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 Cohn. He cared nothing for boxing, in fact he disliked it, but he learned it painfully and thoroughly to counteract the feeling of inferiority and shyness he had felt on being treated as a Jew at Princeton. There was a certain inner comfort in knowing he could knock down anybody who was snooty to him, although, being very shy and a thoroughly nice boy, he never fought except in the gym. He was Spider Kelly's star pupil. Spider Kelly taught all his young gentlemen to box like featherweights, no matter whether they weighed one hundred and five or two hundred and five pounds. But it seemed to fit Cohn. He was really very fast. He was so good that Spider promptly overmatched him and got his nose permanently flattened. This increased Cohn's distaste for boxing, but it gave him a certain satisfaction of some strange sort, and it certainly improved his nose. In his last year at Princeton he read too much and took to wearing 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 Cohn had never been middleweight boxing champion, and that perhaps a horse had stepped on his face, or that maybe his mother had been frightened or seen something, or that he had, maybe, bumped into something as a young child, but I finally had somebody verify the story from 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, and played a very good end on the football team, no one had made him race-conscious. No one had ever made him feel he was a Jew, and hence any different from anybody else, until he went to Princeton. He was a nice boy, a friendly boy, and very shy, and it made him bitter. He took it out in boxing, and he came out of Princeton with painful self-consciousness and the flattened nose, and was married by the first girl who was nice to him. He was married five years, had three children, lost most of the fifty thousand dollars his father left him, the balance of the estate having gone to his mother, hardened into a rather unattractive mould under domestic unhappiness with a rich wife; and just when he had made up his mind to leave his wife she left him and went off with a miniature-painter. As he had been thinking for months about leaving his wife and had not done it because it would be too cruel to deprive her of himself, her departure was a very healthful shock. The divorce was arranged and Robert Cohn went out to the Coast. In California he fell among literary people and, as he still had a little of the fifty thousand 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 Cohn, who had been regarded purely as an angel, and whose name had appeared on the editorial page merely as a member of the advisory board, had become the sole editor. It was his money and he discovered he liked the authority of editing. He was sorry when the magazine became too expensive and he had to give it up. By that time, though, he had other things to worry about. He had been taken in hand by a lady who hoped to rise with the magazine. She was very forceful, and Cohn never had a chance of not being taken in hand. Also he was sure that he loved her. When this lady saw that the magazine was not going to rise, she became a little disgusted with Cohn and decided that she might as well get what there was to get while there was still something available, so she urged that they go to Europe, where Cohn could write. They came to Europe, where the lady had been educated, and stayed three years. During these three years, the first spent in travel, the last two in Paris, Robert Cohn had two friends, Braddocks and myself. Braddocks was his literary friend. I was his tennis friend. The lady who had him, her name was Frances, found toward the end of the second year that her looks were going, and her attitude toward Robert changed from one of careless possession and exploitation to the absolute determination that he should marry her. During this time Robert's mother had settled an allowance on him, about three hundred dollars a month. During two years and a half I do not believe that Robert Cohn looked at another woman. He was fairly happy, except that, like many people living in Europe, he would rather have been in America, and he had 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 toward him one night after the three of us had dined together. We had dined at l'Avenue's and afterward went to the Café de Versailles for coffee. We had several _fines_ after the coffee, and I said I must be going. Cohn had been talking about the two of us going off somewhere on a weekend trip. He wanted to get out of town and get in a good walk. I suggested we fly to Strasbourg and walk up to Saint Odile, or somewhere or other in Alsace. "I know a girl in Strasbourg who can show us the town," I said. Somebody kicked me under the table. I thought it was accidental and went on: "She's been there two years and knows everything there is to know about the town. She's a swell girl." I was kicked again under the table and, looking, saw Frances, Robert's lady, her chin lifting and her face hardening. "Hell," I said, "why go to Strasbourg? We could go up to Bruges, or to the Ardennes." Cohn looked relieved. I was not kicked again. I said good-night and went out. Cohn said he wanted to buy a paper and would walk to the corner with me. "For God's sake," he said, "why did you say that about that girl in Strasbourg for? Didn't you see Frances?" "No, why should I? If I know an American girl that lives in Strasbourg what the hell is it to Frances?" "It doesn't make any difference. Any girl. I couldn't go, that would be all." "Don't be silly." "You don't know Frances. Any girl at all. Didn't you see the way she looked?" "Oh, well," I said, "let's go to Senlis." "Don't get sore." "I'm not sore. Senlis is a good place and we can stay at the Grand Cerf and take a hike in the woods and come home." "Good, that will be fine." "Well, I'll see you to-morrow at the courts," I said. "Good-night, Jake," he said, and started back to the café. "You forgot to get your paper," I said. "That's so." He walked with me up to the kiosque at the corner. "You are not sore, are you, Jake?" He turned with the paper in his hand. "No, why should I be?" "See you at tennis," he said. I watched him walk back to the café holding his paper. I rather liked him and evidently she led him quite a life. 罗伯特.科恩一度是普林斯顿大学中量级拳击冠军。别以为一个拳击冠军的称号会给我非常深刻的印象,但当时对科恩却是件了不起的事儿。他对拳击一点也不爱好,实际上他很讨厌拳击,但是他仍然痛苦而一丝不苟地学打拳,以此来抵消在普林斯顿大学被作为犹太人对待时所感到的低人一等和羞怯的心情。虽然他很腼腆,是个十分厚道的年轻人,除了在健身房里打拳,从来不跟人打架斗殴,但是想到自己能够把瞧不起他的任何一个人打倒在地,他就暗自得意。他是斯拜德.凯利的得意门生。不管这些年轻人的体重是一百零五磅,还是二百零五磅,斯拜德.凯利都把他们当作次轻量级拳击手来教。不过这种方法似乎对科恩很适合。他的动作确实非常敏捷。他学得很好,斯拜德马上安排他跟强手交锋,给他终生留下了一个扁平的鼻子。这件事增加了科恩对拳击的反感,但也给了他某种异样的满足,也确实使他的鼻子变得好看些。他在普林斯顿大学的最后一年里,读书过多,开始戴眼镜。我没见过他班上的同学还有谁记得他的。他们甚至记不得他曾是中量级拳击冠军。 我对所有坦率、朴实的人向来信不过,尤其是当他们讲的事没有漏洞的时候,因此我始终怀疑罗伯特.科恩大概从来也没当过中量级拳击冠军,也许有匹马曾踩过他的脸,要不,也许他母亲怀胎时受过惊吓或者看见过什么怪物,要不,也许他小时候曾撞在什么东西上,不过他这段经历终于有人从斯拜德.凯利那里给我得到证实。斯拜德.凯利不仅记得科恩。他还常常想知道科恩后来怎么样了。 从父系来说,罗伯特.科恩出身于纽约一个非常富有的犹太家庭,从母系来说,又是一个古老世家的后裔。为了进普林斯顿大学,他在军事学校补习过,是该校橄榄球队里非常出色的边锋,在那里,没人使他意识到自己的种族问题。进普林斯顿大学以前,从来没人使他感到自己是一个犹太人,因而和其他人有所不同。他是个厚道的年轻人,是个和善的年轻人,非常腼腆,这使他很痛心。他在拳击中发泄这种情绪,他带着痛苦的自我感觉和扁平的鼻子离开普林斯顿大学,碰到第一个待他好的姑娘就结了婚。他结婚五年,生了三个孩子,父亲留给他的五万美元几乎挥霍殆尽(遗产的其余部分归他母亲所有),由于和有钱的妻子过着不幸的家庭生活,他变得冷漠无情,使人讨厌;正当他决心遗弃他妻子的时候,她却抛弃了他,跟一位袖珍人像画家出走了。他已有好几个月尽考虑着要离开他的妻子,因为觉得使她失去他未免太残酷,所以没有那么做,因此她的出走对他倒是一次很有利的冲击。 办妥了离婚手续,罗伯特.科恩动身去西海岸。在加利福尼亚,他投身于文艺界,由于他那五万美元还略有剩余,所以不久就资助一家文艺评论杂志。这家杂志创刊于加利福尼亚州的卡默尔,停刊于马萨诸塞州的普罗文斯敦。科恩起初纯粹被看作一个后台老板,他的名字给登在扉页上只不过作为顾问之一,后来却成为唯一的编辑了。杂志出刊靠他的钱,他发现自己喜欢编辑的职权。当这家杂志因开支太大,他不得不放弃这项事业时,他感到很惋惜。 不过那时候,另外有事要他来操心了。他已经被一位指望跟这家杂志一起飞黄腾达的女士捏在手心里了。她非常坚强有力,科恩始终没法摆脱她的掌握。再说,他也确信自己在爱她。这女士发现杂志已经一撅不振时,就有点嫌弃科恩,心想还是趁有东西可捞的时候捞它一把的好,所以她极力主张他俩到欧洲去,科恩在那里可以从事写作。他们到了她曾在那里念过书的欧洲,呆了三年。这三年期间的第一年,他们用来在各地旅行,后两年住在巴黎,罗伯特.科恩结识了两个朋友:布雷多克斯和我。布雷多克斯是他文艺界的朋友。我是他打网球的伙伴。 这位掌握科恩的女士名叫弗朗西丝,在第二年末发现自己的姿色日见衰退,就一反过去漫不经心地掌握并利用科恩的常态,断然决定他必须娶她。在此期间,罗伯特的母亲给了他一笔生活费,每个月约三百美元。我相信在两年半的时间里,罗伯特.科恩没有注意过别的女人。他相当幸福,只不过同许多住在欧洲的美国人一样,他觉得还是住在美国好。他发现自己能写点东西。他写了一部小说,虽然写得很不好,但也完全不象后来有些评论家所说的那么糟,他博览群书,玩桥牌,打网球,还到本地一个健身房去打拳。我第一次注意到这位女士对科恩的态度是有天晚上我们三人一块儿吃完饭之后。我们先在大马路饭店吃饭,然后到凡尔赛咖啡馆喝咖啡。喝完咖啡我匀喝了几杯白兰地,我说我该走了。科恩刚在谈我们俩到什么地方去来一次周末旅行。他想离开城市好好地去远足一番。我建议坐飞机到斯特拉斯堡,从那里步行到圣奥代尔或者阿尔萨斯地区的什么别的地方。“我在斯特拉斯堡有个熟识的姑娘,她可以带我们观光那座城市,”我说。 有人在桌子底下踢了我一脚。我以为是无意中碰着的,所以接着往下说:“她在那里已经住了两年,凡是城里你想要了解的一切她都知道。她是位可爱的姑娘。” 在桌子下面我又挨了一脚,我一看,只见弗朗西丝,就是罗伯特的情人,撅着下巴,板着面孔呢。 “真混帐,”我说,“为什么到斯特拉斯堡去呢?我们可以朝北到布鲁日或者阿登森林去嘛。” 科恩好象放心了。我再也没有挨踢。我向他们说了声晚安就往外走。科恩说他要陪我到大街拐角去买份报纸。“上帝保佑,”他说,“你提斯特拉斯堡那位姑娘干啥啊?你没看见弗朗西丝的脸色?” “没有,我哪里知道?我认识一个住在斯特拉斯堡的美国姑娘,这究竟关弗朗西丝什么事?” “反正一样。不管是哪个姑娘。总而言之,我不能去。” “别傻了。”“你不了解弗朗西丝。不管是哪个姑娘,你没看见她那副脸色吗?” “好啦,”我说,“那我们去森利吧。” “别生气。” “我不生气。森利是个好地方,我们可以住在麋鹿大饭店,到树林里远足一次,然后回家。” “好,那很有意思。” “好,明天网球场上见,”我说。 “晚安,杰克,”他说完,回头朝咖啡馆走去。 “你忘记买报纸了,”我说。 “真的。”他陪我走到大街拐角的报亭。“你真的不生气,杰克?”他手里拿着报纸转身问。 “不,我干吗生气呢?” “网球场上见,”他说。我看着他手里拿着报纸走回咖啡馆。我挺喜欢他,可弗朗西丝显然弄得他的日子很不好过。 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 Frances lost him, because several women were nice to him in New York, and when he came back he was quite changed. He was more enthusiastic about America than ever, and he was not so simple, and he was not so nice. The publishers had praised his novel pretty highly and it rather went to his head. Then several women had put themselves out to be nice to him, and his horizons had all shifted. For four years his horizon had been absolutely limited to his wife. For three years, or almost three years, he had never seen beyond Frances. I am sure he had never been in love in his life. He had married on the rebound from the rotten time he had in college, and Frances took him on the rebound from his discovery that he had not been everything to his first wife. He was not in love yet but he realized that he was an attractive quantity to women, and that the fact of a woman caring for him and wanting to live with him was not simply a divine miracle. This changed him so that he was not so pleasant to have around. Also, playing for higher stakes than he could afford in some rather steep bridge games with his New York connections, he had held cards and won several hundred dollars. It made him rather vain of his bridge game, and he talked several times of how a man could always make a living at bridge if he were ever forced to. Then there was another thing. He had been reading W. H. Hudson. That sounds like an innocent occupation, but Cohn had read and reread "The Purple Land." "The Purple Land" is a very sinister book if read too late in life. It recounts splendid imaginary amorous adventures of a perfect English gentleman in an intensely romantic land, the scenery of which is very well described. For a man to take it at thirty-four as a guide-book to what life holds is about as safe as it would be for a man of the same age to enter Wall Street direct from a French convent, equipped with a complete set of the more practical Alger books. Cohn, I believe, took every word of "The Purple Land" as literally as though it had been an R. G. Dun report. You understand me, he made some reservations, but on the whole the book to him was sound. It was all that was needed to set him off. I did not realize the extent to which it had set him off until one day he came into my office. "Hello, Robert," I said. "Did you come in to cheer me up?" "Would you like to go to South America, Jake?" he asked. "No." "Why not?" "I don't know. I never wanted to go. Too expensive. You can see all the South Americans you want in Paris anyway." "They're not the real South Americans." "They look awfully real to me." I had a boat train to catch with a week's mail stories, and only half of them written. "Do you know any dirt?" I asked. "No." "None of your exalted connections getting divorces?" "No; listen, Jake. If I handled both our expenses, would you go to South America with me?" "Why me?" "You can talk Spanish. And it would be more fun with two of us." "No," I said, "I like this town and I go to Spain in the summertime." "All my life I've wanted to go on a trip like that," Cohn said. He sat down. "I'll be too old before I can ever do it." "Don't be a fool," I said. "You can go anywhere you want. You've got plenty of money." "I know. But I can't get started." "Cheer up," I said. "All countries look just like the moving pictures." But I felt sorry for him. He had it badly. "I can't stand it to think my life is going so fast and I'm not really living it." "Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bullfighters." "I'm not interested in bull-fighters. That's an abnormal life. I want to go back in the country in South America. We could have a great trip." "Did you ever think about going to British East Africa to shoot?" "No, I wouldn't like that." "I'd go there with you." "No; that doesn't interest me." "That's because you never read a book about it. Go on and read a book all full of love affairs with the beautiful shiny black princesses." "I want to go to South America." He had a hard, Jewish, stubborn streak. "Come on down-stairs and have a drink." "Aren't you working?" "No," I said. We went down the stairs to the café on the ground floor. I had discovered that was the best way to get rid of friends. Once you had a drink all you had to say was: "Well, I've got to get back and get off some cables," and it was done. It is very important to discover graceful exits like that in the newspaper business, where it is such an important part of the ethics that you should never seem to be working. Anyway, we went down-stairs to the bar and had a whiskey and soda. Cohn looked at the bottles in bins around the wall. "This is a good place," he said. "There's a lot of liquor," I agreed. "Listen, Jake," he leaned forward on the bar. "Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?" "Yes, every once in a while." "Do you know that in about thirty-five years more we'll be dead?" "What the hell, Robert," I said. "What the hell." "I'm serious." "It's one thing I don't worry about," I said. "You ought to." "I've had plenty to worry about one time or other. I'm through worrying." "Well, I want to go to South America." "Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn't make any difference. I've tried all that. You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There's nothing to that." "But you've never been to South America." "South America hell! If you went there the way you feel now it would be exactly the same. This is a good town. Why don't you start living your life in Paris?" "I'm sick of Paris, and I'm sick of the Quarter." "Stay away from the Quarter. Cruise around by yourself and see what happens to you." "Nothing happens to me. I walked alone all one night and nothing happened except a bicycle cop stopped me and asked to see my papers." "Wasn't the town nice at night?" "I don't care for Paris." So there you were. I was sorry for him, but it was not a thing you could do anything about, because right away you ran up against the two stubbornnesses: South America could fix it and he did not like Paris. He got the first idea out of a book, and I suppose the second came out of a book too. "Well," I said, "I've got to go up-stairs and get off some cables." "Do you really have to go?" "Yes, I've got to get these cables off." "Do you mind if I come up and sit around the office?" "No, come on up." He sat in the outer room and read the papers, and the Editor and Publisher and I worked hard for two hours. Then I sorted out the carbons, stamped on a by-line, put the stuff in a couple of big manila envelopes and rang for a boy to take them to the Gare St. Lazare. I went out into the other room and there was Robert Cohn asleep in the big chair. He was asleep with his head on his arms. I did not like to wake him up, but I wanted to lock the office and shove off. I put my hand on his shoulder. He shook his head. "I can't do it," he said, and put his head deeper into his arms. "I can't do it. Nothing will make me do it." "Robert," I said, and shook him by the shoulder. He looked up. He smiled and blinked. "Did I talk out loud just then?" "Something. But it wasn't clear." "God, what a rotten dream!" "Did the typewriter put you to sleep?" "Guess so. I didn't sleep all last night." "What was the matter?" "Talking," he said. I could picture it. I have a rotten habit of picturing the bedroom scenes of my friends. We went out to the Café Napolitain to have an _aperitif_ and watch the evening crowd on the Boulevard. 那年冬天,罗伯特.科恩带着他写的那部小说到了美国,稿子被一位相当有地位的出版商接受了。我听说他这次出门引起了一场激烈的争吵,弗朗西丝大概从此就失去了他,因为在纽约有好几个女人对他不错,等他回到巴黎,他大大地变了。他比过去任何时候都更热中于美国,他不再那么单纯,不再那么厚道了。出版商把他的小说捧得很高,这着实冲昏了他的头脑。当时有几个女人费尽心机要同他好,他的眼界完全变了。有四年时间,他的视野绝对只局限于他妻子身上。有三年或者将近三年时间,他的注意力从未越出弗朗西丝的范围。我深信,他有生以来还从来没有真正恋爱过。 他大学里的那段日子过得太倒霉,在这刺激之下结了婚,等他发现在第一个妻子眼里他并不是一切,弗朗西丝掌握了他。他至今没有真正恋爱过,但是意识到自己对女人来说是一个有魅力的人,有个女人喜欢他并愿意和他生活在一起,这一点不仅仅是天赐的奇迹。这使他变了,因此跟他在一起就不那么令人愉快了。还有,当他和那帮纽约朋友在一起玩大赌注的桥牌戏,下的赌注超出了自己的财力时,他曾拿到了好牌,赢了好几百元。这使他很为自己的牌技洋洋自得,他几次谈起,一个人迫不得已的话,总是可以靠打桥牌为生的。 再说,还有另一件事。他读了不少威.亨.赫德森的小说。这似乎是桩无可指责的事情,但是科恩把《紫红色的国度》读了一遍又一遍。成年人读《紫红色的国度》是非常有害的。这本书描述一位完美无缺的英国绅士在一个富有浓厚浪漫色彩的国度里的种种虚构的风流韵事,故事编得绚烂多彩,自然风光描写得非常出色。一个三十四岁的男人把它做为生活指南是很不可靠的,就象一个同龄男人带了一整套更注重实际的阿尔杰的著作从法国修道院直接来到华尔街一样。我相信科恩把《紫红色的国度》里的每句话都象读罗.格.邓恩的报告那样逐词领会。不要误解我的意思,他是有所保留的,不过总的说来,他认为这本书大有道理。单靠这本书就使他活动起来了。我没有想到它对他的影响大到什么程度,直到有一天,他到写字间来找我。 “嗨,罗伯特,”我说。“你来是叫我开心开心的吧?” “你想不想到南美洲去,杰克?”他问。 “不想去。” “为什么?” “不知道。我从来没想去。花钱太多。反正你想看南美洲人的话,在巴黎就能看个够。” “他们不是地道的南美洲人。” “我看他们都是挺地道的。”我一星期的通讯稿必须赶本班联运船车发出,但是我只写好了一半。 “你听到什么丑闻了?”我问。 “没有。” “你那帮显贵的朋友里没有一个闹离婚的?” “没有。你听着,杰克。如果我负担咱俩的开销,你肯不肯陪我去南美?” “为什么要我去呢?” “你会讲西班牙语,而且咱俩一起去更好玩。” “不去,”我说,“我喜欢巴黎。夏天我到西班牙去。” “我这一辈子老向往着能作这么一次旅行,”科恩说。他坐下来。“不等去成,我就老朽了。” “别说傻话了,”我说。“你想到哪儿,就能到哪儿。你不是挣了那么一大笔钱吗?” “这我知道。可我老走不成。” “别伤心,”我说。“每个国家还不都象电影里那样。” 可是我为他难过。真够他受的。 “一想到我的生命消逝得这么迅速,而我并不是在真正地活着,我就受不了。” “除了斗牛士,没有一个人的生活算得上是丰富多彩的,” “我对斗牛士不感兴趣。那种生活不正常。我希望到南美的内地去走走。我们的旅行一定会很有意思的。” “你想没想过到英属东非去打猎?” “没有,我不喜欢打猎。” “我愿意同你一起到那里去。”“不去,我不感兴趣。” “这是因为你从来没有读过这方面的书。找一本里头尽是些人们跟皮肤黑得发亮的美貌公主谈情说爱的故事的书看看吧。” “我要到南美去。” 他具有犹太人那种顽固、执拗的气质。 “下楼喝一杯去。” “你不工作啦?” “不干了,”我说。我们下楼,走进底层的咖啡室。我发现这是打发朋友走的最好办法。你喝完一杯,只消说一句,“哦,我得赶回去发几份电讯稿”,这就行了。新闻工作的规矩中极重要的一条就是你必须一天到晚显得不在工作,因此想出这一类得体的脱身法是很紧要的。于是,我们下楼到酒吧间去要了威士忌苏打。科恩望着墙边的一箱箱瓶酒。“这里真是个好地方,”他说。 “酒真不少啊,”我顺着说。 “听着,杰克,”他趴在酒吧柜上。“难道你从没感到你的年华在流逝,而你却没有及时行乐吗?你没发觉你已经度过几乎半辈子了吗?” “是的,有时也想过。” “再过三十五年光景,我们都会死去,你懂吗?” “别瞎扯,罗伯特,”我说。“瞎扯什么。” “我在说正经的。” “我才不为这件事自寻烦恼哩,”我说。 “你该想一想。” “三天两头我就有一堆烦恼的事儿。我不想再操心啦。” “我反正要去南美。” “听我说,罗伯特,到别的国家去也是这么样。我都试过。从一个地方挪到另一个地方,你做不到自我解脱。毫无用处。” “可是你从来没有到过南美啊。” “南美见鬼去吧!如果你怀着现在这种心情到那里去,还不是一个样。巴黎是个好地方。为什么你就不能在巴黎重整旗鼓呢?” “我厌恶巴黎,厌恶拉丁区。” “那么离开拉丁区。你自个儿到四处走走,看看能遇上什么新鲜事。” “什么也不会遇上的。有一次,我独自溜达了一整夜,什么事儿也没有遇上,只有一个骑自行车的警察拦住了我,要看我的证件。” “巴黎的夜晚不是很美吗?” “我不喜欢巴黎。” 问题就在这里。我很可怜他,但是这不是你能帮忙的事,因为你一上手就要碰上他那两个根深蒂固的想法:一是去南美能解决他的问题,二是他不喜欢巴黎。他的前一种想法是从一本书上得来的,我猜想后一种想法也来自一本书。 “哦,”我说,“我得上楼去发几份电讯稿。” “你真的必须上去?” “是的,我必须把这几份电讯稿发出去。” “我上楼去,在写字间里随便坐一会儿行吗?” “好,上去吧。”他坐在外间看报,那位编辑和出版者和我紧张地工作了两个小时。最后我把一张张打字稿的正、副本分开,打上我的名字,把稿纸装进两个马尼拉纸大信封,揿铃叫听差来把信封送到圣拉扎车站去。我走出来到了外间,只见罗伯特.科恩在大安乐椅里睡着了。他把头枕在两只胳臂上睡去。我不愿意把他叫醒,但是我要锁门离开写字间了。我把手按在他肩膀上。他晃晃脑袋。“这件事我不能干,”他说着,把头在臂弯里埋得更深了。“这件事我不能干。使什么招儿也不行。” “罗伯特,”我说,摇摇他的肩膀。他抬头看看。他笑起来,眨巴着眼睛。 “方才我说出声来啦?” “说了几句。但是含糊不清。” “上帝啊,做了个多么不愉快的梦!” “是不是打字机的嗒嗒声催你睡过去了?” “大概是的。昨晚我一整夜没睡。” “怎么啦?” “谈话了,”他说。 我能够想象得出当时是怎么回事。我有个要不得的习惯,就是好想象我的朋友们在卧室里的情景。我们上街到那波利咖啡馆去喝一杯开胃酒,观看黄昏时林荫大道上散步的人群。 Chapter 3 It was a warm spring night and I sat at a table on the terrace of the Napolitain after Robert had gone, watching it get dark and the electric signs come on, and the red and green stop-and-go traffic-signal, and the crowd going by, and the horse-cabs clippety-clopping along at the edge of the solid taxi traffic, and the _poules_ going by, singly and in pairs, looking for the evening meal. I watched a good-looking girl walk past the table and watched her go up the street and lost sight of her, and watched another, and then saw the first one coming back again. She went by once more and I caught her eye, and she came over and sat down at the table. The waiter came up. "Well, what will you drink?" I asked. "Pernod." "That's not good for little girls." "Little girl yourself. Dites garcon, un pernod." "A pernod for me, too." "What's the matter?" she asked. "Going on a party?" "Sure. Aren't you?" "I don't know. You never know in this town." "Don't you like Paris?" "No." "Why don't you go somewhere else?" "Isn't anywhere else." "You're happy, all right." "Happy, hell!" Pernod is greenish imitation absinthe. When you add water it turns milky. It tastes like licorice and it has a good uplift, but it drops you just as far. We sat and drank it, and the girl looked sullen. "Well," I said, "are you going to buy me a dinner?" She grinned and I saw why she made a point of not laughing. With her mouth closed she was a rather pretty girl. I paid for the saucers and we walked out to the street. I hailed a horse-cab and the driver pulled up at the curb. Settled back in the slow, smoothly rolling _fiacre_ we moved up the Avenue de l'Opéra, passed the locked doors of the shops, their windows lighted, the Avenue broad and shiny and almost deserted. The cab passed the New York _Herald_ bureau with the window full of clocks. "What are all the clocks for?" she asked. "They show the hour all over America." "Don't kid me." We turned off the Avenue up the Rue des Pyramides, through the traffic of the Rue de Rivoli, and through a dark gate into the Tuileries. She cuddled against me and I put my arm around her. She looked up to be kissed. She touched me with one hand and I put her hand away. "Never mind." "What's the matter? You sick?" "Yes." "Everybody's sick. I'm sick, too." We came out of the Tuileries into the light and crossed the Seine and then turned up the Rue des Saints Pères. "You oughtn't to drink pernod if you're sick." "You neither." "It doesn't make any difference with me. It doesn't make any difference with a woman." "What are you called?" "Georgette. How are you called?" "Jacob." "That's a Flemish name." "American too." "You're not Flamand?" "No, American." "Good, I detest Flamands." By this time we were at the restaurant. I called to the _cocher_ to stop. We got out and Georgette did not like the looks of the place. "This is no great thing of a restaurant." "No," I said. "Maybe you would rather go to Foyot's. Why don't you keep the cab and go on?" I had picked her up because of a vague sentimental idea that it would be nice to eat with some one. It was a long time since I had dined with a _poule_, and I had forgotten how dull it could be. We went into the restaurant, 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 some one called: "Barnes! I say, Barnes! Jacob Barnes! "It's a friend calling me," I explained, and went out. There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs. Braddocks, several people I did not know. "You're coming to the dance, aren't you?" Braddocks asked. "What dance?" "Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?" Mrs. Braddocks put in. "You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a smile. "Of course, he's coming," Braddocks said. "Come in and have coffee with us, Barnes." "Right." "And bring your friend," said Mrs. Braddocks laughing. She was a Canadian and had all their easy social graces. "Thanks, we'll be in," I said. I went back to the small room. "Who are your friends?" Georgette asked. "Writers and artists." "There are lots of those on this side of the river." "Too many." "I think so. Still, some of them make money." "Oh, yes." We finished the meal and the wine. "Come on," I said. "We're going to have coffee with the others." Georgette opened her bag, made a few passes at her face as she looked in the little mirror, re-defined her lips with the lip-stick, and 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 fiancée, Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc," I said. Georgette smiled that wonderful smile, and we shook hands all round. "Are you related to Georgette Leblanc, the singer?" Mrs. Braddocks asked. "Connais pas," Georgette answered. "But you have the same name," Mrs. Braddocks insisted cordially. "No," said Georgette. "Not at all. My name is Hobin." "But Mr. Barnes introduced you as Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc. Surely he did," insisted Mrs. Braddocks, who in the excitement of talking French was liable to have no idea what she was saying. "He's a fool," Georgette said. "Oh, it was a joke, then," Mrs. Braddocks said. "Yes," said Georgette. "To laugh at." "Did you hear that, Henry?" Mrs. Braddocks called down the table to 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 calIed, 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 dancingclub. On Monday nights it was closed. When we arrived it was quite empty, except for a policeman sitting near the door, the wife of the proprietor back of the zinc bar, and the proprietor himself. The daughter of the house came down-stairs as we went in. There were long benches, and tables ran across the room, and at the far end a dancing-floor. "I wish people would come earlier," Braddocks said. The daughter came up and wanted to know what we would drink. The proprietor got up on a high stool beside the dancing-floor and began to play the accordion. He had a string of bells around one of his ankles and beat time with his foot as he played. Every one danced. It was hot and we came off the floor perspiring. "My God," Georgette said. "What a box to sweat in!" "It's hot." "Hot, my God!" "Take off your hat." "That's a good idea." Some one asked Georgette to dance, and I went over to the bar. It was really very hot and the accordion music was pleasant in the hot night. I drank a beer, standing in the doorway and getting the cool breath of wind from the street. Two taxis were coming down the steep street. They both stopped in front of the Bal. A crowd of young men, some in jerseys and some in their shirt-sleeves, got out. I could see their hands and newly washed, wavy hair in the light from the door. The policeman 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 angry. I know they are supposed to be amusing, and you should be tolerant, but I wanted to swing on one, any one, anything to shatter that superior, simpering composure. Instead, I walked down the street and had a beer at the bar at the next Bal. The beer was not good and I had a worse cognac to take the taste Out of my mouth. When I came back to the Bad 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 fiancée is having a great success," Mrs. Braddocks looked out on the floor where Georgette was dancing in the arms of the tall, dark one, called Lett. "Isn't she?" I said. "Rather," said Mrs. Braddocks. Cohn came up. "Come on, Jake," he said, "have a drink." We walked over to the bar. "What's the matter with you? You seem all worked up over something?" "Nothing. This whole show makes me sick is all." Brett came up to the bar. "Hello, you chaps." "Hello, Brett," I said. "Why aren't you tight?" "Never going to get tight any more. I say, give a chap a brandy and soda." She stood holding the glass and I saw Robert Cohn looking at her. He looked a great deal as his compatriot must have looked when he saw the promised land. Cohn, of course, was much younger. But he had that look of eager, deserving expectation. Brett was damned good-looking. She wore a slipover jersey sweater and a tweed skirt, and her hair was brushed back like a boy's. She started all that. She was built with curves like the hull of a racing yacht, and you missed none of it with that wool jersey. "It's a fine crowd you're with, Brett," I said. "Aren't they lovely? And you, my dear. Where did you get it?" "At the Napolitain." "And have you had a lovely evening?" "Oh, priceless," I said. Brett laughed. "It's wrong of you, Jake. It's an insult to all of us. Look at Frances there, and Jo." This for Cohn's benefit. "It's in restraint of trade," Brett said. She laughed again. "You're wonderfully sober," I said. "Yes. Aren't I? And when one's with the crowd I'm with, one can drink in such safety, too." The music started and Robert Cohn said: "Will you dance this with me, Lady Brett?" Brett smiled at him. "I've 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 some one was playing the banjo. It was hot and I felt happy. We passed close to Georgette dancing with another one of them. "What possessed you to bring her?" "I don't know, I just brought her." "You're getting damned romantic." "No, bored." "Now?" "No, not now." "Let's get out of here. She's well taken care of." "Do you want to?" "Would I ask you if I didn't want to?" We left the floor and I took my coat off a hanger on the wall and put it on. Brett stood by the bar. Cohn was talking to her. I stopped at the bar and asked them for an envelope. The patronne found one. I took a fifty-franc note from my pocket, put it in the envelope, sealed it, and handed it to the patronne. "If the girl I came with asks for me, will you give her this?" I said. "If she goes out with one of those gentlemen, will you save this for me?" "C'est entendu, Monsieur," the patronne said. "You go now? So early?" "Yes," I said. We started out the door. Cohn was still talking to Brett. She said good night and took my arm. "Good night, Cohn," I said. Outside in the street we looked for a taxi. "You're going to lose your fifty francs," Brett said. "Oh, yes." "No taxis." "We could walk up to the Pantheon and get one." "Come on and we'll get a drink in the pub next door and send for one." "You wouldn't walk across the street." "Not if I could help it." We went into the next bar and I sent a waiter for a taxi. "Well," I said, "we're out away from them." We stood against the tall zinc bar and did not talk and looked at each other. The waiter came and said the taxi was outside. Brett pressed my hand hard. I gave the waiter a franc and we went out. "Where should I tell him?" I asked. "Oh, tell him to drive around." I told the driver to go to the Parc Montsouris, and got in, and slammed the door. Brett was leaning back in the corner, her eyes closed. I sat beside her. The cab started with a jerk. "Oh, darling, I've been so miserable," Brett said. Chapter 4 The taxi went up the hill, passed the lighted square, then on into the dark, still climbing, then levelled out onto a dark street 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 looking that made you wonder whether she really saw out of her own eyes. They would look on and on after every one else's eyes in the world would have stopped looking. She looked as though there were nothing on earth she would not look at like that, and really she was afraid of so many things. "And there's not a damn thing we could do," I said. "I don't know," she said. "I don't want to go through that hell 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 Parc Montsouris. The restaurant where they have the pool of live trout and where you can sit and look out over the park was closed and dark. The driver leaned his head around. "Where do you want to go?" I asked. Brett turned her head away. "Oh, go to the Select." "Café Select," I told the driver. "Boulevard Montparnasse." We drove straight down, turning around the Lion de Belfort that guards the passing Montrouge trams. Brett looked straight ahead. On the Boulevard Raspail, with the lights of Montparnasse in sight, Brett said: "Would you mind very much if I asked you to do something?" "Don't be silly." "Kiss me just once more before we get there." When the taxi stopped I got out and paid. Brett came out putting on her hat. She gave me her hand as she stepped down. Her hand was shaky. "I say, do I look too much of a mess?" She pulled her man's felt hat down and started in for the bar. Inside, against the bar and at tables, were most of the crowd who had been at the dance. "Hello, you chaps," Brett said. "I'm going to have a drink." "Oh, Brett! Brett!" the little Greek portrait-painter, who called himself a duke, and whom everybody called Zizi, pushed up to her. "I got something fine to tell you." "Hello, Zizi," Brett said. "I want you to meet a friend," Zizi said. A fat man came up. "Count Mippipopolous, meet my friend Lady Ashley." "How do you do?" said Brett. "Well, does your Ladyship have a good time here in Paris?" asked Count Mippipopolous, who wore an elk's tooth on his watchchain. "Rather," said Brett. "Paris is a fine town all right," said the count. "But I guess you have pretty big doings yourself over in London." "Oh, yes," said Brett. "Enormous." Braddocks called to me from a table. "Barnes," he said, "have a drink. That girl of yours got in a frightful row." "What about?" "Something the patronne's daughter said. A corking row. She was rather splendid, you know. Showed her yellow card and demanded the patronne's daughter's too. I say it was a row." "What finally happened?" "Oh, some one took her home. Not a bad-looking girl. Wonderful command of the idiom. Do stay and have a drink." "No," I said. "I must shove off. Seen Cohn?" "He went home with Frances," Mrs. Braddock put in. "Poor chap, he looks awfully down," Braddocks said. "I dare say he is," said Mrs. Braddocks. "I have to shove off," I said. "Good night." I said good night to Brett at the bar. The count was buying champagne. "Will you take a glass of wine with us, sir?" he asked. "No. Thanks awfully. I have to go." "Really going?" Brett asked. "Yes," I said. "I've got a rotten headache." "I'll see you to-morrow?" "Come in at the office." "Hardly." "Well, where will I see you?" "Anywhere around five o'clock." "Make it the other side of town then." "Good. I'll be at the Crillon at five." "Try and be there," I said. "Don't worry," Brett said. "I've never let you down, have I?" "Heard from Mike?" "Letter to-day." "Good night, sir," said the count. I went out onto the sidewalk and walked down toward the Boulevard St. Michel, passed the tables of the Rotonde, still crowded, looked across the Street at the Dome, its tables running out to the edge of the pavement. Some one waved at me from a table, I did not see who it was and went on. I wanted to get home. The Boulevard Montparnasse was deserted. Lavigne's was closed tight, and they were stacking the tables outside the Closerie des Lilas. I passed Ney's Statue standing among the new-leaved chestnut-trees in the arc-light. There was a faded purple wreath leaning against the base. I stopped and read the inscription: from the Bonapartist Groups, some date; I forget. He looked very fine, Marshal Ney in his top-boots, gesturing with his sword among the green new horse-chestnut leaves. My flat was just across the street, a little way down the Boulevard St. Michel. There was a light in the concierge's room and I knocked on the door and she gave me my mail. I wished her good night and went up-stairs. There were two letters and some papers. I looked at them under the gas-light in the dining-room. The letters were from the States. One was a bank statement. It showed a balance of $2432.60. I got out my check-book and deducted four checks drawn since the first of the month, and discovered I had a balance of $1832.60. I wrote this on the back of the statement. The other letter was a wedding announcement. Mr. and Mrs. Aloysius Kirby announce the marriage of their daughter Katherine--I knew neither the girl nor the man she was marrying. They must be circularizing the town. It was a funny name. I felt Sure I could remember anybody with a name like Aloysius. It was a good Catholic name. There was a crest on the announcement. Like Zizi the Greek duke. And that count. The count was funny. Brett had a title, too. Lady Ashley. To hell with Brett. To hell with you, Lady Ashley. I lit the lamp beside the bed, turned off the gas, and opened the wide windows. The bed was far back from the windows, and I sat with the windows open and undressed by the bed. Outside a night train, running on the street-car tracks, went by carrying vegetables to the markets. They were noisy at night when you could not sleep. Undressing, I looked at myself in the mirror of the big armoire beside the bed. That was a typically French way to furnish a room. Practical, too, I suppose. Of all the ways to be wounded. I suppose it was funny. I put on my pajamas and got into bed. I had the two bull-fight papers, and I took their wrappers off. One was orange. The other yellow. They would both have the same news, so whichever I read first would spoil the other. _Le Toril_ was the better paper, so I started to read it. I read it all the way through, including the Petite Correspondance and the Cornigrams. I blew out the lamp. Perhaps I would be able to sleep. My head started to work. The old grievance. Well, it was a rotten way to be wounded and flying on a joke front like the Italian. In the Italian hospital we were going to form a society. It had a funny name in Italian. I wonder what became of the others, the Italians. That was in the Ospedale Maggiore in Milano, Padiglione Ponte. The next building was the Padiglione Zonda. There was a statue of Ponte, or maybe it was Zonda. That was where the liaison colonel came to visit me. That was funny. That was about the first funny thing. I was all bandaged up. But they had told him about it. Then he made that wonderful speech: "You, a foreigner, an Englishman" (any foreigner was an Englishman) "have given more than your life." What a speech! I would like to have it illuminated to hang in the office. He never laughed. He was putting himself in my place, I guess. "Che mala fortuna! Che mala fortuna!" I never used to realize it, I guess. I try and play it along and just not make trouble for people. Probably I never would have had any trouble if I hadn't run into Brett when they shipped me to England. I suppose she only wanted what she couldn't have. Well, people were that way. To hell with people. The Catholic Church had an awfully good way of handling all that. Good advice, anyway. Not to think about it. Oh, it was swell advice. Try and take it sometime. Try and take it. I lay awake thinking and my mind jumping around. Then I couldn't keep away from it, and I started to think about Brett and all the rest of it went away. I was thinking about Brett and my mind stopped jumping around and started to go in sort of smooth waves. Then all of a sudden I started to cry. Then after a while it was better and I lay in bed and listened to the heavy trams go by and way down the street, and then I went to sleep. I woke up. There was a row going on outside. I listened and I thought I recognized a voice. I put on a dressing-gown and went to the door. The concierge was talking down-stairs. She was very angry. I heard my name and called down the stairs. "Is that you, Monsieur Barnes?" the concierge called. "Yes. It's me." "There's a species of woman here who's waked the whole street up. What kind of a dirty business at this time of night! She says she must see you. I've told her you're asleep." Then I heard Brett's voice. Half asleep I had been sure it was Georgette. I don't know why. She could not have known my address. "Will you send her up, please?" Brett came up the stairs. I saw she was quite drunk. "Silly thing to do," she said. "Make an awful row. I say, you weren't asleep, were you?" "What did you think I was doing?" "Don't know. What time is it?" I looked at the clock. It was half-past four. "Had no idea what hour it was," Brett said. "I say, can a chap sit down? Don't be cross, darling. Just left the count. He brought me here." "What's he like?" I was getting brandy and soda and glasses. "Just a little," said Brett. "Don't try and make me drunk. The count? Oh, rather. He's quite one of us." "Is he a count?" "Here's how. I rather think so, you know. Deserves to be, anyhow. Knows hell's own amount about people. Don't know where he got it all. Owns a chain of sweetshops in the States." She sipped at her glass. "Think he called it a chain. Something like that. Linked them all up. Told me a little about it. Damned interesting. He's one of us, though. Oh, quite. No doubt. One can always tell." She took another drink. "How do I buck on about all this? You don't mind, do you? He's putting up for Zizi, you know." "Is Zizi really a duke, too?" "I shouldn't wonder. Greek, you know. Rotten painter. I rather liked the count." "Where did you go with him?" "Oh, everywhere. He just brought me here now. Offered me ten thousand dollars to go to Biarritz with him. How much is that in pounds?" "Around two thousand." "Lot of money. I told him I couldn't do it. He was awfully nice about it. Told him I knew too many people in Biarritz." Brett laughed. "I say, you are slow on the up-take," she said. I had only sipped my brandy and soda. I took a long drink. "That's better. Very funny," Brett said. "Then he wanted me to go to Cannes with him. Told him I knew too many people in Cannes. Monte Carlo. Told him I knew too many people in Monte Carlo. Told him I knew too many people everywhere. Quite true, too. So I asked him to bring me here." She looked at me, her hand on the table, her glass raised. "Don't look like that," she said. "Told him I was in love with you. True, too. Don't look like that. He was damn nice about it. Wants to drive us out to dinner to-morrow night. Like to go?" "Why not?" "I'd better go now." "Why?" "Just wanted to see you. Damned silly idea. Want to get dressed and come down? He's got the car just up the Street." "The count?" "Himself. And a chauffeur in livery. Going to drive me around and have breakfast in the Bois. Hampers. Got it all at Zelli's. Dozen bottles of Mumms. Tempt you?" "I have to work in the morning," I said. "I'm too far behind you now to catch up and be any fun." "Don't be an ass." "Can't do it." "Right. Send him a tender message?" "Anything. Absolutely." "Good night, darling." "Don't be sentimental." "You make me ill." We kissed good night and Brett shivered. "I'd better go," she said. "Good night, darling." "You don't have to go." "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 arc-light. She got in and it started off. I turned around. On the table was an empty glass and a glass half-full of brandy and soda. I took them both out to the kitchen and poured the half-full glass down the sink. I turned off the gas in the dining-room, kicked off my slippers sitting on the bed, and got into bed. This was Brett, that I had felt like crying about. Then I thought of her walking up the street and stepping into the car, as I had last seen her, and of course in a little while I felt like hell again. It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing. 汽车登上小山,驶过明亮的广场,进入一片黑暗之中,继续上坡,然后开上平地,来到圣埃蒂内多蒙教堂后面的一条黑黝黝的街道上,顺着柏油路平稳地开下来,经过一片树林和康特雷斯卡普广场上停着的公共汽车,最后拐上鹅卵石路面的莫弗塔德大街。街道两旁,闪烁着酒吧间和夜市商店的灯光。我们分开坐着,车子在古老的路面上一路颠簸,使得我们紧靠在一起。勃莱特摘下帽子,头向后仰着。在夜市商店的灯光下,我看见她的脸,随后车子里又暗了,等我们开上戈贝林大街,我才看清楚她的整个脸庞。这条街路面给翻开了,人们在电石灯的亮光中在电车轨道上干活。勃莱特脸色苍白,通亮的灯火照出她脖子的修长线条,街道又暗下来了,我吻她。我们的嘴唇紧紧贴在一起,接着她转过身去,紧靠在车座的一角,离我尽量远些。她低着头。“别碰我,”她说。“请你别碰我。”“怎么啦?”“我受不了。”“啊,勃莱特。”“别这样。你应该明白。我只是受不了。啊,亲爱的,请你谅解!” “你难道不爱我?” “不爱你?你一碰我,我的整个身体简直就成了果子冻。” “难道我们就无能为力了?” 她直起身来。我用一只胳臂搂住她,她背靠在我的身上,我们俩十分安详。她正用她那惯常的神情盯着我的眼睛,使人纳闷,她是否真正在用自己的眼睛观看。似乎等到世界上别人的眼睛都停止了注视,她那双眼睛还会一直看个不止。她是那样看着我,仿佛世界上没有一样东西她不是用这种眼神看的,可是实际上,有很多东西她都不敢正视。 “那么我们只能到此为止了,”我说。 “不知道,”她说,“我不愿意再受折磨了。” “那么我们还是分手的好。” “可是,亲爱的,我看不到你可不行。你并不完全明白。” “我不明白,不过在一起总得这样。”” “这是我的过错。不过,难道我们不在为我们这一切行为付出代价?” 她一直盯着我的眼睛。她眼睛里的景深时时不同,有时看来平板一片。这会儿,你可以在她眼睛里一直望到她的内心深处。 “我想到我给很多人带来痛苦。我现在正在还这笔债呢。” “别说傻话了,”我说。“而且,对我自己的遭遇,我总是一笑置之。我从来不去想它。” “是的,我想你是不会的。” “好了,别谈这些啦。” “有一次,我自己对这种事也觉得好笑。”她的目光躲着我。“我兄弟有个朋友从蒙斯回家来,也是那个样子。仿佛战争是一个天大的玩笑。小伙子们什么事也不懂,是不是?” “对,”我说。“人人都是这样,什么事也不懂。” 我圆满地结束了这个话题。过去,我也许曾从绝大多数的角度来考虑过这件事,包括这一种看法:某些创伤,或者残疾,会成为取笑的对象,但实际上对受伤或者有残疾的人来说,这个问题仍然是够严重的。 “真有趣,”我说。“非常有趣。但是谈情说爱也是富有乐趣的。” “你这么看?”她的眼睛望进去又变得平板一片了。 “我指的不是你想的那种乐趣。那多少是一种叫人欢欣的感情。” “不对,”她说。“我认为这是人间地狱般的痛苦。” “见面总是叫人高兴的。” “不。我可不这么想。” “你不想和我见面?” “我不得不如此。” 此时,我们坐着象两个陌生人。右边是蒙特苏里公园。那家饭店里有一个鳟鱼池,在那里你可以坐着眺望公园景色,但是饭店已经关门了,黑洞洞的。司机扭过头来。 “你想到哪儿去? ” 我问。勃莱特把头扭过去。“噢,到‘雅士’去吧。”“雅士咖啡馆,”我吩咐司机说。“在蒙帕纳斯大街。”我们径直开去,绕过守卫着开往蒙特劳奇区的电车的贝尔福狮子像。勃莱特两眼直视前方。车子驶在拉斯帕埃大街上,望得见蒙帕纳斯大街上的灯光了,勃莱特说:“我想要求你做件事,不知道你会不会见怪。” “别说傻话了。”“到那儿之前,你再吻我一次。” 等汽车停下,我下车付了车钱。勃莱特一面跨出车门,一面戴上帽子。她伸手给我握着,走下车来。她的手在颤抖。“喂,我的样子是不是很狼狈?”她拉下她戴的男式毡帽,走进咖啡馆。参加舞会的那伙人几乎都在里面,有靠着酒吧柜站着的,也有在桌子边坐着的。 “嗨,朋友们,”勃莱特说。“我要喝一杯。” “啊,勃莱特!勃莱特!”小个子希腊人从人堆里向她挤过来,他是一位肖像画家,自称公爵,但别人都叫他齐齐。“我告诉你件好事。” “你好,齐齐,”勃莱特说。 “我希望你见一见我的一个朋友,”齐齐说。一个胖子走上前来。 “米比波普勒斯伯爵,来见见我的朋友阿施利夫人。&rdquo Chapter 5 In the morning I walked down the Boulevard to the Rue Soufflot for coffee and brioche. It was a fine morning. The horse-chestnut trees in the Luxembourg gardens were in bloom. There was the pleasant early-morning feeling of a hot day. I read the papers with the coffee and then smoked a cigarette. The 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 Madeleine, standing on the back platform. From the Madeleine I walked along the Boulevard des Capucines to the Opéra, and up to my office. I passed the man with the jumping frogs and the man with the boxer toys. I stepped aside to avoid walking into the thread with which his girl assistant manipulated the boxers. She was standing looking away, the thread in her folded hands. The man was urging two tourists to buy. Three more tourists had stopped and were watching. I walked on behind a man who was pushing a roller that printed the name CINZANO on the sidewalk in damp letters. All along people were going to work. It felt pleasant to be going to work. I walked across the avenue and turned in to my office. Up-stairs in the office I read the French morning papers, smoked, and then sat at the typewriter and got off a good morning's work. At eleven o'clock I went over to the Quai d'Orsay in a taxi and went in and sat with about a dozen correspondents, while the foreign-office mouthpiece, a young Nouvelle Revue Francaise diplomat in hornrimmed spectacles, talked and answered questions for half an hour. The President of the Council was in Lyons making a speech, or, rather he was on his way back. Several people asked questions to hear themselves talk and there were a couple of questions asked by news service men who wanted to know the answers. There was no news. I shared a taxi back from the Quai d'Orsay with Woolsey and Krum. "What do you do nights, Jake?" asked Krum. "I never see you around." "Oh, I'm over in the Quarter." "I'm coming over some night. The Dingo. That's the great place, isn't it?" "Yes. That, or this new dive, the Select." "I've meant to get over," said Krum. "You know how it is, though, with a wife and kids." "Playing any tennis?" Woolsey asked. "Well, no," said Krum. "I can't say I've played any this year. I've tried to get away, but Sundays it's always rained, and the courts are so damned crowded." "The Englishmen all have Saturday off," Woolsey said. "Lucky beggars," said Krum. "Well, I'll tell you. Some day I'm not going to be working for an agency. Then I'll have plenty of time to get out in the country." "That's the thing to do. Live out in the country and have a little car." "I've been thinking some about getting a car next year." I banged on the glass. The chauffeur stopped. "Here's my street," I said. "Come in and have a drink." "Thanks, old man," Krum said. Woolsey shook his head. "I've got to file that line he got off this morning." I put a two-franc piece in Krum's hand. "You're crazy, Jake," he said. "This is on me." "It's all on the office, anyway." "Nope. I want to get it." I waved good-by. Krum put his head out. "See you at the lunch on Wednesday." "You bet." I went to the office in the elevator. Robert Cohn was waiting for me. "Hello, Jake," he said. "Going out to lunch?" "Yes. Let me see if there is anything new." "Where will we eat?" "Anywhere." I was looking over my desk. "Where do you want to eat?" "How about Wetzel's? They've got good hors d'oeuvres." In the restaurant we ordered hors d'oeuvres and beer. The sommelier brought the beer, tall, beaded on the outside of the stems, and cold. There were a dozen different dishes of hors d'oeuvres. "Have any fun last night?" I asked. "No. I don't think so." "How's the writing going?" "Rotten. I can't get this second book going." "That happens to everybody." "Oh, I'm sure of that. It gets me worried, though." "Thought any more about going to South America?" "I mean that." "Well, why don't you start off?" "Frances." "Well," I said, "take her with you." "She wouldn't like it. That isn't the sort of thing she likes. She likes a lot of people around." "Tell her to go to hell." "I can't. I've got certain obligations to her." He shoved the sliced cucumbers away and took a pickled herring. "What do you know about Lady Brett Ashley, Jake?" "Her name's Lady Ashley. Brett's her own name. She's a nice girl," I said. "She's getting a divorce and she's going to marry Mike 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 some day." "I don't believe she'll ever marry him." "Why not?" "I don't know. I just don't believe it. Have you known her a long time?" "Yes," I said. "She was a V. A. D. in a hospital I was in during the war." "She must have been just a kid then." "She's thirty-four now." "When did she marry Ashley?" "During the war. Her own true love had just kicked off with the dysentery." "You talk sort of bitter." "Sorry. I didn't mean to. I was just trying to give you the facts." "I don't believe she would marry anybody she didn't love." "Well," I said. "She's done it twice." "I don't believe it." "Well," I said, "don't ask me a lot of fool questions if you don't like the answers." "I didn't ask you that." "You asked me what I knew about Brett Ashley." "I didn't ask you to insult her." "Oh, go to hell." He stood up from the table his face white, and stood there white and angry behind the little plates of hors d'ceuvres. "Sit down," I said. "Don't be a fool." "You've got to take that back." "Oh, cut out the prep-school stuff." "Take it back." "Sure. Anything. I never heard of Brett Ashley. How's that?" "No. Not that. About me going to hell." "Oh, don't go to hell," I said. "Stick around. We're just starting lunch." Cohn smiled again and sat down. He seemed glad to sit down. What the hell would he have done if he hadn't sat down? "You say such damned insulting things, Jake." "I'm sorry. I've got a nasty tongue. I never mean it when I say nasty things." "I know it," Cohn said. "You're really about the best friend I have, Jake." God help you, I thought. "Forget what I said," I said out loud. "I'm sorry." "It's all right. It's fine. I was just sore for a minute." "Good. Let's get something else to eat." After we finished the lunch we walked up to the Café de la Paix and had coffee. I could feel Cohn wanted to bring up Brett again, but I held him off it. We talked about one thing and another, and I left him to come to the office. 第二天早晨,我沿着圣米歇尔大街走到索弗洛路去喝咖啡,吃奶油小圆蛋糕。这是个晴朗的早晨。卢森堡公园里的七叶树开了花。使人感到一种热天清晨凉爽宜人的气氛。