EL TIGRE
"A cat may look at a king, but the son of a village lawyer may not
venture to bare his heart to the daughter of the Duque de la Torrevieja.
And yet a man of our blood was ennobled early in the wars with the Moors,
while the Duke's forebears were still simple men-at-arms, knighted under
a name that in itself carries the ring of the heroic deeds that earned
it."
The speaker, Mauro de la Lucha-sangre (literally "Mauro of the Bloody
Battle"), stood one June morning of 1874 beneath the shade of a gnarled
olive-tree on the banks of the Guadaira River, rebelliously stamping a
heel into the soft turf. Son of the foremost lawyer of his native town
of Utrera, educated in Sevilla at the best university of his province,
already at twenty-four himself a fully accredited _licenciado_, Mauro's
future held actually brilliant prospects for a man of the station into
which he was born. And yet, most envied of his classmates though he was,
to Mauro himself the future loomed black, forbidding, cheerless.
Mauro's father, by legacy from his father, was the attorney and
counsellor of the Duque de la Torrevieja; and so might Mauro have been
for the next Duke had there not cropped out in him the daring, the love
of adventure, the pride, and the confidence that had lifted the first
Lucha-sangre above his fellows. It was a case of breeding back--away
back over and past generations of fawning commoners to the times when
Lucha-sangre swords were splitting Moorish casques and winning guerdons.
Nor in spirit alone was Mauro bred back. He was deep of chest, broad of
shoulder, lithe and graceful. His massive neck upbore a head of Augustan
beauty, lighted by eyes that alternately blazed with the pride and
resolution of a Cid and softened with the musings of a Manrique. Mauro
was a Lucha-sangre of the twelfth century, reincarnate.
Little is it to be wondered at that, as the lad was often his father's
message-bearer to the Duke, he found favor in the eyes of the Duke's only
daughter, Sofia; and still less is it to be wondered at that he early
became her thrall. Of nights at the university he was ever dreaming of
her; up out of his text-books her lovely face was ever rising before him
in class.
Of a rare type was Sofia in Andalusia, where nearly all are dark, for she
was a true _rubia_, blue of eye, fair of skin, and with hair of the
wondrously changing tints of a cooling iron ingot.
And now here was Mauro, just back from Sevilla, almost within arms'-reach
of his divinity, and yet not free to seek her. And as the rippling
current of the Quadaira crimsoned and then reddened and darkened till it
seemed to him like a great ruddy tress of Sofia's waving hair, Mauro
sprang to his feet and fiercely whispered: "_Mil demonios!_ but she shall
at least know, and then I'll kiss the old _padre_, and his musty office
good-bye and go try my hand at some man's task!"
Opportunity came earlier than he had dared hope. The very next morning
the elder Lucha-sangre sent Mauro to the castle with some papers for the
Duke's approval and signature. Still at breakfast, the Duke received him
in the great banquet-hall of the castle, the walls covered with portraits
of Torreviejas gone before, several of the earlier generations so dim and
gray with age they looked mere spectres of the limner's art.
While the Duke was reading the papers, Mauro stood with eyes riveted to
the newest portrait of them all, that of Sofia's mother--Sofia's very
self matured--herself a native of a northern province wherein to this day
red hair and blue eyes are a frequent, almost a prevailing type, that
tell the story of early Gothic invasions. So absorbed in the picture, so
completely possessed by it was Mauro, that when the Duke turned and spoke
to him, he did not hear.
And so he stood for some moments while the Duke sat contemplating the
fine lines of his face and the splendid pose of his figure; his eyes
lightened with admiration, his head nodding approval.
Then gently touching Mauro's arm, the Duke queried: "And so you admire
the Duchess, young man?"
With a start Mauro answered, after a dazed stare at the Duke: "A thousand
pardons, Excellency! But yes, sir; who in all the world could fail to
admire her?"
"Yes, yes," replied the Duke; "God never made but one other quite her
equal, and her He made in her own very image--Sofia; _que Dios la
aguarda_!"
Mauro gravely bowed, received the papers from the Duke, and withdrew.
Turning to his secretary, the Duke sighed deeply and murmured: "_Dios
mio!_ if only I had a son of my own blood like that boy! What a pity he
should be tied down to paltry pettifoggery!"
