Classic Audiobook Collection - The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway ~ Full Audiobook [drama]

Episode Date: October 5, 2023

The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway audiobook. Genre: drama The Sun Also Rises (1926) was Hemingway's first novel to be published, though there is his novella The Torrents of Spring which was published earlier in the same year. The novel describes, expressed through the voice of Jake Barnes, a short period of social life that ranges from Paris to locations in Spain. One might say that the action occurs in Pamplona, Spain with the annual festival of San Fermin and its running of bulls and subsequent days of bullfights, but one can easily argue that the real interest of the novel is in its portrayal of the group to which Barnes is a part and how he details their anxieties, frailties, hopes, and frustrations. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:09:04) Chapter 02 (00:17:54) Chapter 03 (00:35:07) Chapter 04 (00:53:10) Chapter 05 (01:01:17) Chapter 06 (01:20:24) Chapter 07 (01:40:55) Chapter 08 (02:00:26) Chapter 09 (02:13:49) Chapter 10 (02:37:51) Chapter 11 (02:52:52) Chapter 12 (03:16:04) Chapter 13 (03:50:05) Chapter 14 (03:58:45) Chapter 15 (04:29:01) Chapter 16 (04:58:12) Chapter 17 (05:27:05) Chapter 18 (06:04:58) Chapter 19 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The Sun also rises by Ernest Hemingway. You are all a lost generation. Gertrude Stein in conversation. One generation passeth away and another generation cometh, but the earth abideth forever. The sun also ariseseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to the place where he arose. The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about him,

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 once the rivers come, thither they return again. Ecclesiastes Book 1 Chapter 1 Robert Cohn was once middleweight boxing champion of Princeton. Do not think that I am very much impressed by that as a boxing title, but it meant a lot to cone. 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 him being treated as a Jew at Princeton. There was a certain inner comfort in knowing he could knock down anybody who was snooty to him, although being very shy and a thoroughly nice boy, he never fought except in the gym. He was so much. He was so much, he was Spider-Kelly's star pupil. Spider-Kelly taught all his young gentlemen to box like featherweights, no matter whether they weighed 105 or 205 pounds, but it seemed to fit cone. He was really very fast. He was so good that Spider promptly overmatched him and got his nose permanently flattened. This increased Cone's distaste for boxing, but he gave him a certain satisfaction of some a strange sort, and it certainly improved his nose. In his last year at Princeton, he read too much

and took to wearing spectacles. I never met any one of his class who remembered him. They did not even remember that he was middleweight boxing champion. I mistrust all frank and simple people, especially when their stories hold together. And I always had a suspicion that perhaps Robert Cohen had never been middleweight boxing champion, and that perhaps a horse had stepped on 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 Spider Kelly. Spider Kelly not only remembered Cohn, he had often wondered what had become of him. Robert Cohn was a member, through his father, of one of the richest Jewish families in New York,

and through his mother of one of the oldest, at the military school where he prepped for Princeton, 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. It 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 in the flattened nose, and was married by the first girl who was nice to him. He was married five years, had three children, lost most of the fifty thousand dollars his father left him, the balance of the estate having gone to his mother, hardened into a rather unattractive mold 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 Cohen went out to the coast. In California, he fell among literary people, and as he still had a little of the 50,000 left, in a short time he was backing a review of the arts. The review commenced publication in Carmel, California, and finished in Provincetown, Massachusetts. By that time, Cohen, who had been regarded purely as an angel, and whose name had appeared on the editorial page merely as a member of the advisory board, had become the sole editor.

It was his money, and he discovered he liked the authority of editing. He was sorry when the magazine became too expensive, and he had to give it up. By that time, though, he had other things to worry about. He had been taken in hand by a lady who hoped to rise with a 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 Cone and decided 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 Cone 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 cone had two friends braddix and myself braddix was his literary friend i was his tennis friend the lady who had him her name was francis found toward the end of the second year that her looks were going and her attitude towards 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 cone looked at another woman he was fairly happy except that like many people living in europe he would rather have been in america and he had discovered writing he wrote a novel and it was not really such a bad novel as the critics later called it 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 towards him one night after the three of us had dined together. We had dined at La Avenue, and afterwards went to the Café de Versailles for coffee. We had several fines after the coffee, and I said I must be going. Cohen 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 suggest it we fly to strasburg and walk up to st odiel or somewhere or other in alsace i know a girl in strasburg who can show us the town i said somebody kicked me under the table i thought it was accidental and went on she's been there two years and knows everything there is to know about the town she's a swell girl i was kicked again under the table and looking saw francis robert's lady her chin lifting and her face hardening hell i said why go to strasburg we could go up to bruges or the ardennes cone looked relieved i was not kicked again i said good-night and went out

cone 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 strasburg for didn't you see francis no why should i if i know an american girl that lives in strasburg what the hell is it to francis 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 san lise don't get sore i'm not sore san lice is a good place and we can stay at the grand surf 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 instead started back to the cafe. You forgot to get your paper, I said. That's so. He walked with me up to the kiosk at the corner. You're not sore, are you, Jake? He turned with a paper in his hand. No, why should I be? See you at Tennessee, said.

I watched him walk back to the cafe holding his paper. I rather liked him, and evidently she led him quite a life. End of Book 1, Chapter 1. Chapter 2 of The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 2. That winter Robert Cohn went over to America with his novel, and it was accepted by a fairly good publisher. His going made an awful row, I heard, and I think that was where Francis lost him, because several women were nice to him in New York, and when he came back,

he was quite changed. He was more enthusiastic about America than ever, and he was not so simple, and he was not so nice. The publishers had praised his novel pretty highly, and it rather went to his head, and 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 Francis. I'm sure he had never been in love in his life. He'd married on the rebound from the rotten time he had in college, and Francis 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 live with him was

not simply a divine miracle. This changed him so that he was not so pleasant to have around. Also, playing for higher stakes than he could afford and 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 who were ever forced to. Then there was another thing. He had been reading double. H. Hudson. That sounds like an innocent occupation, but Cone had read and re-read 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 34 as a guidebook to what life holds is about as safe as it would be for a man of the same age to enter Wall Street direct from a French convent, equipped with a complete set of the more practical Alger books. Cohen, I believe, took every word of the purple land as literally as though it had been an R. G. Dunn 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 till one day he came into my office. Hello, Robert, I said. Did you come in to cheer me up?

Would you like to go to South America, Jake, he asked. No? Why not? I don't know. I never wanted to go. Too expensive. You can see all the South Americans you want in Paris anyway. They're not the real South Americans. They look awfully real to me. I'd a boat train to catch where the week's mail stories, and only half of them written. Do you know any dirt, I asked? No, none of your exalted connections getting divorces. No, listen, Jake, if I handle both our expenses, would you go to South America with me?

Why me? You could talk Spanish, and it would be more fun with two of us. No, I said, I like this town, and I go to Spain in the summertime. All my life I've wanted to go on a trip like that, Cohen said. He sat down. I'll be too old before I can ever do it. Don't be a fool, I said. You can go anywhere you want. You've got plenty of money. I know, but I can't get started. Cheer up, I said. All countries look just like the moving pictures.

But I felt sorry for him. He had it badly. I can't stand it to think my life is going so fast and I'm not really living it. Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bullfighters. I'm not interested in bullfifers. I'm not interested in bullfif. fighters. That's an abnormal life. I want to go back in the country in South America. We could have a great trip. Did you ever think about going to British East Africa to shoot? No, I wouldn't like that. I'd go there with you. No, that doesn't interest me. That's because you never read a book about it. Go on and read a book, All Full of Love Affairs with the beautiful shining black princesses. I want to go to South America. He had a hard Jewish, stubborn, Come on downstairs 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 it 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's very important to discover graceful exits like that in the newspaper business, where it is such an important part of the ethics that you should never seem to be working.

Anyway, we went downstairs to the bar and had a whiskey and soda. Cone looked at all the bottles and 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 35 years more will be dead? What the hell, Robert? I said, what the hell? I'm serious. It's one thing I don't worry about, I said. You ought to. I've had plenty to worry about one time or another. I'm through worrying.

Well, I want to go to South America. Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn't make any difference. I've tried all that. You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There's nothing to that. But you've never been to South America. South America, hell. If you went there the way you feel now, it would be exactly the same.

This is a good town. Why don't you start living your life in Paris? I'm sick of Paris, and I'm sick of the quarter. Stay away from the quarter. Cruise around by yourself and see what happens to you. Nothing happens to me. I walked alone all one night, 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 upstairs and get off some cables. Do you really have to go? Yes, I've got to get those 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 amelopes, and rang for a boy to

take them to the gar-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. looked up. He smiled and blinked. Did I talk out loud just then? Something, but it wasn't clear. God, what a rotten dream. Did the typewriter put you to sleep? Guess so. I didn't sleep all last night. What was the matter? Talking, he said. I could picture it. I have a

rotten habit of picturing the bedroom scenes of my friends. We went out to the Café Napolitem to have an aperitif and watch the evening crowd on the boulevard. End of Chapter 2. Chapter 3 of the Sun also rises by Ernest Hemingway. This Librevovok's recording is in the public domain. It was a warm spring night, and I sat at a table on the terrace of the Napolitene after Robert had gone, watching it get dark, and the electric signs come on, and the rat in green stop-and-go traffic signal and the crowd going by, and the horse-cabs, clippity-clopping along at the edge of the solid taxi traffic, and the pula 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. She came over and sat down at the table. The waiter came up. Well, what will you drink, I asked. Perno. That's not good for little girls. Little girl yourself. Died garson, a pernaud.

A pernaut, for me too. What's the matter, she asked, going on a party? Sure, aren't you? I don't know. You never know in this town. Don't you like Paris? No. Why don't you go somewhere else?

else isn't anywhere else. You're happy all right. Happy hell. Pernault is greenish imitation absent. When you add water it turns milky. It tastes like licorice and it has a good uplift, but it drops you just as far. We sat and drank it and the girl looked sullen. Well, I said, are you going to buy me a dinner? She grinned and I saw why she made a point of not laughing. With her mouth close, she was a rather pretty girl. I paid for the saucers, and we went out to the street. I hailed a horse cab, and the driver pulled up at the curb. Settled back in the slow, smoothly rolling, Viacra, we moved up the avenue del operas, past the locked doors of the shops, their windows lighted, the avenue brought in shiny and almost deserted. The cab passed the New York Herald Bureau with a 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 de Pyramide, through the traffic of the Rue de Rivoli, and through a dark gate into the Toulouse. 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 What's the matter? You're sick? Yes. Everybody's sick. I'm sick, too. We came out of the Tulleries into the light and crossed the seine and then turned up the Rue des Saint-Pairs. You oughtn't to drink Pernot 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?

Giorgette. How are you called? Jacob. That's a Flemish name. American, too. You're not Flamon. No, American. Good. I detest Flamones. By this time we were at the restaurant. I called to the cocier to stop. We got out and Gorgette 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 for yachts. Why don't you keep the cab and go on? I'd picked her up because of a vague sentimental idea. that it would be nice to eat with someone. It was a long time since I had dined with a pool, and I had forgotten how dull it could be. We went into the restaurant, past Madame Lafain 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 she, but the food is all right. Better than you eat in Lijes. Brussels, you mean. We had another bottle of wine, and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and showed all her bad teeth. And we touch glasses. You're not a bad type, she said. It's a shame you're sick. We get unwell. What's the matter with you anyway? I got hurt in the war, I said. Oh, that dirty war. We would probably have gone on and discussed the war and agreed that it was in reality a calamity for civilization, and perhaps would have been better avoided. I was bored enough. Just then from the other room someone called Barnes. I say Barnes. Jacob Barnes. It's a friend calling me, I explained, and went out. There was Braddock's at a big table with a party, Cohn, Francis Klein, Mrs. Braddock, several people I did not know.

You're coming to the dance, aren't you? Braddock's asked. What dance? Why, the dancing's, don't you know we've revived them? Mrs. Braddock's put in. You must come, Jake, we're all going, Francis said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a smile. Of course he's coming, Braddock said. Come in and have coffee with us, Barnes. Right, and bring your friends, said Mrs. Braddock's, 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 the 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, redefined her lips with a lipstick, and straightened her hat. Good, she said. We went into the room full of people, and Braddicks and the men at his table stood up.

I wished to present my fiancée, Mademoiselle Georgette La Blanc, I said. Georgette's mother, that wonderful smile, and we shook hands all around. Are you related to Georgette La Blanc, the singer, Mrs. Braddock's asked. Kounet not, Georgette answered. But you have the same name, Mrs. Braddock, insisted cordially. No, said Georgette. Not at all. My name is Hovien. But Mr. Barnes introduced you as Mademoiselle Georgette La Blanc. Surely he did, insisted Mrs. Braddock, who in the excitement of talking French was liable to have no idea what she was saying. He's a fool, Georgette said. Oh, it was a joke, then, Mrs. Braddock said.

Yes, said Georgette, to laugh at. Did you hear that, Henry? Mrs. Braddock's called down the table to Braddock's. Mr. Barnes introduced his fiancée as Mademoiselle Le Blanc, and her name is actually Hovine. Of course, darling, Mademoiselle Hovin. I've known her for a long time. Well, Mademoiselle Hovine, Francis Klein called speaking French very rapidly and not seeming so proud and astonish, as Mrs. Brattick said, it's coming out really French. Have you been in Paris long? Do you like it here? You love Paris, do you not? Who she, Georget, turned to me. Do I have to talk to her? She turned to Francis, sitting smiling, her hands folded, her head poised on her long neck, her lips pursed,

ready to start talking again. No, I don't like Paris. It's expensive and dirty. Really, I find it so extraordinarily clean, one of the cleanest cities in all Europe. I find it dirty. How strange, but perhaps you have not been here very long. I've been here long enough. But it does have nice people in it. One must grant that. Georgette turned to me.

You have nice friends. Francis was a little drunk, and would have liked to have kept it up, but the coffee came, and Laféne with the liqueurs, and after, that we all went out and started for Brattock's dancing club. The dancing club was Ebalmoseat in the Rue de la Montan Saint-Genevieve. 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

the house came downstairs as we went in. There were long benches and tables ran across the room, and at the far end the dancing floor. I wish people would come earlier, Braddock said. The daughter came up and wanted to know what we would drink. The proprietor got up on a high stool beside the dancing floor and began to play the accordion. He had a string of bells around one of his ankles and beat time with his foot as he played. Everyone danced. It was hot and we came off the floor, perspiring. My God, Georgette said. What a box to sweat in. It's hot. Hot, my God. Take off your hat. That's a good idea. Someone 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 at the ball. 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 and 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, grimacing, gesturing, talking. With them was Brett. She looked very lovely, and she was very much with them. one of them sought georgette and said i do declare there is an actual harlot i'm going to dance with her let you watch me the tall dark one called let said don't you be rash the wavy blonde 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 anyone anything to shatter that superior simpering

composure. Instead, I walked down the street and had a beer at the bar at the next ball. 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 ball, there was a crowd on the floor, and Georgette was dancing with the tall blonde 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. Cone was sitting there. Francis was dancing. Mrs. Braddock's brought up somebody and introduced him as Robert Prentice. 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 he had a fin leoh. You're from Kansas City, they tell me, he said. Yes. Do you find Paris amusing? Yes. Really?

I was a little drunk, not drunk in any positive sense, but just enough to be careless. For God's sake, I said, yes, don't you? Oh, how charmingly you get angry, he said. I wish I had that faculty. I got up and walked over toward the dance floor. Mrs. Braddock's 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 fiancé is having a great success.' "'Mrs. Braddock's looked out on the floor "'where Georgette was dancing in the arms "'of the tall, dark one, Colette. "'Isn't she?' I said. "'Rather,' said Mrs. Braddock's.

"'Cone 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 as all. Brett came up to the bar. Hello, you chaps. Hello, Brett, I said. Why aren't you tight? Never going to get tight anymore. I say, give a chap of 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 slip-over 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. "'Ate, lovely, and you, my dear, where did you get it?' At the Napolitane.

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 Francis there and Joe. This for Cohn's benefit. It's in restraint of trade, Brett said. She laughed again. You're wonderfully sober, I said. Yes, art I. And when one's with a 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 promised to dance this with Jacob, she left. You've a hell of a biblical name, Jake. How about the next? asked Cohn. We're going, Brett said. We have a date set up at Mont Martre. Dancing, I looked over Brett's shoulder and saw Cone, standing at the bar, still watching her.

You've made a new one there, I said to her. Don't talk about it. Poor chap, I never knew it till just now. Oh, well, I said, I suppose you like to add them up. Don't talk like a fool. You do. Oh, well, what if I do? Nothing, I said. We were dancing to the accordion, and someone 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 here? I don't know. I just brought her. You're getting damned romantic. no bored now no not now let's get out of here she's well taken care of do you want to would i ask you if i didn't want to we left the floor and i took my coat off a hanger on the wall and put it on brett stood by the bar cone was talking to her i stopped at the bar and asked them for an envelope the patron found one i took a fifty-fran note from my pocket put it in the envelope sealed it and handed it to the patron if the girl i came with asked for me will you give her this i said if she goes out with one of those gentlemen will you save this for me se intentu monsieur the patron 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, Cone, I said. Outside in the street we looked for a taxi. You're going to lose your 50 francs, Brett said. Oh, yes. No taxis.

We could walk up to the Ponteon 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 for 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 frank, and we went outside. Where should I tell him, I asked. Oh, tell him to drive around. I told the driver to go to the park Monsori 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 cap started with a jerk. Oh, darling, I've been so miserable, Brett said. End of Chapter 3. Chapter 4 of The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway. This Librevox recording

is in the public domain. Chapter 4 The taxi went up the hill, past the lighted square, then on into the dark, still climbing, then levelled out onto a dark street behind St. Etienne de Mont, went smoothly down the asphalt, passed the trees and the standing bus at the Place de la Contrascarp, and turned on to the cabals of the Rue Moffetard. There were lighted bars and laid open shops on each side of the street. We were sitting apart, and we jolt it close together going down the old street.

Brett's hat was off. Her head was back. I saw her face in the lights from the open shops. Then it was dark. Then I saw her face clearly as we came out of the Avenue de Gobelines. The street was torn up and the 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 at 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 looking 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 everyone else's eyes, and 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 there's not a damn thing we could do i said i don't know she said i don't want to go through that hell again we'd better keep away from each other but darling i have to see you it isn't all that you know no but it always gets to be that's my fault don't we pay for all the things we do though she'd been looking into my eyes all the time her eyes had different depths sometimes sometimes we're all the things we do though she had been looking at my eyes all the time her eyes had different depths sometimes sometimes they seem perfectly flat. Now you could see all the way into them. When I think of the hell I put chaps through, I'm paying for it 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 let you don't. Well, let's shut up about it. I laughed about it too, myself once. She wasn't looking at me. A friend of my brothers came home that

way from the moans. It seemed like a hell of a joke. Chaps never know anything, do they? No, I said, nobody ever knows anything. I was pretty well through with the subject. As one time or another I'd probably considered it from most of its various angles, including the one that certain injuries or imperfections are a subject 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're sitting now like two strangers. On the right was the Park Montsodis. The restaurant, they had the pool of live trout, where you can sit and look out over the park, was closed and dark. The driver leaned his head around. Where do you want to go, I asked. Brett turned her head away. Oh, go to the select. Cafe Select, I told the driver, Boulevard Montparnasse. We drove straight down, turning around the Lyon de Belfort that guards the passing Montrug trams. Brett looked straight ahead. On the boulevard, Raspers,

Paul, 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 one more time before we get there. When the taxi stopped, I got out and paid. Brett came out putting on her hat. She gave me her hand as she stepped down. Her hand was shaky.

I say, do I look too much of a mess? She pulled the man's felt hat down and started it. 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, in 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 meet me, Pallopoulopoulos, meet my friend Lity Ashley. "'How do you do?' said Brett.

"'Well, does your ladyship have a good time here in Paris?' asked Count Mipipipolopoulos, who wore an oak's tooth on his watch-chain. "'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.' "'Bratix called to me from a table.

"'Barns,' he said, have a drink. "'That girl of yours got in a frightful row.' "'What about?' something the patron's daughter said a corking row she was rather splendid you know showed her yellow card and demanded the patron's daughters too i say it was a row what finally happened oh someone took her home not a bad-looking girl wonderful command of the idiom do stay and have a drink no i said i must shove off scene cone he went home with francis mrs braddix put in poor chap he looks awfully down Braddock said. I dare say he is, said Mrs. Braddock's. 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 said. Yes, I said. I've got a rotten

headache. I'll see you tomorrow. Come in at the office. Hardly? Well, we're Will I see you? Anywhere around five o'clock? Make it the other side of town then. Good. I'll be at the Cri-Lon 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 on to the sidewalk and walked down toward the boulevard, past the tables of the rotund, still crowded, looked across across the street at the dome, its tables running out to the edge of the pavement. Someone waved at me from a table. I did not see who it was and went on. I wanted to get home. The boulevard Mont Parnasse was deserted. La Vines was closed tight, and they were stacking the tables

outside the Closerie des Lillas. I passed Neve's statue standing among the new-leaved chestnut trees in the arc light. There was a faded purple wreath leaning against the base, and I stopped and read the inscription. From the Bonapartis groups. Some date, I forget. He looked very fine, Marshall 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, Saint-Machel. 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 upstairs. There were two letters and some paper. I looked at them under the gaslight in the dining room. The letters were from the states. One was a bank statement, showed a balance of $2,432.60. I got out my checkbook and deducted four checks drawn since the first of the month, and I discovered I had a balance of $1,832.60.

