero lurched clear to the left, and it was over. The
bull tried to go forward, his legs commenced to settle, he swung
from side to side, hesitated, then went down on his knees, and
Romero's older brother leaned forward behind him and drove a
short knife into the bull's neck at the base of the horns. The
first time he missed. He drove the knife in again, and the bull
went over, twitching and rigid. Romero's brother, holding the
bull's horn in one hand, the knife in the other, looked up at
the President's box. Handkerchiefs were waving all over the bull-
ring. The President looked down from the box and waved his hand-
kerchief. The brother cut the notched black ear from the dead
bull and trotted over with it to Romero. The bull lay heavy and
black on the sand, his tongue out. Boys were running toward him
from all parts of the arena, making a little circle around him.
They were starting to dance around the bull.

Romero took the ear from his brother and held it up toward the
President. The President bowed and Romero, running to get ahead
of the crowd, came toward us. He leaned up against the barrera
and gave the ear to Brett. He nodded his head and smiled. The
crowd were all about him. Brett held down the cape.

"You liked it?" Romero called.

Brett did not say anything. They looked at each other and smiled.
Brett had the ear in her hand.

"Don't get bloody," Romero said, and grinned. The crowd wanted
him. Several boys shouted at Brett. The crowd was the boys, the
dancers, and the drunks. Romero turned and tried to get through
the crowd. They were all around him trying to lift him and put
him on their shoulders. He fought and twisted away, and started
running, in the midst of them, toward the exit. He did not want
to be carried on people's shoulders. But they held him and lift-
ed him. It was uncomfortable and his legs were spraddled and his
body was very sore. They were lifting him and all running toward
the gate. He had his hand on somebody's shoulder. He looked a-
round at us apologetically. The crowd, running, went out the
gate with him.

We all three went back to the hotel. Brett went upstairs. Bill
and I sat in the down-stairs dining-room and ate some hard-boil-
ed eggs and drank several bottles of beer. Belmonte came down in
his street clothes with his manager and two other men. They sat
at the next table and ate. Belmonte ate very little. They were
leaving on the seven o'clock train for Barcelona. Belmonte wore
a blue-striped shirt and a dark suit, and ate soft-boiled eggs.
The others ate a big meal. Belmonte did not talk. He only ans-
wered questions.

Bill was tired after the bull-fight. So was I. We both took a
bullfight very hard. We sat and ate the eggs and I watched Bel-
monte and the people at his table. The men with him were tough-
looking and businesslike.

"Come on over to the cafe," Bill said. "I want an absinthe."

It was the last day of the fiesta. Outside it was beginning to
be cloudy again. The square was full of people and the fireworks
experts were making up their set pieces for the night and cover-
ing them over with beech branches. Boys were watching. We passed
stands of rockets with long bamboo stems. Outside the cafe there
was a great crowd. The music and the dancing were going on. The
giants and the dwarfs were passing.

"Where's Edna?" I asked Bill.

"I don't know."

We watched the beginning of the evening of the last night of the
fiesta. The absinthe made everything seem better. I drank it
without sugar in the dripping glass, and it was pleasantly bitter.

"I feel sorry about Cohn," Bill said. "He had an awful time."

"Oh, to hell with Cohn," I said.

"Where do you suppose he went?"

"Up to Paris."

"What do you suppose he'll do?"

"Oh, to hell with him."

"What do you suppose he'll do?"

"Pick up with his old girl, probably."

"Who was his old girl?"

"Somebody named Frances."

We had another absinthe.

"When do you go back?" I asked.

"To-morrow."

After a little while Bill said: "Well, it was a swell fiesta."

"Yes," I said, "something doing all the time."

"You wouldn't believe it. It's like a wonderful nightmare."

"Sure," I said. "I'd believe anything. Including nightmares."

"What's the matter? Feel low?"

"Low as hell."

"Have another absinthe. Here, waiter! Another absinthe for this
senor."

"I feel like hell," I said.

"Drink that," said Bill. "Drink it slow."

It was beginning to get dark. The fiesta was going on. I began
to feel drunk but I did not feel any better.

"How do you feel?"

"I feel like hell."

"Have another?"

"It won't do any good."

"Try it. You can't tell; maybe this is the one that gets it. Hey,
waiter! Another absinthe for this senor!"

I poured the water directly into it and stirred it instead of
letting it drip. Bill put in a lump of ice. I stirred the ice
around with a spoon in the brownish, cloudy mixture.

"How is it?"

"Fine."

"Don't drink it fast that way. It will make you sick."