Meantime Mauro, striding disconsolate past an angle of the narrow garden
of the inner courtyard, was detained by a soft voice issuing from the
seclusion of a bench beneath the drooping boughs of an ancient fig tree:
"_Buenos dias, Don Mauro. Bueno es verte revuelto._"
"Buenos dias, Condesa; and it is indeed good to me to be back, good to
hear thy voice--the first real happiness I have known since my ears last
welcomed its sweet tones. Good to be back! ah! Condesa Sofia, for me it
is to live again."
"But, Don Mauro--"
"A thousand pardons, Condesa, but thy duenna may join thee at any moment,
and my heart has long guarded a message for thee it can no longer hold
and stay whole,--a message thou mayest well resent for its gross
presumption, and yet a message I would here and now deliver if I knew I
must die for it the next minute.
"From childhood hast thus possessed me. Never a night for the last ten
years have I lain down without a prayer to the Virgin for thy safety and
happiness; never a day but I have so lived that my conduct shall be
worthy of thee. Though I am the son of thy father's _licenciado_, thou
well knowest the blood of a long line of proud warriors burns in my
veins. Hope that thou mightst ever even deign to listen to me I have
never ventured to cherish--"
"But Don Mauro--"
"Again a thousand pardons, Condesa, but I must tell thee thou art the
light of my soul. Without thee all the world is a valley of bitterness;
with thee its most arid desert would be an Eden. The birds are ever
chanting to me thy name. Every pool reflects thy sweet face. Every
breeze wafts me the fragrance of thy dear presence. Every thunderous
roll of the Almighty's war-drums calls me to attempt some great heroic
deed in thine honor, some deed that shall prove to thee the lawyer's son,
in heart and soul if not in present station, is not unworthy to tell to
thee his love. And--"
"But, Mauro, Mauro _m--mio_!" And with a sob she arose and actually fled
through the shrubbery.
Two days later the betrothal of the Countess Sofia to the Count Leon, the
eldest son and heir to the Duke de Oviedo, was announced by her father.
And that, indeed, was what she had tried but lacked the heart to tell
him--that, wherever her heart might lie, her father had already promised
her hand!
It was a bitter night for Mauro, that of the announcement, and a sad one
for his father. Their conference lasted till near morning. The son
pleaded he must have a life of action and hazard; his country at peace,
he would train for the bull ring.
"Why not the opera, my son?" the thrifty father replied. "Thou hast a
grand tenor voice; indeed the Bishop has asked that thou wilt lead the
choir of the Cathedral. With such a voice thou wouldst have action, see
the world, gain riches, while all the time playing the parts, fighting
the battles of some great historic character."
"But no, father," answered Mauro; "such be no more than sham fights. Not
only must I wear a sword as did the early Lucha-sangres, but I must hear
it ring and ring against that of a worthy foe, feel it steal within the
cover of his guard, see the good blade drip red in fair battle. True,
there be no Moors or French to fight, but what soldier on reddened field
ever took greater odds than a lone _espada_ takes every time he
challenges a fierce Utrera bull? And I swear to thee, _padre mio_,
whatever my calling, I shall ever be heedful of and cherish the motto
that Lucha-sangre swords have always borne: '_No me sacas sin razon; no
me metes sin honor._'" (Do not draw me without good cause; do not sheath
me without honor!)
The less strong-minded of the two, the father yielded, and even furnished
funds sufficient for a year's private tutoring by Frascuelo, then the
greatest _matador_ in all Spain.
Thus the first time Mauro ever appeared before a public assembly was a
chief espada of a cuadrilla of his own, at Valladolid. An apt pupil from
the start, bent upon reaching the highest rank, of extraordinary strength
and activity, utterly fearless but cool headed, a natural general, at the
close of his first _corrida_ he was acclaimed the certain successor of
the great Frascuelo himself, and at the same time christened _El Tigre_
(the Tiger) for the feline swiftness of his movements and the ferocity of
his attacks.
The next eight years were for _El Tigre_ fruitful of fame and riches but
utterly arid and barren of even the most casual feminine attachment.