I wrote this on the back of the statement. The other letter was a wedding announcement. Mr. and Mrs. Aloysius Kirby announced the marriage of their daughter Catherine. I knew neither the girl nor the man she was marrying. They must be circulating the town. It was a funny name. I felt sure I could remember anyone 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. That 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 streetcar tracks, went by carrying vegetables to the markets. They were noisy at night when you could not sleep. Undressing, I looked at myself in the mirror of the big armoire beside, the bed. That was a typically French way to furnish a room. Practical, too, I suppose. Of all the ways to be wounded, I suppose it was funny. I put on my pajamas and got into bed. I had the two bull-fight papers, and I took the wrappers off. One was orange, the other yellow. They would both have the same news, so whichever I read first would spoil the other. Le Torel was the better paper, so I started to read it. read it all the way through, including the petite correspondence and the cornograms.

I blew out the lamp. Perhaps I would be able to sleep. My head started to work, the old grievance. Well, it was a rotten way to be wounded and fly 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 the Ospeda. in Milan, Padiglione Ponte. The next building was the Padigliona Zonda. It was a statue of Ponce, or maybe it was Zonda. That was where the liaison colonel came to visit me. That was funny. That was about the first funny thing. I was all bandaged up, but they had told him about it. Then he made that wonderful speech. You a foreigner, an Englishman, any foreigner was an Englishman, have

given more than your life. What a speech. I would like to have it illuminated to hang in the office. He never laughed. He was putting himself in my place, I guessed. Came my fortune. 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, but 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 advice, anyway, not to think about it. Oh, it was swell advice. Try and take it some time. Try and take it. I lay a week thinking, and my mind jumping around, then I couldn't keep

away from it, and I started to think about Brett and all the rest of it went away. I was thinking about Brett and my mind stopped jumping around and started to go in sort of smooth waves. Then all of a sudden I started to cry. Then after a while it was better, and I lay in bed and listened to the heavy trams go by and way down the street, and then I went to sleep. I woke up. There was a row going on outside. I listened, and I thought I recognized a voice. I put on a dressing gown and went to the door. The concierge was talking downstairs. She was very angry. I heard my name and called down the stairs. Is that you, Monsieur Barnes? The concierge called. Yes, it's me. There's a species of woman here who's waked the whole street up. What kind of a dirty business at this time of night? She says you must see you.

I've told her you are asleep. Then I heard Brett's voice. Half asleep, I've been sure it was Georgette. I don't know why. She could not have known my address. "'Will you send her up, please?' Brett came up the stairs. I saw she was quite drunk. "'Silly thing to do,' she said. "'Make an awful row.' "'I say you weren't to sleep, 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. It deserves to be anyhow. Knows hell's own amount about people. Don't know where he got it all. Owns a chain of sweet shops 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 damn 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 i should 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 $10,000 to go to Burrits with him. How much is that in pounds? Round 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 Burrits.

Brett laughed. I say you were slow on the uptake, she said. I'd only sip 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. Then I told him I knew too many people in cons. Montecarlo. 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 not. nice about it, wants to drive us out to dinner tomorrow night. Like to go. Why not? I'd better go now. Why? Just wanted to see you. Damn silly idea. Want to get dressed and come down? He's got the car just up the street. The count? Himself and a chauffeur and livery. Going to drive me around and have breakfast in the boys. Hampers. Got it all at zellies. Dozen bottles of mums. Tempt you? I have to work in the morning, I said. I'm too far behind, you know, now to catch up and be any fun. Don't be an ass. Can't do it. Right. Send him a tender message. Anything. Absolutely. Good night, darling. Don't be sentimental. You make me ill. We kissed good night and Brett shivered. I'd better go, she said.

Good night, darling. You don't have to go. Yes. We kissed again on the stairs. and as I called for the cordon, the concierge muttered something behind her door. I went back upstairs and from the open window watched Brett walking up the street to the big limousine drawn up to the curb under the ocklight. 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 glassful down the sink. I turned off the gas in the dining room. kicked off my slippers sitting on the bed. 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. End of chapter four. Five of the sun also rises by Ernest Hemingway. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. In the morning I walked down the boulevard to the Rue So Flot 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 feel of a hot day. I read the papers with a coffee and then smoked a cigarette. The flower women were coming up from the market and arranging their daily stock. Students went by going up to the law school or down to the Sorbonne. The boulevard was busy with trams and people going to work.

I got on an S bus and rode down to the Matalane, standing on the back platform. From the Matalain, I walked along the boulevard des Capucines to the opera and up to my office. I passed the man with the jumping frogs and the man with the boxer toys, I stepped aside to avoid walking on 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 Cizano on the sidewalk in damp letters. All along people were going to work. It felt Pleasant to be going to work. I walked along the avenue and turned into my office.

Upstairs 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 11 o'clock I went over to the C. de Orsay and the taxi and went in and sat with about a dozen correspondence while the foreign office mouthpiece, a young Nouveau-Révo-Francée diplomat and horned-rimmed spectacles talked and answered questions for half an hour. The president of the council was in Lyon, making a speech, or rather he was on his way back. Several people asked questions to hear themselves talk, and there were a couple of questions asked by news servicemen who wanted to know the answers. There was no news. I shared a taxi back from the Cue de Orsay with Woolsey and Crumb.

what do you do nights jake asked crumb i never see you around oh i'm over in the quarter i'm coming over some night the dingo that's the great place isn't it yes that or this new dive the select i meant to get over said crumb you know how it is though with a wife and kids play any tennis wolsey asked well no said crumb i can't say i've played any this year i've tried to get away but sundays it's always rained and the The courts are so damned crowded." The Englishmen all have Saturday off," Woolsey said. Lucky beggars said Crumb. Well, I'll tell you, someday I'm not going to be working for an agency. Then I'll have plenty of time to get out into 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 stop. Here's my street, I said. Come in and have a drink. Thanks, old man, Crum said. Willsy shook his head. I've got to file that line he got off this morning. I put a two-franc piece in Crum'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 goodbye. Crum put his head out. See you at the lunch on Wednesday. You bet. I went to the office and the elevator. Robert Cohn was waiting for me. "'Hello, Jake,' he said, going out to lunch. "'Yes, let me see if there's anything new. "'Where will we eat?' "'Anywhere?' "'I was looking over at my desk. "'Where do you want to eat?'

"'How about Wetzels? "'They've got good hors d'oeuvres.' "'In the restaurant we ordered hors d'oeuvres and beer. "'The Somalié brought the beer, tall, "'beated on the outside of the Steins and cold. "'There were a dozen different dishes of hors d'oeuvres. "'Have any fun last night, I don't.' I asked. No, I don't think so. How's the writing going? Rotten. I can't get the 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? Francis. 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 and sliced cucumbers away and took a pickled herring. What do you know about Lady Brett Ashley, Jake? Her name's Lady Ashley.

Brett's her own name. She's a nice girl, I said. She's getting a divorce and she's going to marry Mike 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 suppose it's breeding. You sound as though you liked her pretty well. I do. I shouldn't wonder if I were in love with her. She's a drunk, I said. She's in love with Mike Campbell, and she's going to marry him. He's going to be rich as hell someday. 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 a 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'oeuvres. Sit down, I said. Don't be a fool. You've got to take that back. Oh, cut out the prep school stuff.

Take it back. Sure. Anything. I never heard of Brett Ashley. How's that? No, not that. About me going to hell. Oh, don't go to hell, I said.

Stick around. We're just starting lunch. Cone 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 damn insulting things, Jake. I'm sorry I've got a nasty tongue. I never mean it when I say nasty things. I know it, Cohen said. You're really about the best friend I have, Jake.

God help you, I thought. Forget what I said, I said out loud. I'm sorry. It's all right. It's fine. I was just sore for a minute. Good. Let's get something else to eat. After we finished the lunch, we walked off to the Café de la Paix and had coffee. I could feel Cohen wanting to bring up Brett again, but I held him off it. We talked about one thing and another, and I left him to come to the office. End of Chapter 5. Chapter 6 of The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. At five o'clock I was in the Hotel Creon, waiting for Brett.

She was not there, so I sat down and wrote some letters. There were not very good letters, but I hoped there being on Creon's stationery would help them. Brett did not turn up, so about quarter to six I went down to the bar, and had a Jack Rose with George the barman. Brett had not been in the bar, either, and so I looked for her upstairs on my way out, and took a taxi to the Café Select. Crossing the same, I saw a string of barges being towed empty down the current, riding high, the bargeman at the switch. 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 Raspal, and I sat back to let that part of the ride pass. The boulevard Raspal always made dull riding. It was like a certain stretch on the PLM between Fontainebleau and Montereux, 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 Raspal. It is a street I do not mind walking down at all, but I cannot stand a 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 Cone got that incapacity. to enjoy Paris. Possibly from Mencken. Mankin hates Paris, I believe. So many young men get their likes and dislikes from Mankan. The taxi stopped in front of the Rotond. No matter what café in Montparnasse you ask a taxi driver to bring you to, from the right bank of the river, they always take you to the Rotond.

Ten years from now it will probably be the dome. It was near enough, anyway. I walked past the sad tables of the Roton. tone to the select. There were a few people inside at the bar, and outside alone sat Harvey Stone. He had a pile of sauces 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 at the races? No, not since Sunday. What do you hear from the States? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. What's the matter? I don't know.

through with them. I'm absolutely through with him. He lit forward and looked me in the eye. Do you want to know something, Jake? Yes. I haven't had anything to eat for five days. I figured rapidly back in my mind. It was three days ago that 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. I felt in my pocket.

Would a hundred help you any, Harvey? Yes. Come on, let's go and eat. There's no hurry. Have a drink. Better eat. No, when I get like this, I don't care whether I eat or not. We had a drink.

Harvey added my saucer to his own pile. Do you know Mencken, Harvey? Yes, why? What's he like? He's all right. He says some pretty funny things. Last time I had dinner with him, we talked about Hoffenheimer. The trouble is, he said, he's a garter-snapper. That's not bad. It's not bad. He's through now, Harvey went on. He's written about all the things he knows, and now he's on all the things he doesn't know.

I guess he's all right, I said. I just can't read him. Oh, nobody reads him now, Harvey said, except the people that used to read the Alexander Hamilton Institute. Well, I said that was a good thing, too. Sure, said Harvey. So we sat and thought deeply for a while. Have another port? All right, said Harvey. There comes Cone, I said.

Robert Cone was crossing the street. That moron, said Harvey. Cone came up to our table. Hello, you bums, he said. Hello, Robert. Harvey said. I was just telling Jake here that you're a moron. What do you mean?

Tell us right off. Don't think. What would you rather do if you could, could do anything you wanted. Cohn started to answer. 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, Cone said. I think I'd rather play football again with what I know about handling myself now. I misjudge you, Harvey said. You're not a moron. You're only a case of arrested development. You're awfully funny, Harvey, Cohn said.

"'Some day somebody will push your face in.' "'Harvey Stone laughed. "'You think so. "'They won't, though, because it wouldn't make any difference to me. "'I'm not a fighter. "'Would make a difference to you if anybody did it.' "'No, it wouldn't. "'That's where you make your big mistake.

"'Because you're not intelligent. "'Cut it out about me.' "'Sure,' said Harvey. "'It doesn't make any difference to me. "'You don't mean anything to me.' "'Come on, Harvey,' I said. "'Have another porto. No, he said, I'm going up the street and eat.

See you later, Jake. He walked out and up the street. I watched him crossing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly, sure of himself in the traffic. He always gets me sore, Cohen 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 what, Cohn said. He just gets on my nerves. Right 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 those personal longings for adventure. Now the sureness was gone.

Somehow I feel I have not shown Robert Cohn clearly. The reason is that, until he fell in love with Brett, I never heard him make one remark that would, in any way, detach him from other people. He was nice to watch on the tennis court. He had a good body, and he kept it in shape. He handled his cards while at Bridge, and he had a funny sort of undergraduate quality about him. 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 molded 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 Len Glenn, 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 Café Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. Come on up to Delilah, I said. I have a date. What time? Francis is coming here at 7.15. There she is. Francis Klein was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved in spite of

We watched her across the street. Hello, she said. I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you. Hello, Francis, 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 Cone, 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 to date myself, and Paula wasn't at her office. I went to the ritz, waited for her, and she never came, and of course I didn't have enough money to lunch at the Ritz.

What did you do? Oh, went out, of course. She spoke in a sort of imitation, joyful manner. I always keep my appointments. No one keeps theirs nowadays. I ought to know better. How are you, Jake, anyway? Fine. That was a fine girl you had at the dance, and then went off with that Brett one. Don't you like her, Cohen asked. I think she's perfectly charming, don't you? Coen 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 Mont Parnasse and sat down at a table. A boy came up with the Paris Times, and I bought one and opened it. What's the matter, Francis? Oh, nothing, she said, except that he wants to leave me. How do you mean? Oh, he told everyone that we're going to be married, and I told my mother and everyone, 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 tried to talk inconsequentially. I wouldn't marry him if he doesn't want to. Of course I wouldn't. I wouldn't marry him now for anything. But it does seem to me to be a little late now, after we've waited three years and I've just gotten my divorce. I said nothing. We were going to celebrate so, and instead we've just had seen. 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 if any man will ever want to marry me. Two years ago I could have married anybody

I wanted, down at cons. All the old ones that wanted to marry somebody sheik 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. 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 talk 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 top table. Well, what are you smiling at, Francis 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. going to England? Isn't that fine? Yes, that's the way it's done in the very best families,

Robert's sending me. He's going to give me two hundred pounds, and then I'm 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 insulting 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 Cone taking it all. Here it was, all going on right before me, and I did not even feel an impulse to try and stop it. And this was friendly joking to what went on later. How can you say such things, friend? Francis Cohen interrupted. Listen to him. I'm going to England. I'm going to visit friends. Ever visit friends that didn't want you? Oh, they'll have to take me all right. How do you do, my dear? Such a long time since we've seen you. And how is your dear mother? Yes, how is my dear mother?

She put all her money into French war bonds. Yes, she did. Probably the only person in the world that did. And what about Robert, or else very careful talking around Robert, you must be most careful not to mention him, my dear. Poor Francis 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, Francis, for God's sake. Yes, I'll tell him. Robert had a little secretary on the magazine, just the sweetest little thing in the world, and he thought she was wonderful, and then I came along, and he thought I was pretty wonderful, too. So I made him get rid of her, and he had brought her to 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 robert you mustn't misunderstand jake it was absolutely platonic with the secretary not even platonic nothing at all really it was just that she was so nice and he did that just to please me Well, I suppose that we that live by the sword shall perish by the sword. Isn't that literary, though?

You want to remember that for your next book, Robert? You know, Robert is going to get material for a new book, aren't you, Robert? That's why he's leaving me. He's decided I don't film well. You see, he was so busy all the time that we're 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 you get 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 said. You'll never be able to remember any conversations that way. Just try and be calm. I know it's awfully hard, but remember it's for literature.

We all ought to make sacrifices for literature. Look at me. I'm going to England without a protest. All for literature. We must all help young writers. Don't you think so, Jake? But you're not a young writer, are you, Robert? You're 34. Still, I suppose that is young for a great writer. Look at Hardy. Look at Attoll France. He just died a little while ago. Robert doesn't think he's any good, though. Some of his French friends told him. He doesn't read French very well himself. He wasn't a good rider like you are, was he, Robert. Do you think he ever had to go and look for material? What do you suppose he said to his mistresses when he wouldn't marry them? I wonder if he

cried, too. Oh, I just thought of something. She put her gloved hand up to her lips. I know the real reason why Robert won't marry me, Jake. It's just come to me. They sent it to me in a vision in the cafe select. Isn't it mystic? Someday they'll put a tablet up, like it "'Lords, 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, Roberts 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 brightened 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. Cone 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. Francis 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, I 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 Raspal. A taxi came along, and I got in, and gave the driver the address of my flat. End of Chapter 6. Chapter 7 of The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway. This Librevox recording is in the public domain.

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 nice.

Last night she was, perhaps a little... She put her head on one hand and rocked it up and down. I'll speak perfectly frankly, Monsor Barnes. Last night I found her not so genteel. Last night I formed another idea of her. But listen to what I tell you. She is very, very genteel. She is a very good family.

It is a thing you could see. They did not leave any word. Yes, they said they would be back in an hour. Send them up when they come. Yes, Monsour Barnes. And that lady, that lady there is someone, an eccentric perhaps, but Calcon, Calcon. The concierge, before she became a concierge, had owned a drink-selling concession at the Paris race-courses. Her life work lay in the Peru's, but she kept an eye on the people of the Passage, and she took great pride in telling me which of my guests were well brought up, which were of good family, who were sportsmen, a French word pronounced with the accent on the men. The only trouble was that people who did not fall into any of those three categories were very liable to be told there was no one home, Shez Barnes.

One of my friends, an extremely underfed-looking painter, who was obviously to Madame Duzenel, 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 doorbell pull. I put on a bathrobe and slippers and went to the door. It was brusiness. Brett. Back of her was the Count. He was holding a great bunch of roses.

"'Hello, darling,' said Brett. "'Aren't you going to let us in?' "'Come on, I was just bathing. Aren't you the fortunate man?' "'Bathing. Only a shower. Sit down, Count Mippy Poulouse. 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 center of the dining-room table. I say we have had a day. You don't remember anything about a date

with me at the crelon. 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-on-drag with a concierge now. I ought to have. Gave her two hundred francs. Don't be a damn 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 happened. So do you, my dear? Fancy, said Brett, who'd want to? I say, Jake, do we get a drink? You get it while I go in and dress. You know where it is. Rather, while I dressed, I heard Brett put down glasses and then a siphon, and then heard them talking.

I dressed slowly, sitting on the bed. I felt tired and pretty rotten. Brett came in the room, a glass in her hand, and sat on the bed. What's the matter, darling? Do you feel rocky? She kissed me coolly on the forehead. Oh, Brett, I love you so much. Darling, she said. Then, do you want me to send him away? No, he's nice. I'll send him away. No, don't. Yes, I'll send him away. You can't just like that. Can't I, though? You stay here. He's mad about me. I tell you. She was gone out of the room. I lay face down on the bed. It 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 better? It's better. Lie quiet. He's gone to the other side of town. Couldn't we live together, Brett? Couldn't we just live together? I don't think so. I just trompere 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 made. Couldn't we go off into 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 by telling you I love you. You know I love you. Let's not talk. Talking's all bilge. I'm going away from you, and then Michael's coming back. Why are you going away? Better for you, better for me. When are you going? Soon as I can.

Where? San Sebastian. Can't we go together? No, that would be a hell of an idea after we just talked it out. 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. I you want me to look. But don't be a fool. I'm going away tomorrow. Tomorrow? 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 bread a drink and won for myself. There was a ring at the bell-pull. I went to the door,

and there was the Count. Behind him, we were a brandy bottle. 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 it's very good wine, he said.

I know we don't get much of a chance to judge good wine in the States now, but I got this from a friend of mine that's in the business. Oh, you'll always have someone in the trade. Brett said. This fellow raises the grapes. He's got thousands of acres of them. What's his name? asked Brett. Vauxlecourt? No, said the Count. Mums. 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 damn 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 gaslight. She was smoking a cigarette and flicking the ashes on the rug. She saw me notice it. I say, Jake, I don't want to ruin your rugs. Can't you give a chap an ash tray? I found some ash trays and spread them around. The chauffeur came up with a bucket full of salted ice. Put two bottles in it, 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 boys 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. I'd like to try a real American cigar. Thanks, I said, I'll finish the cigarette. He cut off the end of his cigar with a gold cutter he wore on one end of his watch chain. I like a cigar to really draw, said the Count. Half the cigars you smoke don't draw. He lit the cigar, puffed at it, looking across the table at Brett.

And when you're divorced, Lady Ashley, then you won't have a title. "'No, what a pity. "'No,' said the Count. "'You don't need a title. "'You've got class all over you. "'Thanks, awfully decent of you. "'I'm not joking you.' "'The Count blew a cloud of smoke.

"'You've 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.'

people. Joke people and you make enemies. That's what I always say. You're right, Brett said. You're terribly right. I always joke people and I haven't a friend in the world. Except Jake here. You don't joke him? That's it. Do you now? asked the Count. Do you joke him? Brett looked at me and wrinkled up the corners of her eyes. No, she said I wouldn't joke him. See, said the Count, you don't joke him. This is a hell of a dull talk, Brett. said, how about some of that champagne? The Count reached down and twirled the bottles in the shiny 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. I should like to hear you really talk, my dear.