我一边喝咖啡,一边看报,然后抽了一支烟。卖花女郎正从市场归来,在布置供一天出售的花束。过往学生有的上法学院,有的去巴黎大学的文理学院。来往电车和上班的人流使大街热闹非常。我登上一辆公共汽车,站在车后的平台上,驶向马德林教堂。从马德林教堂沿着嘉布遣会修士大街走到歌剧院,然后走向编辑部。我在一位手执跳蛙和玩具拳击手的男子身边走过。他的女伙计用一根线操纵玩具拳击手。她站着,交叉着的双手擦着线头,眼睛却盯着别处。我往旁边绕着走,免得碰在线上。那男子正向两位旅游者兜售。另外三位旅游者站停了观看。我跟在一个推着滚筒、 往人行道上印上湿涌涌的CINZANO字样的人后面走着。一路上行人都是上班去的。上班是件令人愉快的事情。我穿过马路拐进编辑部。 在楼上的写字间里,我读了法国各家晨报,抽了烟,然后坐在打字机前干了整整一上午的活。十一点钟,我搭出租汽车前住凯道赛。我进去和十几名记者一起坐了半小时,听一位外交部发言人(一位戴角质框眼镜的《新法兰西评论》派年轻外交官)讲活并回答问题。参议院议长正在里昂发表演说,或者更确切一点说,他正在归途中。有几个人提问题是说给他们自己听的。有些通讯社记者提了两三个问题是想了解真相的。没有新闻。我和伍尔塞及克鲁姆从凯道赛一同坐一辆出租汽车回去。 “每天晚上你都干些什么,杰克?”克鲁姆问。“哪儿也见不着你。” “喔,我经常待在拉丁区。” “哪天晚上我也去。丁戈咖啡馆。那是最好玩的地方,是不是?” “是的。丁戈,或者新开张的雅士咖啡馆。” “我早就想去,”克鲁姆说。“可是有了老婆孩子,你也知道是怎么回事。” “你玩不玩网球?”伍尔塞问。 “哦,不玩,”克鲁姆说。“可以说,这一年我一次也没有玩过。我总想抽空去一次,可是星期天老下雨,网球场又那么挤。” “英国人在星期六都休息的,”伍尔塞说。 “这帮小子有福气,”克鲁姆说。“哦,我跟你说吧。有朝一日,我要不再给通讯社干。那时候我就有充裕的时间到乡间去逛逛罗。” “这就对了。在乡间住下,再弄辆小汽车。” “我打算明年买一辆。”我敲敲车窗。司机刹住车。“我到了,”我说。“上去喝一杯吧。”“不了,谢谢,老朋友,”克鲁姆说。伍尔塞摇摇头说,“我得把他上午发表的消息写成稿件发出去。” 我在克鲁姆手里塞了个两法郎的硬币。 “你真是神经病,杰克,”他说。“这趟算我的。” “反正都是编辑部出的钱。” “不行。我来付。” 我挥手告别。克鲁姆从车窗里伸出头来。“星期三吃饭时再见。” “一定。”我坐电梯到了写字间。罗伯特.科恩正等着我。“嗨,杰克,”他说。“出去吃饭好吗?” “好。我来看看有什么新到的消息。” “上哪儿去吃?” “哪儿都行。” 我扫了我的办公桌一眼。“你想到哪儿去吃?” “‘韦泽尔’怎么样?那里的冷盘小吃很好。” 到了饭店,我们点了小吃和啤酒。洒保头儿端来啤酒,啤酒很凉,高筒酒杯外面结满水珠。有十几碟不同花色的小吃。 “昨儿晚上玩得很开心?”我问。 “不怎么样。” “你的书写得怎么样啦?” “很糟。第二部我都写不下去了。” “谁都会碰到这种情况的。” “唉,你说的我明白。不过,烦死我了。” “还惦着到南美去不?” “还想去。”“那你为什么还不动身?”“就因为弗朗西丝。”“得了,”我说,“带她一起去。”“她不愿意去。这种事情她不喜欢。她喜欢人多热闹的地方。” “那你就叫她见鬼去吧!” “我不能这么做。我对她还得尽某种义务。”他把一碟黄瓜片推到一边,拿了一碟腌渍青鱼。 “你对勃莱特.阿施利夫人了解多少,杰克?” “得称她阿施利夫人。勃莱特是她自己的名字。她是个好姑娘,”我说。“她正在打离婚,将要和迈克.坎贝尔结婚。迈克眼前在苏格兰。你打听她干吗?” “这个女人很有魅力。” “是吗?” “她有某种气质,有某种优雅的风度。她看来绝对优雅而且正直。” “她非常好。” “她这种气质很难描述,”科恩说。“我看是良好的教养吧。” “听你的口气似乎你非常喜欢她。” “我很喜欢她。要是我爱上她,那是一点不奇怪的。” “她是个酒鬼,”我说。“她爱迈克.坎贝尔,她要嫁给他。迈克迟早会发大财的。” “我不相信她终究会嫁给他。” “为什么?” “不知道。我就是不相信。你认识她很久了?” “是的,”我说,“我在大战期间住院时,她是志愿救护队的护士。” “那时候她该是个小姑娘吧,” “她现在三十四岁。” “她什么时候嫁给阿施利的?” “在大战期间。那时候,她真心爱的人刚刚死于痢疾。” “你说得真挖苦。” “对不起。我不是有意的。我只不过是想把事实告诉你。” “我不相信她会愿意嫁给一个自己不爱的人。” “咳,”我说。“她已经这样干过两次了。” “我不相信。” “行了,”我说,“如果你不喜欢这样的回答,你就别向我提那么一大堆愚蠢的问题。” “我并没有问你那些。” “是你向我打听勃莱特.阿施利的情况。” “我并没有叫你说她的坏话。” “哼,你见鬼去吧!” 他的脸色一下子变得煞白,从座位上站起来,气急败坏地站在摆满小吃碟子的桌子后面。 “坐下,”我说。“别傻气了。” “收回你这句话。” “别耍在补习学校时候的老脾气了。” “收回!” “好。什么都行。勃莱特的情况我一点也不知道。这行了吧?” “不。不是那件事。是你叫我见鬼去的那句话。” “噢,那就别见鬼去,”我说,“坐着别走,我们刚开始吃哩。” 科恩重新露出笑容,并且坐了下来。看来他是乐意坐下的。他如果不坐下又能干什么呢?“你竟说出这种无礼的话,杰克。”“很抱歉。我说话不好听。但心里可绝对不是那个意思。”“我明白了,”科恩说。“实际上,你可算得上是我最好的朋友了,杰克。”愿上帝保佑你,我心里寻思。“我说的话你别往心里去,”我说出口来。“对不起。”“没事儿了。好了。我生气只是一阵子。”“这就好。我们另外再弄点吃的。”吃完饭之后,我们漫步来到和平咖啡馆喝咖啡。我感觉到科恩还想提勃莱特,但是我把话叉开了。我们扯了一通别的事情,然后我向他告别,回到编辑部。 Chapter 6 At five o'clock I was in the Hotel Crillon waiting for Brett. She was not there, so I sat down and wrote some letters. They were not very good letters but I hoped their being on Crillon stationery would help them. Brett did not turn up, so about quarter to six I went down to the bar and had a Jack Rose with George the barman. Brett had not been in the bar either, and so I looked for her up-stairs on my way out, and took a taxi to the Café Select. Crossing the Seine I saw a string of barges being towed empty down the current, riding high, the bargemen at the sweeps as they came toward the bridge. The river looked nice. It was always pleasant crossing bridges in Paris. The taxi rounded the statue of the inventor of the semaphore engaged in doing same, and turned up the Boulevard Raspail, and I sat back to let that part of the ride pass. The Boulevard Raspail always made dull riding. It was like a certain stretch on the P.L.M. between Fontainebleau and Montereau that always made me feel bored and dead and dull until it was over. I suppose it is some association of ideas that makes those dead places in a journey. There are other streets in Paris as ugly as the Boulevard Raspail. It is a street I do not mind walking down at all. But I cannot stand to ride along it. Perhaps I had read something about it once. That was the way Robert Cohn was about all of Paris. I wondered where Cohn got that incapacity to enjoy Paris. Possibly from Mencken. Mencken hates Paris, I believe. So many young men get their likes and dislikes from Mencken. The taxi stopped in front of the Rotonde. No matter what 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 Rotonde. Ten years from now it will probably be the Dome. It was near enough, anyway. I walked past the sad tables of the Rotonde to the Select. There were a few people inside at the bar, and outside, alone, sat Harvey Stone. He had a pile of saucers in front of him, and he needed a shave. "Sit down," said Harvey, "I've been looking for you." "What's the matter?" "Nothing. Just looking for you." "Been out to the races?" "No. Not since Sunday." "What do you hear from the States?" "Nothing. Absolutely nothing." "What's the matter?" "I don't know. I'm through with them. I'm absolutely through with them." He leaned forward and looked me in the eye. "Do you want to know something, Jake?" "Yes." "I haven't had anything to eat for five days." I figured rapidly back in my mind. It was three days ago that 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." "That's not bad." "He's through now," Harvey went on. "He's written about all the things he knows, and now he's on all the things he doesn't know." "I guess he's all right," I said. "I just can't read him." "Oh, nobody reads him now," Harvey said, "except the people that used to read the Alexander Hamilton Institute." "Well," I said. "That was a good thing, too." "Sure," said Harvey. So we sat and thought deeply for a while. "Have another port?" "All right," said Harvey. "There comes Cohn," I said. Robert Cohn was crossing the street. "That moron," said Harvey. Cohn came up to our table. "Hello, you bums," he said. "Hello, Robert," Harvey said. "I was just telling Jake here that you're a moron." "What do you mean?" "Tell us right off. Don't think. What would you rather do if you could do anything you wanted?" Cohn started to consider. "Don't think. Bring it right out." "I don't know," Cohn said. "What's it all about, anyway?" "I mean what would you rather do. What comes into your head first. No matter how silly it is." "I don't know," Cohn said. "I think I'd rather play football again with what I know about handling myself, now." "I misjudged you," Harvey said. "You're not a moron. You're only a case of arrested development." "You're awfully funny, Harvey," Cohn said. "Some day somebody will push your face in." Harvey Stone laughed. "You think so. They won't, though. Because it wouldn't make any difference to me. I'm not a fighter." "It would make a difference to you if anybody did it." "No, it wouldn't. That's where you make your big mistake. Because you're not intelligent." "Cut it out about me." "Sure," said Harvey. "It doesn't make any difference to me. You don't mean anything to me." "Come on, Harvey," I said. "Have another porto." "No," he said. "I'm going up the street and eat. See you later, Jake." He walked out and up the street. I watched him crossing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly sure of himself in the traffic. "He always gets me sore," Cohn said. "I can't stand him." "I like him," I said. "I'm fond of him. You don't want to get sore at him." "I know it," Cohn said. "He just gets on my nerves." "Write this afternoon?" "No. I couldn't get it going. It's harder to do than my first book. I'm having a hard time handling it." The sort of healthy conceit that he had when he returned from America early in the spring was gone. Then he had been sure of his work, only with these personal longings for adventure. Now the sureness was gone. Somehow I feel I have not shown Robert Cohn clearly. The reason is that until he fell in love with Brett, I never heard him make one 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 well at bridge, and he had a funny sort of undergraduate quality about him. If he were in a crowd nothing he said stood out. He wore what used to be called polo shirts at school, and may be called that still, but he was not professionally youthful. I do not believe he thought about his clothes much. Externally he had been formed at Prii1ceton. Internally he had been moulded by the two women who had trained him. He had a nice, boyish sort of cheerfulness that had never been trained out of him, and I probably have not brought it out. He loved to win at tennis. He probably loved to win as much as Lenglen, for instance. On the other hand, he was not angry at being beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis game went all to pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him. He was very nice about it. Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Café Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said. "I have a date." "What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen." "There she is." Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street. "Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you." "Hello, Frances," said Cohn. He smiled. "Why, hello, Robert. Are you here?" She went on, talking rapidly. "I've had the darndest time. This one"--shaking her head at Cohn--"didn't come home for lunch." "I wasn't supposed to." "Oh, I know. But you didn't say anything about it to the cook. Then I had a date myself, and Paula wasn't at her office. I went to the Ritz and waited for her, and she never came, and of course I didn't have enough money to lunch at the Ritz--" "What did you do?" "Oh, went out, of course." She spoke in a sort of imitation joyful manner. "I always keep my appointments. No one keeps theirs, nowadays. I ought to know better. How are you, Jake, anyway?" "Fine." "That was a fine girl you had at the dance, and then went off with that Brett one." "Don't you like her?" Cohn asked. "I think she's perfectly charming. Don't you?" Cohn said nothing. "Look, Jake. I want to talk with you. Would you come over with me to the Dome? You'll stay here, won't you, Robert? Come on, Jake." We crossed the Boulevard Montparnasse and sat down at a table. A boy came up with the _Paris Times_, and I bought one and opened it. "What's the matter, Frances?" "Oh, nothing," she said, "except that he wants to leave me." "How do you mean?" "Oh, he told every one that we were going to be married, and I told my mother and every one, and now he doesn't want to do it." "What's the matter?" "He's decided he hasn't lived enough. I knew it would happen when he went to New York." She looked up, very bright-eyed and trying to talk inconsequentially. "I wouldn't marry him if he doesn't want to. Of course I wouldn't. I wouldn't marry him now for anything. But it does seem to me to be a little late now, after we've waited three years, and I've just gotten my divorce." I said nothing. "We were going to celebrate so, and instead we've just had scenes. It's so childish. We have dreadful scenes, and he cries and begs me to be reasonable, but he says he just can't do it." "It's rotten luck." "I should say it is rotten luck. I've wasted two years and a half on him now. And I don't know now if any man will ever want to marry me. Two years ago I could have married anybody I wanted, down at Cannes. All the old ones that wanted to marry somebody chic and settle down were crazy about me. Now I don't think I could get anybody." "Sure, you could marry anybody." "No, I don't believe it. And I'm fond of him, too. And I'd like to have children. I always thought we'd have children." She looked at me very brightly. "I never liked children much, but I don't want to think I'll never have them. I always thought I'd have them and then like them." "He's got children." "Oh, yes. He's got children, and he's got money, and he's got a rich mother, and he's written a book, and nobody will publish my stuff, nobody at all. It isn't bad, either. And I haven't got any money at all. I could have had alimony, but I got the divorce the quickest way." She looked at me again very brightly. "It isn't right. It's my own fault and it's not, too. I ought to have known better. And when I tell him he just cries and says he can't marry. Why can't he marry? I'd be a good wife. I'm easy to get along with. I leave him alone. It doesn't do any good." "It's a rotten shame." "Yes, it is a rotten shame. But there's no use talking about it, is there? Come on, let's go back to the café." "And of course there isn't anything I can do." "No. Just don't let him know I talked to you. I know what he wants." Now for the first time she dropped her bright, terribly cheerful manner. "He wants to go back to New York alone, and be there when his book comes out so when a lot of little chickens like it. That's what he wants." "Maybe they won't like it. I don't think he's that way. Really." "You don't know him like I do, Jake. That's what he wants to do. I know it. I know it. That's why he doesn't want to marry. He wants to have a big triumph this fall all by himself." "Want to go back to the café?" "Yes. Come on." We got up from the table--they had never brought us a drink-- and started across the street toward the Select, where Cohn sat smiling at us from behind the marble-topped table. "Well, what are you smiling at?" Frances asked him. "Feel pretty happy?" "I was smiling at you and Jake with your secrets." "Oh, what I've told Jake isn't any secret. Everybody will know it soon enough. I only wanted to give Jake a decent version." "What was it? About your going to England?" "Yes, about my going to England. Oh, Jake! I forgot to tell you. I'm going to England." "Isn't that fine!" "Yes, that's the way it's done in the very 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 Cohn taking it all. Here it was, all going on right before me, and I did not even feel an impulse to try and stop it. And this was friendly joking to what went on later. "How can you say such things, Frances?" Cohn interrupted. "Listen to him. I'm going to England. I'm going to visit friends. Ever visit friends that didn't want you? Oh, they'll have to take me, all right. 'How do you do, my dear? Such a long time since we've seen you. And how is your dear mother?' Yes, how is my dear mother? She put all her money into French war bonds. Yes, she did. Probably the only person in the world that did. 'And what about Robert?' or else very careful talking around Robert. 'You must be most careful not to mention him, my dear. Poor Frances has had a most unfortunate experience.' Won't it be fun, Robert? Don't you think it will be fun, Jake?" She turned to me with that terribly bright smile. It was very satisfactory to her to have an audience for this. "And where are you going to be, Robert? It's my own fault, all right. Perfectly my own fault. When I made you get rid of your little secretary on the magazine I ought to have known you'd get rid of me the same way. Jake doesn't know about that. Should I tell him?" "Shut up, Frances, for God's sake." "Yes, 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 were living together, writing on this book, that he doesn't remember anything about us. So now he's going out and get some new material. Well, I hope he gets something frightfully interesting. "Listen, Robert, dear. Let me tell you something. You won't mind, will you? Don't have scenes with your young ladies. Try not to. Because you can't have scenes without crying, and then you pity yourself so much you can't remember what the other person's said. You'll never be able to remember any 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 thirty-four. Still, I suppose that is young for a great writer. Look at Hardy. Look at Anatole France. He just died a little while ago. Robert doesn't think he's any good, though. Some of his French friends told him. He doesn't read French very well himself. He wasn't a good writer like you are, was he, 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've 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've sent it to me in a vision in the Café Select. Isn't it mystic? Some day they'll put a tablet up. Like at Lourdes. Do you want to hear, Robert? I'll tell you. It's so simple. I wonder why I never thought about it. Why, you see, Robert's always wanted to have a mistress, and if he doesn't marry me, why, then he's had one. She was his mistress for over two years. See how it is? And if he marries me, like he's always promised he would, that would be the end of all the romance. Don't you think that's bright of me to figure that out? It's true, too. Look at him and see if it's not. Where are you going, Jake?" "I've got to go in and see Harvey Stone a minute." Cohn looked up as I went in. His face was white. Why did he sit there? Why did he keep on taking it like that? As I stood against the bar looking out I could see them through the window. Frances was talking on to him, smiling brightly, looking into his face each time she asked: "Isn't it so, Robert?" Or maybe she did not ask that now. Perhaps she said something else. I told the barman I did not want anything to drink and went out through the side door. As I went out the door I looked back through the two thicknesses of glass and saw them sitting there. She was still talking to him. I went down a side street to the Boulevard Raspail. A taxi came along and I got in and gave the driver the address of my flat. 五点钟,我在克里荣旅馆等候勃莱特。她不在,因此我坐下来写了几封信。信写得不怎么样,但我指望克里荣旅馆的信笺信封能对此有所弥补。勃莱特还是没有露面,因此在六点差一刻光景我下楼到酒吧间和酒保乔治一块喝了杯鸡尾酒。勃莱特没有到酒吧间来过,所以出门之前我上楼找了一遍,然后搭出租汽车上雅士咖啡馆。跨过塞纳河时,我看见一列空驳船神气十足地被拖曳着顺流而下,当船只驶近桥洞的时候,船夫们站立在船头摇桨。塞纳河风光宜人。在巴黎过桥总是叫人心旷神怡。 汽车绕过一座打着旗语姿势的旗语发明者的雕像,拐上拉斯帕埃大街。我靠后坐在车座上,等车子驶完这段路程。行驶在拉斯帕埃大街上总是叫人感到沉闷。这条街很象巴黎-里昂公路上枫丹白露和蒙特罗之间的那一段, 这段路自始至终老是使我感到厌烦、空虚、沉闷。我想旅途中这种使人感到空虚的地带是由某些联想所造成的。巴黎还有些街道和拉斯帕埃大街同样丑陋。我可以在这条街上步行而毫不介意。 但是坐在车子里却令人无法忍受。也许我曾读过描述这条街的书。罗伯特.科恩对巴黎的一切印象都是这样得来的。我不知道科恩看了什么书才会如此不欣赏巴黎。大概是受了门肯的影响。门肯厌恶巴黎。有多少年轻人的好恶受到门肯的影响啊。车子在洛东达咖啡馆门前停下来。你在塞纳河右岸要司机开往蒙帕纳斯无论哪个咖啡馆,他们总是把你送到“洛东达”。十年以后,“多姆”大概会取而代之。反正“雅士”离此很近。我从“洛东达”那些叫人沮丧的餐桌旁走过,步行到“雅士”。有几个人在里面酒吧间内,哈维.斯通独自在外面坐着。他面前放着一大堆小碟子,他需要刮刮脸了。 “坐下吧,”哈维说,“我正在找你。” “什么事?” “没事儿。只不过找你来着。” “去看赛马啦?” “没有。星期天以来再没去过。” “美国有信来吗?” “没有。毫无音信。” “怎么啦?” “不知道。我和他们断了联系。我干脆同他们绝交了。” 他俯身向前,直视我的眼睛。 “你愿意听我讲点什么吗,杰克?” “愿意。” “我已经有五天没吃东西了。” 我脑子里马上闪过哈维三天前在“纽约”酒吧间玩扑克骰子戏赢了我两百法郎的事。“怎么回事?” “没钱。钱没汇来。”他稍停了一会又说,“说来真怪,杰克。我一没钱就喜欢独自一个人待着。我喜欢待在自己的房间里。我象一只猫。” 我摸摸自己的口袋。 “一百法郎能派点用场吗,哈维?” “够了。” “走吧。我们吃点东西去。” “不忙。喝一杯再说。” “最好先吃点。” “不用了。到了这个地步,我吃不吃都一样。” 我们喝了一杯酒。哈维把我的碟子摞在他那一堆上。 “你认识不认识门肯,哈维?” “认识。怎么样?” “他是个什么样的人?” “他人不错。他常讲一些非常有趣的话。最近我和他一起吃饭,说起了霍芬海默。‘糟就糟在,’门肯说,‘他是一个伪君子。’说得不错。” “说得不错。” “门肯的才智已经枯竭了,”哈维接着说。“凡是他所熟悉的事,几乎全部写完了,现在他着手写的都是他不熟悉的。” “我看他这个人不错,”我说。“不过,我就是读不下去他写的东西。” “唉,现在没人看他的书了,”哈维说,“除非是那些在亚历山大.汉密尔顿学院念过书的人。”“哦,”我说。“那倒也是件好事。” “当然,”哈维说。我们就这样坐着沉思了一会儿。“再来杯葡萄酒?” “好吧,”哈维说。 “科恩来了,”我说。罗伯特.科恩正在过马路。 “这个白痴,”哈维说。科恩走到我们桌子前。 “嗨,你们这帮二流子,”他说。 “嗨,罗伯特,”哈维说。“方才我正和杰克说你是个白痴。” “你这是什么意思?” “马上说出来。不许思考。如果你能要做什么就做什么,你最愿意做什么?”科恩思考起来。 “你别想。马上说出口来。” “我不明白,”科恩说。“到底是怎么回事?” “我的意思是你最愿意做什么。你的脑子里首先想到的是什么。不管这种想法有多么愚蠢。”“我不知道,”科恩说。“我大概最愿意拿我后来学到的技巧再回头去玩橄榄球。”“我误解你了,”哈维说。“你不是白痴。你只不过是一个发育过程受到抑制的病例。” “你这人说话太放肆,哈维,”科恩说。“总有一天人家会把你的脸揍扁的。” 哈维.斯通嘿嘿一笑。“就是你这样想。人家才不会呐。因为我对此是无所谓的。我不是拳击手。” “要是真有人揍你,你就会觉得有所谓了。” “不,不会的。这就是你铸成大错的症结所在。因为你的智力有问题。”“别扯到我身上来。” “真的,”哈维说。“你说什么我都不在乎。你在我的眼里啥也不是。” “行了,哈维,”我说。“再来一杯吧。” “不喝了,”他说。“我要到大街那头去吃点啥。再见,杰克。” 他出门沿街走去。我看他那矮小的身材拖着沉重、缓慢而自信的脚步,穿过一辆辆出租汽车,跨过马路。 “他老是惹我生气,”科恩说。“我没法容忍他。” “我喜欢他,”我说。“我很喜爱他。你用不着跟他生气。” “我知道,”科恩说。“不过他刺痛了我的神经。” “今天下午你写作了?” “没有。我写不下去。比我写第一部难多了。这问题真叫我难办。” 他早春时节从美国回来时的那股意气风发的自负劲儿消失了。那时候他对自己的写作踌躇满志,不过胸中怀着找寻奇遇的渴望。现在他可心灰意懒了。不知怎的,我感到始终没把他好好地表达出来。实情是这样的:在他爱上勃莱特之前,我从没听到他说过与众不同而使他显得突出的话。他在网球场上英姿勃勃,体格健美,保养得很好;他擅长打桥牌,具有某种大学生的风趣。在大庭广众之中他的谈吐从不突出。他穿着我们在学校时叫作马球衫的东西(可能现在还叫这个),但是他不象职业运动员那样显得那么年轻。我认为他并不十分讲究衣装。他的外表在普林斯顿大学定了型。他的内心思想是在那两个女人的熏导之下形成的。他身上有股始终磨灭不掉的可爱而孩子气的高兴劲儿,这种气质我大概没有好好表达出未。他在网球场上好胜心切。打个比方吧,他大概同伦格林一样地好胜。话得说回来,他输了球倒并不气恼。从他爱上勃莱特以来,他在网球场上就一败涂地了。以前根本无法跟他较量的人都把他击败了。但是他却处之泰然。我们当时就这样坐在雅士咖啡馆的露台上,哈维.斯通刚穿过马路。 “我们到‘丁香园’去吧,”我说。 “我有个约会。” “几点?” “弗朗西丝七点一刻到这里。” “她来了。” 弗朗西丝.克莱恩正从大街对面朝我们走来。她的个子很高,走起路来大摇大摆的。她含笑挥手。我们看着她穿过马路。 “你好,”她说,“看见你在这里真高兴,杰克。我正有话要跟你讲。” “你好,弗朗西丝,”科恩说。他面带笑容。 “哟,你好,罗伯特。你在这儿?”她接着匆忙地说。“今天算我倒霉,这一位”——她把头朝科恩那边摆了摆说——”连吃饭也不回家了。” “我没讲好要回去啊。” “这我知道。但是你并没有跟厨娘打招呼。后来我自己跟波拉有个约会,可她不在写字间,我就到里茨饭店去等她,她结果没有去,当然啦,我身上带的钱不够在那里吃顿饭……”“那你怎么办呢?”“我当然就出来了,”她装作挺开心的样子说。“我向来不失约。可是今天谁也不守信用了。我也该学乖点了。不过,你怎么样,杰克?” “很好。” “你带来参加舞会的那个姑娘满不错,后来你却跟那个叫勃莱特的走了。” “你不喜欢她?”科恩问。 “她长得再迷人不过的了。你说呢?” 科恩没吱声。 “听着,杰克。我有话和你说。你陪我到‘多姆’去好吗?你就在这儿待着,行不行,罗伯特?走吧,杰克。” 我们跨过蒙帕纳斯大街, 在多姆咖啡馆前一张桌子边坐下。 走过来一位拿着《巴黎时报》的报童,我买了一份,翻开报纸。 “什么事,弗朗西丝?” “哦,没什么,”她说,“就是他打算抛弃我。” “你这是什么意思?” “唉,他逢人就嚷嚷我们要结婚,我也告诉了我母亲和诸亲好友,可他现在又不想干了。” “怎么回事?” “他认为,他还没有享受够人生的乐趣。他当时一去纽约,我就料到迟早会变卦。” 她抬起那双万分明亮的眼睛看我,前言不对后语地说下去。 “如果他不愿意,我是不愿嫁给他的。我当然不愿。现在我说什么也不愿和他结婚了。不过对我来说确实太晚了点。我们已经等了三年,而且我刚刚办完离婚手续。” 我一声不吭。 “我们正要准备庆祝一番,可是结果我们却大吵大闹。真如同儿戏。我们吵得不可开交,他哭哭啼啼地要求我放明白些,但是他说,他就是不能结婚。”“真倒霉。”“真是倒霉透了。我为他耽误了两年半的青春。我不知道现在还能有谁会愿意娶我。两年前在戛纳,我想嫁给谁,就能嫁给谁。所有想娶个时髦女子好好过日子的老光棍都狂热地围着我转。现在我可别想能找到了。” “说真的,现在你还是能看中谁,就嫁给谁的。” “这话我不信。再说,我还爱着科恩。我想要生几个孩子。我总想着我们会有孩子的。” 她用明亮的眼睛看着我。“我从来不怎么特别喜欢孩子,但是我不愿意去想我会一辈子没有孩子。我始终认为,我会有孩子,我会爱他们的。” “科恩已经有孩子了。” “哦,是的。他有孩子,他有钱,他有个有钱的妈妈,他还写了本书,但是我的东西谁也不给出版,根本没人要。虽然我写得也不赖。而且我一个子儿也没有。我本来可以得到一笔赡养费,但是我用最高速度把离婚办妥了。” 她又用明亮的目光看着我。 “真不公道。是我自己不好,但也不见得。我早该学乖点。我一提这件事,他只是哭,说他不能结婚。他为什么不能结婚?我会做个好妻子。我是很容易相处的。我不会打搅他。但是一切都无济于事。” “真丢人。”“是啊,真丢人。可是扯这些有什么用,是不是?走吧,我们回咖啡馆去,” “当然啦,我一点儿忙也帮不上。” “是啊。别让他知道我跟你说了这番话就行。我知道他想干什么。”这时候她才第一次收起她那开朗的、欢乐得异乎寻常的神情。“他想单独回纽约,出书的时候在那里待着好博得一大帮小姐儿的欢心。这就是他所向往的。” “她们不见得会喜欢那本书。我想他不是那样的人。真的。” “你不如我了解他,杰克。那正是他所追求的。我明白。我明白。这就是他不和我结婚的原因。今年秋天他要独享荣华。” “想回咖啡馆去?” “好。走吧。” 我们在桌边站起来(侍者一杯酒也没有给我们拿来),穿过马路朝“雅士”走去。科恩坐在大理石面的桌子后面对我们微笑。 “哼,你乐什么?”弗朗西丝问他。“心满意足啦?” “我笑你和杰克原来还有不少秘密哩。” “哦,我对他讲的不是什么秘密。大家很快都会知道的,只不过向杰克作正确的说明罢了。” “什么事情?是你到英国去的事儿?” “是的,就是我到英国去的事儿。噢,杰克!我忘了告诉你。我要去英国。” “那敢情好罗!” “对,名门望族都是这样解决问题的。罗伯特打发我去英国。他打算给我两百镑,好叫我去探望朋友。不是挺美吗?我的朋友们还一点都不知道呢。” 她扭过头去对科恩笑笑。这时他不笑了。 “你起先只想给我一百镑,罗伯特,对不?但是我硬是要他给我两百。他确实非常慷慨。是不是,罗伯特?” 我不明白怎么能当着科恩的面说得这么吓人。往往有这样的人,听不得刻薄话。你一说这种话,他们就会暴跳如雷,好象当场天就会塌下来。但是科恩却乖乖地听着。真的,我亲眼看见的,而且我一点没想去阻拦。可这些话和后来讲的那些话比起来只不过是善意的玩笑而已。“你怎么说出这种话来,弗朗西丝?”科恩打断她的话说。 “你听,他还问呢。我到英国去。我去看望朋友。你曾经到不欢迎你的朋友家去做过客吗?哦,他们会勉强接待我的,这没问题。‘你好,亲爱的。好长时间没见到你了。你的母亲好吗?’是啊,我亲爱的母亲现在怎么样啦?她把她的钱全部买了法国战争公债。是的,正是这样。象她那种做法恐怕全世界也是独一无二的。‘罗伯特怎么样?’或者小心翼翼地绕着弯儿打听罗伯特。‘你千万别毛毛愣愣地提他的名儿,亲爱的。可怜的弗朗西丝这段经历真够惨的。’不是怪有味儿的吗,罗伯特?你想是不是会很有味儿的,杰克?”她朝我一笑,还是那种开朗得异乎寻常的笑。有人听她诉说,她非常满意。 “那你打算上哪儿去,罗伯特?这都是我自己不好。完全该怪我自己。我叫你甩掉杂志社那个小秘书的时候,我该料到你会用同样的手段来甩掉我的。杰克不知道这件事。我该不该告诉他?” “别说了,弗朗西丝,看在上帝面上。” “不,我要说。罗伯特在杂志社曾经有个小秘书。真是个世上少见的漂亮的妞儿,他当时认为她很了不起。后来我去了,他认为我也很了不起。所以我就叫他把她打发走。当初杂志社迁移的时候,他把她从卡默尔带到了普罗文斯敦,可这时他连回西海岸的旅费也不给她。这一切都是为了讨好我。他当时认为我很美。是不是,罗伯特?“你千万别误解,杰克,和女秘书的关系纯属精神恋爱。甚至谈不上精神恋爱。实在什么关系也谈不上。只不过她的模样长得真好。他那样做只是为了让我高兴。依我看,操刀为生者必死在刀下。这不是文学语言吗?你写第二本书的时候,别忘了把这个写进去,罗伯特。 “你知道罗伯特要为一部新作搜集素材。没错吧,罗伯特?这就是他要离开我的原因。他断定我上不了镜头。你知道,在我们共同生活的日子里,他总是忙着写他的书,把我们俩的事儿丢在脑后。现在他要去找新的素材了。行,我希望他找到一些一鸣惊人的材料。 “听着,罗伯特,亲爱的。我要向你进一言。你不会介意吧?不要和那些年轻的女人吵嘴。尽量别这样。因为你一吵就要哭,这样你只顾自我哀怜,就记不住对方说些啥了。你那样子是永远记不住人家讲的活的。尽量保持冷静。我知道这很难。但是你要记住,这是为了文学。为了文学我们都应该做出牺牲。你看我。我要毫无怨言地到英国去。全是为了文学啊。我们大家必须帮助青年作家。你说是不是,杰克?但是你不好算青年作家了。对吗,罗伯特?你三十四岁了。话说回来,我看要当一个大文豪,你这个岁数算是年轻的。你瞧瞧哈代。再瞧瞧不久前去世的阿纳托尔.法朗士。罗伯特认为他没有任何可取之处。有几个法国朋友这么对他说的。他阅读法文书籍不大自如。他写得还不如你哩,是不是,罗伯特?你以为他也得找素材去?他不愿同他的情妇结婚的时候,你猜他对她们说什么来着?不知道他是不是也哭哭啼啼?噢,我想起了一件事。”她举起戴手套的手捂在嘴上说,“我知道罗伯特不愿和我结婚的真正理由了,杰克。才想起来。有次在雅士咖啡馆,恍惚之间我看到了启示。你说希奇不希奇?有一天人家会挂上一块铜牌的。就象卢尔德城。你想听吗,罗伯特?我告诉你。很简单。我奇怪我怎么从来没有想到过。哦,你知道, 罗伯特一直想有个情妇, 如果他不跟我结婚,哼,那么他就有我这个情妇。‘她当了他两年多的情妇。’你明白了吗?如果他一旦和我结了婚,正如他经常答应的那样,那么他的整个浪漫史也就告终了。我悟出了这番道理,你看是不是很聪明?事实也是如此。你看他的脸色,就会知道是不是真的。你要去哪儿,杰克?” “我得进去找一下哈维.斯通。”我走进酒吧间的时候,科恩抬头看着。他脸色煞白。他为什么还坐在那里不走?为什么继续那样受她的数落? 我靠着酒吧柜站着,透过窗户可以看见他们。弗朗西丝仍然在和他说话,她开朗地微笑着,每次问他“是这样的吧,罗伯特”时,两眼总紧盯着他的脸。也许这时候她不这么问了。也许她在讲别的什么事情。我对酒保说我不想喝酒,就从侧门走出去。我走出门,回头隔着两层厚玻璃窗朝里看,只见他们还在那里坐着。她还在不停地和他说话,我顺着小巷走到拉斯帕埃大街。过来一辆出租汽车,我上了车,告诉司机我的住址。 Chapter 7 As I started up the stairs the concierge knocked on the glass of the door of her lodge, and as I stopped she came out. She had some letters and a telegram. "Here is the post. And there was a lady here to see you." "Did she leave a card?" "No. She was with a gentleman. It was the one who was here last night. In the end I find she is very nice." "Was she with a friend of mine?" "I don't know. He was never here before. He was very large. Very, very large. She was very nice. Very, very nice. Last night she was, perhaps, a little--" She put her head on one hand and rocked it up and down. "I'll speak perfectly frankly, Monsieur Barnes. Last night I found her not so gentille. Last night I formed another idea of her. But listen to what I tell you. She is très, très gentille. She is of very good family. It is a thing you can see." "They did not leave any word?" "Yes. They said they would be back in an hour." "Send them up when they come." "Yes, Monsieur Barnes. And that lady, that lady there is some one. An eccentric, perhaps, but quelqu'une, quelqu'une!" The concierge, before she became a concierge, had owned a drink-selling concession at the Paris race-courses. Her life-work lay in the pelouse, but she kept an eye on the people of the pesage, and she took great pride in telling me which of my guests were well brought up, which were of good family, who were sportsmen, a French word pronounced with the accent on the men. The only trouble was that people who did not fall into any of those three categories were very liable to be told there was no one home, chez Barnes. One of my friends, an extremely underfed-looking painter, who was obviously to Madame Duzinell neither well brought up, of good family, nor a sportsman, wrote me a letter asking if I could get him a pass to get by the concierge so he could come up and see me occasionally in the evenings. I went up to the flat wondering what Brett had done to the concierge. The wire was a cable from Bill Gorton, saying he was arriving on the _France_. I put the mail on the table, went back to the bedroom, undressed and had a shower. I was rubbing down when I heard the door-bell pull. I put on a bathrobe and slippers and went to the door. It was Brett. Back of her was the count. He was holding a great bunch of roses. "Hello, darling," said Brett. "Aren't you going to let us in?" "Come on. I was just bathing." "Aren't you the fortunate man. Bathing." "Only a shower. Sit down, Count Mippipopolous. What will you drink?" "I don't know whether you like flowers, sir," the count said, "but I took the liberty of just bringing these roses." "Here, give them to me." Brett took them. "Get me some water in this, Jake." I filled the big earthenware jug with water in the kitchen, and Brett put the roses in it, and placed them in the centre of the dining-room table. "I say. We have had a day." "You don't remember anything about a date with me at the Crillon?" "No. Did we have one? I must have been blind." "You were quite drunk, my dear," said the count. "Wasn't I, though? And the count's been a brick, absolutely." "You've got hell's own drag with the concierge now." "I ought to have. Gave her two hundred francs." "Don't be a damned fool." "His," she said, and nodded at the count. "I thought we ought to give her a little something for last night. It was very late." "He's wonderful," Brett said. "He remembers everything that's 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. I 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'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it." "I stand it now." "That would be different. It's my fault, Jake. It's the way I'm made." "Couldn't we go off in the country for a while?" "It wouldn't be any good. I'll go if you like. But I couldn't live quietly in the country. Not with my own true love." "I know." "Isn't it rotten? There isn't any use my telling you I love you." "You know I love you." "Let's not talk. Talking's all bilge. I'm going away from you, and then Michael's coming back." "Why are you going away?" "Better for you. Better for me." "When are you going?" "Soon as I can." "Where?" "San Sebastian." "Can't we go together?" "No. That would be a hell of an idea after we'd just talked it out." "We never agreed." "Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't he obstinate, darling." "Oh, sure," I said. "I knowyou're right. I'm just low, and when I'm low I talk like a fool." I sat up, leaned over, found my shoes beside the bed and put them on. I stood up. "Don't look like that, darling." "How do you want me to look?" "Oh, don't be a fool. I'm going away to-morrow." "To-morrow?" "Yes. Didn't I say so? I am." "Let's have a drink, then. The count will be back." "Yes. He should be back. You know he's extraordinary about buying champagne. It means any amount to him." We went into the dining-room. I took up the brandy bottle and poured Brett a drink and one for myself. There was a ring at the bell-pull. I went to the door and there was the count. Behind him was the chauffeur carrying a basket of champagne. "Where should I have him put it, sir?" asked the count. "In the kitchen," Brett said. "Put it in there, Henry," the count motioned. "Now go down and get the ice." He stood looking after the basket inside the kitchen door. "I think you'll find that's very good wine," he said. "I know we don't get much of a chance to judge good wine in the States now, but I got this from a friend of mine that's in the business." "Oh, you always have some one in the trade," Brett said. "This fellow raises the grapes. He's got thousands of acres of them." "What's his name?" asked Brett. "Veuve Cliquot?" "No," said the count. "Mumms. He's a baron." "Isn't it wonderful," said Brett. "We all have titles. Why haven't you a title, Jake?" "I assure you, sir," the count put his hand on my arm. "It never does a man any good. Most of the time it costs you money." "Oh, I don't know. It's damned useful sometimes," Brett said. "I've never known it to do me any good." "You haven't used it properly. I've had hell's own amount of 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 Bois for dinner?" "If you like," Brett said. "I couldn't eat a thing." "I always like a good meal," said the count. "Should I bring the wine in, sir?" asked the chauffeur. "Yes. Bring it in, Henry," said the count. He took out a heavy pigskin cigar-case and offered it to me. "Like to try a real 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 got class all over you." "Thanks. Awfully decent of you." "I'm not joking you," the count blew a cloud of smoke. "You got the most class of anybody I ever seen. You got it. That's all." "Nice of you," said Brett. "Mummy would be pleased. Couldn't you write it out, and I'll send it in a letter to her." "I'd tell her, too," said the count. "I'm not joking you. I never joke people. Joke people and you make enemies. That's what I always say." "You're right," Brett said. "You're terribly right. I always joke people and I haven't a friend in the world. Except Jake here." "You don't joke him." "That's it." "Do you, now?" asked the count. "Do you joke him?" Brett looked at me and wrinkled up the corners of her eyes. "No," she said. "I wouldn't joke him." "See," said the count. "You don't joke him." "This is a hell of a dull talk," Brett said. "How about some of that champagne?" The count reached down and twirled the bottles in the shiny 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 'em for you to finish. Let any one finish them as they like." "It is a very interesting system," the count reached down and gave the bottles a twirl. "Still I would like to hear you talk some time." "Isn't he a fool?" Brett asked. "Now," the count brought up a bottle. "I think this is cool." I brought a towel and he wiped the bottle dry and held it up. "I like to drink champagne from magnums. The wine is better but it would have been too hard to cool." He held the bottle, 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 was as charming when she was drunk as when she was sober." "You haven't been around much, have you?" "Yes, my dear. I have been around very much. I have been around a very great deal." "Drink your wine," said Brett. "We've all been around. I dare say Jake here has seen as much as you have." My dear, I am sure Mr. Barnes has seen a lot. Don t think 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 have been in seven wars and four revolutions," the count said. "Soldiering?" Brett asked. "Sometimes, my dear. And I have got arrow wounds. Have you ever seen arrow wounds?" "Let's have a look at them." The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood, his chest black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the light. "You see them?" Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts. "See on the back where they come out." Above the small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick as a finger. "I say. Those are something." "Clean through." The count was tucking in his shirt. "Where did you get those?" I asked. "In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old." "What were you doing?" asked Brett. "Were you in the army?" "I was on a business trip, my dear." "I told you he was one of us. Didn't I?" Brett turned to me. "I love you, count. You're a darling." "You make me very happy, my dear. But it isn't true." "Don't be an ass." "You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don't you find it like that?" "Yes. Absolutely." "I know," said the count. "That is the secret. You must get to know the values." "Doesn't anything ever happen to your values?" Brett asked. "No. Not any more." "Never fall in love?" "Always," said the count. "I am always in love." "What does that do to your values?" "That, too, has got a place in my values." "You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all." "No, my dear. You're not right. I'm not dead at all." We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the Bois. It was a good dinner. Food had an excellent place in the count's values. So did wine. The count was in fine form during the meal. So was Brett. It was a good party. "Where would you like to go?" asked the count after dinner. We were the only people left in the restaurant. The two 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 is it men feel about quiet?" "We like it," said the count. "Like you like noise, my dear." "All right," said Brett. "Let's have one." "Sommelier!" the count called. "Yes, sir." "What is the oldest brandy you have?" "Eighteen eleven, sir." "Bring us a bottle." "I say. Don't be ostentatious. Call him off, Jake." "Listen, my dear. I get more value for my money in old brandy than in any other antiquities." "Got many antiquities?" "I got a houseful." Finally we went up to Montmartre. Inside Zelli's it was crowded, smoky, and noisy. The music hit you as you went in. Brett and I danced. It was so crowded we could barely move. The nigger drummer waved at Brett. We were caught in the jam, dancing in one place in front of him. "Hahre you?" "Great." "Thaats good." He was all teeth and lips. "He's a great friend of mine," Brett said. "Damn good drummer." The music stopped and we started toward the table where the count sat. Then the music started again and we danced. I 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 to you." "Rather. Damned good letters, too." "When are you going to get married?" "How do I know? As soon as we can get the divorce. Michael's trying to get his mother to put up for it." "Could I help you?" "Don't be an ass. Michael's people have loads of money." The music stopped. We walked over to the table. The count stood up. "Very nice," he said. "You looked very, very nice." "Don't you dance, count?" I asked. "No. I'm too old." "Oh, come off it," Brett said. "My dear, I would do it if I would enjoy it. I enjoy to watch you dance." "Splendid," Brett said. "I'll dance again for you some time. I say. What about your little friend, Zizi?" "Let me tell you. I support that boy, but I don't want to have him around." "He is rather hard." "You know I think that boy's got a future. But personally I don't want him around." "Jake's rather the same way." "He gives me the willys." "Well," the count shrugged his shoulders. "About his future you can't ever tell. Anyhow, his father was a great friend of my father." "Come on. Let's dance," Brett said. We danced. It was crowded and close. "Oh, darling," Brett said, "I'm so miserable." I had that feeling of going through something that has all happened before. "You were happy a minute ago." The drummer shouted: "You can't two time--" "It's all gone." "What's the matter?" "I don't know. I just feel terribly." ". . . . . ." the drummer chanted. Then turned to his sticks. "Want to go?" I had the feeling as in a nightmare of it all being something repeated, something I had been through and that now I must go through again. ". . . . . ." the drummer sang softly. "Let's go," said Brett. "You don't mind." ". . . . . ." the drummer shouted and grinned at Brett. "All right," I said. We got out from the crowd. Brett went to the dressing-room. "Brett wants to go," I said to the count. He nodded. "Does she? That's fine. You take the car. I'm going to stay here for a while, Mr. Barnes." We shook hands. "It was a wonderful time," I said. "I wish you would let me get this." I took a note out of my pocket. "Mr. Barnes, don't be ridiculous," the count said. Brett came over with her wrap on. She kissed the count and put her hand on his shoulder to keep him from standing up. As we went out the door I looked back and there were three girls at his table. We got into the big car. Brett gave the chauffeur the address of her hotel. "No, don't come up," she said at the hotel. She had rung and the door was unlatched. "Really?" "No. Please." "Good night, Brett," I said. "I'm sorry you feel rotten." "Good night, Jake. Good night, darling. I won't see you again." We kissed standing at the door. She pushed me away. We kissed again. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. She turned quickly and went into the hotel. The chauffeur drove me around to my flat. I gave him twenty francs and he touched his cap and said: "Good night, sir," and drove off. I rang the bell. The door opened and I went up-stairs and went to bed. 我正要上楼,看门的敲敲她小屋门上的玻璃,我站停了,她走出屋来。她拿着几封信和一份电报。“这是你的邮件。有位夫人曾经来看过你。” “她有没有留下名片?”“没有。她是和一位先生一起来的。她就是昨晚来的那位。我到头来发现,她非常好。”“她是和我的朋友一起来的?” “我不认识。他从没到这儿来过。他是个大块头。个头非常非常大。她非常好。非常非常好。昨儿晚上,她可能有点儿——”她把头支在一只手上,上下摇晃着。“老实告诉你吧,巴恩斯先生。昨儿晚上我觉得她不怎么gentille。昨儿晚上给我的印象可不这样。可是你听我说呀。她实在是tres tres gentille。她出身高贵。看得出来。” “他们可曾留下什么口信?” “他们说过一个钟头再来。” “来了就让他们上楼。”“是,巴恩斯先生。再说那位夫人,那位夫人看来不一般。也许有点古怪,但是位高贵人物!”这着门的来此之前在巴黎赛马场开一家小酒店。她的营生要靠场子里的大众,但是她却打眼梢上留神着过磅处周围的上流人士,她非常自豪地对我说,我的客人里面,哪些非常有教养,哪些是出身于望门贵族,哪些是运动家——最后这个词用法语的读法,把重音放在最后一个音节上。问题在我的来客如果不属于这三类人物,那就麻烦了,她很可能会对人家说,巴恩斯家没人。我有个画画的朋友,长得面黄肌瘦,在杜齐纳太太看来,显然既不富有教养,不是出身名门,也不是运动家。他给我写了一封信,问我是否可以给他弄张入门证,好让他偶尔在晚上来看看我。 我一面上楼, 一面心里纳闷:勃莱特是怎么把看门的笼络住的。电报是比尔.戈顿打来的,说他乘“法兰西号”即将到达。我把邮件放在桌上,回进卧室,脱下衣服洗了个淋浴。我正在擦身,听见门铃响了。我穿上浴衣,趿上拖鞋去开门。是勃莱特。她身后站着伯爵。他拿着一大束玫瑰花。 “嗨,亲爱的,”勃莱特说。“允许我们进屋吗?” “请进。刚才我正在洗澡。” “你真是好福气。还洗澡。” “只是冲一冲。坐吧,米比波普勒斯伯爵。你想喝点什么?” “我不知道你是不是喜欢鲜花,先生,”伯爵说,“我且冒昧送你几朵玫瑰花。” “来,把花给我。”勃莱特接过花束。“给我在这里面灌上点水,杰克。”我到厨房把大瓦罐灌满了水,勃莱特把花插在里面,放在餐桌的中央。 “啊呀,我们玩了整整一天。” “你是不是把我们在‘克里荣’的约会忘得一干二净啦?” “不记得了。我们有约会?我准是喝糊涂了。” “你喝得相当醉了,亲爱的,”伯爵说。 “是吗?这位伯爵可绝对是个慷慨可靠的好人。” “你现在已经赢得了看门女人的欢心。” “那当然罗。我给了她两百法郎。” “别尽干傻事。” “是他的,”她朝伯爵点了点头说。 “我想我们应该给她一点,因为昨夜打扰她了。实在时间太晚了。” “他真了不起,”勃莱特说。“过去的事通通记得。” “你也一样,亲爱的。” “想想看,”勃莱特说。“谁愿意伤那个脑筋?喂,杰克,我们可以来一杯吗?” “你拿吧,我进去穿衣服。你知道放在哪儿。” “当然知道。” 在我穿衣服的工夫,我听见勃莱特摆上酒杯,放下苏打水瓶,然后听见他们在说话。我坐在床上慢条斯理地穿上衣服。我感到疲乏,心境很坏。勃莱特端着一杯酒进屋来,坐在床上。 “怎么啦,亲爱的?觉得头晕?” 她在我的前额上不在意地吻了一下。 “勃莱特,啊,我多么爱你。”“亲爱的,”她说。接着又问:“你想要我把他打发走?” “不。他心地很好。” “我这就把他打发走。” “不,别这样。” “就这么办,我把他打发走。” “你不能就这么干。” “我不能?你在这儿待着。告诉你,他对我是一片痴心。” 她走出房门。我趴在床上。我很难受。我听他们在说话,但是我没有留神去听。勃莱特进来坐在床上。 “亲爱的,我可怜的人儿。”她抚摸我的头。 “你跟他怎么说的?”我脸背着她躺着。我不愿看见她。 “叫他弄香槟酒去了。他喜欢去买香槟酒。” 她又说:“亲爱的,你觉得好些吧?头晕好点了吗?” “好一点了。” “好好躺着。他过河去了。” “我们不能在一块过,勃莱特?我们不能就那么住到一起?” “我看不行。我会见人就搞关系而对你不忠实。你会受不了的。” “我现在不是能受得了吗!” “那是两码事。这是我的不对,杰克。我本性难改啊。” “我们能不能到乡间去住一阵子?” “一点好处也没有。如果你喜欢,我就去。不过我在乡间不会安安静静地待着。和我真正心爱的人在一起也不行。” “我明白。”“不是挺糟吗?我口头说爱你是一点用也没有。”“你知道我是爱你的。” “不谈了。空谈顶无聊。我要离开你,迈克尔也快回来了。” “你为什么要走?” “对你好。对我也好。” “什么时候走?” “尽快。” “上哪儿?” “圣塞瓦斯蒂安。” “我们不能一起去?” “不行。我们刚刚谈通了,怎么又糊涂了。” “我们从来没有一致过。” “唉,你心里和我一样明白。别固执了,亲爱的。” “当然,”我说。“我知道你说得对。我的情绪不好,我的情绪一不好就满口胡诌。” 我起来坐着,哈腰在床边找鞋穿上。我站了起来。 “不要这么瞅着,亲爱的。” “你叫我怎么瞅?” “哦,别傻了。明天我就走。” “明天?” “对。我不是说过了?我要走。” “那么我们来干一杯。伯爵就要回来了。” “是啊。他该回来了。你知道他特别热衷于买香槟酒。在他看来,这是最重要不过的。” 我们走进饭间。我拿起酒瓶给勃莱特倒了一杯白兰地,给我自己也倒了一杯。门铃响了。我去开门,是伯爵。司机站在他身后,拎着一篮子香槟酒。 “我叫他把这篮子酒放在哪儿,先生?”伯爵问。 “放厨房去,”勃莱特说。 “拎到那儿去,亨利,”伯爵指了指。“现在下去把冰块取来。”他站在厨房门里面看着司机把篮子放好, “我想你喝了就会知道这是非常好的酒, ”他说。“我知道在美国现在很少有机会品尝到好酒。这是我从一个做酿酒生意的朋友那里弄来的。” “随便什么行当,你总是有熟人的,”勃莱特说。 “这位朋友是栽植葡萄的。有几千英亩葡萄园。” “他叫什么?”勃莱特问。“叫弗夫.克利科” “不是,”伯爵说。“叫穆默。他是一位男爵。” “真有意思,”勃莱特说。“我们都有个衔头,你怎么没有呢,杰克?” “我老实告诉你吧,先生,”伯爵把手搭在我的胳膊上说。“衔头不能给人带来任何好处。往往只能使你多花钱。” “哦,我可说不准。有时候它是怪有用的,”勃莱特说。 “我从来不知道它对我有什么好处,” “你使用得不恰当。它给我可带来了极大的荣誉。” “请坐,伯爵,”我说。“让我把你的手杖放好。”在煤气灯亮光下,伯爵凝视着坐在桌子对面的勃莱特。 她在抽烟, 往地毯上弹烟灰。她看见我注意到了。“喂,杰克,我不愿意弄脏你的地毯。你不能给我个烟灰缸吗?” 我找了几个烟灰缸,在几个地方摆好。司机拎了一桶加盐的冰块上来。“放两瓶进去冰着,亨利,”伯爵招呼他说。 “还有事吗,先生?” “没有了。下去到车子里等着吧。”他转身对勃莱特和我说,“我们要不要坐车到布洛涅森林吃饭去?” “随你的便,”勃莱特说。“我一点也不想吃。” “凡是好饭菜我都来者不拒,”伯爵说。 “要把酒拿进来吗,先生?”司机问。 “好。拿来吧,亨利,”伯爵说。他掏出一个厚实的猪皮烟盒,朝我递过来。“来一支真正的美国雪茄好吗?” “谢谢,”我说。“我要把这支烟抽完。” 他用拴在表链一端的金制小轧刀轧去雪茄头。 “我喜欢通气的雪茄,”伯爵说。“我们抽的雪茄有一半是不通气的。” 他点燃了雪茄,噗噗地吸着,眼睛望着桌子对面的勃莱特。“等你离了婚,阿施利夫人,你的衔头就没有了。” “是啊。真遗憾。” “不用惋惜,”伯爵说。“你用不着衔头。你浑身上下都具有高贵的风度。” “谢谢。你的嘴巴真甜。” “我不是在逗你,”伯爵喷出一口烟说。“就我看来,谁也没有你这种高贵的风度。你有。就这么回事。” “你真好,”勃莱特说。“我妈妈听了会高兴的。你能不能写下来,我好在信里给她寄去?” “我跟她也会这么说的,”伯爵说。“我不是在逗你。我从来不跟别人开玩笑。好开玩笑者必树敌。我经常这么说。” “你说得对,”勃莱特说。“你说得太对了。我经常同人开玩笑,因此我在世界上没有朋友。除了这位杰克。” “你别逗他。” “是实话嘛。” “现在呢?”伯爵问。“你是跟他说着玩儿的吧?” 勃莱特眯着眼睛看我,眼角出现皱纹。 “不,”她说。“我不会逗他的。” “明白了,”伯爵说。“你不是逗他。” “谈这些多无聊,”勃莱特说。“来点香槟酒怎么样?” 伯爵弯腰把装在亮闪闪的小桶里的酒瓶转动了一圈。“还没有冰透呢。你总喝个没完,亲爱的。为什么你不光是谈谈呢?” “我已经唠唠叨叨地说得太多了。我跟杰克把什么事都谈透了。” “我真想听你好好地说说话,亲爱的。你跟我说话老是说半句留半句。” “那下半句是留给你说的。谁乐意就由谁来接着说。” “这种说话的方式可真有趣,”伯爵伸手把瓶子又转动了一圈。“可我还是愿意听你说话。” “你看他傻不傻?”勃莱特问。 “行了,”伯爵拿起一瓶酒说。“我看这一瓶冰透了。” 我拿来一条毛巾,他把酒瓶擦干,举起来。“我爱喝大瓶装的香槟酒。这种酒比较好,但是冰镇起来很费事。”他拿着酒瓶端详着。我放好杯子。 “喂,你可以开瓶了,”勃莱特提醒他。 “好,亲爱的。我这就开。” 真是呱呱叫的香槟酒。 “我说这才叫酒哩,”勃莱特举起酒杯。“我们应该举杯祝酒。‘为王室干杯。’” “这酒用来祝酒未免太好了,亲爱的。你喝这样的酒不能动感情。这样品尝不出味儿来,” 勃莱特的酒杯空了。 “你应该写一本论酒的专著,伯爵,”我说。 “巴恩斯先生,”伯爵回答,“我喝酒的唯一乐趣就是品味。” “再来点尝尝,”勃莱特把酒杯往前一推。伯爵小心翼翼地给她斟酒。“喝吧,亲爱的。现在你先慢慢品,然后喝个醉。” “醉?醉?” “亲爱的,你的醉态真迷人。” “听他往下说。” “巴恩斯先生,”伯爵说,斟满我的杯子。“我没见过第二个女人象她那样,喝醉了还照样那么光艳照人。” “你没见过多大世面,对不?” “不对,亲爱的。我见得多了。我见过很多很多。” “喝你的酒吧,”勃莱特说。“我们都见过世面。我敢说杰克见过的不见得比你少。” “亲爱的,我相信巴恩斯先生见过很多。你别以为我不这么想,先生。但是我也见过很多。” “当然你是这样的,亲爱的,”勃莱特说。“我只不过是说着玩儿的。” “我经历过七次战争、四场革命,”伯爵说。 “当兵打仗吗?”勃莱特问。“有几回,亲爱的,我还受过几处箭伤。你们见过箭伤的伤疤吗?” “让我们见识见识。” 伯爵站起来,解开他的背心,掀开衬衣。他把汗衫撩到胸部,露出黑黝黝的胸脯,大腹便便地站在灯下。 “看见了吧?” 在末一根肋骨下面有两处隆起的白色伤疤。“你们看后面箭头穿出去的地方。”在脊背上腰部的上方,同样有两个隆起的疤痕,有指头那么粗。 “哎呀,真不得了。” “完全穿透了。” 伯爵把衬衣塞好。 “在哪儿受的这些伤?”我问。 “在阿比西尼亚。我当时二十一岁。” “你当时干什么呀?”勃莱特问。“你在军队里?” “我是去做买卖的,亲爱的。” “我跟你说过,他是我道中人。我说过没有?”勃莱特扭过头来问我。“我爱你,伯爵。你真可爱。” “你说得我心里美滋滋的,亲爱的。不过,这不是真情。” “别蠢了。” “你瞧,巴恩斯先生,正因为我历经坎坷,所以今天才能尽情享乐。你是否也是这么看的?” “是的。绝对正确。” “我知道,”伯爵说。“奥秘就在其中。你必须对生活价值形成一套看法。”“你对生活价值的看法从来没有受到过干扰?”勃莱特问。“没有。再也不会啦。”“从来没有恋爱过?”“经常恋爱,”伯爵说。“谈情说爱是常事。”“关于你对生活价值的看法,恋爱有什么影响?”“在我对生活价值的看法中,恋爱也占有一定的位置。”“你没有任何对生活价值的看法。你已经死去了,如此而已。” “不,亲爱的。你说得不对。我绝对没有死去。” 我们喝了三瓶香槟酒,伯爵把篮子留在我的厨房里里。我们在布洛涅森林一家餐厅里吃饭。菜肴很好。食品在伯爵对生活价值的看法中占有特殊的位置。跟美酒同等。进餐的时候,伯爵举止优雅。勃莱特也一样。这是一次愉快的聚会。 “你们想上哪儿去?”吃完饭,伯爵问。餐厅里就剩下我们三个人了。两个侍者靠门站着。他们想要回家了。 “我们可以上蒙马特山,”勃莱特说。“我们这次聚会不是挺好吗?” 伯爵笑逐颜开。他特别开心。 “你们俩都非常好,”他说。他又抽起雪茄来。“你们为什么不结婚,你们俩?” “我们各有不同的生活道路,”我说。 “我们的经历不同,”勃莱特说。“走吧。我们离开这里。” “再来杯白兰地吧,”伯爵说。 “到山上喝去。 ” “不。这儿多安静,在这里喝。”“去你的,还有你那个‘安静’,”勃莱特说。“男人到底对安静怎么看?”“我们喜欢安静,”伯爵说。“正如你喜欢热闹一样,亲爱的。” “好吧,”勃菜特说。“我们就喝一杯。” “饮料总管!”伯爵招呼说。 “来了,先生。” “你们最陈的白兰地是哪年的?” “一八一一年,先生。” “给我们来一瓶。” “嗨,别摆阔气了。叫他退掉吧,杰克。” “你听着,亲爱的。花钱买陈酿白兰地比买任何古董部值得。” “你收藏了很多古董?” “满满一屋子。” 最后,我们登上了蒙马特山。泽利咖啡馆里面拥挤不堪,烟雾腾腾,人声嘈杂。一进门,乐声震耳。勃莱特和我跳舞。舞池里挤得我们只能勉强挪动步子。黑人鼓手向勃莱特招招手。我们披挤在人群里,在他面前原地不动地踏着舞步。 “你合(好)?” “挺好。” “那就合(好)罗!” 他脸上最醒目的是一口白牙和两片厚嘴唇。 “他是我很要好的朋友,”勃莱特说。“一位出色的鼓手。” 乐声停了,我们朝伯爵坐的桌子方向走去。这时又奏起了乐曲,我们又接着跳舞。我瞅瞅伯爵。他正坐在桌子边抽雪茄。音乐又停了。 “我们过去吧。”勃莱特朝桌子走去。乐声又起,我们又紧紧地挤在人群里跳着。“你跳得真糟,杰克。迈克尔是我认识的人中跳得最好的。” “他很了不起。” “他有他的优点。” “我喜欢他,”我说。“我特别喜欢他。” “我打算嫁给他,”勃莱特说。“有意思。我有一星期没想起他了。” “你没有给他写信?” “我才不呢。我从不写信。” “他准给你写了。” “当然。信还写得非常好。” “你们什么时候结婚?” “我怎么知道?等我办完了离婚手续吧。迈克尔想叫他母亲拿钱出来办。” “要我帮忙不?” “别蠢了。迈克尔家有的是钱。” 乐声停了。我们走到桌子边。伯爵站起来。 “非常好,”他说。“你们跳起舞来非常非常好看。” “你不跳舞,伯爵?”我问。 “不。我上年纪了。” “嗳,别说笑话了,”勃莱特说。 “亲爱的,要是我跳舞能感到乐趣,我会跳的。我乐意看你们跳。” “太好了,”勃莱特说。“过些时候我再跳给你看看。你那位小朋友齐齐怎么样啦?” “跟你说吧。我资助他,但是我不要他老跟着我。” “他也着实不容易。” “你知道,我认为这孩子会很有出息。但是就我个人而言,我不要他老在我跟前。” “杰克的想法也是这样。” “他使我心惊肉跳。” “至于,”伯爵耸耸肩说,“他将来怎么样,谁也说不准。不管怎么说,他的父亲是我父亲的好友。” “走。跳舞去,”勃莱特说。 我们跳舞。场子里又挤,又闷。 “亲爱的,”勃莱特说,“我是多么痛苦。” 我有这种感觉:这一切以前全经历过。“一分钟之前你还挺高兴嘛。” 鼓手大声唱着:“你不能对爱人不忠——” “一切都烟消云散了。” “怎么回事儿?” “不知道。我只感到心情糟透了。” “……,”鼓手唱着。然后抓起鼓槌。 “想走?” 我有这种感觉:好象在做恶梦,梦境反复出现,我已经熬过来了,现在又必须从头熬起。 “……,”鼓手柔声唱着。 “我们走吧,”勃莱特说,“你别见怪。” “……,”鼓手大声唱着,对勃莱特咧嘴笑笑。 “好,”我说,我们从人群中挤出来。勃莱特到盥洗室去。 “勃莱特想走,”我对伯爵说。他点点头。“她要走?好啊。你用我的车子吧。我要再待一会儿,巴恩斯先生。” 我们握手。 “今晚过得真好,”我说。“但愿你允许我……”我从口袋里拿出一张钞票。 “巴恩斯先生,这不象话,”伯爵说。 勃莱特穿戴好了走过来。她亲了下伯爵,按住他的肩膀,不让他站起来。我们刚出门,我回头一看,己经有二位姑娘在他身旁坐下了。我们跨进大轿车。勃莱特告诉司机她旅馆的地址。 “不,你别上去了,”她站在旅馆门口说。她刚才按过一下门铃,于是门开了。 “真的?” “对。请回吧。” “再见,勃莱特,”我说。“你的心情不好,我感到很不安。” “再见,杰克。再见,亲爱的。我不要再和你相会了。”我们站在门边亲吻着。她把我推开。我们再一次亲吻。“唉,别这样!”勃莱特说。 她赶紧转过身去,走进旅馆。司机把我送到我的住处。我给他二十法郎,他伸手碰了下帽沿,说了声“再见,先生”,就开车走了。我按按门铃。门开了,我上楼睡下。 Chapter 8 I did not see Brett again until she came back from San Sebastian. One card came from her from there. It had a picture of the Concha, and said: "Darling. Very quiet and healthy. Love to all the chaps. BRETT." Nor did I see Robert Cohn again. I heard Frances had left for England and I had a note from Cohn saying he was going out in the country for a couple of weeks, he did not know where, but that he wanted to hold me to the fishing-trip in Spain we had talked about last winter. I could reach him always, he wrote, through his bankers. Brett was gone, I was not bothered by Cohn's troubles, I rather enjoyed not having to play tennis, there was plenty of work to do, I went often to the races, dined with friends, and put in some extra time at the office getting things ahead so I could leave it in charge of my secretary when Bill Gorton and I should shove off to Spain the end of June. Bill Gorton arrived, put up a couple of days at the flat and went off to Vienna. He was very cheerful and said the States were wonderful. New York was wonderful. There had been a grand theatrical season and a whole crop of great young light heavyweights. Any one of them was a good prospect to grow up, put on weight and trim Dempsey. Bill was very happy. He had made a lot of money on his last book, and was going to make a lot more. We had a good time while he was in Paris, and then he went off to Vienna. He was coming back in three weeks and we would leave for Spain to get in some fishing and go to the fiesta at Pamplona. He wrote that Vienna was wonderful. Then a card from Budapest: "Jake, Budapest is wonderful." Then I got a wire: "Back on Monday." Monday evening he turned up at the flat. I heard his taxi stop and went to the window and called to him; he waved and started up-stairs carrying his bags. I met him on the stairs, and took one of the bags. "Well," I said, "I hear you had a wonderful trip." "Wonderful," he said. "Budapest is absolutely wonderful." "How about Vienna?" "Not so good, Jake. Not so good. It seemed better than it was." "How do you mean?" I was getting glasses and a siphon. "Tight, Jake. I was tight." "That's strange. Better have a drink." Bill rubbed his forehead. "Remarkable thing," he said. "Don't know how it happened. Suddenly it happened." "Last long?" "Four days, Jake. Lasted just four days." "Where did you go?" "Don't remember. Wrote you a post-card. Remember that perfectly." "Do anything else?" "Not so sure. Possible." "Go on. Tell me about it." "Can't remember. Tell you anything I could remember." "Go on. Take that drink and remember." "Might remember a little," Bill said. "Remember something about a prize-fight. Enormous Vienna prize-fight. Had a nigger in it. Remember the nigger perfectly." "Go on." "Wonderful nigger. Looked like Tiger Flowers, only four times as big. All of a sudden everybody started to throw things. Not me. Nigger'd just knocked local boy down. Nigger put up his glove. Wanted to make a speech. Awful noble-looking nigger. Started to make a speech. Then local white boy hit him. Then he knocked white boy cold. Then everybody commenced to throw chairs. Nigger went home with us in our car. Couldn't get his clothes. Wore my coat. Remember the whole thing now. Big sporting evening." "What happened?" "Loaned the nigger some clothes and went around with him to try and get his money. Claimed nigger owed them money on 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. Claimed nigger violated contract. Can't knock out Vienna boy in Vienna. 