Well educated, clever, with the manners of a courtier, and with physical
beauty and personal charm few men equalled, he was invited by the
nobility often, received as an equal by the men and literally courted by
the women. But the attentions of women were all to no purpose. For _El
Tigre_ only one woman existed--Sofia, now the Duchess de Oviedo--though
he had never again set eyes on her from the hour of their parting beneath
the fig tree.
Owners of large Mexican sugar estates in the valley of Cuautla, the Duke
and Sofia divided their time between Paris and Mexico. Their marriage
was far from happy. Before their union, busy tongues had brought Count
Leon rumors of her admiration for Mauro, rousing suspicions that were not
long crystallizing into certainty that, while she was a faithful, honest
wife, he could never win of her the affection he gave and craved.
Obviously proud of her, always devoted and kind, he received from her
respect and consideration in return, which indeed was all she had to
give, for the loss of Mauro remained to her an ever-gnawing grief.
Oddly enough, fate decreed that the destiny of Mauro and Sofia should be
worked out far afield from their burning Utreran plains, high up on the
cool plateau of Central Mexico.
For several years most generous offers had been made _El Tigre_ to bring
his _cuadrilla_ to Mexico, but, surfeited with fame and rolling in
riches, he had declined them. At last, however, in 188-, an offer was
made him which he felt forced to accept--six thousand dollars a
performance for ten _corridas_, to be given on successive Sundays in the
Plaza Bucareli in the City of Mexico, all expenses of himself and his
_cuadrilla_ to be paid by the management. And so, late in April of that
year _El Tigre_ arrived in Mexico with his _cuadrilla_ and (as stipulated
in his contract) sixty great Utreran bulls, for the bulls of Utrera are
famed in _toreador_ history and song as the fiercest, most desperate
fighters _espada_ ever confronted.
At the first performance _El Tigre_ took the Mexican public by storm. No
such execution, daring, and grace had ever been seen in either Bucareli
or Colon. _El Tigre_ was the toast in every club and _cafe_ of the city.
Every shop window displayed his portrait. All the journals sung his
praises. Maids and matrons sighed for him. Youth and age envied him.
_El Tigre's_ coffers were well-nigh bursting and his cups of joy
overflowing, all but the one none but Sofia could fill.
Where she was at the time _El Tigre_ had no idea. And yet, wholly
unsuspected by him, not only were she and the Duke in Mexico, but both
had attended all his performances at Bucareli, up to the last,
inconspicuous behind parties of friends they entertained in their box.
Whether it was the Duke caught the pallor of Sofia's face in moments of
peril for Mauro, or the light of pride and admiration in her eyes during
his moments of triumph, sure it is the smouldering fires of the Duke's
jealousy were rekindled, and he was prompted to plan a test of her
bearing, when free of the restraint of his presence. On the morning of
the last performance he announced that he must spend the afternoon with
his attorneys, and must leave Sofia free to make her own arrangements for
attendance at the last _corrida_.
And glad enough was she of the chance. The boxes were far too high
above, and distant from, the arena. For days she had coveted any of the
seats along the lower rows of open benches, close down to the six-foot
barrier between the ring and the auditorium, close down where she could
catch every shifting expression of Mauro's mobile face, and--where he
could scarcely fail to see and recognize her. The thought of seeking in
any way to meet or speak to him never entered her clean mind, but she had
been more nearly a saint than a woman if she had been able to deny
herself such an opportunity to convey to him, in one long burning glance,
a knowledge of the endurance of the love her frightened "Mauro _mio_" had
plainly confessed the night of their parting beneath the fig tree. So it
naturally followed that the Duke was barely out of the house before Sofia
rushed away a messenger to reserve a section of the lower benches
immediately beneath the box of the _Presidente_, directly in front of
which Mauro must come, at the head of his _cuadrilla_, to salute the
_Presidente_.
The city was thronged with visitors come to see _El Tigre_. Hotels and
clubs were overflowing with them. And thousands of poor peons had for
months stinted themselves, often even gone hungry, to save enough
_tlacos_ to buy admission to the spectacle, to them the greatest and most
magnificent it could ever be their good fortune to witness. The day was
perfect, as indeed are most June days in Mexico. For two hours before
the performance the principal thoroughfares leading to the Plaza Bucareli
were packed solid with a moving throne all dressed _en fete_.