When you talk to me you never finish your sentences at all. Leave them for you to finish. Let anyone finish them as they like. It is a very interesting system. The Count reached down and gave the bottles they twirl. Still, I would like to hear you talk some time. Isn't he a fool, Brett asked. Now the count brought up a bottle. I think this is cool. I brought a towel, and he wiped the bottle dry and held it up. I like to drink champagne from magnums. The wine is better, but it would have been too hard to cool. He held the bottle, 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 forward. The Count poured very carefully. There, my dear. Now you enjoy that slowly, and then you can get drunk. Drunk. Drunk. My dear, you are charming when you are drunk. Listen to the man. Mr. Barnes. The Count poured my glass full. She is the only lady I have ever known who is as charming when she is drunk as when she is sober. You haven't been around much, have you? Yes, my dear,

I have been around very much. I've 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'm sure Mr. Barnes has seen a lot. Don't you think I don't think so, sir? I have seen a lot, too. Of course you have, my dear, Brett said. I was only ragging. I've been in seven wars and four revolutions, the count said. Soldering, Brett asked. Sometimes, my dear, and I'm I've 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 waltz. See in the back where they come out? Above the small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick as a finger. I say, those are something. Clean through. The Count was tucking in his shirt. Where did you get those, I asked. In Abyssinia, when I was twenty-one years old. What were you doing? asked Brett.

Were you in the army? I was on a business trip, my dear. I told you he was one of us, didn't I? Brett turned to me. I love you, Count. You're a darling. You make me very happy, my dear, but it isn't true. Don't be an ass.

You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don't you find it like that? Yes, absolutely. I know, said the Count, that is the secret. You must get to know the values. Doesn't anything ever happen to your values, Brett asked. No, not anymore. 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 boys. 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 this.

Have another brandy, the Count said. Get it on the hill. No, have it here where it is quiet. You and your quiet, said Brett. What does it men feel about quiet? We like it, said the Count. Like you like noise, my dear. All right, said Brett, let's have one.

Somalier, the Count called. Yes, sir. What is the oldest brandy you have? 1811, 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 and old brandy than in any other antiquities got many antiquities i got a house full finally we went up to montmartre inside zellies 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 dancing in one place in front of him How are you? Great. That's good. It was all teeth and lips. He's a great friend of mine, Brett

said. Damn good drummer. The music stopped and we started toward the table where the count said. 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 know. He's splendid. He's got his points. I like him, I said. I'm damned fond of him. I'm going to marry him, Brett said. Funny, I haven't thought about him for a week. Don't you write him? Not I, never write letters. I'll bet he writes you. Rather, damn 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, 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 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 willies.' "'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.' "'Darland,' Brett said,

"'I'm so miserable. "'I had that feeling of going through something "'that has all happened before. "'You were happy a minute ago.' "'The drummer shouted, "'You can't do-time. It's all gone. "'What's the matter?' "'I don't know. I just feel terribly.'

"'The drummer chanted, then turned to his sticks. "'Want to go.' I had the feeling as in a nightmare of it being something repeated, something I'd been through, and that now I must go through again. The drummer sang softly. Let's go, said Brett. You don't mind. The drummer shouted and grinned at Brett. All right, I said. We got out from the crowd. Brett went to the dressing room. Brett wants to go, I said, to the count. He nodded. Does she? That's fine. You take the car. I'm going to stay here for a while, Mr. Barnes. We shook hands.

It was a wonderful time, I said. I wish you would let me get this. I took a note out of my pocket. Mr. Barnes, don't be ridiculous, the Count said. Brett came over with a wrap on. She kissed the Count and put her hand on his shoulder to keep him from standing up. As we went out the door, I looked back, and there were three girls at his table. We got into the big car.

Brett gave the chauffeur the address of her hotel. No, don't come up, she said, at the hotel. She had rung and the door was unlatched. Really? No, please. Good night, Brett, I said. I'm sorry you feel rotten. Good night, Jake. Good night, darling. I won't see you again. We kissed standing at the door. She pushed me away. We kissed again. Oh, don't, Brett said. She turned quickly and went into the hotel. The chauffeur drove me around to my flat. I gave him twenty francs and he touched his cap and said, good night, sir. and drove off. I rang the bell. The door opened, and I went upstairs, and went to bed. End of Chapter 7. Book 2. Chapter 8 of The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway. This LeBrovoc's recording is in the

public domain. 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 a concha and said, Darling, Very quiet and healthy. Love to all the chaps. Brett. Nor did I see Robert Cohn again. I heard Francis had left to 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 Cone. I was not bothered by Cone. Jones troubles. I rather enjoyed not having to play tennis. There was plenty of work to do. I went often to

the races, dine 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. It was very cheerful and said the states were wonderful. New York was wonderful. There had been a grand theatrical season and the whole crop of great young light heavyweights. Any one of them was a good prospect to grow up, put on weight, and trimmed 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 when 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. wrote that Vienna was wonderful. Then a card from Budapest. Jake, Budapest is wonderful. Then I got a wire, back on Monday. Monday evening he turned up at the flat. I heard his taxi stop and went to the window and called to him. He waved and started upstairs 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 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 in 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. Last at just four days. Where? Where did you go? Don't remember. Wrote you a postcard. Remember that perfectly. Do anything else? Not so sure.

Possible. Go on. Tell me about it. Can't remember. Tell you anything I could remember. Go on. Take that drink and remember. Might remember a little, Bill said.

Remember something about a prize fight. Enormous Vienna prize fight. Had a nigger in it. 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 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? Lone the nigger some clothes and went around with him to try and get his money. Claimed nigger owed the money on account of wrecking hall. Wonder who translated. Was it me? Probably it wasn't you. You're right. Wasn't me at all. Was another fellow? Think we called him the local Harvard man. Remember him now, studying music. How'd you come out? Not so good, Jake. Injustice everywhere. Promoter claimed Nigger promised let local boy stay. Claim Nigger violated contract. Can't knock out Vienna boy in Vienna. My God, Mr. Gorton, said Nigger. I didn't do nothing in there for 40 minutes, but try and let him stay. That white boy must have ruptured himself swinging at me. I never did hit him. Did you get any money? No money, Jake. All we could get was nigger's clothes. Somebody took

his watch, too. Splendid, nigger. Big mistake to have come to Vienna. Not so good, Jake. Not so good. What became of the nigger? Went back to Cologne. Lives there, married, got a family, going to write me a letter and send me the money. I loaned him. Wonderful, nigger. Hope I gave him the right address. You probably. did. Well, anyway, let's eat, said Bill. Unless you want me to tell you some more travel stories. Go on. Let's eat. We went downstairs and out onto the boulevard, St. Michelle in the warm June evening. Where will we go? Want to eat on the island? Sure. We walked down the boulevard. At the juncture of the Rue Don't Fierre-Roschaud with the boulevard is a statue of two men in flowing robes. I know who they are. Bill eyes the monument.

Gentlemen who invented pharmacy. Don't try and fool me on Paris. We went on. Here's a taxidermist, 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 them or leave him 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 way. Road to Hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault. We went on. How'd you feel that way about dogs so sudden? Always felt that way about dogs. Always been a great lover of stuffed animals. We stopped and had a drink. Certainly liked to drink, Bill said. You ought to try it sometimes, Jake. You're about 144 ahead of me. Ought not to daunt you. Never be daunted. Secret of my success. Never be daunted. Never been daunted in public.

Where were you drinking? Stopped at the crue loan. 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 pernows. 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 Cri-Lone, Harvey was just a little daunted. Hadn't eaten for three days. Doesn't eat anymore. Just goes off like a cat. Pretty sad. He's all right. Splendid. Wish you wouldn't keep going off like a cat, though. Makes me nervous. What do we do tonight? Doesn't make any difference, only let's not get daunted.

Suppose they got any hard-boiled eggs here. 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 the suggestion, said Bill. Want to start now? Come on.

We started on again down the boulevard. A horse can 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 rider the taxi passed someone in it waved then banged for the driver to stop the taxi backed up to the curb in it was brett beautiful ladies said bill going to kidnap us hello brett said hello this is bill gorton lady ashley brett smiled at bill I say I'm just back. Haven't bathed even. Michael comes in tonight. Good. Come on and eat with us and we'll all go to meet him.

Must clean myself. Oh, Rod, come on. Must bat. Must bat. He doesn't get in till nine. Come and have a drink then, before you bat. 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 close. "'Closerie,' Brett said.

"'I can't drink these rotten brandies.' "'Closerie de Lila.' Brett turned to Bill. "'Have you been in this pestilential city long?' "'Just got in to-day from Budapest.' "'How is Budapest?' "'Wonterful. Budapest was wonderful.' "'Ask him about Vienna.'

"'Vienna,' said Bill, is a strange city. "'Very much like Paris,' Brett smiled at him, "'wrinkling the corners 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 Lillas, Brett ordered a whiskey and soda. I took one too, and Bill took another pernault. 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. 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 is a line of them, right out in front. Good. We had the drink and put Brett into her taxi.

Mind you're at the select around ten. Make him come. Michael will be there. We'll be there, Bill said. The taxi started, and Brett waved. Quite a girl, Bill said. She's damn nice. Who's Michael?

The man she's going to marry. Well, well, Bill said. That's always just the stage I meet anybody. What will I send them? Think they'd like a couple of stuffed racehorses? We better eat. She really lady something or other? Bill asked in the taxi on our way down to the Il Saint-Louis.

Oh, yes, in the stud book and everything. Well, well. We ate dinner at Madame Lacombe's restaurant on the forest. side of the island. It was crowded with Americans, and we had to stand up and wait for a place. Someone had put it in the American Woman's Club list as a quaint restaurant on the Paris Quay, as yet untouched by Americans, so we had to wait 45 minutes for a table. Bill had eaten at the restaurant in 1918, and right after the armistice, and Madame LeCont made a great fuss overseeing him. Doesn't get us a table, though, Bill said.

Grand woman, though. We had a good meal, a roast chicken, new green beans, mashed potatoes, a salad, some apple pie and cheese. You've got the world here, all right, Bill said to Madame Le Comte. She raised her hand. Oh, my God. You'll be rich. I hope so. After the coffee and a fiend, we got the bill, chalked up the same as ever on a slate, that was doubtless, one of the quaint features, paid it, shook hand, and went out. You never come here anymore, Monsieur Barnes, Madame Lecompt said.

Too many compatriots. Come at lunchtime. 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 Kuwait-Dor-Lanes 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 batot-mouh went by, all bright with lights, going fast and 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 same by the wooden footbridge from the Quay 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'd 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 to Cardinal Limon. It was steep walking, and we went all the way up to the Place Contriscard. The arc light shone through the leaves of the trees in the square, and underneath the tree was an S-bus ready to start. Music came out of the door of the Negre Joyo.

Through the window of the Café Au Amateurs, I saw the long zinc bar. outside in the terrace working people were drinking in the open kitchen of the amateurs the girl was cooking potato chips and 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 i don't need it we turned to the ride off the place contra scarp 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 out on the Rue du Port de Ferre 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 Grasse, set back behind the courtyard and the iron fence to the boulevard du Port Royal. What do you want to do, I asked. Go up to the café and see Brett.

and Mike? Why not? We walked along Port Royal until it became Mont Parnasse, and then on past the lilas, la vines, and all the little cafes. De Moes crossed the street to the Roton, past its lights and tables to the select. Michael came toward us from the tables. It was tanned and healthy looking. Hello, Jake. He said, hello, hello. How are you, old lad? You look very fit, Mike. Oh, I am. I'm frightfully fit. I've done nothing but walk. Walk all day long. One drink a day with my mother at tea. Bill had gone into the bar. He was standing talking with Brett, who was sitting on a high stool, her legs crossed. She had no stockings on. It's good to see you, Jake, Michael said. I'm a little tight, you know. Amazing, isn't it? Did you see my nose? There was a patch of dried blood on the bridge of his nose.

An old lady's bags did that, Mike said. I reached up to help. her with them and they fell on me. Brett gestured at him from the bar with her cigarette holder and wrinkled the corners of her eyes. An old lady said, Mike. Her bags fell on me. Let's go in and see Brett. I say she is a piece. You are a lovely lady, Brett. Where do 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 pointed at me isn't she a lovely piece couldn't we have kept the man in scotland i say brett let's turn in early don't be indecent michael remember there are ladies at this bar isn't she a lovely piece don't you think so jake there is a fight to-night bill said like to go fight said mike who's fighting lodeau and somebody he's very good ladeau 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 hat. Brett pulled the felt hat down far over one eye and smiled out from under it. You two run along to the fight. I'll have to be taking Mr. Campbell home directly. I'm not tight, Mike said. Perhaps just a little.

I say, Brett, you are a lovely piece. Go on to the fight, Brett said. Mr. Campbell's getting done. difficult. What are these outbursts of affection, Michael? I say you are a lovely peace. We said good night. I'm sorry I can't go, Mike said. Brett laughed. I looked back from the door. Mike had one hand on the bar and was leaning toward Brett, talking. Brett was looking at him quite coolly, but the corners of her eyes were smiling. Outside on the pavement I said, do you want to go to the fight? Sure, said Bill, if we don't have to walk. Mike was pretty excited about

his girlfriend, I said in the taxi. Well, said Bill, you can't blame him such a hell of a lot. End of Chapter 8. Chapter 9 of The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway. This Liber Wax recording is in the public domain. Chapter 9. The Le Doe Kid Francis fight was the night of the 20th of June. It was a good fight. The morning after the fight, I had a letter from Robert Cohn, written from Hende. He was having a very quiet time, he said, bathing, playing some golf, and much bridge. Henday 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 Cone from the office that Bill and I would,

leave Paris on the 25th, unless I wired him otherwise, and would meet him at Bion, where we could get a bus over the mountains to Pompulona. That 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 nuisance. Don't talk like a fool. I'm a little tight,

you know. I wouldn't ask you like this if I weren't. You're sure you don't mind. oh shut up michael brett said how can the men 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 twenty-fifth "'By the way, where is Bill?' Brett asked. "'He's out at Shuntilly, 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 twenty-fifth. "'Bret can't get up in the morning.' "'Indeed not. "'For 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 sufflies.' "'I won't fish,' Brett put in.

"'Get two rods, then, and Bill won't have to buy one.' "'Right,' said Mike. "'I'll send a wire to the keeper.' "'Won't it be splendid?' Brett said. "'Spain! We will have fun. "'The 25th. When is that? Saturday.' "'You will have to get ready.' "'I say,' said Mike,

"'I'm going to the barbers.' "'I must bat,' 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 brothel 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. Might. I needed that, Brett said.

We walked up the Rue de Lambre. I haven't seen you since I've been back, Brett said. No. How are you, Jake? Fine. Brett looked at me. I say, she said, is Robert Cohn going on this trip? Yes, why?

Don't you think it will be a bit rough on him? Why should it? Who did you think I went down to San Sebastian with? "'Congratulations,' I said. "'We walked along.' "'What did you say that for?' "'I don't know. What would you like me to say?' "'We walked along and turned a corner.

"'He behaved rather well, too. He gets a little dull. "'Does he? I rather thought it would be good for him. "'You might take up social service. "'Don't be nasty.' "'I won't. Didn't you really know?' "'No,' I said. I guess I didn't think about it. do you think it will be too rough on him it'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 breath again until the night of the twenty-fourth of june did you hear from cohen 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 my god i told him we were all coming down together my god

and all. He's wonderful, isn't he? They expected their money the next day. We arranged to meet at Pampolona. They would go directly to San Sebastian and take the train from there. We would all meet at the Montoya in Pamplona. They did not turn up on Monday at the latest. We would go on ahead up to Brigette in the mountains to start fishing. There was a bus to Brigette, a road at an itinerary so they could follow us. Bill and I took the morning train from the Gar de Arce. 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 service. 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 conduct. said, there will be a fifth service at 3.30. 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. Come?

Go to hell, said Bill. Get the sandwiches made and a bottle of wine. You tell him, Jake, and send it up to the next car. I described where we were. In our compartment were a man and his wife and their young son. I suppose you're Americans, aren't you? The man asked, having a good trip. Wonderful, said Bill.

That's what you want to do. Travel while you're young. Mother and I always wanted to get over, but we had to to wait a while. You could have come over ten years ago if you 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 or 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 to Baritz and lords. So that's what they are, pilgrims. God- damn Puritans. God-dam Puritan.

Bill said. What part of the states you boys from? Kansas City, I said. He's from Chicago. You both go into Burrits? 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 held in 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.

So wonder they ever find anyone to marry them. Say, said Bill, do you know that gang of pilgrim fathers have cornered the dining car until half-past three this afternoon? "'How do you mean? They can't do a thing like that. You try and get seats?' "'Well, mother, it looks as though we better go back and have 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 her priests, commenced filing down the corridor. Our friend and his family did not come back. A waiter passed in the

corridor with our sandwiches in the bottle of Chablis, and we called him in. You're going to work today, I said. He nodded his head. They start now at 10.30. When do we eat? Huh? When do I eat? He left two glasses for the bottle, and we paid him for the sandwiches and tipped him. I'll get the plates, he said, or bring them with you. We need to be. We have to be. We 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 pasture land was green, and there were fine trees, and sometimes big rivers and chateau off in the trees.

At tours we got off and bought another bottle of wine, and when we got back in the compartment, the gentleman from Montana and his wife and his son, Hubert, were sitting comfortably. Is there good swimming in Baritz? asked Hubert. That boy's just crazy till he can get in the water, his mother said. It's pretty hard on youngsters traveling. There is good swimming, I said, but it's dangerous when it's rough. Did you get a meal, Bill asked. We sure did.

We sat right there when they started to come in, and they must have 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 snapper, all right, the man said, it certainly shows you the power of the Catholic Church. It's a pity you boys ain't Catholics. You could get a meal then, all right. I am, I said. That's what makes me so sore. Finally, at a quarter past four, we had lunch. Bill had been rather difficult at the last. He

button-hold 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 clan, Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the dining car, the waiter served the fifth successive table-de-hoit 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 while. walk. There was not time to get into the town. Afterward, we passed through the lawns and watched the sunset. There were wide fire gaps cut through the pines, and you could look up them like avenues and see wooded hills way off. About 7.30 we had dinner and watched the country through the open window and the

diner. It was all sandy pine country, full of heather. There were little clearings with houses in them, and once in a while we passed a sawmill. It got dark, and we could feel the country hot and sandy and dark outside of the window. And about nine o'clock we got into Bayonne. The man and his wife and Hubert all shook hands with us. They were going on to La Negress to change for Barretz. Well, I hope you have lots of luck, he said. Be careful about those bullfights.

Maybe we'll see you at Baritz, Hubert said. We got off with our bags and rod cases and passed through the dark state, and out to the lights in 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-sided. I'd 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. End of Chapter 9. Chapter 10 of The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. In the morning it was bright, and they were sprinkling the streets of the town. We all had breakfast in the cafe. Beyond 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, was very hot on the bridge. It was very hot on the bridge.

across the river. We walked out on the bridge and then took a walk through the town. I was not at all sure Mike's rods would come from Scotland in time, so we hunted a tackle store and finally bought a rod for bill upstairs over a dry goods store. The man who sold the tackle was out. 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 the Initiative office, where the bus was supposed to start from. There they told us the bus service did not start until the 1st of July. We found out at the tourist office what we ought to pay for a motor car to Pamplona and hired one at a big garage just around the corner from the municipal theater for 400 francs. The car was to pick us up at the hotel in 40 minutes, and we stopped at the cafe 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 16 francs apiece for Bill and me, with 10% added for the service, and we had the bag 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. Cone came down finally, and we all went out to the car. It was a big closed car with a driver and a white duster with blue collar and cuffs. 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 basque 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 Pilota 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 Pilota against them, and the houses in the villages had red-tiled roofs, and then the road turned off and commenced to climb, but 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 only see 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 carboneers with pat-leather Bonapot hats and short guns on their backs, on one side and on the other fat Frenchmen and capies 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. We got out and went over to the stream to see if there were any trout. Bill tried to talk some Spanish with one of the carabineers, but it did not go very well.

Robert Cohn asked, pointed with his finger, there were any trout in the stream, and the carabineer said yes, but not many. I asked him if he ever fished, and he said no, that he didn't care for it. Just then an old man with long sunburned hair and beard, and clothes that looked as though they were made of gunny-sacking, came striding up to the bridge. He was carrying a long staff, and he had a kid slung on his back, tied by the four legs, the head hanging down. The carabineer waved him back with his sword. The man turned without saying anything, and started back up the white road into Spain. What's the matter of 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 wait 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 khal the road winding back and forth on itself and then it was really spain there were long brown mountains in a few pines and far-off forests of beech trees on some of the mountain sides the road went along the summit of the kahl 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 the road. We came down out of the mountains and through an oak forest, and there were white cattle grazing in the forest. Down below there were grassy plains and clear streams. 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 call, and turned along it, and the road ran down to the right. We saw a whole new range of mountains off to the south, all brown and baked looking, and furrowed in strange shapes. After a while we came out of the mountains, and there were trees along both sides of the road, and a stream and ripe fields of grain, and the road went on, very white and straight ahead, and then lifted to a little rise, and off on the left was a hill with an old castle, with buildings close around it, and a field of grain going right up to the walls and shifting in the wind. I was up in front with the driver, and I turned around. Robert Cohen 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 a way off you could see the plateau of Pamplona rising out of the plain, and the walls of the city in the great brown cathedral, and the broken skyline of the other churches.

