The Sun Also Rises

by Ernest Hemingway

  The bull who killed Vicente Girones was named Bocanegra, was Number 118 of the bull breeding establishment of Sanchez Taberno, and was killed by Pedro Romero as the third bull of that same afternoon. His ear was cut by popular acclamation and given to Pedro Romero, who, in turn, gave it to Brett, who wrapped it in a handkerchief belonging to myself, and left both ear and handkerchief, along with a number of Muratti cigarette stubs, shoved far back in the drawer of the bed-table that stood beside her bed in the Hotel Montoya, in Pamplona.

  Back in the hotel, the night watchman was sitting on a bench inside the door. He had been there all night and was very sleepy. He stood up as I came in. Three of the waitresses came in at the same time. They had been to the morning show at the 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. I did not feel sleepy. It must have been half past three o'clock when I had gone to bed and the bands had waked me at six. My jaw was sore on both sides. I felt it with my thumb and fingers. That damn Cohn. He should have hit somebody the first time he was insulted, and then gone away. He was so sure that Brett loved him. He was going to stay, and true love woulc1 conquer all. Someone knocked on the door.

  "Come in."

  It was Bill and Mike. They sat down on the bed.

  "Some encierro," Bill said. "Some encierro."

  "I say, weren't you there?" Mike asked. "Ring for some beer, Bill."

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

  "What happened inside?"

  "Good God!" Bill said, "what happened, Mike?"

  "There were these bulls coming in," Mike said. "Just ahead of them was the crowd, and some chap tripped and brought the whole lot of them down."

  "And the bulls all came in right over them," Bill said. "I heard them yell."

  "That was Edna," Bill said.

  "Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts."

  "One bull went along the barrera and hooked everybody over."

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

  "What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls."

  "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour."

  "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected.

  "Oh, go to hell," Bill said. "You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me."

  "Where's that beer?" Mike asked.

  "What did you do with the lovely Edna?"

  "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed."

  "How did she like it?"

  "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning."

  "She was impressed," Mike said.

  "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action."

  "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said.

  "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!"

  "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked.

  "Sore," I said.

  Bill laughed.

  "Why didn't you hit him with a chair?"

  "You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table."

  "Where did he go afterward?" I asked.

  "Here she is," Mike said. "Here's the beautiful lady with the beer."

  The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table.

  "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said.

  "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill.

  "Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle.

  "Really?" Bill asked.

  "Why he went in and found Brett and 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. Damned touching scene."

  He took a long drink of the beer.

  "He is an ass."

  "What happened?"

  "Brett gave him what for. She told him off. I think she was rather good."

  "I'll bet she was," Bill said.

  "Then Cohn broke down and cried, and wanted to shake hands with the 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. Cohn couldn't knock him out. It must have been damned funny."

  "Where did you hear all this?"

  "Brett. I saw her this morning."

  "What happened finally?"

  "It seems the 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. Cohn 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. He couldn't get up, Brett said. Cohn wanted to pick him up and carry him to the bed. He said if Cohn helped him he'd kill him, and he'd kill him anyway this morning if Cohn wasn't out of town. Cohn was crying, and Brett had told him off, and he wanted to shake hands. I've told you that before."

  "Tell the rest," Bill said.

  "It seems the bullfighter chap was sitting on the floor. He was waiting to get strength enough to get up and hit Cohn again. Brett wasn't having any shaking hands, and Cohn was crying and telling her how much he loved her, and she was telling him not to be a ruddy ass. Then Cohn leaned down to shake hands with the 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 Cohn," Mike said. "You know I don't think Cohn will ever want to knock people about again."

  "When did you see Brett?"

  "This morning. She came in to get some things. She's looking after this Romero lad."

  He poured out another bottle of beer.

  "Brett's rather cut up. But she loves looking after people. That's how we came to go off together. She was looking after me."

  "I know," I said.

  "I'm rather drunk," Mike said. "I think I'll stay rather drunk. This is all awfully amusing, but it's not too pleasant. It's not too pleasant for me."

  He drank off the beer.

  "I gave Brett what for, you know. I said if she would go about with Jews and bullfighters and such people, she must expect trouble." He leaned forward. "I say, Jake, do you mind if I drink that bottle of yours? She'll bring you another one."

  "Please," I said. "I wasn't drinking it, anyway."

  Mike started to open the bottle. "Would you mind opening it?" I pressed up the wire fastener and poured it for him.

  "You know," Mike went on, "Brett was rather good. She's always rather good. I gave her a fearful hiding about Jews and bullfighters, and all those sort of people, and do you know what she said: 'Yes. I've had such a hell of a happy life with the British aristocracy!'''

  He took a drink.

  "That was rather good. Ashley, chap she got the title from, was a sailor, you know. Ninth baronet. When he came home he wouldn't sleep in a bed. Always made Brett s
leep on the Boor. Finally, when he got really bad, he used to tell her he'd kill her. Always slept with a loaded service revolver. Brett used to take the shells out when he'd gone to sleep. She hasn't had an absolutely happy life. Brett. Damned shame, too. She enjoys things so."

  He stood up. His hand was shaky.

  "I'm going in the room. Try and get a little sleep." He smiled.

  "We go too long without sleep in these fiestas. I'm going to start now and get plenty of sleep. Damn bad thing not to get sleep. Makes you frightfully nervy."

  "We'll see you at noon at the Iruna," Bill said.

  Mike went out the door. We heard him in the next room.

  He rang the bell and the chambermaid came and knocked at the door.

  "Bring up half a dozen bottles of beer and a bottle of Fundador," Mike told her.

