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Full text of "The Sun Also Rises"






Osmania University Library 

Call No. ^ | '^ . S '2- Accession No. 


Title ^ 

P c A o 

I Ko. ^ v v/\ ooUe r. 

This book should be returned on or before the date last 
marked below. 



ALSO ItfS-fiS 

New York 


All rights reserved. No part of this hook may he reproduced 
in any form without the permission of Charles Scrihner's Sons. 



This book is for HADLEY 

"You are all a lost generation/' 

GERTRUDE STEIN in conversation 

"One generation passeth away, and another generation comcih; 
but the earth abicleth forever . . . The sun also ariseth, and the 
sun goeth down, and hastcth to the place where he arose . . . 
The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the 
north; it whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth again 
according to his circuits. . . . All the rivers run into the sea; yet 
the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, 
thither they return again ." 




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 cer- 
tain 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 cer- 
tain satisfaction of some strange sort, and it certainly improved his 
nose. In his last year at Princeton he read too much and took tc 
wearing spectacles. I never met any one of his class who remem- 


bered him. They did not even remember that he was middle- 
weight 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 verify the story from Spicier Kelly. Spider Kelly not only 
remembered Cohn. He had often wondered what had become of 

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 military 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 painful self-consciousness and the flat- 
tened 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 California he fell among literary people and, as he still 


had a little of the fifty thousand left, in a short time he was back- 
ing a review of the Arts. The review commenced publication in 
Carmel, California, and finished in Provincetown, 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 maga/ine 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, Brad- 
docks 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 second year that her looks were going, and her 
attitude toward Robert changed from one of careless possession and 
exploitation to the absolute determination 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 dis- 
covered writing. He wrote a novel, and it was not really such a 


bad novel as the critics later called it, although 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 
1'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 Stras- 
bourg who can show us the town," I said. 

Somebody kicked me under the table. I thought it was acci- 
dental and went on : "She's been there two years and knows every- 
thing 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 looked?" 

"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 cor- 
ner. "You are not sore, are you, Jake?" He turned with the paper 
in his hand. 

"No, why should I be?" 

"Sec you at tennis," he said. 1 watched him walk back to the 
cafe holding his paper. I rather liked him and evidently she led 
him quite a life. 


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 enthu- 
siastic about America than ever, and he was not so simple, and he 
was not so nice. The publishers had praised his novel pretty 
highly 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 realized that he was an attractive quantity to 
women, and that the fact of a woman caring for him and wanting 
to Jive 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 always 
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 com- 
plete 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. 

"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. 



"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 ot 

"No," I said, "I like this town and I go to Spain in the summer- 

"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 

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 bull-fighters." 

"I'm not interested in bull-fighters. That's an abnormal life. 1 
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 

"I want to go to South America." 

lie 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 im- 
portant to discover graceful exits like that in the newspaper busi- 
ness, where it is such an important part of the ethics that you 
should never seem to be working. 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 

"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 

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

"Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn't make any dif- 
ference. 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?" 


Tm sick of Paris, and I'm sick of the Quarter/' 

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

"Nothing happens to me. I walked alone all one night and 
nothing happened 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 stubbornnesses: 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. Nothing 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 bed- 
room scenes of my friends. We went out to the Cafe Napolitain to 
have an aperitif and watch the evening crowd on the Boulevard. 


IT was a warm spring night and I sat at a table on the terrace of 
the Napolitain 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 pouhs 
going by, singly and in pairs, looking for the evening meal. I 
watched a good-looking girl walk past the table 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. 


"That's not good for little girls." 

"Little girl yourself. Dites gar9on, un pernod." 

"A pernod for me, too." 

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


"Sure. Aren't you?" 

*1 don't know. You never know in this town." 

"Don't you like Paris?" 


"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 vratcr 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 

"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 pulled up at the curb. Settled back in the slow, smoothly 
rolling fiacre we moved up the Avenue de l'Opra, 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. w 


"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 pcrnod 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?" 


"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 youle, and I had forgotten how dull it could be. 
We went into the restaurant, passed 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 

"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 w ve 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 per- 
haps 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, ^ake. 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." 


"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 straightened her hat. 

"Good," she said. 

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

"I wish to present my fiancee, 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. Brad- 
docks asked. 

"Connais pas," Georgette answered. 

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

"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 ex- 
citement 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. 

'Tes," said Georgette. "To laugh at." 

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

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

"Oh, Mademoiselle Hobin/ 1 Frances Clyne called, speaking 
French very rapidly and not seeming so proud and astonished as 
Mrs. Braddocks at its coming 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 


She turned to Frances, sitting smiling, her hands folded, her 
head poised on her long neck, her lips pursed ready to start talk- 
ing 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." 

'Tve 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- 

The dancing-club was a bal musette in the Rue de la Montagne 
Sainte Genevi&ve. Five nights a week the working people of the 
Pantheon quarter danced there. One night a week it was the 
dancing-club. 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 proprietor 
himself. The daughter of the house came downstairs 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 daugh- 
ter 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! 11 

"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 standing 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, grimac- 
ing, 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 Prentiss. 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 

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


"Do you find Paris amusing?" 



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 

I got up and walked over toward the dancing-floor. Mrs. Brad- 
docks 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 fiancee 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 promised to dance this with Jacob," 
she laughed. "You've a hell of a biblical 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, stand- 
ing 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." 


"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 Pare Montsouris, and got in, and 
slammed the door. Brett was leaning back in the corner, her eyes 
closed. I got in and sat beside her. The cab started with a jerk. 