I set down the glass. I had not meant to drink it fast.

"I feel tight."

"You ought to."

"That's what you wanted, wasn't it?"

"Sure. Get tight. Get over your damn depression."

"Well, I'm tight. Is that what you want?"

"Sit down."

"I won't sit down," I said. "I'm going over to the hotel."

I was very drunk. I was drunker than I ever remembered having
been. At the hotel I went up-stairs. Brett's door was open. I
put my head in the room. Mike was sitting on the bed. He waved
a bottle.

"Jake," he said. "Come in, Jake."

I went in and sat down. The room was unstable unless I looked
at some fixed point.

"Brett, you know. She's gone off with the bull-fighter chap."

"No."

"Yes. She looked for you to say good-bye. They went on the sev-
en o'clock train."

"Did they?"

"Bad thing to do," Mike said. "She shouldn't have done it."

"No."

"Have a drink? Wait while I ring for some beer."

"I'm drunk," I said. "I'm going in and lie down."

"Are you blind? I was blind myself."

"Yes," I said, "I'm blind."

"Well, bung-o," Mike said. "Get some sleep, old Jake."

I went out the door and into my own room and lay on the bed. The
bed went sailing off and I sat up in bed and looked at the wall
to make it stop. Outside in the square the fiesta was going on.
It did not mean anything. Later Bill and Mike came in to get me
to go down and eat with them. I pretended to be asleep.

"He's asleep. Better let him alone."

"He's blind as a tick," Mike said. They went out.

I got up and went to the balcony and looked out at the dancing
in the square. The world was not wheeling any more. It was just
very clear and bright, and inclined to blur at the edges. I wash-
ed, brushed my hair. I looked strange to myself in the glass,
and went down-stairs to the dining-room.

"Here he is!" said Bill. "Good old Jake! I knew you wouldn't
pass out."

"Hello, you old drunk," Mike said.

"I got hungry and woke up."

"Eat some soup," Bill said.

The three of us sat at the table, and it seemed as though about
six people were missing.



　　　　　　　　Book Three


19


In the morning it was all over. The fiesta was finished. I woke a-
bout nine o'clock, had a bath, dressed, and went down-stairs. The
square was empty and there were no people on the streets. A few chil-
dren were picking up rocket-sticks in the square. The cafes were just
opening and the waiters were carrying out the comfortable white wick-
er chairs and arranging them around the marble-topped tables in the
shade of the arcade. They were sweeping the streets and sprinkling
them with a hose.

I sat in one of the wicker chairs and leaned back comfortably. The
waiter was in no hurry to come. The white-paper announcements of the
unloading of the bulls and the big schedules of special trains were
still up on the pillars of the arcade. A waiter wearing a blue apron
came out with a bucket of water and a cloth, and commenced to tear
down the notices, pulling the paper off in strips and washing and rub-
bing away the paper that stuck to the stone. The fiesta was over.

I drank a coffee and after a while Bill came over. I watched him come
walking across the square. He sat down at the table and ordered a cof-
fee.

"Well," he said, "it's all over."

"Yes," I said. "When do you go?"

"I don't know. We better get a car, I think. Aren't you going back to
Paris?"

"No. I can stay away another week. I think I'll go to San Sebastian."

"I want to get back."

"What's Mike going to do?"

"He's going to Saint Jean de Luz."

"Let's get a car and all go as far as Bayonne. You can get the train
up from there to-night."

"Good. Let's go after lunch."

"All right. I'll get the car."

We had lunch and paid the bill. Montoya did not come near us. One of
the maids brought the bill. The car was outside. The chauffeur piled
and strapped the bags on top of the car and put them in beside him in
the front seat and we got in. The car went out of the square, along
through the side streets, out under the trees and down the hill and away
from Pamplona. It did not seem like a very long ride. Mike had a bottle
of Fundador. I only took a couple of drinks. We came over the mountains
and out of Spain and down the white roads and through the overfoliaged,
wet, green, Basque country, and finally into Bayonne. We left Bill's bag-
gage at the station, and he bought a ticket to Paris. His train left at
seven-ten. We came out of the station. The car was standing out in front.
"What shall we do about the car?" Bill asked.

"Oh, bother the car," Mike said. "Let's just keep the car with us."

"All right," Bill said. "Where shall we go?"

"Let's go to Biarritz and have a drink."

"Old Mike the spender," Bill said.

We drove in to Biarritz and left the car outside a very Ritz place. We
went into the bar and sat on high stools and drank a whiskey and soda.

"That drink's mine," Mike said.

"Let's roll for it."

