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Overview
It was the Sunday after Easter, and the last bull-fight of the
season in Mexico City. Four special bulls had been brought over
from Spain for the occasion, since Spanish bulls are more fiery
than Mexican. Perhaps it is the altitude, perhaps just the spirit
of the western Continent which is to blame for the lack of 'pep',
as Owen put it, in the native animal.
Although Owen, who was a great socialist, disapproved of bull-
fights, 'We have never seen one. We shall have to go,' he said.
'Oh yes, I think we must see it,' said Kate.
'And it's our last chance,' said Owen.
Away he rushed to the place where they sold tickets, to book seats,
and Kate went with him. As she came into the street, her heart
sank. It was as if some little person inside her were sulking and
resisting. Neither she nor Owen spoke much Spanish, there was a
fluster at the ticket place, and an unpleasant individual came
forward to talk American for them.
It was obvious they ought to buy tickets for the 'Shade.' But they
wanted to economize, and Owen said he preferred to sit among the
crowd, therefore, against the resistance of the ticket man and the
onlookers, they bought reserved seats in the 'Sun.'
The show was on Sunday afternoon. All the tram-cars and the
frightful little Ford omnibuses called camions were labelled
Torero, and were surging away towards Chapultepec. Kate felt that
sudden dark feeling, that she didn't want to go.
'I'm not very keen on going,' she said to Owen.
'Oh, but why not? I don't believe in them on principle, but we've
never seen one, so we shall HAVE to go.'
Owen was an American, Kate was Irish. 'Never having seen one'
meant 'having to go.' But it was American logic rather than Irish,
and Kate only let herself be overcome.
Villiers of course was keen. But then he too was American, and he
too had never seen one, and being younger, more than anybody he HAD
to go.
They got into a Ford taxi and went. The busted car careered away
down the wide dismal street of asphalt and stone and Sunday
dreariness. Stone buildings in Mexico have a peculiar hard, dry
dreariness.
The taxi drew up in a side street under the big iron scaffolding of
the stadium. In the gutters, rather lousy men were selling pulque
and sweets, cakes, fruit, and greasy food. Crazy motorcars rushed
up and hobbled away. Little soldiers in washed-out cotton
uniforms, pinky drab, hung around an entrance. Above all loomed
the network iron frame of the huge, ugly stadium.
Kate felt she was going to prison. But Owen excitedly surged to
the entrance that corresponded to his ticket. In the depths of
him, he too didn't want to go. But he was a born American, and if
anything was on show, he had to see it. That was 'Life.'
The man who took the tickets at the entrance, suddenly, as they
were passing in, stood in front of Owen, put both his hands on
Owen's chest, and pawed down the front of Owen's body. Owen
started, bridled, transfixed for a moment. The fellow stood aside.
Kate remained petrified.
Then Owen jerked into a smiling composure as the man waved them on.
'Feeling for fire-arms!' he said, rolling his eyes with pleased
excitement at Kate.
But she had not got over the shock of horror, fearing the fellow
might paw her.
They emerged out of a tunnel in the hollow of the concrete-and-iron
amphitheatre. A real gutter-lout came to look at their counterslips,
to see which seats they had booked. He jerked his head downwards,
and slouched off. Now Kate knew she was in a trap--a big concrete
beetle trap.
They dropped down the concrete steps till they were only three
tiers from the bottom. That was their row. They were to sit on
the concrete, with a loop of thick iron between each numbered seat.
This was a reserved place in the 'Sun.'
Kate sat gingerly between her two iron loops, and looked vaguely
around.
'I think it's thrilling!' she said.
Like most modern people, she had a will-to-happiness.
'Isn't it thrilling?' cried Owen, whose will-to-happiness was
almost a mania. 'Don't you think so, Bud?'
'Why, yes, I think it may be,' said Villiers, non-committal.
But then Villiers was young, he was only over twenty, while Owen
was over forty. The younger generation calculates its 'happiness'
in a more business-like fashion. Villiers was out after a thrill,
but he wasn't going to say he'd got one till he'd got it. Kate and
Owen--Kate was also nearly forty--must enthuse a thrill, out of a
sort of politeness to the great Show-man, Providence.
season in Mexico City. Four special bulls had been brought over
from Spain for the occasion, since Spanish bulls are more fiery
than Mexican. Perhaps it is the altitude, perhaps just the spirit
of the western Continent which is to blame for the lack of 'pep',
as Owen put it, in the native animal.
