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