So we rolled poker dice out of a deep leather dice-cup. Bill was out
first roll. Mike lost to me and handed the bartender a hundred-franc
note. The whiskeys were twelve francs apiece. We had another round and
Mike lost again. Each time he gave the bartender a good tip. In a room
off the bar there was a good jazz band playing. It was a pleasant bar.
We had another round. I went out on the first roll with four kings. Bill
and Mike rolled. Mike won the first roll with four jacks. Bill won the
second. On the final roll Mike had three kings and let them stay. He
handed the dice-cup to Bill. Bill rattled them and rolled, and there
were three kings, an ace. and a queen.

"It's yours, Mike," Bill said. "Old Mike, the gambler."

"I'm so sorry," Mike said. "I can't get it."

"What's the matter?"

"I've no money," Mike said. "I'm stony. I've just twenty francs. Here,
take twenty francs."

Bill's face sort of changed.

"I just had enough to pay Montoya. Damned lucky to have it, too."

"I'll cash you a check," Bill said.

"That's damned nice of you, but you see I can't write checks."

"What are you going to do for money?"

"Oh, some will come through. I've two weeks allowance should be here. I
can live on tick at this pub in Saint Jean."

"What do you want to do about the car?" Bill asked me. "Do you want to
keep it on?"

"It doesn't make any difference. Seems sort of idiotic."

"Come on, let's have another drink," Mike said.

"Fine. This one is on me," Bill said. "Has Brett any money?" He turned
to Mike.

"I shouldn't think so. She put up most of what I gave to old Montoya."

"She hasn't any money with her?" I asked.

"I shouldn't think so. She never has any money. She gets five hundred
quid a year and pays three hundred and fifty of it in interest to Jews."

"I suppose they get it at the source," said Bill.

"Quite. They're not really Jews. We just call them Jews. They're Scotsmen,
I believe."

"Hasn't she any at all with her?" I asked.

"I hardly think so. She gave it all to me when she left."

"Well," Bill said, "we might as well have another drink."

"Damned good idea," Mike said. "One never gets anywhere by discussing fin-
ances."

"No," said Bill. Bill and I rolled for the next two rounds. Bill lost and
paid. We went out to the car.

"Anywhere you'd like to go, Mike?" Bill asked.

"Let's take a drive. It might do my credit good. Let's drive about a lit-
tle."

"Fine. I'd like to see the coast. Let's drive down toward Hendaye."

"I haven't any credit along the coast."

"You can't ever tell," said Bill.

We drove out along the coast road. There was the green of the headlands,
the white, red-roofed villas, patches of forest, and the ocean very blue
with the tide out and the water curling far out along the beach. We drove
through Saint Jean de Luz and passed through villages farther down the
coast. Back of the rolling country we were going through we saw the moun-
tains we had come over from Pamplona. The road went on ahead. Bill looked
at his watch. It was time for us to go back. He knocked on the glass and
told the driver to turn around. The driver backed the car out into the
grass to turn it. In back of us were the woods, below a stretch of meadow,
then the sea.

At the hotel where Mike was going to stay in Saint Jean we stopped the
car and he got out. The chauffeur carried in his bags. Mike stood by the
side of the car.

"Good-bye, you chaps," Mike said. "It was a damned fine fiesta."

"So long, Mike," Bill said.

"I'll see you around," I said.

"Don't worry about money," Mike said. "You can pay for the car, Jake, and
I'll send you my share."

"So long, Mike."

"So long, you chaps. You've been damned nice."

We all shook hands. We waved from the car to Mike. He stood in the road
watching. We got to Bayonne just before the train left. A porter carried
Bill's bags in from the consigne. I went as far as the inner gate to the
tracks.

"So long, fella," Bill said.

"So long, kid!"

"It was swell. I've had a swell time."

"Will you be in Paris?"

"No, I have to sail on the 17th. So long, fella!"

"So long, old kid!"

He went in through the gate to the train. The porter went ahead with the
bags. I watched the train pull out. Bill was at one of the windows. The
window passed, the rest of the train passed, and the tracks were empty. I
went outside to the car.

"How much do we owe you?" I asked the driver. The price to Bayonne had
been fixed at a hundred and fifty pesetas.

"Two hundred pesetas."

"How much more will it be if you drive me to San Sebastian on your way
back?"

"Fifty pesetas."

"Don't kid me."

"Thirty-five pesetas."

"It's not worth it," I said. "Drive me to the Hotel Panier Fleuri."