In back of the plateau were the mountains, and everywhere you look there were other mountains. 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 leveling out through the new part of town they were 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 Montoya. 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 downstairs 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 downstairs dining room, and we had a very good lunch. the first meal in spain was always a shock with the hors d'oeuvres and egg-course two meat courses vegetables salad and dessert and fruit you have to drink plenty of wine to get it all down

robert cohen 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 cone had been rather nervous ever since we had met it beyond He did not know whether we knew Brett had been with him at San Sebastian, and it made him rather awkward. Well, I said, Brett and Mike ought to get in tonight. 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 pissetas they're here tonight, Bill said. He always bets when he is angered. so he usually bets foolishly. I'll take it, Cohen said. Good. You remember it, Jake. Fifty pesetas. I'll remember it myself, Bill said. I saw he was angry and wanted to smooth him down. It's a sure thing, though, come, I said, but maybe not tonight. Want to call it off, Cohen 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 Café Irunya for coffee. Cohn said he was going over and get a shave. Say, Bill said to me, have I got any chance on that bet? You've got a rotten chance. They've never been on time anywhere. If their money doesn't come, it's a cinch they won't get in tonight. I was sorry as soon as I opened my mouth, but I had to call him. He's all right, I guess, but where does he get this inside stuff? Mike and Brett fixed it up with us about coming down here. I saw Cohn coming over across the square. Here he comes. Well, let him not get superior and Jewish. The barbershops closed, Cohn said.

It's not open till four. We had coffee at the Irunya, 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, but 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, went through the market, and had a good time seeing the town again. I went to the Ayunta Miento and found the old gentleman who said, subscribes for the bullfight 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-based 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 grey with dust, from beyond. Well, well, he said, I knew you were in a motor-car from the way the dust was, so I gave him two copper coins. At the end of the street I saw the cathedral and walked up toward it. The first time I ever saw it, I thought The facade was ugly, but I liked it now. I went inside. It was dim and dark, and the pillars went high up.

There were people praying, and it smelled 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 bullfighters, separately for the ones I liked, and lumping all the rest. And I prayed for myself again. and while I was praying for myself, I found I was getting sleepy. So I prayed that the bullfights would be good, and that it would be a fine fiesta, and that we would get some fishing. I wondered if there is 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 and making money reminded me of the count, and I started wondering about where he was,

and regretting I hadn't seen him since that night. in Montmartra, 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, 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 alongside streets to the hotel. At dinner that night we found that Robert Cohn had taken a bath, had had his shave and a haircut, and a shampoo, and something 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. The station, the train was late. We sat on a baggage truck and waited outside in the dark. I've never seen a man in civil life as nervous as Robert Cohn, nor is eager. I was enjoying it. It was lousy to enjoy it, but I felt lousy. Cone 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. 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. 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 taking cabs or walking with their friends or relatives through the dark into the town. I knew they wouldn't come, Robert said.

We were going back to the hotel. I thought they might, I said. Bill was eating fruit when we came in and finishing a bottle of wine. Didn't come, eh? No. Do you mind if I give you that hundred piscetas and the morning, Bill asked. I haven't changed any money yet.

Oh, forget about it, Robert Cohn, said. Let's bet on something else. Can you bet on bullfights? You could, Bill said, but you don't need to. 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 Knight 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

did devil him, I do not know. Of course I do know. I was blind, unforgivingly jealous of what had happened to him. The fact that I took it as a matter of course did not alter that any. I certainly did hate him. I do not think I ever really hated him until he had that little spell of superiority at lunch. that and when he went through all that barbering. So I put the telegram in my pocket. The telegram came to me anyway. Well, I said, we ought to pull out on the noon bus for Borgete. They can follow us if they get in tomorrow night.

There are only two trains up from San Sebastian, an early morning train, and the one we had just met. That sounds like a good idea, Kohn said. The sooner we get on the stream, the better. It's all one to me when we start, Bill said. The sooner the better. We sat in the Irunya for a while, and had coffee and then took a little walk out to the bullring, and across the field, and under the trees at the edge of the cliff, and looked down

at the river in the dark. I turned in early. Bill and Cohn stayed out in the cafe quite late, I believe, because I was asleep when they came in. In the morning I bought three tickets for the bus to Borgette. It was scheduled to leave at two o'clock. There was nothing earlier. I was sitting over at the Irunya, 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. That's Café Suiso. 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 today. You and Bill go on ahead. I've got your ticket. Give it to me. I'll get the money back. It's five pizsaintas. Robert Cohn took out a silver five percent apiece 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 the 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 about it last night, Bill said. He's a great little confider. He said he had a date with Brett at San Sebastian. The lying bastard. Oh, no, said Bill. Don't get sore. Don't get sore at this stage of the trip. How did you ever happened to know this fellow anyway. Don't rub it in. Bill looked round, half-shaved, and then went on talking into the mirror while he lathered his face. Did you send him with a letter to me in New York last winter? Thank God I'm a traveling 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 dharbs, but not alongside of this Robert Cohn. The funny thing is he's nice, too. I like him, but he's just so awful. It 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. He 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 cheekbone. It's an honest face. It's a face any woman would be safe with. She's 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. Mother should tell their daughters about this face. My son, he pointed the razor at me. go west with his face and grow up with a 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 him. us. You're damn right. We're going trout fishing. We're going trout fishing in the Errati 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 Irunia and start, I said. End of chapter 10. Chapter 11 of the sun also rises by Ernest Hemingway.

This LeBrovoc's recording is in the public domain. Chapter 11 It was baking hot in the square when we came out after lunch with our bags in the rod case to go to burgette. 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 fit it into the place he had

saved on the one wooden seat that ran across the top. Robert Cone 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 in to me and when i tipped it up to drink he imitated the sound of a claxon motor-horn so well and so suddenly that i spilled some of the wine and everybody laughed he apologized and made me take another drink he made the claxon again a little later and it fooled me the second time he was very good at it the best 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 one of the waltz 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. Everyone 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 claxes, they were a couple more false claxes, the bus started, and Robert Cohn waved goodbye to us, and all the bass waved goodbye to him. As soon as we started out on the road outside of town, it was cool, 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 bass are swell people, Bill said. The basque lying against my legs was tan 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, he said, lifted up. Bill raised the wine skin and let the stream of wine spurt out and into his mouth. His head tipped back. When he stopped drinking and tipped the leather bottle down, a few drops ran down his chin. No, no, several bass 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 arm's 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 wagged his little finger at him and smiled at us with his eyes. Then he bit the stream off sharp, made a quick left with a wine bag, and lower it down to the owner.

He winked at us. The owner shook the wine-skin sadly. We passed through a town and stopped in front of the posada, and the driver took on several packages. Then we started on again, and outside the town the road commenced to mount. We were going through farming country with rocky hills that. sloped down into the fields. The grain fields went up the 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 are 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, falling one after the other, hauling 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 arreero, 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 up a sudden green valley.

A stream went through the center of the town, and fields of grapes touched the houses. The bus stopped in front of a posada, and many of the passengers got down, and a lot of the baggage was unstrapped from the roof from under the big tarpaulins and lifted down. Bill and I got down and went into the posada. There was a low, dark room with saddles and harness and hay forks made of white wood, in clusters of canvas rope-sold shoes, and hams, and slabs of bacon and white garlics and long sausages hanging from the roof. It was cool and dusky. We stood in front of a long wood encounter with two women behind it serving drinks. Behind them

were shells stacked with supplies and goods. We each had an arqueur diente and paid forty centimes for the two drinks. I gave the woman 50 centimes to make a tip, and she gave me back the copper piece, thinking I misunderstood the price. Two of our bass 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 everyone to sit. on the seat. And the Basque who had been lie 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 everybody waving, we started off. The road left the Green Valley at once, and we were up in the hills again. Bill and the wine bottle Basque were having a conversation. A man leaned over from the other side of the seat and asked in English, you're Americans. Sure. I've been there, he said, forty years ago. He was an old man as brown as the others, with a 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 did 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 are you from? Kansas City. I've been there, he said. I've 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, hey? 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 bullfights. Sure, don't you? Yes, he said, I guess I like them. Then after a little, where you go now?

Up to burgette to fish. Well, he said, I hope you catch something. He shook hands and turned around to the back seat again. The other bass had been impressed. He sat back comfortably and smiled at me when I turned around to look at the country. but the effort of talking American seemed to have tired him. He did not say anything after that. The bus climbed steadily up the road. The country was barren and rocks stuck up through the clay. There was no grass beside the road. Looking back, we could see the country spread out below.

Far back, the fields were squares of green and brown on the hillsides. Making the horizon were the brown mountains. They were strangely shaped. As we climbed higher, the horizon kept changing. As the bus ground slowly up the road, we could see other mountains coming up in the south. Then the road came up over the crest, flattened out, and went into a forest. It was a forest of cork oaks, and the sun came through the trees and patches, and there were cattle grazing back in the trees. We went through the forest, and the road came out and turned along a rise of land, and out ahead of us was a rolling green plain, with dark mountains beyond it. These were not like the brown heat-baked mountains we had left behind. These were wooded,

and there were clouds coming down from them. The green plain stretched off, 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 in the white houses of Brigitte, a head strung out on the plain, and a way off on the shoulder of the first dark mountain, was the gray metal-sheet roof of the monastery of Ronque Vales. There's Ronce-Vaux, I said. Where? Way off there where the mountain starts.

It's cold up here, Bill said. It's high, I said. Must be twelve hundred meters. It's awfully cold, Bill said. The bus leveled down onto the straight line of road that ran to. of Brigette. We passed a crossroads and crossed a bridge over a stream. The houses of Brigette were along both sides of the road. There were no side streets. We passed the church and the schoolyard, and the bus stopped. We got down and the driver handed down our bags in the rod case. A carabineer

in his cocked hat and yellow leather cross-straps came up. What's in there? He pointed to the rod case. I opened it and showed him. He asked to see our fishing permits, and I got them out. He looked at the date and then waved us on. Is that all right? I asked. Yes, of course. We went up the street, past the whitewashed stone houses, families sitting in the 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 started to blow outside. The woman sent a girl upstairs with us to show the room. There were two beds, a washstand, a closed chest, and a big frame steel engraving of

Nouveza de Ronquevales. The wind was blowing against the shutters. The room was on the north side of the inn. We washed, put on sweaters, and came downstairs into the dining room. It had a stone floor, low ceiling, and was oak panel. The shutters were up, and it was so cold you could see your breath. "'My God,' said Bill, "'it can't be this cold tomorrow. I'm not going to wait a stream in this weather.' There was an upright piano in the far corner of the room,

beyond the wooden tables, and Bill went over and started to play. "'I got to keep warm,' he said. "'I went out to find the woman and ask her how much the room and board was. She put her hands under her apron and looked away from me. "'Twelve pizetas.' why we only paid that in pamplona she did not say anything just took off her glasses and wiped them on her apron that's too much i said we didn't pay more than that at a big hotel we've put in a bathroom haven't you got anything cheaper not in the summer now is the big season we were the only people in the inn well i thought it's only a few days is the wine included oh yes well i said well i said it's only a few days is the wine included oh yes well i said

said, it's all right. I went back to Bill. He blew his breath at me to show how cold it was. It 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 upstairs and smoked and read in bed to keep warm. Once in the night I woke and heard the wind blowing. It felt good to be warm and in bed. End of Chapter 11. Chapter 12 of The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway. This Lieberwock's recording is in the public domain. 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 bold 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 found it down. Bill was still sleeping, so I dressed, put on my shelf. shoes outside on the hall and went downstairs. No one was stirring downstairs, so I emboldened 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, found a sort of matto, 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 matic 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, he said. Didn't want to interrupt you. What were you doing? Baring your money. You lazy bum. Been working for the common good? Splendid.

I want you to do that every morning. Come on, I said. Get up. What? Get up. I never get up. He climbed into bed and pulled the sheet up to his chin. Try and argue me into getting up. I went on looking for the tackle and putting it all together in the tackle bag. Aren't you interested, Bill asked. I'm going down and eat. Eat. Why didn't you say eat?

I thought you just wanted me to get up for fun. Eat? Fine. Now you're reasonable. You go out and dig some more worms and I'll be right down. Oh, go to hell. Work for the good of all. Bill stepped into his underclothes. Show irony and pity. I started out of the room with the tackle bag, the nets and the rod case. Hey, come back.

I put my head in the door. Aren't you going to show a little irony and pity? I thumbed my nose. That's not irony. As I went downstairs, 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 downstairs.

The tune was, the bells are ringing for me and my gal. I was reading a week-old Spanish paper. What's all this irony and pity? What? Don't you know about irony and pity? No, who got it up? Everybody. They're mad about it in New York. It's just like the Fratelini's used to be. The girl came then 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 round. raspberry jam. Thank you. Hey, that's not the way, Bill said. Say something ironical. Make some crack about

Prima de Rivera. I could ask her what kind of 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 Cone? pitiful. Be ironic. He took a big gulp of coffee. Ah, 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? Nobody that ever left their own country ever wrote anything worth printing, not even in the newspapers. He drank the coffee. You're an expatriate.

You've lost touch with the soil. You get precious. Fake European standards have ruined you. You drink yourself to death. You've become obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not working. You are an expatriate. See?

You hang around cafes. It sounds like a swell life, I said. When do I work? You don't work. One group claims women support you. Another group claims you're impotent. No, I said, I just had an accident. Never mention that, Bill said.

That's the sort of thing that can't be spoken of. That's what you ought to work up into a mystery, like Henry's bicycle. He had been going splendidly, but he stopped. I was afraid he thought he had hurt me with that crack about being impotent. I wanted to start him 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 the same way. But you don't petal it. No, I said, I guess you don't petal it.

Let's lay off that, Bill said. All right, I was just standing up for the tricycle. I think he's a good rider, 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 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 at all. The Colonel's lady and Judy O'Grady are lesbians under their skin.

He stopped. Want to hear some more? Shoot, I said. I don't know anymore. Tell you some more at lunch. Old Bill, I said. You bum. We packed the lunch and two bottles of wine in the rucksack, and Bill put it on.

I carried the rod case and the landing net slung over my back. We started up the road and then went across to 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, tadpole spotted the sand. We went up a steep bank and across the rolling fields. Looking back, we saw brigitte, white houses and red roofs, and the white road with a truck going along it, and the dust rising. Beyond the fields we crossed another faster-flowing stream. A sandy road led down to the ford, and beyond into the woods. The path crossed the stream on another foot log below the ford, and joined the road, and we went into the woods. It was a beech wood, and the trees were very old.

The roots bulked above the ground, and the branches were twisted. We walked on the road between the thick trunks of the old beaches, and the sunlight came through the leaves and 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 tree is well spaced as though it was. were a park. This is country, Bill said. The road went up a hill and we got into a thick woods, and the road kept on climbing. Sometimes it dipped down, but rose against 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 the land that was the highest part of the range of wooded hills we had seen from Bergette. There were wild strawberries growing on the sunny side, of the ridge and 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 Virati 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 Ayrati Valley, I pointed out to build. That's a hell of a hike. It's too far to go and fish and come back the same day, comfortably. Comfortably, that's a nice word. We'll have to go like hell to get there and back and have any fishing at all. It was a long walk, and the country was very fine, but we were tired when we came down the steep road that led out of the wooded hills into the valley of the Rio de la Fabrica. The road came out from the shadow of the woods into the hot sun. Ahead was a river valley.

Beyond the river was a steep hill. There was a field of buckwheat on the hill. We saw a white house under some trees on the hillside. It was very hot, and we stopped under some trees beside a dam that crossed the river. Bill put the pack against one of the trees, and we jointed up the rods, put on the reels, tied on liters, and got ready to fit. You're sure this thing has trout in it, the last. It's full of them. I'm going to fish a fly. You got any McGinty's? There's some in there. You're 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. There are plenty up above, too. Bill went down the bank. Take a worm can. No, I don't want one. If they won't take a fly, I'll just flick it around. 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 up and, and I lifted it up and,

knocking the corks firmly into the bottles, lowered them down into the water. It was so cold my hand and wrist felt numb. 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 into 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 square timbers and watched the smooth apron of water before. the river tumbled into the falls. In the white water at the foot at the dam, it was deep. As I baited up, the 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, 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 bade it up and dropped. As soon as I bade it 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, small, smoothly heavy water above the dam, and then pick some ferns and pack 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 at the tree. It was very hot on the dam, so I put my worm can in the shade with the bag, got a book out of the pack, and settled down under the tree to read until Bill should come up for lunch. It's 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 their true love waited too, and they were still

waiting when Bill came up. Get any, he asked. He had his rod in his bag and his net all in one hand. 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 his bag, laid out a big trout on the grass. He took up three more, each one a little bigger than the last, and laid them side by side in the shade from the tree. His face was sweaty and happy. How are yours? Smaller. Let's see them. They're packed. How big are they really? They're all about the size of your smallest. You're not holding out on me. I wish I were. Get them all on worms? Yes. You lazy bum.

Bill put the trout in the bag and started for the river, swinging the open bag. He was wet from the waist down, and I knew he must have been waiting the stream. I walked up the road and got out the two bottles of wine. They were cold. Moisture beated on the bottles as I walked back to the trees. I spread the lunch on a newspaper, and uncorked one of the bottles, and leamed the other against a tree. Bill came up drying his hands, his bag plumped with ferns. Let's see that bottle, he said. He pulled the cork and tipped up the bottle and drank. Woo, that makes my eyes ache. Let's try it. The wine was icy cold and tasted faintly rusty.

That's not such filthy wine, Bill said. The cold helps it, I said. We unwrapped the little parcels of lunch. Chicken. There's hard-boiled eggs. Find any salt. First the eggs, said Bill, then the chicken. Even Brian could see that.

He's dead. I read it in the paper yesterday. No, not really. Yes, Brian's dead. Bill laid down the egg he was peeling, gentlemen, he said, and unwrapped a drumstick from a piece of newspaper, I reversed the order, for Brian'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. and egg. Bill gestured with the drumstick in one hand in the bottle of one and 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, brother? 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 to the holy mysteries of the Henkouk with simian fingers, let us accept on faith and simply say, I want you to join with me and sang. 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 and 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 encorped the other bottle. What's the matter, I said. Didn't you like Brian? I loved Brian, said Bill. We were like brothers. Where did you know him? He and Mankin and I went to Holy Cross together. And Frankie Fritch. It's a lie.

Frankie Fritch went to Fordham. Well, I said I would. went to Loyola with Bishop Manning. It's a lie, Bill said. I went to Loyola with Bishop Manning myself. You're cock-eyed, I said. On wine? Why not? It's the humidity, Bill said. They ought to take this damn humidity away. Have another shot. Is this all we've got? Only the two bottles. Do you know what you are? Bill looked at the bottle affectionately.

No, I said. You're in the pay of the anti-saloon league. I went to Notre Dame with Wayne B. Wheeler. It's a lie, said Bill. I went to Austin Business College with Wayne B. Wheeler. He was class president. Well, I said the saloon must go. You're right there, old classmate, Bill said. The saloon must go, and I will take it with me.

You're cock-eyed. Unwine? On wine? Well, maybe I am. Want to take a nap. All right. We lay with our heads in the shade. and looked up into the trees.

You asleep? No, Bill said, I was thinking. I shut my eyes. It felt good lying on the ground. Say, Bill said. What about this Brett business? What about it? Were you ever in love with her?

Sure. For how long? Off and on for a hell of a long time. Oh, hell, Bill said. I'm sorry, fella. It's all right, I said. I don't give a damn anymore. Really?

Really. only I'd a hell of a lot rather not talk about it. You aren't sore I asked you. Why the hell should I be? I'm going to sleep, Bill said. He put a newspaper over his face. Listen, Jake, he said. Are you really a Catholic?

Technically. What does that mean? I don't know. All right, I'll go to sleep now, he said. Don't keep me awake by talking too much. I went to sleep, too. When I woke up, Bill was packing the rest of. 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 sleeping on the ground. What did you do? Wake up, Bill asked. Why didn't you spend the night? I stretched and rubbed my eyes. I had a lovely dream, Bill said. I don't remember what it was about, but it was a lovely dream. I don't think I dreamt. You ought to dream, Bill said. All our biggest businessmen have been dreamers. Look at Ford. Look at President Coolidge. Look at Rockefeller. Look at Joe Davidson. I disjointed my rod and bills 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 flat pockets.

You got everything now. I looked around on the grass at the foot of the elm trees. Yes. We started up the road into the woods. There's a long walk home to Burgette, 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 Burgette and had good fishing. The nights were cold, and the days were hot.