"Oh, darling, I've been so miserable," Brett said. 


THE taxi went up the hill, passed the lighted square, then on into 
the dark, still climbing, then levelled out onto a dark street behind 
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 opn 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 pressed 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, 
darling, 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 look- 
ing into my eyes with that way she had of looking that made you 
wonder whether she really 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 

"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, 

She had been looking into my eyes all the time. Her eyes had 
different 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." 

"1 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 

"No," 1 said. "Nobody ever knows anything." 

I was pretty well through with the subject. At one time or an- 
other I had probably considered it from most of its various angles, 
including the one that certain injuries or imperfections are a sub- 
ject of merriment 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 
Pare 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 

"Oh, go to the Select" 

"Caf6 Select," I told the driver. "Boulevard Montparnasse." 
We drove straight down, turning around the Don de Belfort that 
guards the passing Montrouge trams. Brett looked straight ahead. 
On the Boulevard Raspail, 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 put- 
ting 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 
himself 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 

"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 de- 
manded 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. Wonder- 
ful command of the idiom. Do stay and have a drink." 

"No," I said. '1 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." 


"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 pavement. 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 let- 
ters 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 Kath- 
erine 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 announcement. 
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 windows open and undressed by the bed. Outside a 
night train, running on the street-car tracks, went by carrying vege- 
tables 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 fur- 
nish 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 wrap- 
pers 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 Petite Correspondance and 
the Cornigrams. I blew out the lamp. Perhaps I would be able to 


My head started to work. The old grievance. Well, it was a rot- 
ten way to be wounded and flying on a joke front like the Italian. 
In the Italian hospital 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 put- 
ting himself in my place, I guess. "Che mala fortuna! Che mala 

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 handling all that. Good ad- 
vice, 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 

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 concierge was talking down-stairs. She was very 
angry. I heard my name and called down the stairs. 

"Is that you, Monsieur Barnes: 1 " 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 

"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, any- 
how. 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 brandy 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 people 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/ 1 


"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 breakfast in the Bois. Hampers. Got it all 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." 


We kissed again on the stairs and as I called for the cordon the 
concierge muttered something behind her door. I went back up- 
stairs and from the open window 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. 


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 flower-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 Sor- 
bonne. The Boulevard 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 Opra, 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 folded 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 people were going to work. It felt pleasant to be 
going to work. I walked across the avenue and turned in to my 

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 dozen correspondents, 
while the foreign-office mouthpiece, a yqung Nouvelle Revue 
Fran^aise diplomat in horn-rimmed spectacles, talked and answered 
questions for half an hour. The President of the Council was in 
Lyons making a speech, or, rather he was on his way back. Sev- 
eral people asked questions to hear themselves talk and there were 
a couple of questions asked by news service 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 

"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/ 1 1 said. "Come in and have a drink/ 1 

"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 Wednesday/' 

"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?" 


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 
steins, and cold. There were a dozen different dishes of hors 

"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?" 



"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 

"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 Campbell. 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 sup- 
pose 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 

"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 dysentery." 

"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 

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. 
Tm 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 Caf6 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 an- 
other, and I left him to come to the office. 


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 bar- 
man. Brett had not been in the bar either, and so I looked for her 
upstairs 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 semaphore 
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 Fontainebleau 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 Montparnasse you ask a taxi-driver tojbring 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?" 


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

I figured rapidly back in my mind. It was three days ago that 
Harvey 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/ 1 

I felt in my pocket. 

"Would a hundred help you any, Harvey?" 

"Yes/ 1 

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

"There's no hurry. Have a drink/ 1 

"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 Hoffcnheimer. '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 

"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 conies Cohn," I said. Robert Cohn was crossing the 

"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/ 1 


"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 some- 
body will push your face in." 

Harvey Stone laughed. "You think so. They won't, though. Be- 
cause 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, 

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

"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.' 1 

'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 surcness 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 remark that would, in any way, de- 
tach 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 Caf6 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 want- 
ing 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 joy- 
ful manner. "I always keep my appointments. No one keeps theirs, 
nowadays. I ought to know better. How are you, Jake, anyway?" 


"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 Pans 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 inconsequen- 

"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 reasonable, 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, nobody 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 manner. "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 happy?" 

"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 besi families. Robert's 
sending me. He's going to give me two hundred pounds and then 


I'm going 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 in- 
sulting things. They give you a feeling that the world would be 
destroyed, would actually be destroyed 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 

"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. Tou 
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 
satisfactory 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, Til 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 Provincetown 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, 

"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. Because you can't have scenes without crying, and then 
you pity yourself so much you can't remember what the other 
person's said. You'll never be able to remember any conversa- 
tions 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 writer. 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 him- 
self. He wasn't a good writer like you are, was he, Robert? Do you 
think he ever had to go and look for material? What do you sup- 
pose 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. "1 know the real reason why 
Robert won't marry me, Jake. It's just come to me. They've sent 
it to me in a vision in the Caf6 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." 
Colin 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 
Boulevard Raspail. A taxi came along and I got in and gave the 
driver the address of my flat. 


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. 'Til 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 sports- 
men, 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, undressed 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/ 1 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. 


1 say. We have had a day." 

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

"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 

"So do you, my dear." 

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

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


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 

"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. 1 
was having 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 

"It's better/ 1 

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

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

"I don't think so. I'd just tromper you with everybody. You 
couldn't stand it." 

"I stand it now." 

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

"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." 


"San Sebastian." 


"Can't we go together?" 