'My God, Mister Gorton,' said nigger, 'I didn't do nothing in there for forty minutes but try and let him stay. That white boy musta ruptured himself 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 down-stairs and out onto the Boulevard St. Michel in the warm June evening. "Where will we go?" "Want to eat on the island?" "Sure." We walked down the Boulevard. At the juncture of the Rue Denfert-Rochereau with the Boulevard is a statue of two men in flowing robes. "I know who they are." Bill eyed the monument. "Gentlemen who invented pharmacy. Don't try and fool me on Paris." We went on. "Here's a taxidermist's," Bill said. "Want to buy anything? Nice stuffed dog?" "Come on," I said. "You're pie-eyed." "Pretty nice stuffed dogs," Bill said. "Certainly brighten up your flat." "Come on." "Just one stuffed dog. I can take 'em or leave 'em alone. But listen, Jake. Just one stuffed dog." "Come on." "Mean everything in the world to you after you bought it. Simple exchange of values. You give them money. They give you a stuffed dog." "We'll get one on the way back." "All right. Have it your own way. Road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault." We went on. "How'd you feel that way about dogs so sudden?" "Always felt that way about dogs. Always been a great lover of stuffed animals." We stopped and had a drink. "Certainly like to drink," Bill said. "You ought to try it some times, Jake." "You're about a hundred and forty-four ahead of me." "Ought not to daunt you. Never be daunted. Secret of my success. Never been daunted. Never been daunted in public." "Where were you drinking?" "Stopped at the Crillon. George made me a couple of Jack Roses. George's a great man. Know the secret of his success? Never been daunted." "You'll be daunted after about three more pernods." "Not in public. If I begin to feel daunted I'll go off by myself. I'm like a cat that way." "When did you see Harvey Stone?" "At the Crillon. Harvey was just a little daunted. Hadn't eaten for three days. Doesn't eat any more. Just goes off like a cat. Pretty sad." "He's all right." "Splendid. Wish he wouldn't keep going off like a cat, though. Makes me nervous." "What'll we do to-night?" "Doesn't make any difference. Only let's not get daunted. Suppose they got any hard-boiled eggs here? If they had hard-boiled eggs here we wouldn't have to go all the way down to the island to eat." "Nix," I said. "We're going to have a regular meal." "Just a suggestion," said Bill. "Want to start now?" "Come on." We started on again down the Boulevard. A horse-cab passed us. Bill looked at it. "See that horse-cab? Going to have that horse-cab stuffed for you for Christmas. Going to give all my friends stuffed animals. I'm a nature-writer." A taxi passed, some one in it waved, then banged for the driver to stop. The taxi backed up to the curb. In it was Brett. "Beautiful lady," said Bill. "Going to kidnap us." "Hullo!" Brett said. "Hullo!" "This is Bill Gorton. Lady Ashley." Brett smiled at Bill. "I say I'm just back. Haven't bathed even. Michael comes in to-night." "Good. Come on and eat with us, and we'll all go to meet him." "Must clean myself." "Oh, rot! Come on." "Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine." "Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe." "Might do that. Now you're not talking rot." We got in the taxi. The driver looked around. "Stop at the nearest bistro," I said. "We might as well go to the Closerie," Brett said. "I can't drink these rotten brandies." "Closerie des Lilas." Brett turned to Bill. "Have you been in this pestilential city long?" "Just got in to-day from Budapest." "How was Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful." "Ask him about Vienna." "Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city." "Very much like Paris," Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the 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 Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took another pernod. "How are you, Jake?" "Great," I said. "I've had a good time." Brett looked at me. "I was a fool to go away," she said. "One's an ass to leave Paris." "Did you have a good time?" "Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing." "See anybody?" "No, hardly anybody. I never went out." "Didn't you swim?" "No. Didn't do a thing." "Sounds like Vienna," Bill said. Brett wrinkled up the corners of her eyes at him. "So that's the way it was in Vienna." "It was like everything in Vienna." Brett smiled at him again. "You've a nice friend, Jake." "He's all right," I said. "He's a taxidermist." "That was in another country," Bill said. "And besides all the animals were dead." "One more," Brett said, "and I must run. Do send the waiter for a taxi." "There's a line of them. Right out in front." "Good." We had the drink and put Brett into her taxi. "Mind you're at the Select around ten. Make him come. Michael will be there." "We'll be there," Bill said. The taxi started and Brett waved. "Quite a girl," Bill said. "She's damned nice. Who's Michael?" "The man she's going to marry." "Well, well," Bill said. "That's always just the stage I meet anybody. What'll I send them? Think they'd like a couple of stuffed race-horses?" "We better eat." "Is she really Lady something or other?" Bill asked in the taxi on our way down to the Ile Saint Louis. "Oh, yes. In the stud-book and everything." "Well, well." We ate dinner at Madame Lecomte's restaurant on the far side of the island. It was crowded with Americans and we had to stand up and wait for a place. Some one had put it in the American Women's Club list as a quaint restaurant on the Paris quais as yet untouched by Americans, so we had to wait forty-five minutes for a table. Bill had eaten at the restaurant in 1918, and right after the armistice, and Madame Lecomte made a great fuss over seeing him. "Doesn't get us a table, though," Bill said. "Grand woman, though." We had a good meal, a roast chicken, new green beans, mashed potatoes, a salad, and some apple-pie and cheese. "You've got the world here all right," Bill said to Madame Lecomte. She raised her hand. "Oh, my God!" "You'll be rich." "I hope so." After the coffee and a fine we got the bill, chalked up the same as ever on a slate, that was doubtless one of the "quaint" features, paid it, shook hands, and went out. "You never come here any more, Monsieur Barnes," Madame Lecomte said. "Too many compatriots." "Come at lunch-time. It's not crowded then." "Good. I'll be down soon." We walked along under the trees that grew out over the river on the Quai d'Orléans side of the island. Across the river were the broken walls of old houses that were being torn down. "They're going to cut a street through." "They would," Bill said. We walked on and circled the island. The river was dark and a bateau mouche went by, all bright with lights, going fast and quiet up and out of sight under the bridge. Down the river was Notre Dame squatting against the night sky. We crossed to the left bank of the Seine by the wooden foot-bridge from the Quai de Bethune, and stopped on the bridge and looked down the river at Notre Dame. Standing on the bridge the island looked dark, the houses were high against the sky, and the trees were shadows. "It's pretty grand," Bill said. "God, I love to get back." We leaned on the wooden rail of the bridge and looked up the river to the lights of the big bridges. Below the water was smooth and black. It made no sound against the piles of the bridge. A man and a girl passed us. They were walking with their arms around each other. We crossed the bridge and walked up the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine. It was steep walking, and we went all the way up to the Place Contrescarpe. The arc-light shone through the leaves of the trees in the square, and underneath the trees was an S bus ready to start. Music came out of the door of the Negre Joyeux. Through the window of the Café Aux Amateurs I saw the long zinc bar. Outside on the terrace working people were drinking. In the open kitchen of the Amateurs a girl was cooking potato-chips in oil. There was an iron pot of stew. The girl ladled some onto a plate for an old man who stood holding a bottle of red wine in one hand. "Want to have a drink?" "No," said Bill. "I don't need it." We turned to the right off the Place Contrescarpe, walking along smooth narrow streets with high old houses on both sides. Some of the houses jutted out toward the street. Others were cut back. We came onto the Rue du Pot de Fer and followed it along until it brought us to the rigid north and south of the Rue Saint Jacques and then walked south, past Val de Grace, set back behind the courtyard and the iron fence, to the 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 Montparnasse, and then on past the Lilas, Lavigne's, and all the little cafés, Damoy's, crossed the street to the Rotonde, past its lights and tables to the Select. Michael came toward us from the tables. He was tanned and healthy-looking. "Hel-lo, Jake," he said. "Hel-lo! Hel-lo! How are you, old lad?" "You look very fit, Mike." "Oh, I am. I'm frightfully fit. I've done nothing but walk. Walk all day long. One drink a day with my mother at tea." Bill had gone into the bar. He was standing talking with Brett, who was sitting on a high stool, her legs crossed. She had no stockings on. "It's good to see you, Jake," Michael said. "I'm a little tight you know. Amazing, isn't it? Did you see my nose?" There was a patch of dried blood on the bridge of his nose. "An old lady's bags did that," Mike said. "I reached up to help her with them and they fell on me." Brett gestured at him from the bar with her cigarette-holder and wrinkled the corners of her eyes. "An old lady," said Mike. "Her bags fell on me. Let's go in and see Brett. I say, she is a piece. You are a lovely lady, Brett. Where did you get that hat?" "Chap bought it for me. Don't you like it?" "It's a dreadful hat. Do get a good hat." "Oh, we've so much money now," Brett said. "I say, haven't you met Bill yet? You _are_ a lovely host, Jake." She turned to Mike. "This is Bill Gorton. This drunkard is Mike Campbell. Mr. Campbell is an undischarged bankrupt." "Aren't I, though? You know I met my ex-partner yesterday in London. Chap who did me in." "What did he say?" "Bought me a drink. I thought I might as well take it. I say, Brett, you are a lovely piece. Don't you think she's beautiful?" "Beautiful. With this nose?" "It's a lovely nose. Go on, point it at me. Isn't she a lovely piece?" "Couldn't we have kept the man in Scotland?" "I say, Brett, let's turn in early." "Don't be indecent, Michael. Remember there are ladies at this bar." "Isn't she a lovely piece? Don't you think so, Jake?" "There's a fight to-night," Bill said. "Like to go?" "Fight," said Mike. "Who's fighting?" "Ledoux and somebody." "He's very good, Ledoux," Mike said. "I'd like to see it, 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 difficult. What are these outbursts of affection, Michael?" "I say, you are a lovely piece." We said good night. "I'm sorry I can't go," Mike said. Brett laughed. I looked back from the door. Mike had one hand on the bar and was leaning toward Brett, talking. Brett was looking at him quite coolly, but the corners of her eyes were smiling. Outside on the pavement I said: "Do you want to go to the fight?" "Sure," said Bill. "If we don't have to walk." "Mike was pretty excited about his girl friend," I said in the taxi. "Well," said Bill. "You can't blame him such a hell of a lot." 等到勃莱特从圣塞瓦斯蒂安回来了,我才和她再次见面。她从那儿寄来过一张明信片。明信片上印有康查海湾的风景照,并写着:“亲爱的。非常宁静,有益身心。向诸位问好。勃莱特。”我这一阵也没有再见到过罗伯特.科恩。听说弗朗西丝已去英国,我收到科恩一封短简,说要到乡下去住两周,具体去向尚未决定,不过他要我遵守去年冬天我们谈过的计划:到西班牙去作一次钓鱼旅行。他写道,我可以随时通过他的银行经纪人和他取得联系。 勃莱特走了,我不再被科恩的烦恼所打扰,我不用去打网球,感到很惬意。因为我有很多工作要干。我常去赛马场,和朋友一起吃饭。六月末我要和比尔.戈顿到西班牙去,因此我经常在写字间加班,好提前赶出一些东西,到时候移交给秘书。比尔.戈顿到了巴黎,在我的住处待了两天就到维也纳去了。他兴高采烈地称赞美国好极了。纽约好得不得了。那里的戏剧季节规模宏大,还出现了一大批出色的青年轻量级拳击手。其中每个人都大有成长起来、增强体重并击败登普西的希望。比尔兴致勃勃。他新近出版的一本书给他挣到了一大笔钱,而且还会挣得更多。他在巴黎这两天我们过得很愉快,接着他就到维也纳去了。他将于三周后回来,那时我们将动身到西班牙去钓鱼,然后去潘普洛纳过节。他来信说维也纳很迷人。后来在布达佩斯寄来一张明信片上写着:“杰克,布达佩斯迷人极了。”最后我收到一封电报:“周一归。” 星期一晚上,他来到我的寓所。我听到他坐的出租汽车停下的声音,就走到窗前喊他;他挥挥手,拎着几只旅行袋走上楼来。我在楼梯上迎接他,接过一只旅行袋。“啊,”我说,“听说你这次旅行挺称心。”“好极了,”他说。“布达佩斯绝顶地好。”“维也纳呢?”“不怎么样,杰克。不怎么样。比过去似乎好一点。”“什么意思?”我在拿酒杯和一个苏打水瓶。“我醉过,杰克。我喝醉过。”“真想不到。还是来一杯吧。”比尔擦擦他的前额。“真是怪事,”他说。“不知怎的就醉了。突然醉了。” “时间长吗?” “四天,杰克。拖了正好四天。” “你都到了哪些地方?” “不记得了。给你寄过一张明信片。这件事我完全记得。”“另外还干什么啦?”“说不准了。可能……”“说下去。给我说说。”“记不得了。我能记多少就给你讲多少吧。”“说下去。喝完这一杯,再想想。”“可能会想起一点儿,”比尔说。“想起一次拳击赛。维也纳的一次大型拳击赛。有个黑人参加。这黑人我记得很清楚。” “说下去。” “一位出众的黑人。长得很象‘老虎’弗劳尔斯,不过有他四个那么大。突然,观众纷纷扔起东西来。我可没有。黑人刚把当地的一个小伙击倒在地。黑人举起他一只带手套的手。想发表演说啦。他神态落落大方。他刚要开口,那位当地的白种小伙向他一拳打去。他随即一拳把白种小伙击昏了。这时观众开始抛掷坐椅。黑人搭我们的车回家。连衣服也没法拿到。穿着我的外衣。现在全部过程我都想起来了。这一夜真热闹。” “后来呢?” “我借给黑人几件衣服,和他一起奔走,想法要拿到那笔钱。但是人家说场子给砸了,黑人倒欠他们钱。不知道是谁当的翻译?是我吗?” “大概不是你。” “你说得对。确实不是我。是另外一个人。我们好象管他叫当地的哈佛大学毕业生。想起他来了。正在学音乐。” “结果怎么样?” “不大妙,杰克。世上处处不讲理。拳赛主持人坚持说黑人答应过让当地白种小伙赢的。说黑人违反了合同。不能在维也纳击倒维也纳的拳击手。‘天啊,戈顿先生,’黑人说,‘我整整四十分钟在场子里没干别的,只是想方设法让着他。这白种小伙准是向我挥拳的时候伤了他自己。我真的一直没出手打他。’” “你要到钱了?” “没捞着,杰克。只把黑人的衣服弄回来了。他的表也让人拿走了。这黑人真了不起。到维也纳去一趟是个莫大的错误。这地方不怎么好,杰克。不怎么好。” “这黑人后来怎么样?” “回科隆去了。住在那里。已经结婚。有老婆孩子。要给我写信,还要寄还我借给他的钱。这黑人真了不起。但愿我给他的地址没有弄错。” “大概不会错的。” “得了,还是吃饭去吧,”比尔说。“除非你还要我再谈些旅行见闻。” “往下说。” “我们吃饭去。” 我们下楼,在六月温煦的傍晚,走上圣米歇尔大街。 “我们上哪儿?” “想到岛上吃去?” “当然好。” 我们沿大街朝北走。在大街和当费尔.罗歇罗路交叉的十字路口有一尊长衣飘拂的双人雕侮。 “我知道这两个人是谁,”比尔注视着纪念碑说。“首创制药学的先生们。别想拿巴黎的事情来骗我。” 我们往前走去。 “这里有家动物标本商店,”比尔说。“想买什么吗?买只好看的狗标本?” “走吧,”我说。“你醉了。” “挺好看的狗标本,”比尔说。“一定会使你的房间四壁生辉。” “走吧。” “你买它一只狗标本。我可买可不买。但是听着,杰克。你买它一只狗标本。” “走吧。” “你一买到手,世上别的什么东西你都不会要了。简单的等价交换嘛。你给他们钱。他们给你一只狗标本。” “等回来的时候买一个吧。” “好。随你的便。下地狱的路上铺满着该买而没买的狗标本。以后别怨我。” 我们继续往前走。 “你怎么突然对狗发生那么大的兴趣?” “我向来就喜欢狗。向来非常喜欢动物标本。” 我们停下来,喝了一杯酒。“我确实喜欢喝酒,”比尔说。“你不妨偶尔试试,杰克,” “你胜过我一百四十四点。” “别让这个使你气馁。永远不能气馁。我成功的秘诀。从没气馁过。从没当别人的面气馁过。” “你在哪里喝的?” “在‘克里荣’弯了一下。乔奇给我调了几杯鸡尾酒。乔奇是个了不起的人物。知道他成功的秘诀吗?从没气馁过。”“你再喝三杯珀诺酒就会气馁了。”“不当别人的面。我一感到不行就独个儿溜走。我在这方面象猫。”“你什么时候碰到哈维.斯通的?”“在‘克里荣’。哈维有点挺不住了。整整三天没有吃东西。什么也不肯吃。象猫一样地溜了。很伤心。” “他不要紧。” “太好了。但愿他不要老象猫那样溜掉就好了。弄得我好紧张。” “今儿晚上我们干什么?” “干什么都一样。我们只要能挺住就行。你看这里有煮鸡蛋吗?如果有,我们就用不着赶那么远的路到岛上去吃。” “不行,”我说。“我们要正经八百地吃顿饭。” “只不过是个建议,”比尔说。“想就走吗?” “走。” 我们又顺着大街往前走。一辆马车从我们身边驶过。比尔瞧了它一眼。 “看见那辆马车啦?我要把那辆马车做了标本给你作圣诞礼物。打算给我所有的朋友都送动物标本。我是博物学作家。” 开过一辆出租汽车,有人在里面招手,然后敲敲车窗叫司机停下。汽车打倒车到人行道边。里面坐着勃莱特。 “好一个美人儿,”比尔说。“要把我们拐走吧!” “喂!”勃莱特说。“喂!”“这位是比尔.戈顿。这位是阿施利夫人。”勃莱特对比尔微微一笑。“哎,我才回来,连澡都还没洗呢。迈克尔今晚到。” “好。来吧,我们一起去吃饭,过后一起去接他。” “我得洗一洗,” “别说废话!走吧。” “必须洗个澡。九点之前他到不了。” “那么先来喝一杯再去洗澡。” “也好。你这话说得有道理。” 我们上了车。司机回过头来。 “到最近的酒店去,”我说。 “还是到‘丁香园’吧,”勃莱特说。“我喝不了那种劣质白兰地。” “‘丁香园’。” 勃莱特转身朝着比尔。 “你在这个讨厌的城市待很久了?” “今天才从布达佩斯来。” “布达佩斯怎么样?” “好极了。布达佩斯非常好。” “问问他维也纳怎么样。” “维也纳,”比尔说,“是一座古怪的城市。” “非常象巴黎,”勃莱特笑着对他说,她的眼角出现了皱纹。 “一点不错,”比尔说。“眼前这时节很象巴黎。” “我们赶不上你了。” 我们坐在“丁香园”外面的露台上,勃莱特叫了一杯威士忌苏打,我也要了一杯,比尔又要了一杯珀诺酒。 “你好吗,杰克?” “非常好,”我说。“我过得很愉快。” 勃莱特瞅着我。“我出门去真傻,”她说。“谁离开巴黎,谁就是头蠢驴。” “你过得很愉快?” “哎,不错。挺有意思。不过不特别好玩。” “遇见熟人没有?” “没有,几乎一个也没有。我从不出屋。” “你连游泳也没去?” “没有。什么也没有干。” “听上去很象维也纳,”比尔说。 勃莱特眯缝起眼睛看他,眼角出现皱纹。 “原来维也纳是这个样子的。” “一切都跟维也纳一个样。” 勃莱特又对他微微一笑。 “你这位朋友挺好,杰克。” “他是不错,”我说,“他是制作动物标本的。” “那还是在另一个国家里的事,”比尔说。“而且都是些死动物。” “再喝一杯,”勃莱特说,“我就得赶紧走了。请你叫侍者去雇辆车子。” “外边排着一溜车,就在对面。” “好。” 我们喝完酒,送勃莱特上车。 “记住,十点左右到‘雅士’。叫他也去。迈克尔会在场的。” “我们会去的,”比尔说。出租汽车开动了,勃莱特向我们挥挥手。 “多出色的女人啊,”比尔说。“怪有教养的。迈克尔是何许人?” “就是她要嫁的那个人。” “啊呀呀,”比尔说。“碰到我结识个女人,总是在这节骨眼儿上。我送他们什么呢?你看他们会喜欢一对赛马标本吧?” “我们还是去吃饭吧。” “她真是一位什么某某夫人吗?”我们去圣路易岛的途中,比尔在汽车里问我。 “是啊。在马种系谱什么的里记载着。” “乖乖。” 我们在小岛北部勒孔特太太的餐厅里进餐。里面坐满了美国人,我们不得不站着等座。有人把这个餐厅写进美国妇女俱乐部的导游小册子里,称它为巴黎沿河码头边一家尚未被美国人光顾的古雅饭店,因此我们等了四十五分钟才弄到一张桌子。比尔在一九一八年大战刚停战时在这里用过餐,勒孔特太太一见到他就大事张罗起来。 “然而没有就给我们弄到一张空桌子,”比尔说。“她可还是个了不起的女人。” 我们吃了顿丰盛的饭:烤子鸡、新鲜菜豆、土豆泥、色拉以及一些苹果馅饼加干酪。 “你把全球的人都吸引到这里来了,”比尔对勒孔特太太说。她举起一只手。“啊,我的上帝!” “你要发财罗!” “但愿如此。” 喝完咖啡和白兰地,我们要来帐单。距往常一样,帐单是用粉笔写在石板上的,这无疑是本餐厅“古雅”的特点之一。我们付了帐,和勒孔特太太握握手,就走了出来。 “你就此不想来了,巴恩斯先生,”勒孔特太太说。 “美国来的同胞太多了。” “午餐时间来吧。那时不挤。” “好。我就会来的。” 我们在小岛北部奥尔良河滨街的行道树下朝前走,树枝从岸边伸出,笼罩在河面上。河对岸是正在拆毁的一些老房子留下的断垣残壁。 “要打通一条大街。” “是在这么干,”比尔说。 我们继续朝前走,绕岛一周。河面一片漆黑,开过一艘灯火通明的河上小客轮,它悄悄地匆匆驶往上游,消失在桥洞底下。巴黎圣母院蹲伏在河下游的夜空下。我们从贝都恩河滨街经小木桥向塞纳河左岸走去,在桥上站住了眺望河下游的圣母院。站在桥上,只见岛上暗淡无光,房屋在天际高高耸起,树林呈现出一片荫影。“多么壮观,”比尔说。“上帝,我真想往回走。” 我们倚在桥的木栏杆上,向上游那些大桥上的灯光望去。桥下的流水平静而漆黑。它无声地流过桥墩。有个男人和一个姑娘从我们身边走过。他们互相用胳膊搂抱着走去。 我们跨过木桥,顺着勒穆瓦纳主教路向上走。路面很陡,我们一直步行到康特雷斯卡普广场。广场上,弧光灯光从树叶丛中射下来,树下停着一辆正要开动的公共汽车。“快乐的黑人”咖啡馆门内传出音乐声。透过爱好者咖啡馆的窗子,我看见里面那张很长的白铁酒吧柜。门外露台上有些工人在喝酒。在“爱好者”的露天厨房里,有位姑娘在油锅里炸土豆片。旁边有一铁锅炖肉。一个老头儿手里拿着一瓶红酒站在那里,姑娘舀了一些用盘子装上递给他。 “想喝一杯吧?” “不想喝,”比尔说。“现在不需要。” 我们在康特雷斯卡普广场上向右拐,顺着平坦、狭窄的街道走去,两侧的房子高大而古老。有些房子突向街心。另一些往后缩。我们走上铁锅路,顺着它往前走,它一直把我们带到南北笔直的圣雅克路,我们然后往南走,经过前有庭院、围着铁栅栏的瓦尔德格拉斯教堂,到达皇家港大街。 “你想做什么?”我问。“到咖啡馆去看看勃莱特和迈克?” “行啊。” 我们走上和皇家港大街相衔接的蒙帕纳斯大街,一直朝前走,经过“丁香园”、“拉维涅”、“达穆伊”和另外那些小咖啡馆,穿过马路到了对面的“洛东达”,在灯光下经过它门前的那些桌子,来到“雅士”。 迈克尔从桌边站起来迎着我们走过来。他的脸晒得黝黑,气色很好。 “嗨——嗨,杰克,”他说。“嗨——嗨!你好,老朋友?” “看来你的身体结实着呢,迈克。” “是啊。结实着哩。除了散步,别的什么也不干,整天溜达。每天同我母亲喝茶的时候喝一杯酒。” 比尔走进酒吧间去了。他站着和勃莱特说话,勃莱特坐在一只高凳上,架起了腿儿。她没有穿长统袜子。 “看到你真高兴,杰克,”迈克尔说。“我有点醉了,你知道。想不到吧?你注意到我的鼻子了吗?” 他鼻梁上有一摊已干的血迹。 “让一位老太太的手提包碰伤的, ”迈克说。“我抬手想帮她拿下几个手提包,它们砸在我头上了。” 勃莱特在酒吧间里拿她的烟嘴向他打手势,挤眼睛。 “一位老太太,”迈克说。“她的手提包砸在我头上了。” “我们进去看勃莱特吧。哎,她是个迷人的东西。你真是位可爱的夫人,勃莱特。你这顶帽子是从哪儿弄来的?” “一个朋友给我买的。你不喜欢?” “太难看了。买顶好的去。” “啊,现在我们的钱可多哩,”勃莱特说。“喂,你还不认识比尔吧?你真是位可爱的主人,杰克。” 她朝迈克转过身去。“这是比尔.戈顿。这个酒鬼是迈克.坎贝尔。坎贝尔先生是位没还清债务的破产者。” “可不是?你知道,昨天在伦敦我碰到了我过去的合伙人。就是他把我弄到了这个地步。” “他说了些什么?” “请我喝了一杯酒。我寻思还是喝了吧。喂,勃莱特,你真是个迷人的东西。你看她是不是很美丽?” “美丽。长着这么个鼻子?”“鼻子很可爱。来,把鼻子冲着我。她不是个迷人的东西吗?”“是不是该把这个人留在苏格兰?”“喂,勃莱特,我们还是早点回去睡觉吧。”“别说话没检点,迈克尔。别忘了这酒吧间里有女客呢。”“她是不是个迷人的东西?你看呢,杰克?”“今晚有场拳击赛,”比尔说。“想去吗?”“拳击赛,”迈克说。“谁打?”“莱杜对某某人。”“莱杜拳术很高明,”迈克说。“我倒真想去看看,”——他竭力打起精神来——“但是我不能去。我和这东西有约在先。喂,勃莱特,一定要去买顶新帽子。” 勃莱特拉下毡帽,遮住一只眼睛,在帽沿下露出笑容。“你们两位赶去看拳击吧。我得带坎贝尔先生直接回家了。” “我没有醉,”迈克说。“也许有那么一点醉意。嗨,勃莱特,你真是个迷人的东西。” “你们去看拳击吧,”勃莱特说。“坎贝尔先生越来越难弄了。你这是哪儿来的一股多情劲儿,迈克尔?” “嗨,你真是个迷人的东西。” 我们说了再见。“我不能去真遗憾,”迈克说。勃莱特吃吃地笑。我走到门口回头望望。迈克一只手扶在酒吧柜上,探身冲着勃莱特说话。勃莱特相当冷淡地看着他,但是眼角帝着笑意。 走到外面人行道上,我说:“你想去看拳击吗?” “当然罗,”比尔说。“如果用不着我们走路的话。” “迈克为他这个女朋友得意着呢,”我在汽车里说。 “唷,”比尔说。“这你哪能多责怪他啊。” Chapter 9 The Ledoux-Kid Francis fight was the night of the 20th of June. It was a good fight. The morning after the fight I had a letter from Robert Cohn, written from Hendaye. He was having a very quiet time, he said, bathing, playing some golf and much bridge. Hendaye had a splendid beach, but he was anxious to start on the fishing-trip. When would I be down? If I would buy him a double-tapered line he would pay me when I came down. That same morning I wrote Cohn from the office that Bill and I would leave Paris on the 25th unless I wired him otherwise, and would meet him at Bayonne, where we could get a bus over the mountains to Pamplona. The same evening about seven o'clock I stopped in at the Select to see Michael and Brett. They were not there, and I went over to the Dingo. They were inside sitting at the bar. "Hello, darling." Brett put out her hand. "Hello, Jake," Mike said. "I understand I was tight last night." "Weren't you, though," Brett said. "Disgraceful business." "Look," said Mike, "when do you go down to Spain? Would you mind if we came down with you?" "It would be grand." "You wouldn't mind, really? I've been at Pamplona, you know. Brett's mad to go. You're sure we wouldn't just be a bloody nuisance?" "Don't talk like a fool." "I'm a little tight, you know. I wouldn't ask you like this if I weren't. You're sure you don't mind?" "Oh, shut up, Michael," Brett said. "How can the man say he'd mind now? I'll ask him later." "But you don't mind, do you?" "Don't ask that again unless you want to make me sore. Bill and I go down on the morning of the 25th." "By the way, where is Bill?" Brett asked. "He's out at Chantilly dining with some people." "He's a good chap." "Splendid chap," said Mike. "He is, you know." "You don't remember him," Brett said. "I do. Remember him perfectly. Look, Jake, we'll come down the night of the 25th. Brett can't get up in the morning." "Indeed not!" "If our money comes and you're sure you don't mind." "It will come, all right. I'll see to that." "Tell me what tackle to send for." "Get two or three rods with reels, and lines, and some flies." "I won't fish," Brett put in. "Get two rods, then, and Bill won't have to buy one." "Right," said Mike. "I'll send a wire to the keeper." "Won't it be splendid," Brett said. "Spain! We _will_ have fun." "The 25th. When is that?" "Saturday." "We _will_ have to get ready." "I say," said Mike, "I'm going to the barber's." "I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap." "We _have_ got the loveliest hotel," Mike said. "I think it's a 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 Delambre. "I haven't seen you since I've been back," Brett said. "No." "How _are_ you, Jake?" "Fine." Brett looked at me. "I say," she said, "is Robert Cohn going on this trip?" "Yes. Why?" "Don't you think it will be a bit rough on him?" "Why should it?" "Who did you think I went down to San Sebastian with?" "Congratulations," I said. We walked along. "What did you say that for?" "I don't know. What would you like me to say?" We walked along and turned a corner. "He behaved rather well, too. He gets a little dull." "Does he?" "I rather thought it would be good for him." "You might take up social service." "Don't be nasty." "I won't." "Didn't you really know?" "No," I said. "I guess I didn't think about it." "Do you think it will be too rough on him?" "That's up to him," I said. "Tell him you're coming. He can always not come." "I'll write him and give him a chance to pull out of it." I did not see Brett again until the night of the 24th of June. "Did you hear from Cohn?" "Rather. He's keen about it." "My God!" "I thought it was rather odd myself." "Says he can't wait to see me." "Does he think you're coming alone?" "No. I told him we were all coming down together. Michael and all." "He's wonderful." "Isn't he?" They expected their money the next day. We arranged to meet at Pamplona. They would go directly to San Sebastian and take the train from there. We would all meet at the Montoya in Pamplona. If they did not turn up on Monday at the latest we would go on ahead up to Burguete in the mountains, to start fishing. There was a bus to Burguete. I wrote out an itinerary so they could follow us. Bill and I took the morning train from the Gare d'Orsay. It was a lovely day, not too hot, and the country was beautiful from the start. We went back into the diner and had breakfast. Leaving the dining-car I asked the conductor for tickets for the first 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 conductor said. "There will be a fifth service at three-thirty." "This is serious," I said to Bill. "Give him ten francs." "Here," I said. "We want to eat in the first service." The conductor put the ten francs in his pocket. "Thank you," he said. "I would advise you gentlemen to get some sandwiches. All the places for the first four services were reserved at the office of the company." "You'll go a long way, brother," Bill said to him in English. "I suppose if I'd given you five francs you would have advised us to jump off the train." "_Comment?_" "Go to hell!" said Bill. "Get the sandwiches made and a bottle of wine. You tell him, Jake." "And send it up to the next car." I described where we were. In our compartment were a man and his wife and their young son. "I suppose you're Americans, aren't you?" the man asked. "Having a good trip?" "Wonderful," said Bill. "That's what you want to do. Travel while you're young. Mother and I always wanted to get over, but we had to wait a while." "You could have come over ten years ago, if you'd wanted to," the wife said. "What you always said was: 'See America first!' I will say we've seen a good deal, take it one way and another." "Say, there's plenty of Americans on this train," the husband said. "They've got seven cars of them from Dayton, Ohio. They've been on a pilgrimage to Rome, and now they're going down to Biarritz and Lourdes." "So, that's what they are. Pilgrims. Goddam Puritans," Bill said. "What part of the States you boys from?" "Kansas City," I said. "He's from Chicago." "You both going to Biarritz?" "No. We're going fishing in Spain." "Well, I never cared for it, myself. There's plenty that do out where I come from, though. We got some of the best fishing in the State of Montana. I've been out with the boys, but I never cared for it any." "Mighty little fishing you did on them trips," his wife said. He winked at us. "You know how the ladies are. If there's a jug goes along, or a case of beer, they think it's hell and damnation." "That's the way men are," his wife said to us. She smoothed her comfortable lap. "I voted against prohibition to please him, and because I like a little beer in the house, and then he talks that way. It's a wonder they ever find any one to marry them." "Say," said Bill, "do you know that gang of Pilgrim Fathers have cornered the dining-car until half past three this afternoon?" "How do you mean? They can't do a thing like that." "You try and get seats." "Well, mother, it looks as though we better go back and get another breakfast." She stood up and straightened her dress. "Will you boys keep an eye on our things? Come on, Hubert." They all three went up to the wagon restaurant. A little while after they were gone a steward went through announcing the first service, and pilgrims, with their priests, commenced filing down the corridor. Our friend and his family did not come back. A waiter passed in the corridor with our sandwiches and the bottle of Chablis, and we called him in. "You're going to work to-day," I said. He nodded his head. "They start now, at ten-thirty." "When do we eat?" "Huh! When do I eat?" He left two glasses for the bottle, and we paid him for the sandwiches and tipped him. "I'll get the plates," he said, "or bring them with you." We ate the sandwiches and drank the Chablis and watched the country out of the window. The grain was just beginning to ripen and the fields were full of poppies. The pastureland was green, and there were fine trees, and sometimes big rivers and chateaux off in the trees. At Tours we got off and bought another bottle of wine, and when we got back in the compartment the gentleman from Montana and his wife and his son, Hubert, were sitting comfortably. "Is there good swimming in Biarritz?" asked Hubert. "That boy's just crazy till he can get in the watei" his mother said. "It's pretty hard on youngsters travelling." "There's good swimming," I said. "But it's dangerous when it's rough." "Did you get a meal?" Bill asked. "We sure did. We set right there when they started to come in, and they must have just thought we were in the party. One of the waiters said something to us in French, and then they just sent three of them back." "They thought we were snappers, all right," the man said. "It certainly shows you the power of the Catholic Church. It's a pity you boys ain't Catholics. You could get a meal, then, all right." "I am," I said. "That's what makes me so sore." Finally at a quarter past four we had lunch. Bill had been rather difficult at the last. He buttonholed a priest who was coming back with one of the returning streams of pilgrims. "When do us Protestants get a chance to eat, father?" "I don't know anything about it. Haven't you got tickets?" "It's enough to make a man join the Klan," Bill said. The priest looked back at him. Inside the dining-car the waiters served the fifth successive table d'h?te meal. The waiter who served us was soaked through. His white jacket was purple under the arms. "He must drink a lot of wine." "Or wear purple undershirts." "Let's ask him." "No. He's too tired." The train stopped for half an hour at Bordeaux and we went out through the station for a little walk. There was not time to get in to the town. Afterward we passed through the Landes and watched the sun set. There were wide fire-gaps cut through the pines, and you could look up them like avenues and see wooded hills way off. About seven-thirty we had dinner and watched the country through the open window in the diner. It was all sandy pine country full of heather. There were little clearings with houses in them, and once in a while we passed a sawmill. It got dark and we could feel the country hot and sandy and dark outside of the window, and about nine o'clock we got into Bayonne. The man and his wife and Hubert all shook hands with us. They were going on to LaNegresse to change for Biarritz. "Well, I hope you have lots of luck," he said. "Be careful about those bull-fights." "Maybe we'll see you at Biarritz," Hubert said. We got off with our bags and rod-cases and passed through the dark station and out to the lights and the line of cabs and hotel buses. There, standing with the hotel runners, was Robert Cohn. He did not see us at first. Then he started forward. "Hello, Jake. Have a good trip?" "Fine," I said. "This is Bill Gorton." "How are you?" "Come on," said Robert. "I've got a cab." He was a little near-sighted. I had never noticed it before. He was looking at Bill, trying to make him out. He was shy, too. "We'll go up to my hotel. It's all right. It's quite nice." We got into the cab, and the cabman put the bags up on the seat beside him and climbed up and cracked his whip, and we drove over the dark bridge and into the town. "I'm awfully glad to meet you," Robert said to Bill. "I've heard so much about you from Jake and I've read your books. Did you get my line, Jake?" The cab stopped in front of the hotel and we all got out and went in. It was a nice hotel, and the people at the desk were very cheerful, and we each had a good small room. 莱杜对小子弗朗西斯的拳击赛于六月二十日夜间举行。是一场精彩的拳击赛。比赛的第二天早晨,我收到罗伯特.科恩从昂代寄来的信。信中写道,他的生活非常平静:游泳,有时玩玩高尔夫球,经常打桥牌。昂代的海滨特别美,但是他急不及待地要钓鱼去。问我什么时候到那里。如果我给他买到双丝钓线的话,等我去了就把钱还给我。 同一天上午,我在编辑部写信告诉科恩,我和比尔将于二十五日离开巴黎,如有变化另行电告,并约他在巴荣纳会面,然后可以从那里搭长途汽车翻山到潘普洛纳。同一天晚上七点左右,我路经“雅士”,进去找迈克尔和勃莱特。他们不在,我就跑到“丁戈”。他们在里面酒吧柜前坐着。 “你好,亲爱的。”勃莱特伸出手来。“你好,杰克,”迈克说。“现在我明白昨晚我醉了。”“嘿,可不,”勃莱特说。“真丢人。”“嗨,”迈克说,“你什么时候到西班牙去?我们跟你一块儿去行吗?” “那再好不过了。” “你真的不嫌弃我们?你知道,我去过潘普洛纳。勃莱特非常想去。你们不会把我们当作累赘吧?” “别胡说。” “你知道,我有点醉了。不醉我也不会这样问你。你肯定愿意吧?” “别问了,迈克尔,”勃莱特说。“现在他怎么能说不愿意呢?以后我再问他。” “你不反对吧,是不是?” “如果你不是存心要我恼火,就别再问了。我和比尔在二十五日早晨动身。” “哟,比尔在哪儿?”勃莱特问。 “他上香蒂利跟朋友吃饭去了。” “他是个好人,” “是个大好人,”迈克说。“是的,你知道。” “你不会记得他了,”勃莱特说。 “记得。我完全记得。听着,杰克,我们二十五日晚上走。勃莱特早上起不来,” “当真起不来!” “要是我们收到了汇款,你又不反对的话。”“钱肯定能汇到。我来去办。”“告诉我,要叫寄来什么钓鱼用具。”“弄两三根带卷轴的钓竿,还有钓线,一些蝇形钩。” “我不想钓鱼,”勃莱特插嘴说。 “那么弄两根钓竿就行了,比尔用不着买了。” “好,”迈克说。“我给管家的打个电报。” “太好了,”勃莱特说。“西班牙!我们一定会玩得非常痛快。” “二十五号。星期几?” “星期六。” “我们就得准备了。” “嗨,”迈克说,“我要理发去。” “我必须洗个澡,”勃莱特说。“陪我走到旅馆去,杰克。乖乖的听话啊。” “我们住的这家旅馆是再妙不过的了,”迈克说。“我看象是家妓院!” “我们一到,就把旅行包寄存在‘丁戈’。旅馆人员问我们开房间是不是只要半天。听说我们要在旅馆过夜,他们乐得够呛。” “我相信这旅馆是家妓院,”迈克说。“我哪能不知道。” “哼,别叨叨了,快去把头发理理。” 迈克走了。我和勃莱特继续坐在酒吧柜边。 “再来一杯?” “行吧。” “我需要喝点,”勃莱特说。 我们走在迪兰伯路上。 “我这次回来后一直没见到你,”勃莱特说。 “是的。” “你好吗,杰克?” “很好。”勃莱特看着我。“我说,”她说,“这次旅行罗伯特.科恩也去吗?“去。怎么啦?” “你想这是不是会使他多少感到难堪?” “为什么会这样?” “你看我到圣塞瓦斯蒂安是和谁一起去的?” “恭喜你了,”我说。 我们往前走着。 “你说这话干吗?” “不知道。你要我说什么?” 我们向前走,拐了一个弯。 “他表现得很不错。他后来变得有点乏味。” “是吗?” “我原以为这对他会有好处。” “你大可以搞社会公益事业。” “别这样恶劣。” “不敢。” “你真的不知道?” “不知道,”我说。“也许我没有想起过。” “你想这一来会不会使他过于难堪?” “那得由他来决定,”我说。“写信告诉他,你也要去。他可以随时决定不去的嘛。” “我就写信,让他来得及退出这次旅行。” 一直到六月二十四日晚上,我才再次见到勃莱特。 “科恩回信了吗?” “当然。他对这次旅行可热心哪。” “我的上帝!” “我自己也觉得这事实在奇怪。” “他说他急不及待地要看看我。” “他会不会想你是单独去的?” “不会。我告诉他我们大伙儿一起去。迈克尔和我们大家。” “他可真不同凡响。” “可不!” 他们预期钱将在第二天汇来。我们约好在潘普洛纳会面。他们准备直接到圣塞瓦斯蒂安,在那里搭火车前去。我们要在潘普洛纳的蒙托亚旅馆会师。如果他们迟至星期一还不到达,我们就自行朝北到山区的布尔戈特,开始钓鱼。有长途汽车通往布尔戈特。我写了一份行程计划,好让他们跟着我们来。 我和比尔乘早车离开道赛车站。天气晴朗,不太热,一出城就是一派悦目的田园风光。我们走进后面的餐车吃早饭。离开餐车时,我跟乘务员索取第一批就餐券。 “前四批都发完,只有第五批了。” “这是怎么搞的?” 在那次列车上,午饭一向最多只供应两批,而且每批都有不少座位。 “都预订完了,”餐车乘务员说。“第五批在三点半供应。” “这问题严重了,”我对比尔说。 “给他十法郎。” “给,”我说。“我们想在第一批用餐。” 乘务员把十法郎放进口袋。“谢谢您,”他说。“我劝先生们买点三明治。头四批的座位在铁路办事处就预订出去了。” “你前途无量,老兄,”比尔用英语对他说。“要是给你五法郎,我想你大概会建议我们跳车了。” “Comment?” “见鬼去吧!”比尔说。“做点三明治,再来瓶酒。你跟他说,杰克。” “送到隔壁车厢。”我详细告诉他我们的座位在哪里。 我们的单间里还有一对夫妇和他们的小儿子。 “我看你们是美国人,对不?”男人问。“旅途愉快吗?” “非常愉快,”比尔说。 “你们做对了。旅行得趁年轻。我和孩子他妈早就打算到欧洲来,但是却迟迟没有走成。” “如果你真想,十年前就能来了,”他妻子说。“你老是说什么‘先在美国观光’!不管你怎么看,我可以说我们观光过的地方倒是不少了。” “嗨,在这列车上有好多美国人,”男人说。“他们来自俄亥俄州的达顿,占了七个车厢。他们到罗马朝了圣,现在去比亚里茨和卢尔德。” “原来他们是这号人。朝圣信徒。该死的清教徒,”比尔说。 “你们两位年轻人是美国的什么地方人?” “我是堪萨斯城人,”我说。“他是芝加哥人。” “你们俩都去比亚里茨?” “不。我们到西班牙去钓鱼。” “哦,我自己向来不喜欢这个。可在我的家乡有很多人爱好。我们蒙大拿州有几个满好的钓鱼场所。我同孩子们去过,但是从来不感兴趣。” “你那几回出去,可也没少钓鱼啊,”他妻子说。 他朝我们眨眨眼睛。 “你知道娘儿们是什么回事。见到一罐酒或是一箱啤酒,她们就大惊小怪,认为天要塌下来了。” “男人才那样哩, ” 他妻子对我们说。她安详地捋捋平她膝部的裙子下摆。“为了讨好他,我投票反对禁酒,因为我喜欢在家里喝一点啤酒,可他竞用这副样子说话。这种人竟能讨到老婆,真是怪事。” “喂,”比尔说,“那帮清教徒把餐车给包了,要占用到下午三点半,你知不知道?” “你说什么?他们不会干出这等事来的。” “你去试试找两个座吧。” “唷,孩子他妈,看样子我们还是回去再吃顿早饭的好。” 她站起来,整整衣裙。 “请你们照看一下我们的东西好吗?走吧,休伯特。” 他们一行三人到餐车去了。他们走了不一会儿,茶房穿过车厢通知第一批用餐,那批信徒和他们中的几位神父,开始结队通过走廊。我们的朋友及其一家没有回来。一名侍音端着三明治和一瓶夏布利白葡萄酒从我们这节车厢的走廊上走过,我们招呼他进来。 “今天你有的是活儿干啦,”我说。 他点点头。“现在十点半,他们开始了。” “我们什么时候能吃上?” “哼!我什么时候能吃上?”他放下酒瓶外加两个杯子,我们付了三明治的钱,给了小费。 “一会儿我来拿盘子,”他说,“要不你们顺手给捎过来。” 我们一边吃三明治、喝夏布利酒,一边观赏窗外的乡间风光。庄稼开始成熟,地里盛开着罂粟花。绿茸茸的牧场,如画的树林。时而闪过大河和掩映在树林之中的古堡。 在图尔我们下车买了一瓶酒。等我们回到单间,从蒙大拿来的先生和他妻子以及儿子休伯特已经舒舒服服地坐在里面了。 “在比亚里茨有好浴场吗?”休伯特问。 “这孩子不泡在水里就象着了魔一样,”他母亲说。“这么大的孩子出门旅行也真够呛。” “在那里游泳可好哩,”我说。“不过有风浪的时候很危险。” “你们吃到饭了?”比尔问。 “当然吃过了。他们开始进去的时候,我们已经坐好了,他们准以为我们是同伙。一个侍者跟我们说了几句法语,他们就打发其中的三个人回去了。” “他们以为我们是磕头虫呢,”那个男的说。“由此可见天主教会的权势。可惜你们两位不是天主教徒。不然你们就吃上饭了。” “我是天主教徒,”我说。“就因为这样,我才感到这么恼火。” 等到四点一刻,我们才吃上午饭。比尔最后发火了。他拦住了一位领着一行吃完饭的清教徒往回走的神父。 “什么时候能轮上我们这些新教徒吃饭,神父?” “这件事我一点也不清楚。你拿到就餐券没有?” “这种行径足以逼一个人去投奔三K党,”比尔说。神父回头盯了他一眼。 在餐车里,侍者们供应第五批公司菜。给我们端菜的那名侍者被汗水湿透了。他白外套的腋窝处染成了紫红色。 “他一定是喝了很多葡萄酒。” “要不他里头穿着一件紫红色的汗衫。” “我们来问问他。” “别问啦。他太累了。” 火车在波尔多停半个钟头,我们下车在车站上溜达了一下。进城可来不及了。后来列车穿过兰兹省,我们观看日落。松林中开出一道道宽阔的防火带,望过去象一条条大街,远方尽头处是覆盖着树木的山丘。我们七点半左右吃晚饭,在餐车里,从敞开的窗户了望原野。这是一片长着松树的沙地,长满了石南。有几小块空地上座落着几座房屋,偶尔驶过一个锯木厂。天黑下来了,但我们仍能感觉到窗外伸展着一片燠热、多沙而黑暗的土地。九点左右,我们开进巴荣纳。那对夫妇和休伯特一一同我们握手。他们要继续前行,到拉内格里斯镇转车去比亚里茨。 “好,希望你们一切顺利,”男的说。 “在那里看斗牛要多加小心。” “在比亚里茨我们也许还能见面,”休伯特说。我们背着旅行包和钓竿袋下了车,穿过昏暗的车站,走上明亮的广场,那里排着一列出租马车和旅馆的接客公共汽车。罗伯特.科恩在旅馆接待员的人群里站着。他起初没有看见我们。后来他才走上前来。 “嗨,杰克。旅途愉快吗?” “很好,”我说。“这位是比尔.格伦迪。” “你好?” “走吧,”罗伯特说。“我雇了一辆马车。”他有点近视。过去我从没注意到。他紧盯着比尔,想看个清楚。他也感到不好意思。 “都到我住的旅馆去吧。旅馆还说得过去。相当不错。” 我们上了马车,车夫把旅行包放在他身旁的座位上,爬上驾驶座,抽了个响鞭,车子驶过黑洞洞的桥,进了城。 “我见到你实在太高兴了,”罗伯特对比尔说。“杰克对我讲过你很多情况,我还读过你的那几本书。你把我的钓线带来了没有,杰克?” 马车在旅馆门前停下,我们全都下车走进旅馆。旅馆很舒适,柜台上的接待员非常和蔼可亲。我们每人弄到了一个舒适的小房间。 Chapter 10 In the morning it was bright, and they were sprinkling the streets of the town, and we all had breakfast in a café. Bayonne is a nice town. It is like a very clean Spanish town and it is on a big river. Already, so early in the morning, it was very hot on the bridge across the river. We walked out on the bridge and then took a walk through the town. I was not at all sure Mike's rods would come from Scotland in time, so we hunted a tackle store and finally bought a rod for Bill up-stairs over a drygoods store. The man who sold the tackle was out, and we had to wait for him to come back. Finally he came in, and we bought a pretty good rod cheap, and two landing-nets. We went out into the street again and took a look at the cathedral. Cohn made some remark about it being a very good example of something or other, I forget what. It seemed like a nice cathedral, nice and dim, like Spanish churches. Then we went up past the old fort and out to the local Syndicat d'Initiative office, where the bus was supposed to start from. There they told us the bus service did not start until the 1st of July. We found out at the tourist office what we ought to pay for a motor-car to Pamplona and hired one at a big garage just around the corner from the Municipal Theatre for four hundred francs. The car was to pick us up at the hotel in forty minutes, and we stopped at the café 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 café. 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 café. But we had to go to the hotel to get our bags packed and pay the bill. We paid for the beers, we matched and I think Cohn paid, and went up to the hotel. It was only sixteen francs apiece for Bill and me, with ten per cent added for the service, and we had the bags sent down and waited for Robert Cohn. While we were waiting I saw a cockroach on the parquet floor that must have been at least three inches long. I pointed him out to Bill and then put my shoe on him. We agreed he must have just come in from the garden. It was really an awfully clean hotel. Cohn came down, finally, and we all went out to the car. It was a big, closed car, with a driver in a white duster with blue collar and cuffs, and we had him put the back of the car down. He piled in the bags and we started off up the street and out of the town. We passed some lovely gardens and had a good look back at the town, and then we were out in the country, green and rolling, and the road climbing all the time. We passed lots of Basques with oxen, or cattle, hauling carts along the road, and nice farmhouses, low roofs, and all white-plastered. In the Basque country the land all looks very rich and green and the houses and villages look well-off and clean. Every village had a pelota court and on some of them kids were playing in the hot sun. There were signs on the walls of the churches saying it was forbidden to play pelota against them, and the houses in the villages had red tiled roofs, and then the road turned off and commenced to climb and we were going way up close along a hillside, with a valley below and hills stretched off back toward the sea. You couldn't see the sea. It was too far away. You could see only hills and more hills, and you knew where the sea was. We crossed the Spanish frontier. There was a little stream and a bridge, and Spanish carabineers, with patent-leather Bonaparte hats, and short guns on their backs, on one side, and on the other fat Frenchmen in kepis and mustaches. They only opened one bag and took the passports in and looked at them. There was a general store and inn on each side of the line. The chauffeur had to go in and fill out some papers about the car and we got out and went over to the stream to see if there were any trout. Bill tried to talk some Spanish to one of the carabineers, but it did not go very well. Robert Cohn asked, pointing with his finger, if there were any trout in the stream, and the carabineer said yes, but not many. I asked him if he ever fished, and he said no, that he didn't care for it. Just then an old man with long, sunburned hair and beard, and clothes that looked as though they were made of gunny-sacking, came striding up to the bridge. He was carrying a long staff, and he had a kid slung on his back, tied by the four legs, the head hanging down. The carabineer waved him back with his sword. The man turned without saying anything, and started back up the white road into Spain. "What's the matter with the old one?" I asked. "He hasn't got any passport." I offered the guard a cigarette. He took it and thanked me. "What will he do?" I asked. The guard spat in the dust. "Oh, he'll just wade across the stream." "Do you have much smuggling?" "Oh," he said, "they go through." The chauffeur came out, folding up the papers and putting them in the inside pocket of his coat. We all got in the car and it started up the white dusty road into Spain. For a while the country was much as it had been; then, climbing all the time, we crossed the top of a Col, the road winding back and forth on itself, and then it was really Spain. There were long brown mountains and a few pines and far-off forests of beech-trees on some of the mountainsides. The road went along the summit of the Col and then dropped down, and the driver had to honk, and slow up, and turn out to avoid running into two donkeys that were sleeping in the road. We came down out of the mountains and through an oak forest, and there were white cattle grazing in the forest. Down below there were grassy plains and clear streams, and then we crossed a stream and went through a gloomy little village, and started to climb again. We climbed up and up and crossed another high Col and turned along it, and the road ran down to the right, and we saw a whole new range of mountains off to the south, all brown and baked-looking and furrowed in strange shapes. After a while we came out of the mountains, and there were trees along both sides of the road, and a stream and ripe fields of grain, and the road went on, very white and straight ahead, and then lifted to a little rise, and off on the left was a hill with an old castle, with buildings close around it and a field of grain going right up to the walls and shifting in the wind. I was up in front with the driver and I turned around. Robert Cohn was asleep, but Bill looked and nodded his head. Then we crossed a wide plain, and there was a big river off on the right shining in the sun from between the line of trees, and away off you could see the plateau of Pamplona rising out of the plain, and the walls of the city, and the great brown cathedral, and the broken skyline of the other churches. In back of the plateau were the mountains, and every way you looked there were other mountains, and ahead the road stretched out white across the plain going toward Pamplona. We came into the town on the other side of the plateau, the road slanting up steeply and dustily with shade-trees on both sides, and then levelling out through the new part of town they are building up outside the old walls. We passed the bull-ring, high and white and concrete-looking in the sun, and then came into the big square by a side street and stopped in front of the Hotel 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 down-stairs in the dining-room for lunch. The driver stayed for lunch, too, and afterward we paid him and he started back to Bayonne. There are two dining-rooms in the Montoya. One is up-stairs on the second floor and looks out on the square. The other is down one floor below the level of the square and has a door that opens on the back street that the bulls pass along when they run through the streets early in the morning on their way to the ring. It is always cool in the down-stairs dining-room and we had a very good lunch. The first meal in Spain was always a shock with the hors d'ceuvres, an egg course, two meat courses, vegetables, salad, and dessert and fruit. You have to drink plenty of wine to get it all down. Robert Cohn tried to say he did not want any of the second meat course, but we would not interpret for him, and so the waitress brought him something else as a replacement, a plate of cold meats, I think. Cohn had been rather nervous ever since we had met at Bayonne. He did not know whether we knew Brett had been with him at San Sebastian, and it made him rather awkward. "Well," I said, "Brett and Mike ought to get in to-night." "I'm not sure they'll come," Cohn said. "Why not?" Bill said. "Of course they'll come." "They're always late," I said. "I rather think they're not coming," Robert Cohn said. He said it with an air of superior knowledge that irritated both of us. "I'll bet you fifty pesetas they're here to-night," Bill said. He always bets when he is angered, and so he usually bets foolishly. "I'll take it," Cohn said. "Good. You remember it, Jake. Fifty pesetas." "I'll remember it myself," Bill said. I saw he was angry and wanted to smooth him down. "It's a sure thing they'll come," I said. "But maybe not tonight." "Want to call it off?" Cohn asked. "No. Why should I? Make it a hundred if you like." "All right. I'll take that." "That's enough," I said. "Or you'll have to make a book and give me some of it." "I'm satisfied," Cohn said. He smiled. "You'll probably win it back at bridge, anyway." "You haven't got it yet," Bill said. We went out to walk around under the arcade to the Café Irufla for coffee. Cohn said he was going over and get a shave. "Say," Bill said to me, "have I got any chance on that bet?" "You've got a rotten chance. They've never been on time anywhere. If their money doesn't come it's a cinch they won't get in tonight." "I was sorry as soon as I opened my mouth. But I had to call him. He's all right, I guess, but where does he get this inside stuff? Mike and Brett fixed it up with us about coming down here." I saw Cohn coming over across the square. "Here he comes." "Well, let him not get superior and Jewish." "The barber shop's closed," Cohn said. "It's not open till four." We had coffee at the Iru?a, sitting in comfortable wicker chairs looking out from the cool of the arcade at the big square. After a while Bill went to write some letters and Cohn went over to the barber-shop. It was still closed, so he decided to go up to the hotel and get a bath, and I sat out in front of the café and then went for a walk in the town. It was very hot, but I kept on the shady side of the streets and went through the market and had a good time seeing the town again. I went to the Ayuntamiento and found the old gentleman who subscribes for the bull-fight tickets for me every year, and he had gotten the money I sent him from Paris and renewed my subscriptions, so that was all set. He was the archivist, and all the archives of the town were in his office. That has nothing to do with the story. Anyway, his office had a green baize door and a big wooden door, and when I went out I left him sitting among the archives that covered all the walls, and I shut both the doors, and as I went out of the building into the street the porter stopped me to brush off my coat. "You must have been in a motor-car," he said. The back of the collar and the upper part of the shoulders were gray with dust. "From Bayonne." "Well, well," he said. "I knew you were in a motor-car from the way the dust was." So I gave him two copper coins. At the end of the street I saw the cathedral and walked up toward it. The first time I ever saw it I thought the facade was ugly but I liked it now. I went inside. It was dim and dark and the pillars went high up, and there were people praying, and it smelt of incense, and there were some wonderful big windows. I knelt and started to pray and prayed for everybody I thought of, Brett and Mike and Bill and Robert Cohn and myself, and all the bull-fighters, separately for the ones I liked, and lumping all the rest, then I prayed for myself again, and while I was praying for myself I found I was getting sleepy, so I prayed that the bull-fights would be good, and that it would be a fine fiesta, and that we would get some fishing. I wondered if there was anything else I might pray foi and I thought I would like to have some money, so I prayed that I would make a lot of money, and then I started to think how I would make it, and thinking of making money reminded me of the count, and I started wondering about where he was, and regretting I hadn't seen him since that night in Montmartre, and about something funny Brett told me about him, and as all the time I was kneeling with my forehead on the wood in front of me, and was thinking of myself as praying, I was a little ashamed, and regretted that I was such a rotten Catholic, but realized there was nothing I could do about it, at least for a while, and maybe never, but that anyway it was a grand religion, and I only wished I felt religious and maybe I would the next time; and then I was out in the hot sun on the steps of the cathedral, and the forefingers and the thumb of my right hand were still damp, and I felt them dry in the sun. The sunlight was hot and hard, and I crossed over beside some buildings, and walked back along sidestreets to the hotel. At dinner that night we found that Robert Cohn had taken a bath, had had a shave and a haircut and a shampoo, and something put on his hair afterward to make it stay down. He was nervous, and I did not try to help him any. The train was due in at nine o'clock from San Sebastian, and, if Brett and Mike were coming, they would be on it. At twenty minutes to nine we were not half through dinner. Robert Cohn got up from the table and said he would go to the station. I said I would go with him, just to devil him. Bill said he would be damned if he would leave his dinner. I said we would be right back. We walked to the station. I was enjoying Cohn's nervousness. I hoped Brett would be on the train. At the station the train was late, and we sat on a baggage-truck and waited outside in the dark. I have never seen a man in civil life as nervous as Robert Cohn--nor as eager. I was enjoying it. It was lousy to enjoy it, but I felt lousy. Cohn had a wonderful quality of bringing out the worst in anybody. After a while we heard the train-whistle way off below on the other side of the plateau, and then we saw the headlight coming up the hill. We went inside the station and stood with a crowd of people just back of the gates, and the train came in and stopped, and everybody started coming out through the gates. They were not in the crowd. We waited till everybody had gone through and out of the station and gotten into buses, or taken cabs, or were walking with their friends or relatives through the dark into the town. "I knew they wouldn't come," Robert said. We were going back to the hotel. "I thought they might," I said. Bill was eating fruit when we came in and finishing a bottle of wine. "Didn't come, eh?" "No." "Do you mind if I give you that hundred pesetas in the morning, Cohn?" Bill asked. "I haven't changed any money here yet." "Oh, forget about it," Robert Cohn said. "Let's bet on something else. Can you bet on bull-fights?" "You could," Bill said, "but you don't need to." "It would be like betting on the war," I said. "You don't need any economic interest." "I'm very curious to see them," Robert said. Montoya came up to our table. He had a telegram in his hand. "It's for you." He handed it to me. It read: "Stopped night San Sebastian." "It's from them," I said. I put it in my pocket. Ordinarily I should have handed it over. "They've stopped over in San Sebastian," I said. "Send their regards to you." Why I felt that impulse to devil him I do not know. Of course I do know. I was blind, unforgivingly jealous of what had happened to him. The fact that I took it as a matter of course did not alter that any. I certainly did hate him. I do not think I ever really hated him until he had that little spell of superiority at lunch--that and when he went through all that barbering. So I put the telegram in my pocket. The telegram came to me, anyway. "Well," I said. "We ought to pull out on the noon bus for Burguete. They can follow us if they get in to-morrow night." There were only two trains up from San Sebastian, an early morning train and the one we had just met. "That sounds like a good idea," Cohn said. "The sooner we get on the stream the better." "It's all one to me when we start," Bill said. "The sooner the better." We sat in the Irufla for a while and had coffee and then took a little walk out to the bull-ring and across the field and under the trees at the edge of the cliff and looked down at the river in the dark, and I turned in early. Bill and Cohn stayed out in the café quite late, I believe, because I was asleep when they came in. In the morning I bought three tickets for the bus to Burguete. It was scheduled to leave at two o'clock. There was nothing earlier. I was sitting over at the Irufla reading the papers when I saw Robert Cohn coming across the square. He came up to the table and sat down in one of the wicker chairs. "This is a comfortable café," 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 café. The old man there speaks German and English." "The Café Suizo." "That's it. He seems like a nice old fellow. I think it's a better café than this one." "It's not so good in the daytime," I said. "Too hot. By the way, I got the bus tickets." "I'm not going up to-day. You and Bill go on ahead." "I've got your ticket." "Give it to me. I'll get the money back." "It's five pesetas." Robert Cohn took out a silver five-peseta piece and gave it to me. "I ought to stay," he said. "You see I'm afraid there's some sort of misunderstanding." "Why," I said. "They may not come here for three or four days now if they start on parties at San Sebastian." "That's just it," said Robert. "I'm afraid they expected to meet me at San Sebastian, and that's why they stopped over." "What makes you think that?" "Well, I wrote suggesting it to Brett." "Why in hell didn't you stay there and meet them, then?" I started to say, but I stopped. I thought that idea would come to him by itself, but I do not believe it ever did. He was being confidential now and it was giving him pleasure to be able to talk with the understanding that I knew there was something between him and Brett. "Well, Bill and I will go up right after lunch," I said. "I wish I could go. We've been looking forward to this fishing all winter." He was being sentimental about it. "But I ought to stay. I really ought. As soon as they come I'll bring them right up." "Let's find Bill." "I want to go over to the barber-shop." "See you at lunch." I found Bill up in his room. He was shaving. "Oh, yes, he told me all about it last night," Bill said. "He's a great little confider. He said he had a date with Brett at San Sebastian." "The lying bastard!" "Oh, no," said Bill. "Don't get sore. Don't get sore at this stage of the trip. How did you ever happen to know this fellow anyway?" "Don't rub it in." Bill looked around, half-shaved, and then went on talking into the mirror while he lathered his face. "Didn't you send him with a letter to me in New York last winter? Thank God, I'm a travelling man. Haven't you got some more Jewish friends you could bring along?" He rubbed his chin with his thumb, looked at it, and then started scraping again. "You've got some fine ones yourself." "Oh, yes. I've got some darbs. But not alongside of this Robert Cohn. The funny thing is he's nice, too. I like him. But he's just so awful." "He can be damn nice." "I know it. That's the terrible part." I laughed. "Yes. Go on and laugh," said Bill. "You weren't out with him last night until two o'clock." "Was he very bad?" "Awful. What's all this about him and Brett, anyway? Did she ever have anything to do with him?" He raised his chin up and pulled it from side to side. "Sure. She went down to San Sebastian with him." "What a damn-fool thing to do. Why did she do that?" "She wanted to get out of town and she can't go anywhere alone. She said she thought it would be good for him." "What bloody-fool things people do. Why didn't she go off with some of her own people? Or you?"