There was always a breeze, even in the heat of the day. it was hot enough so that it felt good to wait 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 st jean pied to port and was stopping at the end for the fishing it was very pleasant went with us twice to the irati river There was no word from Robert Cohn, nor from Brett and Mike. End of Chapter 12. Chapter 13 of The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. 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, he said. Letter for you. I stopped at the post and they gave it to me with mine. The letter was at my place at the table, leaning against a coffee cup. Harris was reading the paper again. I opened the letter. It had been forwarded from Pamplona. It was dated San Sebastian, Sunday. Dear Jake, we got here Friday. Brett passed out on the train, so brought her here for three days rest with old friends of ours. We go to Montoya Hotel Pamplona Tuesday, arriving at I

don't know what hour. Will you send a note by the bus to tell us what to do to rejoin you all on Wednesday? All our love and sorry to be late, but Brett was really done in, and will be quite all right by Tuesday, and is practically so now. I know her so well and try to look after her, but it's not so easy. Loved 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, we've been here nearly a week. I hope you're not thinking of leaving. Yes, we'll go in on the afternoon bus, I'm afraid. What a rotten business. I had hoped we'd all have another go at the Arati 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 Brigitte. Come on in to Pamplona. We can play some bridge there. And there's going to be a damned fond fiesta. I'd like to. awfully nice of you to ask me. I'd best step on here, though. I've not much more time to fish. You want those big ones in the Arati. I say I do, you know. They're enormous trout there. I'd like to try them once more. Do, stop over. 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 center of the town. She stopped in front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wallet that hung against her skirt. "'For Usteadis?' I looked at it. The address was Barnes. Bergette. 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 Weifes. Kohn. I handed it to Bill. What does the word Kone mean? he asked.

What a lousy telegram, I said. He could send ten words for the same price. I come Thursday. That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it? It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Kone. We're going in anyway, I said. There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it? We might as well, said Bill. There's no need for us to be snooty. We walked up to the post office and asked for a telegraph blank.

What will we say, Bill asked. Arriving tonight. 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 Ronke Valle's. 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've been intending coming up each day.

It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it? Bill asked. He liked Harris. I say not. We're standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. Isn't that a pub a crumb 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'd taken up utilizing from Bill. We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked to 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. 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. Sometime. Don't you forget it, Harris? We must. We have had such a jolly good time. How about another bottle around? Jolly good idea, said Harris. This is mine, said Bill, where we don't drink it. I wish you'd let me pay for it. It does give me pleasure, you know. This is going give me pleasure, Bill said. The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. We kept the same glasses. Harris lifted its glass. I say, you know this does utilize well. Bill slapped him on the back. Good old Harris. I say, you know, my name isn't really Harris. It's Wilson Harris, all one name with a hyphen, you know. Good old Wilson Harris, Bill said. We call you Harris because we're so fond of you. I say, Barnes, you don't know what this all means to me. Come on and utilize another glass,

I said. Barnes, really, Barnes, you can't know. That's all. Drink up, Harris. We walked back down the road from Ronke-Vales 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 sometime, 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, 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. You wanted to fish? Yes, you couldn't tell how English would mix with each other anyway. 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 stringing electric light-wire. to light the plaza for the fiesta. A few kids came up when the bus stop, and a custom officer for the town made all the people getting down from the bus open their bundles on the sidewalk. We went into the hotel, and on the stairs I met Montoya. He shook hands with us, smiling in his embarrassed way. You are friends here, he said. Mr. Campbell. Yes, Mr. Cone and Mr. Campbell and Lady Ashley. He smiled as though there was something I would hear about. when did they get in yesterday i saved you the rooms you had that's fine did you give mr campbell the room on the plaza yes all the rooms we looked at where are our friends now i think they went to the pelotta 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

seen a Dysenka Ronada. Montoya put his hand on my shoulder. I'll see you there. He smiled again. He always smiled as though bullfighting 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, friend, is he aficionado, too? Montoya smiled at Bill. Yes, he came all the way from New York to see the San Ferminus. Yes, Montoya politely disbelieved, but he's not officinado like you. He put his hand on my shoulder again, embarrassedly. Yes, I said, he's a real officionado,

but he's not aficionado like you are. Offician means passion, and aficionado is one who is passionate about the bullfights. All the good bullfighters stayed at Montoya's hotel, that is those with Aficion stayed there. The commercial bullfighter stayed once, perhaps, and then did not come back. The good ones came each year. In Montoya's room were there photographs. The photographs were dedicated to Juanito Montoya or to his sister. The photographs of bullfighters Montoya had really believed in were framed. Photographs of bullfighters who had been without officion, 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 wastebasket. He did not want them around. We often talked about bulls and bullfighters. I'd 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 dissoning. in 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 American.

Somehow it was taken for granted that an American could not have aficion. He might simulate it or confuse it with it. excitement, 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 the same embarrassed putting the hand on the shoulder, or a Buen-Ombre. But nearly always there was the actual touching. It seemed as though they wanted to touch you to make it certain. Montoya could forgive anything of a bullfighter who had officione.

He could forgive attacks of nerves, panic, bad, unexplainable actions, all sorts of lapses. For one who had officion 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 bullfighting. Bill had gone upstairs as we came in, and I feel like a little bit of the same. 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 they were unshaved patches under the line of the jaw.

It's pretty good, I said. the bulls out of the cages one at a time, and they have steers in the corral to receive them and keep them from fighting, and the bulls tear in at the steers, and the steers run around like old maids trying to quiet them down. Do they ever gore the steers? Sure, sometimes they go right after them and kill them. Can't the steers do anything? No, they're trying to make friends.

What did they have them in for? To quiet down the bulls and keep them from breaking the horns against the stone. own 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 Café Iruna. There were two lonely-looking ticket houses standing in the square. Their windows marked Sol, Solisombra, 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. They were there, Brett and Mike and Robert Cohn. Brett was wearing a basque beret. So was

Mike. Robert Cohn was bareheaded and wearing his spectacles. Brett saw us coming and waved. Her eyes crinkled up as we came to the table. Hello, you chaps, she called. Brett was happy. Mike had a way of getting an intensity of feeling into shaky hands. Robert Cohen shook hands because we were back. Where the hell have you been, I asked. I brought them up here, Cohen said. What rot, Brett said. We'd have gotten here earlier if you hadn't come. You'd never gotten here. What rot? You chaps are brown. Look at Bill. Did you get good fishing, my guest? We wanted to join you. Wasn't bad. We missed you. I wanted to come, cone said. but I thought I ought to bring them.

You bring us? What rot? Was it really good, Mike asked. Did you take many? Some days we took a dozen apiece. There was an Englishman up there. Named Harris, Bill said. Ever know him, Mike? You 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? Kohn asked. Was I not? He was a very distinguished soldier, Brett said. Tell them about the time your horse bolt it down piccadilly.

I'll not. I've told that four times. You never told me, Robert Cohen said. I'll not tell that story. It reflects discredit on me. Tell them about your metals. I'll not. That story reflects great discredit on me.

What story is that? Brett will tell you. She tells all the stories that reflect discredit on me. Go on, Brett. should i i'll tell it myself what medals have you got mike i haven't got any medals you must have some i suppose i've the usual metals but i never sent in for them one time there was this whopping big dinner and the prince of wales was to be there And the card said metals will be worn. So naturally I had no medals. And I stopped at my tailors, and he was impressed by the invitation.

And I thought that's a good piece of business. And I said to him, you've got to fix me up with some metals. He said, what metals, sir? And I said, oh, any metals. Just give me a few medals. So he said, what medals have you, sir? And I said, how should I know? Did he think I spent all my time reading the bloody gazette?

Just give me a good lot. Pick them out yourself. So he got me some medals, you know, miniature metals, and handed me the box. And I put it in my pocket and forgot it. Well, I went to the dinner, and it was the night they'd shot Henry Wilson, so the prince didn't come, and the king didn't come, and no one wore any medals, and all these coves were busy taking off their medals, and I had mine in my pocket. He stopped for us to laugh. Is that all? That's all. Perhaps I didn't tell it right. You didn't, said Brett, but no matter. We were all laughing. Ah, yes, said Mike, I know now. It was a damn dull dinner, and I couldn't stick it, so I left. Later on in the evening, I found the box in my pocket. What's this, I said?

Metals? Bloody military medals? So I cut them all off their backing. You know, they put them on a strip, and gave them all around, gave one to each girl, form of souvenir. They thought I was hell's own shakes of a soldier, give away medals in a nightclub, 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 riding for months. Seems some chap had left them to be cleaned, frightfully military cold, set hell's own store by them. Mike paused. Brought in 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. "'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. 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 Ayunta Miento, 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 into someone 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 in a low stone house. At the far end was the stone wall of the corrals, with apertures in the stone that were like loopholes running all along the face of each corral. The ladder led up to the top of the wall, and people were climbing up the ladder and spreading down to stand on the walls that separated the two corrals. As we came up the 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 traveling box. They had come by train from a bull-breeding ranch in Castile, and had been unloaded off flat cars at the station, and brought up here to be let out of their cages into the corrals. Each cage was stenciled 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 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, Britt 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'd come late were standing behind us, pressing against us when

other people crowded them. Why don't they start, Robert Cohen asked. A single mule was hitched to one of the cages and dragged it up against the gate in the corral wall. The men shoved and lifted it with crowbars into position against the gate. Men were standing on the wall ready to pull up the gate at the corral, and then the gate of the cage. 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. Someone wrapped 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 in 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 in charge where the man had

been, trying to reach him behind the planks with a half-dozen quick, searching drives with the right horn. "'My God, isn't he beautiful,' Brett said. We were looking right down on him.' "'Look how he knows how to use his horns,' I said. He's got a left and a right, just like a boxer. "'Not really. You watch.

It goes too fast. Wait, there'll be another one in a minute. They had backed up another cage into the entrance. In the far corner a man from behind one of the plank shelters. attracted the bull. 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, Ha! Ha! Toro! And waved her 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. Fawn, I said. said, if it doesn't buck you. I saw it, she said. I saw him shift from his left to his right on. 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 him lightly in the flank, and then turned away and looked up at the crowd on the walls. his crest of muscle rising. The steer came up to him and made as though to nose at him,

and the bull hooked, pre-functorily. 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 a 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 cafe.

Mike and Bill came in half an hour later. They had stopped on the way for several drinks. We were sitting in the cafe. That's an extraordinary business, Brett said. Will those last ones fight as well as the first, Robert Cohn asked? They seemed to quiet down awfully fast. They all know each other, I said. They're only dangerous when they're alone, or only two or three of them together.

What do you mean dangerous, Bill said? They all look dangerous to me. They only want to kill when they're alone. Of course, if you went in there, you'd probably detach one of them from the herd, and he'd be dangerous. That's too complicated, Bill said. Don't you ever detach me from the herd, Mike? I say, Mike said.

They were fine. bulls, weren't they? Did you see the horns? Did I not? said Brett. I had no idea what they were like. Did you see the one hit that steer, Mike asked. That was extraordinary. It's no life being a steer, Robert Cohen said. Don't you think so, Mike said. I would have thought you'd love being a steer, Robert. What do you mean, Mike? They lead such a quiet life. They never say anything, and they're always hang about so. We were embarrassed. Bill laughed. Robert Cohen was angry. Mike went on talking. I should think you'd love it.

You never have to say a word. Come on, Robert. Do say something. Don't just sit there. I said something, Mike. Don't you remember? About the steers. Oh, say something more.

Say something funny. Can't you see we're all having a good time here? Come off it, Michael. You're drunk, Brett said. I'm not drunk. I'm quite serious. Is Robert Cohn going to follow Brett around like a steer all the time? Shut up, Michael.

Try and show a little breeze. breeding. Breeding be damned. Who is 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 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 Cone. Don't go, Mike said. Robert Cohn's going to buy a drink. Bill went off with Cone. Cone'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 interrupted. I'm not saying he's not right, you know. She turned to me. The emotion left Mike's voice. We were all friends together. I'm not so damn drunk as I sounded, he said. I know you're not, Brett said.

We're none of us sober, I said. I didn't say anything I didn't mean. But you put it so badly, Brett laughed. He was an ass, though. He came down to San Sebastian, where he damn well wasn't wanted. He hung her on Brett and just looked at her. It made me damn 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. Damn 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 afterwards. Damn good chaps, Brett said. It's all right to talk about it. Michael and I understand each other. She gave me Robert Cone's letters. I wouldn't read them. You wouldn't read any letters, darling. You wouldn't read mine. I can't read letters, Mike said.

Funny, isn't it? You can't read anything. No, you're wrong there. I read quite a bit. I read when I'm at home. You'll be riding 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. But let him behave, then. He'll behave. I'll tell him. You tell him, Jake. Tell him either he must behave or get out. Yes, I said. It would be nice for me to tell him. "'Look, Brett. Tell Jake what Robert calls you. That is perfect, you know. Oh, no, I can't. Go on. We're all friends. Aren't we all friends, Jake? I can't tell him. It's too ridiculous.' I'll tell him. You won't, Michael. Don't be an ass. He calls her Circe. Mike said. He claims she

turns men into swine. Damn good. I wish I were one of these literary chaps. He'd be good, you know, Brett said. He writes a good letter. I know, I said. He wrote me from San Sebastian. That was nothing, Brett said. He can write a damned amusing 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 Cohen, Mike said. Just act as though nothing had happened. It's quite all right with me, Mike said. I'm not embarrassed. 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 upstairs, and I stopped to speak with Montoya. Well, how did you like the bulls, he asked. Good.

they were nice bulls. They're all right, Montoya shook his head, but they're not too good. What didn't you like about them? I don't know. They just didn't give me the feeling that they were so good. I know what you mean. They're all right. Yes, they're all right. How did your friends like them? Fine. Good, Montoya said.

I went upstairs. Bill was in this room standing on the balcony looking out at the square. I stood beside him. Where's Cone? Upstairs, in his room. How does he feel? Like hell, naturally. Mike was awful. He's terrible when he's tight. He wasn't so tight. The hell he wasn't. I know what we had before we came to the cafe. He sobered up afterward. Good. It was terrible. I don't like Cone. 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. Tomorrow come the miuras. When does the fiesta start?

Day after tomorrow. 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 gown.

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 taught and sallow, but he cheered up finally. Could not stop looking at Brett. It seemed to make him happy. Must have been pleasant for him to see her looking so lovely, and know he had been away with her and that everyone knew it. They could not take that away from him. It was very funny, so was Michael. They were good together. It was like certain dinners, I remember, from the war. There was much wine and ignored tension and a feeling of things coming that you could not prevent happening. Under the wine, I lost the disgusted feeling,

and was happy. It seemed they were all such nice people. End of Chapter 13. Chapter 14 of the sun also rises by Ernest Hemingway. This leap-provoc recording is in the public domain. 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 Turjanev. Probably I read the same two pages over several times.

It was one of the stories in a sportsman's sketches. I'd read it before, but it seemed quite. new. The country became very clear and the feeling of pressure I had seemed to loosen. I was very drunk and I did not want to shut my eyes because the room would go round and round. But I kept on reading, that feeling would pass. I heard Brett and Robert Cohn come up the stairs. Cone 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'd 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 anymore. I could shut my eyes without getting the wheeling sensation. But I could not sleep. There's no reason why, because it is dark you should look at things differently from when it is light. The hell it 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 make 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've 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 everything that was any good. I paid my way into enough things that I liked so that I had a good time. Either you paid by learning about them. or by experience, or by taking chances, or by money. Enjoying living was learning to get your money's worth, and knowing when you had it. You could get your money's worth.

The world was a good place to buy in. It seemed like a fine philosophy. In five years, I thought, it will seem just as silly as all the other fine philosophies I've had. Perhaps that wasn't true, though. Perhaps as you went along you didn't learn something. I did not care what it was. 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 learn from that what it was all about. I wished Mike would not behave so terribly to Cone, though. Mike was a bad drunk. Brett was a good drunk. Bill was a good drunk. Cone was never drunk. Mike was unpleasant after he passed a certain point. I liked to see him hurt Cone. I wished he would not do it, though, because afterward it made me disgusted of myself. That was morality, things that made you disgusted afterward. No, that must be immorality. That was a large statement. What a lot of bilge I could think up at night. What rot? I could hear Brett say it. What rot? When you were with English, you got into the habit of using English expressions in your thinking. The English spoken language, the upper classes anyway, must have fewer words than the Eskimo.

Of course I didn't know anything about the Eskimo. Maybe the Eskimo was a fine language. Say the Cherokee. I didn't know anything about the Cherokee either. The English talked with 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 Turgenev. I knew that now, reading it in the oversensitized state of mind after much too much brandy, I would remember it somewhere, and afterward it would seem as though it really happened to me. I would always have it. That was another good thing you paid for and then had. Sometime along toward daylight, I went to sleep.

The next two days in Pamplona were quiet, and there were no more rouse. The town was getting ready for the field. workmen put up the gate-post 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 workman dug holes and fitted in the timbers. Each timber numbered for its regular place. Out on the plateau beyond the town, employees of the bull-ring exercised Piccadot-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 amphitheater was being swept.

The ring was rolled and sprinkled, and carpenters replaced weakened or cracked planks in the barreira. Standing at the edge of the smooth rolled sand, you could look up into the empty stands and see old women sweeping out the boxes. Outside the fence that led from the last street of the town to the entrance of the bullring 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 bullfight. Out across the plain, where the horse and cattle fare would be, some gypsies had camped under the trees. The wine and Aguardiente's cellars were putting up their booths. One booth advertised Anis del Toro.

The claw sign hung against the planks in the hot sun. In the big square that was the center of the town, there was no change yet. We sat in the whitewicker chairs on the terrace of the cafe and watched the motor buses come in and unload peasants from the country coming into the market. We watched the buses fill up and start out with peasants, sitting with their saddlebags full of the things they had bought in town. The tall gray motorbuses were the only life of the square, except for the pigeons, and the man with a hose who sprinkled the graveled square and watered the streets. And the evening was the passeau. For an hour after dinner, everyone, all the good-looking girls, the officers from the garrison, all the fashionable people of the town, walked in the street on one side of the square,

while the cafe tables filled with the regular after-dinner crowd. During the morning I usually sat in the cafe and read the Madrid papers and then walked in the town or out into the country. Sometimes Bill went along. Sometimes he wrote in his room. Robert Cohn spent the morning studying Spanish or to do. trying to get a shave at the barbershop. 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 not only was it impossible, but it was not as interesting as it sounded. Besides, it would be in a language she did not know. We met Cohn as we came out of the 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. We could not be upset about anything on a day like that. That was the last day before the fiesta. End of chapter 14. Chapter 15 of the sun also rises by Ernest Hemingway. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. At noon of Sunday the 6th of July, the fiesta exploded.

There's 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 and 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 cafe prices. They got their money's worth in the wine shops. Money still had a definite value and 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 11 o'clock Mass. San Fermin is also a religious festival.

I walked down the hill from the cathedral and up the street to the cafe on the square. It was a little before noon. Robert Cohn and Bill were sitting at one of the tables. The marble-topped tables and the white wicker chairs were gone. They were replaced by cast-iron tables and severe folding chairs. The cafe was like a battleship, stripped for action. Today the waiters did not leave you alone all morning to read without asking if you wanted to order something. A waiter came up as soon as I sat down.

What are you drinking? I asked Bill and Robert. Sherry, Cone said. Cheres, 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 great ball of smoke high up above the theater, Gallare, 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 down the street we heard the pipes and the fiefs and the drums coming they were playing the rio riao music the pipe 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 fiefs 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 shriled and the fives 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 shir 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 silent 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. Hooray for wine! Hooray for the foreigners was painted on the banner. "'Where are the foreigners?' Robert Cohen 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, what 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. While 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 because the crowd was too great. Ahead of the formal procession and behind it danced the Riao Rial Rial 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, 30 feet high, moors, a king and queen, whirling and waltzing solemnly to the Riao-Riao. They were all standing outside the chapel where San Ferman and the dignitaries had passed and 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 blatters 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 they 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 rio rioo they rushed us into a wine-shop we stood at the counter they had brett seated on a wine cask who was dark in the wine-shop and full of men singing hard voice singing back at the counter they drew the wine from cask 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 is a place down the street, I said. I'll go get a couple. The dancers did not want me to go out. Three of them were sitting on the high wine cast beside Brett, teaching her to drink out of the wine skins. They had hung a wreath of garlics around her neck. Someone insisted on giving her a glass. Somebody was teaching Bill a song,

singing it into his ear, beating time on Bill's back. I explained to them that I would be back. Outside in the street, I went down the street looking for the shop that made leather 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 a fresh tan leather and hot tar.

A man was stenciling, completed wine skins. They hung up 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 bolt to holding onto a chair.

What are you going to do? Sell them in beyond. 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 tensling the new ones and tossing them into a pile stopped. It's true, he said, eight pesettas 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 someone said they were in the back room. At counter the girl filled the two wineskins for me. One held two liters. The other held five liters. filling them both cost three piscences sixty centimos. Someone at the counter that I had never seen before tried to pay for the wine, but I finally paid for it myself. The man who 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-liter 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 surrounded by the dancers. Everybody had his arms on everybody else's shoulders, and they were all singing. Mike was sitting at a table with several men in their shirt sleeves, eating from a bowl of tuna fish, chopped onions, and vinegar. They were all drinking wine and mopping up the oil and vinegar with pieces of bread. Hello, Jake. Hello, Mike called. Come here, I want you to meet my friends. We're all having an hors d'oeuvre. I was introduced to the

people at the table. They supplied their names. names to Mike and sent for a fork for me. Stop eating their dinner, Michael, Brett shouted from the wine barrels. I don't want to eat up your meal, I said, when someone 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. Everyone took a drink, tipping the wine skin at arm's length. Outside, above the singing, we could hear the music of the procession going by.