In no country in the world may one see such great picturesqueness,
variety, and brilliancy of color in the costumes of the masses as then
still prevailed in Mexico. Largely of more or less pure Indian blood,
come of a race Cortez found habited in feather tunics and head-dresses
brilliant as the plumage of parrots, great lovers of flowers, three and a
half centuries of contact with civilization had not served to deprive
them of any of their fondness for bright colors. Thus with the horsemen
in the graceful _traje de chorro_--sombreros and tight fitting soft
leather jackets and trousers loaded with gold or silver ornaments, the
footmen swaggering in _serapes_ of every color of the rainbow, the women
wrapped in more delicately tinted rebosas and crowned with flowers, the
winding streets looked like strips of flower garden ambulant.
Bucareli seated twenty thousand, and when all standing-room had been
filled and the gates closed, thousands of late comers were shut out.
The level, sanded ring, the theatre of action, was surrounded by a
six-foot solid-planked barrier. Behind and above the barrier rose the
benches of the auditorium, the "bleachers" of the populace; they rose to
a height of perhaps forty or fifty feet, while above the uppermost line
of benches were the private boxes of the _elite_. Within the ring were
five heavily planked nooks of refuge, set close to the barrier, behind
which a hard pressed _toreador_ might find safety from a charging bull.
These refuges were little used, however, except by the underlings, the
_capadores_, or by capsized _picadores_; _espadas_ and _banderilleros_
disdained them. On the west of the ring was the box of the _Presidente_
of the _corrida _(in this instance, the Governor of the Federal
District); on the east the main gate of the ring through which the
_cuadrilla_ entered; on the north the gate of the bull pen.
At a bugle call from the _Presidente's_ box, the main gate swung wide and
the _cuadrilla_ entered, a band of lithe, slender, clean-shaven men, in
slippers, white stockings, knee breeches, and jackets of silk ornamented
with silver, each wearing the little queue and black rosette attached
thereto that from time immemorial Andalusian _toreadores_ have sported.
_El Tigre_ headed the squad, followed by two junior _matadores_, three
_banderilleros_, three _capadores_, and two mounted _picadores_, while at
the rear of the column came two teams of little, half-wild, prancing,
dancing Spanish mules, one team black, the other white, each composed of
three mules harnessed abreast as for a chariot race, but dragging behind
them nothing but a heavy double tree, to which the dead of the day's
fight might be attached and dragged out of the arena.
Each of the footmen was wrapped in a large black cloak passed over the
left shoulder and beneath the right, the loose end of the cloak draped
gracefully over the left shoulder, the right arm swinging free. The
_picadores_ were mounted (as usual) on old crowbaits of horses, mere bags
of skin and bones, so poor and thin that neither could even raise a trot;
a broad leather blindfold fastened to their head-stalls. Each rider was
seated in a saddle high of cantle and ancient of form as those Knights
Templar jousted in. The breast of each horse was guarded by a great side
of sole leather falling nearly to the knees, while the right leg of each
rider was incased in such a stiff and heavy leather leg-guard as to
render him afoot almost helpless; and he was further guarded by still
another side of sole leather swung from the saddle horn and covering his
left leg and much of his horse's barrel. On the right stirrup of each
_picador_ rested the butt of his lance, a stout eight-foot shaft tipped
with a sharp steel prod, barely long enough to catch and hold in the
bull's hide.
As the _cuadrilla_ entered, a regimental band played _El Hymno Nacional_,
the National Anthem, while the vast audience roared and shrieked a
welcome to the gladiators.
Marching to the time of the music in long tragic strides, heads proudly
erect, right arms swinging and shoulders slightly swaying in the
challenging swagger which _toreadores affect_, the _cuadrilla_ crossed
the arena and halted, close to the barrier, in front of the
_Presidente's_ box, bared their heads, gracefully saluted the
_Presidente_, and received the key to the bull pen and his permission to
begin the fight. And as _El Tigre's_ eyes fell from the salute to the
_Presidente_ they rested upon Sofia, doubtless from some subtle
telepathic message, for it was a veritable hill of faces he confronted.
There she sat on the second bench-row above the top of the barrier,
matured and fuller of figure but radiant as at their Utreran parting;
there she sat, her gloved hands tightly clenched, her lips trembling, her
great blue eyes pouring into his messages of a love so deep and pure that
it needed all his self-command to keep from leaping the barrier and
falling at his feet.
