THE VOICE OF THE SIREN
Don Jose, firm friend of the Marquis of Moraima, and related to the best
families of Seville, had often talked to Gallardo concerning Dona Sol.
She had returned to Seville only a few months before, arousing the
enthusiasm of the young people. She came, after a long absence in
foreign lands, eager for everything pertaining to _la tierra_, enjoying
the popular customs and finding it all very interesting, "very
artistic." She went to the bull-fights arrayed in the ancient costume of
a _maja_, imitating the dress and pose of the beautiful women painted by
Goya. Strong, accustomed to sports, and a great horsewoman, the people
saw her galloping around the outskirts of Seville, wearing with her
black riding skirt a man's jacket, a red cravat, and a white beaver hat
perched on top of her golden hair. Sometimes she carried a spear across
the pommel of the saddle and with a party of friends converted into
_piqueros_, she went to the pasture grounds to tease and upset bulls,
enjoying this wild festivity, abounding as it did in danger. She was not
a child. Gallardo had a confused recollection of having seen her in his
youth on the _paseo_ of Delicias, seated beside her mother and covered
with white frills, like a luxurious doll in a show-case, while he, a
miserable vagabond, dashed under the wheels of the carriage in search of
cigar stubs. They were undoubtedly the same age,--she must be at the
end of the twenties; but how magnificent! So different from other women!
She seemed like an exotic bird, a bird of paradise, fallen into a
farmyard among mere shiny, well fed hens.
Don Jose knew her history. An eccentric mind had Dona Sol! Her mother
was dead and she had a considerable fortune. She had married in Madrid a
certain man older than herself, who offered to a woman eager for
splendor and novelty the advantages of travelling about the world as the
wife of an ambassador who represented Spain at the principal courts.
"The way that girl has amused herself, Juan!" said the manager. "The
heads she has turned in ten years from one end of Europe to the other!
She must be a regular geography with secret notes at the foot of each
page. Surely she cannot look at the map without making a little cross of
memory near all the great capitals. And the poor ambassador! He died, of
despondency, no doubt, because there was no longer any place to which he
could be sent. The good gentleman, accredited to represent our country,
would go to a court and inside of a year, behold! the queen or the
empress of that land was writing to Spain asking the minister to retire
the ambassador and his dreaded consort, whom the newspapers called 'the
irresistible Spanish woman.' The crowned heads that _gachi_ has turned!
Queens trembled when they saw her come, as if she were the Asiatic
cholera. At last the poor ambassador saw no other place for his talents
but the republics of America, but as he was a gentleman of good
principles and the friend of kings, he preferred to die. And don't think
that the girl contented herself only with personages who eat and dance
in royal palaces. Not if what they say be true! That child is all
extremes; it is all or nothing! She will as soon go after one that digs
in the ground as the highest above it. I have heard that there in Russia
she was running after one of those bushy-haired fellows that throw
bombs, a youth with a woman's face, who paid no attention to her because
she disturbed him in his business. But the girl kept chasing and chasing
after him until finally they hung him. They say, too, that she had an
affair with a painter in Paris, and they even say he painted her in the
nude, with one arm over her face so as not to be recognized, and that
the picture travels around that way on match-boxes. That must be false;
an exaggeration! What seems more certain is that she was the great
friend of a German, a musician--one of those who write operas. If thou
couldst hear her play the piano! And when she sings! Just like one of
those singers that come to the theatre of San Fernando in the Easter
season. And think not that she sings in Italian only; she talks
anything--French, German, English. Her uncle, the Marquis of Moraima,
when he talks about her at the Forty-five says he has his suspicions
that she speaks Latin. What a woman! Eh, Juanillo? What an interesting
creature!
"In Seville," he went on, "she leads an exemplary life. On that account
I think what they tell of her foreign affairs may be false; lies of
certain young cocks that go for grapes and find them sour."
And laughing at the spirit of this woman, who at times was as bold and
as aggressive as a man, he repeated the rumors that had circulated in
certain clubs on Sierpes Street. When the "Ambassadress" came to live in
Seville, all the young people had formed a court around her.