Isn't that the procession, Mike asked. "'Natha,' said someone. "'It's nothing. Drink up. Lift the bottle.' "'Where did they find you?' I asked Mike. "'Someone.' "'Someone brought me here,' Mike said. "'They said you were here.' "'Where's Cone?'

"'He's passed out,' Brett called. "'They've put him away somewhere.' "'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, Arriva, up with a bottle. I took a drink. It tasted of licorice and warmed all the way. I could feel it warm in my stomach.

Where the hell is Cone? 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 delmonal man wiped his mouth and stood up. Come on. In a back room, Robert Cohn was sleeping quietly on some wine-cast. It was almost too dark to see his face. They had covered him with a coat, and another coat was folded under his head. Around his neck and on his chest was a big wreath of twisted garlics. Let him sleep, the man whispered. He's all right.

Two hours later, Cohn appeared. He came into the front room still with a wreath of garlics around his neck. The Spaniard 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 are only dead, Bill said. Aren't we going to go and have some supper, Cohn asked.

Do you want to eat? Yes, why not? I'm hungry. Eat those garlics, Robert, Mike said. I say, do eat those garlics. Cone 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 goodbye 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 tomorrow,' 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 center, 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 of 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 upstairs and slipped on one of the beds in Cohn's room. The fiesta was going on outside in the night, but I was too sleepy for it to keep me awake. When I woke, it was the sound of the rocket exploding that announced the release of

the bulls from the corrals at the edge of town. They would race through the streets and out to the bull-ring. I had been sleeping heavily, and I woke feeling I was too late. I put on a coat of cones 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. We were all running together. After they went out of sight, a great roar came from the bull ring. They kept on. And 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 to the room and got into bed. I've been standing on

the stone balcony and bare feet. I knew our people. crowd must have all been out at the bull ring. Back in bed, I went to sleep. Kohn 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. It was all so sudden there wasn't any time for it to bother anybody. I wish I'd been up. We didn't know where you were. We went to your room, but it was locked. Where did you stay up? We danced at some club. I got sleepy, I said.

My gosh, I'm sleepy now, Cone said. Doesn't this thing ever stop? Not for a week. Bill opened the door and put his head in. Where were you, Jake? I saw them go through from the balcony. How was it? gran where are you going to sleep no one was up before noon we ate at table 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 iruania it had filled up and as the time for the bull fight came it got fuller and the tables were crowded closer it was a close crowded hum that came every day before the bull fight the caf did not make the same noise at any other their time, no matter how crowded it was. This hum went on, and we were in it, and a part of it. I'd taken six seats for all the fights. Three of them were Bereres, the first row at the ringside, and three were Sobri Puerreptos, seats with wooden backs, halfway up to the amphitheater. 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 Bereras, and I gave the extra ticket. to a waiter to sell. Bill said something to Cohen about what to do and how to look so he would not mind the horses. Bill had seen one season of bull fights. I'm not worried about how I'll stand it. I'm only afraid I may be bored, Cohn said. You think so. Don't look at the horses after the bull hits them, I said to Brett.

Watch the charge and see the picador try and keep the bull off, but then don't look again until the horse is dead if it's been hit. I'm a little nervy about it, Brett said. I'm worried whether I'll be able to go through with it all right. You'll be all right. There's nothing but that horse part that will bother you, and they're only in for a few minutes with each bull. Just don't watch when it's bad.

She'll be all right, Mike said. I'll look after her. I don't think you'll be bored, Bill said. I'm going over to the hotel to get the glasses and the wine skin, I said. See you back here. Don't get cock-eyed. I come along, Bill said. Brett smiled at us.

We walked around through the arcade to avoid the heat of the square. That cone 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 wanted to stay there. In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya.

Come on, said Montoya. Do you want to meet Pedro Romero? Fine, said Bill. Let's go see him. We followed Montoya up a flight down the corridor. He's in room number eight, Montoya explained. He's getting dressed for the bullfight. Montoya knocked on the door and opened it. It was a gloomy room with a little light coming in from the window on the narrow street. There were two beds separated by a monastic partition. The electric light was on. The boy stood very straight, and the little bit of the door. on smiling in his bullfighting clothes. His jacket hung over the back of a chair. He 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. Seemed 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, and he turned to me. He was the best-looking boy I've ever seen. You go to the bullfight, he said in English. You know English, I said, feeling like an idiot. No, he answered and smiled. One of three men who had been sitting on the beds came up and asked us if we spoke French. Would you like me to interpret for you? Is there anything you would like to ask Pedro Romero. We thanked him. What was there that you would like to ask?

The boy was nineteen years old, alone except for a sword handler, and the three hangers-on, and the bullfight was to commence 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. It's a fine boy, don't you, think? Montoya asked. He's a good-looking kid, I said. He looks like a Torero, Montoya said. He is the type. He's a fine boy. We'll see how he is in the ring, Montoya said. We found the big leather wine bottle leaning against the wall in my room, took it, and the field glasses, locked the door and went downstairs. It was a good bullfight. 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 Madhador's, 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 bullfight I looked up at Mike and Brent 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. Does Cone look bored? I asked. That kike. Outside the ring, after the bullfight 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. We had that disturbed, emotional

feeling that always comes after a bullfight, 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. What 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 waiters saved chairs for the others. and we each ordered and absent and watched the crowd in the square and the dancers what do you suppose that dance is bill asked it's a sort of holtah they're not all the same bill said they danced 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-sold shoes tapped and spat it on the pavement.

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's his name, is somebody? Am I wrong? Oh, isn't he lovely, bro? Brett said, in those green trousers. Brett never took her eyes off them. I say, I must borrow your glasses tomorrow. 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 their 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, Robert. The first horse did bother me, Cone said. You weren't bored, were you? asked Bill. Cone 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 born. 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 bullfight, 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 a sadist, just because she has a good, healthy stomach. Won't be healthy long. Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn.

The waiter brought the absent glasses. Did you really like it, Bill asked Cone? 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, Cone said. They're not important, Bill said. After a while, you never notice anything disgusting.

It is a bit strong just at the start, Brett said. There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse. The bulls were fine, Cohen said. They were very good, Mike said. I want to sit down below next time, Brett drank from her glass of Absin. She wants to see the bullfighters close by, Mike said. They are something, Brett said. That Romero lad is just a child.

He's a damned good-looking boy, I said. When we were up in his room, I never saw a better look. kid. How old do you suppose he is? Nineteen or twenty? Just imagine it. The bullfight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the Barreira, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bullfighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. Saw Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside. side Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull,

not the horse, when the bulls charged the piccadores, got her to watching the picador place the point of his pick so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with the 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 a 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 decomposed but smoothly worn down.

She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks that other bullfighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape work, why she did not like the others. romero never made any contortions always it was straight and pure and natural in line the others twisted themselves like corkscrews their elbows raised and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was fake turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling.

Romero's bullfighting 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 Josolito, all the bullfighters have been developing a technique that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feel, while the bullfighter was really safe.

Romera had the old thing, the holding of his purity of lime through the maximum of exposure, 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 damn much. He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with.

God, what looks, Brett said. I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bullfighter 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. It looks that way, Brett said. Doesn't he, I said. They had hitched the mules to the dead bull, and then the whips cracked. The men ran and the mules, straining forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and the bull one horn up, his head on its side, swept a swath smoothly across the sand and out the red gate. This next is the last one. Not really, Brett said.

she leaned forward on the barra. Romero waved his piccadores to their places, then stood, his cape against his chest, looking across the ring to where the bull would come out. After it was over, we went out and were pressed tight in the crowd. These bullfights are hell on one, Brett said. I'm limp as a rag. Oh, you'll get a drink, Mike said.

The next day Pedro Romero did not fight. It was Muirah bulls in a very bad bullfight. The next day there was no bullfight scheduled, but all day and all night the fiesta kept on. End of Chapter 15. Chapter 16 of The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. In the morning it was raining. A fog had come over the mountains from the sea.

You could not see the tops of the mountains. The plateau was dull and gloomy. and the shapes of the trees and the houses were changed. I walked out beyond the town to look at the weather. The bad weather was coming over the mountains from the sea. The flags in the square hung wet from the white poles, and the banners were wet, and hung damp against the front of the houses. And in between the steady drizzle,

the rain came down and drove everyone 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, was only driven under cover. The covered seats of the Bullring had been crowded with people, sitting out of the rain watching the concourse of Basque and Navarais 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' coats wet in the rain. The crowd was in the cafes, and the dancers came in, too, and sat their tight-wound white legs under the tables, shaking the water from their belled caps and spreading their red and purple jackets over the chairs to dry. It was raining hard outside. I left the crowd in the cafe and went over to the hotel to get shaved for dinner. I was shaving in my room when there was a knock on the door. Come in, I called. Montoya walked in. How are you, he said. Fine, I said, no bulls today. No, I said, nothing but rain. Where are your friends? Over at the Irunia. Montoya, smiled his embarrassed, smile. Look, he said, do you know the American ambassador?

Yes, I said. Everybody knows the American ambassador. He's here in town. Now. Yes, I said. Everybody's seen them. I've seen them too, Montoya said. He didn't say anything. I went on shaving. Sit down, I said. Let me send for a drink. No, I have to go. I finished shaving and put my face down into the bowl and washed it with cold water. Montoya was standing there looking more embarrassed. Look, he said. I've just had a message from them at the Grand Hotel that they want Pedro. Romero and Marseal Lalanda to come over for coffee tonight, after dinner. Well, I said it can't hurt Marseille any. Marseal has been in San Sebastian all day. He drove over in a car this morning with Marquez. I don't think they'll be back tonight. Montoya stood embarrassed. He wanted me to say something. Don't give Romero the message, I said. You think so? Absolutely. Montoya was very pleased. I wanted to ask you because you are 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 Al-Gabano, I said. Yes, like Al-Gabano.

They're a fine lot, I said. There is one American woman down here now that collects bullfighters. I know. They only want the young ones. Yes, I said. The old ones get fat. We're crazy, like Gallo. Well, I said it's easy. All you have to do is not give him a message. He's such a fine boy, said Montoya. He ought to stay with his own people. He shouldn't mix in that stuff. Once you have a drink, I asked. No, said Montoya, I have to go. went out. I went downstairs and out the door and took a walk around through the arcades around the

square. It was still raining. I looked in at the Irunya 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 downstairs dining room. They were well ahead of me, and it was no use trying to catch them. Bill was buying shoe shines for Mike. Boop blacks opened the street door, and each one Bill called over and started to work on Mike. This is the 11th time my boots have been polished, Mike said. I say, Bill is an ass. The boot blocks had evidently spread the report. Another came in. Lempia botas, he said to Bill. No, said Bill, for this, signor. The boot black 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 bullfight critic, a little man with a drawn face. I told Romero how much I liked his work, and he was very pleased. We talked Spanish, and the critic knew a little French. I reached to our table from my wine bottle, but the critic took my arm. Romero laughed. Drink here, he said, in English. He was very bashful about his English, but he was really very pleased with it, and as we want to talkie, he brought out words he was not sure of,

and asked me about them. He was anxious to know the English for Corita de Toros, the exact translation. Bullfight he was suspicious of. I explained that bullfight in Spanish was the Lydia of a Toro. The Spanish word Corida means in English the running of bulls. The French translation is course de Toro. The critic put that in. There is no Spanish word for bullfight. Pedro Romero said he had learned a little English in Gibraltar. He was born in Ronda. That is not far above Gibraltar. He started bullfighting in Malaga in the bullfighting school there. He had only been at it three years.

The bullfight critic joked him about the number of Maliguenio expressions he used. It was 19 years old, he said. His older brother was with him as a bandarillo, 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'd made the mistake. Where did you see me the other time? In Madrid. Yes, I lied. I'd read the accounts of his two appearances

in Madrid in the bullfied 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 something altogether apart from himself. There is 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. Tomorrow, if I get a good bull, I will try and show it to you. When he said this, he smiled, anxious that neither the bullfight critic nor I would think he was boasting. I am anxious to see it, the critic said. I would like to be. I would like to be be convinced. He doesn't like my work much. Romero turned to me. He was serious. The critic explained that he

liked it very much, but that so far it had been incomplete. Wait till tomorrow, if a good one comes out. Have you seen the bulls for tomorrow? The critic asked me. Yes, I saw them unloaded. Pedro Romero leaned forward. What did you think of them? "'Very nice,' I said. "'About 26 arobas, very short horns. "'Haven't you seen them?' "'Oh, yes,' said Romero. "'They won't weigh 26 arobas,' 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 call from the next table. You have deserted us. Just temporarily, I said. We're talking bulls. You are superior. Tell him the bulls have no balls, Mike shouted.

He was drunk. Romero looked at me inquiringly. Drunk, I said. Boracho. Very boracho. You might introduce your friends, Brett said. She had not stopped looking at. 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 Villotta, 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 Villota what does the drunken one do nothing is that why he drinks no he's waiting to marry this lady tell him bulls have no balls Mike shouted very drunk from the other end of the table what does he say he's drunk Jake Mike called tell him bulls have no balls you understand I said yes I was sure he didn't so it was all right. Tell him Brett wants to see him put on those green pants. Pipe down, Mike. Tell him Brett is dying to know how he can get into those pants.

Pipe down. During this, Romero was fingering his glass and talking with Brett. Brett was talking French, and he was talking Spanish and a little English and laughing. Bill was filling the glasses. Tell him Brett wants to come into, oh, pipe down, Mike, for Christ's sake. Romero looked up smiling. Pipe down, I know that, he said. Just then Montoya came into the room. He started to smile at me. Then he saw Pedro Romero with a big glass of cognac in his hand,

sitting laughing between me and a woman with bare shoulders, at a table full of drunks. He did not even nod. Montoya went out of the room. Mike was on his feet proposing a toast. Let's all drink to, he began, Pedro Romero, I said. Everybody stood up. Romero took it very seriously. 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 everyone, 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, Cone? 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, Cone. Who 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 Eruña.' "'No, don't you think I'm right? I love that woman.'

"'Oh, don't start that again. Do shove it along, Mike,' Brett said. "'Don't you think I'm right, Jake?' Cohn sat at the table. His face had the sallow yellow look it got when he was insulted, but somehow he seemed to be enjoying it, the childish, drunken heroics of it.

It was his affair with the lady of title. Jake, Mike said, He was almost crying. You know I'm right. Listen, you. He turned to Cone. 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. Cone stood up and took off his glasses. He stood waiting. His face sallow. His hands fairly low, proudly and firmly waiting for the assault,

ready to do battle for his lady love. I grabbed Mike. Come on to the cafe, I said. You can't hit him here. in the hotel. Good, said Mike. Good idea. We started off. I looked back as Mike stumbled up the stairs and saw Cohen putting his glasses on again. Bill was sitting at the table pouring another glass of Fundador. Brett was sitting looking straight ahead at nothing. Out 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 masked on the far side of the square where the square where the moon was, the fireworks specialist and his son were trying to send up fire balloons. A balloon would start up jerkily on a great bias 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 Orgito, the fireworks king, standing on a little platform, carefully starting the balloons with sticks, standing above the heads of the crowd to launch the balloons off into the wind. The wind brought them all down, and Don Manuel Orquito's face was sweaty

in the light of his complicated fireworks that fell into the crowd and charged and chased, sputtering and cracking, between the legs of the people. The people shot it as each new luminous paper bubble corined, caught fire, and fell. They're razing Don Manuel, Bill said. How do you know he's Don Manuel, Brett said? His name's on the program. Don Manuel Orquito, the pirotechnico of this city. Globos Illuminados, Mike said.

A collection of Globos Illuminados. That's what the paper said. The wind blew the band music way. 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 illuminated, Mike said, a bunch of bloody globos illuminados. 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 Passaio was going in under the arcade. There were some English and Americans from Baritz in sport clothes, scattered at the tables. Some of the women stared at the people going by with Lourgnon's. We had acquired at some time a friend of Bill's from Baritz. 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 Baritz, Mike said. They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta. I'll fiesta them, Bill said. You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl. Mike turned to Bill's friend. When did you come here? Come off at, 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 Fiesta the English. I'll fiesta 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 cafe. Rockets were going up in the square. I'm going to sit here, Brett said. I'll stay with you, Cohn said. Oh, don't, Brett said. For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk? I didn't, Cohn said. I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight. What a hell of a reason for sitting with anyone. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed.

Was I rude enough to him, Brett asked. Cone was gone. My God, I'm so sick of him. He doesn't add much to the gaiety. 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. 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 doesn't. didn't need to be a swine. Everybody behaves badly, I said. Give them the proper chance. You wouldn't behave badly. Brett looked at me. I'd be as big an ass as cone, 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 tonight. You've got Mike. Yes, Mike. Hasn't even pretty. well i said it's been damned hard on mike having cone around and seeing him with you don't i know it darling please don't make me feel any worse than i do brett was nervous as i had never seen her before she kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall want to go for a walk yes come on i corked up the fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender let's have one more drink of that brett said my nerves are rotten

We each drank a glass of the smooth, a month de l'lival brandy. Come on, said Brett. As we came out the door, I saw a cone 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 and arm down the side street away from the crowd in 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 their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden bursts of music. Want to go in? No. We walked 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 mouth.

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 in the shadow of the cathedral in 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 mountains. 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. Suddenly she shivered. It's cold. Want to walk back? Through the park. We climbed down. It was clouding over again. In the park it was dark under the tree.

Please. Do you still love me, Jake? Yes, I said. Because I'm a goner, Brett said. How? I'm a goner. I'm mad about the Romero boy. I'm in love with him, I think. I wouldn't be if I were you. I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up 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 difference? No. 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 damn Jew about? The mic, the way he's acting. it. Sure? I can't just stay tight all the time. No. Oh, darling, please stay by me. Please stay by me and see me through this. Sure. I don't say it's right. It is right, though, for me. God knows I've never felt such a

bitch. What do you want me to do? Come on, Brett said. Let's go and find him. Together we walk down the gravel path in the park in the dark, under the trees and then out from under the trees and past the gate into the street that led into town. Pedro Romero was in the cafe. He was at a table with other bullfighters and bullfight critics. He was smoking cigars. When we came in, they looked up. Romero smiled and bowed. We sat down at a table, halfway down the room. Ask him to come over and have a drink. Not yet. He'll come over. I can't look at him. He's nice to look at, I said. I've always done just what I wanted. I know. I do feel such a bitch. Well, I said. My God, said Brett, the things a woman goes through. Yes? Oh, I do feel such a bitch. I looked across at the table. Pedro Romero smiled. He said something to the other people at his table and stood up.

He came over to our table. I stood up and we shook hands. Won't you have a drink? You must have a drink with me, he said. He seated himself, asking Brett's permission without saying anything. He had very nice manners, but he kept on smoking his cigar. It went well with his face. You like cigars, I asked. Oh, yes, I always smoke cigars. It was part of his system of authority, made him seem older. I noticed his skin. It was clear and smooth and very brown. There was a triangular scar on his cheekbone.

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 tomorrow, I said. Yes, he said. Alio Baino was hurt today in Madrid. Did you hear? "'No,' I said. "'Badly?' he shook his head. "'Nothing. Here, he showed his hand. Brett reached out and spread the fingers apart. "'Oh, he said in English. You tell fortunes?'

"'Sometimes. Do you mind?' "'No, I like it.' He spread his hand flat on the table. "'Tell me I live for always and be a millionaire.' He was still very polite, but he was sure 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 left. At a thousand d'Oras 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 fingertips on the table. table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. No, don't do that. The bulls are my best friends. I translated it to Brett. You kill your friend, she asked. Always, he said in English and laughed, so they don't kill me. He

looked at her across the table. You know English well. Yes, he said, pretty well sometimes, but I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a Torero who speaks English. Why, asked Brett. It would be bad. It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet. Why not? They would not like it. Bullfighters are not like that. What are bullfighters like? He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of a cigar and the expression of his face. Like at the table, he said, I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. No, I must forget English. Don't forget it yet, Brett said. No? No. No. "'All right.'

"'He laughed again. "'I would like a hat like that,' Brett said. "'Good, I'll get you one. "'Right, see that you do. "'I will. "'I'll get you one tonight.' "'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 bullfighter table watched me go. It was not pleasant. When I came back and looked in the cafe, 20 minutes later, Brett and Pedro Romero were gone. The coffee glasses and our three empty conia glasses were on the table. A waiter came with a cloth and picked up the glasses and mopped off the table. End of Chapter 16.