--he slurred that over--"or me? Why not me?" He looked at his face carefully in the glass, put a big dab of lather on each cheek-bone. "It's an honest face. It's a face any woman would be safe with." "She'd never seen it." "She should have. All women should see it. It's a face that ought to be thrown on every screen in the country. Every woman ought to be given a copy of this face as she leaves the altar. Mothers should tell their daughters about this face. My son"--he pointed the razor at me--"go west with this face and grow up with the country." He ducked down to the bowl, rinsed his face with cold water, put on some alcohol, and then looked at himself carefully in the glass, pulling down his long upper lip. My God. he said, isn't it an awful face? He looked in the glass. "And as for this Robert Cohn," Bill said, "he makes me sick, and he can go to hell, and I'm damn glad he's staying here so we won't have him fishing with us." "You're damn right." "We're going trout-fishing. We're going trout-fishing in the Irati River, and we're going to get tight now at lunch on the wine of the country, and then take a swell bus ride." "Come on. Let's go over to the Irufla and start," I said. 早晨,天气晴朗,人们在城里街道上洒水,我们三人在一家咖啡馆里吃早饭。巴荣纳是座秀丽的城市。它很象一座一尘不染的西班牙小城,濒临一条大河。一大早,横跨大河的桥上就已经暑气逼人了。我们走上桥头,然后穿过城市走了一通。 迈克的钓竿能否按时从苏格兰捎来,我完全没有把握,因此我们寻找一家钓鱼用具商店,最后在一家绸缎店楼上给比尔买到一根。卖钓鱼用具的人出去了,我们只得等他回来。此人终于回来了,我们很便宜地买到一根相当好的钓竿,还买了两张抄网。 我们又走上街头,到大教堂去看了一下。科恩说,它是什么式教堂的一个非常出色的范例,我记不得是什么式了。这教堂看来很讲究,象西班牙教堂那样精巧而阴暗。然后我们往前走,经过那座古老的堡垒,直走到当地的旅游事业联合会的办事处,据说公共汽车就从那里启程。那里有人告诉我们,要到七月一日才开始通车。我们在这旅游处打听到雇车到潘普洛纳去的价钱,就在市剧院拐角的一个大车库里花四百法郎雇了一辆汽车。汽车将过四十分钟到旅馆来接我们。我们回到广场上我们吃早饭的那家咖啡馆,喝了一杯啤酒。天气炎热,但城里却有清晨的那种凉爽、清新的气息,坐在咖啡馆里感到心旷神怡。微风吹来,你可以感觉到这阵风是来自大海的。广场上栖息着鸽子,房屋是黄色的,象是被阳光烤焦了。我舍不得离开咖啡馆。但是我们得到旅馆去收拾行装,付帐。我们付了啤酒钱(我们抛掷硬币赌了一下,结果好象是科思会的钞),步行到旅馆。我和比尔每人只付了十六法郎,外加百分之十的服务费,我们吩咐把旅行包送下楼,等待罗伯特.科恩来。我们正等着,我看见镶木地板上有只蟑螂,至少有三英寸长。我把它指给比尔看,然后把它踩在脚下。我们都认为它是刚从花园爬进来的。这家旅馆确实是满干净的。 科恩终于下楼来了,我们一起出去向汽车走去,这是辆有篷的大汽车,司机穿一件蓝领、蓝袖口的白色风衣,我们吩咐他把后篷放下。他堆好旅行包,我们随即出发顺大街出城。我们经过几处景色优美的花园,回头久久注视市区,然后驶上青葱而起伏不平的原野,公路始终向上爬行。一路上驶过许许多多赶着牲口或牛车的巴斯克人,还有精致的农舍,屋顶很低,墙壁全部刷白。在这巴斯克地区,土地看来都很肥沃,一片翠绿,房屋和村庄看来富裕而整洁。村村有片回力球场。在有些球场上,孩子们顶着烈日在玩耍。教堂墙上挂着牌子,写着禁止往墙上打球的字样,村里的房子都盖着红瓦。接着公路拐了个弯,开始向山上攀登,我们紧靠山坡行进,下面是河谷,几座小山往后向海边伸展。这里望不到海。离此太远了。只能看见重重叠叠的山峦,但是能够估摸出大海的方向。 我们跨过西班牙国境线。这里有一条小溪和一座桥,一侧是西班牙哨兵,头戴拿破仑式漆皮三角帽,背挎短枪,另一侧是肥胖的法国兵,头戴平顶军帽,留着小胡子。他们只打开一只旅行包,把我们的护照拿进哨所去检查。在警戒线两边各有一爿杂货铺和一家小客栈。司机不得不走进哨所去填写几张汽车登记表,我们就下车到小溪边察看那里有没有鳟鱼。比尔试着和一位哨兵唠几句西班牙语,但是成绩不大好。罗伯特.科恩用手指着小溪问里面有没有鳟鱼,哨兵说有,但是不多。我问他钓过没有,他说没有,他不感兴趣。就在这时候,有个老头儿迈着大步走到桥头。他的长发和胡子被阳光晒得发了黄,衣服好象是用粗麻袋缝制的。他手拿一根长棍,背上背着一只捆绑着四条腿、耷拉着脑袋的小山羊。 哨兵挥动佩刀叫他回来。老头儿什么也没说就转身顺着白“这老头儿怎么回事?”我问。“他没有护照。”我递给哨兵一支烟。他接过去,说了声谢谢。 “他怎么办呢?”我问。 哨兵往尘土里吐了一口唾沫。 “哼,他会干脆涉水过河。” “你们这里走私的很多吗?”“哦,”他说,“经常有人越境。”司机走出来,一边把证件折好,放进上衣里面的口袋。我们全都上了车,驶上尘土飞扬的白色大道,开进西班牙。一开始,景色几乎依然如故;后来,公路绕着小山包盘旋而上,我们不停地向山上爬行,穿过丛山间的隘口,这才到了真正的西班牙。这里有绵延的褐色群山,山上长着一些松树,远方的几处山坡上,有几片山毛榉林。公路从隘口顶部穿过,然后下降,有两头毛驴躺在路中间打瞌睡,为了不致于撞上,司机不得不揿喇叭,降低车速,在路边绕过去。我们出了山,穿过一片栎树林,林中有白色牛群在吃草。下面是大草原和几条清澈的溪流,我们越过一条小溪,穿过一个幽暗的小村庄,又开始爬山。我们爬啊,爬啊,又翻过一个山脊隘口,然后顺着山势拐弯,公路向右方下降,我们看见南方展现出另一道山脉的全貌,全部呈褐色,象是被烤焦了一般,沟壑千姿百态,蔚为奇观。 一会儿,我们穿过群山,公路两侧绿树成行,有一条小溪和一片熟透了的庄稼。笔直的、白晃晃的大道直奔远方,再过去地势微微隆起,左边是一座小山,山上有座古堡,古堡周围簇拥着一批建筑群,一片庄稼随风起伏,一直伸向墙脚。我是在前面同司机坐在一起的,这时转过身来。罗伯特.科恩在打瞌睡,比尔却对我看看,并点点头。接着我们驶过一片开阔的平原,右方有条闪烁着太阳光辉的大河从树行间露出面来,潘普洛纳高地在远方的平原上升起,你可以看见城墙、褐色的大教堂以及其它教堂的参差不齐的轮廓。高地后面有山,极目四望,处处都是山,白色的公路向前伸展,跨过平原直奔潘普洛纳城。 我们驶进位于高地另一侧的城市,两侧绿树成荫的公路灰尘扑扑地陡然上升,然后下降,穿过老城墙外人们正在建设的新城区。我们路经斗牛场,这是一座高大的白色建筑,在阳光里显得很结实,我们接着从一条小巷驶进大广场,在蒙托亚旅馆门前停下。 司机帮我们卸下旅行包。有群孩子围观我们的汽车,广场上很热,树木青葱,有些旗帜悬挂在旗杆上,一圈拱廊把广场团团围住,避开阳光躲在拱廊下的阴凉处是很舒服的。蒙托亚看见我们很高兴,同我们握手,给我们安排了窗户朝广场的好房间,然后我们洗脸洗澡,收拾干净了下楼到餐厅吃午饭。司机也在这里就餐,吃完饭,我们给了他车钱,他就上路返回巴荣纳。 蒙托亚旅馆有两个餐厅。一个在二楼,俯瞰着广场。另一个比广场的平面低一层,有扇门通后街,牛群在清晨跑向斗牛场的时候,就是路经这条街的。地下餐厅一直很阴凉,我们饱餐了一顿。到西班牙的第一顿饭往往使人震惊,有好几碟冷盘小吃、一道鸡蛋做的菜、两道肉菜、几色蔬菜、凉拌生菜,还有点心和水果。要把这些都吞下肚去,必须喝大量的酒。罗伯特.科恩想说根本不要第二道肉菜,可是我们没有给他翻译,因此女侍者给他换了另一道菜,好象是一碟冷肉。科恩自从在巴荣纳跟我们会合以来,一直心神不定。他弄不清我们是否知道勃莱特在圣塞瓦斯蒂安曾经和他在一起,此事使他感到很尴尬。 “哦,”我说,“勃莱特和迈克今晚该到了。” “我看不一定来,”科恩说。 “怎么不来呢?”比尔说。“他们当然会来的。” “他们老是迟到,”我说。 “我认为他们是不会来了,”罗伯特.科恩说。 他说时带着一种比人高明的神气,把我们俩惹恼了。他们今天晚上到,我和你赌五十比塞塔,”比尔说。他一生气就打赌,所以经常赌注下得毫无道理。 “我同意,”科恩说。“好。你记住,杰克。五十比塞塔。” “我自己会记住的,”比尔说。我看他生气了,想让他消消气。 “他们肯定会来的,”我说。“但是不见得在今天晚上。” “你想反悔吗?”科恩问。 “不。为什么反悔呢?如果你愿意,就来它一百比塞塔。” “好。我同意。” “够了,”我说。“再抬上去的话,你们就得要我做中人,让我来抽头了。” “我没有意见,”科恩说。他笑了。“反正一打桥牌,你就可能把钱赢回去。” “你还没有赢到手哩,”比尔说。 我们走出门外,从拱廊下绕过去,到伊鲁涅咖啡馆去喝咖啡。科恩说他要去刮刮胡子。 “告诉我,”比尔对我说,“这次下的赌注我有希望赢吗?” “你的运气糟透了。他们到哪儿也从没准时过。如果他们的钱没汇到,他们今晚绝对到不了。” “我一张嘴,当时就懊悔了。但是我不得不激他摊牌。我看他这个人不坏,可他从哪儿得悉这内情的呢?迈克和勃莱特不是跟我们说好了要到这里来的吗?”我看见科恩从广场上在走过来。“他来了。”“噢,得让他改一改自大的毛病和犹太人的习气啦。” “理发店关着门,”科恩说。“要到四点才开。” 我们在“伊鲁涅”喝咖啡,坐在舒适的柳条椅里,从凉爽的拱廊下面朝大广场望去。一会儿之后,比尔回去写信,科恩上理发店。理发店仍然没有开门,所以他决定回旅馆去洗个澡,我呢,还在咖啡馆门前坐着,后来在城里溜达了一下。天气很热,我一直挑路的背阴一侧走,穿过市场,愉快地重新观光了这座城市。我赶到市政厅,找到每年给我预订斗牛票的那位老先生,他已经收到我从巴黎寄来的钱,续订好了票子,所以一切都安排妥当了。他是档案保管员,城里的全部档案都放在他的办公室里。这和这段故事无关。但反正他的办公室有一扇绿粗呢包的门和一扇厚实的大木门。我走出来,撇下他一人坐在排满四壁的档案柜之间,我关上这两道门,正走出大楼要上街的时候,看门人拦住了我,给我刷掉外衣上的尘土。 “你准是坐过汽车了,”他说。 领子后面和两肩都沾满了灰蒙蒙的一层尘土。 “从巴荣纳来。” “哎呀呀,”他说。“从你这身尘土我就知道你坐过汽车了。”于是我给了他两个铜币。 我看见那座大教堂就在街道尽头,就向它走去。我第一次看见这大教堂时,觉得它的外表很不顺眼,可是现在我却很喜欢它。我走进大教堂。里面阴沉而幽暗,几根柱子高高耸起,有人在做祷告,堂里散发着香火味,有几扇精彩的大花玻璃窗。我跪下开始祈祷, 为我能想起来的所有人祈祷,为勃莱特、迈克、比尔、罗伯特.科恩和我自己,为所有的斗牛士,对我爱慕的斗牛士单独一一为之祈祷,其余的就一古脑儿地放在一起,然后为自己又祈祷了一遍,但在我为自己祈祷的时候,我发觉自己昏昏欲睡,所以我就祈求这几场斗牛会是很精彩的,这次节期很出色,保佑我们能钓几次鱼。我琢磨着还有什么别的事要祈祷的,想起了我需要点钱,所以我祈求能发一笔大财,接着我开始想该怎样去挣,一想到挣钱,我就联想到伯爵,想到不知道他现在哪里,感到遗憾的是那天晚上在蒙马特一别就没有再见到他,还想起勃莱特告诉我有关他的一些可笑的事儿。这会儿我把额头靠在前面长木凳的靠背上跪着,想到自己在祈祷,就感到有点害臊,为自己是一个糟糕透顶的天主教徒而懊悔,但是意识到我自己对此毫无办法,至少在这一阵,或许永远,不过,怎么说天主教还是种伟大的宗教,但愿我有虔敬之心,或许下次来时我会有的;然后我来到灼热的阳光下,站在大教堂的台阶上,右手的食指和拇指依然湿漉漉的,我感到它们在太阳下被晒干了。阳光热辣辣的,我靠着一些建筑跨过广场,顺着小巷走回旅馆。 那晚吃晚饭时,我们发觉罗伯特.科恩已经洗过澡,刮过胡子,理了发,洗了头,并且为了使头发不翘起来,洗完后还擦了点什么油。他很紧张,我也不想宽慰他。圣塞瓦斯蒂安来的火车九点到达,如果勃莱特和迈克来的话,他们该坐这一趟。九点差二十分,我们还没有吃完一半,罗伯特.科恩就从饭桌边站起来,说他要到车站去。我存心戏弄他,就说要陪他一起去。比尔说,要他离开饭桌可得要他的命。我说我们马上就回来。 我们走到车站。我因科恩神经紧张而幸灾乐祸。我希望勃莱特在这班火车上。火车到站晚点了,我们在车站外面的黑地里,坐在推行李的手车上等着。我在非战时的生活中,从没见过一个人象罗伯特.科恩此时这么紧张,这么急切。我感到怪有趣的。这种高兴的情绪是恶劣的,可我的情绪确是很恶劣。科恩就有这种奇特的本事,他能在任何人身上唤起最丑恶的本质。 过了一会儿,我们听到远在高地另一头的下坡传来火车汽笛声,然后看见火车的前灯从山坡上一路过来。我们走进车站,和一群人一起紧挨在出站口站着,火车进站停下,旅客开始通过出站口走出来。 人群里没有他们。我们一直等到旅客全部出了站,乘上公共汽车、出租马车或者和他们的亲朋穿过黑暗朝城里走去。 “我早知道他们是不会来的,”罗伯特说。我们走回旅馆。 “我倒以为他们可能会来的,”我说。 我们走进旅馆时,比尔正在吃水果,一瓶酒快喝光了。 “没来,呃?” “是的。” “明儿早晨给你那一百比塞塔行吗,科恩?”比尔问。“我的钱还没有换呢。” “嘿,不必了,”罗伯特.科恩说。“我们赌点别的吧。斗牛赛能赌吗?” “可以嘛,”比尔说,“但是大可不必。” “这等于拿战争来打赌一样,”我说。“你不必有任何经济方面的得失心。” “我太想看斗牛了,”罗伯特说。 蒙托亚走到我门餐桌边来。他手里拿着一封电报。“是给你的。”他把电报递给我。 电文是:夜宿圣塞瓦斯蒂安。 “这是他们打来的,”我说。我把电报塞进口袋。要在平时我就给大家看了。“他们在圣塞瓦斯蒂安过夜,”我说。“他们向你们问好。” 我不知道当时是什么原因驱使我去调弄他。当然,今天我明白了。他的艳遇使我感到一种毫无理性的、跟人过不去的忌妒。尽管我把这回事看作理所当然,也无法改变自己的感触。我当时确实恨他。我看,起先我也并不真心恨他,直到他在就餐时表现出那种无所不知的样子——这还不算,还去理发、洗头、搽油什么的闹了一通。所以我把电报装进了口袋。电报反正是打给我的嘛。 “就这样吧,”我说。“我们该乘中午的公共汽车到布尔戈特去。他们要是明儿晚上到的话,可以随后再来。” 从圣塞瓦斯蒂安开来的火车只有两班,一班是清晨到,另一班就是方才我们去接的。 “这倒是个好主意,”科恩说。 “我们越早赶到河边越好。” “什么时候走对我都一样,”比尔说。“越快越好。” 我们在“伊鲁涅”坐了一会儿,喝了咖啡,然后出来走一小段路到了斗牛场,再穿过一片地,在悬崖边的树丛下俯视笼罩在黑暗之中的河流,回来后我早早就上床了。比尔和科恩在咖啡馆大概一直待到很晚,因为他们回旅馆的时候,我已经睡着了。 第二天早晨,我买了三张到布尔戈特去的公共汽车票。车子预定在两点开。没有再早的车了。我坐在“伊鲁涅”看报,只见罗伯特.科恩从广场上走过来。他走到桌边,在一把柳条椅上坐下。“这家咖啡馆很舒适,”他说。“昨晚你睡得好吗,杰克?”“睡得象死过去一样。”“我没睡好。我和比尔在外面待得也太晚了。” “你们上哪儿去啦?” “就坐在这里。等这儿打了烊,我们到另外那家咖啡馆去。那里的上了年纪的主人会讲德语和英语。” “是苏伊佐咖啡馆。” “就是那家。那老头挺好。我看那家咖啡馆比这家好。” “那边白天不怎么好,”我说。“太热了。告诉你,我已经买好车票了。” “今天我不走了。你和比尔先走吧。” “你的票我已经买了。” “给我吧,我去把钱退回来。” “五比塞塔。” 罗伯特.科恩拿出一个五比塞塔的银币给我。 “我得留下,”他说。“你知道,我担心发生了差错。” “怎么,”我说。“他们要是在圣塞瓦斯蒂安一玩起来,三四天之内是不会到这里来的。” “就是嘛,”罗伯特说。“我怕他们指望在圣塞瓦斯蒂安同我碰头,因此他们在那里歇脚。” “你怎么会这样想的?” “呃,我曾写信向勃莱特提出过。” “那你他妈为什么不留在那里接他们呢?”我正想这么说,但是把话咽下去了。我以为他会自动地想到这一点的,但是我看结果根本没有。 他这是对我讲的知心话,他知道我了解他和勃莱特的底细,所以可以对我吐吐衷肠,这使他很高兴。 “好吧,比尔和我午饭后马上就走,”我说。 “我真想去。这次钓鱼我们已经盼了整整一冬天了。”他为此很感伤。“但是我应该留下来。我真的应该。等他们一到,我马上带他们去。” “我们去找比尔吧。” “我要到理发店去。” “午饭时再见。” 我在比尔自己的房间里找到他。他在刮脸。 “哦,是的,他昨儿晚上通通告诉我了,”比尔说。“他讲起知心话来可真了不起。他说他曾和勃莱特约定在圣塞瓦斯蒂安相会。” “这个撒谎的杂种!” “啊,别这样,”比尔说。“不要发火。你别在旅行刚一开始就发火。不过你怎么认识这个家伙的?” “别提了。” 比尔的胡子刮到一半,他回头看看,然后一边在脸上抹皂沫,一边对着镜子继续讲下去。 “去年冬天你不是叫他捎信来纽约找我的吗?感谢上帝,我经常外出旅行,没有碰上。难道你没有别的犹太朋友可以带来一起旅行的?”比尔用大拇指捋捋下巴,看了一下,然后又刮起脸来。 “你自己不也有些很好的朋友嘛!” “是啊。有几个呱呱叫的。但是哪能和这位罗伯特.科恩相提并论啊,有趣的是他也很可爱。我喜欢他。不过他真叫人受不了。” “他有时候能变得满可爱。” “我知道,可怕就可怕在这里。” 我哈哈大笑起来。 “是的。笑吧,”比尔说。“昨天晚上你可没有和他在外面待到两点钟啊。” “他的情绪很坏?” “真可怕。他和勃莱特到底是怎么回事?她曾经跟他有过什么关系吗?” 他抬起下巴,用手把它朝左右转动了一下。 “当然有。她跟他一起到圣塞瓦斯蒂安去过。” “干得多愚蠢啊。她为什么这样干?” “她想离开城市待一阵,可是就她一个人,哪儿也去不成。她说她以为这样会对他有好处哩。” “一个人竞干得出这样不可思议的蠢事。她为什么不和自己的家属一起去呢?或者和你?”——他把这句一带而过——“或者和我?为什么不和我呢?”他对着镜子仔细端详自己的脸,在两侧颧骨上涂上一大摊皂沫。“这是一张诚实的面孔。这是任何女人都可以信得过的。” “她从来没有见过你这副模样。” “她应该看见过。该让所有的女人都看见。该把它在全国的每个银幕上放映。当每个女人结婚离开圣坛的时候,都应该发给一张这样的照片。做母亲的应该给她们的女儿介绍这张面孔。我的儿啊,”——他用剃刀指着我——“带着这张面孔到西部去,和祖国一起成长吧。” 他低头就着脸盆,用凉水冲洗了一下,抹上一点酒精,然后对着镜子仔细端详自己,往下扯着他那片很长的上嘴唇。 “我的上帝!”他说,“这脸蛋丑不丑?” 他对着镜子看。 “至于这个罗伯特.科恩嘛,”比尔说,“他叫我恶心。让他见鬼去吧,他留在这里我打心眼里高兴,这样我们可以不用跟他一起钓鱼了。” “你说得真对。” “我们要去钓鳟鱼。我们要到伊拉蒂河去钓鳟鱼,现在我们去吃中饭,把本地美酒喝个醉,然后上车踏上美妙的旅途。” “走吧。我们到‘伊鲁涅’去,然后动身,”我说。 Chapter 11 It was baking hot in the square when we came out after lunch with our bags and the rod-case to go to Burguete. People were on top of the bus, and others were climbing up a ladder. Bill went up and Robert sat beside Bill to save a place for me, and I went back in the hotel to get a couple of bottles of wine to take with us. When I came out the bus was crowded. Men and women were sitting on all the baggage and boxes on top, and the women all had their fans going in the sun. It certainiy was hot. Robert climbed down and I fitted into the place he had saved on the one wooden seat that ran across the top. Robert Cohn stood in the shade of the arcade waiting for us to start. A Basque with a big leather wine-bag in his lap lay across the top of the bus in front of our seat, leaning back against our legs. He offered the wine-skin to Bill and to me, and when I tipped it up to drink he imitated the sound of a klaxon motor-horn so well and so suddenly that I spilled some of the wine, and everybody laughed. He apologized and made me take another drink. He made the klaxon again a little later, and it fooled me the second time. He was very good at it. The Basques liked it. The man next to Bill was talking to him in Spanish and Bill was not getting it, so he offered the man one of the bottles of wine. The man waved it away. He said it was too hot and he had drunk too much at lunch. When Bill offered the bottle the second time he took a long drink, and then the bottle went all over that part of the bus. Every one took a drink very politely, and then they made us cork it up and put it away. They all wanted us to drink from their leather wine-bottles. They were peasants going up into the hills. Finally, after a couple more false klaxons, the bus started, and Robert Cohn waved good-by to us, and all the Basques waved goodby to him. As soon as we started out on the road outside of town it was cool. It felt nice riding high up and close under the trees. The bus went quite fast and made a good breeze, and as we went out along the road with the dust powdering the trees and down the hill, we had a fine view, back through the trees, of the town rising up from the bluff above the river. The Basque lying against my knees pointed out the view with the neck of the wine-bottle, and winked at us. He nodded his head. "Pretty nice, eh?" "These Basques are swell people," Bill said. The Basque lying against my legs was tanned the color of saddleleather. He wore a black smock like all the rest. There were wrinkles in his tanned neck. He turned around and offered his wine-bag to Bill. Bill handed him one of our bottles. The Basque wagged a forefinger at him and handed the bottle back, slapping in the cork with the palm of his hand. He shoved the wine-bag up. "Arriba! Arriba!" he said. "Lift it up." Bill raised the wine-skin and let the stream of wine spurt out and into his mouth, his head tipped back. When he stopped drinking and tipped the leather bottle down a few drops ran down his chin. "No! No!" several Basques said. "Not like that." One snatched the bottle away from the owner, who was himself about to give a demonstration. He was a young fellow and he held the wine-bottle at full arms' length and raised it high up, squeezing the leather bag with his hand so the stream of wine hissed into his mouth. He held the bag out there, the wine making a flat, hard trajectory into his mouth, and he kept on swallowing smoothly and regularly. "Hey!" the owner of the bottle shouted. "Whose wine is that?" The drinker waggled his little finger at him and smiled at us with his eyes. Then he bit the stream off sharp, made a quick lift with the wine-bag and lowered it down to the owner. He winked at us. The owner shook the wine-skin sadly. We passed through a town and stopped in front of the posada, and the driver took on several packages. Then we started on again, and outside the town the road commenced to mount. We were going through farming country with rocky hills that sloped down into the fields. The grain-fields went up the hillsides. Now as we went higher there was a wind blowing the grain. The road was white and dusty, and the dust rose under the wheels and hung in the air behind us. The road climbed up into the hills and left the rich grain-fields below. Now there were only patches of grain on the bare hillsides and on each side of the water-courses. We turned sharply out to the side of the road to give room to pass to a long string of six mules, following one after the other, 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 arriero driving the mules leaned back and put on the thick wooden brakes as we passed. Up here the country was quite barren and the hills were rocky and hard-baked clay furrowed by the rain. We came around a curve into a town, and on both sides opened out a sudden green valley. A stream went through the centre of the town and fields of grapes touched the houses. The bus stopped in front of a posada and many of the passengers got down, and a lot of the baggage was unstrapped from the roof from under the big tarpaulins and lifted down. Bill and I got down and went into the posada. There was a low, dark room with saddles and harness, and hay-forks made of white wood, and clusters of canvas rope-soled shoes and hams and slabs of bacon and white garlics and long sausages hanging from the roof. It was cool and dusky, and we stood in front of a long wooden counter with two women behind it serving drinks. Behind them were shelves stacked with supplies and goods. We each had an aguardiente and paid forty centimes for the two drinks. I gave the woman fifty centimes to make a tip, and she gave me back the copper piece, thinking I had misunderstood the price. Two of our Basques came in and insisted on buying a drink. So they bought a drink and then we bought a drink, and then they slapped us on the back and bought another drink. Then we bought, and then we all went out into the sunlight and the heat, and climbed back on top of the bus. There was plenty of room now for every one to sit on the seat, and the Basque who had been lying on the tin roof now sat between us. The woman who had been serving drinks came out wiping her hands on her apron and talked to somebody inside the bus. Then the driver came out swinging two flat leather mailpouches and climbed up, and everybody waving we started off. The road left the green valley at once, and we were up in the hills again. Bill and the wine-bottle Basque were having a conversation. A man leaned over from the other side of the seat and asked in English: "You're Americans?" "Sure." "I been there," he said. "Forty years ago." He was an old man, as brown as the others, with the stubble of a white beard. "How was it?" "What you say?" "How was America?" "Oh, I was in California. It was fine." "Why did you leave?" "What you say?" "Why did you come back here?" "Oh! I come back to get married. I was going to go back but my wife she don't like to travel. Where you from?" "Kansas City." "I been there," he said. "I been in Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City, Denver, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City." He named them carefully. "How long were you over?" "Fifteen years. Then I come back and got married." "Have a drink?" "All right," he said. "You can't get this in America, eh?" "There's plenty if you can pay for it." "What you come over here for?" "We're going to the fiesta at Pamplona." "You like the bull-fights?" "Sure. Don't you?" "Yes," he said. "I guess I like them." Then after a little: "Where you go now?" "Up to Burguete to fish." "Well," he said, "I hope you catch something." He shook hands and turned around to the back seat again. The other Basques had been impressed. He sat back comfortably and smiled at me when I turned around to look at the country. But the effort of talking American seemed to have tired him. He did not say anything after that. The bus climbed steadily up the road. The country was barren and rocks stuck up through the clay. There was no grass beside the road. Looking back we could see the country spread out below. Far back the fields were squares of green and brown on the hillsides. Making the horizon were the brown mountains. They were strangely shaped. As we climbed higher the horizon kept changing. As the bus ground slowly up the road we could see other mountains coming up in the south. Then the road came over the crest, flattened out, and went into a forest. It was a forest of cork oaks, and the sun came through the trees in patches, and there were cattle grazing back in the trees. We went through the forest and the road came out and turned along a rise of land, and out ahead of us was a rolling green plain, with dark mountains beyond it. These were not like the brown, heat-baked mountains we had left behind. These were wooded and there were clouds coming down from them. The green plain stretched off. It was cut by fences and the white of the road showed through the trunks of a double line of trees that crossed the plain toward the north. As we came to the edge of the rise we saw the red roofs and white houses of Burguete ahead strung out on the plain, and away off on the shoulder of the first dark mountain was the gray metal-sheathed roof of the monastery of Roncesvalles. "There's Roncevaux," I said. "Where?" "Way off there where the mountain starts." "It's cold up here," Bill said. "It's high," I said. "It must be twelve hundred metres." "It's awful cold," Bill said. The bus levelled down onto the straight line of road that ran to Burguete. We passed a crossroads and crossed a bridge over a stream. The houses of Burguete were along both sides of the road. There were no side-streets. We passed the church and the schoolyard, and the bus stopped. We got down and the driver handed down our bags and the rod-case. A carabineer in his cocked hat and yellow leather cross-straps came up. "What's in there?" he pointed to the rod-case. I opened it and showed him. He asked to see our fishing permits and I got them out. He looked at the date and then waved us on. "Is that all right?" I asked. "Yes. Of course." We went up the street, past the whitewashed stone houses, families sitting in their doorways watching us, to the inn. The fat woman who ran the inn came out from the kitchen and shook hands with us. She took off her spectacles, wiped them, and put them on again. It was cold in the inn and the wind was starting to blow outside. The woman sent a girl up-stairs with us to show the room. There were two beds, a washstand, a clothes-chest, and a big, framed steel-engraving of Nuestra Se?ora de Roncesvalles. The wind was blowing against the shutters. The room was on the north side of the inn. We washed, put on sweaters, and came down-stairs into the dining-room. It had a stone floor, low ceiling, and was oakpanelled. The shutters were all up and it was so cold you could see your breath. "My God!" said Bill. "It can't be this cold to-morrow. I'm not going to wade a stream in this weather." There was an upright piano in the far corner of the room beyond the wooden tables and Bill went over and started to play. "I got to keep warm," he said. I went out to find the woman and ask her how much the room and board was. She put her hands under her apron and looked away from me. "Twelve pesetas." "Why, we only paid that in Pamplona." She did not say anything, just took off her glasses and wiped them on her apron. "That's too much," I said. "We didn't pay more than that at a big hotel." "We've put in a bathroom." "Haven't you got anything cheaper?" "Not in the summer. Now is the big season." We were the only people in the inn. Well, I thought, it's only a few days. "Is the wine included?" "Oh, yes." "Well," I said. "It's all right." I went back to Bill. He blew his breath at me to show how cold it was, and went on playing. I sat at one of the tables and looked at the pictures on the wall. There was one panel of rabbits, dead, one of pheasants, also dead, and one panel of dead ducks. The panels were all dark and smoky-looking. There was a cupboard full of liqueur bottles. I looked at them all. Bill was still playing. "How about a hot rum punch?" he said. "This isn't going to keep me warm permanently." I went out and told the woman what a rum punch was and how to make it. In a few minutes a girl brought a stone pitcher, steaming, into the room. Bill came over from the piano and we drank the hot punch and listened to the wind. "There isn't too much rum in that." I went over to the cupboard and brought the rum bottle and poured a half-tumblerful into the pitcher. "Direct action," said Bill. "It beats legislation." The girl came in and laid the table for supper. "It blows like hell up here," Bill said. The girl brought in a big bowl of hot vegetable soup and the wine. We had fried trout afterward and some sort of a stew and a big bowl full of wild strawberries. We did not lose money on the wine, and the girl was shy but nice about bringing it. The old woman looked in once and counted the empty bottles. After supper we went up-stairs and smoked and read in bed to keep warm. Once in the night I woke and heard the wind blowing. It felt good to be warm and in bed. 午饭后,当我们背着旅行包和钓竿袋出来动身到布尔戈特去的时候,广场上热得烤人。公共汽车顶层已经有人了,另外有些人正攀着梯子往上爬。比尔爬上顶层,罗伯特坐在比尔身边给我占座,我走回旅馆去拿两三瓶酒随身带着。等我出来,车上已拥挤不堪。顶层上所有的行李和箱子上都坐满了男女旅客,妇女们在阳光下用扇子扇个不停。天实在热。罗伯特爬下车去,我在横跨顶层的木制长椅上他刚才替我占的位置落了座。 罗伯特.科恩站在拱廊下面阴凉的地方等着我们启程。有个巴斯克人怀里揣着一个大皮酒袋,横躺在顶层我们长椅的前面,背靠着我们的腿儿。他把酒袋递给比尔和我,我把酒袋倒过来正要喝的当儿,他模仿汽车电喇叭,嘟嘟的叫了一声,学得那么逼真而且来得那么突然,使我把酒泼掉了一些,大家哈哈大笑。他表示歉意,让我再喝一次。一会儿他又学了一遍,我再次上当。他学得非常象。巴斯克人喜欢听他学。坐在比尔旁边的人跟比尔说西班牙语,但比尔听不懂,所以就拿一瓶酒递给这人。这人挥手拒绝了。他说天太热,而且中饭时他喝过量了。当比尔第二次递给他的时候,他咕嘟嘟地喝了一大口,然后这酒瓶在就近几个人手里传开了。每个人都非常斯文地喝上一口,然后他们叫我们把酒瓶塞好收起来。他们都要我们喝他们自己皮酒袋里的酒。他们是到山区去的农民。 又响了几次模仿的喇叭声之后,汽车终于开动了,罗伯特.科恩挥手向我们告别,所有的巴斯克人也挥手向他告别。我们一开上城外的大道,就凉快了。高坐在车顶,紧贴着树下行驶,感到很惬意。汽车开得很快,激起阵阵凉风。当我们顺着大道直驶,尘土扑打在树上,并向山下飘落时,我们回头穿过枝叶看到耸立在河边峭壁上的那个城市的美好风光。靠在我膝盖上躺着的巴斯克人用酒瓶口指点着这景色,向我们使眼色。他点点头。 “很美吧,呃?” “这些巴斯克人满不错,”比尔说。 靠在我腿上躺着的巴斯克人皮肤黝黑,象皮马鞍的颜色。他同其他巴斯克人一样,穿一件黑色罩衫。黝黑的脖子上布满皱纹。他转身要比尔接过他的酒袋。比尔递给他一瓶我们带的酒。巴斯克人用食指朝比尔比划了两下,用手掌啪的拍上瓶塞,递回酒瓶。他使劲把酒袋朝上递。 “举起来!举起来!”他说。“举起酒袋来。” 比尔举起酒袋,把头向后一仰,让酒迸发出来,射进他的嘴里。他喝罢酒,放平酒袋,有几滴酒顺着他的下颏往下淌。 “不对!不对!”有几个巴斯克人说。“不是那么喝的。”酒袋的主人正要亲自给比尔做示范,另一个人从他手里把它抢过去了。这是一位年轻小伙,他伸直双臂,高高举起酒袋,用一只手捏着这皮袋,于是酒就咝咝地射进他的嘴里。他伸手高擎着酒袋,袋中的酒顺着平射的轨道猛烈地喷进他的嘴里,他不紧不慢地一口口把酒咽下。 “嗨!”酒袋的主人喊道。“你喝的是谁的酒啊?” 喝酒的小伙用小手指对他点点,眼睛里带着笑意,看看我们。然后他突然刹住酒流,倏的把酒袋朝天竖直,朝下送到主人的手里。他向我们眨巴几下眼睛。主人沮丧地晃了晃酒袋。 我们穿过一座小镇,在一家旅店门前停下,司机装上几件包裹。然后我们又上路,驶出小镇,公路开始向山上攀登。我们穿行在庄稼地里,这里有岩石嶙峋的小山岗,山坡朝下没在地里。庄稼地沿山坡向上伸展。现在我们爬得比较高了,风儿摆动着庄稼。大路白茫茫地满是尘土,尘土被车轮扬起,弥漫在车后的空中。公路攀登上山,把长势茂盛的庄稼地抛在下面。现在光秃的山坡上和河道两侧只有零星的几块庄稼地。车子急剧地闪到大路边,给一长列由六头骡子组成的队伍让道,骡子一头跟着一头,拉着一辆满载货物的高篷大车。车上和骡子身上都是尘土。紧接着又是一队骡子和一辆大车。这一车拉的是木材,我们开过的时候,赶骡的车夫向后一靠,扳上粗大的木闸,把车刹住。在这儿一带,土地相当荒芜,满山顽石,烤硬的泥上被雨水冲出道道沟壑。 我们顺着一条弯道,驶进一个小镇,两侧陡的展开一片开阔的绿色的山谷。一条小溪穿过小镇中心,房屋后边紧接着一片片葡萄园。 汽车在一家旅店门前停下,许多旅客下了车,好些行李从车顶大油布底下被解开并卸了下来。比尔和我下车走进旅店。这是一间又矮又暗的屋子,放着马鞍、马具和白杨木制的干草叉,屋顶上挂着一串串绳底帆布鞋、火腿、腊肉、白色的蒜头和长长的红肠,屋里阴凉、幽暗,我们站在长条的木头柜台前,有两名妇女在柜台后面卖酒。她们背后是塞满杂货商品的货架。我们每人喝了一杯白酒,两杯白酒共计四十生丁。我给了女掌柜五十生丁,多余的算小费,但是她以为我听错价钱了,把那个铜币还给我。 两位同路的巴斯克人走进来,一定要请我们喝酒。他们给每人买了一杯酒,随后我们买了一次,后来他们拍拍我们的脊背,又买了一次。我们接着买了一次,最后我们一起走出来,到了火热的阳光下,爬上车去。这时候有的是空座,大家都可以坐到,那个刚才躺在铅皮车顶上的巴斯克人这时在我们俩中间坐下了,卖酒的女掌柜用围裙擦着手走出来,和汽车里的一个人说话,司机晃着两个皮制空邮袋走出旅店,爬上汽车,车子开动了,车下的人都向我们挥手。 大道瞬间就离开绿色的上谷,我们又驶进丛山之间。比尔和抱着酒袋的巴斯克人在聊天。有一个人从椅子背后探身过来用英语问我们:“你们是美国人?” “是啊。” “我在那里待过,”他说。“四十年前。” 他是个老头,皮肤黑得同其他人一样,留着短短的白胡子。 “那里怎么样?” “你说什么?” “美国怎么样?”“哦,我当时在加利福尼亚。好地方。”“你为什么离开呢?”“你说什么?”“为什么回到这里来了?”“哦,我回来结婚的。我本来打算再去,可我老婆她不爱出门。你是什么地方人?”“堪萨斯城人。” “我到过,”他说。“我到过芝加哥、圣路易、堪萨斯城、丹佛、洛杉矶、盐湖城。” 他很仔细地念着这些地名。 “你在美国待了多长时间?” “十五年。然后我就回来结婚了。” “喝口酒吧?” “好,”他说。“你在美国喝不到这种酒吧,呃?” “只要你买得起,那里有的是。” “你上这儿干什么来啦?” “我们到潘普洛纳来过节。” “你喜欢看斗牛?” “那当然。难道你不喜欢?” “喜欢,”他说。“我看我是喜欢的。” 过了一会儿,又说: “你现在上哪儿?” “到布尔戈特钓鱼去。” “好,”他说,“愿你能钓到大鱼。” 他同我握握手,转身重新在背后的座上坐好。他同我的谈话引起其他巴斯克人的注目。他舒舒服服地坐好了,每当我回头观望山乡风光的时候,他总对我微笑。但是刚才费劲地说了一通美国英语似乎把他累着了。后来他再也没说什么。 汽车沿公路不断地向上爬,山地荒芜贫瘠,大小岩石破土突起。路旁寸草不长。回头看,只见山下展现一片开阔的原野。在原野后面遥远的山坡上是一块块翠绿和棕黄色相间的田地。褐色的群山同天际相连。山形奇特。每登高一步,天际群山的轮廓也随之而改变。随着汽车沿公路缓缓攀登,我们看到另一些山峦出现在南边。公路接着越过山顶,渐渐转为平坦,驶进一片树林。这是一片软木懈树林,阳光穿过枝叶斑斑驳驳地射进来,牛群在树林深处吃草。我们穿出树林,公路顺着一个高岗拐弯,前头是一片起伏的绿色平原,再过去是黛色的群山。这些山和那些被我们甩在后面的被烤焦了的褐色山峦不同。山上树木丛生、云雾缭绕。绿色平原朝前伸展着,被栅栏割成一块块,两道纵贯平原直指北方的树行之间显现出一条白色的大道。当我们来到高岗的边缘,我们看见前边平原上布尔戈特的一连串红顶白墙的房屋,在远处第一座黛色的山岗上,闪现出龙塞斯瓦列斯的修道院的灰色铁皮房顶。 “那边就是龙塞沃,”我说。 “哪儿?” “那边数过去第一座山上就是。” “这几天气很冷,”比尔说。 “地势很高嘛,”我说。“海拔该有一千二百米吧。” “冷死了,”比尔说。汽车驶下山岗,开在奔向布尔戈特的笔直的公路上。我们通过一个十字路口,越过一座架在小溪上的桥。布尔戈特的房屋沿公路两边伸延、一条支巷也没有。我们驶过教堂和学校校园,汽车停下来。我们下了车,司机递给我们旅行包和钓竿袋。一名头戴三角帽,身上佩着交叉黄皮带的缉私警察走上前来, “那里头是什么?”他指指钓竿袋。 我打开钓竿袋给他看。他要求出示我们的钓鱼许可证,我就掏出来。他看了一下日期,就挥手让我们通过。 “这就完事了?”我问。 “是的。那还用说。” 我们顺着大街向旅店走去,一路上走过一些白灰粉刷的石头房子,一家家人家坐在自家门口看着我们。 开旅店的胖女人从厨房出来同我们握手。她摘下眼镜,擦擦干净,再把它戴上。旅店里很冷,外面起风了。女掌柜打发一名使女陪我们上楼去看房间。屋里有两张床、一个脸盆架、一个衣柜,另外还有一幅镶在大镜框里的龙塞斯瓦列斯圣母的钢版画。风吹打着百叶窗。这间房位于旅店的北部。我们梳洗完毕,穿上毛衣,下楼走进餐厅。餐厅地面铺着石块,天花板很低,墙上镶着栎木壁板。百叶窗全部关着,屋里冷得能看到自己嘴里呵出的热气。 “我的上帝!”比尔说。“明天可不能这么冷。这种天气我可不愿下河趟水。” 隔着几张木制餐桌,屋子尽头的角落里有一台竖式钢琴,比尔走过去弹奏起来。 “我非得暖和一下身子不可,”他说。 我出去找女掌柜,问她食宿费每天要多少。她把双手插在围裙下面,连望也不望我一眼。 “十二比塞塔。”“怎么,在潘普洛纳我们也只花这么些钱。”她不做声,光是摘下她的眼镜,在围裙上擦着。“太贵了,”我说。“我们住大旅馆也只不过花这么多钱。”“我们把浴室算在内了。”“你们有没有便宜点的房间?”“夏天没有。现在正是旺季。”旅店里只有我们这两个旅客。算了,我想,反正只住那么几天。 “酒也包括在内吗?” “哦,是的。”“行,”我说。“就这样吧。” 我回到比尔身边。他对准我呵气,来说明屋里多冷,接着又继续弹琴。我坐在一张桌子边看墙上的画。有一幅上画着些兔子,都是死兔子,另一幅是些雉鸡,也是死的,还有一幅画的是些死鸭子。画面全都色泽暗淡,好象是让烟给熏黑了。食柜里装满了瓶酒。我一瓶瓶地看了一遍。比尔一直在弹琴。“来杯热的混合甜酒怎么样?”他说。“弹琴取暖挺不了多长时间。” 我走出屋去告诉女掌柜什么叫混合甜酒,怎么做。几分钟之后,一名侍女端着一个热气腾腾的陶罐进屋来了。比尔从钢琴边走过来,我们一边喝热甜酒,一边听着呼呼的风声。 “这里头没多少朗姆酒啊。” 我走到食柜前,拿了一瓶朗姆酒,往酒罐里倒了半杯。 “好一个直接行动,”比尔说。“比申请批准强啊。” 侍女进屋摆桌子准备开饭。 “这里风刮得地震山摇,”比尔说。侍女端来一大碗热菜汤,还有葡萄酒。后来我们吃了煎鳟鱼,一道炖菜和满满一大碗野草莓。我们在酒钱上没吃亏。侍女很腼腆,但是愿意给我们拿酒。老太太来看过一次,数了数空酒瓶。 吃完饭我们就上楼了,为了好暖和些,我们躺在床上抽烟,看报。半夜里我醒过来一次,听见刮风的声音。躺在热被窝里很舒服。 Chapter 12 When I woke in the morning I went to the window and looked out. It had cleared and there were no clouds on the mountains. Outside under the window were some carts and an old diligence, the wood of the roof cracked and split by the weather. It must have been left from the days before the motor-buses. A goat hopped up on one of the carts and then to the roof of the diligence. He jerked his head at the other goats below and when I waved at him he bounded down. Bill was still sleeping, so I dressed, put on my shoes outside in the hall, and went down-stairs. No one was stirring down-stairs, so I unbolted the door and went out. It was cool outside in the early morning and the sun had not yet dried the dew that had come when the wind died down. I hunted around in the shed behind the inn and found a sort of mattock, and went down toward the stream to try and dig some worms for bait. The stream was clear and shallow but it did not look trouty. On the grassy bank where it was damp I drove the mattock into the earth and loosened a chunk of sod. There were worms underneath. They slid out of sight as I lifted the sod and I dug carefully and got a good many. Digging at the edge of the damp ground I filled two empty tobacco-tins with worms and sifted dirt 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? Burying your money?" "You lazy bum!" "Been working for the common good? Splendid. I want you to do that every morning." "Come on," I said. "Get up." "What? Get up? I never get up." He climbed into bed and pulled the sheet up to his chin. "Try and argue me into getting up." I went on looking for the tackle and putting it all together in the tackle-bag. "Aren't you interested?" Bill asked. "I'm going down and eat." "Eat? Why didn't you say eat? I thought you just wanted me to get up for fun. Eat? Fine. Now you're reasonable. You go out and dig some more worms and I'll be right down." "Oh, go to hell!" "Work for the good of all." Bill stepped into his underclothes. "Show irony and pity." I started out of the room with the tackle-bag, the nets, and the rod-case. "Hey! come back!" I put my head in the door. "Aren't you going to show a little irony and pity?" I thumbed my nose. "That's not irony." As I went down-stairs I heard Bill singing, "Irony and Pity. When you're feeling. . . Oh, Give them Irony and Give them Pity. Oh, give them Irony. When they're feeling. . . Just a little irony. Just a little pity.. ." He kept on singing until he came down-stairs. The tune was: "The Bells are Ringing for Me and my Gal." I was reading a week-old Spanish paper. "What's all this irony and pity?" "What? Don't you know about Irony and Pity?" "No. Who got it up?" "Everybody. They're mad about it in New York. It's just like the Fratellinis used to be." The girl came in with the coffee and buttered toast. Or, rather, it was bread toasted and buttered. "Ask her if she's got any jam," Bill said. "Be ironical with her." "Have you got any jam?" "That's not ironical. I wish I could talk Spanish." The coffee was good and we drank it out of big bowls. The girl brought in a glass dish of raspberry jam. "Thank you." "Hey! that's not the way," Bill said. "Say something ironical. Make some crack about Primo de Rivera." "I could ask her what kind of a jam they think they've gotten into in the Riff." "Poor," said Bill. "Very poor. You can't do it. That's all. You don't understand irony. You have no pity. Say something pitiful." "Robert Cohn." "Not so bad. That's better. Now why is Cohn pitiful? Be ironic." He took a big gulp of coffee. "Aw, hell!" I said. "It's too early in the morning." "There you go. And you claim you want to be a writei too. You're only a 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 become obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not working. You are an expatriate, see? You hang around cafés." "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 pedal it." "No," I said, "I guess you don't pedal it." "Let's lay off that," Bill said. "All right. I was just standing up for the tricycle." "I think he's a good writer, too," Bill said. "And you're a hell of a good guy. Anybody ever tell you were a good guy?" "I'm not a good guy." "Listen. You're a hell of a good guy, and I'm fonder of you than anybody on earth. I couldn't tell you that in New York. It'd mean I was a faggot. That was what the Civil War was about. Abraham Lincoln was a faggot. He was in love with General Grant. So was Jefferson Davis. Lincoln just freed the slaves on a bet. The Dred Scott case was framed by the Anti-Saloon League. Sex explains it all. The Colonel's Lady and Judy O'Grady are Lesbians under their skin." He stopped. "Want to hear some more?" "Shoot," I said. "I don't know any more. Tell you some more at lunch." "Old Bill," I said. "You bum!" We packed the lunch and two bottles of wine in the rucksack, and Bill put it on. I carried the rod-case and the landing-nets slung over my back. We started up the road and then went across a meadow and found a path that crossed the fields and went toward the woods on the slope of the first hill. We walked across the fields on the sandy path. The fields were rolling and grassy and the grass was short from the sheep grazing. The cattle were up in the hills. We heard their bells in the woods. The path crossed a stream on a foot-log. The log was surfaced off, and there was a sapling bent across for a rail. In the flat pool beside the stream tadpoles spotted the sand. We went up a steep bank and across the rolling fields. Looking back we saw Burguete, white houses and red roofs, and the white road with a truck going along it and the dust rising. Beyond the fields we crossed another faster-flowing stream. A sandy road led down to the ford and beyond into the woods. The path crossed the stream on another foot-log below the ford, and joined the road, and we went into the woods. It was a beech wood and the trees were very old. Their roots bulked above the ground and the branches were twisted. We walked on the road between the thick trunks of the old beeches and the sunlight came through the leaves in light patches on the grass. The trees were big, and the foliage was thick but it was not gloomy. There was no undergrowth, only the smooth grass, very green and fresh, and the big gray trees well spaced as though it were a park. "This is country," Bill said. The road went up a hill and we got into thick woods, and the road kept on climbing. Sometimes it dipped down but rose again steeply. All the time we heard the cattle in the woods. Finally, the road came out on the top of the hills. We were on the top of the height of land that was the highest part of the range of wooded hills we had seen from Burguete. There were wild strawberries growing on the sunny side of the ridge in a little clearing in the trees. Ahead the road came out of the forest and went along the shoulder of the ridge of hills. The hills ahead were not wooded, and there were great fields of yellow gorse. Way off we saw the steep bluffs, dark with trees and jutting with gray stone, that marked the course of the Irati River. "We have to follow this road along the ridge, cross these hills, go through the woods on the far hills, and come down to the Irati valley," I pointed out to Bill. "That's a hell of a hike." "It's too far to go and fish and come back the same day, comfortably." "Comfortably. That's a nice word. We'll have to go like hell to get there and back and have any fishing at all." It was a long walk and the country was very fine, but we were tired when we came down the steep road that led out of the wooded hills into the valley of the Rio de la Fabrica. The road came out from the shadow of the woods into the hot sun. Ahead was a river-valley. Beyond the river was a steep hill. There was a field of buckwheat on the hill. We saw a white house under some trees on the hillside. It was very hot and we stopped under some trees beside a dam that crossed the river. Bill put the pack against one of the trees and we jointed up the rods, put on the reels, tied on leaders, and got ready to fish. "You're sure this thing has trout in it?" Bill asked. "It's full of them." "I'm going to fish a fly. You got any McGintys?" "There's some in there." "You going to fish bait?" "Yeah. I'm going to fish the dam here." "Well, I'll take the fly-book, then." He tied on a fly. "Where'd I better go? Up or down?" "Down is the best. They're plenty up above, too." Bill went down the bank. "Take a worm can." "No, I don't want one. If they won't take a fly I'll just 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 and, knocking the corks firmly into the bottles, lowered them down into the water. It was so cold my hand and wrist felt numbed. I put back the slab of wood, and hoped nobody would find the wine. I got my rod that was leaning against the tree, took the bait-can and landing-net, and walked out onto the dam. It was built to provide a head of water for driving logs. The gate was up, and I sat on one of the squared timbers and watched the smooth apron of water before the river tumbled into the falls. In the white water at the foot of the dam it was deep. As I baited up, a trout shot up out of the white water into the falls and was carried down. Before I could finish baiting, another trout jumped at the falls, making the same lovely arc and disappearing into the water that was thundering down. I put on a good-sized sinker and dropped into the white water close to the edge of the timbers of the dam. I did not feel the first trout strike. When I started to pull up I felt that I had one and brought him, fighting and bending the rod almost double, out of the boiling water at the foot of the falls, and swung him up and onto the dam. He was a good trout, and I banged his head against the timber so that he quivered out straight, and then slipped him into my bag. While I had him on, several trout had jumped at the falls. As soon as I baited up and dropped in again I hooked another and brought him in the same way. In a little while I had six. They were all about the same size. I laid them out, side by side, all their heads pointing the same way, and looked at them. They were beautifully colored and firm and hard from the cold water. It was a hot day, so I slit them all and shucked out the insides, gills and all, and tossed them over across the river. I took the trout ashore, washed them in the cold, smoothly heavy water above the dam, and then picked some ferns and packed them all in the bag, three trout on a layer of ferns, then another layer of ferns, then three more trout, and then covered them with ferns. They looked nice in the ferns, and now the bag was bulky, and I put it in the shade of the tree. It was very hot on the dam, so I put my worm-can in the shade with the bag, and got a book out of the pack and settled down under the tree to read until Bill should come up for lunch. It was a little past noon and there was not much shade, but I sat against the trunk of two of the trees that grew together, and read. The book was something by A. E. W. Mason, and I was reading a wonderful story about a man who had been frozen in the Alps and then fallen into a glacier and disappeared, and his bride was going to wait twenty-four years exactly for his body to come out on the moraine, while her true love waited too, and they were still waiting when Bill came up. "Get any?" he asked. He had his rod and his bag and his net all in one hand, and he was sweating. I hadn't heard him come up, because of the noise from the dam. "Six. What did you get?" Bill sat down, opened up his bag, laid a big trout on the grass. He took out three more, each one a little bigger than the last, and laid them side by side in the shade from the tree. His face was sweaty and happy. "How are yours?" "Smaller." "Let's see them." "They're packed." "How big are they really?" "They're all about the size of your smallest." "You're not holding out on me?" "I wish I were." "Get them all on worms?" "Yes." "You lazy bum!" Bill put the trout in the bag and started for the river, swinging the open bag. He was wet from the waist down and I knew he must have been wading the stream. I walked up the road and got out the two bottles of wine. They were cold. Moisture beaded on the bottles as I walked back to the trees. I spread the lunch on a newspaper, and uncorked one of the bottles and leaned the other against a tree. Bill came up drying his hands, his bag plump with ferns. "Let's see that bottle," he said. He pulled the cork, and tipped up the bottle and drank. "Whew! That makes my eyes ache." "Let's try it." The wine was icy cold and tasted faintly rusty. "That's not such filthy wine," Bill said. "The cold helps it," I said. We unwrapped the little parcels of lunch. "Chicken." "There's hard-boiled eggs." "Find any salt?" "First the egg," said Bill. "Then the chicken. Even Bryan could see that." "He's dead. I read it in the paper yesterday." "No. Not really?" "Yes. Bryan's dead." Bill laid down the egg he was peeling. "Gentlemen," he said, and unwrapped a drumstick from a piece of newspaper. "I reverse the order. For Bryan's sake. As a tribute to the Great Commoner. First the chicken; then the egg." "Wonder what day God created the chicken?" "Oh," said Bill, sucking the drumstick, "how should we know? We should not question. Our stay on earth is not for long. Let us rejoice and believe and give thanks." "Eat an egg." Bill gestured with the drumstick in one hand and the bottle of wine in the other. "Let us rejoice in our blessings. Let us utilize the fowls of the air. Let us utilize the product of the vine. Will you utilize a little, 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 into the holy mysteries of the hencoop with simian fingers. Let us accept on faith and simply say--I want you to join with me in saying--What shall we say, brother?" He pointed the drumstick at me and went on. "Let me tell you. We will say, and I for one am proud to say--and I want you to say with me, on your knees, brother. Let no man be ashamed to kneel here in the great out-of-doors. Remember the woods were God's first temples. Let us kneel and say: 'Don't eat that, Lady--that's Mencken.' "Here," I said. "Utilize a little of this." We uncorked the other bottle. "What's the matter?" I said. "Didn't you like Bryan?" "I loved Bryan," said Bill. "We were like brothers." "Where did you know him?" "He and Mencken and I all went to Holy Cross together." "And Frankie Fritsch." "It's a lie. Frankie Fritsch went to Fordham." "Well," I said, "I went to Loyola with Bishop Manning." "It's a lie," Bill said. "I went to Loyola with Bishop Manning myself." "You're cock-eyed," I said. "On wine?" "Why not?" "It's the humidity," Bill said. "They ought to take this damn humidity away." "Have another shot." "Is this all we've got?" "Only the two bottles." "Do you know what you are?" Bill looked at the bottle affectionately. "No," I said. "You're in the pay of the Anti-Saloon League." "I went to Notre Dame with Wayne B. Wheeler." "It's a lie," said Bill. "I went to Austin Business College with Wayne B. Wheeler. He was class president." "Well," I said, "the saloon must go." "You're right there, old classmate," Bill said. "The saloon must go, and I will take it with me." "You're cock-eyed." "On wine?" "On wine." "Well, maybe I am." "Want to take a nap?" "All right." We lay with our heads in the shade and looked up into the trees. "You asleep?" "No," Bill said. "I was thinking." I shut my eyes. It felt good lying on the ground. "Say," Bill said, "what about this Brett business?" "What about it?" "Were you ever in love with her?" "Sure." "For how long?" "Off and on for a hell of a long time." "Oh, hell!" Bill said. "I'm sorry, fella." "It's all right," I said. "I don't give a damn any more." "Really?" "Really. Only I'd a hell of a lot rather not talk about it." "You aren't sore I asked you?" "Why the hell should I be?" "I'm going to sleep," Bill said. He put a newspaper over his face. "Listen, Jake," he said, "are you really a Catholic?" "Technically." "What does that mean?" "I don't know." "All right, I'll go to sleep now," he said. "Don't keep me awake by talking so much." I went to sleep, too. When I woke up Bill was packing the rucksack. Jt was late in the afternoon and the shadow from the trees was long and went out over the dam. I was stiff from sleeping on the ground. "What did you do? Wake up?" Bill asked. "Why didn't you spend the night?" I stretched and rubbed my eyes. "I had a lovely dream," Bill said. "I don't remember what it was about, but it was a lovely dream." "I don't think I dreamt." "You ought to dream," Bill said. "All our biggest business men have been dreamers. Look at Ford. Look at President Coolidge. Look at Rockefeller. Look at Jo Davidson." I disjointed my rod and Bill's and packed them in the rod-case. I put the reels in the tackle-bag. Bill had packed the rucksack and we put one of the trout-bags in. I carried the other. "Well," said Bill, "have we got everything?" "The worms." "Your worms. Put them in there." He had the pack on his back and I put the worm-cans in one of the outside flap pockets. "You got everything now?" I looked around on the grass at the foot of the elm-trees. "Yes." We started up the road into the woods. It was a long walk home to Burguete, and it was dark when we came down across the fields to the road, and along the road between the houses of the town, their windows lighted, to the inn. We stayed five days at Burguete and had good fishing. The nights were cold and the days were hot, and there was always a breeze even in the heat of the day. It was hot enough so that it felt good to wade in a cold stream, and the sun dried you when you came out and sat on the bank. We found a stream with a pool deep enough to swim in. In the evenings we played three-handed bridge with an Englishman named Harris, who had walked over from Saint Jean Pied de Port and was stopping at the inn for the fishing. He was very pleasant and went with us twice to the Irati River. There was no word from Robert Cohn nor from Brett and Mike. 早晨我一醒过来就走到窗前往外探望。天已经放晴,山间没有云雾。外面窗下停着几辆二轮马车和一辆篷顶的木板因受风雨侵蚀而已破裂的旧驿车。在使用公共汽车之前,它该就被遗弃在这里了。一只山羊跳到一辆二轮马车上,然后跳上驿车的篷顶。它向下面其它山羊伸伸脑袋,我向它一挥手,它就蹦了下来。 比尔还在睡觉,所以我穿好了衣服,在室外走廊上穿上鞋子,就走下楼去。楼下毫无动静,因此我拉开门闩,走了出去,一清早外面很凉。风停了以后下的露水还没有被太阳晒干。我在旅店后面的小棚里走了一圈,找到一把鹤嘴锄,走到溪边想挖点虫饵。溪水很清、很浅,但是不象有鳟鱼。在湿润多草的溪边,我用锄头朝地里刨去,弄松了一块草皮。下面有蚯蚓。我把草皮拎起,它们就游走了,我仔细地挖,挖到了好多。我在这湿地边挖着,装满了两个空烟草罐,在蚯蚓上面撒上点细土。那几头山羊看着我挖。 我回到旅店,女掌柜在楼下厨房里,我吩咐她给我们送咖啡,还给我们准备好中饭。比尔已经醒了,正坐在床沿上。 “我从窗子里看见你了,”他说。“不想打搅你。你在干什么?把钱埋起来吗?” “你这条懒虫!” “为我们共同的利益卖力?太好了。我希望你天天早晨都这样做。” “快点,”我说。“起来吧。” “什么?起来?我再也不起来了。” 他爬进被窝,把被子一直拉到下巴边。 “你试试看,能不能说服我起来。” 我顾自找出鱼具,把它们通通装进鱼具袋里。 “你不感兴趣?”比尔问。 “我要下楼吃早点了。” “吃早点?方才你为什么不说?我以为你叫我起床是闹着玩的。吃早点?太好了。现在你才讲道理了。你出去再挖点蚯蚓,我这就下楼。” “呸,你见鬼去吧!” “为大家的福利干去吧。”比尔穿上他的衬衣内裤。“流露点俏皮和怜悯来吧。” 我带上鱼具袋、鱼网和钓竿袋走出房间。 “嗨!回来!” 我把头探进门里。 “你不流露一点儿俏皮和怜悯?” 我用拇指顶在鼻子尖上,冲着他做个轻蔑的手势。 “这不好算俏皮。” 我下楼的时候,听见比尔在唱,“俏皮和怜悯。当你感到……来,给他们说点俏皮的话儿,给他们说点怜悯的话儿。来,给他们说点俏皮的活儿,当他们感到……就这么来一点儿俏皮话。就这么来一点儿怜悯话……”他从楼上一直唱到楼下。用的是《我和我的姑娘行婚礼的钟敲响了》那支歌的曲调。我这时在看一份一星期前的西班牙报纸。 “这一套俏皮和怜悯的话儿是什么意思?” “什么?你难道不知道什么是《俏皮和怜悯》?”“不知道。这是谁想出来的?” “人人都在唱。整个纽约都着迷了。就象过去迷于弗拉蒂利尼杂技团一样。” 待女端着咖啡和涂黄油的土司进来。或者不如说是普通的面包片烤过后涂上了黄油。 “问问她有没有果酱,”比尔说。“对她说得俏皮点。” “你们有果酱吗?” “这哪好算俏皮啊。我会说西班牙语就好了。” 咖啡很好,我们是用大碗喝的。侍女端进来一玻璃碟覆盆子果酱。 “谢谢你。” “嗨!不是这么说的,”比尔说。“说些俏皮话。说些有关普里莫.德.里维拉的挖苦话。” “我可以问她,他们在里弗山脉陷入了什么样的果酱。” “不够味儿,”比尔说。“太不够味儿了。你不会说俏皮话。就是不会。你不懂得什么叫俏皮。你没有怜悯之心。说点怜悯的话吧。” “罗伯特.科恩。” “不坏。好一些了。那么科恩为什么可怜呢?说得俏皮点。” 他喝了一大口咖啡。 “真见鬼!”我说。“这么一大早就耍嘴皮子。” “你看你。你还自以为想当一名作家呢。你只不过是一名记者。一名流亡国外的新闻记者。你必须一起床就能耍嘴皮子。你必须一睁开眼睛就有满口怜悯的词儿。” “说下去,”我说。“你跟谁学来这一套胡言乱语的啊?” “从所有的人那里学来的。难道你不看书读报?难道你不跟人打交道?你知道你是哪号人?你是一名流亡者。你为什么不住在纽约?不然你就明白这些事情了。你要我干什么来着?每年赶到法国来向你汇报?” “再喝点咖啡吧,”我说。 “好啊。咖啡对人有好处。这是里面的咖啡碱起的作用。全仗咖啡碱,我们到了这里。咖啡碱把一个男人送上她的马鞍,又把一个女人送进他的坟墓。你知道你的问题在哪儿?你是一名流亡者。最最不幸的典型中的一份子。你没有听说过?一个人只要离开了自己的祖国,就写不出任何值得出版的作品。哪怕是报上的一篇新闻报道。” 他喝着咖啡。 “你是一名流亡者。你已经和土地失去了联系。你变得矫揉造作。冒牌的欧洲道德观念把你毁了。你嗜酒如命。你头脑里摆脱不了性的问题。你不务实事,整天消磨在高谈阔论之中。你是一名流亡者,明白吗?你在各家咖啡馆来回转游。” “照你这么说,这种生活倒满舒服嘛,”我说。“那么我在什么时候工作?”“你不工作。有帮人坚持说是有些娘们在养活你。另外有帮人说你是个不中用的男人。” “不对,”我说。“我遭到过一次意外事故罢了。” “再也别提它了,”比尔说。“这种事情是不好说出去的。你应该故弄玄虚,把这事搞成一个谜。象亨利的那辆自行车。” 他讲得滔滔不绝,但是说到这里却顿住了。他可能以为,刚才说我是个不中用的男人这句挖苦话,刺伤了我。我要引他再讲下去。 “不是自行车,”我说。“他当时骑着马。” “我听说是辆三轮摩托车。” “就算是吧,”我说。“飞机是一种类似三轮摩托车的玩意。操纵杆和驾驶盘使用的原理一个样。” “但是不用脚踩。” “是的,”我说。“我想是用不着踩。” “不谈这件事了,”比尔说。 “好吧。我不过为三轮摩托车辩护罢了。” “我认为亨利也是位出色的作家,”比尔说。“你呢,是个大好人。有人当面说过你是好人吗?” “我不是好人。”“听着。你是个大好人,我喜欢你,胜过世界上任何一个人。在纽约我不能跟你说这句话。别人会以为我是个同性恋者。美国的南北战争就是因此而引起的。亚伯拉罕.林肯是个同性恋者。他爱上了格兰特将军。杰斐逊.戴维斯也是这样。林肯仅仅是为了一次打赌才解放黑奴的。德莱德.斯科特一案是反酒店同盟搞的圈套。上校大太和裘蒂.奥格雷迪在骨子里是一对同性恋者。” 他顿住了。 “还想听下去吗?” “讲吧,”我说。 “再多我也不知道了。吃中饭的时候再给你讲。” “你这家伙啊,”我说。 “你这二流子!” 我们把中午吃的冷餐和两瓶酒塞进帆布背包,比尔背上了。我在背上挎着钓竿袋和抄网。我们走上大路,穿过一片草地,找到一条小路,它穿过田野直通第一座山坡上的小树林。我们踩着这条沙路穿过田野。田野地势起伏,长着青草,不过青草都被羊群啃秃了。牛群在山中放牧。我们听见树林里传来它们脖颈上的铃挡声。小路通过一条独木桥跨过小溪。这根圆木的上面是刨平的,一棵小树的树干被弄弯了插在两岸,当作栏杆。小溪边有个浅水塘,塘底沙地衬托出点点小蝌蚪。我们走上陡峭的溪岸,穿过起伏的田野。我们回头,看见布尔戈特的白粉墙和红屋顶,白色的公路上行驶着一辆卡车,尘土飞扬。 穿过了田野,我们跨过另一条水流更为湍急的小溪。有条沙路一头往下通向溪边的渡口,另一头通向一座树林。我们走的小路在渡口的下游通过另一条独木桥跨过小溪,与沙路会合,于是我们走进了树林。 这是一片山毛榉林,树木都非常古老。地面盘根错节,树身枝干缠绕。我们走在这些老山毛榉粗大树干之间的大路上,阳光穿过枝叶,斑斑驳驳地射在草地上。树大叶茂,但林中并不阴暗。没有灌木,只有青翠欲滴的、平坦的草地,灰色的参天大树之间的间距井井有条,宛如一座公园。 “这才算得上是乡野风光,”比尔说。 大路爬上一座山,我们进入密林,路还是一个劲儿往上爬。有时地势下落,接着又陡然升起。我们一直听到树林里牛群的铃裆声。大路终于在山顶穿出树林。我们到了当地的最高点,就是我们从布尔戈特望到过的树木繁茂的群山的顶峰。山脊阳坡树木之间一小片空旷地里长着野草莓。 大路穿出树林顺着山脊往前伸展。前面的山峦上不见树木,长着一大片一大片的黄色的金雀花。我们往远处看去,是树木苍翠、灰岩耸立的绝壁,表明下面是伊拉蒂河的河道。 “我们必须顺着山脊上的这条路,跨山越岭,穿过远山上的树林,下到伊拉蒂河谷,”我对比尔指点着说。 “这次旅行真是一次艰苦的跋涉。” “路太远了,要在一天之内走着去,钓完鱼再走着回来,可不是舒服的事儿。” “舒服。多好听的字眼儿。我们连去带回,还要钓鱼,简直连喘气的功夫都不会有了。” 这是一段很长的路程,山乡景色优美,但是等我们从山林出来,顺着下通法布里卡河谷的陡路时,已经疲惫不堪了。 大路从树荫下伸出,到了炎热的太阳光下。前面就是河谷。河对岸耸起一座陡峭的山。山上有一块荞麦地。我们看见山坡上有几棵树下有一座白色的房屋。天气很热,我们在拦河坝旁的树下停住脚步。 比尔把背包靠在一根树干上,我们接上一节节钓竿,装上卷轴,绑上引线,准备钓鱼。 “你说这条河里肯定有鳟鱼?”比尔问。 “多得很哩。” “我要用假蝇钩钓。你有没有麦金蒂蝇钩?” “盒子里有几个。” “你用蚯蚓钓?” “对。我就在水坝这儿钓。” “那我就把蝇钩盒拿走了。”他系上一只蝇钩。“我到哪儿去好?上边还是下边?” “下边最好。不过上边的鱼也很多。” 比尔顺着河边向下边走去。 “带一罐蚯蚓去。” “不用了,我不需要。如果不咬钩,我就多下几个地方。” 比尔在下边注视着流水。 “喂,”他喊道,声音压倒了大坝哗哗的流水声。“把酒放在大路上边的泉水里怎么样?”“好啊,”我大声说。比尔挥挥手,开始向河的下边走去。我在背包里找出那两瓶酒,拿着从大路朝上走,走到一个地方,那里有一股泉水从一根铁管里流出来。泉水上面搁着一块木板,我掀起木板,敲紧酒瓶的软木塞,把酒瓶放进下面的水里。泉水冰凉刺骨,我的手和手腕都麻木了。我把木板放口原处,希望不会有人发现这两瓶酒。 我拿起靠在树干上的钓竿,带着蚯蚓罐和抄网走到水坝上。修筑水坝是为了造成水流的落差,好用来运送原木。水闸关着,我坐在一根刨成方形的木材上,注视着坝内尚未形成瀑布的那潭平静的河水。坝脚下,白沫四溅的河水非常深。当我挂鱼饵的时候,一条鳟鱼从白沫四溅的河水里一跃而起,窜进瀑布里,随即被冲了下去。我还没有来得及挂好鱼饵,又有一条鳟鱼向瀑布窜去,在空中画出一条同样美丽的弧线,消失在轰隆隆地奔泻而下的水流中。我装上一个大铅坠子,把钓丝投入紧靠水坝木闸边泛着白沫的河水中。 我不知道第一条鳟鱼是怎么上钩的。当我正要动手收钓丝的时候,才感到已经钓住一条了,我把鱼从瀑布脚下翻腾的水里拉出来,它挣扎着,几乎把钓竿折成两半,我把它呼的提起来放在水坝上。这是一条很好的鳟鱼,我把它的头往木头上撞,它抖动几下就僵直了,然后我把它放进猎物袋。 当我钓到这条的时候,好几条鳟鱼冲着瀑布跳去。我装上鱼饵,把钓丝又抛到水里,马上又钓到一条,我用同样的方法把它拉上来。一会儿我就钓到了六条。它们都差不多一样大小。我把它们摊在地上,头朝一个方向并排放着,我仔细端详着。它们的颜色很漂亮,由于河水冷,它们的身子很硬实。天很热,因此我把鱼肚子一一剖开,掏出内脏,撕掉鱼鳃,把这些东西扔到河对岸。我把鱼拿到河边,在水坝内侧平静而停滞的冷水里洗净,然后采集一些羊齿植物,将鱼全放进猎物袋:铺一层羊齿植物,放上三条鳟鱼,然后又铺上一层羊齿植物,再放上三条鳟鱼,最后盖上一层羊齿植物。裹在羊齿植物里的鳟鱼看来很美,这样,袋子鼓起来了,我把它放在树荫下。 坝上非常热,所以我把装蚯蚓的铁罐同猎物袋一起放在背阴的地方,从背包里拿出一本书,安坐在树下看起来,等比尔上来吃中饭。 这时中午刚过,树荫的面积不大,但是我背靠着两棵长在一起的树,坐着看书。这是艾.爱。伍.梅森写的一本东西,我在看的是一篇奇妙的故事,讲到有个男人在阿尔卑斯山中冻僵了,掉进一条冰川里,就此失踪了,他的新娘为了看到他的尸体在冰川堆石里显露出来,打算等上整整二十四年,在此期间,那个真心爱她的情人也等待着。当比尔回来的时候,他们还在等待着哩。 “钓着了吗?”他问。他一只手接着钓竿、猎物袋和鱼网,浑身是汗。由于坝上哗哗的流水声,我没有听见他走近的脚步声。 “六条。你钓到了什么?” 比尔坐下来,打开猎物袋,拿出一条大鳟鱼放在草地上。他又拿出三条,一条比一条大一点儿,他把鱼并排放在树萌下。他满脸是汗,但是很得意。 “你的多大?” “比你的小。” “拿出来看看。”“说真的,它们有多大?” “大概都象你最小的那么大。” “你不是瞒着我吧?” “如果瞒着你倒好了。” “都是拿蚯蚓钓的?” “是的。” “你这个懒鬼!” 比尔把鳟鱼放进猎物袋,晃着这敞开着口的袋子向河边走去。他的裤子一直湿到腰部,我明白他一定在水里膛过。 我走到大路那边,把两瓶酒从泉水里拿出来。酒瓶冰凉。等我回头走到树下,瓶子外面结满了水珠。我在一张报纸上摊开当午饭的吃食,打开一瓶酒,把另一瓶倚在树根上。比尔一边走过来,一边擦干两只手,他的猎物袋里塞满了羊齿植物。 “我们来尝尝这瓶酒吧,”他说。他拔掉瓶塞,把瓶底朝上举起就喝了起来。“乖乖!好杀眼睛。” “我来尝尝。” 酒冰凉冰凉的,微微带点锈味。 “这酒不那么难喝,”比尔说。 “这是冰凉的关系,”我说。 我们解开那几小包吃食。 “鸡。” “还有煮鸡蛋。” “有盐吗?” “先来个鸡蛋,”比尔说。“然后吃鸡。这个道理连布赖恩都明白。” “他去世了。我在昨天的报上看到的。” “不。