"Imagine, Juanillo, an elegant woman, different from those around here,
bringing her clothes and hats from Paris, her perfume from London;
besides being a friend of kings, branded with the brand of the finest
stock in Europe, so to speak. They followed in her wake like mad men,
and the girl permitted them certain liberties, wanting to live among
them like a man. But some of them transgressed the bounds, mistaking
familiarity for something else, and, at a loss for words, they made too
free with their hands. Then there were blows, Juan, and something worse.
That young lady is dangerous. It seems that she shoots at a mark, that
she knows how to box like an English sailor, and knows besides, that
Japanese way of fighting that they call _jitsu_. To sum it all up, if a
Christian dares to give her a pinch, she, with her dainty little fists,
without even getting angry, will grasp thee and leave thee torn to
shreds. Now they attack her less, but she has enemies who go about
talking evil of her; some praising what is a lie, others even denying
that she is clever."
Dona Sol, according to the manager, was enthusiastic over life in
Seville. After a long sojourn in cold, foggy lands she admired the
intensely blue sky and the winter sun of soft gold, and she discoursed
on the sweetness of life in this country--_so picturesque!_
"The simplicity of our customs fills her with enthusiasm. She is like
one of those English women that come in Holy Week--as if she had not
been born in Seville; as if she saw it for the first time! They say she
spends her summers in foreign cities and her winters here. She is tired
of her life in palaces and courts, and if thou didst but see the people
she goes with! She has made them receive her like a sister in the
convent of Cristo de Triana and that of the Most Holy Cachorro, and she
has spent a pot of money on wine for the brotherhood. Some nights she
fills her house with guitarists and dancers, for so many girls in
Seville are good singers and dancers. With them go their teachers and
their families, even to their most distant relatives; they all stuff
themselves with olives, sausages, and wine, and Dona Sol, seated in a
big chair like a queen, spends the hours demanding dance after dance,
all which must be native to the country. They say this is a diversion
equal to that which was given to I don't know what king, who had operas
sung for himself alone. Her servants, foreign fellows that have come
with her, long-faced and serious as parrots, go about in their evening
dress with great trays, passing glasses to the dancers who in plain
sight box their ears and snap olive stones in their eyes. Most honest
and diverting games! Now, Dona Sol receives Lechuzo in the mornings, an
old gypsy who gives guitar lessons, master of the purest style; and when
her visitors don't find her with the instrument on her lap, she is with
an orange in her hand. The oranges that creature has eaten since she
came! And still she isn't satisfied!"
Thus continued Don Jose, explaining to his _matador_ the eccentricities
of Dona Sol.
Four days after Gallardo had seen her in the parish church of San
Lorenzo, the manager approached the _matador_ in a _cafe_ on Sierpes
Street with an air of mystery.
"_Gacho_, thou art a child of good fortune. Knowest who has been talking
to me about thee?"
And putting his mouth close to the bull-fighter's ear he whispered,
"Dona Sol!"
She had asked him about his _matador_, and expressed a desire to meet
him. She was such an original type! So Spanish!
"She says she has seen thee kill several times, once in Madrid and
again, I know not where. She has applauded thee. She recognizes that
thou are very brave. What if she should take up with thee! Imagine it!
What an honor! Thou wouldst be a brother-in-law, or something like that,
of all the high-toned fellows on the European calendar of swells."
Gallardo smiled modestly, lowering his eyes, but at the same time he
twisted his handsome person proudly as if he did not consider his
manager's hypothesis either difficult or extraordinary.
"But do not form illusions, Juanillo," continued he; "Dona Sol wishes to
study a bull-fighter at close range, with the same interest that she
takes lessons from the master Lechuzo. Local color and nothing more!
'Bring him day after to-morrow to Tablada,' she told me. Thou knowest
what that will be--a baiting of the cattle of the Moraima herd; an
entertainment the Marquis has gotten up to divert his niece. We will go;
she has invited me also."
Two days later, in the afternoon, the _maestro_ and his manager started
from the ward of the Feria like gentlemen _picadores_, eagerly watched
by the people who peeped out of the doors and stood in groups on the
sidewalks.
"They are going to Tablada," they said. "There is to be a bull-baiting."
The manager, mounted on a large-boned mare, was in the dress of the
country, short jacket, cloth trousers with yellow gaiters, and leather
leggings. The swordsman had arrayed himself for the event in his usual
bizarre dress of the ancient bull-fighters, before modern fashion had
levelled their apparel to that of other mortals. A crush hat of velvet
with a plaited band was held on by a chin-strap; the collar of the
shirt, innocent of cravat, was fastened with a pair of brilliants and
two larger ones sparkled on the undulating bosom; the jacket and
waistcoat were of wine-colored velvet with black loops and hangings;
lastly there was a red silk belt and tight knee-breeches of dark mixed
weave bound at the knees with garters of black braid. His leggings were
amber-colored, with leather fringes along the side, and boots of the
same color, half hidden in the wide Moorish stirrups, exposed to view
great silver spurs. Over the saddle-horn, on top of the gay Jerez
blanket whose tassels hung on both sides of the horse, lay a gray jacket
with black trimmings and red lining.
The two horsemen rode at a gallop, carrying on their shoulders javelins
made of fine elastic wood, with balls on the end to guard the tip. Their
passage through the populous ward aroused an ovation. Hurrah! The women
waved their hands.
"God be with you, Senores! Amuse yourself, Senor Juan!"
They spurred their horses to escape from the crowd of youngsters that
ran after them, and the narrow lanes with their blue pavements and white
walls rang with the rhythmic beat of the horseshoes.
On the quiet street of manorial houses with massive grilled gates and
great balconies, where Dona Sol lived, they met other riders before the
door, sitting on their horses, leaning on their lances. They were young
gentlemen, relatives or friends of the lady, who greeted the
bull-fighter with amiable familiarity, happy to have him in the party.
The Marquis of Moraima came out of the house and immediately mounted his
horse.
"The child will be down immediately. Everybody knows the women--how long
they take to get ready."
He said this with the sententious gravity that he gave to all his words,
as if he were uttering oracles. He was a tall, big-boned old man, with
long white whiskers in the midst of which his mouth and eyes preserved
an infantile ingenuousness. Courteous and measured in his speech,
genteel in manner, moderate in his smile, the Marquis of Moraima was a
fine gentleman of the type of by-gone days. He was dressed almost always
in riding clothes, hating the city life, bored by the social demands of
his family when detained by them in Seville, and eager to fly to the
country among shepherd-foremen and cattlemen, whom he treated with the
familiarity of comrades. He had almost forgotten how to write, from lack
of practice, but as soon as the talk turned to cattle, to the raising of
bulls and horses, or to agriculture, his eyes shone and he expressed
himself with the skill of one deeply learned.
The sunlight clouded. The golden glow on the white walls on one side of
the street grew pale. People looked aloft. Along the blue belt between
the two rows of eaves, a dark cloud passed.
"There is no danger," said the Marquis gravely. "As I came out of the
house I saw a bit of paper which the wind blew in a direction I
understand. It will not rain."
All were convinced. It could not rain since the Marquis of Moraima so
declared. He was as weather-wise as an old shepherd; there was no fear
of his being mistaken.
Then he faced Gallardo.
"This year I am going to provide for thee some magnificent _corridas_.
What bulls! We shall see if thou sendest them to death like good
Christians. Thou knowest that this year I have not been quite satisfied.
The poor things deserved better."
Dona Sol appeared, holding up her black riding-skirt in one hand and
showing beneath it the tops of her high gray leather boots. She wore a
man's shirt with a red tie, a jacket and waistcoat of violet velvet, a
velvet three-cornered hat gracefully tipped to one side over her curls.
She mounted her horse with ease, in spite of the abundant plumpness of
her well-developed form, and took her javelin from a servant's hands.
She greeted her friends, excusing her tardiness, while her eyes
travelled toward Gallardo. The manager spurred his mare closer to make
the presentation, but Dona Sol, drawing near, rode up to the
bull-fighter.
Gallardo was disturbed at her presence. What a woman! What should he say
to her?
He saw that she extended him her hand, a fine hand that was gloriously
fragrant, and in his perturbation he could only press it with his great
fingers that better knew how to throw wild beasts. But the delicate and
rosy palm, instead of cringing under the involuntary and brutal pressure
that would have drawn from another a shriek of pain, tightened its
muscles with vigorous force, freeing itself easily from his clasp.
"I am most grateful to you for having come, and I am charmed to meet
you."
And Gallardo, feeling in his confusion the necessity of answering
something, stammered, as if he were greeting a devotee:
"Thanks. The family well?"
Dona Sol's discreet laugh was lost in the noise of the horseshoes that
resounded on the stones with the first movement of the cavalcade. The
lady put her horse to a trot and the whole troop followed, forming an
escort around her. Gallardo, abashed, travelled in the rear, not
recovering from his stupefaction, and vaguely guessing that he had said
something foolish.
They galloped along the outskirts of Seville beside the river; they left
behind them the Tower of Gold; they followed shady avenues of yellow
sand and then a high-road beside which stood inns and lunch-booths.
As they drew near Tablada they saw, on the green expanse of plain, a
dark mass of people and carriages near the palisade that separated the
pasture from the enclosure containing the cattle.
The Guadalquivir swept its current through the length of the
pasture-grounds. On the opposite bank rose the hill called San Juan de
Aznalfarache, crowned by a ruined castle. The country houses loomed
white against the silver gray masses of the olive groves. On the
opposite wing of the extended horizon, against a blue background on
which floated fleecy clouds, was Seville, its houses dominated by the
imposing mass of the cathedral and the marvellous Giralda, a tender
rose-color in the afternoon light.
The riders advanced with much care through the dense crowd. The
curiosity which Dona Sol's eccentricities inspired had attracted nearly
all the ladies of Seville. Her friends bowed to her from their
carriages, thinking her most beautiful in her mannish costume. Her
relatives, the daughters of the Marquis, some unmarried, others
accompanied by their husbands, cautioned her to prudence. "For mercy's
sake, Sol! Don't do crazy things!"
The bull-baiters entered the enclosure, welcomed as they passed through
the palisade by the applause of the common people who had come to the
festivity. The horses, scenting the enemy, and seeing them in the
distance, rose on their hind legs and began to prance and neigh, held in
by the firm hand of the riders.
The bulls were grouped in the centre of the enclosure. Some were quietly
feeding, some were lying on the reddish green winter field. Others, more
rebellious, trotted toward the river, and the older bulls, the trained
leaders, ran after them, ringing the bells that hung around their necks,
while the cowboys helped them in this rounding up, slinging well-aimed
stones that struck the horns of the fugitives. The horsemen remained
motionless a long time, as if holding council before the eager gaze of
the public awaiting something extraordinary.
The first to start was the Marquis, accompanied by one of his friends.
The two riders galloped toward the group of bulls and reined in their
horses when near them, standing in their stirrups, waving their javelins
in the air, and making loud outcries to frighten them. A black bull with
strong legs separated from the band, running toward the end of the
enclosure.
The Marquis was justly proud of his herd, which was composed of fine
selected animals. They were not oxen destined to the production of meat,
with filthy, loose, and wrinkled hide, nor with broad hoofs, nor
drooping head, nor with big ill-placed horns. These were animals of
nervous vigor, strong and heavy enough to make the earth tremble,
raising a cloud of dust beneath their feet; their hide was fine and
glossy like that of a thoroughbred horse, their eyes flashed, their neck
was thick and proud, and they had short legs, fine delicate tails,
slender horns, sharp and clean, as if polished by hand, and round and
small hoofs, so hard that they cut the grass as though made of steel.
The two horsemen rode behind the black bull, attacking him on both
sides, barring his way when he tried to make for the river, until the
Marquis, setting spur to his mare, gained distance and rode up to the
bull, with the javelin held before him and, lodging it under his tail,
managed, with the combined strength of his arm and horse, to make the
beast lose his equilibrium, rolling him on the ground, with his belly
up, his horns driven into the earth and his four feet in the air. The
rapidity and ease with which the breeder accomplished this trick
provoked an explosion of enthusiasm from behind the palisade. Hurrah for
the old man! No one understood bulls like the Marquis. He managed them
as if they were his own children, following them from the time of their
birth in the cow-herd until they went to their death in the plazas like
heroes worthy a better fate.