Chapter 17 of The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingwood. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Outside the bar of Milano, I found Bill and Mike in 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. Damn Baritz 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?' "'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 difference 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.

go in again, Bill. They're so stupid. That's it, said Mike. They're stupid. I knew that was what it was. They can't say things like that about Mike, Bill said. Do you know them, I asked Mike. No, I never saw them. They say they know me. I won't stand it, Bill said. Come on, let's go over to the Suisseau, I said. There are a bunch of Edna's friends from Baritz, Bill said. They're simply stupid, Edna said. One of them's Charlie Blackman from Chicago, Bill said. I was never in Chicago. I was never in Chicago, Mike said. Edna started to laugh and could not stop. Take me away from here, she said. You bankrupt. What kind of a row was it? I asked Edna. We were walking across the square to the Suisseau. Bill was gone. I don't know what happened,

but someone had the police called to keep Mike out of the back room. There were some people that had known Mike at Kahn's. What's the matter with Mike? Probably he owes the 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 bullfight. The night was clearing and the moon was out. Some other people in the line were sleeping. At the Café Suiso, we had just sat down and ordered Fondador 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, Cone, Mike call from the table. "'Bret's gone off with a bullfighter chap. They're on their honeymoon. You shut up.

"'Oh, go to hell,' Mike said languidly. "'Is that where she is?' Cone turned to me. "'Go to hell. She was with you. Is that where she is? Go to hell. "'I'll make you. Tell me. He stepped forward, you damned pimp.' I swung at him, and he ducked. I saw his face ducked sideways in the light. He hit me, and I sat down on the pavement. As I started to get on my feet, he hit me twice. I went down backward under her 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. Someone poured a carafe of water on my head. Mike had an arm around me, and I found I was sitting on a chair. Mike was pulling up my ears.

I say you were cold, Mike said. Where the hell were you? "'Oh, I was around.' "'You didn't want a mix in it.' "'He knocked Mike down, too,' Edna said. "'He didn't knock me out,' Mike said. "'I just lay there.' "'Does this happen every night at your fiestas?'

Edna asked. "'Wasn't that, Mr. Cohn?' "'I'm all right,' I said. "'My head's a little wobbly. There were several waiters and a crowd of people standing around.' "'Vaya,' said Mike. "'Get away. "'Go on.'

"'The waiters moved the people away.' "'It was quite a thing to watch,' Edna said. "'He must be a boxer.' "'He is.' "'I wish Bill had been here,' Edna said. "'I'd like to have seen Bill knock 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 Cohen 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. 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? Tons. I owe everybody money, Mike said. I borrowed a hundred piscetas from Montoya, tonight. 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 you all right, Edna said. We'd better walk with him. I'm all right, I said. Don't come. I'll see you all later. I walked away from the cafe. They were sitting at the table. I looked back at them and at the empty tables. There was a waiter sitting at one of the tables with his head and his hands. Walking across the square to the hotel, everything looked new and changed.

I'd never seen the trees before. I'd never seen the flagpoles before, nor the front of the theater. It was all different. 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'd been kicked, and I'd 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 Cone. 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 in a flight of stairs. What are you looking at me that way for? I'm not looking at you. Going up and see Cone. He's in bad shape. You were drunk a little while ago, I said. I'm drunk now, Bill said,

but you go up and see Cone. 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 Cone's room. The door was shut, and I knocked. Who is it? Barnes. Come in, Jake. I opened the door and went in and set down my suitcase. There was no light in the room. Cone 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. 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 wore at Princeton. I'm sorry, Jake. Please forgive me. Forgive you hell. Please forgive me, Jake. I did not say anything. I stood there by the door. I was crazy. You must see how it was. Oh, that's all right. I couldn't stand it about Brett. You called me a pimp.

I did not care. I wanted a hot bath. I wanted a hot bath in deep water. I know. Please don't remember it. I was crazy. That's all right. He was crying.

His voice was funny. He lay there in his white shirt on the bed in the dark. His polo shirt. I'm going away in the morning. He was crying without making any noise. I just couldn't stand it about Brett. I've been through hell, Jake. It's been.

simply hell. When I met her down here, Brett 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 anymore. He lay there on the bed. Well, I said, I'm going to take a bath. You were the only friend I had, and I loved Brett so. Well, I said, so long. I guess it isn't any use, he said. I guess it isn't any damn use. What? Everything. Please say you forgive me, Jake.

Sure, I said. It's all right. I felt so terribly. I've been through such hell, Jake. Now everything's gone. Everything. Well, I said, So long, I've got to go.

He rolled over, sat on the edge of the bed, and then stood up. So long, Jake, he said. You'll shake hands, won't you? Sure, why not? We shook hands. In the dark I could not see his face very well. Well, I said, see you in the morning.

I'm going away in the morning. Oh, yes, I said. I went out. Cone 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 bathtub. When I got up to go, I found I had taken off my shoes. I hunted for them, found them, and carried them downstairs. 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 downstairs and out into the cold early morning. People were crossing the square, hurrying toward the bullring. Crossed the square were the two lines of men in front of the ticket boots. They were still waiting for the tickets to go on sale at seven o'clock. I hurried across the street to the cafe. The waiter told me that my friends had been there and gone. How many were they?

Two gentlemen and a lady. That was all right. Bill and Mike were with Edna. She had been afraid last night that 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 Bullring. 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 Bullring 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 bull-year. 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 cape work with the bulls. The two policemen tore out,

collared him, one hit him with a club, and they dragged him against the fence and stood flattened. out against the fence at the last of the crowd and the bulls went by. There was 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, horn swinging, one shot ahead, caught a man in the running crowd in the back and lifted him in the air. Both the men'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 the ring went shut. The crowd on the outside balconies of the bull-ring were pressing through to the inside. There was a shout, then another shout. The man who had been gourd 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 cafe to have a second coffee and some buttered toast. The waiters were sweeping out the cafe and mopping off the tables. One came over and took my order. Anything happened at the Encierro. I didn't see it all. One man was badly cohido. Where, here, I put one hand on the small of my back and the other on my chest, where it looked as though the horn must have come through. The waiter nodded his head and swept the crumbs

from the table with his cloth. Badly cohido, he said, all for sport, all for pleasure. He went away, and came back with a long-handled coffee and milk pots. He poured the milk and coffee. It came out of the long spouts and two streams into the big cup.

The waiter nodded his head. Badly Cojillo threw 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 understand. He shook his head and walked away, carrying the coffee pots. Two men were going by in the street. The waiter shouted to them. They were grave-looking.

One shook his head. Muerto, he called. The waiter nodded his head. The two men went on. They were on some errand. The waiter came over to my table. You hear? Muerto.

Dead. He's dead. With a horn through him. All for morning fun. This muiflamenco. It's bad. Not for me, the waiter said. no fun and not for me.

Later in the day we learned that the man who was killed was named Vicente Girones and came from near Tafala. The next day in the paper we read that he was 28 years old and had a farm, a wife, and two children. He had continued to come to the fiesta every year after he was married. The next day his wife came in from Tafala to be with the body, and the day after there was a son. service in the chapel of San Fermin, and the coffin was carried to the railway station by members of

the Dancing and Drinking Society of Tafala. The drums marched ahead, and there was music on the fice, and behind the men who carried the coffin walked the wife and two children. Behind them marched all the members of the Dancing and Drinking Societies of Pamplona, Estella, Tafala, and Sangheza, who could stay over for the funeral. The coffin was loaded into the baggage car of the train, and the widow and the two children rode, sitting, all three together, in an open third-class railway carriage. The train started with a jerk, and then ran smoothly, going downgrade around the edge of the plateau, and out into the fields of grain that blew in the wind on the plane on the way to

Tafala. The bull who killed Vincente Girones was named Bocanese, was named Bocan. was number 118 of the bull-breeding establishment of Sanchez Tabamo, 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. It left both ear and handkerchief, along with the number of Morate's 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'd 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 Bullring. They went upstairs laughing. I followed them upstairs 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.

It did not feel sleepy. 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 cone. He should have hit somebody the first time he was insulted, and then gone away. He was so sure that he was so sure that Brett loved him. He was going to stay, and true love would conquer all. Someone knocked on the door. Come in. It was Bill and Mike. They sat down on the bed. Some in Sierra, Bill said. Some in Sierra.

I say, weren't you there, Mike asked. Bring for some beer, Bill. What a morning, Bill said. He mopped off his face. My God, what a morning. And here's old Jake. Old Jake, the human punching bag. What happened inside? Good God, Bill said. What happened, Mike? There were these bulls coming in, Mike said. Just ahead of them was the crowd, and some chap tripped and brought the whole lot of them down. And the bulls all came in right over them, Bill said. I heard them yell.

That was Edna, Bill said. Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts. One bull went along the Bahreira 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. 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 the 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. Soar, I said. Bill, Bill Why didn't you hit him with a chair? You can talk, Mike said. He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table.

Where did he go afterward? I asked. Here she is, Mike said. Here's the beautiful lady with the beer. The chambermaid put the tray with the beer bottles and glasses down on the table. Now I'll bring up three more boxes, bottles, Mike said. Where did Cone 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 in the bullfighter chap in the bullfighter's room, and then he massacred the poor bloody bullfighter. No. Yes. What a night, Bill said. He nearly killed the poor bloody bullfighter. Then Cohn wanted to take Brett away, wanted to make an honest woman of her, I imagine. Damn 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 Cone broke down and cried and wanted to shake hands with a bullfighter 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 bullfighter fellow was rather good. He didn't say much, but he kept getting up and getting knocked down again. Cone couldn't knock him out. Must have been damned funny. Where did you hear all of this? Brett, I saw her this morning. What happened finally? Seems the bullfighter fellow was sitting on the bed. He'd been knocked down about fifteen times, and he wanted to fight some more. Brett held him and wouldn't let him get up. He was weak, but Brett couldn't hold him, and he got up. Then Cohn said he wouldn't hit him again. Said he couldn't do it, said it would be wicked. So the bullfighter chap sort of rather staggered over to him. Cone went back

against the wall. So you won't hit me? No, said Cohn, I'd be ashamed to. So the bullfighter fellow hit him just as hard as he could in the face, and then sat down on the floor. You couldn't get up, Brett said. Cohn wanted to pick him up and carry him to the bed. He said if Cone helped him helped him, he'd kill him anyway this morning if Cohn wasn't out of town. Cone was crying, and Brett had told him off, and he wanted to shake hands. I've told you that before. Tell the rest, Bill said. Seems the bullfighter chap was sitting on the floor.

He was waiting to get strength enough to get up and hit Cone again. Brett wasn't having any shaking hands, and Cone 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 bullfighter fellow. No hard feelings, you know. All for forgiveness. And the bullfighter chap hit him in the face again. That's quite a kid, Bill said.

He ruined Cone, Mike said. You know, I don't think Cone will ever want to knock people up out 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 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 bullfighters and such people she would go about with jews and bullfighters and such people she'd

You 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 of 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 in bullfurt. and all those sort of people. And do you know what she said? Yes, I've had such a hell of a happy life with the British aristocracy. He took a drink. That was rather good. Ashley, chap she got the title from, was a sailor, you know, ninth baronet. When he came home, he wouldn't sleep in a bed, always made Brett sleep on the floor. Finally, when he got really bad, he used to tell

her he'd kill her. Always slept with a loaded service revolver. Brett used to take the shells out when he'd gone to sleep. She hasn't had an absolutely happy life, Brett. Damn 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 irunya 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 fundador mike told her si signorito 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

There was a fellow there that had helped pay Brett and Mike out of Kahn's ones. He was damn nasty. I know the story. I didn't. Nobody ought to have a right to say things about Mike. That's what makes it bad. They oughtn't to have any right. I wish to hell they didn't have any right.

I'm going to bed. Was anybody killed in the ring? I don't think so. Just badly hurt. A man was killed outside in the runway. Was there? said Bill. End of Chapter 17. Chapter 18 of The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway.

This LeBrovoc's recording is in the public domain. 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 Baritz and San Sebastian kept driving up. up and parking around the square. They brought people for the bullfight. Sightseeing cars came up, too. There was one with 25 English women 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 emptied, 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 Baritz English, so that you did not see them unless you passed close to a table. All the time there was music in the street. The drums kept on pounding and the pipes were going.

Inside the cafes, men with their hands gripping the table, or on each other's shoulders were singing the hard voice 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 chap, she said. I say I have a thirst.

Get another big beer, Bill said to the waiter. Shrimps? Is cone gone, Brett asked. Yes, Bill said. He hired a car. The beer came. Brett started to lift the glass mug and her hand shook. She saw it and smiled, and leaned forward and took a long sip. Good beer. Very good, I said. I was nervous about Mike. I did not think he had slept. He must have been drinking all the time, but he seemed to be under control. I heard Cohen 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 is your boyfriend, my guest? He had not listened to anything that Brett had said. Brett's got a bullfighter, he said. She had a Jew named Cone, but he turned out badly. Brett stood up. I'm not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael. How's your boyfriend? Damned well, Brett said. Watch him this afternoon. Brett's got a bullfighter, Mike said. A beautiful, bloody bullfighter. Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk to you, Jake. Tell him all about your bullfighter, Mike said. Oh, to hell with your bullfighter. He tipped the table so that all the beers and

dish of shrimps went over in a crash. Come on, Brett said. Let's get out of this. In the crowd crossing the square, I said, how is it? I'm not going to see him after lunch until the fight. His people come in and dress him. They're very angry about me, he says. Brett was radiant.

She was happy. The sun was out and the day was bright. I feel altogether changed, Brett said. You've no idea, Jake. Anything you want me to. to do? No, just go to the fight with me. We'll see you at lunch? No, I'm eating with him. We were standing under the arcade at the door of the hotel. They were carrying tables out and setting them up under the arcade. Want to take a turn out to the park, Brett asked. I don't want to go up yet. I fancy he's

sleeping. We walked along past the theater and out of the square and along through the barracks of the fair, moving with a crowd between the lines and booths. We came out on a cross street that led to the Paseo de Sarasante. We could see the crowd walking there, all the fashionably dressed people. They were making the turn at the upper end of the park. Don't let's go there, Brett said. I don't want staring at just now. We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain and the clouds from the sea. I hope the wind goes down, Brett said. It's very bad for him. So do I.

He says the bulls are all right. They're good. Is that sand for means? Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel. Yes, where the show started on Sunday. Let's go and, 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 while I felt Brett stiffened beside me and saw she was looking straight ahead. Come on, she whispered throatily. Let's get out of here. Makes me damn nervous. Outside in the hot brightness of the street, Brett looked up at the treetops in the wind. The praying had not been much of a success. Don't know why I get so nervy and

church, Brett said. Never does me any good. We walked along. I'm damn bad for a religious atmosphere, Brett said. I have the wrong type of face. You know, Brett said, I'm not worried about him at all. I just feel happy about him. Good. I wish the wind would drop, though. It's liable to go down by five o'clock. Let's hope. You might pray. I laughed. Never does me any good. I've never gotten anything I prayed for. Have you? Oh, yes. Oh, rot, said Brett.

Maybe it works for some people, though. You don't look very religious, Jake. I'm pretty religious. Oh, rot, said Brett. Don't start proselytizing today. Today'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 Cone.

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 friends have gone upstairs, the German matre de hotel, said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him. Thank you so much.

Have you anything else to say? No, ma'am. Good, said Brett. Save us a table for three, I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink and white smile. Is Madame eating here? No, Brett said. Then I think a table for two will be enough.

Don't talk to him, Brett said. Mike must have been in bad shape, she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile. I'll see you at the cafe, Brett said. Thank you so much, Jake. We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the 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 and looked at me. Hello, Jake, he said very slowly. I'm getting a little sleep. I've wanted a little sleep for a long time. Let me cover you over. No, I'm quite warm. Don't go. I haven't gotten to sleep yet. You'll sleep, Mike. Don't worry, boy. Brett's got a bullfighter, Mike said. but her Jew has gone away. He turned his head and looked at me.

Damn good thing, what? Yes. Now go to sleep, Mike. You ought to get some sleep. I'm just starting. I'm going to get a little sleep. He shut his eyes. I went out of the room and turned the door too quietly. Bill was in my room reading the paper. See, Mike? Yes. Let's go and eat. I won't eat downstairs. stairs with that German head waiter. He was damn snotty when I was getting Mike upstairs. 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 kids, 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 have a table 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 the side street off the square. They were all men eating in the restaurant. It was full of smoke and drinking and singing. The food was good, and so was the wine. We did not talk much. Afterward, we went to the cafe and watched the fiesta, come to the boiling point. Brett came over soon after lunch. She said she had looked in the room and that Mike was asleep.

When the fiesta boiled over and tore the bullring, we went with a crowd. Brett sat at the ringside between Bill and me. Directly below us was the Caye Jean, the passageway between the stands and the red fence of the Bejera. 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 bullring servants, down the Caye Jean carrying on their shoulders the wicker baskets of fighting capes and mulettas. They were blood-stained 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, as the leather case leaned against the fence. They unfolded the dark-stained red flannel of the muletas, and fixed batons in them to spread the stuff and give the matthed or something to hold. Brett watched it all. She was absorbed in the professional details. He's his name stenciled on all the capes in mulete, she said. Why do they call the muletas? I don't know. I wonder if they ever laundered them. I don't think so. It might spoil the color. The blood must stiffen them, Bill said. Funny, Brett said, how one doesn't mind the blood. Below in the narrow passage of the

Cagier-Jean, these 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 air, the corrals. The bullfighters 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 is in the center, Belmante on his left, Marseal on his right. Back of them were their people, and behind the banderi eros. Back in the passageway,

in the open space of the corral. I saw the Piccadores. 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. Marseal was smoking a cigarette, guardedly, holding it in his hand. Belmonte looked ahead. His face wan and yellow. His long wolf jaw out. He was looking at nothing. Now that he no Romero seemed to have anything in common with the others. They were all alone. The president came in. There was hand-clapping 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 Belmante speak to Romero. Marceal straightened up

and dropped his cigarette, and looking straight ahead, their heads back, their free arms swinging, the three Matadors walked out. Behind them came all the procession, opening out, all striding and step, all the capes furled, everybody with free arms swinging, and behind rode the Picadors, their picks rising like lances. Behind all came the two trains of mules and the bullring servants. The Matadors bowed, holding their hats on, before the president's box. and then came over to the Bahira below us. Pedro Romero took off his heavy gold brocaded cape and handed it over the fence to a 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. 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 form a 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 pahera and asked for the water jug. The sword handler brought it,

and Romero poured water over the percal of his fighting cape, and then scuff 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 Belmontes. Belmonte was very good, but because he got 30,000 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. Belmonti's great attraction is working close to the bull.

In bullfighting, they speak of the terrain of the bull and the terrain of the bullfighter. As long as a bullfighter stays in his own terrain, he is comparatively safe. Every 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 Corita 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 Belmonte. Also Belmonti imposed conditions and insisted that his bowl 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 defraught it and cheat it, and Belmonti's

jaw came further out in contempt, and his face turned yellower, and he moved with greater difficulty as his pain increased. And finally the crowd were 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 behed, to be wiped and put back in its case. He passed through into the Cagier-Jean and leaned on the behair up 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 Romero. From the moment he left the Bahreira and went toward the bull, they applauded him. Belmante watched Romero too, watched him always without seeming to. He paid no attention to Marseo. Marseal was the sort of thing he knew all about. He'd come out of retirement to compete with Marseo,

knowing it was a competition gained in advance. He had expected to compete with Marceal. Marseal and the other stars of the decadence of bullfighting, and he knew that the sincerity of his own bullfighting would be so set off by the false aesthetics of the bullfighters of the decadent period that he would have only to be in the ring. His return from retirement had been spoiled by Romero. Romero did always smoothly, calmly, and beautifully what he, Belmante could only bring himself to do now sometimes. The crowd felt it. Even the people from Baritz. Even the American ambassador saw it, finally. It was a competition that Belmonte would not enter

because it would lead only to a bad horn wound or death. Bill Monti was no longer well enough. He no longer had his greatest moments in the bullring. He was not sure that there were any great moments. Things were not the same, and now life only came in flashes. He had flashes of the old greatness with his bulls, but they were not a 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 manageable 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 bullfighting wonderful to him anymore. 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 he was. pleased. He did it all for himself inside, and it strengthened him, and yet he did it for her, too. But he did not do it for her at any loss to himself. He gained by it all through the afternoon. His first quite was directly below us. The three Montadores take the bull in turn after each

charge he makes at a Picador. Belmante was the first, Marciao was the second. Then came Romero. The three of them were standing at the left of the horse. The Piccudo, his hat down over his eyes, the shaft of his pick angling sharply toward the bull, kicked him 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 pick.

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 a 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 at the long hickory shaft into the hump of muscle on the bull's shoulder, and pulled his horse sideways as he pivoted on the pick, 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, wheeling, his feet firm. The dampened mud-weighted cape swung open and full as a sail fills, and Romero pivoted with it just ahead of the bull. The end of the past 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 in the bull and the cape that filled and pivoted ahead of the bull were all one sharply etched mass. It was also slow and so controlled, was as though he were rocking the bull to sleep. He made four Veronica's 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 a 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 lores, but the president would not order him replaced. Why don't they change him, Brett asked. They'd 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 a 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, it would start for it, and then shift the bull's charge to the flannel and finish out the pass in the classic manner. The Baritz crowd did not like it. They thought Romero was afraid, and

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 Belmonti's imitation of himself, or Marseille's imitation of Belmante. 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 bullfighter. 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 a little almost imperceptible jerk that so offended the critical judgment of the baritz Bull-fight experts.