For a moment he stood transfixed, staggered, almost overcome with
surprise and delight again to see her, thrilled with the joy of her
message, blazing with revolt at the painful consciousness that she was
and must remain another's. His emotions well-nigh stopped the beating of
his heart. And so he stood gazing into Sofia's eyes until,
self-possession recovered, he gravely bowed, turned, and waved his men to
their posts.
Instantly all was action, swift action. Cloaks were tossed to
attendants, each footman received a red cape, the two _picadores_ took
position one on either side of the bull pen gate, the band struck up a
tune, the gate was opened and a great Utreran bull bounded into the
arena, maddened with the pain of a short _banderilla_, with long
streaming ribbons, stuck in his neck as he entered, by an attendant
perched above the gate.
His equal had never been seen in a Mexican bull ring. While typical of
his Utreran brothers, all princes of bovine fighting stock, this
coal-black monster was by the spectators voted their King. Relatively
light of quarters and shallow of flank and barrel, he was unusually high
and humped of withers, broad and deep of chest and heavy of
shoulders--indeed a well-nigh perfect four-legged type of a finely
trained two-legged athlete, with a pair of peculiarly straight-upstanding
horns that were long and almost as sharp as rapiers. Evidently by his
build, he was of a strong strain of East Indian Brahminic blood. For his
great weight, his activity was phenomenal--his leaps like a panther's,
his turns as quick.
Dazed for an instant by the crash of the music and the brilliant banks of
color about him, he stood angrily lashing his tail and pawing up the sand
in clouds--"digging a grave," as Texas cowboys used to call it--his eyes
blazing and head tossing, but only for a moment. Then he charged the
nearest _picador_, literally leaped so high at him that head and cruel
horns crossed above the horse's neck, his own great chest striking the
horse just behind the shoulder with such force that man and mount hit the
ground stunned and helpless.
Barely were they down when he was upon them and with a single twitch of
his mighty neck, had ripped open the horse's barrel and half amputated
one of the rider's legs. Then, diverted by the _capadores_, he whirled
upon the second _picador_ and in another ten seconds had left his horse
dead and the rider badly trampled. Next the _banderilleros_ tackled him,
but such was his speed and ferocity that all three funked the work, and
not one of them fastened his flag in the black shoulders.
When the bull had entered the ring, _El Tigre_ left the arena--a most
unusual proceeding. Now he returned, clad in snow-white from head to
foot, a white cap covering head and hair, his face heavily powdered. He
slipped in behind and unseen by the bull to the centre of the arena, and
there stood erect, with arms folded, motionless as a graven image.
Presently the bull turned, saw _El Tigre_, and charged him straight. _El
Tigre_ was not even facing him, for the bull was approaching from his
left. But there he stood without the twitch of a muscle or the flicker
of an eye lid, still as a figure of stone.
A great sob arose from the audience, and all gave him up for lost, when,
at the last instant before the bull must have struck, it turned and
passed him. Once more the bull so charged and passed. Whether because
it mistook him for the ghost of a man or recognized in him a spirit
mightier than its own, only the bull knew.
Before the audience had well caught its breath, _El Tigre_, wearing again
his usual costume, was striding again to the middle of the arena,
carrying a light chair, in which presently he seated himself, facing the
bull, a show _banderilla_, no more than six inches long, held in his
teeth. And so he awaited the charge until the bull was within actual
arm's-reach, when with a swift rise from the chair and a turn of his body
quick as that of a fencer's supple wrist, he bent and stuck the
teeth-held banderilla in the bull's shoulder as he swept past.
Now was the time for the kill.
El Tigre received his sword, _muleta_, and cape. The _muleta_ is a
straight two-foot stick over which the cape is draped, and, held in the
_matador's_ left hand, usually is extended well to the right of his body.
Thus in an ordinary fight the bull is actually charging the blood-red
cape, and not the _matador_. But, with Sofia an onlooker, determined to
make this the fight of his life, _El Tigre_ tossed aside the _muleta_,
wrapped the crimson cape about his body, and stood alone awaiting the
bull's charge, his malleable sword-blade bent slightly downward,
sufficiently to give a true thrust behind the shoulder, a down-curve into
heart or lungs.