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


"We never agreed." 

"Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be 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." 


"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 
poured 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 

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

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


"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 
credit on mine." 

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

The count was looking at Brett across the table under the gas- 
light. 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, 
Henry," 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 Ameri- 
can cigar?" 

"Thanks," I said. Til 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 title/' 

"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 1 
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 
bucket. "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/ 1 

"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 

"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 


"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, 
looking 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 for- 
ward. 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 only 
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 
around 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 1 
don't think so, sir. I have seen a lot, too." 

"Of course you have, my dear," Brett said. "I was only ragging." 

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

"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. 
'1 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 waiters 
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 

"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 

"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 brandy 
than in any other antiquities." 

"Got many antiquities?" 

"I got a houseful." 

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

"Hahre you?" 


"Thaats good." 

He was all teeth and lips. 

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


The music stopped and we started toward the table where the 
count sat. Then the music started again and we danced. I looked 
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 

"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, Tm 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?" 

IJiadjthe_fecJing 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 

"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. 


"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. I rang 
the bell. The door opened and I went up-stairs and went to bed. 



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 office 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 Vienna. 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 prospect 
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 won- 
derful. 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 per- 

"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. Remember 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 ac- 
count 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 


"How'd you come out?" 

"Not so good, Jake. Injustice everywhere. Promoter claimed 
nigger promised let local boy stay. Claimed nigger violated con- 
tract. Can't knock out Vienna boy in Vienna. 'My God, Mister 
Gorton/ said nigger, 1 didn't do nothing in there for forty min- 
utes but try and let him stay. That white boy musta ruptured him- 
self swinging at me. I never did hit him/ " 

"Did you get any money?" 

"No money, Jake. All we could get was nigger's clothes. Some- 
body 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?" 


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 un- 
bought 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 

"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." 


We had the drink and put Brett into her taxi. 

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


"We'll be there/ 1 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 any- 
body. What'll I send them? Think they'd like a couple of stuffed 

"We better eat." 

"Is she really Lady something or other?" Bill asked in the taxi 
on our way down to the He 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 American 
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 

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

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 
Lecomte 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'Orlans 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 arid 
quiet up and out of sight under the bridge. Down the river 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 
Lemoine. 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 Caf6 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 cooking potato- 
chips in oil. There was an iron pot of stew. The girl ladled some 
onto a plate for an old man who stood holding a bottle of red wine 
in one hand. 

"Want to have a drink?" 


"No/' said Bill '1 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 Per 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 Gr&ce, set back be- 
hind the courtyard and the iron fence r to the Boulevard du Port 

"What do you want to do? 1 ' I asked. "Go up to the caf and 
see Brett and Mike?' 1 

"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 

Michael came toward us from the tables. He was tanned and 

"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 stock- 
ings 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 

"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, rather" 
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 

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 tak- 
ing 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 diffi- 
cult. 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 

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

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

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


THE Ledoux-Kid Francis fight was the night of the 2oth 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 Pamplona. The same evening about seven 
o'clock I stopped in at the Select 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 

"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. Til send a wire to the keeper." 

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

"The 25th. When is that?" 


"We +vill have to get ready." 


"I say," said Mike, Tm 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 

"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 frightfully 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?" 


"I needed that," Brett said. 

We walked up the Rue Delambre. 

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


"How are you, Jake?" 


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 ah." 

"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 Pam- 
plona. If they did not turn up on Monday at the latest we would 
go on ahead up to Burguete in the mountains, to start fishing. 
There was a bus to Burguete. I wrote out an itinerary so they 
could follow us. 

Bill and I took the morning train from the Gare d'Orsay. It was 
a lovely 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 


"Nothing until the fifth." 

"What's this?" 

There were never more than two servings of lunch on that 
train, and always 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 sandwiches. 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." 


"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 

"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 

"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 
comfortable 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 cornered the dining-car until half past three this after- 

"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 breakfast." 

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 pilgrims, 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 sand- 
wiches 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 Mon- 
tana 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 water," his mother 
said. "It's pretty hard on youngsters travelling." 

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

"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 
lather difficult 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'hdte 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 out- 
side 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 LaNegresse 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 station 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. 


Lsr 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 011 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 drygoods 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 ist 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 
caf6 on the square where we had eaten breakfast, 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 gardens 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 

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, 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 clown 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 moun- 
tains 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 stretched out white across the plain going toward Pamplona. 

We came into the town on the other side of the plateau, the 
road slanting up steeply and dustily with shade-trees on both sides, 
and then levelling 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 stopped in front of the Hotel 

The driver helped us down with the bags. There was a crowd 
of kids watching 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 under the shade of the arcade that runs all 
the way around the square. Montoya 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 
afterward we paid him and he started back to Bayonne. 

There are two dining-rooms in the Montoya. One is upstairs 
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'oeuvres, 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 

"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 

"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 to- 

"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" 
Iruna 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 any- 
where. If their money doesn't come it's a cinch they won't get in 

"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 

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 to- 
ward it. The first time I ever saw it I thought the faade 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 started 
to think how I would make it, and thinking of making money re- 
minded me of the count, and I started wondering about where he 
was, and regretting I hadn't seen him since that night in Mont- 
martre, and about something funny Brett told me about him, and 
as all the time I was kneeling with my forehead 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 sunlight was 
hot and hard, and I crossed over beside some buildings, and 
walked back along side-streets 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 some- 
thing put on his hair afterward 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?" 


"Do you mind if I give you that hundred pesetas in the morn- 
ing, Cohn?" Bill asked. "I haven't changed any money here yet." 