He's going to kill now, I said DeBret. The bull's still strong. He wouldn't wear himself out. Out in the center of the ring, Romero profiled in front of the bull, drew the sword out from the folds of the muleta, rose on his toes, incited 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. sword went in, and for just an instant he and the bull were one. Romero way out over the bull,

the right arm extended high up to where the hilt of the sword had gone in between the bull's shoulders. Then the figure was broken. There was a little jolt, as Romero came clear, and then he was standing, one hand up, facing the bull. His shirt ripped out from under his sleeve, the white blowing in the wind. In the bull, the red sword hilt, tight between his shoulders, his head going down, and his legs settling. There he goes, Bill said. Romero was close enough so the bull could see him. His hand still up.

He spoke to the bull. The bull gathered himself, then his head went forward, and he went over slowly, then all over, suddenly, four feet in the air. They handed the sword to Romero, and carrying it blade down,

the muleta in his other hand. He walked over to, in front of the president's box, bowed, straightened, and came over to the Bahera and handed over the sword in Moleta. 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. Marseal had a big day. They were still applauding him when Romero's last bull came in. He was the bull that had sprinted out and killed the man in the morning running.

During Romero's first bull, his hurt face had been very noticeable. Everything he did showed him. All the concentration of the awkwardly delicate working with a bull that could not see well brought it out. The fight with Cone 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 a 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 doubt. tricks and no mystifications. There was no bruskness, 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, and without taking a step forward, he became one with the bull. The sword was in high between the shoulders. The bull had followed the low-slung flannel that disappeared as Romero lurched clear to the left. It was over. The bull tried to go forward. His legs commenced to settle. He swung from side to side, hesitated, then went down on his knees, and Romero's older brother leaned forward behind him and drove a short knife into the bull's neck at the base of the horns. The first time he missed. He drove the knife

in again, and the bull went over, twitching and rigid. Romero's brother, holding the bull's horn in one hand, the knife in the other, looked up at the president's box. Handkerchiefs were waving all over the bull-rim. 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 behera 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're 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,

was uncomfortable and his legs were spratled and his body was very sore. They were lifting him and all running toward the gate. He had his hand on somebody's shoulder. He looked 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 downstairs 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 leaving on the seven o'clock train for Barcelona. Belmante wore a blue-stribe shirt and a dark suit and ate soft-boiled eggs. The others ate a big meal. Belmonte did not talk. He only answered questions.

Bill was tired after the bullfight. So was I. We both took a bullfight very hard. We sat and the eggs and I watched Belmonte and the people at his table. The men with him were tough-looking and business-like. Come on over to the cafe, Bill said. I want an absent. 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, in covering them over with beach 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 at the fiesta. The absent made everything seemed better. I drank it without sugar in the dripping glass, and it was pleasantly bitter. I feel sorry about Cone, Bill said, yet an awful time. "'Oh, to hell with Cone,' 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 Francis. "'We had another absent.' "'When do you go back?' I asked. "'Tomorrow.' "'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 absent. "'Here, waiter. "'Another absent for this signor.' "'I feel like hell,' I said. "'Drink that,' said Bill. "'Drink it slow.'

"'It was beginning to get dark. "'The fiesta was going on. "'I began to feel drunk, but I did not feel any better. How do you feel? I feel like hell. Have another? It won't do any good. Try it. You can't tell. Maybe this is the one that gets it. A waiter, another absent for this seigneur. I pour 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 and the brownish, cloudy mixture. How is it? Fine. Don't drink it fast that way. We'll make you sick.

I sat down the glass. I had not meant to drink it fast. I feel tight. You ought to. That's what you want it, 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 remember having been. At the hotel I went upstairs. Brett's door was open. I put my head in the room. Mike was sitting on the bed. He waved a bottle. Jake, he said. Come in, Jake. I went in and sat down.

The room was unstable unless I looked at some fixed point. Brett, you know, she's gone off with a bullfighter, chap. No? Yes, she looked for you to say goodbye. They went on the seven o'clock train. Did they? Bad thing to do, Mike said. She shouldn't have done it. No. Have a drink? Wait while I ring for some beer. I'm drunk, I said. I'm going in and lie down. Are you blind? I was blind myself. Yes, I said, I'm blind. Well, bung-oh, 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. 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 anymore. 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. I went downstairs 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. End of Chapter 18. Book 3. Chapter 19 of The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. In the morning it was all over. The fiesta was finished. I woke about 9 o'clock, had a bath,

dressed, and went downstairs. 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 comfortable white wicker chairs and arranging them around the marble-topped tables in the shade of the arcade. They are sweeping the streets and sprinkling them with a hose. I sat in one of the wicker chairs and leaned back comfortably. The waiter was in no hurry to come. The white paper announcements are the unloading of the bulls and the big schedules of special

trains were still up on the pillars of the arcade. A waiter wearing a blue apron came out with a bucket of water and a cloth and commenced to tear down the notices, pulling the paper off in strips and washing and rubby 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 another week. I think I'll go to San Sebastian. I want to get back. What's Mike going to do? He's going to Saint-Jean de Luce.

Let's get a car and I'll go as far as beyond. You can get the train up from there tonight. Good. Let's go after lunch. 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 these 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 threw the over-foliaged, wet, green, bass country, and finally into Bayonne. We left Bill's baggage at the station, and he bought a ticket to Paris. His train left at 7.10. We came out of the station. The car was standing out in front. What shall we do about the car, Bill asked. Oh, bothered the car, Mike said. Let's just keep the car with us. All right, Bill said. Where shall we go? Let's go to Baritz and have a drink. Old Mike the spender, Bill said. We drove into Baritz and left the car outside a very rich place. We went into the bar and sat on high stools and drank whiskey and soda. That drinks mine, Mike said.

Let's roll for it. So we went into the bar. So we went in the bar and sat on high stools and drank whiskey and soda. That drinks mine, Mike said. Let's roll for it. So we rolled poker dice out of a deep leather dice cup. Bill was out first roll. Mike lost to me and handed the bartender a hundred-franc note. The whiskeys were twelve francs apiece. We had another round and Mike lost again. Each time he gave the bartender a good tip.

In a room off the bar there was a good jazz band playing. It was a pleasant bar. We had another round. I went out on the first roll with four kings. Bill and Mike rolled. Mike won the first roll with four jacks. Bill won the second. On the final role, 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. Oh, 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

20 francs. Here, take 20 francs. Bill's face sort of changed. I just had enough to pay Montoya. Damn lucky to have it, too. I'll cash you a check, Bill said. That's damn 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 have two weeks' allowance, should be here. I can live on tick at this pub in St. Jean. What do you want to do about the car, Bill asked me. Do you want to keep it on? It doesn't make any difference. Seems sort of idiotic. Come on, let's have another drink, Mike said. Fine, this one is on me, Bill said. Has Brett any money? He turned to Mike. I shouldn't think so. She put up most of what I gave to old Montoya. She hasn't any money with her? I asked. I shouldn't think so. She never has any money. She gets

five hundred quid a year and pays three hundred and fifty of it in interest to Jews. I suppose they get it at the source, said Bill. Quite, they're not really Jews, we just call them Jews, the Scotsman, 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. Damn good idea, Mike said. One never gets anywhere by discussing finances. No, said. 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. Might do my credit good. Let's drive

about a little. Fine, I'd like to see the coast. Let's drive down toward Henday. 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 headmans, 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 St. Jean de Luce 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's 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, and 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. Goodbye, you chaps, Mike said. It was a damned fond 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 damn nice. We all shook hands. We waved from the car to Mike. He stood in the road watching. We got to be on just before the train left. A porter carried Bill's bags in from the conigne. I went as far as the inner gate to the tracks.

So long, fellow, Bill said. "'So long, kid. "'Wes swell. I've had a swell time. "'Will you be in Paris? "'No, I have to sail on the 17th. "'So long, fellow. "'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. "'Phil was at one of the windows. "'The window passed. "'The rest of the train passed. "'The tracks were empty. "'I went outside to the car. "'How much do we owe you?'

I asked the driver. The price to be owned had been fixed at 150 pesetas. 200 pesetas. How much more will it be if you drive me to San Sebastian on your way back? 50 pesetas. Don't kid me. 35 pesetas. It's not worth it, I said.

Drive me to the Hotel Panera Floree. 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. It seemed a very long time ago. I washed, changed my shirt, and went out into the town. At a newspaper kiosk, 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'd gone up to Paris with Bill, except that Paris would have meant more fiestaing. 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. There were many children sent down with their nurses before the season open. In the evening there would be band concerts under the trees across from the cafe Marinas. I could sit in the marinas and listen.

How does one eat inside? I asked the waiter. Inside the cafe was a restaurant. Well, very well, one eats very well. Good. I went in and ate dinner. It was a big meal for France, but it seemed very carefully apportioned after Spain. I drank a bottle of wine for company. It was a Chateau Margot. 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 lique liqueur called Izara. He brought in the bottle and poured a liqueur glass full. He said Isara was made of the flowers of the Pyrenees. The veritable flowers of the Pyrenees.

It looked like hair oil and smelled like Italian straga. I told them to take the flowers of the Pyrenees away and bring me a full mark. The mark was good. I had a second mark after the coffee. The waiter seemed a little offended about the flowers of the Pyrenees, so I overtipped him. That made him happy. It felt comfortable to be in a country where it is so simple to make people happy. You can never tell whether a Spanish waiter will thank you. Everything is on such a clear financial basis in France. It is the simplest country to live in. No one makes things complicated by becoming your friend for any obscure reason. If you want people to like it, you, you have only to spend a little money. I spent a little money, and the waiter liked me.

He appreciated my valuable qualities. He would be glad to see me back. I would dine there again some time, and he would be glad to see me, and would want me at his table. It would be a sincere liking because it would have a sound basis. I was back in France. Next morning I tipped everyone a little too much at the hotel to make more friends, and left on the morning train for San Sebastian. At the station I did not tip the porter more than I should, because I did not think I would ever see him again. I only wanted a few good French friends in Bionn to make me welcome case I should come back there again. I knew that if they remembered me, their friendship would be loyal. At Iran, we had to change trains and show passports. I hate it to leave you.

France. Life was so simple in France. I felt I was a fool to be going back into Spain. In Spain, you could never tell about anything. I felt like a fool to be going back into it. But I stood in line with my passport, opened my bags for the customs, bought a ticket, went through a gate, climbed on to the train, and after 40 minutes and eight tunnels, I was at San Sebastian. Even on a hot day San Sebastian as 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'd stopped before, and they gave me a room with a balcony that opened out above the roofs of the town. There was a green mountainside beyond the roofs. I unpacked my bags and stacked my books on the table beside the head of the bed, put out my shaving things, hung up some clothes in the big arm noir, 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 summertime, so I was early. I set my watch again. I had recovered an hour by coming to San Sebastian. As I went into the dining room, the concierge brought me a police

bulletin to fill out. I signed it and asked him for two telegraph forms and wrote a message to the Hotel Montoya, telling them to forward all mail and telegraphs for me to this address. I calculated how many days I would be in San Sebastian and then wrote out a wire to the office asking them to hold mail, but forward all wires for me to San Sebastian for six days. Then I went in and had lunch. After lunch I went up to my room, read a while, and went to sleep. When I woke it was half past four. I found my swimming suit, wrapped it with a comb and a towel. I went downstairs and walked up the street to the concha. The tide was about halfway 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 Conche almost met to form the harbor, there was a white line of breakers in 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 the 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, slashed 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 Café 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. They toured Du Pais 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 Faborg 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 themselves. They had raced among themselves so often that it did not make much difference who won,

especially in a foreign country. The money could be arranged. The man who had a matter of two minutes lead in the race had an attack of boils, which were very painful. He sat on a matter of, the small of his back. His neck was very red, and the blonde hairs were sunburned. The other riders joked him about his boils. He tapped on the table with his fork. Listen, he said. Tomorrow my nose is so

tight on the handlebars that the only thing touches those boils as a lovely breeze. One of the girls looked at him down the table, and he grinned and turned red. The Spaniards, they said, do not know how to pedal. I'd coffee out on the terror. I'd coffee out on the terror, with the team manager, one of the big bicycle manufacturers. He said it had been a very pleasant race, and would have been worth watching if Bortecilla 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 to 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 races. 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 sportive every year.

Be the most sportive country in the world. Was bicycle road racing, did it. That and football. He knew France. La France Sportive. He knew road racing. We had a conia, after all, though, it wasn't bad to get back to Paris. There is only one Panam, in all the world, that is.

Paris is the town the most sportive in the world. Did I know the Shope de Negre? Did I not? I would see him there sometime. I certainly would. We would drink another fiend together. We certainly would. They started at six o'clock.

o'clock less a quarter in the morning. Would I be up for the depart? I would certainly try. 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 goodbye until the next morning. In the morning, when I awoke, the bicycle riders in their following cars had been on the road for three hours. I'd coffee and the paper. And the paper. I'd 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 boot-black 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'm dressed 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 were 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 a 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 lightning water, blew the salt water out of my head, and swam slowly and steadily into shore. After I was dressed and paid for the bath cabin, I walked back to the hotel. The bicycle racers had left several copies of La Otto 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 redded. It had been forwarded from Paris. Could you come Hotel Montana, Madrid, and rather in trouble? Brett. 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 mustache and looked very military. He came out of the hotel again. The concierge was just behind him. Here's another telegram for you, sir. Thank you, I said.

I opened it. It was forwarded from Pamplona. Could you come Hotel Montana, Madrid, and rather in trouble, Brett? The concierge stood there waiting for another tip, probably. What time is there a train for Madrid? It left at nine this morning. There is a slow train at eleven, and the Soud Express at ten tonight. Get me a berth on the Sude Express.

Do you want the money now? Just as you wish, he said. I will have it put on the bill. Do that. Well, that meant San Sebastian all shot to hell. I suppose vaguely I'd expect it something of the sort. I saw the concierge standing in the doorway. Bring me a telegram for him, please.

He brought it and I took out my fountain pen and print it. Lady Ashley, Hotel Montana, Madrid, arriving suit express tomorrow. Love, Jake. It 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 into lunch. I did not sleep much that night on the Soud Express. In the morning I had breakfast in the

dining car and watched the rock and pine country between our villa and Escorial. I saw the Escorial out of the window, gray and long and cold in the sun, did not give a damn about it. I saw Madrid come up over the plain, a compact white skyline on the top of a little cliff away across the sun-hardened country. The north 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's 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 onto the Carrera San Geronimo. 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, the curb. I saw the sign Hotel Montana on the second floor. The taxi driver carried the bags in, left them by the elevator. Could not make the elevator work, so I walked up. On the second floor up was a cut-brass sign, Hotel Montana. I rang and no one came to the door. I rang again, and a maid with a sullen face opened the door. Is Lady Ashley here, I asked. She looked at me, Dully. Is an English woman here? She turned and called someone 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 English woman 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 the 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 and other fondas, Yes, not here, no. The personages of this establishment were rigidly selectioned. I was happy to hear it.

Nevertheless, I would welcome the upbringal of my bags. The maid came in and said that the female English wanted to see the male English now at once. Good, I said. You see, it is, as I said. Clearly, I followed the maids 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 small. Darling, I've had such a hell of a time. Tell me about it. Nothing to tell. He only left yesterday. I made him go. Why didn't you keep him?

I don't know. It isn't the sort of thing one does. I don't think I heard him any. You were probably damn good for him. He shouldn't be living with anyone. I realized that right away. No. Oh, hell, she said. not talk about it. Let's never talk about it. All right. It was rather a knock as being ashamed of me. He was ashamed of me for a while, you know. No. Oh, yes, they ragged him about me in the cafe, I guess. He wanted me to grow my hair out. Me, with long hair. I'd look so like hell. It's funny. He said it would make me more womanly. I'd look a fright. What happened? Oh, he got over that. He wasn't ashamed of me long. What was it about being in trouble? I didn't know whether I could make him go, and I didn't have a suit to go away and leave him. He tried to give me a lot of money, you know.

I told him I had scads of it. He knew that was a lie. I couldn't take his money, you know. No. Well, 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 and jib. "'Yes. He wanted to marry me, finally. Really? Of course, I can't even marry Mike.' "'Maybe he thought that would make him Lord Ashley. No, it wasn't that. He really wanted to marry me, so I couldn't go away from him,' he said. He wanted to make it sure I could never go away from him, after I'd gotten more womanly, of course. You ought to feel set up? I do. I'm all right again. He's wiped out that damn cone. Good. You know, I'd have lived with him if I hadn't seen it was bad for him.

We got along damned well. Outside of your personal appearance. Oh, he'd have gotten used to that. She put out the cigarette. I'm 34, you know. I'm not going to be one of those bitches that ruins children. No, I'm not going to be that way. I feel rather good, you know. I feel rather set up. Good. She looked away. I thought she she was looking for another cigarette. Then I saw she was crying. I could feel her crying, shaking and crying. She wouldn't look up. I put my arms around her. Don't let's ever talk about it. Please don't let's ever talk about it. Dear Brent, I'm going back to Mike. I could feel her crying as I held her close. He's so damn nice and he's so awful. He's my sort of thing. She would not look up. I stroked

her hair. I could feel her shaking. I won't be one of those bitches, she said, but oh, Jake, please let's 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, arranged for berths on the suit express for the night, I went into the bar and the hotel for a cocktail. We sat on high stools at the bar, while the barman shook the martinis in a large nickel shaker. It's funny what a wonderful gentility you get in a bar of a big hotel, I said. Barmen and jockeys are the only people who are polite anymore.

No matter how vulgar a hotel is, the bar is always nice. It's odd. Bartenders have always been fine. No, Brett said, it's quite true. He is only 19. Isn't it amazing? We touched the two glasses as they stood side by side on the bar. They were coldly beat it. Outside the curtain window is the summer heat of Madrid. I like an olive in a martini, I said to the barman. Right you are, sir. There you are. Thanks. I should have asked, you know. The barman went far enough up the bar so that he would not hear our conversation. Brett had sip from the martini as it stood, on the wood. Then she picked it up.

Her hand was steady enough to lift it after that first sip. It's good. Isn't it a nice bar? They're all nice bars. You know, I didn't believe it at first. He was born in 1905. I was in school in Paris then. Think of that. Anything you want me to think about it? Don't be an ass. Would you buy a lady a drink? We'll have two more martinis. As they were before, sir? They were very good. Brett smiled at him. Thank you, ma'am.

Well, bung-oh, Brett said. Bung-oh. You know, Brett said, he'd only been with two women before. He never cared about anything but bullfighting. He's got plenty of time. I don't know. He thinks it was me, not the show in general.

Well, it was you. Yes, it was me. I thought you weren't ever going to talk about it. How can I help it? You lose it if you talk about it. I just talk around it. You know, I feel rather damn good, Jake. You shouldn't.

You know, it makes one feel rather good deciding not to be a bitch. Yes, it's sort of what we have instead of God. Some people have God, I said, quite a lot. He never worked very well with me. Should we have another martini? The bartender shook up two more martini. and pour them out into fresh glasses. Where will we have lunch, I asked Brett.

The bar was cool. You could feel the heat outside through the window. Here, asked Brett. It's rotten here in the hotel. Do you know a place called Botin's? I asked the barman. Yes, sir. Would you like to have me write out the address?

Thank you. We lunched upstairs at Boutines. It is one of the best restaurants in the world. We had roast young suckling pig and drank Rioja Alta. Brett did not eat much. She never ate much. I ate a very big meal and drank three bottles of Rioja Alta. How do you feel, Jake? Brett asked. My God, what a meal you've eaten. I feel fine. Do you want a dessert? Lord no. Brett was smoking. You like to eat, don't you? she said. Yes, I said, I like to do a lot of things.

What do you like to do? Oh, I said I like to do a lot of things. Don't you? Don't you. you want you want a dessert. You asked me that once, Brett said. Yes, I said, so I did. Let's have another bottle of Rioja Alta. It's very good. You haven't drunk much of it, I said. I have, you haven't seen. Let's get two bottles, I said. The bottles came. I poured a little in my glass, then a glass for Brett, and filled my glass. We touched glasses. Bung-oh, Brett said. I drank my glass and poured out another. Brett put her hand on my arm. Don't get drunk, Jake, she said. You don't have to. How do you know? Don't, she said. It'll be all right. I'm not getting drunk, I said. I'm just drinking a little wine. I like to drink wine. Don't get drunk, she said. Jake, don't get drunk. Want to go for a ride,

I said. Want to ride through the town? Right, Brett said. I haven't seen Madrid. I should see Madrid. I'll finish this, I said. Downstairs we came out through the first floor dining room to the street. A waiter went for a taxi. It was hot and bright. Up the street was a little square with trees and grass where there were taxis parked. A taxi came up the street. The waiter hanging out at the side.

I tipped him and told the driver where to drive and got in beside Brett. The driver started up the street. I settled back. Brett moved close to me. We sat close against each other. I put my arm around her, and she rested against me comfortably. It was very hot and bright, and the houses looked sharply white. We turned out onto the Grand Villa. What Jake, Brett said, we could have had such a damned good time together. A head was a mounted policeman in khaki directing traffic. He raised his baton. The car slowed suddenly, pressing Brett against me.

Yes, I said. Isn't it pretty to think so? The end. The end of Chapter 19. The end of The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway.