The Sun Also Rises - Ernest Hemingway [58]
"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.