"Oh, forget about it," Robert Cohn said. "Let's bet on some- 
thing 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 economic 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 hap- 
pened 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 

We sat in the Iruna 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 caf 
quite late, I believe, because 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 sitting over at the Iruna 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 wicker 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 misunderstanding." 

"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 

"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, 

"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 fishing 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 Iruna and start," I said. 


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 
sitting on all the baggage and boxes on top, and the women all 
had their fans going in the sun. It certainly 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 
good-by 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 
saddle-leather. He wore a black smock like all the rest. There were 
wrinkles in his tanned neck. He turned 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 drink- 
ing and tipped the leather bottle down a few drops ran down his 


"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 go- 
ing through farming country with rocky hills that sloped down 
into the fields. The grain-fields went up the hillsides. 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, haul- 
ing a high-hooded wagon loaded with freight. The wagon and 
the mules were covered 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 pas- 
sengers 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 woman 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 mail-pouches and climbed up, and every- 
body 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 con- 
versation. A man leaned over from the other side of the seat and 
asked in English: "You're Americans?' 1 



"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 Angeles, 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 bar- 
ren 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 moun- 
tains beyond it. These were not like the brown, heat-baked moun- 
tains 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 ahead strung out on the plain, 
and away off on the shoulder of the first dark mountain was the 
gray metal-sheathed roof of the monastery of Roncesvalles. 

'There's Roncevaux," I said. 


"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 l:ne of road that ran 
to Burgnete. We passed a crossroads and crossed a bridge over A 


stream* The houses of Burguete were along both sides of the 
road. There were no side-streets. We passed the church and the 
school-yard, 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 per- 
mits 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 Sefiora de 
Roncesvalles. The wind was blowing against 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 ceiling, and was oak-panelled. 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 be- 
yond 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. 1 ' 


"Why, we only paid that in Pamplona/ 1 

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/ 1 

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-tumblerful 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 blow- 
ing. It felt good to be warm and in bed. 


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 onto 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/ 1 he said. "Didn't want to in- 
terrupt 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 

"Hey! come back!" 

I put my head in the door. 

"Aren't you going to show a little irony and pity?" 

1 thumbed my nose. 

"That's not irony." 


As I went down-stairs I heard Bill singing, "Irony and Pity. 
When you're feeling . * . 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 

o o 

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 Prime 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 understand irony. You have no pity. Say something pitiful." 

"Robert Cohn." 

"Not so bad. That's better. Now why is Cohn pitiful? Be 



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 writer, too. 
You're only a newspaper 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? No- 
body 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 become obsessed by sex. You spend all your 
time talking, not working. You are an expatriate, see? You hang 
around cafeV' 

"It sounds like a swell life," I said. 'When do I work?" 

"You don't work. One group claims women support you. An- 
other 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 bicycle." 

He had been going splendidly, but he stopped. I was afraid he 
thought he had hurt me with that crack about being impotent. ) 
wanted to start him again. 

"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 ihe 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 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 heai some more?" 

"Shoot," I said. 

"I don't know any more. Tel! you sonic 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 truclc 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 above the ground and the branches were twisted. We 
walked on the road between 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 straw- 
berries 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/ 1 

"It's too far to go and fish and come hack the same day, com- 
fortably/ 1 

"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 better 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 Hick it 

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 nobody 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 double, 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 against 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?" 


"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?" 



"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 dry- 
ing 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. 


"There's hard-boiled eggs." 

"Find any salt?" 

"First the egg," said Bill. "Then the chicken. Even Bryan could 
sec that." 

"He's dead. I read it in the paper yesterday." 

"No. Not really?" 

'Tes. Bryan's dead." 

Bill laid down the egg he was peeling. 

"Gentlemen," he said, and unwrapped a drumstick from a piece 
of newspaper. "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 believe 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, 

"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 hen- 
coop 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, brother. 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 

"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 affec- 

"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 

"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?" 


"For how long?" 

"Off and on for a hell of a long time/' 


"Oh, hell!" Bill said. Tm sorry, fella." 

"It's all right," I said. "I don't give a damn any more." 


"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 

"Listen, Jake," he said, "are you really a Catholic?" 


"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. It was late in the afternoon and the shadow from the- 
trees was long and went out over the dam. I was stiff from sleep- 
ing 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 
about, but it was a lovely dream." 

"I don't think I dreamt." 

"You ought to dream," Bill said. "All our biggest business men 

^j CJCJ 

have been dreamers. Look at Ford. Look at President Coolidge. 
Look at Rockefeller. 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 outside flap pockets. 

"You got everything now?" 

I looked around on the grass at the foot of the elm-trees. 


We started up the road into the woods. It was a long walk 
home to Burguete, 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 lighted, 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. 


ONE morning I went down to breakfast and the Englishman, 
Harris, was already at the table. He was reading the paper through 
spectacles. He looked up and smiled. 

"Good morning/ 1 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: 


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 Mon- 
toya 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 prac- 
tically so now. I know her so well and try to look after her but 
it's not so easy. Love to all the chaps, 




"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. WeVe 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- 

"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 stopped in 
front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wallet 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 esVed. 


"What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for 
the same price. 1 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 

We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph 

"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 a 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 

"I say not." 

We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. 

"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, 

"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 

"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 be- 
cause 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 other, 

"I suppose not." 