不会是真的吧?” “真的。布赖恩去世了。” 比尔放下手里正在剥的鸡蛋。 “先生们,”他说,从一小片报纸中拿出一只鸡腿。“我来颠倒一下。为了布赖恩。为了向这位伟大的平民表示敬意。先吃鸡,然后吃鸡蛋。” “不知道鸡是上帝哪一天创造的?” “嘿,”比尔嘬着鸡腿说,“我们怎么知道?我们不应该问。我们活在世上转眼就是一辈子。我们还是快快活活的吧,相信上帝,感谢上帝。” “来个鸡蛋。”比尔一手拿鸡腿,一手拿酒瓶,打着手势。“让我们为上帝的赐福而欢欣吧。让我们享用空中的飞禽。让我们享用葡萄园的产品。你要享用一点儿吗,兄弟?”“你先请,兄弟。”比尔喝了一大口。“亨用一点儿吧,兄弟,”他把酒瓶递给我说。“我们不要怀疑,兄弟。我们不要用猿猴的爪子伸到母鸡窝里去刺探神圣的奥秘。我们还是依靠信仰,接受现状,只要说——我要你跟我一起说——可我们说什么呀,兄弟?”他用鸡腿指着我,继续说。“让我告诉你。我们要说,而且就我个人来说,要自豪地说——我要你跪下和我一起说,兄弟。在这辽阔的山野之间,谁也不必羞于下跪。记住,丛林是上帝最早的圣殿。让我们跪下宣布:‘不要吃那只母鸡,——它是门肯。’” “请吧,”我说。“享用一点儿这个吧。”我们打开另一瓶酒。 “怎么啦?”我说。“你难道不喜欢布赖恩?” “我很喜爱布赖恩,”比尔说。“我们亲如兄弟。” “你在哪里认识他的?” “他,门肯和我都在圣十架大学一起念过书。” “还有弗兰基.弗里奇。” “这是谎言。弗兰基.弗里奇是在福特汉大学念的。” “啊,”我说,“我是同曼宁主教在罗耀拉大学念的。” “撒谎,”比尔说。“同曼宁主教在罗耀拉念书的是我。” “你醉了,”我说。 “喝醉了?” “怎么不是呢?” “这是湿度高的关系,”比尔说。“应该去掉这该死的高湿度。” “再来喝一口。”“我们拿来的就这一些?”“就这两瓶,”“你知道你是什么人?”比尔深情地望着酒瓶。“不知道,”我说。“你是反酒店同盟雇用的人员。”“我和韦恩.比.惠勒在圣母大学一起学习过。”“撒谎,”比尔说。“我和韦恩.比.惠勒在奥斯汀商学院同学。他当时是班长。”“得了,”我说,“酒店必须取缔。”“你说得对,老同学,”比尔说。“酒店必须取缔,我要带了它一起走,”“你醉了。 ” “喝醉了?”“喝醉了。”“噢,大概是吧。”“想打个盹儿?”“好吧, ” 我们把头枕在树荫里躺着,望着头顶上的枝叶深处。“你睡着啦?”“没有,”比尔说。“我在想事儿。”我闭上眼睛。躺在地上感到很舒适。“喂,”比尔说,“勃莱特的事儿怎么样啦?”“什么事儿?”“你曾经爱过她吧?” “是啊。” “多长时间?” “断断续续地拖了好长时间。” “唉,真要命!”比尔说。“对不起,朋友。” “没什么,”我说。“我再也不在乎了。” “真的?” “真的。不过我很不愿意谈起这件事。” “我问了你,你不生气?” “我干吗要生气?” “我要睡觉了,”比尔说。他拿一张报纸蒙在脸上。 “听着,杰克,”他说,“你真是天主教徒吗?” “按规定来说,是的。” “那是什么意思?” “不知道。” “得了,现在我要睡觉了,”他说。“别唠唠叨叨得使我睡不成觉。” 我也入睡了。我醒过来的时候,比尔正在收拾帆布背包。天色已经临近黄昏,树影拖得很长,一直伸到水坝上。在地上睡了一觉,我感到浑身僵直。 “你怎么啦?醒过来了?”比尔问。“夜里你怎么不好好儿睡呢?”我伸了下懒腰,揉揉眼睛。 “我做了个可爱的梦,”比尔说。“我不记得梦里的情形了,但是个可爱的梦。” “我好象没有做梦。”“你应该做梦,”比尔说。“我们所有的大实业家都是梦想家。你看福特。你看柯立芝总统。你看洛克菲勒。你看乔.戴维森。” 我拆开我和比尔的钓竿,把它们收在钩竿袋里。我把卷轴放进鱼具袋。比尔已经收拾好背包,我们塞进一个放鳟鱼的袋子。我拎着另一个。 “好,”比尔说,“东西部拿了?? “蚯蚓。” “你的蚯蚓。放在背包里吧。” 他已经把背包挎在背上,我就把两个蚯蚓罐塞进背包外面一个带盖的袋里。 “这下你的东西都齐了吧?” 我对榆树脚下的草地扫了一眼。 “是的。” 我们动身顺着大路走进树林。回布尔戈特得走好长一段路。等我们穿过田野走上公路,再顺着镇上两侧房屋鳞次栉比的大街,到达旅店的时候,已经万家灯火,天色大黑了。 我们在布尔戈特待了五天,钓鱼钓得很痛快。夜晚冷,白天热,但即使在白天最热的时候也有微风。天这么热,在很凉的河里膛水非常舒服。当你上岸坐着的工夫,太阳就把你的衣衫晒干了。我们发现一条小溪有个可以游泳的深潭。晚上我们同一位姓哈里斯的英国人打三人桥牌,他是从圣让皮德波徒步走来的,歇在这家旅店,要去钓鱼。他很逗人喜欢,同我们一起到伊拉蒂河去了两次。罗伯特.科恩一点音信也没有,勃莱特和迈克也是这样。 Chapter 13 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 me with mine." The letter was at my place at the table, leaning against a coffeecup. Harris was reading the paper again. I opened the letter. It had been forwarded from Pamplona. It was dated San Sebastian, Sunday: _Dear Jake_, _We got here Friday, Brett passed out on the train, so brought her here for 3 days rest with old friends of ours. We go to Montoya Hotel Pamplona Tuesday, arriving at I don't know what hour. Will you send a note by the bus to tell us what to do to rejoin you all on Wednesday. All our love and sorry to be late, but Brett was really done in and will be quite all right by Tues. and is practically so now. I know her so well and try to look after her but it's not so easy. Love to all the chaps_, _Michael_. "What day of the week is it?" I asked Harris. "Wednesday, I think. Yes, quite. Wednesday. Wonderful how one loses track of the days up here in the mountains." "Yes. We've been here nearly a week." "I hope you're not thinking of leaving?" "Yes. We'll go in on the afternoon bus, I'm afraid." "What a rotten business. I had hoped we'd all have another go at the Irati together." "We have to go _into_ Pamplona. We're meeting people there." "What rotten luck for me. We've had a jolly time here at Burguete." "Come on in to Pamplona. We can play some bridge there, and there's going to be a damned fine fiesta." "I'd like to. Awfully nice of you to ask me. I'd best stop on here, though. I've not much more time to fish." "You want those big ones in the Irati." "I say, I do, you know. They're enormous trout there." "I'd like to try them once more." "Do. Stop over another day. Be a good chap." "We really have to get into town," I said. "What a pity." After breakfast Bill and I were sitting warming in the sun on a bench out in front of the inn and talking it over. I saw a girl coming up the road from the centre of the town. She stopped in front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wallet that hung against her skirt. "Por ustedes?" I looked at it. The address was: "Barnes, Burguete." "Yes. It's for us." She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill. "What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price. 'I come Thursday'. That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty." We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank. "What will we say?" Bill asked. " 'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places." "Me either," Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not." We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. "Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?" "It has the look of a pub," Bill said. "It looks to me like a pub," I said. "I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up utilizing from Bill. We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our money. "I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you chaps up here." "We've had a grand time, Harris." Harris was a little tight. "I say. Really you don't know how much it means. I've not had much fun since the war." "We'll fish together again, some time. Don't you forget it, Harris." "We must. We _have_ had such a jolly good time." "How about another bottle around?" "Jolly good idea," said Harris. "This is mine," said Bill. "Or we don't drink it." "I wish you'd let me pay for it. It _does_ give me pleasure, you know." "This is going to give me pleasure," Bill said. The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. We had kept the same glasses. Harris lifted his glass. "I say. You know this does utilize well." Bill slapped him on the back. "Good old Harris." "I say. You know my name isn't really Harris. It's Wilson Harris. All one name. With a hyphen, you know." "Good old Wilson-Harris," Bill said. "We call you Harris because we're so fond of you." "I say, Barnes. You don't know what this all means to me." "Come on and utilize another glass," I said. "Barnes. Really, Barnes, you can't know. That's all." "Drink up, Harris." We walked back down the road from Roncesvalles with Harris between us. We had lunch at the inn and Harris went with us to the bus. He gave us his card, with his address in London and his club and his business address, and as we got on the bus he handed us each an envelope. I opened mine and there were a dozen flies in it. Harris had tied them himself. He tied all his own flies. "I say, Harris--" I began. "No, no!" he said. He was climbing down from the bus. "They're not first-rate flies at all. I only thought if you fished them some time it might remind you of what a good time we had." The bus started. Harris stood in front of the post-office. He waved. As we started along the road he turned and walked back toward the inn. "Say, wasn't that Harris nice?" Bill said. "I think he really did have a good time." "Harris? You bet he did." "I wish he'd come into Pamplona." "He wanted to fish." "Yes. You couldn't tell how English would mix with each 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 wires to light the plaza for the fiesta. A few kids came up when the bus stopped, and a customs officer for the town made all the people getting down from the bus open their bundles on the sidewalk. We went into the hotel and on the stairs I met Montoya. He shook hands with us, smiling in his embarrassed way. "Your friends are here," he said. "Mr. Campbell?" "Yes. Mr. Cohn and Mr. Campbell and Lady Ashley." He smiled as though there were something I would hear about. "When did they get in?" "Yesterday. I've saved you the rooms you had." "That's fine. Did you give Mr. Campbell the room on the plaza?" "Yes. All the rooms we looked at." "Where are our friends now?" "I think they went to the pelota." "And how about the bulls?" Montoya smiled. "To-night," he said. "To-night at seven o'clock they bring in the Villar bulls, and to-morrow come the Miuras. Do you all go down?" "Oh, yes. They've never seen a desencajonada." Montoya put his hand on my shoulder. "I'll see you there." He smiled again. He always smiled as though bull-fighting were a very special secret between the two of us; a rather shocking but really very deep secret that we knew about. He always smiled as though there were something lewd about the secret to outsiders, but that it was something that we understood. It would not do to expose it to people who would not understand. "Your friend, is he aficionado, too?" Montoya smiled at Bill. "Yes. He came all the way from New York to see the San Fermines." "Yes?" Montoya politely disbelieved. "But he's not aficionado like you." He put his hand on my shoulder again embarrassedly. "Yes," I said. "He's a real aficionado." "But he's not aficionado like you are." Aficion means passion. An aficionado is one who is passionate about the bull-fights. All the good bull-fighters stayed at Montoya's hotel; that is, those with aficion stayed there. The commercial bullfighters stayed once, perhaps, and then did not come back. The good ones came each year. In Montoya's room were their photographs. The photographs were dedicated to Juanito Montoya or to his sister. The photographs of bull-fighters Montoya had really believed in were framed. Photographs of bull-fighters who had been without aficion Montoya kept in a drawer of his desk. They often had the most flattering inscriptions. But they did not mean anything. One day Montoya took them all out and dropped them in the waste-basket. He did not want them around. We often talked about bulls and bull-fighters. I had stopped at the Montoya for several years. We never talked for very long at a time. It was simply the pleasure of discovering what we each felt. Men would come in from distant towns and before they left Pamplona stop and talk for a few minutes with Montoya about bulls. These men were aficionados. Those who were aficionados could always get rooms even when the hotel was full. Montoya introduced me to some of them. They were always very polite at first, and it amused them very much that I should be an American. Somehow it was taken for granted that an American could not have aficion. He might simulate it or confuse it with 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 this same embarrassed putting the hand on the shoulder, or a "Buen hombre." But nearly always there was the actual touching. It seemed as though they wanted to touch you to make it certain. Montoya could forgive anything of a bull-fighter who had aficion. He could forgive attacks of nerves, panic, bad unexplainable actions, all sorts of lapses. For one who had aficion he could forgive anything. At once he forgave me all my friends. Without his ever saying anything they were simply a little something shameful between us, like the spilling open of the horses in bull-fighting. Bill had gone up-stairs as we came in, and I found him washing and changing in his room. "Well," he said, "talk a lot of Spanish?" "He was telling me about the bulls coming in tonight." "Let's find the gang and go down." "All right. They'll probably be at the café." "Have you got tickets?" "Yes. I got them for all the unloadings." "What's it like?" He was pulling his cheek before the glass, looking to see if there were unshaved patches under the line of the jaw. "It's pretty good," I said. "They let the bulls out of the cages one at a time, and they have steers in the corral to receive them and keep them from fighting, and the bulls tear in at the steers and the steers run around like old maids trying to quiet them down." "Do they ever gore the steers?" "Sure. Sometimes they go right after them and kill them." "Can't the steers do anything?" "No. They're trying to make friends." "What do they have them in for?" "To quiet down the bulls and keep them from breaking their horns against the stone walls, or goring each other." "Must be swell being a steer." We went down the stairs and out of the door and walked across the square toward the café Iru?a. There were two lonely looking ticket-houses standing in the square. Their windows, marked SOL, SOL Y SOMBRA, and SOMBRA, were shut. They would not open until the day before the fiesta. Across the square the white wicker tables and chairs of the Iru?a extended out beyond the Arcade to the edge of the street. I looked for Brett and Mike at the tables. There they were. Brett and Mike and Robert Cohn. Brett was wearing a Basque beret. So was Mike. Robert Cohn was bare-headed and wearing his spectacles. Brett saw us coming and waved. Her eyes crinkled up as we came up to the table. "Hello, you chaps!" she called. Brett was happy. Mike had a way of getting an intensity of feeling into shaking hands. Robert Cohn shook hands because we were back. "Where the hell have you been?" I asked. "I brought them up here," Cohn said. "What rot," Brett said. "We'd have gotten here earlier if you hadn't come." "You'd never have gotten here." "What rot! You chaps are brown. Look at Bill." "Did you get good fishing?" Mike asked. "We wanted to join you." "It wasn't bad. We missed you." "I wanted to come," Cohn said, "but I thought I ought to bring them." "You bring us. What rot." "Was it really good?" Mike asked. "Did you take many?" "Some days we took a dozen apiece. There was an Englishman up there." "Named Harris," Bill said. "Ever know him, Mike? He was in the war, too." "Fortunate fellow," Mike said. "What times we had. How I wish those dear days were back." "Don't be an ass." "Were you in the war, Mike?" Cohn asked. "Was I not." "He was a very distinguished soldier," Brett said. "Tell them about the time your horse bolted down Piccadilly." "I'll not. I've told that four times." "You never told me," Robert Cohn said. "I'll not tell that story. It reflects discredit on me." "Tell them about your medals." "I'll not. That story reflects great discredit on me." "What story's that?" "Brett will tell you. She tells all the stories that reflect discredit on me." "Go on. Tell it, Brett." "Should I?" "I'll tell it myself." "What medals have you got, Mike?" "I haven't got any medals." "You must have some." "I suppose I've the usual medals. But I never sent in for them. One time there was this whopping big dinner and the Prince of Wales was to be there, and the cards said medals will be worn. So naturally I had no medals, and I stopped at my tailor's and he was impressed by the invitation, and I thought that's a good piece of business, and I said to him: 'You've got to fix me up with some medals.' He said: 'What medals, sir?' And I said: 'Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.' So he said: 'What medals _have_ you, sir?' And I said: 'How should I know?' Did he think I spent all my time reading the bloody gazette? 'Just give me a good lot. Pick them out yourself.' So he got me some medals, you know, miniature medals, and handed me the box, and I put it in my pocket and forgot it. Well, I went to the dinner, and it was the night they'd shot Henry Wilson, so the Prince didn't come and the King didn't come, and no one wore any medals, and all these coves were busy taking off their medals, and I had mine in my pocket." He stopped for us to laugh. "Is that all?" "That's all. Perhaps I didn't tell it right." "You didn't," said Brett. "But no matter." We were all laughing. "Ah, yes," said Mike. "I know now. It was a damn dull dinner, and I couldn't stick it, so I left. Later on in the evening I found the box in my pocket. What's this? I said. Medals? Bloody military medals? So I cut them all off their backing--you know, they put them on a strip--and gave them all around. Gave one to each girl. Form of souvenir. They thought I was hell's own shakes of a soldier. Give away medals in a night club. Dashing fellow." "Tell the rest," Brett said. "Don't you think that was funny?" Mike asked. We were all laughing. "It was. I swear it was. Any rate, my tailor wrote me and wanted the medals back. Sent a man around. Kept on writing for months. Seems some chap had left them to be cleaned. Frightfully military cove. Set hell's own store by them." Mike paused. "Rotten luck for the tailor," he said. "You don't mean it," Bill said. "I should think it would have been grand for the tailor." "Frightfully good tailor. Never believe it to see me now," Mike said. "I used to pay him a hundred pounds a year just to keep him quiet. So he wouldn't send me any bills. Frightful blow to him when I went bankrupt. It was right after the medals. Gave his letters rather a bitter tone." "How did you go bankrupt?" Bill asked. "Two ways," Mike said. "Gradually and then suddenly." "What brought it on?" "Friends," said Mike. "I had a lot of friends. False friends. Then I had creditors, too. Probably had more creditors than anybody in England." "Tell them about in the court," Brett said. "I don't remember," Mike said. "I was just a little tight." "Tight!" Brett exclaimed. "You were blind!" "Extraordinary thing," Mike said. "Met my former partner the other day. Offered to buy me a drink." "Tell them about your learned counsel," Brett said. "I will not," Mike said. "My learned counsel was blind, too. I say this is a gloomy subject. Are we going down and see these bulls unloaded or not?" "Let's go down." We called the waiter, paid, and started to walk through the town. I started off walking with Brett, but Robert Cohn came up and joined her on the other side. The three of us walked along, past the Ayuntamiento with the banners hung from the balcony, down past the market and down past the steep street that led to the bridge across the Arga. There were many people walking to go and see the bulls, and carriages drove down the hill and across the bridge, the drivers, the horses, and the whips rising above the walking people in the street. Across the bridge we turned up a road to the corrals. We passed a wineshop with a sign in the window: Good Wine 30 Centimes A Liter. "That's where we'll go when funds get low," Brett said. The woman standing in the door of the wine-shop looked at us as we passed. She called to some one in the house and three girls came to the window and stared. They were staring at Brett. At the gate of the corrals two men took tickets from the people that went in. We went in through the gate. There were trees inside and a iow, stone house. At the far end was the stone wall of the corrals, with apertures in the stone that were like loop-holes running all along the face of each corral. A ladder led up to the top of the wall, and people were climbing up the ladder and spreading down to stand on the walls that separated the two 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 travelling-box. They had come by train from a bull-breeding ranch in Castile, and had been unloaded off flat-cars at the station and brought up here to be let out of their cages into the corrals. Each cage was stencilled with the name and the brand of the bull-breeder. We climbed up and found a place on the wall looking down into the corral. The stone walls were whitewashed, and there was straw on the ground and wooden feed-boxes and water-troughs set against the wall. "Look up there," I said. Beyond the river rose the plateau of the town. All along the old walls and ramparts people were standing. The three lines of fortifications made three black lines of people. Above the walls there were heads in the windows of the houses. At the far end of the plateau boys had climbed into the trees. "They must think something is going to happen," Brett said. "They want to see the bulls." Mike and Bill were on the other wall across the pit of the corral. They waved to us. People who had come late were standing behind us, pressing against us when other people crowded them. "Why don't they start?" Robert Cohn asked. A single mule was hitched to one of the cages and dragged it up against the gate in the corral wall. The men shoved and lifted it with crowbars into position against the gate. Men were standing on the wall ready to pull up the gate of the corral and then the gate of the cage. At the other end of the corral a gate opened and two steers came in, swaying their heads and trotting, their lean flanks swinging. They stood together at the far end, their heads toward the gate where the bull would enter. "They don't look happy," Brett said. The men on top of the wall leaned back and pulled up the door of the corral. Then they pulled up the door of the cage. I leaned way over the wall and tried to see into the cage. It was dark. Some one rapped on the cage with an iron bar. Inside something seemed to explode. The bull, striking into the wood from side to side with his horns, made a great noise. Then I saw a dark muzzle and the shadow of horns, and then, with a clattering on the wood in the hollow box, the bull charged and came out into the corral, skidding with his forefeet in the straw as he stopped, his head up, the great hump of muscle on his neck swollen tight, his body muscles quivering as he looked up at the crowd on the stone walls. The two steers backed away against the wall, their heads sunken, their eyes watching the bull. The bull saw them and charged. A man shouted from behind one of the boxes and slapped his hat against the planks, and the bull, before he reached the steer, turned, gathered himself and charged where the man had been, trying to reach him behind the planks with a half-dozen quick, searching drives with the right horn. "My God, isn't he beautiful?" Brett said. We were looking right down on him. "Look how he knows how to use his horns," I said. "He's got a left and a right just like a boxer." "Not really?" "You watch." "It goes too fast." "Wait. There'll be another one in a minute." They had backed up another cage into the entrance. In the far corner a man, from behind one of the plank shelters, attracted the bull, and while the bull was facing away the gate was pulled up and a second bull came out into the corral. He charged straight for the steers and two men ran out from behind the planks and shouted, to turn him. He did not change his direction and the men shouted: "Hah! Hah! Toro!" and waved their arms; the two steers turned sideways to take the shock, and the bull drove into one of the steers. "Don't look," I said to Brett. She was watching, fascinated. "Fine," I said. "If it doesn't buck you." "I saw it," she said. "I saw him shift from his left to his right horn." "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 perfunctorily. The next time he nosed at the steer and then the two of them trotted over to the other bull. When the next bull came out, all three, the two bulls and the steer, stood together, their heads side by side, their horns against the newcomer. In a few minutes the steer picked the new bull up, quieted him down, and made him one of the herd. When the last two bulls had been unloaded the herd were all together. The steer who had been gored had gotten to his feet and stood against the stone wall. None of the bulls came near him, and he did not attempt to join the herd. We climbed down from the wall with the crowd, and had a last look at the bulls through the loopholes in the wall of the corral. They were all quiet now, their heads down. We got a carriage outside and rode up to the café. Mike and Bill came in half an hour later. They had stopped on the way for several drinks. We were sitting in the café. "That's an extraordinary business," Brett said. "Will those last ones fight as well as the first?" Robert Cohn asked. "They seemed to quiet down awfully fast." "They all know each other," I said. "They're only dangerous when they're alone, or only two or three of them together." "What do you mean, dangerous?" Bill said. "They all looked dangerous to me." "They only want to kill when they're alone. Of course, if you went in there you'd probably detach one of them from the herd, and he'd be dangerous." "That's too complicated," Bill said. "Don't you ever detach me from the herd, Mike." "I say," Mike said, "they were fine bulls, weren't they? Did you see their horns?" "Did I not," said Brett. "I had no idea what they were like." "Did you see the one hit that steer?" Mike asked. "That was extraordinary." "It's no life being a steer," Robert Cohn said. "Don't you think so?" Mike said. "I would have thought you'd loved being a steer, Robert." "What do you mean, Mike?" "They lead such a quiet life. They never say anything and they're always hanging about so." We were embarrassed. Bill laughed. Robert Cohn was angry. Mike went on talking. "I should think you'd love it. You'd never have to say a word. Come on, Robert. Do say something. Don't just sit there." "I said something, Mike. Don't you remember? About the steers." "Oh, say something more. Say something funny. Can't you see we're all having a good time here?" "Come off it, Michael. You're drunk," Brett said. "I'm not drunk. I'm quite serious. _Is_ Robert Cohn going to follow Brett around like a steer all the time?" "Shut up, Michael. Try and show a little breeding." "Breeding be damned. Who has any breeding, anyway, except the bulls? Aren't the bulls lovely? Don't you like them, Bill? Why don't you say something, Robert? Don't sit there looking like a bloody funeral. What if Brett did sleep with you? She's slept with lots of better people than you." "Shut up," Cohn said. He stood up. "Shut up, Mike." "Oh, don't stand up and act as though you were going to hit me. That won't make any difference to me. Tell me, Robert. Why do you follow Brett around like a poor bloody steer? Don't you know you're not wanted? I know when I'm not wanted. Why don't you know when you're not wanted? You came down to San Sebastian where you weren't wanted, and followed Brett around like a bloody steer. Do you think that's right?" "Shut up. You're drunk." "Perhaps I am drunk. Why aren't you drunk? Why don't you ever get drunk, Robert? You know you didn't have a good time at San Sebastian because none of our friends would invite you on any of the parties. You can't blame them hardly. Can you? I asked them to. They wouldn't do it. You can't blame them, now. Can you? Now, answer me. Can you blame them?" "Go to hell, Mike." "I can't blame them. Can you blame them? Why do you follow Brett around? Haven't you any manners? How do you think it makes _me_ feel?" "You're a splendid one to talk about manners," Brett said. "You've such lovely manners." "Come on, Robert," Bill said. "What do you follow her around for?" Bill stood up and took hold of Cohn. "Don't go," Mike said. "Robert Cohn's going to buy a drink." Bill went off with Cohn. Cohn's face was sallow. Mike went on talking. I sat and listened for a while. Brett looked disgusted. "I say, Michael, you might not be such a bloody ass," she interrupted. "I'm not saying he's not right, you know." She turned to me. The emotion left Mike's voice. We were all friends together. "I'm not so damn drunk as I sounded," he said. "I know you're not," Brett said. "We're none of us sober," I said. "I didn't say anything I didn't mean." "But you put it so badly," Brett laughed. "He was an ass, though. He came down to San Sebastian where he damn well wasn't wanted. He hung around Brett and just looked at her. It made me damned well sick." "He did behave very badly," Brett said. "Mark you. Brett's had affairs with men before. She tells me all about everything. She gave me this chap Cohn's letters to read. I wouldn't read them." "Damned noble of you." "No, listen, Jake. Brett's gone off with men. But they weren't ever Jews, and they didn't come and hang about afterward." "Damned good chaps," Brett said. "It's all rot to talk about it. Michael and I understand each other." "She gave me Robert Cohn's letters. I wouldn't read them." "You wouldn't read any letters, darling. You wouldn't read mine." "I can't read letters," Mike said. "Funny, isn't it?" "You can't read anything." "No. You're wrong there. I read quite a bit. I read when I'm at home." "You'll be writing next," Brett said. "Come on, Michael. Do buck up. You've got to go through with this thing now. He's here. Don't spoil the fiesta." "Well, let him behave, then." "He'll behave. I'll tell him." "You tell him, Jake. Tell him either he must behave or get out." "Yes," I said, "it would be nice for me to tell him." "Look, Brett. Tell Jake what Robert calls you. That _is_ perfect, you know." "Oh, no. I can't." "Go on. We're all friends. Aren't we all friends, Jake?" "I can't tell him. It's too ridiculous." "I'll tell him." "You won't, Michael. Don't be an ass." "He calls her Circe," Mike said. "He claims she turns men into swine. Damn good. I wish I were one of these literary chaps." "He'd be good, you know," Brett said. "He writes a good 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 Cohn?" 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 cafés under the arcades. We walked across the gravel under the trees to the hotel. They went up-stairs and I stopped to speak with Montoya. "Well, how did you like the bulls?" he asked. "Good. They were nice bulls." "They're all right"--Montoya shook his head--"but they're not too good." "What didn't you like about them?" "I don't know. They just didn't give me the feeling that they were so good." "I know what you mean." "They're all right." "Yes. They're all right." "How did your friends like them?" "Fine." "Good," Montoya said. I went up-stairs. Bill was in his room standing on the balcony looking out at the square. I stood beside him. "Where's Cohn?" "Up-stairs in his room." "How does he feel?" "Like hell, naturally. Mike was awful. He's terrible when he's tight." "He wasn't so tight." "The hell he wasn't. I know what we had before we came to the café." "He sobered up afterward." "Good. He was terrible. I don't like Cohn, God knows, and I think it was a silly trick for him to go down to San Sebastian, but nobody has any business to talk like Mike." "How'd you like the bulls?" "Grand. It's grand the way they bring them out." "To-morrow come the Miuras." "When does the fiesta start?" "Day after to-morrow." "We've got to keep Mike from getting so tight. That kind of stuff is terrible." "We'd better get cleaned up for supper." "Yes. That will be a pleasant meal." "Won't it?" As a matter of fact, supper was a pleasant meal. Brett wore a black, sleeveless evening dress. She looked quite beautiful. Mike acted as though nothing had happened. I had to go up and bring Robert Cohn down. He was reserved and formal, and his face was still taut and sallow, but he cheered up finally. He could not stop looking at Brett. It seemed to make him happy. It must have been pleasant for him to see her looking so lovely, and know he had been away with her and that every one knew it. They could not take that away from him. Bill was very funny. So was Michael. They were good together. It was like certain dinners I remember from the war. There was much wine, an ignored tension, and a feeling of things 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. 一天早晨,我下楼吃早饭,英国人哈里斯已经坐在餐桌旁了。他戴着眼镜在看报。他抬头对我笑笑。 “早上好,”他说。“你的信。我路过邮局,他们把你的信和我的一起给我了。” 信在餐桌边我的位置上放着,靠在一只咖啡杯上。哈里斯又看起报来。我拆开信。信是从潘普洛纳转来的。星期天从圣塞瓦斯蒂安发出。 亲爱的杰克: 我们于星期五到达这里,勃莱特在火车上醉倒了,所以我带她到我们的老朋友这里来休息三天。我们星期二出发到潘普洛纳蒙托亚旅馆,不知道将在几点钟到达。望你写封短信由公共汽车捎来,告诉我们星期三如何同你们会合。衷心问候,并因迟到深表歉意。勃莱特实在疲乏过度,星期二可望恢复,实际上现在就己见好。我很了解她,会设法照顾她的,但是真不易啊!向大伙儿问好。 迈克尔“今天星期几?”我问哈里斯。 “大概是星期三吧。是的,对。星期三。在这儿深山里竟把日子部过糊涂了,真妙不可言。” “是的。我们在这里已经待了快一个星期啦。” “希望你还不打算走。” “要走。恐怕就坐下午的汽车走。” “这有多糟糕啊。我本指望咱们再一起到伊拉蒂河去一趟哩。”“我们务必赶到潘普洛纳。我们约好朋友在那里会合。” “我真倒霉。咱们在布尔戈特这里玩得多痛快。” “到潘普洛纳去吧。我们在那里可以打打桥牌,何况佳节也快到了。” “我很想去。谢谢你的邀请。不过我还是待在这里好。我没有多少钓鱼的时间了。” “你是想在伊拉蒂何钓到几条大鳟鱼。” “嘿,你知道我正是这么想的。那里的鳟鱼可大着哩。” “我倒也想再去试一次。” “去吧。再待一天。听我的话吧、” “我们真的必须赶回城去,”我说。 “多遗憾哪。” 早饭后,我和比尔坐在旅店门前的板凳上晒太阳,商量着这件事。我看见通向小镇中心的大路上走过来一个姑娘。她在我们面前站住了,从她裙边挂着的皮兜里掏出一封电报。 “是给你们的?” 我看了下电报。封皮上写的是:“布尔戈特,巴恩斯收。” “对。是给我们的。” 她拿出一个本子让我签字, 我给了她几枚铜币。 电文是用西班牙语写的:“Vengo Jueves cohn。” 我把电报递给比尔。 “Cohn这个词是什么意思?”他问。 “一封糟不堪言的电报!”我说。“他花同样的钱可以打十个词嘛。‘我星期四到’。这说明了不少问题,对不?” “凡是科恩感兴趣的都表达出来了。” “我们反正要回潘普洛纳去,”我说。“用不着把勃莱特和迈克折腾到这里,然后在节前又折腾回去。我们该回电吗?” “还是回一个好,”比尔说。“我们不必要做得目中无人嘛。” 我们赶到邮局,要了一张电报用纸。 “怎么写?”比尔问。 “‘今晚到达。’这就够了。” 我们付了电报费,走回旅店。哈里斯在那里,我们一行三人一直走到龙塞斯瓦利斯。我们参观了整个修道院。 “这个地方很出色,”我们走出来的时候,哈里斯说,“可是你们知道,我对这种地方不十分感兴趣。” “我也是,”比尔说。 “怎么说还是个出色的地方,”哈里斯说。“不来看看不甘心。我天天都想着要来。” “可是比不上钓鱼,对吧?”比尔问。他喜欢哈里斯。 “是啊。”我们站在修道院古老的礼拜堂门前。 “路对面是不是有家小酒店?”哈里斯问。“还是我的眼睛着花了?” “象是家小酒店,”比尔说。 “我看也象家小酒店,”我说。 “嗨,”哈里斯说,“我们来享用它一下。”他从比尔那里学会了“享用”这个词儿。 我们每人要了一瓶酒。哈里斯不让我们会钞。他的西班牙语说得相当不错,掌柜不肯收我们的钱。 “咳。你们不了解,对我来说在这里和你们相逢的意义有多么重大。” “我们过得再快活也没有了,哈里斯。” 哈里斯有点醉意了。 “咳。你们确实不明白有多么大的意义,大战结束以来,我没有过多少欢乐。” “将来我们再约个日子一起去钓鱼。你别忘了,哈里斯。” “一言为定。我们一起度过的时间是多么快活。” “我们一起再喝一瓶怎么样?” “这个想法太好了,”哈里斯说。 “这次我来付,”比尔说。“要不就别喝。” “我希望还是让我来付。你知道,这样我才高兴。” “这样也会使我高兴,”比尔说。 掌柜拿来第四瓶酒,我们还用原来的酒杯。哈里斯举起他的酒杯。 “咳。你们知道,这酒的确可以好好享用一番。” 比尔拍拍他的脊背。 “哈里斯,老伙计。” “咳。 你们可知道我的姓氏实际上并不是哈里斯。是威尔逊-哈里斯。是个双姓。 中间有个连字号,你们知道。”“威尔逊-哈里斯,老伙计,”比尔说。“我们叫你哈里斯,因为我们太喜欢你了。” “咳,巴恩斯。你不了解这一切对我来说意义是多么重大。” “来,再享用一杯,”我说。 “巴恩斯。真的,巴恩斯,你没法了解。就这么一句话。” “干了吧,哈里斯。” 我们俩挟着哈里斯从龙塞斯瓦利斯顺着大路走回来。我们在旅店吃了午饭,哈里斯陪我们到汽车站。他给我们一张名片,上面有他在伦敦的住址、他的俱乐部和办公地点。我们上车的时候,他递给我们每人一个信封。我打开我的一看,里面有一打蝇钩。这是哈里斯自己扎的。他用的蝇钩都是自己扎的。 “嗨,哈里斯——”我开口说到这里。 “不,不!”他说。他正从汽车上爬下去。“根本不好算是头等的蝇钩。我只是想,有朝一日你用它来钓鱼,可能会使你回忆起我们曾经度过一段快乐的日子。” 汽车开动了。哈里斯站在邮局门前。他挥着手。等车子开上公路,他转身走回旅店。 “你说这位哈里斯是不是挺忠厚?”比尔说。 “我看他真的玩得很痛快。” “哈里斯吗?那还用说!” “他到潘普洛纳去就好了。” “他要钓鱼嘛。”“是啊。反正你很难说英国人彼此可能融洽相处。”“我看是这么回事。” 将近黄昏的时候,我们到达潘普洛纳,汽车在蒙托亚旅馆门前停下。在广场上,人们在架过节照明用的电灯线。汽车刚停下来,几个小孩子跑过来,一位本城的海关官员叫所有下车的人在人行道上打开他们的行李。我们走进旅馆,在楼梯上我碰到蒙托亚。他同我们握手,面带他那惯常的忸怩表情微笑着。 “你们的朋友来了,”他说。 “坎贝尔先生?” “对。科恩先生和坎贝尔先生,还有阿施利夫人。” 他微微一笑,似乎表明有些什么事我自己会听到的。 “他们什么时候到的?” “昨天。你们原来的房间我给留着。” “太好了。你给坎贝尔先生开的房间是朝广场的吗?” “是的。都是原先我们选定的那几个房间。” “我们的朋友现在哪儿?” “他们大概去看回力球赛了。” “那关于公牛有什么消息?” 蒙托亚微笑着。“今儿晚上,”他说。“他们今儿晚上七点把维利亚公牛放进牛栏,米乌拉公牛明天放。你们全都看去?” “哦,是的。他们从没看见过公牛是怎样从笼子里放出来的。” 蒙托亚把手搭在我的肩膀上。 “我在那边跟你会面吧。” 他又微微一笑。他总是笑眯眯的,似乎斗牛是我们俩之间的一桩十分特殊的秘密,一桩见不得人而却实在是我们彼此心领神会的深藏在内心的秘密。他总是笑咪眯的,似乎对外人来说,这秘密是桩不可告人的丑事,但是我们却心照不宣。这秘密是不便于在不懂得其中奥妙的人面前公开的。 “你这位朋友,他也是个斗牛迷?”蒙托亚对比尔笑笑。 “是的。他从纽约专程赶来参加圣福明节的。” “是吗?”蒙托亚客气地表示怀疑。“但是他不象你那么着迷。” 他又忸怩地把手搭在我的肩上。 “是真的,”我说。“他是个地道的斗牛迷。” “但是他不是个象你这样的斗牛迷。” 西班牙语aficion的意思是“热烈的爱好” 。一个aficionado是指对斗牛着迷的人。所有的优秀斗牛士都住在蒙托亚旅馆,就是说,对斗牛着迷的斗牛士都住在那里。以挣钱为目的的斗牛士或许会光临一次就再也不来了。优秀的斗牛士却年年来。蒙托亚的房间里有很多他们的照片。照片都是题献给胡安尼托.蒙托亚或者他姐姐的。那些蒙托亚真正信得过的斗牛士的照片都镶着镜框。那些并不热衷于斗牛的斗牛士的照片则收在他桌子的抽屉里。这些照片上往往有过分谄媚的题词。但实际上毫无意义。有一天,蒙托亚把所有的这种照片从抽屉里拿出来,扔在字纸篓里。他不愿让人看到这批照片。 我们经常谈论公牛和斗牛士。我一连几年都到蒙托亚旅馆小住。我们每次谈话的时间都不很长。只不过以交流交流各自的感受为乐趣,人们来自远方的城镇,在他们离开潘普洛纳之前,往往前来同蒙托亚交谈几分钟有关公牛的事儿。这些人是斗牛迷。凡是斗牛迷,即使旅馆客满了,也总能在这里弄到房间。蒙托亚把我介绍给其中一些人。他们起初总是非常拘谨,使他们感到非常有意思的是我竟是一个美国人。不知道为什么,一个美国人是理所当然地被认为不可能有热烈的爱好的。他可能假装热爱,或者把激动当作热爱,但是他不可能真正具备这份热爱。等他们发现我具备着这份热爱——这不是用什么暗语,也不是用一套特定的提问所能探测出来的,毋宁说是用一些小心翼翼而吞吞吐吐的问题在口头上进行心灵的测验而发现的——就同样会忸怩地用手按在我肩上,或者说一声“好汉”。但是在更多的情况下是实实在在的伸手摸一下。他们好象想摸你一下来探探这份热爱到底是真是假。 蒙托亚对怀着热爱的斗牛士什么都可以宽恕。他可以宽恕突然发作的歇斯底里,惊慌失措,恶劣的莫名其妙的动作,各种各样的失误。对一个怀着热爱的人,他什么都可以宽恕。因此他马上原谅我,不去追究我那些朋友的底细。他一字不提他们的事儿,他们不过是我们彼此之间羞于提起的事儿,就象斗牛场上马儿被牛角挑得肠子都流出来这事那样。 我们进屋的时候,比尔先上楼去了,等我上了楼,看见他在自己的房间里洗澡,更衣。 “怎么,”他说,“跟人用西班牙语聊了半天?” “他告诉我,公牛今儿晚上放进牛栏。” “我们去找到咱们那一伙,然后一块去看吧。” “好,他们大概在咖啡馆里。” “你拿到票啦?” “拿到了。看牛出笼的所有票都拿到了。” “是怎样放出来的?”他对着镜子拉扯着腮帮,看下巴上有没有没刮净的地方。 “可有意思哩,”我说。“他们一次从笼里放出一头公牛,在牛栏里放了些犍牛来迎接它,不让他们互相顶撞,公牛就朝犍牛冲去,犍牛四处奔跑,象老保姆那样想叫公牛安静下来。” “公牛戳死过犍牛没有?” “当然有过。有时候它们在犍牛后面紧追,把犍牛戳死。” “犍牛就没有任何招架的余地啦?” “不是这样。犍牛只想慢慢地和公牛混熟了。” “把犍牛放在牛栏里干什么?” “为了叫公牛安静下来,免得它们撞在石墙上折断犄角,或者戳伤彼此。” “做犍牛一定非常有意思。” 我们下楼走出大门,穿过广场向伊鲁涅咖啡馆走去。有两座孤零零的卖票房坐落在广场中间。 有SOL,SOL Y SOMBRA和SOMBRA字样的窗户都关着。它们要到节日的前一天才打开。 广场对面,伊鲁涅咖啡馆的白色柳条桌椅一直摆到拱廊外面,直摆到了马路边。我挨桌寻找勃莱特和迈克。他们果真在那里。勃莱特和迈克,还有罗伯特.科恩。勃莱特戴了一顶巴斯克贝雷帽。迈克也一样。罗伯特.科恩没戴帽,戴着眼镜。勃莱特看见我们来了,就向我们招手。我们走到桌子边,她眯起眼睛看我们。 “你们好,朋友们!”她叫道。 勃莱特很高兴。迈克有种本领,能在握手中灌注强烈的感情。罗伯特.科恩同我们握手是因为我们赶回来了。“你们究竟到哪儿去啦?”我问。“是我带他们上这儿来的,”科恩说。“瞎说,”勃莱特说。“如果你不来,我们会到得更早。”“你们会永远也到不了这里。”“胡说八道!你们俩都晒黑了。瞧比尔。”“你们钓得痛快吗?”迈克问。“我们原想赶去同你们一起钓的。” “不坏。我们还念叨你们来着。” “我本想来的,”科恩说,“但是再一想,我应该领他们上这儿来。” “你领我们。胡说八道。” “真的钓得很痛快?”迈克问。“你们钓到了很多?” “有几天,我们每人钓到了十来条。那里有个英国人。” “他姓哈里斯,”比尔说。“你可认识他,迈克?他也参加了大战。” “是个幸运 Chapter 14 I do not know what time I got to bed. I remember undressing, putting on a bathrobe, and standing out on the balcony. I knew I was quite drunk, and when I came in I put on the light over the head of the bed and started to read. I was reading a book by Turgenieff. Probably I read the same two pages over several times. It was one of the stories in "A Sportsman's Sketches." I had read it before, but it seemed quite new. The country became very clear and the feeling of pressure in my head seemed to loosen. I was very drunk and I did not want to shut my eyes because the room would go round and round. If I kept on reading that feeling would pass. I heard Brett and Robert Cohn come up the stairs. Cohn said good night outside the door and went on up to his room. I heard Brett go into the room next door. Mike was already in bed. He had come in with me an hour before. He woke as she came in, and they talked together. I heard them laugh. I turned off the light and tried to go to sleep. It was not necessary to read any more. I could shut my eyes without getting the wheeling sensation. But I could not sleep. There is no reason why because it is dark you should look at things differently from when it is light. The hell there isn't! I figured that all out once, and for six months I never slept with the electric light off. That was another bright idea. To hell with women, anyway. To hell with you, Brett Ashley. Women made such swell friends. Awfully swell. In the first place, you had to be in love with a woman to have a basis of friendship. I had been having Brett for a friend. I had not been thinking about her side of it. I had been getting something for nothing. That only delayed the presentation of the bill. The bill always came. That was one of the swell things you could count on. I thought I had paid for everything. Not like the woman pays and pays and pays. No idea of retribution or punishment. Just exchange of values. You gave up something and got 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 did learn something. I did not care what it was all about. All I wanted to know was how to live in it. Maybe if you found out how to live in it you learned from that what it was all about. I wished Mike would not behave so terribly to Cohn, though. Mike was a bad drunk. Brett was a good drunk. Bill was a good drunk. Cohn was never drunk. Mike was unpleasant after he passed a certain point. I liked to see him hurt Cohn. I wished he would not do it, though, because afterward it made me disgusted at myself. That was morality; things that made you disgusted afterward. No, that must be immorality. That was a large statement. What a lot of bilge I could think up at night. What rot, I could hear Brett say it. What rot! When you were with the English you got into the habit of using English expressions in your thinking. The English spoken language--the upper classes, anyway--must have fewer words than the Eskimo. Of course I didn't know anything about the Eskimo. Maybe the Eskimo was a fine language. Say the Cherokee. I didn't know anything about the Cherokee, either. The English talked with inflected phrases. One phrase to mean everything. I liked them, though. I liked the way they talked. Take Harris. Still Harris was not the upper classes. I turned on the light again and read. I read the Turgenieff. I knew that now, reading it in the oversensitized state of my mind after much too much brandy, I would remember it somewhere, and afterward it would seem as though it had really happened to me. I would always have it. That was another good thing you paid for and then had. Some time along toward daylight I went to sleep. The next two days in Pamplona were quiet, and there were no more rows. The town was getting ready for the fiesta. Workmen put up the gate-posts that were to shut off the side streets when the bulls were released from the corrals and came running through the streets in the morning on their way to the ring. The workmen 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 picador horses, galloping them stiff-legged on the hard, sun-baked fields behind the bull-ring. The big gate of the bull-ring was open, and inside the amphitheatre was being swept. The ring was rolled and sprinkled, and carpenters replaced weakened or cracked planks in the barrera. Standing at the edge of the smooth rolled sand you could look up in the empty stands and see old women sweeping out the boxes. Outside, the fence that led from the last Street of the town to the entrance of the bull-ring was already in place and made a long pen; the crowd would come running down with the bulls behind them on the morning of the day of the first bull-fight. Out across the plain, where the horse and cattle fair would be, some gypsies had camped under the trees. The wine and aguardiente sellers were putting up their booths. One booth advertised ANIS DEL TORO. The cloth sign hung against the planks in the hot sun. In the big square that was the centre of the town there was no change yet. We sat in the white wicker chairs on the terrasse of the café and watched the motorbuses come in and unload peasants from the country coming in to the market, and we watched the buses fill up and start out with peasants sitting with their saddle-bags full of the things they had bought in the town. The tall gray motor-buses were the only life of the square except for the pigeons and the man with a hose who sprinkled the gravelled square and watered the streets. In the evening was the paseo. For an hour after dinner every one, all the good-looking girls, the officers from the garrison, all the fashionable people of the town, walked in the street on one side of the square while the café tables filled with the regular after-dinner crowd. During the morning I usually sat in the café and read the Madrid papers and then walked in the town or out into the country. Sometimes Bill went along. Sometimes he wrote in his room. Robert Cohn spent the mornings studying Spanish or trying to get a shave at the barber-shop. Brett and Mike never got up until noon. We all had a vermouth at the café. It was a quiet life and no one was drunk. I went to church a couple of times, once with Brett. She said she wanted to hear me go to confession, but I told her that not only was it impossible but it was not as interesting as it sounded, and, besides, it would be in a language she did not know. We met Cohn as we came out of church, and although it was obvious he had followed us, yet he was very pleasant and nice, and we all three went for a walk out to the gypsy camp, and Brett had her fortune told. It was a good morning, there were high white clouds above the mountains. It had rained a little in the night and it was fresh and cool on the plateau, and there was a wonderful view. We all felt good and we felt healthy, and I felt quite friendly to Cohn. You could not be upset about anything on a day like that. That was the last day before the fiesta. 我不知道我是几点钟上床的。我记得我脱掉衣服,穿上浴衣,站在室外阳台上。当时我明白我醉得很厉害,后来走进房间,打开床头灯,开始看书。我看的是本屠格涅夫写的书。有两页我大概重复读了好几遍。这是《猎人笔记》中的一个短篇。我过去看过,但是好象没有看过一样。乡村景色历历在目,我头脑里压迫的感觉似乎松弛下来了。我醉得很厉害,我不愿闭上眼睛,因为一闭上眼睛,就会感到房间旋转个不停。如果我坚持看下去,这种感觉就会消失。 我听见勃莱特和罗伯特.科恩走上楼梯。科恩在门外说了声晚安,就继续朝自己的房间走去。我听见勃莱特走进隔壁房间。迈克已经睡下了。他是一小时前跟我一起上楼的。她进屋时,他醒过来,两人说着话儿。我听到他们的笑声。我关灯想入睡。没有必要再看书了。我闭上眼睛已经没有旋转的感觉了。但是我睡不着,没有理由因为在暗处你看问题就该和在亮处看问题不同。真见鬼,毫无理由! 有一次我把这事好好思量了一番,于是整整六个月,我关了电灯就睡不着觉。这又是一个精彩的一闪念。反正凡是女人都见鬼去。你,勃莱特.阿施利也见鬼去。 女人能成为知心朋友。非常知心。为了奠定友谊的基础,首先你必须钟情于她。我曾受到过勃莱特的青睐。我没有从她那一方的得失来考虑过。我没有付出代价就得了手。这无非推迟了帐单送来的时日罢了。但帐单总得要来的。这是你能指望得到的好事之一。 我认为我已经把一切帐目都还清了。不象女人,还啊,还啊,还个没完。根本没有想到报应或惩罚。只不过是等价交换。你拿出一点东西,获得另外的东西。或者你努力去争取什么。你用某种方式付出代价,来换取一切对你多少有点好处的东西。我花了应付的代价取得不少我喜欢的东西,所以我的日子过得满愉快。你不是拿你的知识来做代价,就是拿经验,机缘,或者钱财来做代价。享受生活的乐趣就是学会把钱花得合算,而且明白什么时候正花得合算。你能够把钱花得很合算。世界是个很好的市场,可供你购买。这似乎是一种很出色的哲学理论。我想再过五年,这种理论就会象我有过的其它高超的哲学理论一样,显得同样的荒唐可笑。 不过,也许还不至于这样。也许随着年华的流逝,你会学到一点东西。世界到底是什么回事,这我并不在意。我只想弄懂如何在其中生活。说不定假如你懂得了如何在世界上生活,你就会由此而懂得世界到底是怎么回事了。 然而,我真希望迈克对科恩的态度不要太刻薄。迈克喝醉了不安分。勃莱特喝醉了安分。比尔喝醉了安分。科恩从来不喝醉。迈克喝得一过量就惹人讨厌。我喜欢看他伤害科恩。但是我又希望他不要那样做,因为事后会使我厌恶自己。这就是道德:事后会引起你厌恶自己。不,那该是不道德的行为。这是种笼统的见解。我在夜里多么会胡思乱想啊。瞎说,我耳边响起了勃莱特说的这句话。瞎说!你和英国人在一起,你就习惯用英国人的措词来思维。英国人的口语词汇——至少在上流社会——一定比爱斯基摩语还要少些。当然,我对爱斯基摩语毫无所知。爱斯基摩语也许是种很优美的语言。拿切罗基语来说吧。我对切罗基语也同样毫无所知。英国人常用不同语调的短语说话。一个短语含意无穷,然而我对他们颇有好感。我喜欢他们说话的方式。譬如说,哈里斯。然而哈里斯不好算属于上流社会。 我又开灯看书。我看屠格涅夫的这本书。当时我知道,喝了过量的白兰地之后,在心情过分敏感的情况下读书,我能记住,而且过后我会觉得似乎是我亲身经历过的一样。我会终身难忘。这是你付出了代价能获得的又一件好东西。直到天快亮时我才睡着。 接下来那两天里,我们在潘普洛纳平静无事,没有再发生争吵。全城过节的准备工作渐次就绪。工人们在十字路口竖起门柱,等早上牛群从牛栏里释放出来通过大街跑向斗牛场的时候,好用来堵死横街。工人们挖好坑,埋进木桩,每根木桩都标着号码,以便插在规定的地点。城外高岗上,斗牛场的雇工们在训练斗牛用的马匹,他们赶着四腿溜直的马儿在斗牛场后面被太阳晒硬了的土地上飞跑。斗牛场的大门敞开着,里面在打扫看台。场地经过碾压,洒上了水,木匠更换了四周栅栏上不结实的或者开裂的木板。站在碾平的沙地边,你向上面空荡荡的看台望去,可以看见几个老婆子正在清扫包厢。 场外,从城区边缘的那条大街通向斗牛场入口处的栅栏已经筑起,形成一条长长的通道;斗牛赛开始的第一天早晨,大伙儿要在牛群的追赶下一起跑。城外将开设牛马集市的平地上,有些吉普赛人已经在树下扎下了营。各种酒类的小贩正在搭木棚。有一个木棚打着“公牛茴香酒”的广告。布帘招牌挂在烈日照射下的板壁上。市中心的大广场还没有什么变化。我们坐在咖啡馆露台上的白色柳条椅里,观看到站的公共汽车,车里走下从乡间来赶集的农民,我们看着车子满载着农民又开走了,他们坐在车上,带着装满了从城里买来的物品的马褡裢。除了那些鸽子和一个拿水管喷洒广场和冲洗大街的男人外,在这砂砾铺的广场上,唯一有生机的只有这几辆高高的灰色公共汽车。 晚上就是散步。晚饭后一小时之内,所有的漂亮姑娘、当地的驻军长官和城里所有衣着入时的男女都在广场一边的那条街道上散步,咖啡馆桌子旁都坐满了用过晚饭的常客。 早晨,我经常坐在咖啡馆里看马德里出版的各种报纸,然后在城里溜达,或者到城外乡间去。比尔有时一同去。有时他在自己房里写东西。罗伯特.科恩利用早晨的时间学习西班牙语或者抽时间到理发店去修面。勃莱特和迈克不到中午是不起床的。我们都在咖啡馆里喝味美思酒。日子过得很平静,没有一个人喝醉过。我去过两次教堂,一次是同勃莱特去的。她说她想听听我的忏悔,但是我告诉她,这不仅是不可能的,而且并不象她想的那么有意思,再说,即使我仟悔,我所用的语言她也听不懂。我们走出教堂的时候,碰见科恩,显然他早就跟在我们后面了,不过他使人感到非常愉快和友好,我们三人一直溜达到吉普赛人的帐篷那里,勃莱特叫人算了命。 这是一个明媚的早晨,群山上空高高地飘着白云。夜里下了一会儿雨,高岗上的空气新鲜、凉快,展现出一幅美妙的景色。我们都感到心情舒畅,精神饱满,我对科恩也相当友好。在这么一个日子里,什么事情也不会使你烦恼的。 这就是节日前最后一天的情形。 Chapter 15 At noon of Sunday, the 6th of July, the fiesta exploded. There is no other way to describe it. People had been coming in all day from the country, but they were assimilated in the town and you did not notice them. The square was as quiet in the hot sun as on any other day. The peasants were in the outlying wine-shops. There they were drinking, getting ready for the fiesta. They had come in so recently from the plains and the hills that it was necessary that they make their shifting in values gradually. They could not start in paying café prices. They got their money's worth in the wine-shops. Money still had a definite value in hours worked and bushels of grain sold. Late in the fiesta it would not matter what they paid, nor where they bought. Now on the day of the starting of the fiesta of San Fermin they had been in the wine-shops of the narrow streets of the town since early morning. Going down the streets in the morning on the way to mass in the cathedral, I heard them singing through the open doors of the shops. They were warming up. There were many people at the eleven o'clock mass. San Fermin is also a religious festival. I walked down the hill from the cathedral and up the street to the café 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 café was like a battleship stripped for action. Today the waiters did not leave you alone all morning to read without asking if you wanted to order something. A waiter came up as soon as I sat down. "What are you drinking?" I asked Bill and Robert. "Sherry," Cohn said. "Jerez," I said to the waiter. Before the waiter brought the sherry the rocket that announced the fiesta went up in the square. It burst and there was a gray ball of smoke high up above the Theatre Gayarre, across on the other side of the plaza. The ball of smoke hung in the sky like a shrapnel burst, and as I watched, another rocket came up to it, trickling smoke in the bright sunlight. I saw the bright flash as it burst and another little cloud of smoke appeared. By the time the second rocket had burst there were so many people in the arcade, that had been empty a minute before, that the waiter, holding the bottle high up over his head, could hardly get through the crowd to our table. People were coming into the square from all sides, and down the street we heard the pipes and the fifes and the drums coming. They were playing the _riau-riau_ music, the pipes shrill and the drums pounding, and behind them came the men and boys dancing. When the fifers stopped they all crouched down in the street, and when the reedpipes and the fifes shrilled, and the flat, dry, hollow drums tapped it out again, they all went up in the air dancing. In the crowd you saw only the heads and shoulders of the dancers going up and down. In the square a man, bent over, was playing on a reed-pipe, and a crowd of children were following him shouting, and pulling at his clothes. He came out of the square, the children following him, and piped them past the café 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 that!" Down the street came dancers. The street was solid with dancers, all men. They were all dancing in time behind their own fifers and drummers. They were a club of some sort, and all wore workmen's blue smocks, and red handkerchiefs around their necks, and carried a great banner on two poles. The banner danced up and down with them as they came down surrounded by the crowd. "Hurray for Wine! Hurray for the Foreigners!" was painted on the banner. "Where are the foreigners?" Robert Cohn asked. "We're the foreigners," Bill said. All the time rockets were going up. The café tables were all full now. The square was emptying of people and the crowd was filling the cafés. "Where's Brett and Mike?" Bill asked. "I'll go and get them," Cohn said. "Bring them here." The fiesta was really started. It kept up day and night for seven days. The dancing kept up, the drinking kept up, the noise went on. The things that happened could only have happened during a fiesta. Everything became quite unreal finally and it seemed as though nothing could have any consequences. It seemed out of place to think of consequences during the fiesta. All during the fiesta you had the feeling, even when it was quiet, that you had to shout any remark to make it heard. It was the same feeling about any action. It was a fiesta and it went on for seven days. That afternoon was the big religious procession. San Fermin was translated from one church to another. In the procession were all the dignitaries, civil and religious. We could not see them because the crowd was too great. Ahead of the formal procession and behind it danced the _riau-riau_ dancers. There was one mass of yellow shirts dancing up and down in the crowd. All we could see of the procession through the closely pressed people that crowded all the side streets and curbs were the great giants, cigar-store Indians, thirty feet high, Moors, a King and Queen, whirling and waltzing solemnly to the _riau-riau_. They were all standing outside the chapel where San Fermin and the dignitaries had passed in, leaving a guard of soldiers, the giants, with the men who danced in them standing beside their resting frames, and the dwarfs moving with their whacking bladders through the crowd. We started inside and there was a smell of incense and people filing back into the church, but Brett was stopped just inside the door because she had no hat, so we went out again and along the street that ran back from the chapel into town. The street was lined on both sides with people keeping their place at the curb for the return of the procession. Some dancers formed a circle around Brett and started to dance. They wore big wreaths of white garlics around their necks. They took Bill and me by the arms and put us in the circle. Bill started to dance, too. They were all chanting. Brett wanted to dance but they did not want her to. They wanted her as an image to dance around. When the song ended with the sharp _riau-riau!