Miguel's cousin Enrique had at last succeeded in embracing the divine
phantasm of glory in pursuit of which so many men run in vain. It was in
the plaza of Vallecas, on the day of Our Lady of Carmen. The
entertainment[24] had been organized at Madrid for the purpose of aiding
some unfortunates suffering from a flood in the province of Valencia,
and as he was one of the amateurs who liked to take part in sports of
this sort, he was gallantly invited to thrust the _banderillas_ into the
bull's shoulder--an honor which he declined.
The committee afterwards discovered the true inwardness of his not
accepting, and after making certain calculations and combinations, they
invited him once more to be the _estoqueador_,[25] and this time he did
not hesitate to accept, seeing that his dignity was saved. It was less
than a year since he had chosen the alternative.
And as we have already hinted, he had covered himself with glory, his
rivals with envy, and the respectable family to which he belonged with
honor, though its worthy head had a quite different idea of it.
After a battle he had the fortune to kill the bull with a superb lunge
at a half-run, wetting his fingers, and entering and leaving the ring
without a stain.
There was a perfect delirium of clapping, of waving cigars and hats; all
the bull-fighting amateurs vied with each other in embracing him; he was
carried triumphantly to his carriage, and sent back victorious to
Madrid: on the next day the newspapers, in their reviews of the
entertainment, raised him "to the very horns of the moon." _El Tabano_,
a most dignified paper, dedicated exclusively to the interests of
bull-fighting, declared that he showed _blood_ and _modesty_; and this
eulogium, in spite of its brutality, for some reason or other made him
stagger with delight.
He spent a feverish, wakeful night, though his soul was caressed by a
thousand brilliant visions. When morning came, he gave himself up to
cleaning his long knife, and while he was occupied in this most noble
task, he had the ineffable satisfaction of receiving, on a silver salver
from the committee, the ear of the bull which he had slain.
The servant, after receiving an unheard-of fee, told him, with his heart
bowed low in admiration:--
"What immense pleasure, senorito! Tato was nothing to you!"
"Pish! You must not flatter, my dear; you must not flatter," replied
Enrique, with affected modesty; "El Tato was a great bull-fighter!"
"But I tell you it is so, senorito! El Tato never came out of the ring
with his cloak more unstained. You see I know what bulls is! Senor Paco
(he is now in glory) has told me time and again, when he seen me with
the horse in full gallop up to the very nose of the beast: 'Juanillo, my
son, you've got the very blood of the bull-fighter. Dedicate yourself to
the art which would be much more profitable to you than cleaning boots,
and holding nags in the plaza.' 'But,' says I, 'Senor Paco, suppose I
have a lady who gives me a good brushing down every Sunday, when I put
on the red jacket?' 'Give her a lot of soft soap, my boy; if you wants
to git along well with women, you've got to give 'em soft soap every day
of your life and every other day too!' And the old man was right! If I
had followed his advice, I should have been a different person.... I was
the gent as brought you the mule when you fell; didn't you see me?"
"Yes.... I don't recollect very clearly, but it seems to me that I saw
you on the plaza."
"Come now, if it hadn't been for me putting myself right on the horns of
the bull, Don Ricardito would have been hooked yesterday afternoon at
the second baiting.... Bad beast that was! They'd once before baited
him in the village, so the pastor told me. That one of yourn, senorito,
was a very lively little bull, very brave, and at the same time very
gamy. Your stabbin' of him was very unusual."
"Pish! Perfectly regular, perfectly regular...."
"Magnificent, Don Enriquito! magnificent! Only it was a pity that you
hurried the least leetle bit as you rode by him!"
"I hurried?" exclaimed Enrique, flushing. "Man alive! it seems to me you
have about as good an idea of bull-fighting as the lining of my
trousers!... Don't you dare to say that I hurried!"
His modesty, which was "only fastened with pins," was quickly lost. The
servant, seeing the ill-effect of his criticism, was anxious to amend
it.