With a bull of such extraordinary activity the act was almost suicidal,
but _El Tigre_ smilingly took the chance. By toreador etiquette, the
_matador_ must receive and dodge the first two charges; not until the
third may he strike. On the first charge _El Tigre_ stood like a rock
until the bull had almost reached him, and then lightly leaped diagonally
across his lowered neck. The second charge, come an instant after the
first, before most men could even turn, he dodged. The third he swiftly
side-stepped, thrust true, and dropped the great Utreran midway of a leap
aimed at his elusive enemy.
It was a deed magnificent, epic, and the plaza rung with plaudits while
hats, fans, and even purses and jewels showered into the arena--all of
which, by _toreador_ etiquette, were tossed back across the barrier to
their owners.
Then the teams entered and quickly dragged the dead from the arena; the
ugly, dangerously slippery red patches were fresh sanded, and the second
bull was admitted. Thus, with more or less like incident, three more
bulls were fought and killed.
The fifth and last, however, proved a disgrace to his race. Bluff he
did, but fight he would not; the noise and crowd unnerved him. At last,
frenzied with fear and seeking escape, he made a mighty leap to mount the
barrier directly in front of the box of the _Presidente_. And mount it
he did, and down it crashed beneath his weight, leaving the bull for a
moment half down and tangled in the wreckage, struggling to regain his
feet.
Directly in front of the bull, not six feet beyond the sharp points of
his deadly horns, sat Sofia. Indeed none about her had risen; all sat as
if frozen in their places. And just as well they might have been, for
escape into or through the dense mass of spectators about them was
utterly impossible. Whatever horror came they must await, helpless.
But at the bull's very start for the barrier, _El Tigre_, realized
Sofia's peril and instantly sprang empty-handed in pursuit; for it was
early in this the last _corrida_ and he did not have his sword,
Leaping the wreckage, _El Tigre_ landed directly in front of the bull,
happily at the instant it regained its feet, where, with his right hand
seizing the bull by the nose--his thumb and two fore-fingers thrust well
within its nostrils--and with his left hand grabbing the right horn, with
a mighty heave he uplifted the bull's muzzle and bore down upon its horn
until he threw it with a crash upon its side that left it momentarily
helpless.
But, himself slipping in the loose wreckage, down also _El Tigre_ fell,
the bull's sharp right horn impaling his left thigh and pinning him to
the ground.
Before the bull could rise, the men of the _cuadrilla_ had it safely
bound and _El Tigre_ released. _El Tigre_, however, did not know it.
With the shock and pain of his wound he had fainted.
When at length he regained consciousness, it was to find his head
pillowed in Sofia's lap, her soft fingers caressing his brow, her tearful
eyes looking into his, and to hear her whisper: "Mauro _mio_!"
Just at this moment the Duke de Oviedo approached, no one knew whence.
White with jealousy but steady and cool, he quietly remarked:
"Madame, I ought to kill you both, but that my rank precludes.
Lucha-sangre, in yourself, as son of a notary and hired _toreador_ and
purveyor of spectacles, you are unworthy of my sword; nevertheless blood
once noble is in your veins. And so as noble it suits me now to count
you. As soon as you are recovered of your wound I will send you my
second."
"Most happy, Duke," answered Mauro; "mine shall be ready to meet him."
One evening a week later, while the Duke de Oviedo and two Mexican army
officers were having drinks at the bar of the Cafe Concordia, General
Delmonte, a Cuban long resident in New York and a distinguished veteran
of three wars, entered with two American friends. Delmonte was
describing to his friends _El Tigre's_ last fight, lauding his prowess,
extolling his noble presence and high character. Infuriated by the
ardent praise of his enemy, the Duke grossly insulted General
Delmonte--and was very promptly slapped in the face.
They fought at daylight the next morning, beneath an arch of the ancient
aqueduct, just outside the city. Encountering in Delmonte one of the
best swordsmen of his time, early in the combat the Duke received a
mortal wound. And as he there lay gasping out his life, he murmured a
phrase that, at the moment, greatly puzzled his seconds:
_"Gana El Tigre._" (The Tiger Wins!)