_ they rushed us into a wine-shop. We stood at the counter. They had Brett seated on a wine-cask. It was dark in the wine-shop and full of men singing, hard-voiced singing. Back of the counter they drew the wine from casks. I put down money for the wine, but one of the men picked it up and put it back in my pocket. "I want a leather wine-bottle," Bill said. "There's a place down the street," I said. "I'll go get a couple." The dancers did not want me to go out. Three of them were sitting on the high wine-cask beside Brett, teaching her to drink out of the wine-skins. They had hung a wreath of garlics around her neck. Some one insisted on giving her a glass. Somebody was teaching Bill a song. Singing it into his ear. Beating time on Bill's back. I explained to them that I would be back. Outside in the street I went down the street looking for the shop that made leather winebottles. The crowd was packed on the sidewalks and many of the shops were shuttered, and I could not find it. I walked as far as the church, looking on both sides of the street. Then I asked a man and he took me by the arm and led me to it. The shutters were up but the door was open. Inside it smelled of fresh tanned leather and hot tar. A man was stencilling completed wine-skins. They hung from the roof in bunches. He took one down, blew it up, screwed the nozzle tight, and then jumped on it. "See! It doesn't leak." "I want another one, too. A big one." He took down a big one that would hold a gallon or more, from the roof. He blew it up, his cheeks puffing ahead of the wine-skin, and stood on the bota holding on to a chair. "What are you going to do? Sell them in Bayonne?" "No. Drink out of them." He slapped me on the back. "Good man. Eight pesetas for the two. The lowest price." The man who was stencilling the new ones and tossing them into a pile stopped. "It's true," he said. "Eight pesetas is cheap." I paid and went out and along the street back to the wine-shop. It was darker than ever inside and very crowded. I did not see Brett and Bill, and some one said they were in the back room. At the counter the girl filled the two wine-skins for me. One held two litres. The other held five litres. Filling them both cost three pesetas sixty centimos. Some one at the counter, that I had never seen before, tried to pay for the wine, but I finally paid for it myself. The man who had wanted to pay then bought me a drink. He would not let me buy one in return, but said he would take a rinse of the mouth from the new wine-bag. He tipped the big five-litre bag up and squeezed it so the wine hissed against the back of his throat. "All right," he said, and handed back the bag. In the back room Brett and Bill were sitting on barrels 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 to Mike and sent for a fork for me. "Stop eating their dinner, Michael," Brett shouted from the wine-barrels. "I don't want to eat up your meal," I said when some one handed me a fork. "Eat," he said. "What do you think it's here for?" I unscrewed the nozzle of the big wine-bottle and handed it around. Every one took a drink, tipping the wine-skin at arm's length. Outside, above the singing, we could hear the music of the procession going by. "Isn't that the procession?" Mike asked. "Nada," some one said. "It's nothing. Drink up. Lift the bottle." "Where did they find you?" I asked Mike. "Some one brought me here," Mike said. "They said you were here." "Where's Cohn?" "He's passed out," Brett called. "They've put him away 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. Arriba! Up with the bottle!" I took a drink. It tasted of licorice and warmed all the way. I could feel it warming in my stomach. "Where the hell is Cohn?" "I don't know," Mike said. "I'll ask. Where is the drunken comrade?" he asked in Spanish. "You want to see him?" "Yes," I said. "Not me," said Mike. "This gent." The Anis del Mono man wiped his mouth and stood up. "Come on." In a back room Robert Cohn was sleeping quietly on some wine-casks. It was almost too dark to see his face. They had 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 the wreath of garlics around his neck. The Spaniards shouted when he came in. Cohn wiped his eyes and grinned. "I must have been sleeping," he said. "Oh, not at all," Brett said. "You were only dead," Bill said. "Aren't we going to go and have some supper?" Cohn asked. "Do you want to eat?" "Yes. Why not? I'm hungry." "Eat those garlics, Robert," Mike said. "I say. Do eat those garlics." Cohn stood there. His sleep had made him quite all right. "Do let's go and eat," Brett said. "I must get a bath." "Come on," Bill said. "Let's translate Brett to the hotel." We said good-bye to many people and shook hands with many people and went out. Outside it was dark. "What time is it do you suppose?" Cohn asked. "It's to-morrow," Mike said. "You've been asleep two days." "No," said Cohn, "what time is it?" "It's ten o'clock." "What a lot we've drunk." "You mean what a lot _we've_ drunk. You went to sleep." Going down the dark streets to the hotel we saw the skyrockets going up in the square. Down the side streets that led to the square we saw the square solid with people, those in the centre all dancing. It was a big meal at the hotel. It was the first meal of the prices being doubled for the fiesta, and there were several new courses. After the dinner we were out in the town. I remember resolving that I would stay up all night to watch the bulls go through the streets at six o'clock in the morning, and being so sleepy that I went to bed around four o'clock. The others stayed up. My own room was locked and I could not find the key, so I went up-stairs and slept on one of the beds in Cohn's room. The fiesta was going on outside in the night, but I was too sleepy for it to keep me awake. When I woke it was the sound of the rocket exploding that announced the release of the bulls from the corrals at the edge of town. They would race through the streets and out to the bull-ring. I had been sleeping heavily and I woke feeling I was too late. I put on a coat of Cohn's and went out on the balcony. Down below the narrow street was empty. All the balconies were crowded with people. Suddenly a crowd came down the street. They were all running, packed close together. They passed along and up the street toward the bull-ring and behind them came more men running faster, and then some stragglers who were really running. Behind them was a little bare space, and then the bulls galloping, tossing their heads up and down. It all went out of sight around the corner. One man fell, rolled to the gutter, and lay quiet. But the bulls went right on and did not notice him. They were all running together. After they went out of sight a great roar came from the bull-ring. It kept on. Then finally the pop of the rocket that meant the bulls had gotten through the people in the ring and into the corrals. I went back in the room and got into bed. I had been standing on the stone balcony in bare feet. I knew our crowd must have all been out at the bull-ring. Back in bed, I went to sleep. Cohn woke me when he came in. He started to undress and went over and closed the window because the people on the balcony of the house just across the street were looking in. "Did you see the show?" I asked. "Yes. We were all there." "Anybody get hurt?" "One of the bulls got into the crowd in the ring and tossed six or eight people." "How did Brett like it?" "It was all so sudden there wasn't any time for it to bother anybody." "I wish I'd been up." "We didn't know where you were. We went to your room but it was locked." "Where did you stay up?" "We danced at some club." "I got sleepy," I said. "My gosh! I'm sleepy now," Cohn said. "Doesn't this thing ever stop?" "Not for a week." Bill opened the door and put his head in. "Where were you, Jake?" "I saw them go through from the balcony. How was it?" "Grand." "Where you going?" "To sleep." No one was up before noon. We ate at tables set out under the arcade. The town was full of people. We had to wait for a table. After lunch we went over to the Irufla. It had filled up, and as the time for the bull-fight came it got fuller, and the tables were crowded closer. There was a close, crowded hum that came every day before the bull-fight. The café did not make this same noise at any other time, no matter how crowded it was. This hum went on, and we were in it and a part of it. I had taken six seats for all the fights. Three of them were barreras, the first row at the ring-side, and three were sobrepuertos, seats with wooden backs, half-way up the amphitheatre. Mike thought Brett had best sit high up for her first time, and Cohn wanted to sit with them. Bill and I were going to sit in the barreras, and I gave the extra ticket to a waiter to sell. Bill said something to Cohn about what to do and how to look so he would not mind the horses. Bill had seen one season of bull-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 wineskin," I said. "See you back here. Don't get cock-eyed." "I'll come along," Bill said. Brett smiled at us. We walked around through the arcade to avoid the heat of the square. "That Cohn gets me," Bill said. "He's got this Jewish superiority so strong that he thinks the only emotion he'll get out of the fight will be being bored." "We'll watch him with the glasses," I said. "Oh, to hell with him!" "He spends a lot of time there." "I want him to stay there." In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya. "Come on," said Montoya. "Do you want to meet Pedro Romero?" "Fine," said Bill. "Let's go see him." We followed Montoya up a flight and down the corridor. "He's in room number eight," Montoya explained. "He's getting dressed for the bull-fight." Montoya knocked on the door and opened it. It was a gloomy room with a little light coming in from the window on the narrow street. There were two beds separated by a monastic partition. The electric light was on. The boy stood very straight and unsmiling in his bull-fighting clothes. His jacket hung over the back of a chair. They were just finishing winding his sash. His black hair shone under the electric light. He wore a white linen shirt and the swordhandler finished his sash and stood up and stepped back. Pedro Romero nodded, seeming very far away and dignified when we shook hands. Montoya said something about what great aficionados we were, and that we wanted to wish him luck. Romero listened very seriously. Then he turned to me. He was the best-looking boy I have ever seen. "You go to the bull-fight," he said in English. "You know English," I said, feeling like an idiot. "No," he answered, and smiled. One of three men who had been sitting on the beds came up and asked us if we spoke French. "Would you like me to interpret for you? Is there anything you would like to ask Pedro Romero?" We thanked him. What was there that you would like to ask? The boy was nineteen years old, alone except for his sword-handlet and the three hangers-on, and the bull-fight was to commence in twenty minutes. We wished him "Mucha suerte," shook hands, and went out. He was standing, straight and handsome and altogether by himself, alone in the room with the hangers-on as we shut the door. "He's a fine boy, don't you think so?" Montoya asked. "He's a good-looking kid," I said. "He looks like a torero," Montoya said. "He has the type." "He's a fine boy." "We'll see how he is in the ring," Montoya said. We found the big leather wine-bottle leaning against the wall in my room, took it and the field-glasses, locked the door, and went down-stairs. It was a good bull-fight. Bill and I were very excited about Pedro Romero. Montoya was sitting about ten places away. After Romero had killed his first bull Montoya caught my eye and nodded his head. This was a real one. There had not been a real one for a long time. Of the other two matadors, one was very fair and the other was passable. But there was no comparison with Romero, although neither of his bulls was much. Several times during the bull-fight I looked up at Mike and Brett and Cohn, with the glasses. They seemed to be all right. Brett did not look upset. All three were leaning forward on the concrete railing in front of them. "Let me take the glasses," Bill said. "Does Cohn look bored?" I asked. "That kike!" Outside the ring, after the bull-fight was over, you could not move in the crowd. We could not make our way through but had to be moved with the whole thing, slowly, as a glacier, back to town. We had that disturbed emotional feeling that always comes after a bull-fight, and the feeling of elation that comes after a good bullfight. The fiesta was going on. The drums pounded and the pipe music was shrill, and everywhere the flow of the crowd was broken by patches of dancers. The dancers were in a crowd, so you did not see the intricate play of the feet. All you saw was the heads and shoulders going up and down, up and down. Finally, we got out of the crowd and made for the café. The waiter saved chairs for the others, and we each ordered an absinthe and watched the crowd in the square and the dancers. "What do you suppose that dance is?" Bill asked. "It's a sort of jota." "They're not all the same," Bill said. "They dance differently to all the different tunes." "It's swell dancing." In front of us on a clear part of the street a company of boys were dancing. The steps were very intricate and their faces were intent and concentrated. They all looked down while they danced. Their rope-soled shoes tapped and spatted on the pavement. The toes touched. The heels touched. The balls of the feet touched. Then the music broke wildly and the step was finished and they were all dancing on up the street. "Here come the gentry," Bill said. They were crossing the street. "Hello, men," I said. "Hello, gents!" said Brett. "You saved us seats? How nice." "I say," Mike said, "that Romero what'shisname is somebody. Am I wrong?" "Oh, isn't he lovely," Brett said. "And those green trousers." "Brett never took her eyes off them." "I say, I must borrow your glasses to-morrow." "How did it go?" "Wonderfully! Simply perfect. I say, it is a spectacle!" "How about the horses?" "I couldn't help looking at them." "She couldn't take her eyes off them," Mike said. "She's an extraordinary wench." "They do have some rather awful things happen to them," Brett said. "I couldn't look away, though." "Did you feel all right?" "I didn't feel badly at all." "Robert Cohn did," Mike put in. "You were quite green, Robert." "The first horse did bother me," Cohn said. "You weren't bored, were you?" asked Bill. Cohn laughed. "No. I wasn't bored. I wish you'd forgive me that." "It's all right," Bill said, "so long as you weren't bored." "He didn't look bored," Mike said. "I thought he was going to be sick." "I never felt that bad. It was just for a minute." "_I_ thought he was going to be sick. You weren't bored, were you, Robert?" "Let up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said it." "He was, you know. He was positively green." "Oh, shove it along, Michael." "You mustn't ever get bored at your first bull-fight, Robert," Mike said. "It might make such a mess." "Oh, shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "He said Brett was a sadist," Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, healthy wench." "Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. "Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show." "Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said. "I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never notice anything disgusting." "It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said. "When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid." "How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it." The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technique that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line 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 damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this 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." "He looks that way," Brett said. "Doesn't he?" I said. They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips cracked, the men ran, and the mules, straining forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and the bull, one horn up, his head on its side, swept a swath smoothly across the sand and out the red gate. "This next is the last one." "Not really," Brett said. She leaned forward on the barrera. Romero waved his picadors to their places, then stood, his cape against his chest, looking across the ring to where the bull would come out. After it was over we went out and were pressed tight in the crowd. "These bull-fights are hell on one," Brett said. "I'm limp as a rag." "Oh, you'll get a drink," Mike said. The next day Pedro Romero did not fight. It was Miura bulls, and a very bad bull-fight. The next day there was no bull-fight scheduled. But all day and all night the fiesta kept on. 七月六日,星期日中午,节日庆祝活动“爆发”了。那种场面难以用别的字眼来形容。整整一天,人们从四乡络绎不绝地来到,但是他们和城里人杂处在一起,并不受人注目。烈日下的广场和平常日子一样安静。乡民们待在远离市中心的小酒店里。他们在那里喝酒,准备参加节日活动。他们从平原和山区新来乍到,需要逐渐地改变关于钱的价值观念。他们不能一下子就到那种东西贵的咖啡馆去。他们在小酒店里享用实惠的酒肴。钱的具体价值仍然是以劳动的时间和卖粮的数量来衡量的。以后等到狂欢高潮时,他们就不在乎花多少钱,或者在什么地方花了。 圣福明节庆祝活动开始的第一天,乡民们一清早就来到小巷里的小酒店。上午,我穿过几条街道到大教堂去望弥撒,一路上我都听见从敞开着门的酒店里传出他们的歌声。他们越来越兴奋。有很多人参加十一点钟的弥撒。圣福明节也是个宗教节日。 我从大教堂走下山坡,顺着大街走到广场上的咖啡馆。这时是中午不到一点儿。罗伯特.科恩和比尔坐在一张桌子旁。大理石面餐桌和白色柳条椅已经撤走,换上铸铁桌子和简朴的折迭椅。咖啡馆象一艘清除了不必要的东西准备上阵的军舰。今天侍者不会让你清静地坐着看一上午报纸而不来问你要点什么酒菜。我刚一坐下,一名侍者就走了过来。 “你们喝点什么?”我问比尔和罗伯特。 “雪利酒,”科恩说。 “Jerez,”我对侍者说。 不等侍者把酒送来,一颗宣布节日庆祝活动开始的焰火弹在广场上腾空而起。焰火弹爆炸了,一团灰色的烟雾高悬在广场对面加雅瑞剧院上空。这团悬在空中的烟雾象枚开花的榴霰弹,正当我在观看,又升起一颗焰火弹,在灿烂的阳光里吐出缕缕青烟。它爆炸的时候,我看见耀眼的一闪,接着另一朵烟云出现了。就在这第二枚焰火弹爆炸的当儿,一分钟前还空荡荡的拱廊里,竟来了那么多人,以至侍者把酒瓶高举过头,好不容易才穿过人群,挤到我们桌旁。人们从四面八方涌向广场,街上自远而近地传来吹奏簧管、 横笛和击鼓的声音。他们在吹奏riau-riau舞曲,笛声尖细,鼓声咚咚,大人小孩跟在他们后面边走边舞。当笛声停息,他们全都在街上蹲下来,等到簧管和横笛再次尖锐地吹起来,呆板、单调、闷雷似的鼓声又敲起来,他们全都一跃而起,跳起舞来。你只看见他们的头和肩膀在人群里起伏。 广场上有个人弯着腰在吹奏簧管,一群孩子跟在他身后吵吵嚷嚷,扯他的衣服。他走出广场,给跟在后面的孩子们吹奏簧管,打咖啡馆门前走过去,拐进小巷。在他边吹边走,孩子们跟在后面吵吵嚷嚷,扯着他的时候,我们看见他那一无表情的、长着麻子的脸庞。 “他大概是本地的傻子,”比尔说。“我的上帝!看那边!” 一群跳舞的人从街头过来了。街上跳舞的人挤得水泄不通,全都是男人。他们跟在自己的笛手和鼓手后面,随着拍子都在跳舞。他们是属于某个俱乐部的,全都穿着蓝工装,脖子上围着红领巾,并用两条长杆撑着一块大横幅。当他们被人群簇拥着走过来的时候,横幅随同他们的舞步上下舞动。 横幅上涂写着:“美酒万岁!外宾万岁!” “哪儿有外宾呀?”罗伯特.科恩问。 “我们就是呗,”比尔说。 焰火弹一直不停地发射着。咖啡馆里座无虚席。广场上的人逐渐稀少起来,人群都挤到各家咖啡馆里去了。 “勃莱特和迈克在哪儿?”比尔问。 “我这就去找他们,”科恩说。 “领他们上这儿来。” 庆祝活动正式开始了。它将昼夜不停地持续七天。狂舞,纵酒,喧嚣,片刻不停。这一切只有在节日才能发生。最后,一切都变得宛如梦幻,好象随你怎么干都不会引起任何恶果似的。狂欢期间,考虑后果似乎是不合时宜的。在节期的全过程中,哪怕在片刻安静的时候,你都有这种感觉:必须喊着说话,才能让别人听清。关于你的一举一动,也都有同样的感觉。这就是狂欢活动,它持续整整七天。 那天下午,举行了盛大的宗教游行。人们抬着圣福明像,从一个教堂到另一个教堂。世俗显要和宗教名流全都参加游行。人山人海,我们没法看到这些人物。整齐的游行队伍的前后都有一群跳riau-riau舞的人。 有一伙穿黄衬衫的人在人群里忽上忽下地跳着。通向广场的每条街道和两边人行道上熙熙攘攘,我们只能从水泄不通的人群头顶上瞧见游行队伍里那些高大的巨像:有几尊雪茄店门前的木雕印第安人的模拟像,足有三十英尺高,几个摩尔人,一个国王和一个王后。这些模拟像都庄重地随着riau-riau舞曲旋转着,象在跳华尔兹。 人群在一座礼拜堂门前停下,圣福明像和要人们鱼贯而入,把卫队和巨像留在门外,本来钻在模拟像肚子里跳舞的人就站在搁在地上的担架旁边,侏儒们手持特大气球,在人群里钻来钻去。我们走进礼拜堂,闻到一股香火味,人们鱼贯地走进去,但是勃莱特因为没有戴帽子,在门口就被拦住了,于是我们只得回出来,从礼拜堂顺着返城的大街走回去。街道两侧人行道边站满了人,他们站在老地方,等候游行队伍归来。一些跳舞的人站成一个圆圈,围着勃莱特跳起舞来。他们脖子上套着大串大串的白蒜头。他们搀着我和比尔的手臂,把我们拉进圆圈。比尔也开始跳起舞来。他们都在吟唱着。勃莱特也想跳舞,但是他们不让。他们要把她当作一尊偶像来围着她跳。歌曲以刺耳的riau-riau声结束。他们拥着我们,走进一家酒店。 我们在柜台边站住了。他们让勃莱特坐在一个酒桶上。酒店里很暗,挤满了人,他们在唱歌,直着嗓门唱。在柜台后面,有人从酒桶的龙头放出一杯杯酒来。我放下酒钱,但是有个人捡起钱塞口我的口袋。 “我想要一个皮酒袋,”比尔说。 “街上有个地方卖,”我说。“我去买两个,” 跳舞的人不肯让我出去。有三个人靠着勃莱特坐在高高的酒桶上,教她用酒袋喝酒。他们在她脖子上挂了一串蒜头。有个人硬是要塞给她一杯酒。有个人在教比尔唱一支歌。冲着他的耳朵唱。在比尔的背上打着拍子。 我向他们说明我还要回来的。到了街上,我沿街寻找制作皮酒袋的作坊。人行道上挤满了人,许多商店已经上了铺板,我没法找到那家作坊。我注视着街道的两侧,一直走到教堂。这时,我向一个人打听,他拉住我的胳膊,领我到那个作坊去。铺板已经上好,但是门还开着。 作坊里面散发出一股新上硝的皮革和热煤焦油的气味。有个人正往制好的酒袋上印花、酒袋成捆地挂在天花板上。他拿下一个,吹足了气,旋紧喷嘴的口子,然后纵身跳上酒袋。 “瞧!一点不漏气。” “我还要一个。拿个大的。” 他从屋梁上拿下一个能装一加仑,或许还不止一加仑的大酒袋。他对着袋口,鼓起两颊,把酒袋吹足气,然后手扶椅背,站在酒袋上。 “你干什么用?拿到巴荣纳去卖掉?” “不。自己喝酒用。” 他拍拍我的背脊。 “是条男于汉!两个一共八比塞塔。最低价格。” 在新皮袋上印花的那个人把印好的酒袋扔进大堆里,停下手来。“这是真的,,他说。“八比塞塔是便宜。” 我付了钱,出来顺原道折园酒店。里面更暗了,而且非常拥挤。勃莱特和比尔不见了,有人说他们在里屋。柜上的女堂倌给我灌满了这两个皮酒袋。一个装了两公升。另一个装了五公升。装满两袋酒化了三比塞塔六十生丁。柜台前有个素不相识的人要替我付酒钱,不过最后还是我自己付的。要给我付酒钱的这个人就请我喝一杯酒。他不让我买酒请还他,却说想从我的新酒袋里喝一口嗽嗽嘴。他把容量为六公升的大酒袋倒过来,双手一挤,酒就丝丝地喷进他的嗓子眼。 “好,”他说罢就把酒袋还给我。 在里屋,勃莱特和比尔坐在琵琶酒桶上,被跳舞的人团团围住。他们人人都把手臂搭在别人肩膀上,人人都在唱歌。迈克和几个没有穿外衣的人坐在桌子边吃一碗洋葱醋烟金枪鱼。他们都在喝酒,用面包片蹭着碗里的食油和醋汁。 “嗨,杰克。嗨!”迈克叫我。“过来。认识一下我这些朋友。我们正在来点小吃开胃哩。” 迈克把我给在座的人作了介绍。他们向迈克自报姓名并叫人给我拿一把叉来。 “别吃人家的东西,迈克,”勃莱特在酒桶那边喊道。 “我不想把你们的饭菜都吃光,”当有人给我递叉子的时候,我说。 “吃吧,”他说。“东西摆在这里干啥?” 我旋开大酒袋上喷嘴的盖子,依次递给在座的人。每人伸直胳膊,把酒袋倒过来喝一口。 在唱歌声中,我们听见门外经过的游行队伍吹奏的乐曲声。 “是不是游行队伍过来啦?”迈克问。 “没有的事,”有人说。“没啥。干了吧。把酒瓶举起来。” “他们在哪儿找到你的?”我问迈克。 “有人带我来的,”迈克说。“他们说你们在这里。” “科恩在哪儿?” “他醉倒了,”勃莱特大声说。“有人把他安顿在什么地方了。” “在哪儿?” “我不知道。” “我们怎么能知道,”比尔说。“他大概死了。” “他没有死,”迈克说。“我知道他没有死。他只不过喝了茴香酒醉倒了。” 在他说茴香酒这工夫,在座的有个人抬头望望,从外衣里面掏出一个酒瓶递给我。 “不,”我说。“不喝了,谢谢!” “喝。喝。举起来!举起酒瓶来!” 我喝了一口。这酒有甘草味,从嗓子眼一直热到肚子里。我感到胃里热呼呼的。 “科恩到底在哪儿?”“我不知道,”迈克说。“我来问问。那位喝醉的伙伴在哪里?”他用西班牙语问。“你想看他?”“是的,”我说。“不是我,”迈克说。“这位先生想看。”给我喝茴香酒的人抹抹嘴唇,站起来。“走吧。” 在一间里屋内,罗伯特.科恩安详地睡在几只酒桶上。屋里很暗,简直看不清他的脸。人家给他盖上一件外衣,迭起了另外一件外衣枕在他的头下面。他脖子上套着一个用蒜头拧成的大花环,直垂在胸前。 “让他睡吧,”那人低声说。“他不要紧。” 过了两个钟头,科恩露面了。他走进前屋,脖子上依然挂着那串蒜头。西班牙人看他进来都欢呼起来。科恩揉揉眼睛,咧嘴一笑。 “我睡了一觉吧,”他说。 “哦,哪儿的话,”勃莱特说。 “你简直就是死过去了,”比尔说。 “我们去不去用点晚餐?”科恩问。 “你想吃?” “对。怎么啦?我饿了。” “吃那些蒜头吧,罗伯特,”迈克说。“嗨,把蒜头吃了。” 科恩站着不动。他这一觉睡得酒意全消了。 “我们吃饭去,”勃莱特说。“我得洗个澡。” “走吧,”比尔说。“我们把勃莱特转移到旅馆去。” 我们同众人告别,同众人一一握手,然后出来。外面天黑了。“你们看现在几点钟?”科恩问。“已经是第二天了,”迈克说。“你睡了两天。”“不会,”科恩说。“几点钟?”“十点。”“我们喝得可不少。” “你的意思是我们喝得可不少。你睡着了。” 在黑暗的街上走回旅馆的时候,我们看见广场上在放焰火。从通往广场的小巷望过去,广场上人头攒动,广场中央的人都在翩翩起舞。 旅馆的这顿晚餐异常丰盛。这是第一顿节日饭菜,价钱贵一倍,多加了几道莱。饭后,我们出去玩儿。记得我曾决定打个通宵,第二天早晨六点好看牛群过街的情景,但是到四点钟左右我实在太困了,就睡下了。其他那些人一夜没睡。 我自己的房间上着锁,我找不到钥匙,所以上楼去睡在科恩房间里的一张床上。街上的狂欢活动在夜间也没有停,但是我困得呼呼地睡着了。焰火呼的一声爆炸把我惊醒,这是城郊牛栏释放牛群的信号。牛群要奔驰着穿过街道到斗牛场去。我睡得很沉,醒来的时候以为晚了。我穿上科恩的外衣,走到阳台上。下面的小街空荡荡的。所有的阳台上都挤满了人。突然,从街头涌过来一群人。他们挤挤擦擦地跑着。他们经过旅馆门前,顺着小街向斗牛场跑去,后面跟着一伙人,跑得更急,随后有几个掉队的在拼命地跑。人群过后有一小段间隙,接着就是四蹄腾空、上下晃动脑袋的牛群了。它们的身影消失在拐角的地方。有个人摔倒在地,滚进沟里,一动不动地躺着。但是牛群没有理会,只顾往前跑去。它们成群地跑。 牛群看不见了,斗牛场那边传来一阵狂叫声。叫声经久不息。最后有颗焰火弹啪的爆炸,说明牛群在斗牛场已经闯过人群,进入牛栏。我回到屋里,上床躺下。我刚才一直光着脚在石头阳台上站着。我知道我的伙伴一定都到了斗牛场。上了床,我又睡着了。 科恩进屋把我吵醒。他动手脱衣服,走过去关上窗户,因为街对面房子的阳台上,有人正往我们屋里看。 “那个场面你看见啦?”我问。 “看见了。我们都在那边。” “有人受伤吗?” “有头牛在斗牛场冲进人群,挑倒了七八个人。” “勃莱特觉得怎么样?” “一切来得那么突然,不等人们骚动起来,事情就过去了。” “但愿我早点起来就好了。” “我们不知道你在哪里。我们到你房间去找过,但房门锁着。” “你们这一夜待在哪儿?” “我们在一个俱乐部里跳舞。” “我太困了,”我说。 “我的上帝!我现在真困了,”科恩说。“这回事儿有个完没有?” “一星期内完不了。” 比尔推开门,探进头来。 “你在哪儿,杰克?” “我在阳台上看到牛群跑过。怎么样?” “真出色。” “你上哪儿去?” “睡觉去。” 午前谁也没有起床。我们坐在摆在拱廊下的餐桌边用餐。城里到处是人。我们得等着才能弄到一张空桌。吃完饭我们赶到伊鲁涅咖啡馆。里面已经客满,离斗牛赛开始的时间越近,人就越多,桌边的人也坐得愈来愈挤。每天斗牛赛开始前,挤满人的室内总满是一片低沉的嗡嗡声。咖啡馆在平时不管怎么挤,也不会这样嘈杂。嗡嗡声持续不停,我们参加进去,成为其中的一部分。 每场斗牛,我都订购六张票。其中三张是斗牛场看台的第一排座位,紧靠斗牛场围栏的头排座席,三张是斗牛场看台上位于出入口上方的座位,坐椅带木制靠背,位于圆形看台的半坡上。迈克认为勃莱特第一次看斗牛,最好坐在高处,科恩愿意陪他俩坐在一起。比尔和我准备坐在第一排,多余的一张票我给侍者去卖掉。比尔告诉科恩要注意什么,怎么看才不至于把注意力集中在马身上。比尔曾看过有一年的一系列斗牛赛。 “我倒不担心会受不了。我只怕要感到乏味,”科恩说。 “你是这么想的?” “牛抵了马之后,不要去看马,”我对勃莱特说。“注意牛的冲刺,看长矛手怎样设法避开牛的攻击,但是如果马受到了攻击,只要没有死,你就不要再看它。” “我有点儿紧张,”勃莱特说。“我担心能不能好好地从头看到尾。”“没事儿,马登场的那一段你看了会不舒服,别的就没啥了,而且马上场和每条牛的交锋只不过几分钟。如果看了不舒服,你不看好了。” “她不要紧,”迈克说。“我会照顾她的。” “我看你不会感到乏味的,”比尔说。 “我回旅馆去取望远镜和酒袋,”我说。“回头见。别喝醉了。” “我陪你去,”比尔说。勃莱特向我们微笑。 我们绕道顺着拱廊下面走,免得穿过广场挨晒。 “那个科恩叫我烦透了,”比尔说。“他那种犹太人的傲气太过分了,居然认为看斗牛只会使他感到乏味。” “我们等会拿望远镜来观察他,”我说。 “让他见鬼去吧!” “他粘在那儿不肯走了。” “我愿意他在那儿粘着。” 在旅馆的楼梯上,我们碰见蒙托亚。 “来,”蒙托亚说。“你们想见见佩德罗.罗梅罗吗?”“好啊,”比尔说。“我们去见他。”我们跟着蒙托亚走上一段楼梯,顺着走廊走去。“他在八号房间,”蒙托亚解释说。“他正在上装,准备出场。” 蒙托亚敲敲门,把门推开。这是一间幽暗的房间,只有朝小巷的窗户透进一丝亮光。有两张床,用一扇修道院用的隔板隔开。开着电灯。小伙子穿着斗牛服,板着脸,笔直地站着。他的上衣搭在椅背上。人家快把他的腰带缠好了。他的黑发在灯光下闪闪发亮。他身穿白色亚麻布衬衫,他的随从给他缠好腰带,站起来退到一旁。佩德罗.罗梅罗点点头,当我们握手的时候,他显得心不在焉,非常端庄。蒙托亚说了几句我们是斗牛迷,我们祝愿他成功等等的话。罗梅罗听得非常认真,然后朝我转过身来。他是我平生所见最漂亮的翩翩少年。 “你看斗牛去罗,”他用英语说。 “你会讲英语,”我说,觉得自己象个傻子。” “不会,”他笑着回答。 床上坐着三个人,其中之一向我们走来,问我们是否会讲法语。“要不要我给你们翻译?你们有什么要问佩德罗.罗梅罗的?” 我们道了谢。有什么好问的呢?这小伙十九岁,除了一名随从和三名帮闲的以外,没有旁人在场,再过二十分钟斗牛赛就要开始。我们祝愿他“Mucha suerte”,握握手就出来了。我们带上门的时候,他仍然站着,挺直而潇洒,孑然一身,独自同几名帮闲的待在屋里。 “他是个好小伙,你们说呢?”蒙托亚问。 “确实漂亮,”我说。 “他长得就象个斗牛士,”蒙托亚说。“他有斗牛士的风度。” “他是个好小伙。” “我们马上会看见他在斗牛场上的风姿,”蒙托亚说。 我们看见大皮酒袋在我房间里靠墙放着,就拿了它和望远镜,锁上门下得楼来。 这场斗牛很精彩。我和比尔都为佩德罗.罗梅罗惊叹不已。蒙托亚坐在离开我们约莫有十个座位的地方。当罗梅罗杀死第一头牛之后,蒙托亚捉住我的目光,向我点头。这是一位真正的斗牛士。好长时间没有见过真正的斗牛士了。至于另外两位,一位很不错,另一位也还可以。别看罗梅罗对付的那两头牛不怎么厉害,但是谁都无法跟他相比。 斗牛赛的过程中,我有好几次抬头用望远镜观察迈克、勃莱特和科恩。他们似乎一切正常。勃莱特看来并不激动。他们三人都探着身子趴在前面的混凝土栏杆上。 “把望远镜给我使使,”比尔说。 “科恩看上去感到乏味了吗?”我问。 “这个犹太佬!” 斗牛赛结束后,在斗牛场外面挤在人群里简直没法动弹。我们挤不出去,只好随着整个人流象冰川一样缓慢地向城里移动。我们的心情忐忑不安,就象每次看完斗牛一样,同时又很振奋,象平时看完一场精彩的斗牛一样。狂欢活动在继续。鼓声咚咚,笛声尖利,一伙伙起舞的人群随处冲破人流,各占一方。跳舞的人被人群团团围住,因此看不见他们那叫人眼花镣乱的复杂舞步。你只见他们的脑袋和肩膀在上上下下不停地闪现。我们终于挤出人群,走到咖啡馆。侍者给我们另外那几位留了座,我们俩每人叫了一杯苦艾酒,看着广场上的人群和跳舞的人。 “你看这是什么舞蹈?”比尔问。 “是一种霍达舞。” “这种舞蹈有各种跳法,”比尔说。“乐曲不一样,跳法也就不一样。”“舞姿非常优美。”我们面前有群男孩子在街上一块没人的地方跳舞,舞步错综复杂,脸色全神贯注。他们跳的时候,都望着地面。绳底鞋在路面上踢达作响。足尖相碰。脚跟相碰。拇趾球相碰。乐声戛然而止,这套舞步跟着结束,他们沿着大街翩翩远去。 “咱们的同伙来了,”比尔说。 他们正从马路对面走过来。 “嗨,朋友们,”我说。 “你们好,先生们!”勃莱特说。“给我们留座啦?太好了。” “嗨,”迈克说,“那个姓罗梅罗叫什么名儿的小伙真棒。我说得对不对?” “他多可爱啊,”勃莱特说。“穿着那条绿裤子。” “那条绿裤子勃莱特都看不够。” “嗨,明天我一定借你们的望远镜用一用。” “你觉得怎么样?” “精彩极了!没有说的。啊,真是大开眼界!” “马怎么样?” “没法不看它们。” “勃莱特看得出神了,”迈克说。“她是个了不起的娘们。” “它们确乎挨到了怪可怕的对待,”勃莱特说。“不过,我一直盯着看。” Chapter 16 In the morning it was raining. A fog had come over the mountains from the sea. You could not see the tops of the mountains. The plateau was dull and gloomy, and the shapes of the trees and the houses were changed. I walked out beyond the town to look at the weather. The bad weather was coming over the mountains from the sea. The flags in the square hung wet from the white poles and the banners were wet and hung damp against the front of the houses, and in between the steady drizzle the rain came down and drove every one under the arcades and made pools of water in the square, and the streets wet and dark and deserted; yet the fiesta kept up without any pause. It was only driven under cover. The covered seats of the bull-ring had been crowded with people sitting out of the rain watching the concourse of Basque and Navarrais dancers and singers, and afterward the Val Carlos dancers in their costumes danced down the street in the rain, the drums sounding hollow and damp, and the chiefs of the bands riding ahead on their big, heavy-footed horses, their costumes wet, the horses' coats wet in the rain. The crowd was in the cafés 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 café and went over to the hotel to get shaved for dinner. I was shaving in my room when there was a knock on the door. "Come in," I called. Montoya walked in. "How are you?" he said. "Fine," I said. "No bulls to-day." "No," I said, "nothing but rain." "Where are your friends?" "Over at the Iru?a." Montoya smiled his embarrassed smile. "Look," he said. "Do you know the American ambassador?" "Yes," I said. "Everybody knows the American ambassador." "He's here in town, now." "Yes," I said. "Everybody's seen them." "I've seen them, too," Montoya said. He didn't say anything. I went on shaving. "Sit down," I said. "Let me send for a drink." "No, I have to go." I finished shaving and put my face down into the bowl and washed it with cold water. Montoya was standing there looking more embarrassed. "Look," he said. "I've just had a message from them at the Grand Hotel that they want Pedro Romero and Marcial Lalanda to come over for coffee to-night after dinner." "Well," I said, "it can't hurt Marcial any." "Marcial has been in San Sebastian all day. He drove over in a car this morning with Marquez. I don't think they'll be back tonight." Montoya stood embarrassed. He wanted me to say something. "Don't give Romero the message," I said. "You think so?" "Absolutely." Montoya was very pleased. "I wanted to ask you because you were an American," he said. "That's what I'd do." "Look," said Montoya. "People take a boy like that. They don't know what he's worth. They don't know what he means. Any foreigner can flatter him. They start this Grand Hotel business, and in one year they're through." "Like Algabeno," I said. "Yes, like Algabeno." "They're a fine lot," I said. "There's one American woman down here now that collects bull-fighters." "I know. They only want the young ones." "Yes," I said. "The old ones get fat." "Or crazy like Gallo." "Well," I said, "it's easy. All you have to do is not give him the message." "He's such a fine boy," said Montoya. "He ought to stay with his own people. He shouldn't mix in that stuff." "Won't you have a drink?" I asked. "No," said Montoya, "I have to go." He went out. I went down-stairs and out the door and took a walk around through the arcades around the square. It was still raining. I looked in at the Irufla for the gang and they were not there, so I walked on around the square and back to the hotel. They were eating dinner in the down-stairs dining-room. They were well ahead of me and it was no use trying to catch them. Bill was buying shoe-shines for Mike. Bootblacks opened the street door and each one Bill called over and started to work on Mike. "This is the eleventh time my boots have been polished," Mike said. "I say, Bill is an ass." The bootblacks had evidently spread the report. Another came in. "Limpia botas?" he said to Bill. "No," said Bill. "For this Se?or." The bootblack knelt down beside the one at work and started on Mike's free shoe that shone already in the electric light. "Bill's a yell of laughter," Mike said. I was drinking red wine, and so far behind them that I felt a little uncomfortable about all this shoe-shining. I looked around the room. At the next table was Pedro Romero. He stood up when I nodded, and asked me to come over and meet a friend. His table was beside ours, almost touching. I met the friend, a Madrid bullfight critic, a little man with a drawn face. I told Romero how much I liked his work, and he was very pleased. We talked Spanish and the critic knew a little French. I reached to our table for my winebottle, but the critic took my arm. Romero laughed. "Drink here," he said in English. He was very bashful about his English, but he was really very pleased with it, and as we went on talking he brought out words he was not sure of, and asked me about them. He was anxious to know the English for _Corrida de toros_, the exact translation. Bull-fight he was suspicious of. I explained that bull-fight in Spanish was the _lidia_ of a _toro_. The Spanish word _corrida_ means in English the running of bulls--the French translation is _Course de taureaux_. The critic put that in. There is no Spanish word for bull-fight. Pedro Romero said he had learned a little English in Gibraltar. He was born in Ronda. That is not far above Gibraltar. He started bull-fighting in Malaga in the bull-fighting school there. He had only been at it three years. The bull-fight critic joked him about the number of _Malagueno_ expressions he used. He was nineteen years old, he said. His older brother was with him as a banderillero, but he did not live in this hotel. He lived in a smaller hotel with the other people who worked for Romero. He asked me how many times I had seen him in the ring. I told him only three. It was really only two, but I did not want to explain after I had made the mistake. "Where did you see me the other time? In Madrid?" "Yes," I lied. I had read the accounts of his two appearances in Madrid in the bull-fight papers, so I was all right. "The first or the second time?" "The first." "I was very bad," he said. "The second time I was better. You remember?" He turned to the critic. He was not at all embarrassed. He talked of his work as something altogether apart from himself. There was nothing conceited or braggartly about him. "I like it very much that you like my work," he said. "But you haven't seen it yet. To-morrow, if I get a good bull, I will try and show it to you." When he said this he smiled, anxious that neither the bull-fight critic nor I would think he was boasting. "I am anxious to see it," the critic said. "I would like to be convinced." "He doesn't like my work much." Romero turned to me. He was serious. The critic explained that he liked it very much, but that so far it had been incomplete. "Wait till to-morrow, if a good one comes out." "Have you seen the bulls for to-morrow?" the critic asked me. "Yes. I saw them unloaded." Pedro Romero leaned forward. "What did you think of them?" "Very nice," I said. "About twenty-six arrobas. Very short horns. Haven't you seen them?" "Oh, yes," said Romero. "They won't weigh twenty-six arrobas," said the critic. "No," said Romero. "They've got bananas for horns," the critic said. "You call them bananas?" asked Romero. He turned to me and smiled. "_You_ wouldn't call them bananas?" "No," I said. "They're horns all right." "They're very short," said Pedro Romero. "Very, very short. Still, they aren't bananas." "I say, Jake," Brett called from the next table, "you _have_ deserted us." "Just temporarily," I said. "We're talking bulls." "You _are_ superior." "Tell him that bulls have no balls," Mike shouted. He was drunk. Romero looked at me inquiringly. "Drunk," I said. "Borracho! Muy borracho!" "You might introduce your friends," Brett said. She had not stopped looking at Pedro Romero. I asked them if they would like to have coffee with us. They both stood up. Romero's face was very brown. He had very nice manners. I introduced them all around and they started to sit down, but there was not enough room, so we all moved over to the big table by the wall to have coffee. Mike ordered a bottle of Fundador and glasses for everybody. There was a lot of drunken talking. "Tell him I think writing is lousy," Bill said. "Go on, tell him. Tell him I'm ashamed of being a writer." Pedro Romero was sitting beside Brett and listening to her. "Go on. Tell him!" Bill said. Romero looked up smiling. "This gentleman," I said, "is a writer." Romero was impressed. "This other one, too," I said, pointing at Cohn. "He looks like Villalta," Romero said, looking at Bill. "Rafael, doesn't he look like Villalta?" "I can't see it," the critic said. "Really," Romero said in Spanish. "He looks a lot like Villalta. What does the drunken one do?" "Nothing." "Is that why he drinks?" "No. He's waiting to marry this lady." "Tell him bulls have no balls!" Mike shouted, very drunk, from the other end of the table. "What does he say?" "He's drunk." "Jake," Mike called. "Tell him bulls have no balls!" "You understand?" I said. "Yes." I was sure he didn't, so it was all right. "Tell him Brett wants to see him put on those green pants." "Pipe down, Mike." "Tell him Brett is dying to know how he can get into those pants." "Pipe down." During this Romero was fingering his glass and talking with Brett. Brett was talking French and he was talking Spanish and a little English, and laughing. Bill was filling the glasses. "Tell him Brett wants to come into--" "Oh, pipe down, Mike, for Christ's sake!" Romero looked up smiling. "Pipe down! I know that," he said. Just then Montoya came into the room. He started to smile at me, then he saw Pedro Romero with a big glass of cognac in his hand, sitting laughing between me and a woman with bare shoulders, at a table full of drunks. He did not even nod. Montoya went out of the room. Mike was on his feet proposing a toast. "Let's all drink to--" he began. "Pedro Romero," I said. Everybody stood up. Romero took it very seriously, and we touched glasses and drank it down, I rushing it a little because Mike was trying to make it clear that that was not at all what he was going to drink to. But it went off all right, and Pedro Romero shook hands with every one and he and the critic went out together. "My God! he's a lovely boy," Brett said. "And how I would love to see him get into those clothes. He must use a shoe-horn." "I started to tell him," Mike began. "And Jake kept interrupting me. Why do you interrupt me? Do you think you talk Spanish better than I do?" "Oh, shut up, Mike! Nobody interrupted you." "No, I'd like to get this settled." He turned away from me. "Do you think you amount to something, Cohn? Do you think you belong here among us? People who are out to have a good time? For God's sake don't be so noisy, Cohn!" "Oh, cut it out, Mike," Cohn said. "Do you think Brett wants you here? Do you think you add to the party? Why don't you say something?" "I said all I had to say the other night, Mike." "I'm not one of you literary chaps." Mike stood shakily and leaned against the table. "I'm not clever. But I do know when I'm not wanted. Why don't you see when you're not wanted, Cohn? Go away. Go away, for God's sake. Take that sad Jewish face away. Don't you think I'm right?" He looked at us. "Sure," I said. "Let's all go over to the Iru?a." "No. Don't you think I'm right? I love that woman." "Oh, don't start that again. Do shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "Don't you think I'm right, Jake?" Cohn still sat at the table. His face had the sallow, yellow look it got when he was insulted, but somehow he seemed to be enjoying it. The childish, drunken heroics of it. It was his affair with a lady of title. "Jake," Mike said. He was almost crying. "You know I'm right. Listen, you!" He turned to Cohn: "Go away! Go away now!" "But I won't go, Mike," said Cohn. "Then I'll make you!" Mike started toward him around the table. Cohn stood up and took off his glasses. He stood waiting, his face sallow, his hands fairly low, proudly and firmly waiting for the assault, ready to do battle for his lady love. I grabbed Mike. "Come on to the café," I said. "You can't hit him here in the hotel." "Good!" said Mike. "Good idea!" We started off. I looked back as Mike stumbled up the stairs and saw Cohn putting his glasses on again. Bill was sitting at the table pouring another glass of Fundador. Brett was sitting looking straight ahead at nothing. Outside on the square it had stopped raining and the moon was trying to get through the clouds. There was a wind blowing. The military band was playing and the crowd was massed on the far side of the square where the fireworks specialist and his son were trying to send up fire balloons. A balloon would start up jerkily, on a great bias, and be torn by the wind or blown against the houses of the square. Some fell into the crowd. The magnesium flared and the fireworks exploded and chased about in the crowd. There was no one dancing in the square. The gravel was too wet. Brett came out with Bill and joined us. We stood in the crowd and watched Don Manuel Orquito, the fireworks king, standing on a little platform, carefully starting the balloons with sticks, standing above the heads of the crowd to launch the balloons off into the wind. The wind brought them all down, and Don Manuel Orquito's face was sweaty in the light of his complicated fireworks that fell into the crowd and charged and chased, sputtering and cracking, between the legs of the people. The people shouted as each new luminous paper bubble careened, caught fire, and fell. "They're razzing Don Manuel," Bill said. "How do you know he's Don Manuel?" Brett said. "His name's on the programme. Don Manuel Orquito, the pirotecnico of esta ciudad." "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A collection of globos illuminados. That's what the paper said." The wind blew the band music away. "I say, I wish one would go up," Brett said. "That Don Manuel chap is furious." "He's probably worked for weeks fixing them to go off, spelling out 'Hail to San Fermin,' " Bill said. "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A bunch of bloody globos 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 café was crowded and very noisy. No one noticed us come in. We could not find a table. There was a great noise going on. "Come on, let's get out of here," Bill said. Outside the paseo was going in under the arcade. There were some English and Americans from Biarritz in sport clothes scattered at the tables. Some of the women stared at the people going by with lorgnons. We had acquired, at some time, a friend of Bill's from Biarritz. She was staying with another girl at the Grand Hotel. The other girl had a headache and had gone to bed. "Here's the pub," Mike said. It was the Bar Milano, a small, tough bar where you could get food and where they danced in the back room. We all sat down at a table and ordered a bottle of Fundador. The bar was not full. There was nothing going on. "This is a hell of a place," Bill said. "It's too early." "Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't want to sit here on a night like this." "Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said. "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them," Bill said. "You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said. "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the café. Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!" "He doesn't add much to the gayety." "He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike." "Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?" "Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on." I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender. "Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves are rotten." We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy. "Come on," said Brett. As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from under the arcade. "He _was_ there," Brett said. "He can't be away from you." "Poor devil!" "I'm not sorry for him. I hate him, myself." "I hate him, too," she shivered. "I hate his damned suffering." We walked arm in arm down the side Street away from the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden bursts of music. "Want to go in?" "No." We walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone wall of the fortifications. I spread a newspaper on the stone and Brett sat down. Across the plain it was dark, and we could see the mountains. The wind was high up and took the clouds across the moon. Below us were the dark pits of the fortifications. Behind were the trees and the shadow of the cathedral, and the town silhouetted against the moon. "Don't feel bad," I said. "I feel like hell," Brett said. "Don't let's talk." We looked out at the plain. The long lines of trees were dark in the moonlight. There were the lights of a car on the road climbing the mountain. Up on the top of the 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 trees. "Do you still love me, Jake?" "Yes," I said. "Because I'm a goner," Brett said. "How?" "I'm a goner. I'm mad about the Romero boy. I'm in love with him, I think." "I wouldn't be if I were you." "I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up 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 damned Jew about, and Mike the way he's acted?" "Sure." "I can't just stay tight all the time." "No." "Oh, darling, please stay by me. Please stay by me and see me through this." "Sure." "I don't say it's right. It is right though for me. God knows, I've never felt such a bitch." "What do you want me to do?" "Come on," Brett said. "Let's go and find him." Together we walked down the gravel path in the park in the dark, under the trees and then out from under the trees and past the gate into the Street that led into town. Pedro Romero was in the café. He was at a table with other bullfighters and bull-fight critics. They were smoking cigars. When we came in they looked up. Romero smiled and bowed. We sat down at a table half-way down the room. "Ask him to come over and have a drink." "Not yet. He'll come over." "I can't look at him." "He's nice to look at," I said. "I've always done just what I wanted." "I know." "I do feel such a bitch." "Well," I said. "My God!" said Brett, "the things a woman goes through." "Yes?" "Oh, I do feel such a bitch." I looked across at the table. Pedro Romero smiled. He said something to the other people at his table, and stood up. He came over to our table. I stood up and we shook hands. "Won't you have a drink?" "You must have a drink with me," he said. He seated himself, asking Brett's permission without saying anything. He had very nice manners. But he kept on smoking his cigar. It went well with his face. "You like cigars?" I asked. "Oh, yes. I always smoke cigars." It was part of his system of authority. It made him seem older. I noticed his skin. It was clear and smooth and very brown. There was a triangular scar on his cheek-bone. I saw he was watching Brett. He felt there was something between them. He must have felt it when Brett gave him her hand. He was being very careful. I think he was sure, but he did not want to make any mistake. "You fight to-morrow?" I said. "Yes," he said. "Algabeno was hurt to-day in Madrid. Did you hear?" "No," I said. "Badly?" He shook his head. "Nothing. Here," he showed his hand. Brett reached out and spread the fingers apart. "Oh!" he said in English, "you tell fortunes?" "Sometimes. Do you mind?" "No. I like it." He spread his hand flat on the table. "Tell me I live for always, and be a millionaire." He was still very polite, but he was surer of himself. "Look," he said, "do you see any bulls in my hand?" He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small. "There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand," Brett said. "I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English." "Why?" asked Brett. "It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet." "Why not?" "They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that." "What are bull-fighters like?" He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face. "Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English." "Don't forget it, yet," Brett said. "No?" "No." "All right." He laughed again. "I would like a hat like that," Brett said. "Good. I'll get you one." "Right. See that you do." "I will. I'll get you one to-night." I stood up. Romero rose, too. "Sit down," I said. "I must go and find our friends and bring them here." He looked at me. It was a final look to ask if it were understood. It was understood all right. "Sit down," Brett said to him. "You must teach me Spanish." He sat down and looked at her across the table. I went out. The hard-eyed people at the bull-fighter table watched me go. It was not pleasant. When I came back and looked in the café, twenty minutes later, Brett and Pedro Romero were gone. The coffee-glasses and our three empty cognac-glasses were on the table. A waiter came with a cloth and picked up the glasses and mopped off the table. 上午一直在下雨。海上来的雾遮蔽了群山。山顶看不见了。高岗显得阴沉、凄凉,树木和房屋的轮廓也变样了。我走出城外观看天色。海上来的乌云正滚滚涌往山间。 广场上的旗帜湿漉漉地垂挂在白色旗杆上,条幅湿了,粘挂在房屋正面墙上,一阵阵不紧不慢的毛毛雨之间夹着沙沙急雨,把人们驱赶到拱廊下,广场上积起一个个水洼,街道湿了,昏暗了,冷落了;然而狂欢活动仍旧无休止地进行。只是被驱赶得躲起来了。 斗牛场里有顶篷的座位上挤满了人,他们一边坐在那里避雨,一边观看巴斯克和纳瓦拉的舞蹈家和歌手们的汇演,接着卡洛斯谷的舞蹈家们穿着他们的民族服装冒雨沿街舞来,打湿的鼓声音空洞而发闷,各个舞蹈队的领班在队伍前骑着步伐沉重的高头大马,他们穿的民族服装被雨淋湿了,马披也淋湿了。人们挤在咖啡馆里,跳舞的人也进来坐下,他们把紧紧缠着白绑腿的脚伸到桌下,甩去系着铃的小帽上的雨水,打开姹紫嫣红的外衣晾在椅子上。外面的雨下得很急。 我离开咖啡馆里的人群,回到旅馆刮脸,准备吃晚饭。我正在自己房间里刮脸的时候,响起了敲门声。 “进来,”我叫道。 蒙托亚走进屋来。 “你好?”他说。 “很好,”我说。 “今天没有斗牛。” “是啊,”我说,“什么都没有,只顾下雨。” “你的朋友们哪儿去啦?” “在‘伊鲁涅’。” 蒙托亚局促不安地笑了笑。 “听着,”他说。“你认不认识美国大使?” “认识,”我说。“人人都认识他。” “现在他就在城里哩。” “是的,”我说。“人人都看见他们那一伙了。” “我也看见他们了,”蒙托亚说。他不说下去了。我继续刮我的脸。 “坐吧,”我说。“我叫人拿酒来。” “不用,我得走了。” 我刮好脸,把脸浸到脸盆里,用凉水洗一洗。蒙托亚显得愈加局促地站在那里。 “听着,”他说。“我刚才接到他们从‘大饭店’捎来的信儿,他们想要佩德罗.罗梅罗和马西亚尔.拉朗达晚饭后过去喝咖啡。”“好啊,”我说,“这对马西亚尔不会有一点儿害处。” “马西亚尔要在圣塞瓦斯蒂安待整整一天。他和马尔克斯今儿早晨开车子去的。我看他们今儿晚上回不来。” 蒙托亚局促地站着。他等着我开口。 “不要给罗梅罗捎这个信儿,”我说。 “你这么想吗?” “当然。” 蒙托亚非常高兴。 “因为你是美国人,所以我才来问你,”他说。 “要是我,我会这样办的。” “你看,”蒙托亚说。“人们竟然这样糊弄孩子。他们不懂得他的价值。他们不懂得他对我们意味着什么。任何一个外国人都可以来捧他。他们从‘大饭店’喝杯咖啡开始,一年后,他们就把他彻底毁了。” “就象阿尔加贝诺,”我说。 “对了,象阿尔加贝诺那样。” “这样的人可多着哩,”我说。“现在这里就有一个美国女人在搜罗斗牛士。” “我知道。她们专挑年轻的。” “是的,”我说。“老家伙都发胖了。” “或者象加略那样疯疯癫癫了。” “哦,”我说,“这个好办。你只要不给他捎这个信儿就完了呗。”“他是个多好的小伙啊,”蒙托亚说。“他应该同自己的人民在一起。他不该参与这种事儿。”“你不喝杯酒?”我问。 “不喝,”蒙托亚说,“我得走了。”他走了出去。 我下楼走出门外,沿拱廊绕广场走了一圈。雨还在下。我在“伊鲁涅”门口往里瞧,寻找我的同伙,可是他们不在那里,于是我绕广场走回旅馆。他们正在楼下餐厅里吃饭。 他们已吃了几道菜,我也不想赶上他们。比尔出钱找人给迈克擦鞋。每当有擦鞋的从街上推开大门朝里望,比尔总把他叫过来,给迈克擦鞋。 “这是第十一次擦我这双靴子了,”迈克说。“嗨,比尔真是个傻瓜。” 擦鞋的显然把消息传开了。又进来一个擦鞋的。 “要擦靴子吗?”他对比尔说。 “我不要,”比尔说。“给这位先生擦。” 这擦鞋的跪在那个正擦着的同行旁边,开始擦迈克那只没有人擦的靴子,这靴子在电灯光里已经显得雪亮了。 “比尔真逗人喜爱,”迈克说。 我在喝红葡萄酒,我远远地落在他们后面,因此对这样不断地擦鞋看着有点不顺眼。我环顾整个餐厅。邻桌坐着佩德罗.罗梅罗。看我向他点头,他就站起来,邀请我过去认识一下他的朋友。他的桌子同我们的桌子相邻,几乎紧挨着。我结识了这位朋友,他是马德里来的斗牛评论员,一个紧绷着脸的小个子。我对罗梅罗说,我非常喜欢他的斗牛技艺,他听了很高兴。我们用西班牙语交谈,评论员懂得一点法语。我伸手到我们桌上拿我的酒瓶,但是评论员拉住了我的手臂。罗梅罗笑了。 “在这儿喝吧,”他用英语说。他说起英语来很腼腆,但是他打心眼儿里乐意说英语,当我们接着谈的时候,他提了几个他不太有把握的词让我给解释。他急于想知道Corrida de toros在英语中叫什么, 它的准确翻译是什么。英语翻成bull-fight(斗牛) ,他感到不妥。我解释说,bull-fight在西班牙语中意为对toro的lidia。Corrida这西班牙词在英语中意为the running of bulls(牛群的奔驰)。——法语是Course de taureaux。 评论员插了这么一句。西班牙语中没有和bull-fighi对应的词儿。 佩德罗.罗梅罗说他在直布罗陀学了点英语。他出生于朗达。在直布罗陀北边不远。他在马拉加的斗牛学校里开始斗牛。他到现在才只干了三年。斗牛评论员取笑他说的话里多的是马拉加方言中的措词。他说他十九岁。他哥哥给他当短枪手,但是不住在这个旅馆里。他和另外一些给罗梅罗当差的人住在一家小客栈里。他问我在斗牛场里看过他几次了。我告诉他只看过三次。实在只有两次,可我说错了就不想再解释了。 “还有一次你在哪里看到我的?在马德里?” “是的,”我撒了个谎。我在斗牛报上读过关于他在马德里那两次表演的报道,所以我能应付过去。 “第一次出场还是第二次?” “第一次。” “第一次很糟,”他说。“第二次强一些。你可记得?”他问评论员。 他一点不拘束。他谈论自己的斗牛就象与己无关似的。一点没有骄傲自满或者自我吹嘘的意思。 “你喜欢我的斗牛我非常高兴,”他说。“但是你还没有看到我的真功夫哩。明天我要是碰上一头好牛的话,我尽力给你露一手。” 他说完这番话就微微一笑,唯恐那斗牛评论员和我会以为他在说大话。 “我渴望能看到你这一手,”评论员说。“你用事实来说服我嘛。” “他不怎么喜欢我的斗牛,”罗梅罗冲我说。他一本正经。 评论员解释说他非常喜欢,但是这斗牛士的技巧始终没有完全发挥出来过。 “等明天瞧吧,如果上来头好牛的活。” “你看见明天上场的牛了吗?”评论员问我。 “看见了。我看着放出来的。” 佩德罗.罗梅罗探过身来。 “你看这些牛怎么样?” “非常健壮,”我说。“约莫有二十六阿罗瓦。犄角很短。你没见着?” “看见了,”罗梅罗说。 “它们不到二十六阿罗瓦,”评论员说。 “是的,”罗梅罗说。 “它们头上长的是香蕉,不是牛角,”评论员说。 “你管那些叫香蕉?”罗梅罗问。他朝我笑笑。“你不会管牛角叫香蕉吧?” “不,”我说。“牛角总归是牛角。”“它们很短,”罗梅罗说。“非常非常短。不过,它们可不是香蕉。” “嗨,杰克,”勃莱特在邻桌喊着,“你把我们扔下不管啦。” “只是一会儿,”我说。“我们在谈论牛呢。” “你多神气活现啊。” “告诉他,牛都不长角,”迈克喊着。他喝醉了。 罗梅罗感到莫名其妙地看着我。 “他醉了,”我说。“Borracho!Muy borracho!” “你给我们介绍一下你的朋友嘛,”勃莱特说。她一直注视着佩德罗.罗梅罗。我问他们,是否愿意同我们一起喝咖啡。他俩站起来。罗梅罗脸色黝黑。他的举止彬彬有礼。 我把他们给大家作了介绍,他们刚要坐下,但座位不够,所以我们全都挪到靠墙的大桌子上去喝咖啡。迈克吩咐来一瓶芬达多酒,外加每人一个酒杯。接着是醉话连篇。 “跟他说,我认为耍笔杆子最没出息,”比尔说。“说吧,告诉他。跟他说我是作家,没脸见人。” 佩德罗.罗梅罗坐在勃莱特身边,听她说话。 “说吧。告诉他!”比尔说。 罗梅罗抬头一笑。 “这位先生,”我说,“是位作家。” 罗梅罗肃然起敬。“那一位也是,”我用手指着科恩说。 “他长得象比利亚尔塔,”罗梅罗望着比尔说。“拉斐尔象不象比利亚尔塔?” “我看不出来象在哪儿,”评论员说。“真的,”罗梅罗用西班牙语说。“他非常象比利亚尔塔。那位喝醉酒的先生是干什么的?”“无所事事。”“是不是因为这才喝酒的?”“不是。他是等着同这位夫人结婚哩。”“跟他说,牛没有角!”迈克在桌子另一头醉醺醺地大喊大叫。 “他说什么来着?” “他醉了。” “杰克,”迈克喊道。“告诉他,牛没有角!” “你懂吗?”我说。 “懂。” 我明知道他不懂,所以怎么说也没事儿。 “告诉他,勃莱特想看他穿上那条绿裤子。” “住嘴,迈克。” “告诉他,勃莱特太想知道那条裤子他是怎么穿上去的。” “住嘴” 在这时间里,罗梅罗一直在用手指摸弄他的酒杯并且跟勃莱特说话。勃莱特说法语,他在西班牙语里夹杂点英语,边说边笑。 比尔把每人的酒杯斟满。 “告诉他,勃莱特想走进——” “嘿,住嘴,迈克,看在基督面上!” 罗梅罗笑吟吟地抬眼望望。“不用说了,这个我明白,”他说。 就在这关头,蒙托亚进屋来了。他正要朝我微笑,但是看见了佩德罗.罗梅罗手里拿着一大杯白兰地,坐在我和一个肩膀袒露的女人之间哈哈大笑,同桌的都是醉汉。他甚至连头都没点一下。 蒙托亚走出餐厅。迈克站起来祝酒。“我们都来干一杯,为——”他开了个头。“为佩德罗.罗梅罗,”我说。全桌的人都站起来。罗梅罗很认真地领受了。我们碰杯,一饮而尽,我有意把这事干得利索一点,因为迈克怕就要说明他祝酒的对象完全不是这一个。然而总算太太平平地了结了。佩德罗.罗梅罗和大家一一握手,就和评论员一起走了。 “我的上帝!这小伙多可爱,”勃莱特说。“我多么想看看他是怎么穿上那套衣服的啊。他得用一个鞋拔才行。” “我正要告诉他,”迈克又开始说了。“可杰克老是打断我。你为什么不让我说完?你以为你的西班牙语说得比我好吗?”