The Sun Also Rises - Ernest Hemingway [50]
"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.
Chapter XIV
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