At the hotel I paid the driver and gave him a tip. The car was powdered
with dust. I rubbed the rod-case through the dust. It seemed the last thing
that connected me with Spain and the fiesta. The driver put the car in gear
and went down the street. I watched it turn off to take the road to Spain.
I went into the hotel and they gave me a room. It was the same room I had
slept in when Bill and Cohn and I were in Bayonne. That seemed a very long
time ago. I washed, changed my shirt, and went out in the town.

At a newspaper kiosque I bought a copy of the New York Herald and sat in a
cafe to read it. It felt strange to be in France again. There was a safe,
suburban feeling. I wished I had gone up to Paris with Bill, except that
Paris would have meant more fiesta-ing. I was through with fiestas for a
while. It would be quiet in San Sebastian. The season does not open there
until August. I could get a good hotel room and read and swim. There was a
fine beach there. There were wonderful trees along the promenade above the
beach, and there were many children sent down with their nurses before the
season opened. In the evening there would be band concerts under the trees
across from the Cafe Marinas. I could sit in the Marinas and listen.

"How does one eat inside?" I asked the waiter. Inside the cafe was a resta-
urant.

"Well. Very well. One eats very well."

"Good."

I went in and ate dinner. It was a big meal for France but it seemed very
carefully apportioned after Spain. I drank a bottle of wine for company. It
was a Chateau Margaux. It was pleasant to be drinking slowly and to be tast-
ing the wine and to be drinking alone. A bottle of wine was good company.
Afterward I had coffee. The waiter recommended a Basque liqueur called Izzar-
ra. He brought in the bottle and poured a liqueur-glass full. He said Izzarra
was made of the flowers of the Pyrenees. The veritable flowers of the Pyre-
nees. It looked like hair-oil and smelled like Italian strega. I told him to
take the flowers of the Pyrenees away and bring me a vieux marc. The marc was
good. I had a second marc after the coffee.

The waiter seemed a little offended about the flowers of the Pyrenees, so I
overtipped him. That made him happy. It felt comfortable to be in a country
where it is so simple to make people happy. You can never tell whether a Span-
ish waiter will thank you. Everything is on such a clear financial basis in
France. It is the simplest country to live in. No one makes things complicated
by becoming your friend for any obscure reason. If you want people to like you
you have only to spend a little money. I spent a little money and the waiter
liked me. He appreciated my valuable qualities. He would be glad to see me
back. I would dine there again some time and he would be glad to see me, and
would want me at his table. It would be a sincere liking because it would have
a sound basis. I was back in France.

Next morning I tipped every one a little too much at the hotel to make more
friends, and left on the morning train for San Sebastian. At the station I
did not tip the porter more than I should because I did not think I would ev-
er see him again. I only wanted a few good French friends in Bayonne to make
me welcome in case I should come back there again. I knew that if they remem-
bered me their friendship would be loyal.

At Irun we had to change trains and show passports. I hated to leave France.
Life was so simple in France. I felt I was a fool to be going back into Spain.
In Spain you could not tell about anything. I felt like a fool to be going back
into it, but I stood in line with my passport, opened my bags for the customs,
bought a ticket, went through a gate, climbed onto the train, and after forty
minutes and eight tunnels I was at San Sebastian.

Even on a hot day San Sebastian has a certain early-morning quality. The trees
seem as though their leaves were never quite dry. The streets feel as though
they had just been sprinkled. It is always cool and shady on certain streets
on the hottest day. I went to a hotel in the town where I had stopped before,
and they gave me a room with a balcony that opened out above the roofs of the
town. There was a green mountainside beyond the roofs.

I unpacked my bags and stacked my books on the table beside the head of the
bed, put out my shaving things, hung up some clothes in the big armoire, and
made up a bundle for the laundry. Then I took a shower in the bathroom and went
down to lunch. Spain had not changed to summer-time, so I was early. I set my
watch again. I had recovered an hour by coming to San Sebastian.

As I went into the dining-room the concierge brought me a police bulletin to
fill out. I signed it and asked him for two telegraph forms, and wrote a mes-
sage to the Hotel Montoya, telling them to forward all mail and telegrams for
me to this address. I calculated how many days I would be in San Sebastian and
then wrote out a wire to the office asking them to hold mail, but forward all
wires for me to San Sebastian for six days. Then I went in and had lunch.