"No; but certainly it was a superior skirmish; and it makes no
difference whether it was done quick or slow."
"No matter at all; we have talked enough, and I don't care to hear any
more such nonsense...."
And Enrique opened the door to let him out, and slammed it behind him,
muttering:--
"The devil take the stupid fellow! Ricardito must have given him that
idea about hurrying.... That rascal had better be ashamed of himself,
and not let Felipe Gomez hold his bull by the leg."
And fully persuaded that the stain on his rival's honor could not be
wiped out by all the perfumes of Arabia, he remained tolerably calm. The
reading of the journals, and the presence of the bloody ear, mute
witness of his courage, finally restored him to complete tranquillity.
But one thing afterwards occurred to disturb his peace of mind, and that
was the way of preserving his trophy. If it were left in its present
state, it would soon become offensive. Should he put it in alcohol? Then
the hair would come off, and it would be turned into a piece of ugly
gristle. Should he have it mounted? He would have to go out and make
inquiries. He made up his mind to go immediately after dinner to
Severini, the great taxidermist of San Jeronimo Avenue.
At dinner the talk turned on the bull-fight. Don Bernardo had already
been informed by the newspapers of his son's prowess; and though
secretly, at the bottom of his heart, he was flattered by the applause
that he had won, he did not fail to appear stern, and to chide him,
although not as severely as sometimes.
"Come now, Enrique, let this be the last time that you make a public
exhibition of yourself in this way. You know that I do not like to have
a son of mine play the role of _torero_, even though he do it well."
Enrique understood well that his father was not really angry, and was
assured of the truth of the old adage, "Success pardons all dubious
steps."
He lighted his cigar, wrapped the bloody ear in a rag, put it in his
pocket, and went down into the street, directing his steps toward the
Cafe Imperial, with the hope of there receiving fresh congratulations
from his intelligent friends, and to spend the whole afternoon talking
about the bull-fight of Vallecas: on the way he intended to call at
Severini's.
It was half-past three, and pretty hot. Our lieutenant (for he had been
promoted) was walking along the Calle del Bano, dressed in the latest
style, in Prince Albert coat tightly buttoned up, light pantaloons,
patent leather boots, and a sombrero with a peaked crown.
It was his idea to dress himself so in place of his ordinary "b'hoy's"
fighting garb, so as to give greater force and relief to his portentous
sword-thrust of the day before. He walked slowly, with the assured and
overweening gait of a man satisfied with himself, casting keen glances
at those whom he passed, to see if they recognized him, and puffing
forth great clouds of smoke. Never had he felt so happy in body and
mind.
At the door of a "dairy" a young girl was seated with a book in her
hands. Enrique, as he passed, glanced at her, and the philanthropic
feelings which he felt toward every living thing caused him to pause a
moment and gaze at her with smiling eyes. The girl looked up with her
big black eyes, the expression of which was half proud and half
mischievous, and after staring at him for some time, she again gave her
attention to her book, showing marked indifference.
Enrique stepped up in front of her, and stopped, saying in mellifluous
accents:--
"What are you reading, my beauty?"
The girl again raised her eyes, and after staring at him sharply,
replied:--
"_The Lives of the Four Rascals._"
And she dwelt long on the last word.
Enrique was a little confused, but he stood with the smile still on his
lips. The girl again buried herself in her book. After a while she
raised her head once more, and said vivaciously, in an ironical tone, in
which her irritation was expressed:--
"Walk in, gent, walk in...."
"A thousand thanks, sweetheart," replied Enrique, entering the shop, and
standing just behind the girl.
She turned around to look at him, with a haughty gesture, and said very
gravely:--
"Man, I like you for your cheek!"
"And I like you for your sprightliness."
"Indeed! Since when?"
"Since I saw you from the corner of the street."
"Ay, how kind of you! And you knew as much as that, and kept it to
yourself!"
"Why, whom could I tell it to?"
"To your grandmother, my son."
"I haven't any; my grandmother died when I was a baby."
"What a monkey!"
"No; I used to be homelier than I am now."
"Didn't your papa have to teach you during vacation?"
"I don't remember.... Zounds! Do you consider me so ugly?"
"Why should I deceive you?... Ugly? why you are uglier than sin!"
"Manolita,"[26] cried the fruit-woman from across the way, "when did you
get up your awnings?"
"Just this very moment. How do you like them?"
"And so your name is Manolita?" asked Enrique
"No, siree; my name is Manuela."
"How witty and how delicious you are!"
"When did you ever taste me?"
Manolita was a _chula_ or "gal" in her behavior, in her gestures, in her
dress, in the pronunciation of her words, and in all that she did; but
she was a very charming _chula_; and that is no miracle, for there are
girls like Alexandrine roses in these blessed streets of ours.
Her face was oval, rather pale; her eyes were black, with pink circles
under them; her hair was also black, and she wore it in ringlets around
the temples; her teeth were white and small, and set close together; her
expression that mixture of grave and scornful which is natural to every
_chula_ who has not as yet "gone to the dogs."
"Why did you say that you were going to finish your walk this moment?"
Enrique had not said any such thing.
"Before going I wish you would give me a glass of milk."
Manolita got up solemnly from the chair, leaving her book in it, and
went to the counter, and without saying a word filled a glass with milk,
put it on a plate, and set it on one of the three or four marble tables
that were there; then seeing that Enrique did not sit down, but stood
motionless in the middle of the shop, following all her movements, she
paused suddenly, and said in that ironical tone that never left her
lips:--
"Don't you want to drink it indoors, mister[27]?"
"I would not drink it in the house if you should give me five duros!"
"Well, my boy, you can't have it out of doors! Come now, let us pour it
back into the jug; only don't get sick and have to be sent to the
hospital."
No sooner said than done; she started straight for the jug; but Enrique
detained her.
"I did not mean that, my beauty. In the house there might some harm
happen to me; but here! here I seem to be in glory merely looking at
you!"
"Senorito, you need lime juice and not milk!"
"May be!... How much is this?" he added, after he had drunk up the milk,
and looking at Manolita with a smile.
"Not quite an _onza_."[28]
"How much?"
"Half a real."
He took a few coins out of his pocket, and as he put them into the
_chula's_ hands, he suddenly felt himself attacked by a philanthropy
that mounted toward enthusiasm for her. To manifest this feeling, so
appropriate to the essence of human nature and the spirit and doctrine
of Christianity which commands us to love our fellow-creatures, our
lieutenant had nothing left to do except to give her a fond hug
accompanied by a kiss fonder still. But before carrying out such a
plausible scheme, he cast a cautious glance all around to assure himself
that no one was coming to disturb this benevolent act, and previously he
bristled up his mustaches as all good rat terriers are accustomed to do.
When once he had thus completed his preparations--All ready! Go!
When the _chula_ found herself in the lieutenant's arms, she turned
around as quick as a flash, tore herself away, let fly her hand, and
_zas_! gave him a tremendous slap right in the nose.
We know that of old Enrique's nose had a curious magnetic influence over
blows, and attracted them as metallic needles attract electric sparks.
Let us record this, so that no one may think it remarkable that the
buffet struck that delicate organ instead of any other region of his
face.
Two jets of blood instantly gushed from his sufficiently capacious
nostrils, which was proof positive that Manolita's hands were not made
of wax, though they were handsomely shaped. At the sight of blood her
courage became even fiercer, like a lioness of the desert, and it was a
narrow escape that she did not tear him in pieces with a tin dipper, for
she clutched it in her fists, and held it over him a long time.
"Ay, how 'diculous! What has got into me?... What were you thinking
about, you lisping idiot?... You made a mistake, senor. I'll smash in
your great goat face if you don't get out of here quicker'n a wink!..."