“啊,别说了,迈克!谁也没有碍着你说话。” “不,我得把话说清楚。”他背过身去。“你以为你有什么了不起吗,科恩?你以为你是属于我们这一伙的?你是想出来好好玩玩的那种人吗?看在上帝面上,别这样吵吵嚷嚷的,科恩!” “啊,别说了,迈克,”科恩说。 “你以为勃莱特需要你在这里?你以为你是来给我们助兴的?你为什么不说话呀?” “那天晚上,该说的我都说完了,迈克。” “我可不是你们这号文人中的一分子。”迈克摇摇晃晃地站着,靠在桌子上多。“我头脑不聪明。但是人家嫌我的时候,我却明白。当人家嫌你的时候,你怎么就察觉不到呢,科恩?走吧。走开,看在上帝分上。带走你那忧伤的犹太面孔。难道我说得不对?” 他扫视着我们。 “着啊,”我说。“我们都到‘伊鲁涅’去吧。” “不。难道我说得不对?我爱那个女人。” “啊,别再来这一套了。撇开算了,迈克尔,”勃莱特说。 “难道我说得不对,杰克?”科恩仍然在桌边坐着。他每逢受到侮辱,他的脸色就变得蜡黄,但是他似乎也有点自得其乐。酒后夸夸其谈的蠢话。关于他同一位有衔头的夫人之间的私情啊。 “杰克,”迈克说。他几乎在呼喊了。“你知道我没说错。你给我听着!”他朝科恩说:“你走开!马上走!” “但是我不想走,迈克,”科恩说。” “那我来叫你走!”迈克绕过桌角向他走去。科恩站起来,摘下眼镜。他站着等待,脸色蜡黄,放低双手,骄做而毅然地迎候攻击,准备为心上人作一番奋战。 我一把抓住了迈克。“到咖啡馆去吧,”我说。“你不能在这儿旅馆里揍他。” “好!”迈克说。“好主意!” 我们动身走了。当迈克踉踉跄跄地走上楼梯的时候,我回头看见科恩又戴上了眼镜。比尔坐在桌旁又倒了一杯芬达多酒。勃莱特坐着,两眼呆呆地直视着前方。外面广场上雨停了,月亮正努力探出云层。刮着风。军乐队在演奏,人群挤在广场对面焰火制造技师和他儿子试放焰火气球的地方。气球老是一蹦一蹦地以大幅度的斜线升起,不是被风扯破,就是被吹得撞在广场边的房子上。有一些落在人群里。镁光一闪,焰火爆炸了,在人群里乱窜。广场上没有人跳舞。砂砾地面太湿了。勃莱特同比尔走出来跟我们会聚。我们站在人群中观看焰火大王唐.曼纽尔.奥基托站在一个小平台上,小心翼翼地用杆子把气球送出去,他站得高于众人的头顶,趁风放出气球。风把气球一个个都刮下地面:只见唐.曼纽尔.奥基托在他制作的结构复杂的焰火亮光里,汗流满面,焰火落到人堆里,在人们脚下横冲直撞,僻里啪啦。每当发光的纸球着了火,歪歪扭扭地往下落的时候,人们就尖声喊叫起来。 “他们在嘲笑唐.曼纽尔哩,”比尔说。 “你怎么知道他叫唐.曼纽尔?”勃莱特说, “节目单上有他的名字。唐.曼纽尔.奥基托,本城的焰火制作技师。” “照明的气球,”迈克说。“照明气球大展览。节目单上这样写着。” 风把军乐声送到远方去。 “嗨,哪怕放上去一个也好啊,”勃莱特说,“这位唐.曼纽尔急红眼了。” “为了安排一组气球,爆发时能组成‘圣福明万岁’这些字样,他大概忙了好几个星期,”比尔说。 “照明气球,”迈克说。“一束天杀的照明气球。” “走吧,”勃莱特说。“我们别在这儿站着。” “夫人想喝一杯啦,”迈克说。“你真懂事啊,”勃莱特说。 咖啡馆里面很挤,非常吵闹。谁也没注意我们进去。我们找不到空桌子。只听见一片闹嚷嚷的声音。 “走吧,我们离开这里,”比尔说。 在外面,人们在拱廊下散步。有些来自比亚里茨的穿着运动服的英国人和美国人散坐在几张桌子旁。其中有几位妇女用长柄眼镜瞪视着行人。比尔有一个从比亚里茨来的朋友,已加入了我们的一伙。她同另一个姑娘耽搁在“大饭店”。那位姑娘在头痛,已经上床去睡了。 “酒馆到了,”迈克说。这是米兰酒吧,一家低级的小酒吧,在这里可以吃东西,在里屋还有人在跳舞。我们全都在一张桌子旁坐下,叫了一瓶芬达多酒。店堂里没有满座。什么好玩的也没有。 “这是个什么鬼地方,”比尔说。 “还早哩。” “我们把酒瓶子拿着,一会儿再回来吧,”比尔说。“在这样一个夜晚,我不想在这儿坐着。” “我们去瞧瞧英国人吧,”迈克说。“我喜欢看英国人。” “他们真要不得,”比尔说。“他们打哪儿来?” “从比亚里茨来,”迈克说。“他们来看西班牙这古趣盎然的节庆的最后一天的活动。” “我来领他们去看吧,”比尔说。 “你是个绝色的姑娘,”迈克对比尔的朋友说。“你什么时候到的?” “别胡闹了,迈克尔。” “啊,她的确是位可爱的姑娘。方才我在什么地方呀?我一直在看什么呀?你是个可爱的妞几。我们见过面吗?跟我和比尔走吧。我们领英国人看热闹去。“我领他们去,”比尔说。“他们在这节庆期间到底来干什么呀?”“走吧,”迈克说,“就我们三个人。我们领这帮该死的英国佬看热闹去。希望你不是英国人。我是苏格兰人。我讨厌英国人。我给他们点热闹看看。走吧,比尔。” 透过窗户,我们看见他们三人手臂挽着手臂向咖啡馆走去。焰火弹不断从广场升起。 “我在这儿坐一会,”勃莱特说。 “我陪你,”科恩说。 “呀,不用!”勃莱特说。“看在上帝面上,你到别的地方待着去。你没看见我和杰克想说一会儿话吗?” “没有,”科恩说。“我想在这里坐着,因为我感到有点醉了。” “你非要同别人坐在一块。这算个什么理由。你喝醉了就睡觉去。睡觉去吧。” “我对他太不客气了吧?”勃莱特问。科恩已经走了,“我的上帝!我真讨厌他!” “他并没有给这欢乐气氛生色。” “他使我很不痛快。” “他的行为很不象话。” “太不象话了。他原是有机会不必这样的。” “他大概现在就在门外面等着哩。” “是的。他会这样做的。你知道,我了解他是怎么想的。他不相信那桩事完全是逢场作戏。” “我知道。” “谁也不会表现得象他那样糟糕。唉,我对一切都厌倦了。还有迈克尔。迈克尔也叫人够受的。”“这一阵发生的事使迈克太难堪了。”“是的。但是也用不着表现得那么恶劣啊。”“人人都会表现得很恶劣,”我说。“只要一有适当的机会。”“你就不会,”勃莱特望着我说。“我要是科恩,也会象他那样,是头大蠢驴。” “亲爱的,我们别尽说废话啦。 “好吧。你喜欢说什么就说什么吧。” “别这样别扭。除了你,我没有别的知心人了,今儿晚上我的情绪特别坏。” “你有迈克。” “是的,迈克。可他的表现好吗?” “啊,”我说,“看到科恩就在旁边,总想和你在一起,实在使迈克太难堪了。” “难道我还不知道吗,亲爱的?请别弄得我的情绪比现在更坏啦。” 勃莱特急躁不安,过去我从未见过她这样,她的目光避着我,朝前往墙上看。 “想出去走走吗?” “好。走吧。” 我塞上酒瓶递给管酒吧柜的侍者。” “让我再喝一杯,”勃莱特说。“我的精神很不好。” 我们每人喝了一杯这种和润的淡味白兰地。 “走吧,”勃莱特说。 我们一出门,我就看见科恩从拱廊下走出来。 “他一直待在那边,”勃莱特说。 “他离不开你。” Chapter 17 Outside the Bar Milano I found Bill and Mike and Edna. Edna was the girl's name. "We've been thrown out," Edna said. "By the police," said Mike. "There's some people in there that don't like me." "I've kept them out of four fights," Edna said. "You've got to help me." Bill's face was red. "Come back in, Edna," he said. "Go on in there and dance with Mike." "It's silly," Edna said. "There'll just be another row." "Damned Biarritz swine," Bill said. "Come on," Mike said. "After all, it's a pub. They can't occupy a whole pub." "Good old Mike," Bill said. "Damned English swine come here and insult Mike and try and spoil the fiesta." "They're so bloody," Mike said. "I hate the English." "They can't insult Mike," Bill said. "Mike is a swell fellow. They can't insult Mike. I won't stand it. Who cares if he is a damn bankrupt?" His voice broke. "Who cares?" Mike said. "I don't care. Jake doesn't care. Do _you_ care?" "No," Edna said. "Are you a bankrupt?" "Of course I am. You don't care, do you, Bill?" Bill put his arm around Mike's shoulder. "I wish to hell I was a bankrupt. I'd show those bastards." "They're just English," Mike said. "It never makes any 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 in again, Bill. They're so stupid." "That's it," said Mike. "They're stupid. I knew that was what it was." "They can't say things like that about Mike," Bill said. "Do you know them?" I asked Mike. "No. I never saw them. They say they know me." "I won't stand it," Bill said. "Come on. Let's go over to the Suizo," I said. "They're a bunch of Edna's friends from Biarritz," Bill said. "They're simply stupid," Edna said. "One of them's Charley Blackman, from Chicago," Bill said. "I was never in Chicago," Mike said. Edna started to laugh and could not stop. "Take me away from here," she said, "you bankrupts." "What kind of a row was it?" I asked Edna. We were walking across the square to the Suizo. Bill was gone. "I don't know what happened, but some one had the police called to keep Mike out of the back room. There were some people that had known Mike at Cannes. What's the matter with Mike?" "Probably he owes them money," I said. "That's what people usually get bitter about." In front of the ticket-booths out in the square there were two lines of people waiting. They were sitting on chairs or crouched on the ground with blankets and newspapers around them. They were waiting for the wickets to open in the morning to buy tickets for the bull-fight. The night was clearing and the moon was out. Some of the people in the line were sleeping. At the Café Suizo we had just sat down and ordered Fundador when Robert Cohn came up. "Where's Brett?" he asked. "I don't know." "She was with you." "She must have gone to bed." "She's not." "I don't know where she is." His face was sallow under the light. He was standing up. "Tell me where she is." "Sit down," I said. "I don't know where she is." "The hell you don't!" "You can shut your face." "Tell me where Brett is." "I'll not tell you a damn thing." "You know where she is." "If I did I wouldn't tell you." "Oh, go to hell, Cohn," Mike called from the table. "Brett's gone off with the bull-fighter chap. They're on their honeymoon." "You shut up." "Oh, go to hell!" Mike said languidly. "Is that where she is?" Cohn turned to me. "Go to hell!" "She was with you. Is that where she is?" "Go to hell!" "I'll make you tell me"--he stepped forward--"you damned pimp." I swung at him and he ducked. I saw his face duck sideways in the light. He hit me and I sat down on the pavement. As I started to get on my feet he hit me twice. I went down backward under a table. I tried to get up and felt I did not have any legs. I felt I must get on my feet and try and hit him. Mike helped me up. Some one poured a carafe of water on my head. Mike had an arm around me, and I found I was sitting on a chair. Mike was pulling at my ears. "I say, you were cold," Mike said. "Where the hell were you?" "Oh, I was around." "You didn't want to mix in it?" "He knocked Mike down, too," Edna said. "He didn't knock me out," Mike said. "I just lay there." "Does this happen every night at your fiestas?" Edna asked. "Wasn't that Mr. Cohn?" "I'm all right," I said. "My head's a little wobbly." There were several waiters and a crowd of people standing around. "Vaya!" said Mike. "Get away. Go on." The waiters moved the people away. "It was quite a thing to watch," Edna said. "He must be a boxer." "He is." "I wish Bill had been here," Edna said. "I'd like to have seen Bill knocked down, too. I've always wanted to see Bill knocked down. He's so big." "I was hoping he would knock down a waiter," Mike said, "and get arrested. I'd like to see Mr. Robert Cohn in jail." "No," I said. "Oh, no," said Edna. "You don't mean that." "I do, though," Mike said. "I'm not one of these chaps likes 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 pesetas from Montoya to-night." "The hell you did," I said. "I'll pay it back," Mike said. "I always pay everything back." "That's why you're a bankrupt, isn't it?" Edna said. I stood up. I had heard them talking from a long way away. It all seemed like some bad play. "I'm going over to the hotel," I said. Then I heard them talking about me. "Is he all right?" Edna asked. "We'd better walk with him." "I'm all right," I said. "Don't come. I'll see you all later." I walked away from the café. They were sitting at the table. I looked back at them and at the empty tables. There was a waiter sitting at one of the tables with his head in his hands. Walking across the square to the hotel everything looked new and changed. I had never seen the trees before. I had never seen the flagpoles before, nor the front of the theatre. It was all 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 had been kicked in the head early in the game. It was like that crossing the square. It was like that going up the stairs in the hotel. Going up the stairs took a long time, and I had the feeling that I was carrying my suitcase. There was a light in the room. Bill came out and met me in the hall. "Say," he said, "go up and see Cohn. He's been in a jam, and he's asking for you." "The hell with him." "Go on. Go on up and see him." I did not want to climb another flight of stairs. "What are you looking at me that way for?" "I'm not looking at you. Go on up and see Cohn. He's in bad shape." "You were drunk a little while ago," I said. "I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and see Cohn. He wants to see you." "All right," I said. It was just a matter of climbing more stairs. I went on up the stairs carrying my phantom suitcase. I walked down the hail to Cohn's room. The door was shut and I knocked. "Who is it?" "Barnes." "Come in, Jake." I opened the door and went in, and set down my suitcase. There was no light in the room. Cohn was lying, face down, on the bed in the dark. "Hello, Jake." "Don't call me Jake." I stood by the door. It was just like this that I had come home. Now it was a hot bath that I needed. A deep, hot bath, to lie back in. "Where's the bathroom?" I asked. Cohn was crying. There he was, face down on the bed, crying. He had on a white polo shirt, the kind he'd worn at Princeton. "I'm sorry, Jake. Please forgive me." "Forgive you, hell." "Please forgive me, Jake." I did not say anything. I stood there by the door. "I was crazy. You must see how it was." "Oh, that's all right." "I couldn't stand it about Brett." "You called me a pimp." I did not care. I wanted a hot bath. I wanted a hot bath in deep water. "I know. Please don't remember it. I was crazy." "That's all right." He was crying. His voice was funny. He lay there in his white shirt on the bed in the dark. His polo shirt. "I'm going away in the morning." He was crying without making any noise. "I just couldn't stand it about Brett. I've been through hell, Jake. It's been simply hell. When I met her down here Brett treated me as though I were a perfect stranger. I just couldn't stand it. We lived together at San Sebastian. I suppose you know it. I can't stand it any more." He lay there on the bed. "Well," I said, "I'm going to take a bath." "You were the only friend I had, and I loved Brett so." "Well," I said, "so long." "I guess it isn't any use," he said. "I guess it isn't any damn 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. Cohn was standing in the door of the room. "Are you all right, Jake?" he asked. "Oh, yes," I said. "I'm all right." I could not find the bathroom. After a while I found it. There was a deep stone tub. I turned on the taps and the water would not run. I sat down on the edge of the bath-tub. When I got up to go I found I had taken off my shoes. I hunted for them and found them and carried them down-stairs. I found my room and went inside and undressed and got into bed. I woke with a headache and the noise of the bands going by in the street. I remembered I had promised to take Bill's friend Edna to see the bulls go through the street and into the ring. I dressed and went down-stairs and out into the cold early morning. People were crossing the square, hurrying toward the bull-ring. Across the square were the two lines of men in front of the ticket-booths. They were still waiting for the tickets to go on sale at seven o'clock. I hurried across the street to the café. The waiter told me that my friends had been there and gone. "How many were they?" "Two gentlemen and a lady." That was all right. Bill and Mike were with Edna. She had been afraid last night they would pass out. That was why I was to be sure to take her. I drank the coffee and hurried with the other people toward the bull-ring. I was not groggy now. There was only a bad headache. Everything looked sharp and clear, and the town smelt of the early morning. The stretch of ground from the edge of the town to the bull-ring was muddy. There was a crowd all along the fence that led to the ring, and the outside balconies and the top of the bull-ring were solid with people. I heard the rocket and I knew I could not get into the ring in time to see the bulls come in, so I shoved through the crowd to the fence. I was pushed close against the planks of the fence. Between the two fences of the runway the police were clearing the crowd along. They walked or trotted on into the bull-ring. Then people commenced to come running. A drunk slipped and fell. Two policemen grabbed him and rushed him over to the fence. The crowd were running fast now. There was a great shout from the crowd, and putting my head through between the boards I saw the bulls just coming out of the street into the long running pen. They were going fast and gaining on the crowd. Just then another drunk started out from the fence with a blouse in his hands. He wanted to do capework with the bulls. The two policemen tore out, collared him, one hit him with a club, and they dragged him against the fence and stood flattened out against the fence as the last of the crowd and the bulls went by. There were so many people running ahead of the bulls that the mass thickened and slowed up going through the gate into the ring, and as the bulls passed, galloping together, heavy, muddy-sided, horns swinging, one shot ahead, caught a man in the running crowd in the back and lifted him in the air. Both the man's arms were by his sides, his head went back as the horn went in, and the bull lifted him and then dropped him. The bull picked another man running in front, but the man disappeared into the crowd, and the crowd was through the gate and into the ring with the bulls behind them. The red door of the ring went shut, the crowd on the outside balconies of the bull-ring were pressing through to the inside, there was a shout, then another shout. The man who had been gored lay face down in the trampled mud. People climbed over the fence, and I could not see the man because the crowd was so thick around him. From inside the ring came the shouts. Each shout meant a charge by some bull into the crowd. You could tell by the degree of 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 café to have a second coffee and some buttered toast. The waiters were sweeping out the café and mopping off the tables. One came over and took my order. "Anything happen at the encierro?" "I didn't see it all. One man was badly cogido." "Where?" "Here." I put one hand on the small of my back and the other on my chest, where it looked as though the horn must have come through. The waiter nodded his head and swept the crumbs from the table with his cloth. "Badly cogido," he said. "All for sport. All for pleasure." He went away and came back with the long-handled coffee and milk pots. He poured the milk and coffee. It came out of the long spouts in two streams into the big cup. The waiter nodded his head. "Badly cogido through the back," he said. He put the pots down on the table and sat down in the chair at the table. "A big horn wound. All for fun. Just for fun. What do you think of that?" "I don't know." "That's it. All for fun. Fun, you understand." "You're not an aficionado?" "Me? What are bulls? Animals. Brute animals." He stood up and put his hand on the small of his back. "Right through the back. A cornada right through the back. For fun--you 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. Es muy flamenco." "It's bad." "Not for me," the waiter said. "No fun in that for me." Later in the day we learned that the man who was killed was named Vicente Girones, and came from near Tafalla. The next day in the paper we read that he was twenty-eight years old, and had a farm, a wife, and two children. He had continued to come to the fiesta each year after he was married. The next day his wife came in from Tafalla to be with the body, and the day after there was a service in the chapel of San Fermin, and the coffin was carried to the railway-station by members of the dancing and drinking society of Tafalla. The drums marched ahead, and there was music on the fifes, and behind the men who carried the coffin walked the wife and two children.. . . Behind them marched all the members of the dancing and drinking societies of Pamplona, Estella, Tafalla, and Sanguesa who could stay over for the funeral. The coffin was loaded into the baggage-car of the train, and the widow and the two children rode, sitting, all three together, in an open third-class railwaycarriage. The train started with a jerk, and then ran smoothly, going down grade around the edge of the plateau and out into the fields of grain that blew in the wind on the plain on the way to Tafalla. The bull who killed Vicente Girones was named Bocanegra, was Number 118 of the bull-breeding establishment of Sanchez Taberno, and was killed by Pedro Romero as the third bull of that same afternoon. His ear was cut by popular acclamation and given to Pedro Romero, who, in turn, gave it to Brett, who wrapped it in a handkerchief belonging to myself, and left both ear and 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 bull-ring. They went upstairs laughing. I followed them up-stairs and went into my room. I took off my shoes and lay down on the bed. The window was open onto the balcony and the sunlight was bright in the room. I did not feel sleepy. It must have been half past three o'clock when I had gone to bed and the bands had waked me at six. My jaw was sore on both sides. I felt it with my thumb and fingers. That damn Cohn. He should have hit somebody the first time he was insulted, and then gone away. He was so sure that Brett loved him. He was going to stay, and true love would conquer all. Some one 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 houi" Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said. "You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me." "Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed. "Why didn't you hit him with a chair?" "You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is," Mike said. "Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle. "Really?" Bill asked. "Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No." "Yes." "What a night!" Bill said. "He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then Cohn wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an honest woman of her, I imagine. Damned touching scene." He took a long drink of the beer. "He is an ass." "What happened?" "Brett gave him what for. She told him off. I think she was rather good." "I'll bet she was," Bill said. "Then Cohn broke down and cried, and wanted to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. He wanted to shake hands with Brett, too." "I know. He shook hands with me." "Did he? Well, they weren't having any of it. The bull-fighter fellow was rather good. He didn't say much, but he kept getting up and getting knocked down again. Cohn couldn't knock him out. It must have been damned funny." "Where did you hear all this?" "Brett. I saw her this morning." "What happened finally?" "It seems the bull-fighter fellow was sitting on the bed. He'd been knocked down about fifteen times, and he wanted to fight some more. Brett held him and wouldn't let him get up. He was weak, but Brett couldn't hold him, and he got up. Then Cohn said he wouldn't hit him again. Said he couldn't do it. Said it would be wicked. So the bull-fighter chap sort of rather staggered over to him. Cohn went back against the wall. "'So you won't hit me?' "'No,' said Cohn. 'I'd be ashamed to.' "So the bull-fighter fellow hit him just as hard as he could in the face, and then sat down on the floor. He couldn't get up, Brett said. Cohn wanted to pick him up and carry him to the bed. He said if Cohn helped him he'd kill him, and he'd kill him anyway this morning if Cohn wasn't out of town. Cohn was crying, and Brett had told him off, and he wanted to shake hands. I've told you that before." "Tell the rest," Bill said. "It seems the bull-fighter chap was sitting on the floor. He was waiting to get strength enough to get up and hit Cohn again. Brett wasn't having any shaking hands, and Cohn was crying and telling her how much he loved her, and she was telling him not to be a ruddy ass. Then Cohn leaned down to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. No hard feelings, you know. All for forgiveness. And the bull-fighter chap hit him in the face again." "That's quite a kid," Bill said. "He ruined Cohn," Mike said. "You know I don't think Cohn will ever want to knock people about again." "When did you see Brett?" "This morning. She came in to get some things. She's looking after this Romero lad." He poured out another bottle of beer. "Brett's rather cut up. But she loves looking after people. That's how we came to go off together. She was looking after me." "I know," I said. "I'm rather drunk," Mike said. "I think I'll stay rather drunk. This is all awfully amusing, but it's not too pleasant. It's not too pleasant for me." He drank off the beer. "I gave Brett what for, you know. I said if she would go about with Jews and bull-fighters and such people, she must expect trouble." He leaned forward. "I say, Jake, do you mind if I drink that bottle of yours? She'll bring you another one." "Please," I said. "I wasn't drinking it, anyway." Mike started to open the bottle. "Would you mind opening it?" I pressed up the wire fastener and poured it for him. "You know," Mike went on, "Brett was rather good. She's always rather good. I gave her a fearful hiding about Jews and bullfighters, and all those sort of people, and do you know what she said: 'Yes. I've had such a hell of a happy life with the British aristocracy!' He took a drink. "That was rather good. Ashley, chap she got the title from, was a sailor, you know. Ninth baronet. When he came home he wouldn't sleep in a bed. Always made Brett sleep on the floor. Finally, when he got really bad, he used to tell her he'd kill her. Always slept with a loaded service revolver. Brett used to take the shells out when he'd gone to sleep. She hasn't had an absolutely happy life, Brett. Damned shame, too. She enjoys things so." He stood up. His hand was shaky. "I'm going in the room. Try and get a little sleep." He smiled. "We go too long without sleep in these fiestas. I'm going to start now and get plenty of sleep. Damn bad thing not to get sleep. Makes you frightfully nervy." "We'll see you at noon at the Iru?a," 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, Se?orito." "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. 在米兰酒吧门外,我找到比尔、迈克和埃德娜。埃德娜是那位姑娘的名字。 “我们给撵出来了,”埃德娜说。 “让警察,”迈克说。“里面有些人看不上我。” “有四次他们险些跟人打架,都是我给挡住了,”埃德娜说。“你该帮我一把。” 比尔的脸红了。 “回到里面去吧,埃德娜,”他说。“你到里面和迈克跳舞去。” “别蠢了,”埃德娜说。“只会再闹出一场风波。” “这帮短命的比亚里茨猪猡,”比尔说。 “进去吧,”迈克说。“这里毕竟是个酒馆。他们哪能独霸整个酒馆啊。” “我的好迈克,”比尔说。“短命的英国猪猡跑到这儿来,侮辱了迈克,把欢庆活动给毁了。” “他们太无赖了,”迈克说。“我恨英国人。” “他们不该这样侮辱迈克,”比尔说。“迈克是个大大的好人。他们不该侮辱迈克。我看不下去了。谁在乎他是个倒霉的破产者啊?”他的嗓门哽住了。 “谁在乎呢?”迈克说。“我不在乎。杰克不在乎。你在乎吗?” “不在乎,”埃德娜说。“你是个破产者吗?” “我当然是个破产者。你可不在乎,是不,比尔?” 比尔用一只手臂搂着迈克的肩膀。 “但愿我自己也是个破产者。我好给这帮杂种一点颜色看看。” “他们只不过是些英国人,”迈克说。“英国人说啥你就把它当耳边风好了。” “卑鄙的畜牲,”比尔说。“我去把他们都赶出来。” “比尔,”埃德娜说,眼睛望着我。“请你别再进去了,比尔。他们是些大蠢货。” “就是嘛,”迈克说。“他们是些蠢货。我早就知道他们的真面目。” “他们不该说那种话来中伤迈克,”比尔说。 “你认识他们?”我问迈克。 “不认识。从没见过他们。他们说认识我。” “我忍不下去了,”比尔说。 “走吧。我们到‘苏伊佐’去,”我说。 “他们是一伙埃德娜的朋友,是从比亚里茨来的,”比尔说。 “他们简直就是一帮蠢货,”埃德娜说。 “其中有一个名叫查利.布莱克曼,是从芝加哥来的,”比尔“我从来没在芝加哥待过,”迈克说。埃德娜哈哈大笑起来,怎么也止不住。“带我离开这儿吧,”她说,“你们这些破产者。”“怎么吵起来的?”我问埃德娜。我们正在广场上往“苏伊佐”走去。比尔不见了。 “我不知道怎么吵起来的,只看见有个人找警察把迈克从里屋轰出来了。那边有些人在戛纳就认识迈克。迈克怎么啦?” “大概他欠他们钱了,”我说。“这种事容易结仇。” 在广场上的售票亭前,排着两行人等买票。他们有的坐在椅子上,有的蜷缩在地上,身上裹着毯子和报纸。他们在等售票口早上开售,好买斗牛票。夜色晴朗起来,月亮出来了。有些排队的人在打瞌睡。 到了苏伊佐咖啡馆,我们刚坐下叫了芬达多酒,科恩就来“勃莱特在哪儿?”他问。“我不知道。”“她方才跟你在一块儿。”“她很可能去睡觉了。”“她没有。”“我不知道她在哪儿。”灯光下,只见他的脸色蜡黄。他站起身来。“告诉我她在哪儿。”“你坐下,”我说。“我不知道她在哪儿。”“你他妈的能不知道!”“你给我住嘴。”“告诉我勃莱特在哪儿。”“我什么也不告诉你。”“你知道她在哪儿。”“即使我知道,我也不会告诉你。”“哼,你滚开,科恩,”迈克在桌子那边喊道。“勃莱特跟斗牛的那个小子跑了。他们正在度蜜月哩。” “你住嘴。” “哼,你滚吧!”迈克无精打彩地说。 “她真的跟那小子跑了?”科恩转身问我。 “你滚吧!” “方才她同你在一起来着。她真的跟那小子跑了?” “你滚!” “我会叫你告诉我的,”——他向前迈了一步——“你这该死的皮条纤。” 我挥拳对准他打去,他躲开了。我看他的脸在灯光下往旁边一闪。他击中我一拳,我倒下去,坐在人行道上。我正要站起来,他一连击中我两拳。我仰天倒在一张桌子下面。我竭力想站起来,但发现两条腿不听使唤了。我明白我必须站起来设法还他一拳。迈克扶我起来。有人朝我脑袋上浇了一玻璃瓶水。迈克用一只胳膊搂着我,我发觉自己已经坐在椅子上了。迈克在扯我的两只耳朵。 “嗨,你刚才昏死过去了,”迈克说。 “你这该死的,刚才跑哪儿去啦?” “哦,我就在这儿啊。” “你不愿介入吗?” “他把迈克也打倒在地,”埃德娜说。 “他没有把我打昏,”迈克说。“我只是躺着一时起不来。” “在节期里是不是天天夜里都发生这种事?”埃德娜问。“那位是不是科恩先生?” “我没事了,”我说。“我的头还有点发晕。” 周围站着几名侍者和一群人。“滚开!”迈克说。“走开。走啊。” 侍者把人驱散了。“这种场面值得一看,”埃德娜说。“他大概是个拳击手。” “正是。” “比尔在这儿就好了,”埃德娜说。“我巴不得看到比尔也给打翻在地。我一直想看看比尔被打倒是什么样的。他的个头那么大。” “我当时巴望他打倒一名侍者,”迈克说,“给逮起来。罗伯特.科恩先生给关进牢里我才高兴呢。” “不能,”我说。 “啊,别这么说,”埃德娜说。“你是说着玩儿的。” “我说的是真心话,,迈克说,“我不是那种甘心挨人家揍的人。我甚至从来不跟人玩游戏。” 迈克喝了一口酒。 “你知道,我从来不喜欢打猎。随时都有被马撞的危险啊。你感觉怎么样,杰克?” “没问题。” “你这人不错,”埃德娜对迈克说。“你真是个破产户?” “我是个一败涂地的破产户,”迈克说。“我欠了不知多少人的债。你没有债吗?” “多着哪。” “我欠了许多人的债,”迈克说。“今儿晚上我还向蒙托亚借了一百比塞塔。”“你真糟糕,”我说。“我会还的,”迈克说“我一向有债必还。”“所以你才成为个破产户,对不?”埃德娜说。我站起身来。我刚才听到他们的说话,好象是从远处传来的。完全象是一出演得很糟的话剧。“我要回旅馆去了,”我说。然后我听见他们在谈论我。“他不要紧吗?”埃德娜问。“我们最好陪他一起走。”“我没问题,”我说。“你们不用来。我们以后再见。”我离开咖啡馆。他们还坐在桌子边。我回头望望他们和其余的空桌。有个侍者双手托着脑袋坐在一张桌子边。 我步行穿过广场到旅馆,一路上感到似乎一切都变得陌生了,好象过去我从没见过这些树。过去我从没见过这些旗杆,也没见过这座剧院的门面。一切都面目全非了。有一次我从城外踢完足球回家时有过这种感觉。我提着一只装着我的足球用品的皮箱,从该城的车站走上大街,我前半辈子都住在这城市里,但一切都不认识了。有人拿耙子在耙草坪,在路上烧枯叶,我停住脚步看了好大一阵子。一切都是生疏的。然后我继续往前走,我的两只脚好象离开我老远,一切似乎都是从远处向我逼近的,我听见从遥远的地方传来我的脚步声。我的头部在球赛一开始就被人踢中了。此刻我穿过广场时的感觉就跟那时一个样。我怀着那种感觉走上旅馆的楼梯。费了好长时间我才走到楼上,我感到好象手里提着皮箱。屋里的灯亮着。比尔走出来在走廊里迎着我。“嗨,”他说,“上去看看科恩吧。他出了点事,他正找你来着。”“让他见鬼去吧。”“走吧。上去看看他。”我不愿意再爬一层楼。 “你那么瞧着我干什么?” “我没在瞧你。上去看看科恩吧。他的情绪很糟糕。” “你方才喝醉了,”我说。 “现在我还醉着哩,”比尔说。“可是你上去看看科恩。他想见你。” “好吧,”我说。只不过多爬几层楼梯就是了。我提着幻觉中的皮箱继续上楼。我沿着走廊走到科恩的房间。门关着,我敲了下门。 “谁?” “巴恩斯。” “进来,杰克。” 我开门进屋,放下我的皮箱。屋里没开灯。科恩在黑地里趴着躺在床上。 “嗨,杰克。” “别叫我杰克。” 我站在门边。那次我回家也正是这样的。现在我需要的是洗一次热水澡。满满一缸热水,仰脸躺在里面。 “浴室在哪儿?”我问。 科恩在哭。他就在那里,趴在床上哭。他穿着件白色马球衫,就是他在普林斯顿大学穿过的那种。 “对不起,杰克。请原谅我。” “原谅你,真见鬼。” “请原谅我,杰克。” 我什么话也不说。我在门边站着。 “我当时疯了。你应该清楚是什么回事。” “啊,没关系。” “我一想起勃莱特就受不了。” “你骂我皮条纤。” 我实在并不在乎。我需要洗个热水澡。我想在满满一缸水里洗个热水澡。 “我明白过来了。请你别记在心上。我疯了。” “没关系。” 他在哭。他的哭声很滑稽。他在黑地里穿着白短衫躺在床上。他的马球衫。 “我打算明儿早晨走。” 他在不出声地哭泣。 “一想到勃莱特,我就受不了。我经受了百般煎熬,杰克。简直是活受罪。我在这儿跟勃莱特相会以来,她待我如同陌路人一般。我实在受不了啦。我们在圣塞瓦斯蒂安同居过。我想你知道这件事。我再也受不了啦。” 他躺在床上。 “得了,”我说,“我要去洗澡了。” “你曾经是我唯一的朋友,我过去是那么爱着勃莱特。” “得了,”我说,“再见吧。” “我看一切都完了,”他说。“我看是彻底完蛋了。” “什么?” “一切。请你说一声你原谅我,杰克。” “那当然,”我说。“没关系。”“我心情恶劣透了。我经受了痛苦的折磨,杰克。如今一切已成过去。一切。”“好了,”我说,“再见吧。我得走了。”他翻过身来,坐在床沿上,然后站起来。 “再见,杰克,”他说。“你肯跟我握手,是吧?” “当然罗。为什么不呢?” 我们握握手。在黑暗中我看不大清他的脸。 “好了,”我说,“明儿早上见。” “我明儿早晨要走了。” “哦,对,”我说。 我走出来。科恩在门洞子里站着。 “你没问题吗,杰克?”他问。 “是的,”我说。“我没问题。” 我找不到浴室。过了一会儿我才找到。浴室里有个很深的石浴缸。我拧开水龙头,没有水。我坐在浴缸边上。当我站起来要走的时候,我发觉我已经脱掉了鞋子。我寻找鞋子,找到了,就拎着鞋子下楼。我找到自己的房间,走进去,脱掉衣服上了床。 我醒过来的时候感到头痛,听见大街上过往的乐队的喧闹的乐声。我想起曾答应带比尔的朋友埃德娜去看牛群沿街跑向斗牛场。我穿上衣服,下楼走到外面清晨的冷空气中。人们正穿越广场,急忙向斗牛场走去。广场对面,售票亭前排着那两行人。他们还在等着买七点钟出售的票。我快步跨过马路到咖啡馆去。侍者告诉我,我的朋友们已经来过又走了。 “他们有几个人?” “两位先生和一位小姐。” 这就行了。比尔和迈克跟埃德娜在一起。她昨天夜里怕他们会醉得醒不过来。所以一定要我带她去。我喝完咖啡,混在人群里急忙到斗牛场去。这时我的醉意已经消失,只是头痛得厉害。四周的一切看来鲜明而清晰,城里散发着清晨的气息。 从城边到斗牛场那一段路泥泞不堪。沿着通往斗牛场的栅栏站满了人,斗牛场的外看台和屋顶上也都是人。我听见发射信号弹的爆炸声,我知道我来不及进入斗牛场看牛群入场了,所以就从人群中挤到了栅栏边。我被挤得紧贴着栅栏上的板条。在两道栅栏之间的跑道上,警察在驱赶人群。他们慢步或小跑着进入斗牛场。然后出现了奔跑的人们。一个醉汉滑了一交,摔倒在地。两名警察抓住他,把他拖到栅栏边。这时候人们飞跑着。人群中发出震耳的呼喊声,我把头从板缝中伸出去,看见牛群刚跑出街道进入这两道栅栏之间的长跑道。它们跑得很快,逐渐追上人群。就在这关头,另一名醉汉从栅栏边跑过去,双手抓着一件衬衫。他想拿它当斗篷来同牛斗一场。两名警察一个箭步上去,扭住他的衣领,其中一名给了他一棍,把他拖到栅栏边,让他紧贴在栅栏上站着,一直到最后一批人群和牛群过去。在牛群前面有那么多人在跑,因此在通过大门进入斗牛场的时候,人群密集起来了,并且放慢了脚步。当笨重的、腰际溅满泥浆的牛群摆动着犄角,一起奔驰过去的时候,有一头牛冲向前去,在奔跑着的人群中用犄角抵中一个人的脊背,把他挑起来。当牛角扎进人体中去的时候,这人的两臂耷拉在两侧,头向后仰着,牛把他举了起来,然后把他摔下。这头牛选中了在前面跑的另一个人,但这个人躲到人群中去了,人们在牛群之前通过大门,进入斗牛场。斗牛场的红色大门关上了,斗牛场外看台上的人们拼命挤进场去,发出一阵呼喊声,接着又是一阵。 被牛抵伤的那人脸朝下躺在被人踩烂了的泥浆里。人们翻过栅栏,我看不见这个人了,因为人群紧紧地围在他周围。斗牛场里传出一声声叫喊。每一声都说明有牛冲进人群。根据叫喊声的强弱,你可以知道刚发生的事情糟到什么程度。后来信号弹升起来了,它表明犍牛已经把公牛引出斗牛场,进入牛栏了。我离开栅栏,动身回城。 回到城里,我到咖啡馆去再喝杯咖啡,吃点涂黄油的烤面包。侍者正在扫地,抹桌子。一个侍者过来,听我吩咐他要什么点心。 “把牛赶进牛栏时可曾出什么事?” “我没有从头看到底。有个人给抵伤,伤得很重。” “伤在哪儿?”” “这儿。”我把一只手放在后腰上,另一只手放在胸前,表明那只牛角似乎是从这里穿出来的。侍者点点头,用抹布揩掉桌上的面包屑。 “伤得很重,”他说。“光是为了解闷儿。光是为了取乐。”他走了,回来的时候拿着长把的咖啡壶和牛奶壶。他倒出牛奶和咖啡。牛奶和咖啡从两个长壶嘴里分两股倒入大杯里。侍者点点头。 “扎透脊背,伤得很重,”他说。他把两把壶放在桌上,在桌边的椅子上坐下来。“扎得很深。光是为了好玩。仅仅是为了好玩。,你是怎么想的?” “我说不上。” “就是那么回事。光是为了好玩。好玩,你懂吧。” “你不是个斗牛迷吧?” “我吗? 牛是啥? 畜牲。残暴的畜牲。”他站起来,把一只手按在后腰上。“正好扎透脊背。扎透脊背的抵伤。为了好玩——你明白。” 他摇摇头,拿着咖啡壶走了,有两个人在街上走过。侍者大声喊他们。他们脸色阴沉。一个人摇摇头。“死了!”他叫道。 侍者点点头。两人继续赶路。他们有事在身。侍者走到我桌边来。 “你听见啦?死了!死了。他死了。让牛角扎穿了。全是为了开心一个早晨。真太荒唐了。” “很糟糕。” “我看不出来,”侍者说。“我看不出来有什么好玩的。” 当天晚些时候,我们得悉这被抵死的人名叫维森特.吉罗尼斯,是从塔法雅附近来的。第二天在报上我们看到,他二十八岁,有一个农场,有老婆和两个孩子。他结婚后,每年都依旧前来参加节日活动。第二天他妻子从塔法雅赶来守灵,第三天在圣福明小教堂举行丧事礼拜,塔法雅跳舞饮酒会的会员们抬棺材到车站。由鼓手开路,笛子手吹奏哀乐,抬棺木人的后面跟着死者的妻子和两个孩子。……在他们后面列队前进的是潘普洛纳、埃斯特拉、塔法雅和桑盖萨所有能够赶来过夜并参加葬礼的跳舞饮酒会的成员。棺材装上火车的行李车厢,寡妇和两个孩子三人一起乘坐在一节敞篷的三等车厢里。火车猛然一抖动就启动了,然后平稳地绕着高岗边缘下坡,行驶在一马平川的庄稼地里,一路向塔法雅驰去,地里的庄稼随风摆动着。 挑死维森特.吉罗尼斯的那头牛名叫“黑嘴”,是桑切斯.塔凡尔诺饲牛公司的第118号公牛,是当天下午被杀的第三头牛,是由佩德罗.罗梅罗杀死的。在群众的欢呼声中,牛耳朵被割下未,送给佩德罗.罗梅罗,罗梅罗又转送给勃莱特。她把牛耳朵用我的手帕包好,后来回到潘普洛纳的蒙托亚旅馆,就把这两样东西,牛耳朵和手帕,连同一些穆拉蒂牌香烟头,使劲塞在她床头柜抽屉的最里边。 我回到旅馆,守夜人坐在大门里面的板凳上。他整夜守候在那里,已经困倦不堪了。我一进门,他就站起来。三名女侍者和我同时进门。她们在斗牛场看了早场。她们嘻嘻哈哈地走上楼去。我跟在她们后面上楼,走进自己的房间。我脱掉皮鞋,上床躺下。朝阳台的窗子开着,阳光照得屋里亮堂堂的。我并不觉得困。我睡下时想必已是三点半,乐队在六点把我吵醒了。我下巴的两侧感到疼痛。我用手指摸摸疼痛的地方。该死的科恩。他第一次受到了欺侮就应该打人,然后走掉。他是那么深信勃莱特在爱他。他要待下去,以为忠实的爱情会征服一切。有人来敲门了。 “进来。” 是比尔和迈克。他们在床上坐下。 “把牛赶进牛栏,很精彩,”比尔说。“很精彩、” “嗨,你难道没在那边?”迈克问。“按铃叫人送些啤酒来,比尔。” “今儿早晨真带劲儿!”比尔说。他抹了下脸。“我的上帝!真带劲儿!可我们的好杰克躺在这儿。好杰克啊,活的练拳沙袋。” “斗牛场里出了什么事?” “上帝!”比尔说,“出了什么事,迈克?” “那些牛冲进场子,”迈克说。“人们就在它们前面跑,有一个家伙绊倒了,接着倒了一大片。” “可牛群都冲进去,踏过他们的身子,”比尔说。 “我听见他们叫喊。” “那是埃德娜,”比尔说。 “有人不断地从人群里跑出来,挥舞他们的衬衫。” “有头公牛沿着第一排座位前的栅栏跑,见人就挑。” “大约有二十个家伙送医院去了,”迈克说。 “今儿早晨真带劲儿!”比尔说。“多管闲事的警察把那些想自己投身在牛角下自杀的人陆续地都逮起来了。” “最后是犍牛把它们引进去的,”迈克说。 “延续了一个来钟头。” “实际上只有一刻钟左右,”迈克反驳说。 “去你的吧,”比尔说。“你参加打架去了。我可认为有两个半钟头。” “啤酒还没来吗?”迈克问。 “你们把可爱的埃德娜怎么啦?” “我们刚送她回家。她上床了。” “她喜欢看吗?” “非常喜欢。我们告诉她天天早晨如此,” “给了她很深刻的印象,”迈克说。 “她要我们也下斗牛场去,”比尔说。“她喜欢惊险场面。” “我说,这样对我的债主们很不利,”迈克说。 “今儿早晨真带劲儿,”比尔说。“夜里也带劲儿!” “你的下巴怎么样,杰克?”迈克问。 “痛着呢,”我说。 比尔笑了。 “你为什么不拿椅子揍他呢?” “你说得倒好听,”迈克说。“你在的话也会把你打得晕过去。我没看见他怎么揍我的。我回想起来,只看见他站在我前面,突然间我就坐在马路上了,杰克躺在桌子底下。” “后来他上哪儿去啦?”我问。 “她来了,”迈克说。“这位漂亮的小姐拿啤酒来了。” 侍女把放啤酒瓶和玻璃杯的托盘放在桌上。 “再去拿三瓶来,”迈克说。 “科恩揍了我以后到哪儿去了?”我问比尔。 “难道你不知道?”迈克动手开一瓶啤酒。他拿一个玻璃杯紧凑着瓶口,往里倒啤酒。 “真的不知道?”比尔问。“啊,他来到这里,在斗牛小伙的房间里找到他和勃莱特在一起,然后他就宰了这可怜而该死的斗牛士。” “不能!” “真的。” “这一夜太带劲儿了!”比尔说。 “他差一点宰了这可怜而该死的斗牛士。然后科恩要带勃莱特一起 Chapter 18 At noon we were all at the café. 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. Sight-seeing cars came up, too. There was one with twentyfive Englishwomen in it. They sat in the big, white car and looked through their glasses at the fiesta. The dancers were all quite drunk. It was the last day of the fiesta. The fiesta was solid and unbroken, but the motor-cars and 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 cafés 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 boy friend?" Mike asked. He had not listened to anything that Brett had said. "Brett's got a bull-fighter," he said. "She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly." Brett stood up. "I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael." "How's your boy friend?" "Damned well," Brett said. "Watch him this afternoon." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody bullfighter." "Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk to you, Jake." "Tell him all about your bull-fighter," Mike said. "Oh, to hell with your bull-fighter!" He tipped the table so that all the beers and the dIsh of shrimps went over in a crash. "Come on," Brett said. "Let's get out of this." In the crowd crossing the square I said: "How is it?" "I'm not going to see him after lunch until the fight. His people come in and dress him. They're very angry about me, he says." Brett was radiant. She was happy. The sun was out and the day was bright. "I feel altogether changed," Brett said. "You've no idea, Jake." "Anything you want me to do?" "No, just go to the fight with me." "We'll see you at lunch?" "No. I'm eating with him." We were standing under the arcade at the door of the hotel. They were carrying tables out and setting them up under the arcade. "Want to take a turn out to the park?" Brett asked. "I don't want to go up yet. I fancy he's sleeping." We walked along past the theatre and out of the square and 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 to-day. To-day's going to be bad enough as it is." It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating. "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad." "Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German ma?tre d'h?tel 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 café," Brett said. "Thank you, so much, Jake." We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the hail and into Romero's room. She did not knock. She simply opened the door, went in, and closed it behind her. I stood in front of the door of Mike's room and knocked. There was no answer. I tried the knob and it opened. Inside the room was in great disorder. All the bags were opened and clothing was strewn around. There were empty bottles beside the bed. Mike lay on the bed looking like a death mask of himself. He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Hello, Jake," he said very slowly. "I'm getting a lit tle sleep. I've want ed a lit tle sleep for a long time." "Let me cover you over." "No. I'm quite warm." "Don't go. I have n't got ten to sleep yet." "You'll sleep, Mike. Don't worry, boy." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "But her Jew has gone away." He turned his head and looked at me. "Damned good thing, what?" "Yes. Now go to sleep, Mike. You ought to get some sleep." "I'm just start ing. I'm go ing to get a lit tie sleep." He shut his eyes. I went Out of the room and turned the door to quietly. Bill was in my room reading the paper. "See Mike?" "Yes." "Let's go and eat." "I won't eat down-stairs with that German head waiter. He was damned snotty when I was getting Mike up-stairs." "He was snotty to us, too." "Let's go out and eat in the town." We went down the stairs. On the stairs we passed a girl coming up with a covered tray. "There goes Brett's lunch," Bill said. "And the kid's," I said. Outside on the terrace under the arcade the German head waiter came up. His red cheeks were shiny. He was being polite. "I haff a tabul for two for you gentlemen," he said. "Go sit at it," Bill said. We went on out across the street. We ate at a restaurant in a side street off the square. They were all men eating in the restaurant. It was full of smoke and drinking and singing. The food was good and so was the wine. We did not talk much. Afterward we went to the café and watched the fiesta come to the boiling-point. Brett came over soon after lunch. She said she had looked in the room and that Mike was asleep. When the fiesta boiled over and toward the bull-ring we went with the crowd. Brett sat at the ringside between Bill and me. Directly below us was the callejon, the passageway between the stands and the red fence of the barrera. Behind us the concrete stands filled solidly. Out in front, beyond the red fence, the sand of the ring was smooth-rolled and yellow. It looked a little heavy from the rain, but it was dry in the sun and firm and smooth. The swordhandlers and bull-ring servants came down the callejon carrying on their shoulders the wicker baskets of fighting capes and muletas. They were bloodstained and compactly folded and packed in the baskets. The sword-handlers opened the heavy leather sword-cases so the red wrapped hilts of the sheaf of swords showed as the leather case leaned against the fence. They unfolded the dark-stained red flannel of the muletas and fixed batons in them to spread the stuff and give the matador something to hold. Brett watched it all. She was absorbed in the professional details. "He's his name stencilled on all the capes and muletas," she said. "Why do they call them muletas?" "I don't know." "I wonder if they ever launder them." "I don't think so. It might spoil the color." "The blood must stiffen them," Bill said. "Funny," Brett said. "How one doesn't mind the blood." Below in the narrow passage of the callejon the sword-handlers arranged everything. All the seats were full. Above, all the boxes were full. There was not an empty seat except in the President's box. When he came in the fight would start. Across the smooth sand, in the high doorway that led into the corrals, the bull-fighters were standing, their arms furled in their capes, talking, waiting for the signal to march in across the arena. Brett was watching them with the glasses. "Here, would you like to look?" I looked through the glasses and saw the three matadors. Romero was in the centre, Belmonte on his left, Marcial on his right. Back of them were their people, and behind the banderilleros, back in the passageway and in the open space of the corral, I saw the picadors. Romero was wearing a black suit. His tricornered hat was low down over his eyes. I could not see his face clearly under the hat, but it looked badly marked. He was looking straight ahead. Marcial was smoking a cigarette guardedly, holding it in his hand. Beimonte looked ahead, his face wan and yellow, his long wolf jaw out. He was looking at nothing. Neither he nor Romero seemed to have anything in common with the others. They were all alone. The President came in; there was handclapping above us in the grand stand, and I handed the glasses to Brett. There was applause. The music started. Brett looked through the glasses. "Here, take them," she said. Through the glasses I saw Belmonte speak to Romero. Marcial straightened up and dropped his cigarette, and, looking straight ahead, their heads back, their free arms swinging, the three matadors walked out. Behind them came all the procession, opening out, all striding in step, all the capes furled, everybody with free arms swinging, and behind rode the picadors, their pics rising like lances. Behind all came the two trains of mules and the bull-ring servants. The matadors bowed, holding their hats on, before the President's box, and then came over to the barrera beiow us. Pedro Romero took off his heavy gold-brocaded cape and handed it over the fence to his sword-handler. He said something to the sword-handler. Close below us we saw Romero's lips were puffed, both eyes were discolored. His face was discolored and swollen. The sword-handler took the cape, looked up at Brett, and came over to us and handed up the cape. "Spread it out in front of you," I said. Brett leaned forward. The cape was heavy and smoothly stiff with gold. The sword-handler looked back, shook his head, and said something. A man beside me leaned over toward Brett. "He doesn't want you to spread it," he said. "You should fold it and keep it in your lap." Brett folded the heavy cape. Romero did not look up at us. He was speaking to Belmonte. Belmonte had sent his formal cape over to some friends. He looked across at them and smiled, his wolf smile that was only with the mouth. Romero leaned over the barrera and asked for the water-jug. The sword-handler brought it and Romero poured water over the percale of his fighting-cape, and then scuffed the lower folds in the sand with his slippered foot. "What's that for?" Brett asked. "To give it weight in the wind." "His face looks bad," Bill said. "He feels very badly," Brett said. "He should be in bed." The first bull was Belmonte's. Belmonte was very good. But because he got thirty thousand pesetas and people had stayed in line all night to buy tickets to see him, the crowd demanded that he should be more than very good. Belmonte's great attraction is working close to the bull. In bull-fighting they speak of the terrain of the bull and the terrain of the bull-fighter. As long as a bull-fighter stays in his own terrain he is comparatively safe. Each time he enters into the terrain of the bull he is in great danger. Belmonte, in his best days, worked always in the terrain of the bull. This way he gave the sensation of coming tragedy. People went to the corrida to see Belmonte, to be given tragic sensations, and perhaps to see the death of Belmonte. Fifteen years ago they said if you wanted to see Belmonte you should go quickly, while he was still alive. Since then he has killed more than a thousand bulls. When he retired the legend grew up about how his bull-fighting had been, and when he came out of retirement the public were 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 Belmonte imposed conditions and insisted that his bulls should not be too large, nor too dangerously armed with horns, and so the element that was necessary to give the sensation of tragedy was not there, and the public, who wanted three times as much from Belmonte, who was sick with a fistula, as Belmonte had ever been able to give, felt defrauded and cheated, and Belmonte's jaw came further out in contempt, and his face turned yellower, and he moved with greater difficulty as his pain increased, and finally the crowd were 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, longjawed, lipless smile when he was called something particularly insulting, and always the pain that any movement produced grew stronger and stronger, until finally his yellow face was parchment color, and after his second bull was dead and the throwing of bread and cushions was over, after he had saluted the President with the same wolf-jawed smile and contemptuous eyes, and handed his sword over the barrera to be wiped, and put back in its case, he passed through into the callejon and leaned on the barrera below us, his head on his arms, not seeing, not hearing anything, only going through his pain. When he looked up, finally, he asked for a drink of water. He swallowed a little, rinsed his mouth, spat the water, took his cape, and went back into the ring. Because they were against Belmonte the public were for Romero. From the moment he left the barrera and went toward the bull they applauded him. Belmonte watched Romero, too, watched him always without seeming to. He paid no attention to Marcial. Marcial was the sort of thing he knew all about. He had come out of retirement to compete with Marcial, knowing it was a competition gained in advance. He had expected to compete with Marcial and the other stars of the decadence of bull-fighting, and he knew that the sincerity of his own bull-fighting would be so set off by the false aesthetics of the bull-fighters of the decadent period that he would only have to be in the ring. His return from retirement had been spoiled by Romero. Romero did always, smoothly, calmly, and beautifully, what he, Belmonte, could only bring himself to do now sometimes. The crowd felt it, even the people from Biarritz, even the American ambassador saw it, finally. It was a competition that Belmonte would not enter because it would lead only to a bad horn wound or death. Belmonte was no longer well enough. He no longer had his greatest moments in the bull-ring. He was not sure that there were any great moments. Things were not the same and now life only came in flashes. He had flashes of the old greatness with his bulls, but they were not of value 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 withoui much horns, and when he felt the greatness again coming, just a little of it through the pain that was always with him, it had been discounted and sold in advance, and it did not give him a good feeling. It was the greatness, but it did not make bull-fighting wonderful to him any more. Pedro Romero had the greatness. He loved bull-fighting, and I think he loved the bulls, and I think he loved Brett. Everything of which he could control the locality he did in front of her all that afternoon. Never once did he look up. He made it stronger that way, and did it for himself, too, as well as for her. Because he did not look up to ask if it pleased he did it all for himself inside, and it strengthened him, and yet he did it for her, too. But he did not do it for her at any loss to himself. He gained by it all through the afternoon. His first "quite" was directly below us. The three matadors take the bull in turn after each charge he makes at a picador. Be!monte was the first. Marcial was the second. Then came Romero. The three of them were standing at the left of the horse. The picador, his hat down over his eyes, the shaft of his pic angling sharply toward the bull, kicked in the spurs and held them and with the reins in his left hand walked the horse forward toward the bull. The bull was watching. Seemingly he watched the white horse, but really he watched the triangular steel point of the pic. Romero, watching, saw the bull start to turn his head. He did not want to charge. Romero flicked his cape so the color caught the bull's eye. The bull charged with the reflex, charged, and found not the flash of color but a white horse, and a man leaned far over the horse, shot the steel point of the long hickory shaft into the hump of muscle on the bull's shoulder, and pulled his horse sideways as he pivoted on the pic, making a wound, enforcing the iron into the bull's shoulder, making him bleed for Belmonte. The bull did not insist under the iron. He did not really want to get at the horse. He turned and the group broke apart and Romero was taking him out with his cape. He took him out softly and 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 firmed. The dampened, mud-weighted cape swung open and full as a sail fills, and Romero pivoted with it just ahead of the bull. At the end of the pass they were facing each other again. Romero smiled. The bull wanted it again, and Romero's cape filled again, this time on the other side. Each time he let the bull pass so close that the man and the bull and the cape that filled and pivoted ahead of the bull were all one sharply etched mass. It was all so slow and so controlled. It was as though he were rocking the bull to sleep. He made four veronicas like that, and finished with a half-veronica that turned his back on the bull and came away toward the applause, his hand on his hip, his cape on his arm, and the bull watching his back going away. In his own bulls he was perfect. His first bull did not see well. After the first two passes with the cape Romero knew exactly how bad the vision was impaired. He worked accordingly. It was not brilliant bull-fighting. It was only perfect bull-fighting. The crowd wanted the bull changed. They made a great row. Nothing very fine could happen with a bull that could not see the lures, but the President would not order him replaced. "Why don't they change him?" Brett asked. "They've paid for him. They don't want to lose their money." "It's hardly fair to Romero." "Watch how he handles a bull that can't see the color." "It's the sort of thing I don't like to see." It was not nice to watch if you cared anything about the person who was doing it. With the bull who could not see the colors of the capes, or the scarlet flannel of the muleta, Romero had to make the bull consent with his body. He had to get so close that the bull saw his body, and would start for it, and then shift the bull's charge to the flannel and finish out the pass in the classic manner. The Biarritz crowd did not like it. They thought Romero was afraid, and that was why he gave that little sidestep each time as he transferred the bull's charge from his own body to the flannel. They preferred Belmonte's imitation of himself or Marcial's imitation of Belmonte. There were three of them in the row behind us. "What's he afraid of the bull for? The bull's so dumb he only goes after the cloth." "He's just a young bull-fighter. He hasn't learned it yet." "But I thought he was fine with the cape before." "Probably he's nervous now." Out in the centre of the ring, all alone, Romero was going on with the same thing, getting so close that the bull could see him plainly, offering the body, offering it again a little closer, the bull watching dully, then so close that the bull thought he had him, offering again and finally drawing the charge and then, just before the horns came, giving the bull the red cloth to follow with that little, almost imperceptible, jerk that so offended the critical judgment of the Biarritz bull-fight experts. "He's going to kill now," I said to Brett. "The bull's still strong. He wouldn't wear himself out." Out in the centre of the ring Romero profiled in front of the bull, drew the sword out from the folds of the muleta, rose on his toes, and sighted along the blade. The bull charged as Romero charged. Romero's left hand dropped the muleta over the bull's muzzle to blind him, his left shoulder went forward between the horns as the sword went in, and for just an instant he and the bull were one, Romero way out over the bull, the right arm extended high up to where the hilt of the sword had gone in between the bull's 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, and the bull, the red sword hilt tight between his shoulders, his head going down and his legs settling. "There he goes," Bill said. Romero was close enough so the bull could see him. His hand still up, he spoke to the bull. The bull gathered himself, then his head went forward and he went over slowly, then all over, suddenly, four feet in the air. They handed the sword to Romero, and carrying it blade down, the muleta in his other hand, he walked over to in front of the President's box, bowed, straightened, and came over to the barrera and handed over the sword and muleta. "Bad one," said the sword-handler. "He made me sweat," said Romero. He wiped off his face. The sword-handler handed him the water-jug. Romero wiped his lips. It hurt him to drink Out of the jug. He did not look up at us. Marcial had a big day. They were still applauding him when Romero's last bull came in. It was the bull that had sprinted out and killed the man in the morning running. During Romero's first bull his hurt face had been very noticeable. Everything he did showed it. All the concentration of the awkwardly delicate working with the bull that could not see well brought it out. The fight with Cohn had not touched his spirit but his face had been smashed and his body hurt. He was wiping all that out now. Each thing that he did with this bull wiped that out a little cleaner. It was a good bull, a big bull, and with horns, and it turned and recharged easily and surely. He was what Romero wanted in bulls. When he had finished his work with the muleta and was ready to kill, the crowd made him go on. They did not want the bull killed yet, they did not want it to be over. Romero went on. It was like a course in bull-fighting. All the passes he linked up, all completed, all slow, templed and smooth. There were no tricks and no mystifications. There was no brusqueness. And each pass as it reached the summit gave you a sudden ache inside. The crowd did not want it ever to be finished. The bull was squared on all four feet to be killed, and Romero killed directly below us. He killed not as he had been forced to by the last bull, but as he wanted to. He profiled directly in front of the bull, drew the sword out of the folds of the muleta and sighted along the blade. The bull watched him. Romero spoke to the bull and tapped one of his feet. The bull charged and Romero waited for the charge, the muleta held low, sighting along the blade, his feet firm. Then without taking a step forward, he became one with the bull, the sword was in high between the shoulders, the bull had followed the low-swung flannel, that disappeared as Romero lurched clear to the left, and it was over. The bull tried to go forward, his legs commenced to settle, he swung from side to side, hesitated, then went down on his knees, and Romero's older brother leaned forward behind him and drove a short knife into the bull's neck at the base of the horns. The first time he missed. He drove the knife in again, and the bull went over, twitching and rigid. Romero's brother, holding the bull's horn in one hand, the knife in the other, looked up at the President's box. Handkerchiefs were waving all over the bullring. The President looked down from the box and waved his handkerchief. The brother cut the notched black ear from the dead bull and trotted over with it to Romero. The bull lay heavy and black on the sand, his tongue out. Boys were running toward him from all parts of the arena, making a little circle around him. They were starting to dance around the bull. Romero took the ear from his brother and held it up toward the President. The President bowed and Romero, running to get ahead of the crowd, came toward us. He leaned up against the barrera and gave the ear to Brett. He nodded his head and smiled. The crowd were all about him. Brett held down the cape. "You liked it?" Romero called. Brett did not say anything. They looked at each other and smiled. Brett had the ear in her hand. "Don't get bloody," Romero said, and grinned. The crowd wanted him. Several boys shouted at Brett. The crowd was the boys, the dancers, and the drunks. Romero turned and tried to get through the crowd. They were all around him trying to lift him and put him on their shoulders. He fought and twisted away, and started running, in the midst of them, toward the exit. He did not want to be carried on people's shoulders. But they held him and lifted him. It was uncomfortable and his legs were spraddled and his body was very sore. They were lifting him and all 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 down-stairs dining-room and ate some hard-boiled eggs and drank several bottles of beer. Belmonte came down in his street clothes with his manager and two other men. They sat at the next table and ate. Belmonte ate very little. They were leaving on the seven o'clock train for Barcelona. Belmonte wore a blue-striped shirt and a dark suit, and ate soft-boiled eggs. The others ate a big meal. Belmonte did not talk. He only answered questions. Bill was tired after the bull-fight. So was I. We both took a bullfight very hard. We sat and ate the eggs and I watched Belmonte and the people at his table. The men with him were tough-looking and businesslike. "Come on over to the café," Bill said. "I want an absinthe." It was the last day of the fiesta. Outside it was beginning to be cloudy again. The square was full of people and the fireworks experts were making up their set pieces for the night and covering them over with beech branches. Boys were watching. We passed stands of rockets with long bamboo stems. Outside the café there was a great crowd. The music and the dancing were going on. The giants and the dwarfs were passing. "Where's Edna?" I asked Bill. "I don't know." We watched the beginning of the evening of the last night of the fiesta. The absinthe made everything seem better. I drank it without sugar in the dripping glass, and it was pleasantly bitter. "I feel sorry about Cohn," Bill said. "He had an awful time." "Oh, to hell with Cohn," I said. "Where do you suppose he went?" "Up to Paris." "What do you suppose he'll do?" "Oh, to hell with him." "What do you suppose he'll do?" "Pick up with his old girl, probably." "Who was his old girl?" "Somebody named Frances." We had another absinthe. "When do you go back?" I asked. "To-morrow." After a little while Bill said: "Well, it was a swell fiesta." "Yes," I said, "something doing all the time." "You wouldn't believe it. It's like a wonderful nightmare." "Sure," I said. "I'd believe anything. Including nightmares." "What's the matter? Feel low?" "Low as hell." "Have another absinthe. Here, waiter! Another absinthe for this se?or." "I feel like hell," I said. "Drink that," said Bill. "Drink it slow." It was beginning to get dark. The fiesta was going on. I began to feel drunk but I did not feel any better. "How do you feel?" "I feel like hell." "Have another?" "It won't do any good." "Try it. You can't tell; maybe this is the one that gets it. Hey, waiter! Another absinthe for this se?or!" I poured the water directly into it and stirred it instead of letting it drip. Bill put in a lump of ice. I stirred the ice around with a spoon in the brownish, cloudy mixture. "How is it?" "Fine." "Don't drink it fast that way. It will make you sick." I set down the glass. I had not meant to drink it fast. "I feel tight." "You ought to." "That's what you wanted, wasn't it?" "Sure. Get tight. Get over your damn depression." "Well, I'm tight. Is that what you want?" "Sit down." "I won't sit down," I said. "I'm going over to the hotel." I was very drunk. I was drunker than I ever remembered having been. At the hotel I went up-stairs. Brett's door was open. I put my head in the room. Mike was sitting on the bed. He waved a bottle. "Jake," he said. "Come in, Jake." I went in and sat down. The room was unstable unless I looked at some fixed point. "Brett, you know. She's gone off with the bull-fighter chap." "No." "Yes. She looked for you to say good-bye. They went on the 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-o," Mike said. "Get some sleep, old Jake." I went out the door and into my own room and lay on the bed. The bed went sailing off and I sat up in bed and looked at the wall to make it stop. Outside in the square the fiesta was going on. It did not mean anything. Later Bill and Mike came in to get me to go down and eat with them. I pretended to be asleep. "He's asleep. Better let him alone." "He's blind as a tick," Mike said. They went out. I got up and went to the balcony and looked out at the dancing in the square. The world was not wheeling any more. It was just very clear and bright, and inclined to blur at the edges. I washed, brushed my hair. I looked strange to myself in the glass, and went down-stairs to the dining-room. "Here he is!" said Bill. "Good old Jake! I knew you wouldn't pass out." "Hello, you old drunk," Mike said. "I got hungry and woke up." "Eat some soup," Bill said. The three of us sat at the table, and it seemed as though about six people were missing. 中午时分,我们会集在咖啡馆里。里头人头挤挤。我们吃小虾,喝啤酒。城里也满是人。条条街道都挤得满满的。从比亚里茨和圣塞瓦斯蒂安来的大汽车不断地开到,停在广场周围。汽车把人们送来观看斗牛。旅游车也到了。有一辆车里坐着二十五名英籍妇女。她们坐在这辆白色的大汽车里,用望远镜观赏这里的节日风光。跳舞的人都喝得醉醺醺的。这是节期的最后一天。 参加节日活动的人们挤得水泄不通,川流不息,但汽车和旅游车边却围着一圈圈观光者。等汽车上的人全下来了,他们便淹没在人群之中。你再也见不着他们,只有在咖啡馆的桌子边,在拥挤不堪的穿着黑色外衣的农民中间,能见到他们那与众不同的运动服。节日洪流甚至淹没了从比亚里茨来的英国人,以至你如果不紧靠一张桌子边走过,就看不到他们。街上乐声不绝。鼓声咚咚,笛声悠扬。在咖啡馆里,人们双手紧抓住桌子,或者互相接着肩膀,直着嗓门唱歌。 “勃莱特来了,”比尔说。 我一看,只见她正穿过广场上的人群走来,高高地昂着头,似乎这次节日狂欢是为了对她表示敬意才举行的,她感到又自得,又好笑。 “喂,朋友们!”她说。“嗨,渴死我了。” “再来一大杯啤酒,”比尔对侍者说。 “要小虾吗?” “科恩走了?”勃莱特问。 “是的,”比尔说。“他雇了一辆汽车。” 啤酒送来了。勃莱特伸手去端玻璃杯,她的手颤抖着。她自己发觉了,微微一笑,便俯身喝了一大口。“好酒。”“非常好,”我说。我正为迈克惴惴不安。我想他根本没有睡觉。他大概一直在喝酒,但是看来他还能控制得住自己。“我听说科恩把你打伤了, 杰克, ”勃莱特说。“没有。把我打昏过去了。别的没啥。”“我说,他把佩德罗.罗梅罗打伤了,”勃莱特说。“伤得好厉害。”“他现在怎么样?”“他就会好的。他不愿意离开房间。”“他看来很糟糕?”“非常糟糕。他真的伤得很重。我跟他说,我想溜出来看你们一下。”“他还要上场吗?”“当然。如果你愿意的话,我想同你一起去。”“你男朋友怎么样啦?”迈克问。勃莱特刚才说的话他一点没听着。“勃莱特搞上了一个斗牛士,”他说。“她还有个姓科恩的犹太人,可他结果表现得糟透了。”勃莱特站起身来。 “我不想再听你讲这种混帐话了,迈克尔。” “你男朋友怎么样啦?” “好得很哩,”勃莱特说。“下午好好看他斗牛吧。” “勃莱特搞上了一个斗牛士,”迈克说。“一个标致的该死的斗牛士。” “请你陪我走回去好吗?我有话对你说,杰克。” “把你那斗牛士的事儿都对他说吧,”迈克说。“哼,让你那斗牛士见鬼去吧!”他把桌子一掀,于是桌上所有的啤酒杯和虾碟都泻在地上,哗啦啦地摔个粉碎。 “走吧,”勃莱特说。“我们离开这里。” 挤在人群中间穿过广场的时候,我说:“情况怎么样?” “午饭后到他上场之前我不准备见他,他的随从们要来给他上装。他说,他们非常生我的气。”勃莱特满面春风。她很高兴。太阳出来了,天色亮堂堂的。“我觉得自己完全变了,”勃莱特说。“你想象不到,杰克。” “你需要我干什么?” “没什么,只想叫你陪我看斗牛去。” “午饭时你来?” “不。我跟他一块吃。” 我们在旅馆门口的拱廊下面站住了。他们正把桌子搬出来安置在拱廊下面。 “想不想到公园里去走走?”勃莱特问。“我还不想上楼。我看他在睡觉。” 我们打剧院门前走过,出了广场,一直穿过市集上临时搭的棚子,随着人流在两行售货亭中间走着。我们走上一条通向萨拉萨特步行街的横街,我们望得见人们在步行街上漫步,穿着入时的人们全在那里了。他们绕着公园那一头散步。 “我们别上那边去,”勃莱特说:“眼前我不愿意让人盯着看。” 我们在阳光下站着。海上刮来乌云,雨过天晴之后,天气热得很爽。 “我希望不要再刮风了,”勃莱特说。“刮风对他很不利。” “我也希望这样。” “他说牛都不错。” “都很好。” “那座是不是圣福明礼拜堂?” 勃莱特望着礼拜堂的黄墙。 “是的。星期天的游行就是从这里出发的。” “我们进去看看。愿意吗?我很想为他做个祈祷什么的。” 我们走进一扇包着皮革的门,它虽然很厚实,但开起来却非常轻便。堂里很暗。许多人在做祷告。等眼睛适应了幽暗的光线,你就能够看清他们。我们跪在一条木制长凳前。过了一会儿,我发觉勃莱特在我旁边挺直了腰板,看见她的眼睛直勾勾地望着前面。 “走吧,”她用嘶哑的声音悄悄说。“我们离开这里吧。使我的神经好紧张。” 到了外面,在灼热阳光照耀下的大街上,勃莱特抬头凝视随风摇曳的树梢。祈祷没有起多大作用。 “不明白我在教堂里为什么总这么紧张,”勃莱特说。“祈祷对我从来没有用。” 我们一路往前走。“我同宗教气氛是格格不入的,”勃莱特说。“我的脸型长得不对头。 “你知道,”勃莱特又说,“我根本不替他担心,我只是为他感到幸福。” “这敢情好,” “但是我盼望风小一点。” “五点钟左右风势往往会减弱。” “但愿如此。” “你可以祈祷嘛,”我笑着说。 “对我从来没用,我从来也没得到过祈祷的好处。你得到过吗?” “哦,有过。” “胡说,”勃莱特说,“不过对某些人来说可能灵验。你看来也不怎么虔诚嘛,杰克。” “我很虔诚。” “胡说,”勃莱特说。“你今天别来劝诱人家信教这一套啦。今天这个日子看来会是够倒霉的。” 自从她和科恩出走之日起,我还是头一次看到她又象过去那么快快活活、无忧无虑。我们折回到旅馆门前。所有的桌子都摆好了,有几张桌子已经有人坐着在吃饭了。 “你看着点迈克,”勃莱特说。“别让他太放肆了。”“你的朋友们已经上楼了,”德国籍的侍者总管用英语说。他一贯偷听别人说话。勃莱特朝他说:“太谢谢了。你还有什么话要说的?”“没有了,夫人。”“好,”勃莱特说。 “给我们留一张三个人坐的桌子,”我对德国人说。他那张贼眉鼠眼、内里透红的脸绽出了笑容。“夫人在这儿用餐?” “不,”勃莱特说。 “那我看双人桌也就够了。” “别跟他罗嗦,”勃莱特说。“迈克大概情绪很不好,”上楼的时候她说。在楼梯上,我们和蒙托亚打了个照面。他鞠躬致意,但脸上毫无笑意。 “咖啡馆里再见,”勃莱特说。“太感谢你了,杰克。” 我们走上我们住的那一层楼。她顺着走廊径直走迸罗梅罗的房间。她没有敲门。她干脆推开房门,走进去,就随手带上了门。 我站在迈克的房门前,敲了敲门。没有回音。我拧拧门把手,门开了。房间里一团糟。所有的提包都开着,衣服扔得到处都是。床边有几个空酒瓶。迈克躺在床上,脸庞活象他死后翻制的石膏面型。他张开眼睛看着我。 “你好,杰克,”他慢条斯理地说。“我想打个——个——盹儿,好长时间了,我总想——想——睡一小——小——会儿觉。” “我给你盖上被子吧。” “不用。我不冷。 “你别走。我还没——没——睡——睡着过呢,”他又说。 “你会睡着的,迈克。别担心,老弟。” “勃莱特搞上了一个斗牛士,”迈克说。“可是她那个犹太人倒是走了。” 他转过头来看着我。 “天大的好事,对吧?”“是的。现在你快睡吧,迈克。你该睡点觉了。” “我这——这——就睡。我要——要——睡一小——小——会儿觉。” 他闭上眼睛。我走出房间,轻轻地带上门。比尔在我房间里看报。 “看见迈克啦?” “是的。” “我们吃饭去吧。” “这里有个德国侍者总管,我不愿意在楼下吃。我领迈克上楼的时候,他讨厌透了。” “他对我们也是这样。” “我们出去到大街上吃去。” 我们下楼。在楼梯上我们和一名上楼的侍女擦肩而过,她端了一个蒙着餐巾的托盘。 “那是给勃莱特吃的饭,”比尔说。 “还有那位小伙的,”我说。 门外拱廊下的露台上,德国侍者总管走过来。他那红扑扑的两颊亮光光的。他很客气。 “我给你们两位先生留了一张双人桌,”他说。 “你自己去坐吧,”比尔说。我们一直走出去,跨过马路。 我们在广场边一条小巷里一家餐厅吃饭。这餐厅里的吃客都是男的。屋里烟雾弥漫,人们都在喝酒唱歌。饭菜很好,酒也好。我们很少说话。后来我们到咖啡馆去观看狂欢活动达到沸腾的高潮。勃莱特吃完饭马上就来了。她说她曾到迈克的房间里看了一下,他睡着了。 当狂欢活动达到沸腾的高潮并转移到斗牛场的时候,我们随同人群到了那里。勃莱特坐在第一排我和比尔之间。看台和场子四周那道红色栅栏之间有一条狭窄的通道,就在我们的下面。我们背后的混凝土看台已经坐得满满的了。前边,红色栅栏外面是铺着黄澄澄的砂子、碾得平展展的场地。雨后的场地看来有点泞,但是经太阳一晒就干了,又坚实、又平整。随从和斗牛场的工役走下通道,肩上扛着装有斗牛用的斗篷和红巾的柳条篮。沾有血迹的斗篷和红巾叠得板板整整地安放在柳条篮里。随从们打开笨重的皮剑鞘,把剑鞘靠在栅栏上,露出一束裹着红布的剑柄。他们抖开一块块有紫黑血迹的红色法兰绒,套上短棍,把它张开,并且让斗牛士可以握住了挥舞。勃莱特仔细看着这一切。她被这一行玩艺的细枝末节吸引住了。 “他的每件斗篷和每块红巾上都印着他的名字,”她说。“为什么管这些红色法兰绒叫做muleta呢?” “我不知道。” “不知道这些东西到底有没有洗过。” “我看是从来不洗的。一洗可能要掉色。” “血迹会使法兰绒发硬,”比尔说。 “真奇怪,”勃莱特说。“人们竟能对血迹一点不在意。” 在下面狭窄的通道上,随从们安排着上场前的一切准备工作。所有的座位都坐满了人。看台上方,所有的包厢也满了、除了主席的包厢外,已经没有一个空座。等主席一入场,斗牛就要开始。在场子里平整的沙地对面,斗牛士们站在通牛栏的高大的门洞子里聊天,他们把胳臂裹在斗篷里,等待列队入场的信号。勃莱特拿着望远镜看他们。 “给,你想看看吗?” 我从望远镜里看出去,看到那三位斗牛士。罗梅罗居中,左边是贝尔蒙蒂,右边是马西亚尔。他们背后是他们的助手,而在短枪手的后面,我看到在后边通道和牛栏里的空地上站着长矛手。罗梅罗穿一套黑色斗牛服。他的三角帽低扣在眼睛上。我看不清他帽子下面的脸,但是看来伤痕不少。他的两眼笔直地望着前方。马西亚尔把香烟藏在手心里,小心翼翼地抽着。贝尔蒙蒂朝前望着,面孔黄得毫无血色,长长的狼下巴向外撅着。他目光茫然,视而不见。无论是他还是罗梅罗,看来和别人都毫无共同之处。他们孑然伫立。主席入场了;我们上面的大看台上传来鼓掌声,我就把望远镜递给勃莱特。一阵鼓掌。开始奏乐。勃莱特拿着望远镜看。 “给,拿去,”她说。 在望远镜里,我看见贝尔蒙蒂在跟罗梅罗说话。马西亚尔直直身子,扔掉香烟,于是这三位斗牛士双目直视着前方,昂着头,摆着一只空手入场了。他们后面跟随着整个队列,进了场向两边展开,全体正步走,每个人都一只手拿着卷起的斗篷,摆动着另一只空手。接着出场的是举着长矛,象带枪骑兵般的长矛手。最后压阵的是两行骡子和斗牛场的工役。斗牛士们一手按住头上的帽子,在主席的包厢前弯腰鞠躬,然后向我们下面的栅栏走来。佩德罗.罗梅罗脱下他那件沉甸甸的金线织锦斗篷,递给他在栅栏这一边的随从。他对随从说了几句话。这时罗梅罗就在我们下面不远的地方,我们看见他嘴唇肿起、两眼充血、脸庞青肿。随从接过斗篷,抬头看看勃莱特,便走到我们跟前,把斗篷递上来。 “把它摊开,放在你的前面,”我说。 勃莱特屈身向前。斗篷用金线绣制,沉重而挺括。随从回头看看,摇摇头,说了些什么。坐在我旁边的一个男人向勃莱特侧过身子。 “他不要你把斗篷摊开,”他说。“你把它折好,放在膝上。” 勃莱特折起沉重的斗篷。 罗梅罗没有抬头望我们。他正和贝尔蒙蒂说话。贝尔蒙蒂已经把他的礼服斗篷给他的朋友们送去了。他朝他们望去,笑笑,他笑起来也象狼,只是张张嘴,脸上没有笑意。罗梅罗趴在栅栏上要水罐。随从拿来水罐,罗梅罗往斗牛用的斗篷的细布里子上倒水,然后用穿平跟鞋的脚在沙地上蹭斗篷的下摆。 “那是干什么?”勃莱特问。 “加点儿分量;不让风吹得飘起来。” “他脸色很不好,”比尔说。 “他自我感觉也非常不好,”勃莱特说。“他应该卧床休息。” 第一头牛由贝尔蒙蒂来对付。贝尔蒙蒂技艺高超。但是因为他一场有三万比塞塔收入,加上人们排了整整一夜队来买票看他表演,所以观众要求他该表现得特别突出。贝尔蒙蒂最吸引人的地方是和牛靠得很近。在斗牛中有所谓公牛地带和斗牛士地带之说。斗牛士只要处在自己的地带里,就比较安全。每当他进入公牛地带,他就处于极大的危险之中。在贝尔蒙蒂的黄金时期,他总是在公牛地带表演。这样,他就给人一种即将发生悲剧的感觉。人们去看斗牛是为了去看贝尔蒙蒂,为了去领受悲剧性的激情,或许是为了去看贝尔蒙蒂之死。十五年前人们说,如果你想看贝尔蒙蒂,那你得在他还活着的时候趁早去。打那时候起,他已经杀死了一千多头牛。他退隐之后,传奇性的流言四起,说他的斗牛如何如何奇妙,他后来重返斗牛场,公众大失所望,因为没有一个凡人能象据说贝尔蒙蒂曾经做到的那样靠近公牛,当然啦,即使贝尔蒙蒂本人也做不到。 此外,贝尔蒙蒂提出了种种条件,坚决要求牛的个头不能太大,牛角长得不要有太大的危险性,因而,引起即将发生悲剧的感觉所必需的因素消失了,而观众呢,却要求长了瘘管的贝尔蒙蒂做到他过去所能够做到的三倍,现在不免感到上了当,于是贝尔蒙蒂的下巴由于屈辱而撅得更出,脸色变得更黄,由于疼痛加剧,行动更是艰难,最后观众干脆以行动来反对他,他呢,完全采取鄙视和冷淡的态度。他原以为今天是他的好日于,迎来的却是一下午的嘲笑和高声的辱骂,最后,坐垫、面包片和瓜菜一齐飞向当年他曾在这里取得莫大胜利的场地,落在他的身上。他只是把下巴撅得更出一点。有时候,观众的叫骂特别不堪入耳,他会拉长下巴,龇牙咧嘴地一笑,而每个动作所给他的痛苦变得愈来愈剧烈,到最后,他那发黄的脸变成了羊皮纸的颜色。等他杀死了第二头牛,面包和坐垫也扔完了,他撅出狼下巴带着惯常的笑容和鄙视的目光向主席致礼,把他的剑递到栅栏后面,让人擦干净后放回剑鞘,他这才走进通道,倚在我们座位下面的栅栏上,把脑袋俯在胳臂上,什么也不看,什么也不听,只顾忍受痛苦的折磨。最后他抬头要了点水。他咽了几口,漱漱嘴,吐掉,拿起斗篷,回进斗牛场。 观众因反对贝尔蒙蒂,所以就向着罗梅罗。他一离开看台前的栅栏向牛走去,观众就向他鼓起掌来。贝尔蒙蒂也在看他,装作不看,其实一直在看。他没有把马西亚尔放在心上。马西亚尔的底细他了如指掌。他重返斗牛场的目的是和马西亚尔一比高低,以为这是一场胜利早已在握的比赛。他期望同马西亚尔以及其它衰落时期的斗牛明星比一比,他知道只要他在斗牛场上一亮相,衰落时期的斗牛士那套虚张声势的技艺就会在他扎实的斗牛功底面前黯然失色。他这次退隐后重返斗牛场被罗梅罗破坏了。罗梅罗总是那么自如、稳健、优美。他,贝尔蒙蒂,如今只偶尔才能使自己做到这一点。观众感觉到了,甚至从比亚里茨来的人也感觉到了,最后连美国 Chapter 19 In the morning it was all over. The fiesta was finished. I woke about nine o'clock, had a bath, dressed, and went down-stairs. The square was empty and there were no people on the streets. A few children were picking up rocket-sticks in the square. The cafés 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 were sweeping the streets and sprinkling them with a hose. I sat in one of the wicker chairs and leaned back comfortably. The waiter was in no hurry to come. The white-paper announcements of the unloading of the bulls and the big schedules of special trains were still up on the pillars of the arcade. A waiter wearing a blue apron came out with a bucket of water and a cloth, and commenced to tear down the notices, pulling the paper off in strips and washing and rubbing away the paper that stuck to the stone. The fiesta was over. I drank a coffee and after a while Bill came over. I watched him come walking across the square. He sat down at the table and ordered a coffee. "Well," he said, "it's all over." "Yes," I said. "When do you go?" "I don't know. We better get a car, I think. Aren't you going back to Paris?" "No. I can stay away another week. I think I'll go to San Sebastian." "I want to get back." "What's Mike going to do?" "He's going to Saint Jean de Luz." "Let's get a car and all go as far as Bayonne. You can get the train up from there to-night." "Good. Let's go after lunch." "All right. I'll get the car." We had lunch and paid the bill. Montoya did not come near us. One of the maids brought the bill. The car was outside. The chauffeur piled and strapped the bags on top of the car and put them in beside him in the front seat and we got in. The car went out of the square, along through the side streets, out under the trees and down the hill and away from Pamplona. It did not seem like a very long ride. Mike had a bottle of Fundador. I only took a couple of drinks. We came over the mountains and out of Spain and down the white roads and through the overfoliaged, wet, green, Basque country, and finally into Bayonne. We left Bill's baggage at the station, and he bought a ticket to Paris. His train left at seven-ten. We came out of the station. The car was standing out in front. "What shall we do about the car?" Bill asked. "Oh, bother the car," Mike said. "Let's just keep the car with us." "All right," Bill said. "Where shall we go?" "Let's go to Biarritz and have a drink." "Old Mike the spender," Bill said. We drove in to Biarritz and left the car outside a very Ritz place. We went into the bar and sat on high stools and drank a whiskey and soda. "That drink's mine," Mike said. "Let's roll for it." So we rolled poker dice out of a deep leather dice-cup. Bill was out first roll. Mike lost to me and handed the bartender a hundred-franc note. The whiskeys were twelve francs apiece. We had another round and Mike lost again. Each time he gave the bartender a good tip. In a room off the bar there was a good jazz band playing. It was a pleasant bar. We had another round. I went out on the first roll with four kings. Bill and Mike rolled. Mike won the first roll with four jacks. Bill won the second. On the final roll Mike had three kings and let them stay. He handed the dice-cup to Bill. Bill rattled them and rolled, and there were three kings, an ace. and a queen. "It's yours, Mike," Bill said. "Old Mike, the gambler." "I'm so sorry," Mike said. "I can't get it." "What's the matter?" "I've no money," Mike said. "I'm stony. I've just twenty francs. Here, take twenty francs." Bill's face sort of changed. "I just had enough to pay Montoya. Damned lucky to have it, too." "I'll cash you a check," Bill said. "That's damned nice of you, but you see I can't write checks." "What are you going to do for money?" "Oh, some will come through. I've two weeks allowance should be here. I can live on tick at this pub in Saint Jean." "What do you want to do about the car?" Bill asked me. "Do you want to keep it on?" "It doesn't make any difference. Seems sort of idiotic." "Come on, let's have another drink," Mike said. "Fine. This one is on me," Bill said. "Has Brett any money?" He turned to Mike. "I shouldn't think so. She put up most of what I gave to old Montoya." "She hasn't any money with her?" I asked. "I shouldn't think so. She never has any money. She gets five hundred quid a year and pays three hundred and fifty of it in interest to Jews." "I suppose they get it at the source," said Bill. "Quite. They're not really Jews. We just call them Jews. They're Scotsmen, I believe." "Hasn't she any at all with her?" I asked. "I hardly think so. She gave it all to me when she left." "Well," Bill said, "we might as well have another drink." "Damned good idea," Mike said. "One never gets anywhere by discussing finances." "No," said Bill. Bill and I rolled for the next two rounds. Bill lost and paid. We went out to the car. "Anywhere you'd like to go, Mike?" Bill asked. "Let's take a drive. It might do my credit good. Let's drive about a little." "Fine. I'd like to see the coast. Let's drive down toward Hendaye." "I haven't any credit along the coast." "You can't ever tell," said Bill. We drove out along the coast road. There was the green of the headlands, the white, red-roofed villas, patches of forest, and the ocean very blue with the tide out and the water curling far out along the beach. We drove through Saint Jean de Luz and passed through villages farther down the coast. Back of the rolling country we were going through we saw the mountains we had come over from Pamplona. The road went on ahead. Bill looked at his watch. It was time for us to go back. He knocked on the glass and told the driver to turn around. The driver backed the car out into the grass to turn it. In back of us were the woods, below a stretch of meadow, then the sea. At the hotel where Mike was going to stay in Saint Jean we stopped the car and he got out. The chauffeur carried in his bags. Mike stood by the side of the car. "Good-bye, you chaps," Mike said. "It was a damned fine fiesta." "So long, Mike," Bill said. "I'll see you around," I said. "Don't worry about money," Mike said. "You can pay for the car, Jake, and I'll send you my share." "So long, Mike." "So long, you chaps. You've been damned nice." We all shook hands. We waved from the car to Mike. He stood in the road watching. We got to Bayonne just before the train left. A porter carried Bill's bags in from the consigne. I went as far as the inner gate to the tracks. "So long, fella," Bill said. "So long, kid!" "It was swell. I've had a swell time." "Will you be in Paris?" "No, I have to sail on the 17th. So long, fella!" "So long, old kid!" He went in through the gate to the train. The porter went ahead with the bags. I watched the train pull out. Bill was at one of the windows. The window passed, the rest of the train passed, and the tracks were empty. I went outside to the car. "How much do we owe you?" I asked the driver. The price to Bayonne had been fixed at a hundred and fifty pesetas. "Two hundred pesetas." "How much more will it be if you drive me to San Sebastian on your way back?" "Fifty pesetas." "Don't kid me." "Thirty-five pesetas." "It's not worth it," I said. "Drive me to the Hotel Panier Fleuri." At the hotel I paid the driver and gave him a tip. The car was powdered with dust. I rubbed the rod-case through the dust. It seemed the last thing that connected me with Spain and the fiesta. The driver put the car in gear and went down the street. I watched it turn off to take the road to Spain. I went into the hotel and they gave me a room. It was the same room I had slept in when Bill and Cohn and I were in Bayonne. That seemed a very long time ago. I washed, changed my shirt, and went out in the town. At a newspaper kiosque I bought a copy of the New York _Herald_ and sat in a café to read it. It felt strange to be in France again. There was a safe, suburban feeling. I wished I had gone up to Paris with Bill, except that Paris would have meant more fiesta-ing. I was through with fiestas for a while. It would be quiet in San Sebastian. The season does not open there until August. I could get a good hotel room and read and swim. There was a fine beach there. There were wonderful trees along the promenade above the beach, and there were many children sent down with their nurses before the season opened. In the evening there would be band concerts under the trees across from the Café Marinas. I could sit in the Marinas and listen. "How does one eat inside?" I asked the waiter. Inside the café 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 Margaux. It was pleasant to be drinking slowly and to be tasting the wine and to be drinking alone. A bottle of wine was good company. Afterward I had coffee. The waiter recommended a Basque liqueur called Izzarra. He brought in the bottle and poured a liqueur-glass full. He said Izzarra was made of the flowers of the Pyrenees. The veritable flowers of the Pyrenees. It looked like hair-oil and smelled like Italian _strega_. I told him to take the flowers of the Pyrenees away and bring me a _vieux marc_. The _marc_ was good. I had a second _marc_ after the coffee. The waiter seemed a little offended about the flowers of the Pyrenees, so I overtipped him. That made him happy. It 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 you you have only to spend a little money. I spent a little money and the waiter liked me. He appreciated my valuable qualities. He would be glad to see me back. I would dine there again some time and he would be glad to see me, and would want me at his table. It would be a sincere liking because it would have a sound basis. I was back in France. Next morning I tipped every one a little too much at the hotel to make more friends, and left on the morning train for San Sebastian. At the station I did not tip the porter more than I should because I did not think I would ever see him again. I only wanted a few good French friends in Bayonne to make me welcome in case I should come back there again. I knew that if they remembered me their friendship would be loyal. At Irun we had to change trains and show passports. I hated to leave France. Life was so simple in France. I felt I was a fool to be going back into Spain. In Spain you could not tell about anything. I felt like a fool to be going back into it, but I stood in line with my passport, opened my bags for the customs, bought a ticket, went through a gate, climbed onto the train, and after forty minutes and eight tunnels I was at San Sebastian. Even on a hot day San Sebastian has a certain early-morning quality. The trees seem as though their leaves were never quite dry. The streets feel as though they had just been sprinkled. It is always cool and shady on certain streets on the hottest day. I went to a hotel in the town where I had stopped before, and they gave me a room with a balcony that opened out above the roofs of the town. There was a green mountainside beyond the roofs. I unpacked my bags and stacked my books on the table beside the head of the bed, put out my shaving things, hung up some clothes in the big armoire, and made up a bundle for the laundry. Then I took a shower in the bathroom and went down to lunch. Spain had not changed to summer-time, so I was early. I set my watch again. I had recovered an hour by coming to San Sebastian. As I went into the dining-room the concierge brought me a police bulletin to fill out. I signed it and asked him for two telegraph forms, and wrote a message to the Hotel Montoya, telling them to forward all mail and telegrams for me to this address. I calculated how many days I would be in San Sebastian and then wrote out a wire to the office asking them to hold mail, but forward all wires for me to San Sebastian for six days. Then I went in and had lunch. After lunch I went up to my room, read a while, and went to sleep. When I woke it was half past four. I found my swimming-suit, wrapped it with a comb in a towel, and went down-stairs and walked up the street to the Concha. The tide was about half-way out. The beach was smooth and firm, and the sand yellow. I went into a bathing-cabin, undressed, put on my suit, and walked across the smooth sand to the sea. The sand was warm under bare feet. There were quite a few people in the water and on the beach. Out beyond where the headlands of the Concha almost met to form the harbor there was a white line of breakers and the open sea. Although the tide was going out, there were a few slow rollers. They came in like undulations in the water gathered weight of water, and then broke smoothly on the warm sand. I waded out. The water was cold. As a roller came I dove, swam out under water, and came to the surface with all the chill gone. I swam out to the raft, pulled myself up, and lay on the hot planks. A boy and girl were at the other end. The girl had undone the top strap of her bathing-suit and was browning her back. The boy lay face downward on the raft and talked to her. She laughed at things he said, and turned her brown back in the sun. I lay on the raft in the sun until I was dry. Then I tried several dives. I dove deep once, swimming down to the bottom. I swam with my eyes open and it was green and dark. The raft made a dark shadow. I came out of 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, sloshed myself with fresh water, and rubbed dry. I walked around the harbor under the trees to the casino, and then up one of the cool streets to the Café Marinas. There was an orchestra playing inside the café and I sat out on the terrace and enjoyed the fresh coolness in the hot day, and had a glass of lemonjuice and shaved ice and then a long whiskey and soda. I sat in front of the Marinas for a long time and read and watched the people, and listened to the music. Later when it began to get dark, I walked around the harbor and out along the promenade, and finally back to the hotel for supper. There was a bicycle-race on, the Tour du Pays Basque, and the riders were stopping that night in San Sebastian. In the dining-room, at one side, there was a long table of bicycle-riders, eating with their trainers and managers. They were all French and Belgians, and paid close attention to their meal, but they were having a good time. At the head of the table were two good-looking French girls, with much Rue du Faubourg Montmartre chic. I could not make out whom they belonged to. They all spoke in slang at the long table and there were many private jokes and some jokes at the far end that were not repeated when the girls asked to hear them. The next morning at five o'clock the race resumed with the last lap, San Sebastian-Bilbao. The bicycle-riders drank much wine, and were burned and browned by the sun. They did not take the race seriously except among themselves. They had raced among themselves so often that it did not make much difference who won. Especially in a foreign country. The money could be arranged. The man who had a matter of two minutes lead in the race had an attack of boils, which were very painful. He sat on the small of his back. His neck was very red and the blond hairs were sunburned. The other riders joked him about his boils. He tapped on the table with his fork. "Listen," he said, "to-morrow my nose is so tight on the handlebars that the only thing touches those boils is a lovely breeze." One of the girls looked at him down the table, and he grinned and turned red. The Spaniards, they said, did not know how to pedal. I had coffee out on the terrasse with the team manager of one of the big bicycle manufacturers. He said it had been a very pleasant race, and would have been worth watching if Bottechia had not abandoned it at Pamplona. The dust had been bad, but in Spain the roads were better than in France. Bicycle road-racing was the only sport in the world, he said. Had I ever followed the Tour de France? Only in the papers. The Tour de France was the greatest sporting event in the world. Following and organizing the road races had made him know France. Few people know France. All spring and all summer and all fall he spent on the road with bicycle road-racers. Look at the number of motor-cars now that followed the riders from town to town in a road race. It was a rich country and more _sportif_ every year. It would be the most _sportif_ country in the world. It was bicycle road-racing did it. That and football. He knew France. _La France Sportive_. He knew road-racing. We had a cognac. After all, though, it wasn't bad to get back to Paris. There is only one Paname. In all the world, that is. Paris is the town the most _sportif_ in the world. Did I know the _Chope de Negre?_ Did I not. I would see him there some time. I certainly would. We would drink another _fine_ together. We certainly would. They started at six o'clock less a quarter in the morning. Would I be up for the depart? I would certainly try to. Would I like him to call me? It was very interesting. I would leave a call at the desk. He would not mind calling me. I could not let him take the trouble. I would leave a call at the desk. We said good-bye until the next morning. In the morning when I awoke the bicycle-riders and their following cars had been on the road for three hours. I had coffee and the papers in bed and then dressed and took my bathing-suit down to the beach. Everything was fresh and cool and damp in the early morning. Nurses in uniform and in peasant costume walked under the trees with children. The Spanish children were beautiful. Some bootblacks sat together under a tree talking to a soldier. The soldier had only one arm. The tide was in and there was a good breeze and a surf on the beach. I undressed in one of the bath-cabins, crossed the narrow line of beach and went into the water. I swam out, trying to swim through the rollers, but having to dive sometimes. Then in the quiet water I turned and floated. Floating I saw only the sky, and felt the drop and lift of the swells. I swam back to the surf and coasted in, face down, on a big roller, then turned and swam, trying to keep in the trough and not have a wave break over me. It made me tired, swimming in the trough, and I turned and swam out to the raft. The water was buoyant and cold. It felt as though you could never sink. I swam slowly, it seemed like a long swim with the high tide, and then pulled up on the raft and sat, dripping, on the boards that were becoming hot in the sun. I looked around at the bay, the old town, the casino, the line of trees along the promenade, and the big hotels with their white porches and gold-lettered names. Off on the right, almost closing the harbor, was a green hill with a castle. The raft rocked with the motion of the water. On the other side of the narrow gap that led into the open sea was another high headland. I thought I would like to swim across the bay but I was afraid of cramp. I sat in the sun and watched the bathers on the beach. They looked very small. After a while I stood up, gripped with my toes on the edge of the raft as it tipped with my weight, and dove cleanly and deeply, to come up through the lightening water, blew the salt water out of my head, and swam slowly and steadily in to shore. After I was dressed and had paid for the bath-cabin, I walked back to the hotel. The bicycle-racers had left several copies of _L'Auto_ around, and I gathered them up in the reading-room and took them out and sat in an easy chair in the sun toread about and catch up on French sporting life. While I was sitting there the concierge came out with a blue envelope in his hand. "A telegram for you, sir." I poked my finger along under the fold that was fastened down, spread it open, and read it. It had been forwarded from Paris: COULD YOU COME HOTEL MONTANA MADRID AM RATHER IN TROUBLE BRETT. I tipped the concierge and read the message again. A postman was coming along the sidewalk. He turned into the hotel. He had a big moustache and looked very military. He came out of the hotel again. The concierge was just behind him. "Here's another telegram for you, sir." "Thank you," I said. I opened it. It was forwarded from Pamplona. COULD YOU COME HOTEL MONTANA MADRID AM RATHER IN TROUBLE BRETT. The concierge stood there waiting for another tip, probably. "What time is there a train for Madrid?" "It left at nine this morning. There is a slow train at eleven, and the Sud Express at ten to-night." "Get me a berth on the Sud Express. Do you want the money now?" "Just as you wish," he said. "I will have it put on the bill." "Do that." Well, that meant San Sebastian all shot to hell. I suppose, vaguely, I had expected something of the sort. I saw the concierge standing in the doorway. "Bring me a telegram form, please." He brought it and I took out my fountain-pen and printed: LADY ASHLEY HOTEL MONTANA MADRID ARRIVING SUD EXPRESS TOMORROW LOVE JAKE. That seemed to handle it. That was it. Send a girl off with one man. Introduce her to another to go off with him. Now go and bring her back. And sign the wire with love. That was it all right. I went in to lunch. I did not sleep much that night on the Sud Express. In the morning I had breakfast in the dining-car and watched the rock and pine country between Avila and Escorial. I saw the Escorial out of the window, gray and long and cold in the sun, and did not give a damn about it. I saw Madrid come up over the plain, a compact white skyline on the top of a little cliff away off across the sun-hardened country. The Norte station in Madrid is the end of the line. All trains finish there. They don't go on anywhere. Outside were cabs and taxis and a line of hotel runners. It was like a country town. I took a taxi and we climbed up through the gardens, by the empty palace and the unfinished church on the edge of the cliff, and on up until we were in the high, hot, modern town. The taxi coasted down a smooth street to the Puerta del Sol, and then through the traffic and out into the Carrera San Jeronimo. All the shops had their awnings down against the heat. The windows on the sunny side of the street were shuttered. The taxi stopped at the curb. I saw the sign HOTEL MONTANA on the second floor. The taxi-driver carried the bags in and left them by the elevator. I could not make the elevator work, so I walked up. On the second floor up was a cut brass sign: HOTEL MONTANA. I rang and no one came to the door. I rang again and a maid with a sullen face opened the door. "Is Lady Ashley here?" I asked. She looked at me dully. "Is an Englishwoman here?" She turned and called some one inside. A very fat woman came to the door. Her hair was gray and stiffly oiled in scallops around her face. She was short and commanding. "Muy buenos," I said. "Is there an Englishwoman here? I would like to see this English lady." "Muy buenos. Yes, there is a female English. Certainly you can see her if she wishes to see you." "She wishes to see me." "The chica will ask her." "It is very hot." "It is very hot in the summer in Madrid." "And how cold in winter." "Yes, it is very cold in winter." Did I want to stay myself in person in the Hotel Montana? Of that as yet I was undecided, but it would give me pleasure if my bags were brought up from the ground floor in order that they might not be stolen. Nothing was ever stolen in the Hotel Montana. In other fondas, yes. Not here. No. The personages of this establishment were rigidly selectioned. I was happy to hear it. Nevertheless I would welcome the upbringal of my bags. The maid came in and said that the female English wanted to see the male English now, at once. "Good," I said. "You see. It is as I said." "Clearly." I followed the maid's back down a long, dark corridor. At the end she knocked on a door. "Hello," said Brett. "Is it you, jake?" "It's me." "Come in. Come in." I opened the door. The maid closed it after me. Brett was in bed. She had just been brushing her hair and held the brush in her hand. The room was in that 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 hurt him any." "You were probably damn good for him." "He shouldn't be living with any one. I realized that right away." "No." "Oh, hell!" she said, "let's not talk about it. Let's never talk about it." "All right." "It was rather a knock his being ashamed of me. He was ashamed of me for a while, you know." "No." "Oh, yes. They ragged him about me at the café, I guess. He wanted me to grow my hair out. Me, with long hair. I'd look so like hell." "It's funny." "He said it would make me more womanly. I'd look a fright." "What happened?" "Oh, he got over that. He wasn't ashamed of me long." "What was it about being in trouble?" "I didn't know whether I could make him go, and I didn't have a sou to go away and leave him. He tried to give me a lot of money, you know. I told him I had scads of it. He knew that was a lie. I couldn't take his money, you know." "No." "Oh, let's not talk about it. There were some funny things, though. Do give me a cigarette." I lit the cigarette. "He learned his English as a waiter in Gib." "Yes." "He wanted to marry me, finally." "Really?" "Of course. I can't even marry Mike." "Maybe he thought that would make him Lord Ashley." "No. It wasn't that. He really wanted to marry me. So I couldn't go away from him, he said. He wanted to make it sure I could never go away from him. After I'd gotten more womanly, of course." "You ought to feel set up." "I do. I'm all right again. He's wiped out that damned Cohn." "Good." "You know I'd have lived with him if I hadn't seen it was bad for him. We got along damned well." "Outside of your personal appearance." "Oh, he'd have gotten used to that." She put out the cigarette. "I'm thirty-four, you know. I'm not going to be one of these bitches that ruins children." "No." "I'm not going to be that way. I feel rather good, you know. I feel rather set up." "Good." She looked away. I thought she was looking for another cigarette. Then I saw she was crying. I could feel her crying. Shaking and crying. She wouldn't look up. I put my arms around her. "Don't let's ever talk about it. Please don't let's ever talk about it." "Dear Brett." "I'm going back to Mike." I could feel her crying as I held her close. "He's so damned nice and he's so awful. He's my sort of thing." She would not look up. I stroked her hair. I could feel her shaking. "I won't be one of those bitches," she said. "But, oh, Jake, please let's 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 Sud Express for the night, and went into the bar of the hotel for a cocktail. We sat on high stools at the bar while the barman shook the Martinis in a large nickelled shaker. "It's funny what a wonderful gentility you get in the bar of a big hotel," I said. "Barmen and jockeys are the only people who are polite any more." "No matter how vulgar a hotel is, the bar is always nice." "It's odd." "Bartenders have always been fine." "You know," Brett said, "it's quite true. He is only nineteen. Isn't it amazing?" We touched the two glasses as they stood side by side on the bar. They were coldly beaded. Outside the curtained window was the summer heat of Madrid. "I like an olive in a Martini," I said to the barman. "Right you are, sir. There you are." "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 sipped from the Martini as it stood, on the wood. Then she picked it up. Her hand was steady enough to lift it after that first sip. "It's good. Isn't it a nice bar?" "They're all nice bars." "You know I didn't believe it at first. He was born in 1905. I was in school in Paris, then. Think of that." "Anything you want me to think about it?" "Don't be an ass. _Would_ you buy a lady a drink?" "We'll have two more Martinis." "As they were before, sir?" "They were very good." Brett smiled at him. "Thank you, ma'am." "Well, bung-o," Brett said. "Bung-o!" "You know," Brett said, "he'd only been with two women before. He never cared about anything but bull-fighting." "He's got plenty of time." "I don't know. He thinks it was me. Not the show in general." "Well, it was you." "Yes. It was me." "I thought you weren't going to ever talk about it." "How can I help it?" "You'll lose it if you talk about it." "I just talk around it. You know I feel rather damned good, Jake." "You should." "You know it makes one feel rather good deciding not to be a bitch." "Yes." "It's sort of what we have instead of God." "Some people have God," I said. "Quite a lot." "He never worked very well with me." "Should we have another Martini?" The barman shook up two more Martinis and poured them out into fresh glasses. "Where will we have lunch?" I asked Brett. The bar was cool. You could feel the heat outside through the window. "Here?" asked Brett. "It's rotten here in the hotel. Do you know a place called Botin's?" I asked the barman. "Yes, sir. Would you like to have me write out the address?" "Thank you." We lunched up-stairs at Botin's. It is one of the best restaurants in the world. We had roast young suckling pig and drank _rioja alta_. Brett did not eat much. She never ate much. I ate a very big meal and drank three bottles of _rioja alta_. "How do you feel, Jake?" Brett asked. "My God! what a meal you've eaten." "I feel fine. Do you want a dessert?" "Lord, no." Brett was smoking. "You like to eat, don't you?" she said. "Yes," I said. "I like to do a lot of things." "What do you like to do?" "Oh," I said, "I like to do a lot of things. Don't you want a dessert?" "You asked me that once," Brett said. "Yes," I said. "So I did. Let's have another bottle of _rioja alta_." "It's very good." "You haven't drunk much of it," I said. "I have. You haven't seen." "Let's get two bottles," I said. The bottles came. I poured a little in my glass, then a glass for Brett, then filled my glass. We touched glasses. "Bung-o!" Brett said. I drank my glass and poured out another. Brett put her hand on my arm. "Don't get drunk, Jake," she said. "You don't have to." "How do you know?" "Don't," she said. "You'll be all right." "I'm not getting drunk," I said. "I'm just drinking a little wine. I like to drink wine." "Don't get drunk," she said. "Jake, don't get drunk." "Want to go for a ride?" I said. "Want to ride through the town?" "Right," Brett said. "I haven't seen Madrid. I should see Madrid." "I'll finish this," I said. Down-stairs we came out through the first-floor dining-room to the street. A waiter went for a taxi. It was hot and bright. Up the street was a little square with trees and grass where there were taxis parked. A taxi came up the street, the waiter hanging out at the side. I tipped him and told the driver where to drive, and got in beside Brett. The driver started up the street. I settled back. Brett moved close to me. We sat close against each other. I put my arm around her and she rested against me comfortably. It was very hot and bright, and the houses looked sharply white. We turned out onto the Gran Via. "Oh, Jake," Brett said, "we could have had such a damned good time together." Ahead was a mounted policeman in khaki directing traffic. He raised his baton. The car slowed suddenly pressing Brett against me. "Yes," I said. "Isn't it pretty to think so?" 早晨,一切都过去了。节日活动已经结束。九点左右我醒过来,洗了澡,穿上衣服,走下楼去。广场空荡荡的,街头没有一个行人。有几个孩子在广场上捡焰火杆。咖啡馆刚开门,侍者正在把舒适的白柳条椅搬到拱廊下阴凉的地方,在大理石面的桌子周围摆好。各条街道都在清扫,用水龙带喷洒。 我坐在一张柳条椅里,舒舒服服地背向后靠着。侍者不忙着走过来。把牛群放出笼的白地告示和大张的加班火车时刻表依然贴在拱廊的柱子上。一名扎蓝色围裙的侍者拎着一桶水,拿着一块抹布走出来,动手撕告示,把纸一条条地扯下来,擦洗掉粘在石柱上的残纸。节期结束了。 我喝了一杯咖啡,一会儿比尔来了。我看他穿过广场走过来。他在桌子边坐下,叫了一杯咖啡。 “好了,”他说,“都结束了。” “是啊,”我说。“你什么时候走?” “不知道。我想,我们最好弄一辆汽车。你不打算回巴黎?” “是的,我还可以待一星期再回去。我想到圣塞瓦斯蒂安去。” “我想回去。” “迈克打算干什么?” “他要去圣让德吕兹。” “我们雇辆车一起开到巴荣纳再分手吧。今儿晚上你可以从那儿上火车。” “好。吃完饭就走。” “行。我去雇车。” 我们吃完饭,结了帐。蒙托亚没有到我们这边来。帐单是一名侍女送来的。汽车候在外面。司机把旅行包堆在车顶上,用皮带束好,把其余的放在车子前座他自己的身边,然后我们上车。车子开出广场,穿过小巷,钻出树林,下了山坡,离开了潘普洛纳。路程似乎不很长。迈克带了一瓶芬达多酒。我只喝了两三口。我们翻过几道山梁,出了西班牙国境,驶在白色的大道上,穿过浓荫如盖、湿润、葱郁的巴斯克地区,终于开进了巴荣纳。我们把比尔的行李寄放在车站,他买好去巴黎的车票。他乘的这次列车当晚七点十分开。我们走出车站。车子停在车站正门外。 “我们拿这车子怎么办?”比尔问。 “哦,这车子真是个累赘,”迈克说。“那我们就坐它走吧。” “行,”比尔说。“我们上哪儿?” “到比亚里茨去喝一杯吧。” “挥金如土的好迈克,”比尔说。 我们开进比亚里茨,在一家非常豪华的饭店门口下车。我们走进酒吧间,坐在高凳上喝威士忌苏打。 “这次我做东,”迈克说。 “还是掷骰子来决定吧。”于是我们用一个很高的皮制骰子筒来掷扑克骰子,第一轮比尔赢了。迈克输给了我,就递给酒吧侍者一张一百法郎的钞票。威士忌每杯十二法郎。我们又各要了一杯酒,迈克又输了。每次他都给侍者优厚的小费。酒吧间隔壁的一个房间里有一支很好的爵士乐队在演奏。这是个叫人愉快的酒吧间。我们又各要了一杯酒。第一局我以四个老K取胜。比尔和迈克对掷。迈克以四个J赢得第一局。比尔赢了第二局。最后决定胜负的一局里,迈克掷出三个老K就算数了。他把骰子筒递给比尔。比尔卡嚓卡嚓摇着,掷出三个老K,一个A和一个0。 “你付帐,迈克,”比尔说。“迈克,你这个赌棍。” “真抱歉,”迈克说。“我不行了。” “怎么回事?” “我没钱了,”迈克说。“我身无分文了。我只有二十法郎。给你,把这二十法郎拿去。” 比尔的脸色有点变了。 “我的钱刚好只够付给了蒙托亚。还算运气好,当时身上有这笔钱。” “写张支票,我兑给你现钱,”比尔说。 “非常感谢,可你知道,我不能开支票了。” “那你上哪儿去弄钱啊?” “呃,有一小笔款就要到了。我有两星期的生活费该汇来。到圣让德吕兹去住的那家旅店,我可以赊帐。” “你说,这车子怎么办呢?”比尔问我。“还继续使吗?” “怎么都可以。看来似乎有点傻了。” “来吧,我们再喝它一杯,”迈克说。 “好。这次算我的,”比尔说。“勃莱特身边有钱吗?”他对迈克说。 “我想她不一定有。我付给蒙托亚的钱几乎都是她拿出来的。” “她手头竟一个子儿也没有?”我问。 “我想是这样吧。她一向没有钱。她每年能拿到五百镑,给犹太人的利息就得付三百五。” “我看他们是直接扣除的吧,”比尔说。 “不错。实际上他们不是犹太人。我们只是这么称呼他们。我知道他们是苏格兰人。” “她手头果真是一点钱也没有?”我问。 “我想可以说没有。她走的时候统统都给我了。” “得了,”比尔说,“我们不如再喝一杯吧。” “这个主意太好了,”迈克说。“空谈钱财解决不了任何问题。” “说得对,”比尔说。我们接着要了两次酒,比尔和我掷骰子看该谁付。比尔输了,付了钱。我们出来向车子走去。 “你想上哪儿,迈克?”比尔问。 “我们去兜一下。兴许能提高我的信誉。在这一带兜一下吧。” “很好。我想到海边去看看。我们一直朝昂代开去吧。” “在海岸一带我没什么赊帐的信誉可言。” “你不一定说得准的,”比尔说。 我们顺着滨海公路开去。绿茸茸的地头空地,白墙红瓦的别墅,丛丛密林,落潮的海水蔚蓝蔚蓝的,海水依偎在远处海滩边上。我们驶过圣让德吕兹,一直朝南穿过一座座海边的村庄。我们路过起伏不平的地区,望见它后面就是从潘普洛纳来时越过的群山。大道继续向前伸延。比尔看看表。我们该往回走了。他敲了下车窗,吩咐司机向后转。司机把车退到路边的草地上,调过车头。我们后面是树林,下面是一片草地,再过去就是大海了。 在圣让德吕兹,我们把车停在迈克准备下榻的旅店门前,他下了车。司机把他的手提包送进去。迈克站在车子边。 “再见啦,朋友们,”迈克说。“这次节日过得太好了。” “再见,迈克,,比尔说。 “我们很快就能见面的,”我说。 “别惦着钱,”迈克说。“你把车钱付了,杰克,我那份我会给你寄去的。” “再见,迈克。” “再见,朋友们。你们真够朋友。” 我们一一同他握手。我们在车子里向迈克挥手。他站在大道上注视我们上路。我们赶到巴荣纳,火车就要开了。一名脚夫从寄存处拿来比尔的旅行包。我一直送他到通铁轨的矮门前。 “再见啦,伙伴,”比尔说。 “再见,老弟!” “真痛快。我玩得真痛快。” “你要在巴黎待着?” “不。十六号我就得上船。再见,伙伴!” “再见,老弟!” 他进门朝火车走去。脚夫拿着旅行包在前面走。我看着火车开出站去。比尔在一个车窗口。窗子闪过去了,整列火车开走了,铁轨上空了。我出来向汽车走去。 “我们该付给你多少钱?”我问司机,从西班牙到巴荣纳的车钱当初说好是一百五十比塞塔。 “两百比塞塔。” “你回去的路上捎我到圣塞瓦斯蒂安要加多少钱?” “五十比塞塔。” “别敲我竹杠。” “三十五比塞塔。” “太贵了,”我说。“送我到帕尼厄.弗洛里旅馆吧。” 到了旅馆,我付给司机车钱和一笔小费。车身上布满了尘土。我擦掉钓竿袋上的尘土。这尘土看来是联结我和西班牙及其节日活动的最后一样东西了。司机启动车子沿大街开去。我看车子拐弯,驶上通向西班牙的大道。我走进旅馆,开了一个房间。我和比尔、科恩在巴荣纳的时候,我就是睡在这个房间里的。这似乎是很久以前的事了。我梳洗一番,换了一件衬衣,就出去逛大街了。 我在书报亭买了一份纽约的《先驱报》,坐在一家咖啡馆里看起来。重返法国使人感到很生疏。这里有一种处身在郊区的安全感。但愿我和比尔一起回巴黎去就好啦,可惜巴黎意味着更多的寻欢作乐。暂时我对取乐已经厌倦。圣塞瓦斯蒂安很清静。旅游季节要到八月份才开始。我可以在旅馆租一个好房间,看看书、游游泳。那边有一处海滩胜地。沿着海滩上面的海滨大道长有许多出色的树木,在旅游季节开始之前,有许多孩子随同保姆来过夏。晚上,马里纳斯咖啡馆对面的树林里经常有乐队举行音乐会。我可以坐在咖啡馆里听音乐。 “里面饭菜怎么样?”我问待者。在咖啡馆后面是一个餐厅。“很好。非常好。饭菜非常好。” “好吧。” 我进去用餐。就法国来说,这顿饭菜是很丰盛的,但是吃过西班牙的以后,就显得菜肴的搭配非常精致。我喝了一瓶葡萄酒解闷儿。那是瓶马尔戈庄园牌的好酒。悠悠独酌,细细品味,其乐无穷。可算是瓶酒赛好友。喝完酒我要了咖啡。侍者给我推荐一种巴斯克利久酒,名叫伊扎拉。他拿来一瓶,斟了满满一杯。他说伊扎拉酒是由比利牛斯山上的鲜花酿成。是真正的比利牛斯山上的鲜花。这种酒看来象生发油,闻起来象意大利的斯特雷加甜酒。我吩咐他把比利牛斯山的鲜花拿走,给我来杯陈年白兰地。这酒很好。喝完咖啡我又喝了一杯。 比利牛斯山的鲜花这回事看来是有点把这侍者得罪了,所以我多赏了他一点小费。这使他很高兴。处在一个用这么简单的办法就能取悦于人的国度里,倒是怪惬意的。在西班牙,你事先无法猜测一个侍者是否会感谢你。在法国,一切都建筑在这种赤裸裸的金钱基础上。在这样的国家里生活是最简单不过的了。谁也不会为了某种暧昧的原因而跟你交朋友,从而使关系弄得很复杂。你要讨人喜欢,只要略微破费点就行。我花了一点点钱,这侍者就喜欢我了。他赏识我这种可贵的品德。他会欢迎我再来。有朝一日我要再到那里用餐,他会欢迎我,要我坐到归他侍候的桌子边去。这种喜欢是真诚的,因为有坚实的基础。我确实回到法国了。 第二天早晨,为了交更多的朋友,我给旅馆每个侍者都多给了一点小费,然后搭上午的火车上圣塞瓦斯蒂安。在车站,我给脚夫的小费没有超过该给的数目,因为我不指望以后还会再见到他。我只希望在巴荣纳有几个法国好朋友,等我再去的时候能受到欢迎就够了。我知道,只要他们记得我,他们的友谊会是忠诚的。 我得在伊伦换车,并出示护照。我不愿意离开法国。在法国生活是多么简单。我觉得再到西班牙去太蠢。在西班牙什么事情都捉摸不透。我觉得傻瓜才再到西班牙去,但是我还是拿着我的护照排队,为海关人员打开我的手提包,买了一张票,通过一道门,爬上火车,过了四十分钟和穿过八条隧道之后,我来到圣塞瓦斯蒂安。 即使在大热天,圣塞瓦斯蒂安也有某种清晨的特点。树上的绿叶似乎永远露水未干。街道如同刚洒过水一样。在最热的日子里,有几条街道也总是很阴凉。我找到城里过去住过的一家旅馆,他们给了我一间带阳台的房间,阳台高过城里的屋顶。远处是绿色的山坡。 我打开手提包,把我的书堆在靠床头的桌子上,拿出我的剃须用具,把几件衣服挂在大衣柜里,收拾出一包待洗的衣服。然后在浴室里洗了淋浴,下楼用餐。西班牙还没有改用夏令时间,因此我来早了。我把表拨回了一小时。来到圣塞瓦斯蒂安,我找回了一个钟头。 我走进餐厅的时候,看门人拿来一张警察局发的表格要我填。我签上名,问他要了两张电报纸,写了一份打给蒙托亚旅馆的电文,嘱咐他们把我的所有邮件和电报转到现在的住处。我算好将在圣塞瓦斯蒂安待多少天,然后给编辑部发了份电报,叫他们给我保存好邮件,但是六天之内的电报都要给我转到圣塞瓦斯蒂安来。然后我走进餐厅用餐。 饭后,我上楼到自己的房间里,看了一会书就睡觉了。等我醒来,已经四点半了。我找出我的游泳衣,连一把梳子一起裹在一条毛巾里,下楼上街走到康查湾。潮水差不多退掉了一半。海滩平坦而坚实,沙粒黄澄澄的。我走进浴场更衣室,脱去衣服,穿上游泳衣,走过平坦的沙滩到了海边。光脚踩在沙滩上,感到热呼呼的。海水里和海滩上的人不少。康查湾两边的海岬几乎相联,形成一个港湾,海岬外是一排白花花的浪头和开阔的海面。虽然正是退潮时刻,但还是出现一些姗姗而来的巨浪。它们来时好象海面上的滚滚细浪,然后势头越来越大,掀起浪头,最后平稳地冲刷在温暖的沙滩上。我涉水出海。海水很凉。当一个浪头打过来的时候,我潜入水中,从水底泅出,浮在海面,这时寒气全消了。我向木排游去,撑起身子爬上去,躺在滚烫的木板上。另一头有一对男女青年。姑娘解开了游泳衣的背带晒她的脊背。小伙子脸朝下躺在木排上和她说话。她听着,格格地笑了,冲着太阳转过她那晒黑了的脊背。我在阳光下躺在木排上,一直到全身都干了。然后我跳了几次水。有一次我深深地潜入水中,向海底游去。我张着眼睛游,周围是绿莹莹、黑黝黝的一片。木排投下一个黑影。我在木排旁边钻出水面,上了木排,憋足气,又跳入水中,潜泳了一程,然后向岸边游去。我躺在海滩上,直到全身干了,才起来走进浴场更衣室,脱下游泳衣,用淡水冲身,擦干。 我在树荫里顺着港湾走到俱乐部,然后拐上一条阴凉的街道向马里纳斯咖啡馆走去。咖啡馆内有一支乐队在演奏,夭很热,我坐在外面露台上乘凉,喝了一杯加刨冰的柠檬汁和一大杯威士忌苏打。我在“马里纳斯”门前久久地坐着,看看报,看看行人,并听音乐。 后来天开始暗下来了,我在港湾边漫步,顺着海滨大道,最后走回旅馆吃晚饭。“环绕巴斯克地区”自行车比赛正在进行,参加赛车的人在圣塞瓦斯蒂安过夜。他们在餐厅的一边同教练和经纪人等一起坐在长桌边吃饭。他们都是法国人和比利时人,正全神贯注地在吃饭,但是他们情绪很好,过得很愉快。长桌上端坐着两位美貌的法国少女,富有巴黎蒙马特郊区街特有的风韵。我弄不清她们是谁带来的。他们那桌人都用俚语交谈,许多笑话只有他们自己听得懂,在长桌另一头坐着的人说了些笑话,等两位姑娘问他们说什么,他们却不吱声了。车赛将于第二天清晨五点钟继续举行,从圣塞瓦斯蒂安到毕尔巴鄂跑最后一段路程。这些骑自行车的人喝了大量的葡萄酒,皮肤让太阳晒得黑黝黝的。他们只有在彼此之间才认真对待这比赛。他们之间经常举行比赛,所以对谁取得优胜也不怎么在意了。特别是在外国。钱可以商量着分。 领先两分钟的那个人长了热疖,痛得厉害。他踮着屁股坐在椅子上。他的脖子通红,金黄色的头发晒枯了。其他骑车人拿他长的热疖开玩笑。他用叉子笃笃地敲敲桌子。 “听着,”他说,“明天我把鼻子紧贴在车把上,这样只有宜人的微风才能碰到我的热疖。” 一位姑娘从桌子那一头看看他,他咧嘴笑笑,脸都涨红了。他们说,西班牙人不懂得怎样蹬车。 我在外面露台上同一家大自行车工厂的赛车经纪人喝咖啡。他说这次比赛进行得很惬意,要不是博泰奇阿到了潘普洛纳就弃权的活,该是值得一看的。灰尘太碍事,但是西班牙的公路比法国的好。他说世上只有长途自行车比赛才算得上是体育运动。我曾经跟随着看过“周游法国”自行车比赛吗?只在报纸上读到过。“周游法国”是世界上最大的一项体育比赛。跟随并组织长途车赛使他了解法国。很少有人了解法国。他同长途赛车的骑手们在途中度过了