We got into Pamplona late in the afternoon and the bus stopped 
in front of the Hotel Montoya. Out in the plaza they were string- 
ing electric-light wires to light the plaza for the fiesta. 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 bun- 
dles on the sidewalk. We went into the hotel and on the stairs 
I met Montoya. He shook hands with us, smiling in his embar- 
rassed way. 

"Tour 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 

"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. 

Til 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 smiled as 
though there were something lewd about the secret to outsiders, 
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 

"Yes?" Montoya politely disbelieved. "But he's not aficionado 
like you." 

He put his hand on my shoulder again embarrassedly. 

'Tes," 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 
bull-fighters 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 Montoya 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 aficionados 
could always get rooms even when the hotel was full. Montoya 
introduced me to some of them. They were always very polite at 
first, and it amused them very much that I should be an Ameri- 
can. 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 touch- 
ing. It seemed as though they wanted to touch you to make it 

Montoya could forgive anything of a bull-fighter who had 
aficion. He could forgive attacks of nerves, panic, bad unexplain- 
able actions, all sorts of lapses. For one who had aficion he could 
forgive 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- 


Bill had gone upstairs 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 

"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 caf6 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 spec- 
tacles. 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 
hadn'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 

"It wasn't bad. We missed you." 

"I wanted to come," Cohn said, "but I thought I ought to bring 

"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/ 1 Robert Colin said. 

'Til not tell that story. It reflects discredit on me." 

"Tell them about your medals/* 

'Til not. That story reflects great discredit on me." 

"What story's that?" 

"Brett will tell you. She tells all the stories that reflect discredit 

on me." 

"Go on. Tell it, Brett." 

"Should i?" 

Til 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 wopping big dinner and the Prince of 
Wales was to be there, and the cards said medals will be worn. 
So naturally I had no medals, and I stopped at my tailor's and he 
was impressed by the invitation, and I thought that's a good piece 
of business, and I said to him : Tou'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, minia- 
ture 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 

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 mili- 
tary 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 medals. 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 people 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 people 
that went in. We went in through the gate. There were trees 
inside and a low, 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 corral. 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 cor- 
rals. As we came up the ladder, 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 un- 
loaded 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 standing be- 
hind 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 stand- 
ing 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 forefeet in the straw as he 
stopped, his head up, the great hump of muscle on his neck 
swollen tight, his body muscles quivering 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 behind the 
planks with a half-dozen quick, searching drives with the right 

"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 pulled 
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 

"Damn good!" 

The steer was down now, his neck stretched out, his head 
twisted, 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 hirri 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 perfunctorily. 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 corral. 
They were all quiet now, their heads down. We got a carriage 
outside and rode up to the caf6. 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/ 1 

"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 

"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 


"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 Sebastian 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 disgusted. 

"I say, Michael, you might not be such a bloody ass," she in- 
terrupted. "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 
looked 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 

"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 



"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." 

Til 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 

"I know," I said. "He wrote me from San Sebastian." 

"That was nothing," Brett said. "He can write a damned amus- 
ing 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 embarrassed/ 1 

"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?" 


"Good," Montoya said. 

I went up-stairs. Bill was in his room standing on the balcony 
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 

"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 Sebastian, 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 beautiful. 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 com- 
ing 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. 


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 be- 
cause 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 getting the wheeling sensa- 


tion. 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 something 
else. Or you worked for something. You paid some way for every- 
thing 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 immorality. That was a large state- 
ment. 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 English 
you got into the habit of using English expressions in your think- 
ing 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 inflected 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 Turgenieff. I 
knew that now, reading it in the oversensitized state of my mind 
after much too much brandy, I would remember 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 corrals and came running through 
the streets in the morning on their way to the ring. The work- 
men dug holes and fitted in the timbers, each timber numbered 
for its regular place. Out on the plateau beyond the town em- 
ployees 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 amphi- 
theatre 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 

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 aguar- 
diente 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 ter- 
rasse of the caf6 and watched the motor-buses 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 sprinkled 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 caf6 and read the 
Madrid papers and then walked in the town or out into the coun- 
try. 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 interesting 
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 fortune 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 wonderful view. We all felt 
good and we felt healthy, and I felt quite friendly to Cohn. You 
could not be upset about anything on a day like that. 

That was the last day before the fiesta. 


AT noon of Sunday, the 6th of July, the fiesta exploded. There is 
no other way to describe it. People had been coming 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, getting 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 caf 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 fiesta 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 caf6 was like a 
battleship stripped for action. To-day 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, 
trickling smoke in the bright sunlight. I saw the bright flash as it 
burst and another little cloud of smoke appeared. 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, 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 reed-pipes and the fifes shrilled, and 
the flat, dry, hollow drums tapped it out again, they all went up in 
the air dancing. In the crowd you saw only the heads and shoulders 
of the dancers going up and down. 


In the square a man, bent over, was playing on a reed-pipe, and 
a crowd of children were following him shouting, 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 pockmarked 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 

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 handkerchiefs 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 painted 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 religious. We could not see them be- 
cause the crowd was too great. Ahead of the formal procession 
and behind it danced the riau-riau dancers. There was one mass 
of yellow 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 Fermin 
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 moving with their whacking blad- 
ders 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-riaul 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. 'Til go get a couple/' 

The dancers did not want me to go out. Three of them were sit- 
ting on the high wine-cask beside Brett, teaching her to drink out 
of the wine-skins. They had hung a wreath of garlics 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 

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 
wine-bottles. The crowd was packed on the sidewalks 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 litres. 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 my- 
self. 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/ 1 

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 

"I don't want to eat up your meal," I said when some one 
handed 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 

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 bottle." 

