The Sun Also Rises

by Ernest Hemingway

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

  "They show the hour all over America."

  "Don't kid me."

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

  "Never mind."

  "What's the matter? You sick?"

  "Yes."

  "Everybody's sick. I'm sick, too."

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

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

  ''You neither."

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

  "What are you called?"

  "Georgette. How are you called?"

  "Jacob."

  "That's a Flemish name."

  "American too."

  "You're not Flamand?"

  "No, American."

  "Good, I detest Flamands."

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

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

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

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

  "Better than you eat in Liege."

  "Brussels, you mean."

  We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and showed all her bad teeth, and we touched glasses. "You're not a bad type," she said. "It's a shame you're sick. We get on well. What's the matter with you, anyway?"

  "I got hurt in the war," I said.

  "Oh, that dirty war."

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

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

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

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

  "What dance?"

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

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

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

  "Right."

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

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

  "Who are your friends?" Georgette asked.

  "Writers and artists."

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

  "Too many."

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

  "Oh, yes."

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

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

  "Good," she said.

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

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

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

  "Connais pas," Georgette answered.

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

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

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

  "He's a fool," Georgette said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "I find it dirty."

  "How strange! But perhaps you have not been here very long." "I've been here long enough."

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

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

  Frances was a little drunk and would have liked to have kept it up but the coffee came, and Lavigne with the liqueurs, and after that we all went out and started for Braddocks's dancing club.

  The dancing club was a bal musette in the Rue de la Montagne Sainte Genevieve. Five nights a week the working people of the Pantheon quarter danced there. One night a week it was the dancing club. On Monday nights it was closed. When we arrived it was quite empty, except for a policeman sitting near the door, the wife of the proprietor back of the zinc bar, and the proprietor himself. The daughter of the house came downstairs as we went in. There were long benches, and tables ran across the room, and at the far end a dancing floor.

  "I wish people would come earlier," Braddocks said. The 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 of the Bal. A crowd of young men, some in jerseys and some in their shirtsleeves, got out. I could see their hands and newly washed, wavy hair in the light from the door. The policeman standing by the door looked at me and smiled. They came in. As they went in, under the light I saw white hands, wavy hair, white faces, grimacing, gesturing, talking. With them was Brett. She looked very lovely and she was very much with them.

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

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

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

  I was very angry. Somehow they always made me a
ngry. 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 Bal. The beer was not good and I had a worse cognac to take the taste out of my mouth. When I came back to the Bal there was a crowd on the floor and Georgette was dancing with the tall blond youth, who danced big-hippily, carrying his head on one side, his eyes lifted as he danced. As soon as the music stopped another one of them asked her to dance. She had been taken up by them. I knew then that they would all dance with her. They are like that.

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

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

  "Have another."

  "Thanks, I will then."

  We got the daughter of the house over and each had a fine a l'eau.

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

  "Yes."

  "Do you find Paris amusing?"

  "Yes."

  "Really?"

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

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

  "Oh, how charmingly you get angry," he said. "I wish I had that faculty."

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

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

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

  "Isn't she?" I said.

  "Rather," said Mrs. Braddocks.

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

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

  Brett came up to the bar.

  "Hello, you chaps."

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "At the Napolitain."

  "And have you had a lovely evening?"

  "Oh, priceless," I said.

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

  This for Cohn's benefit.

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

  "You're wonderfully sober," I said.

  "Yes. Aren't I? And when one's with the crowd I'm with, one can drink in such safety, too."

  The music started and Robert Cohn said: "Will you dance this with me, Lady Brett?"

  Brett smiled at him. "I've promised to dance this with Jacob," she laughed. "You've a hell of a biblical name, Jake."

  "How about the next?" asked Cohn.

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

  Dancing, I looked over Brett's shoulder and saw Cohn, 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?"

  "I don't know, I just brought her."

  "You're getting damned romantic."

  "No, bored."

  "Now?"

  "No, not now."

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

  "Do you want to?"

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

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

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

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

  "Yes," I said.

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

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

  "No taxis."

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

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

  "You wouldn't walk across the street." "Not if I could help it."

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

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

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

  "Oh, tell him to drive around."

  I told the driver to go to the Pare Montsouris, and got in, and slammed the door. Brett was leaning back in the comer, her eyes closed. I got in and sat beside her. The cab started with a jerk.

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

  Chapter IV

  The taxi went up the hill, passed the lighted square, then on into the dark, still climbing, then levelled out onto a dark street behind St. Etienne du Mont, went smoothly down the asphalt, passed the trees and the standing bus at the Place de la Contrescarpe, then turned onto the cobbles of the Rue Mouffetard. There were lighted bars and late open shops on each side of the street. We were sitting apart and we jolted close together going down the old street. Brett's hat was off. Her head was back. I saw her face in the lights from the open shops, then it was dark, then I saw her face clearly as we came out on the Avenue des Gobelins. The street was torn up and men were working on the car tracks by the light of acetylene flares. Brett's face was white and the long line of her neck showed in the bright light of the flares. The street was dark again and I kissed her. Our lips were tight together and then she turned away and 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 look
ing that made you wonder whether she really saw out of her own eyes. They would look on and on after everyone else's eyes in the world would have stopped looking. She looked as though there were nothing on earth she would not look at like that, and really she was afraid of so many things.

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

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

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

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

  "No, but it always gets to be."

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

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

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

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

  "Oh, no. I'll lay you don't."

  "Well, let's shut up about it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "It's good to see each other."

  "No. I don't think it is."

  "Don't you want to?"

  "I have to."

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

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

  "Oh, go to the Select."