After lunch I went up to my room, read a while, and went to sleep. When I
woke it was half past four. I found my swimming-suit, wrapped it with a comb
in a towel, and went down-stairs and walked up the street to the Concha. The
tide was about half-way out. The beach was smooth and firm, and the sand yel-
low. I went into a bathing-cabin, undressed, put on my suit, and walked across
the smooth sand to the sea. The sand was warm under bare feet. There were quite
a few people in the water and on the beach. Out beyond where the headlands of
the Concha almost met to form the harbor there was a white line of breakers
and the open sea. Although the tide was going out, there were a few slow roll-
ers. They came in like undulations in the water, gathered weight of water, and
then broke smoothly on the warm sand. I waded out. The water was cold. As a
roller came I dove, swam out under water, and came to the surface with all the
chill gone. I swam out to the raft, pulled myself up, and lay on the hot planks.
A boy and girl were at the other end. The girl had undone the top strap of her
bathing-suit and was browning her back. The boy lay face downward on the raft
and talked to her. She laughed at things he said, and turned her brown back in
the sun. I lay on the raft in the sun until I was dry. Then I tried several
dives. I dove deep once, swimming down to the bottom.

I swam with my eyes open and it was green and dark. The raft made a dark sha-
dow. I came out of the water beside the raft, pulled up, dove once more, hold-
ing it for length, and then swam ashore. I lay on the beach until I was dry,
then went into the bathing-cabin, took off my suit, sloshed myself with fresh
water, and rubbed dry.

I walked around the harbor under the trees to the casino, and then up one of
the cool streets to the Cafe Marinas. There was an orchestra playing inside
the cafe and I sat out on the terrace and enjoyed the fresh coolness in the
hot day, and had a glass of lemonjuice and shaved ice and then a long whiskey
and soda. I sat in front of the Marinas for a long time and read and watched
the people, and listened to the music.

Later when it began to get dark, I walked around the harbor and out along the
promenade, and finally back to the hotel for supper. There was a bicycle-race
on, the Tour du Pays Basque, and the riders were stopping that night in San
Sebastian. In the dining-room, at one side, there was a long table of bicycle-
riders, eating with their trainers and managers. They were all French and Bel-
gians, and paid close attention to their meal, but they were having a good
time. At the head of the table were two good-looking French girls, with much
Rue du Faubourg Montmartre chic. I could not make out whom they belonged to.
They all spoke in slang at the long table and there were many private jokes
and some jokes at the far end that were not repeated when the girls asked to
hear them. The next morning at five o'clock the race resumed with the last
lap, San Sebastian-Bilbao. The bicycle-riders drank much wine, and were burn-
ed and browned by the sun. They did not take the race seriously except among
themselves. They had raced among themselves so often that it did not make
much difference who won. Especially in a foreign country. The money could be
arranged.

The man who had a matter of two minutes lead in the race had an attack of
boils, which were very painful. He sat on the small of his back. His neck was
very red and the blond hairs were sunburned. The other riders joked him about
his boils. He tapped on the table with his fork.

"Listen," he said, "to-morrow my nose is so tight on the handlebars that the
only thing touches those boils is a lovely breeze."

One of the girls looked at him down the table, and he grinned and turned red.
The Spaniards, they said, did not know how to pedal.

I had coffee out on the terrasse with the team manager of one of the big bi-
cycle manufacturers. He said it had been a very pleasant race, and would have
been worth watching if Bottechia had not abandoned it at Pamplona. The dust
had been bad, but in Spain the roads were better than in France. Bicycle road-
racing was the only sport in the world, he said. Had I ever followed the Tour
de France? Only in the papers. The Tour de France was the greatest sporting e-
vent in the world. Following and organizing the road races had made him know
France. Few people know France. All spring and all summer and all fall he spent
on the road with bicycle road-racers. Look at the number of motor-cars now that
followed the riders from town to town in a road race. It was a rich country
and more sportif every year. It would be the most sportif country in the world.
It was bicycle road-racing did it. That and football. He knew France. La France
Sportive. He knew road-racing. We had a cognac. After all, though, it wasn't
bad to get back to Paris. There is only one Paname. In all the world, that is.
Paris is the town the most sportif in the world. Did I know the Chope de Negre?
Did I not. I would see him there some time. I certainly would. We would drink
another fine together. We certainly would. They started at six o'clock less a
quarter in the morning. Would I be up for the depart? I would certainly try to.
Would I like him to call me? It was very interesting. I would leave a call at
the desk. He would not mind calling me. I could not let him take the trouble.
I would leave a call at the desk. We said good-bye until the next morning.

In the morning when I awoke the bicycle-riders and their following cars had
been on the road for three hours. I had coffee and the papers in bed and then
dressed and took my bathing-suit down to the beach. Everything was fresh and
cool and damp in the early morning. Nurses in uniform and in peasant costume
walked under the trees with children. The Spanish children were beautiful.
Some bootblacks sat together under a tree talking to a soldier.

The soldier had only one arm. The tide was in and there was a good breeze
and a surf on the beach.

I undressed in one of the bath-cabins, crossed the narrow line of beach and
went into the water. I swam out, trying to swim through the rollers, but hav-
ing to dive sometimes. Then in the quiet water I turned and floated. Floating
I saw only the sky, and felt the drop and lift of the swells. I swam back to
the surf and coasted in, face down, on a big roller, then turned and swam,
trying to keep in the trough and not have a wave break over me. It made me
tired, swimming in the trough, and I turned and swam out to the raft. The
water was buoyant and cold. It felt as though you could never sink. I swam
slowly, it seemed like a long swim with the high tide, and then pulled up on
the raft and sat, dripping, on the boards that were becoming hot in the sun.
I looked around at the bay, the old town, the casino, the line of trees along
the promenade, and the big hotels with their white porches and gold-lettered
names. Off on the right, almost closing the harbor, was a green hill with a
castle. The raft rocked with the motion of the water. On the other side of
the narrow gap that led into the open sea was another high headland. I thought
I would like to swim across the bay but I was afraid of cramp.

I sat in the sun and watched the bathers on the beach. They looked very small.
After a while I stood up, gripped with my toes on the edge of the raft as it
tipped with my weight, and dove cleanly and deeply, to come up through the
lightening water, blew the salt water out of my head, and swam slowly and ste-
adily in to shore.

After I was dressed and had paid for the bath-cabin, I walked back to the ho-
tel. The bicycle-racers had left several copies of L'Auto around, and I gather-
ed them up in the reading-room and took them out and sat in an easy chair in
the sun toread about and catch up on French sporting life. While I was sitting
there the concierge came out with a blue envelope in his hand.

"A telegram for you, sir."

I poked my finger along under the fold that was fastened down, spread it open,
and read it. It had been forwarded from Paris:

COULD YOU COME HOTEL MONTANA MADRID
AM RATHER IN TROUBLE BRETT.

I tipped the concierge and read the message again. A postman was coming along
the sidewalk. He turned into the hotel. He had a big moustache and looked very
military. He came out of the hotel again. The concierge was just behind him.

"Here's another telegram for you, sir."

"Thank you," I said.

I opened it. It was forwarded from Pamplona.

COULD YOU COME HOTEL MONTANA MADRID
AM RATHER IN TROUBLE BRETT.

The concierge stood there waiting for another tip, probably.

"What time is there a train for Madrid?"

"It left at nine this morning. There is a slow train at eleven, and the Sud
Express at ten to-night."

"Get me a berth on the Sud Express. Do you want the money now?"

"Just as you wish," he said. "I will have it put on the bill."

"Do that."

Well, that meant San Sebastian all shot to hell. I suppose, vaguely, I had ex-
pected something of the sort. I saw the concierge standing in the doorway.

"Bring me a telegram form, please."

He brought it and I took out my fountain-pen and printed:

LADY ASHLEY HOTEL MONTANA MADRID
ARRIVING SUD EXPRESS TOMORROW
LOVE JAKE.

That seemed to handle it. That was it. Send a girl off with one man. Introduce
her to another to go off with him. Now go and bring her back. And sign the
wire with love. That was it all right. I went in to lunch.

I did not sleep much that night on the Sud Express. In the morning I had break-
fast in the dining-car and watched the rock and pine country between Avila and
Escorial. I saw the Escorial out of the window, gray and long and cold in the
sun, and did not give a damn about it. I saw Madrid come up over the plain, a
compact white skyline on the top of a little cliff away off across the sun-
hardened country.

The Norte station in Madrid is the end of the line. All trains finish there.
They don't go on anywhere. Outside were cabs and taxis and a line of hotel
runners. It was like a country town. I took a taxi and we climbed up through
the gardens, by the empty palace and the unfinished church on the edge of the
cliff, and on up until we were in the high, hot, modern town. The taxi coasted
down a smooth street to the Puerta del Sol, and then through the traffic and
out into the Carrera San Jeronimo. All the shops had their awnings down against
the heat. The windows on the sunny side of the street were shuttered. The taxi
stopped at the curb. I saw the sign HOTEL MONTANA on the second floor. The taxi-
driver carried the bags in and left them by the elevator. I could not make the
elevator work, so I walked up. On the second floor up was a cut brass sign:
HOTEL MONTANA. I rang and no one came to the door. I rang again and a maid with
a sullen face opened the door.

"Is Lady Ashley here?" I asked.

She looked at me dully.

"Is an Englishwoman here?"

She turned and called some one inside. A very fat woman came to the door. Her
hair was gray and stiffly oiled in scallops around her face. She was short and
commanding.

"Muy buenos," I said. "Is there an Englishwoman here? I would like to see this
English lady."

"Muy buenos. Yes, there is a female English. Certainly you can see her if she
wishes to see you."

"She wishes to see me."

"The chica will ask her."

"It is very hot."

"It is very hot in the summer in Madrid."

"And how cold in winter."

"Yes, it is very cold in winter."

Did I want to stay myself in person in the Hotel Montana?

Of that as yet I was undecided, but it would give me pleasure if my bags were
brought up from the ground floor in order that they might not be stolen. Nothing
was ever stolen in the Hotel Montana. In other fondas, yes. Not here. No. The
personages of this establishment were rigidly selectioned. I was happy to hear
it. Nevertheless I would welcome the upbringal of my bags.

The maid came in and said that the female English wanted to see the male English
now, at once.

"Good," I said. "You see. It is as I said."

"Clearly."

I followed the maid's back down a long, dark corridor. At the end she knocked
on a door.

"Hello," said Brett. "Is it you, jake?"

"It's me."

"Come in. Come in."

I opened the door. The maid closed it after me. Brett was in bed. She had just
been brushing her hair and held the brush in her hand. The room was in that dis-
order produced only by those who have always had servants.

"Darling!" Brett said.

I went over to the bed and put my arms around her. She kissed me, and while she
kissed me I could feel she was thinking of something else. She was trembling in
my arms. She felt very small.

"Darling! I've had such a hell of a time."

"Tell me about it."

"Nothing to tell. He only left yesterday. I made him go."

"Why didn't you keep him?"

"I don't know. It isn't the sort of thing one does. I don't think I hurt him
any."

"You were probably damn good for him."

"He shouldn't be living with any one. I realized that right away."

"No."

"Oh, hell!" she said, "let's not talk about it. Let's never talk about it."

"All right."

"It was rather a knock his being ashamed of me. He was ashamed of me for a
while, you know."

"No."

"Oh, yes. They ragged him about me at the cafe, I guess. He wanted me to grow
my hair out. Me, with long hair. I'd look so like hell."

"It's funny."

"He said it would make me more womanly. I'd look a fright."

"What happened?"

"Oh, he got over that. He wasn't ashamed of me long."

"What was it about being in trouble?"

"I didn't know whether I could make him go, and I didn't have a sou to go away
and leave him. He tried to give me a lot of money, you know. I told him I had
scads of it. He knew that was a lie. I couldn't take his money, you know."

"No."

"Oh, let's not talk about it. There were some funny things, though. Do give me
a cigarette."

I lit the cigarette.

"He learned his English as a waiter in Gib."

"Yes."

"He wanted to marry me, finally."

"Really?"

"Of course. I can't even marry Mike."

"Maybe he thought that would make him Lord Ashley."

"No. It wasn't that. He really wanted to marry me. So I couldn't go away from
him, he said. He wanted to make it sure I could never go away from him. After
I'd gotten more womanly, of course."

"You ought to feel set up."

"I do. I'm all right again. He's wiped out that damned Cohn."

"Good."

"You know I'd have lived with him if I hadn't seen it was bad for him. We got
along damned well."

"Outside of your personal appearance."

"Oh, he'd have gotten used to that."

She put out the cigarette.

"I'm thirty-four, you know. I'm not going to be one of these bitches that ruins
children."

"No."

"I'm not going to be that way. I feel rather good, you know. I feel rather set
up."

"Good."

She looked away. I thought she was looking for another cigarette. Then I saw
she was crying. I could feel her crying. Shaking and crying. She wouldn't look
up. I put my arms around her.

"Don't let's ever talk about it. Please don't let's ever talk about it."

"Dear Brett."

"I'm going back to Mike." I could feel her crying as I held her close. "He's
so damned nice and he's so awful. He's my sort of thing."

She would not look up. I stroked her hair. I could feel her shaking.

"I won't be one of those bitches," she said. "But, oh, Jake, please let's ne-
ver talk about it."

We left the Hotel Montana. The woman who ran the hotel would not let me pay
the bill. The bill had been paid.

"Oh, well. Let it go," Brett said. "It doesn't matter now."

We rode in a taxi down to the Palace Hotel, left the bags, arranged for berths
on the Sud Express for the night, and went into the bar of the hotel for a
cocktail. We sat on high stools at the bar while the barman shook the Martinis
in a large nickelled shaker.

"It's funny what a wonderful gentility you get in the bar of a big hotel," I
said.

"Barmen and jockeys are the only people who are polite any more."

"No matter how vulgar a hotel is, the bar is always nice."

"It's odd."

"Bartenders have always been fine."

"You know," Brett said, "it's quite true. He is only nineteen. Isn't it amaz-
ing?"

We touched the two glasses as they stood side by side on the bar. They were
coldly beaded. Outside the curtained window was the summer heat of Madrid.

"I like an olive in a Martini," I said to the barman.

"Right you are, sir. There you are."

"Thanks."

"I should have asked, you know."

The barman went far enough up the bar so that he would not hear our conversa-
tion. Brett had sipped from the Martini as it stood, on the wood. Then she
picked it up. Her hand was steady enough to lift it after that first sip.

"It's good. Isn't it a nice bar?"

"They're all nice bars."

"You know I didn't believe it at first. He was born in 1905. I was in school
in Paris, then. Think of that."

"Anything you want me to think about it?"

"Don't be an ass. Would you buy a lady a drink?"

"We'll have two more Martinis."

"As they were before, sir?"

"They were very good." Brett smiled at him.

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Well, bung-o," Brett said.

"Bung-o!"

"You know," Brett said, "he'd only been with two women before. He never cared
about anything but bull-fighting."

"He's got plenty of time."

"I don't know. He thinks it was me. Not the show in general."

"Well, it was you."

"Yes. It was me."

"I thought you weren't going to ever talk about it."

"How can I help it?"

"You'll lose it if you talk about it."

"I just talk around it. You know I feel rather damned good, Jake."

"You should."

"You know it makes one feel rather good deciding not to be a bitch."

"Yes."

"It's sort of what we have instead of God."

"Some people have God," I said. "Quite a lot."

"He never worked very well with me."

"Should we have another Martini?"

The barman shook up two more Martinis and poured them out into fresh glasses.

"Where will we have lunch?" I asked Brett. The bar was cool. You could feel
the heat outside through the window.

"Here?" asked Brett.

"It's rotten here in the hotel. Do you know a place called Botin's?" I asked
the barman.

"Yes, sir. Would you like to have me write out the address?"

"Thank you."

We lunched up-stairs at Botin's. It is one of the best restaurants in the
world. We had roast young suckling pig and drank rioja alta. Brett did not
eat much. She never ate much. I ate a very big meal and drank three bottles
of rioja alta.

"How do you feel, Jake?" Brett asked. "My God! what a meal you've eaten."

"I feel fine. Do you want a dessert?"

"Lord, no."

Brett was smoking.

"You like to eat, don't you?" she said.

"Yes," I said. "I like to do a lot of things."

"What do you like to do?"

"Oh," I said, "I like to do a lot of things. Don't you want a dessert?"

"You asked me that once," Brett said.

"Yes," I said. "So I did. Let's have another bottle of rioja alta."

"It's very good."

"You haven't drunk much of it," I said.

"I have. You haven't seen."

"Let's get two bottles," I said. The bottles came. I poured a little in my
glass, then a glass for Brett, then filled my glass. We touched glasses.

"Bung-o!" Brett said. I drank my glass and poured out another. Brett put her
hand on my arm.

"Don't get drunk, Jake," she said. "You don't have to."

"How do you know?"

"Don't," she said. "You'll be all right."

"I'm not getting drunk," I said. "I'm just drinking a little wine. I like to
drink wine."

"Don't get drunk," she said. "Jake, don't get drunk."

"Want to go for a ride?" I said. "Want to ride through the town?"

"Right," Brett said. "I haven't seen Madrid. I should see Madrid."

"I'll finish this," I said.

Down-stairs we came out through the first-floor dining-room to the street. A
waiter went for a taxi. It was hot and bright. Up the street was a little
square with trees and grass where there were taxis parked. A taxi came up the
street, the waiter hanging out at the side. I tipped him and told the driver
where to drive, and got in beside Brett. The driver started up the street. I
settled back. Brett moved close to me. We sat close against each other. I put
my arm around her and she rested against me comfortably. It was very hot and
bright, and the houses looked sharply white. We turned out onto the Gran Via.

"Oh, Jake," Brett said, "we could have had such a damned good time together."

Ahead was a mounted policeman in khaki directing traffic. He raised his baton.
The car slowed suddenly pressing Brett against me.

"Yes," I said. "Isn't it pretty to think so?"



THE END