"Where did they find you?" I asked Mike. 

"Some one brought me here," Mike said. "They said you were 

"Where's Cohn?" 

"He's passed out," Brett called. 'They've put him away some- 

"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 


"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 Spaniards 
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 

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 
people 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 sky- 
rockets 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 remember 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 cor- 
rals 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 little 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 

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. 1 ' 

"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 

"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?" 


"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 Irufia. 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 every 
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 
barreras, 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- 

"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 

"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 

"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 nar- 
row street. There were two beds separated by a monastic partition. 
The electric light was on. The boy stood very straight and un- 
smiling 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 sword-handler 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 
ana asked us if we spoke French. "Would you like me to inter- 
pret for you? Is there anything you would like to ask Pedro 

We thanked him. What was there that you would like to ask? 
The boy was nineteen years old, alone except for his sword- 
handler, and the three hangers-on, and the bull-fight was to com- 
mence in twenty minutes. We wished him "Mucha suerte," shook 
hands, and went out. He was standing, straight and handsome and 
altogether by himself, alone 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." 


"Well 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 

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 passable. 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 railing in front of them. 

"Let me take the glasses/' Bill said. 

"Docs 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 
bull-fight. 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 intricate 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 pave- 
ment. The toes touched. 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 
extraordinary 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, 

"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, healthy 

"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 dread- 
ful 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/ 1 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 

"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 ex- 
plained 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 Romero avoided every brusque movement 
and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded 
and discomposed but smoothly 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 cork- 


screws, 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 unpleasant 
feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because 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 ridiculous 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 technic 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 purity of line through the maximum of ex- 
posure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was 
unattainable, while he prepared 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 

"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/ 1 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 

"These bull-fights are hell on one," Brett said. 'Tm limp as a 


"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. 


IN the morning it was raining. A fog had come over the moun- 
tains 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 Navarrais 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 ahead on their big, heavy-footed horses, their costumes wet, 



the horses 5 coats wet in the rain. The crowd was in the cafs 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 cafd 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 Iruiia." 

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/ 1 

"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 

Montoya stood embarrassed. He wanted me to say something. 

"Don't give Romero the message," I said. 

"You think so?" 


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 
foreigner can flatter him. They start this Grand Hotel business, 
and in one year they're through." 

"Like Algabeno," I said. 

'Tes, 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 

"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 Irufia 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 

"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 around 
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 Madrid bull- 
fight 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 wine-bottle, but the critic took my arm. Romero 

"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 y 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 

Pedro Romero said he had learned a little English in Gibraltar. 
He was born in Ronda. That is not far above Gibraltar. He 


started 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 nine- 
teen 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 explain 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 conceited 
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 

"He doesn't like my work much." Romero turned to me. He was 

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 de- 
serted us." 

"Just temporarily," I said. "We're talking bulls." 

"You are superior." 

"Tell him that bulls have no balls," Mike shouted. He was 

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 table 
by the wall to have coffee. Mike ordered a bottle of Fundador 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?" 


"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 docs he say?" 

"He's drunk." 

"Jake," Mike called. "Tell him bulls have no balls!" 

"You understand?" I said. 


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 

"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 touched 
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 together. 

"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 
better 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 
leaned 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 Fm right? I love that woman." 

"Oh, don't start that again. Do shove it along, Michael," Brett 

"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 en- 
joying it. The childish, drunken heroics of it. It was his affair 
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 cafeY' 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 against 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 gravel 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, sput- 
tering 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 
pirotecnico of esta ciudad/' 

"Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A collection of globos illu- 
minados. 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 

"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 
going 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 scat- 
tered 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 
toward the caf6. 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 
believe 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 

"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 

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 suffering." 

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?" 


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 moun- 
tains. 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 mountain 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. Sud- 
denly 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. 


"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 inside." 

"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 


"I've got to do something. I've got to do something I really 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 


"I can't just stay tight all the time." 


"Oh, darling, please stay by me. Please stay by me and see me 
through this." 


"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 
bull-fighters and bull-fight critics. They were smoking cigars. 
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 goos through." 


"Oh, I do feel such a bitch." 

I looked across at the table. Pedro Romero smiled. He said some- 


thing 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?' 1 

"You must have a drink with me/ 1 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. 1 ' 

It was part of his system of authority. It made him seem older. 
I noticed his skin. It was clear and smooth and very brown. There 
was a triangular scar on his check-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 

"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." 

*Tes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let any- 
body know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English." 

"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. 



"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 understood. 
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. 


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 Biarritz 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?' 1 
"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 dif- 
ference 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 


"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 
called 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 morning 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 honeymoon." 

"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 


1 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 1 started 
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 pull- 
ing at my ears. 

"I say, you were cold/ 1 Mike said. 
"Where the hell were you?" 
"Oh, I was around/ 1 
"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. Colin?" 

"I'm all right," I said. "My head's a little wobbly." 
There were several waiters and a crowd of people standing 

"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 
"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 
being 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/ 1 

"You're nice/' Edna said to Mike. "Are you really a bankrupt?" 

"I'm a tremendous bankrupt," Mike said. "I owe money to 
everybody. Don't you owe any money?" 


"I owe everybody money," Mike said. "F borrowed a hundred 
pesetas 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 talking 
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 caf6. 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 dif- 
ferent. I felt as I felt once coming home from an out-of-town 
football 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 

"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 hall to Cohn's room. The door was shut and I knocked. 

"Who is it?" 


"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 

"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 
treated 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 



"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 every- 
thing's gone. Everything." 