  "Si, Senorito."

  "I'm going to bed," Bill said. "Poor old Mike. I had a hell of a row about him last night."

  "Where? At that Milano place?"

  "Yes. There was a fellow there that had helped pay Brett and Mike out of Cannes, once. He was damned nasty."

  "I know the story."

  "I didn't. Nobody ought to have a right to say things about Mike."

  "That's what makes it bad."

  "They oughtn't to have any right. I wish to hell they didn't have any right. I'm going to bed."

  "Was anybody killed in the ring?"

  "I don't think so. Just badly hurt."

  "A man was killed outside in the runway."

  "Was there?" said Bill.

  Chapter XVIII

  At noon we were all at the cafe. It was crowded. We were eating shrimps and drinking beer. The town was crowded. Every street was full. Big motor cars from Biarritz and San Sebastian kept driving up and parking around the square. They brought people for the bullfight. Sightseeing cars came up, too. There was one with twenty-five Englishwomen in it. They sat in the big, white car and looked through their glasses at the fiesta. The dancers were all quite drunk. It was the last day of the fiesta.

  The fiesta was solid and unbroken, but the motor cars and tourist cars made little islands of onlookers. When the cars 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 Biarritz English so that you did not see them unless you passed close to a table. All the time there was music in the street. The drums kept on pounding and the pipes were going. Inside the cafes men with their hands gripping the table, or on each other's shoulders, were singing the hard-voiced singing.

  "Here comes Brett," Bill said.

  I looked and saw her coming through the crowd in the square, walking, her head up, as though the fiesta were being staged in her honor, and she found it pleasant and amusing.

  "Hello, you chaps!" she said. "I say, I have a thirst."

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

  "Shrimps?"

  "Is Cohn gone?" Brett asked.

  "Yes," Bill said. "He hired a car."

  The beer came. Brett started to lift the glass mug and her hand shook. She saw it and smiled, and leaned forward and took a long sip.

  "Good beer."

  "Very good," I said. I was nervous about Mike. I did not think he had slept. He must have been drinking all the time, but he seemed to be under control.

  "I heard Cohn had hurt you, Jake," Brett said.

  "No. Knocked me out. That was all."

  "I say, he did hurt Pedro Romero," Brett said. "He hurt him most badly."

  "How is he?"

  "He'll be all right. He won't go out of the room."

  "Does he look badly?"

  "Very. He was really hurt. I told him I wanted to pop out and see you chaps for a minute."

  "Is he going to fight?"

  "Rather. I'm going with you, if you don't mind."

  "How's your boyfriend?" Mike asked. He had not listened to anything that Brett had said.

  "Brett's got a bullfighter," he said. "She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly."

  Brett stood up.

  "I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael."

  "How's your 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 the dish of shrimps went over in a crash.

  "Come on," Brett said. "Let's get out of this."

  In the crowd crossing the square I said: "How is it?"

  "I'm not going to see him after lunch until the fight. His people come in and dress him. They're very angry about me, he says."

  Brett was radiant. She was happy. The sun was out and the day was bright.

  "I feel altogether changed," Brett said. "You've no idea, Jake."

  "Anything you want me to do?"

  "No, just go to the fight with me."

  "We'll see you at lunch?"

  "No. I'm eating with him."

  We were standing under the arcade at the door of the hotel. They were carrying tables out and setting them up under the arcade.

  "Want to take a turn out to the park?" Brett asked. "I don't want to go up yet. I fancy he's sleeping."

  We walked along past the theatre and out of the square and along through the barracks of the fair, moving with the crowd between the lines of booths. We came out on a cross-street that led to the Paseo de Sarasate. We could see the crowd walking there, all the fashionably dressed people. They were making the turn at the upper end of the park.

  "Don't let's go there," Brett said. "I don't want staring at just now. "

  We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain and the clouds from the sea.

  "I hope the wind goes down," Brett said. "It's very bad for him."

  "So do I."

  "He says the bulls are all right."

  "They're good."

  "Is that San Fermin's?"

  Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel.

  "Yes. Where the show started on Sunday."

  "Let's go in. Do you mind? I'd rather like to pray a little for him or something."

  We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stiffen beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead.

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

  Outside in the hot brightness of the street Brett looked up at the tree tops in the wind. The praying had not been much of a success.

  "Don't know why I get so nervy in church," Brett said. "Never does me any good."

  We walked along.

  "I'm damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've the wrong type of face.

  "You know," Brett said, "I'm not worried about him at all. I just feel happy about him."

  "Good."

  "I wish the wind would drop, though."

  "It's liable to go down by five o'clock."

  "Let's hope."

  "You might pray," I laughed.

  "Never does me any good. I've never gotten anything I prayed for. Have you?"

  "Oh, yes."

  "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Maybe it works for some people, though You don't look very religious, Jake."

  "I'm pretty religious."

  "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Don't start proselyting today. To-day's going to be bad enough as it is."

  It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with p
eople eating.

  "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad."

  "Your frients haff gone upstairs," the German maitre d'hotel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?"

  "No, ma'am."

  "Good," said Brett.

  "Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile.

  "Iss madam eating here?"

  "No," Brett said.

  "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff."

  "Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile.

  "I'll see you at the cafe," Brett said. "Thank you, so much, Jake."

  We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the 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.

  "Damned 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 to quietly. Bill was in my room reading the paper.

  "See Mike?"

  "Yes."

  "Let's go and eat."

  "I won't eat downstairs with that German head waiter. He was damned snotty when I was getting Mike upstairs."