Although Owen, who was a great socialist, disapproved of bull-
fights, 'We have never seen one. We shall have to go,' he said.
'Oh yes, I think we must see it,' said Kate.
'And it's our last chance,' said Owen.
Away he rushed to the place where they sold tickets, to book seats,
and Kate went with him. As she came into the street, her heart
sank. It was as if some little person inside her were sulking and
resisting. Neither she nor Owen spoke much Spanish, there was a
fluster at the ticket place, and an unpleasant individual came
forward to talk American for them.
It was obvious they ought to buy tickets for the 'Shade.' But they
wanted to economize, and Owen said he preferred to sit among the
crowd, therefore, against the resistance of the ticket man and the
onlookers, they bought reserved seats in the 'Sun.'
The show was on Sunday afternoon. All the tram-cars and the
frightful little Ford omnibuses called camions were labelled
Torero, and were surging away towards Chapultepec. Kate felt that
sudden dark feeling, that she didn't want to go.
'I'm not very keen on going,' she said to Owen.
'Oh, but why not? I don't believe in them on principle, but we've
never seen one, so we shall HAVE to go.'
Owen was an American, Kate was Irish. 'Never having seen one'
meant 'having to go.' But it was American logic rather than Irish,
and Kate only let herself be overcome.
Villiers of course was keen. But then he too was American, and he
too had never seen one, and being younger, more than anybody he HAD
to go.
They got into a Ford taxi and went. The busted car careered away
down the wide dismal street of asphalt and stone and Sunday
dreariness. Stone buildings in Mexico have a peculiar hard, dry
dreariness.
The taxi drew up in a side street under the big iron scaffolding of
the stadium. In the gutters, rather lousy men were selling pulque
and sweets, cakes, fruit, and greasy food. Crazy motorcars rushed
up and hobbled away. Little soldiers in washed-out cotton
uniforms, pinky drab, hung around an entrance. Above all loomed
the network iron frame of the huge, ugly stadium.
Kate felt she was going to prison. But Owen excitedly surged to
the entrance that corresponded to his ticket. In the depths of
him, he too didn't want to go. But he was a born American, and if
anything was on show, he had to see it. That was 'Life.'
The man who took the tickets at the entrance, suddenly, as they
were passing in, stood in front of Owen, put both his hands on
Owen's chest, and pawed down the front of Owen's body. Owen
started, bridled, transfixed for a moment. The fellow stood aside.
Kate remained petrified.
Then Owen jerked into a smiling composure as the man waved them on.
'Feeling for fire-arms!' he said, rolling his eyes with pleased
excitement at Kate.
But she had not got over the shock of horror, fearing the fellow
might paw her.
They emerged out of a tunnel in the hollow of the concrete-and-iron
amphitheatre. A real gutter-lout came to look at their counterslips,
to see which seats they had booked. He jerked his head downwards,
and slouched off. Now Kate knew she was in a trap--a big concrete
beetle trap.
They dropped down the concrete steps till they were only three
tiers from the bottom. That was their row. They were to sit on
the concrete, with a loop of thick iron between each numbered seat.
This was a reserved place in the 'Sun.'
Kate sat gingerly between her two iron loops, and looked vaguely
around.
'I think it's thrilling!' she said.
Like most modern people, she had a will-to-happiness.
'Isn't it thrilling?' cried Owen, whose will-to-happiness was
almost a mania. 'Don't you think so, Bud?'
'Why, yes, I think it may be,' said Villiers, non-committal.
But then Villiers was young, he was only over twenty, while Owen
was over forty. The younger generation calculates its 'happiness'
in a more business-like fashion. Villiers was out after a thrill,
but he wasn't going to say he'd got one till he'd got it. Kate and
Owen--Kate was also nearly forty--must enthuse a thrill, out of a
sort of politeness to the great Show-man, Providence.
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940013693227 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing |
| Publication date: | 01/20/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 445 KB |
About the Author
D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930), English novelist, storywriter, critic, poet and painter, one of the greatest figures in 20th-century English literature. Among his works, Sons and Lovers appeared in 1913, The Rainbow in 1915, Women In Love in 1920, and many others.
Date of Birth:
September 11, 1885Date of Death:
March 2, 1930Place of Birth:
Eastwood, Nottinghamshire, EnglandPlace of Death:
Vence, FranceEducation:
Nottingham University College, teacher training certificate, 1908From the B&N Reads Blog
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