"Well/ 1 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/ 1 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." 

"Fm 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 caf6. The waiter 
told me that my friends had been there and gone. 

"How many were they?" 

"Two gentlemen and a lady/ 1 

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 flat- 
tened out against the fence as the last of the crowd and the bulls 
went by. There were so many people 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 
picked 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 

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 intensity 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 caf6 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," 


"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. "AH 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 nodded 
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 under- 

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 

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 car- 
ried to the railway-station by members of the dancing and drink- 
ing 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 Pam- 
plona, Estella, Tafalla, 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 to- 
gether, in aji open third-class railway-carriage. 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 Tafalla. 


The bull who killed Vicente Girones was named Bocanegra, 
was Number 118 of the bull-breeding establishment of Sanchez 
Taberno, and was killed by Pedro Romero as the third bull of that 
same afternoon. His ear was cut by popular acclamation and given 
to Pedro Romero, who, in turn, gave it to Brett, who wrapped it in 
a handkerchief belonging to myself, and left both ear and hand- 
kerchief, along with a number 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 up-stairs 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 knocked on the door* 

"Come in/ 1 

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, 

"What a morning!" Bill said. He mopped off his face. "My 
God! what a morning! And here's old Jake. Old Jake, the human 


"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 over." 

"They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary," Mike said. 

"What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting 
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 hour," 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 

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, holding 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 



"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. 11 

"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, arid 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/ 1 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 

"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 looking 
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 pleasant. 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 
always rather good. I gave her a fearful hiding about Jews and 
bull-fighters, and all those sort of people, and do you know what 
she said: Tes. 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 hen 
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 Irufia," 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 Funda- 
dor," 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 

"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. 


AT noon we were all at the cafe. It was crowded. We were eating 
shrimps and drinking beer. The town was crowded. Every street 
was full. Big motor-cars from Biarritz and San Sebastian kept 
driving up and parking around the square. They brought people 
for the bull-fight. Sight-seeing cars came up, too. There was one 
with twenty-five 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 
tourist-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 
cafds men with their hands gripping 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!' 1 she said. "1 say, I have a thirst/' 

"Get another big beer," Bill said to the waiter. 


"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 

"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, Michael." 


"How's your boy friend?" 

"Damned well," Brett said. "Watch him this afternoon." 

"Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody bull- 

"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 peo- 
ple 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 

"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 
along 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 



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/ 1 

"So do I." 

"He says the bulls are all right/ 1 

"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 
lightly. 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 stiffen 
beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead. 

"Come on," she whispered throatily. "Let's get out of here. 
Makes me damned nervous/ 1 

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 

"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." 


"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 
several 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'h6tel 
said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to 

"Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" 

"No, Warn." 

"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, 

We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went 
straight down the hall 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 ana looked at me. 

"Hello, Jake," he said very slowly. "I'm getting a lit tie sleep. 
I've want ed a lit tie 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 

He turned his head and looked at me. 

"Damned good thing, what?" 

*Tes. 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?" 


"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 

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 little heavy 
from the rain, but it was dry in the sun and firm and smooth. 
The sword-handlers and bull-ring servants came down the calle- 
jon carrying on their shoulders the wicker baskets of fighting capes 
and muletas. They were bloodstained and compactly 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 un- 
folded the dark-stained red flannel of the muletas and fixed batons 
in them to spread the stuff and give the matador something to 
hold. Brett watched it all. She was absorbed in the professional 

"He's his name stencilled on all the capes and muletas/ 1 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. 

'Tunny ," 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 President'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 bande- 
rilleros, back in the passageway and in the open space of the 
corral, I saw the picadors. Romero was wearing a black suit. His 
tricornered hat was low down over his eyes. I could not see his 
face clearly under the hat, but it looked badly marked. He was 
looking straight ahead. Marcial was smoking a cigarette guard- 
edly, holding it in his hand. Belmonte looked ahead, his face wan 
and yellow, his long wolf jaw out. He was looking at nothing. 
Neither 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 
glasses to Brett. There was applause. The music started. Brett 
looked 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 mata- 
dors 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 rising 
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 ovei to the barrera below 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 something. 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. 
Belmonte 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 percale 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 ter- 
rain 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 disappointed because no real man could work as close to the 
bulls as Belmonte was supposed to have done, not, of course, even 

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, as Belmonte 
had ever been able to give, felt defrauded and cheated, and Bel- 
monte's jaw came further out in contempt, and his face turned 
yellower, and he moved with greater difficulty as his pain in- 
creased, and finally the crowd were actively against him, and he 
was utterly contemptuous and indifferent. He had meant to have 
a great afternoon, and instead it was an afternoon 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, long-jawed, 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 contemptuous 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, rinsed his mouth, spat 
the water, took his cape, and went back into the ring. 

Because they were against Belmonte the public were for Ro- 
mero. From the moment he left the barrera and went toward the 
bull they applauded 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, even the 
people from Biarritz, even the American ambassador saw it, fi- 
nally. 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 mo- 
ments. 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 because 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, man- 
ageable bulls without 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 greatness, 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 afternoon. 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. 

I Us first "quite" was directly below us. The three matadors take 
the bull in turn after each charge he makes at a picador. Bel- 
monte 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 watched the triangular steel point of the pic. 
Romero, watching, saw the bull start to turn his head. He did not 
want to charge. Romero flicked 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 side- 
ways 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 smoothly, 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, wheel- 
ing, 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 controlled. It was as though he were 
rocking the bull to sleep. He made four veronicas 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 classic 
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 Mar- 
tial'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 closer, 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 judg- 
ment 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 ex- 
tended high up to where the hilt of the sword had gone in be- 
tween the bull's shoulders. Then the figure was broken. There 
was a little jolt as Romero came clear, and then he was standing, 
on hand up, facing the bull, his shirt ripped out from under his 
slf JBVC, the white blowing in the wind, and the bull, the red sword 


hilt tight between his shoulders, his head going down and his legs 

"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, sud- 
denly, 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 
President'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 
Romero'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 notice- 
able. 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 
completed, 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 Romero 
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 disap- 
peared 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 Presi- 
dent's box. Handkerchiefs were waving all over the bull-ring. The 
President looked down from the box and waved his handkerchief* 
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 lifted him. It was uncomfortable and his legs were spraddled 
and his body was very sore. They were lifting him and all run- 
ning toward the gate. He had his hand on somebody's shoulder. 
He looked around 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-boiled 
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 leav- 
ing 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 answered 

Bill was tired after the bull-fight. So was I. We both took a 
bull-fight 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 covering 
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. 


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 wa? 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?" 


"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 

"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." 


'Tes. She looked for you to say good-bye. They went on the 
seven o'clock train." 

"Did they?" 

"Bad thing to do," Mike said. "She shouldn't have done it." 



"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 washed, 
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. 



IN the morning it was all over. The fiesta was finished. I woke 
about 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 
children were picking up rocket-sticks in the square. The cafes 
were just opening and the waiters were carrying out the com- 
fortable white wicker chairs and arranging them around the 
marble-topped tables in the shade of the arcade. They were sweep- 
ing 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 announce- 
ments of the unloading of the bulls and the big schedules of spe- 
cial 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 rubbing 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 coffee. 

"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 anottier week. I think I'll go to San 

"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 
baggage 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 an- 
other 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 play- 
ing. 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, 


"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. 

'Tine. 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 

"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 finances." 

"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 little." 

"Fine. I'd like to see the coast. Let's drive down toward Hen- 

"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 mountains 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 lyth. 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 Caf6 
Marinas. I could sit in the Marinas and listen. 

"How does one eat inside?" I asked the waiter. Inside the cafe 
was a restaurant. 

"Well. Very well. One eats very well/' 


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 tasting 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 Izzarra. 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 Pyrenees. 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 fell 
comfortable to be in a country where it is so simple to make 
people happy. You can never tell whether a Spanish waiter wil] 
thank you. Everything is on such a clear financial basis in France, 
It is the simplest country to live in. No one makes things com- 
plicated by becoming your friend for any obscure reason. If you 
want people to like you you have only to spend a little money. ] 
spent a little money and the waiter liked me. He appreciated m) 
valuable qualities. He would be glad to see me back. I woulc 
dine there again some time and he would be glad to see me, anc 
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 Sar 
Sebastian. At the station I did not tip the porter more than ] 
should because I did not think I would ever see him again. I onl) 
wanted a few good French friends in Bayonne to make me wel 
come in case I should come back there again. I knew that if the) 
remembered me their friendship would be loyal. 

At Irun we had to change trains and show passports. I hated tc 
leave France. Life was so simple in France. I felt I was a foa 
to be going back into Spain. In Spain you could not tell aboul 
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 

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 tele- 
graph forms, and wrote a message to the Hotel Montoya, telling 
them to forward all mail and telegrams for me to this address. 1 
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 for- 
ward 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 yellow. 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 
rollers. 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 shadow. 
I came out of water beside the raft, pulled up, dove once more, 
holding 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 
lemon-juice 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 Belgians, 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 burned and browned by the 
sun. They did not take the race seriously except among them- 
selves. 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 handle- 
bars 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 

I had coffee out on the terrasse with the team manager of one 
of the big bicycle 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 event 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 fol- 
lowing 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 having 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 
steadily in to shore. 

After I was dressed and had paid for the bath-cabin, I walked 
back to the hotel. The bicycle-racers had left several copies of 
L'Auto around, and I gathered them up in the reading-room and 
took them out and sat in an easy chair in the sun to read 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 


I tipped the concierge and read the message again. A postman 
was coming along the sidewalk. He turned in 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/ 1 


"Thank you," I said. 

I opened it. It was forwarded from Pamplona. 


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 

"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 expected something of the sort. I saw the con- 
cierge standing in the doorway. 

"Bring me a telegram form, please." 

He brought it and I took out my fountain-pen and printed: 


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 breakfast 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 sky-line 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?' 1 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/' 


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 disorder 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 

"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.' 1 

"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 



"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." 


"Oh, yes. They ragged him about me -at the caf, I guess. He 
wanted me to grow my hair out. Me, with long hair. I'd look so like 

"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." 


"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. w 


"He wanted to marry me, finally." 


"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 



"You ought to feel set up." 

"I do. I'm all right again. He's wiped out that damned Cohn." 


"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." 


"I'm not going to be that way. I feel rather good, you know. I 
feel rather set up." 


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 alxDut 

"Dear Brett." 

"I'm going back to Mike." I could feel her crying as I held hei 
close. "He's so damned nice and he's so awful. He's my sort of 

She would not look up. I stroked her hair. I could feel her 

"I won't be one of those bitches," she said. "But, oh, Jake, 
please let's never 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, 

' ^O ' 

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 

"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 


"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 amazing?" 

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." 


"I should have asked, you know." 

The barman went far enough up the bar so that he would not 
hear our conversation. 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.