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315 pages

English

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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.

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Publié par	Interactive Media
Date de parution	15 octobre 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781909904750
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0005€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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D. H. Lawrence
The Plumed Serpent
New Edition

LONDON ∙ NEW YORK ∙ TORONTO ∙ SAO PAULO ∙ MOSCOW
PARIS ∙ MADRID ∙ BERLIN ∙ ROME ∙ MEXICO CITY ∙ MUMBAI ∙ SEOUL ∙ DOHA
TOKYO ∙ SYDNEY ∙ CAPE TOWN ∙ AUCKLAND ∙ BEIJING
New Edition
Published by Sovereign
An imprint of Max Bollinger
27 Old Gloucester St,
London WC1N 3AX
sales@interactive.eu.com
www.interactive.eu.com
This Edition
First published in 2013
Author: D. H. Lawrence
Editor: Max Bollinger
Copyright © 2013 Sovereign
Cover design and artwork © 2013 urban-pic.co.uk
All Rights Reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
The greatest care has been taken in compiling this book. However, no responsibility can be accepted by the publishers or compilers for the accuracy of the information presented.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Library of Congress Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book has been requested.
ISBN: 9781909904750 (ebk)
Bref: SPE-03
Contents
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER I
BEGINNINGS OF A BULL-FIGHT
I t 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.
‘Look here!’ said Owen. ‘Supposing we try to protect our extremity on this concrete-’ and thoughtfully he folded his rain-coat and laid it along the concrete ledge so that both he and Kate could sit on it.
They sat and gazed around. They were early. Patches of people mottled the concrete slope opposite, like eruptions. The ring just below was vacant, neatly sanded; and above the ring, on the encircling concrete, great advertisements for hats, with a picture of a city-man’s straw hat, and advertisements for spectacles, with pairs of spectacles supinely folded, glared and shouted.
‘Where is the “Shade” then?’ said Owen, twisting his neck.
At the top of the amphitheatre, near the sky, were concrete boxes. This was the ‘Shade’, where anybody who was anything sat.
‘Oh but,’ said Kate, ‘I don’t want to be perched right up there, so far away.’
‘Why no!’ said Owen. ‘We’re much better where we are, in our “Sun”, which isn’t going to shine a great deal after all.’
The sky was cloudy, preparing for the rainy season.
It was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon, and the crowd was filling in, but still only occupied patches of the bare concrete. The lower tiers were reserved, so the bulk of the people sat in the mid-way levels, and gentry like our trio were more or less isolated.
But the audience was already a mob, mostly of fattish town men in black tight suits and little straw hats, and a mixing-in of the dark-faced labourers in big hats. The men in black suits were probably employees and clerks and factory hands. Some had brought their women, in sky-blue chiffon with brown chiffon hats and faces powdered to look like white marshmallows. Some were families with two or three children.
The fun began. The game was to snatch the hard straw hat off some fellow’s head, and send it skimming away down the slope of humanity, where some smart bounder down below would catch it and send it skimming across in another direction. There were shouts of jeering pleasure from the mass, which rose almost to a yell as seven straw hats were skimming, meteor-like, at one moment across the slope of people.
‘Look at that!’ said Owen. ‘Isn’t that fun!’
‘No,’ said Kate, her little alter ego speaking out for once, in spite of her will-to-happiness. ‘No, I don’t like it. I really hate common people.’
As a socialist, Owen disapproved, and as a happy man, he was disconcerted. Because his own real self, as far as he had any left, hated common rowdiness just as much as Kate did.
‘It’s awfully smart though!’ he said, trying to laugh in sympathy with the mob. ‘There now, see that!’
‘Yes, it’s quite smart, but I’m glad it’s not my hat,’ said Villiers.
‘Oh, it’s all in the game,’ said Owen largely.
But he was uneasy. He was wearing a big straw hat of native make, conspicuous in the comparative isolation of the lower tiers. After a lot of fidgeting, he took off this hat and put it on his knees. But unfortunately he had a very definitely bald spot on a sunburnt head.
Behind, above, sat a dense patch of people in the unreserved section. Already they were throwing things. Bum! came an orange, aimed at Owen’s bald spot, and hitting him on the shoulder. He glared round rather ineffectually through his big shell spectacles.
‘I’d keep my hat on if I were you,’ said the cold voice of Villiers.
‘Yes, I think perhaps it’s wiser,’ said Owen, with assumed nonchalance, putting on his hat again.
Whereupon a banana skin rattled on Villiers’ tidy and ladylike little panama. He glared round coldly, like a bird that would stab with its beak if it got the chance, but which would fly away at the first real menace.
‘How I detest them!