Other horsemen wished to start at once to win the applause of the crowd
but Moraima held them back, giving preference to his niece. If she were
determined to try her luck it would be better for her to begin now
before the herd grew ugly with continued attacks. Dona Sol spurred on
her horse which was pawing the ground with his fore feet, excited by
the presence of the bulls. The Marquis desired to accompany her in her
race, but she objected. No; she would rather have Gallardo, who was a
bull-fighter. Where was Gallardo? The _matador_, still ashamed of his
stupidity, placed himself at the lady's side without a word. The two set
out on a gallop toward the centre of the drove of bulls. Dona Sol's
horse reared several times, standing almost upright, as if resisting,
but the strong Amazon forced him to advance. Gallardo waved his javelin,
uttering shouts that were more like bellows, just as he did in the ring
when he incited the beasts to show their mettle.
It took but little urging to make an animal separate from the drove. A
white creature with cinnamon-colored spots, an enormous sloping neck,
and horns of the finest point, started out. He ran toward the end of the
enclosure as if it were his customary haunt, to which he was
irresistibly drawn by instinct, and Dona Sol galloped after him,
followed by the _matador_.
"Look out, Senora," called Gallardo. "That bull is old and knows the
game! Be careful that he doesn't turn on you!"
When Dona Sol prepared to achieve the same feat as her uncle, reining
her horse alongside to thrust her javelin under the animal's tail and
upset him, he turned as if he suspected the danger, planting himself in
a threatening attitude before his pursuers. The horse passed in front of
the bull, Dona Sol being unable to rein him in on account of his speed,
and the beast plunged after him, converting the besieger into the
besieged. The lady did not think of flight. Many thousands of people
were watching her from a distance. She feared her friends' laughter and
the commiseration of the men, so she reined in her horse, making him
face the bull. She sat with the javelin under her arm like a _picador_,
and she thrust it into the bull's neck as he came on bellowing, his head
down. The great cervix reddened with a stream of blood, but the beast
continued to advance from mere momentum, not feeling that he enlarged
the wound, till he thrust his horns beneath the horse, shaking him and
lifting his fore feet off the ground. The Amazon was thrown from her
saddle while a shout of horror from hundreds of throats arose in the
distance. The horse, freeing himself from the horns, began to run like
mad, his belly stained with blood, the girths broken, the saddle hanging
over his back. The bull started to follow him, when at that instant
something nearer attracted his attention. It was Dona Sol, who, instead
of lying motionless on the ground, had just arisen, and picking up her
javelin, placed it bravely under her arm to hold off the bull again. It
was mad arrogance, due to her consciousness of the many who watched her.
It was a challenge to death rather than yield to cowardice and ridicule.
They no longer shouted behind the palisade. The crowd was motionless
with the silence of terror. The whole troop of bull-baiters rode up on a
mad gallop in a cloud of dust, the riders seeming to gain in size at
every bound. Aid would come too late. The bull pawed the ground with his
fore feet and lowered his head to attack the audacious little figure
that stood threatening him with the lance. One little horn-stab would
make an end of it! But at the same instant, a fierce bellowing
distracted the bull's attention and something red passed before his
vision like a flame of fire. It was Gallardo, who had thrown himself
off his mare, abandoning the javelin to grasp the jacket which he
carried on the pommel of his saddle.
"Aaaa! Come on!"
The bull came on, running past the red-lined jacket, attracted by an
adversary worthy of him, and turned his hind quarters toward the figure
in the black skirt and violet bodice, that, in the stupefaction of
danger, still stood with the lance under her arm.
"Have no fear, Dona Sol; he is mine now!" cried the bull-fighter, still
pale with emotion but smiling, sure of his skill. Without other defence
than the jacket, he fought the beast, drawing him away from the lady and
escaping from its furious attacks with graceful movements.
The crowd, forgetting the recent fright, commenced to applaud,
enraptured. What joy! To go to a simple baiting and to find themselves
at an almost formal _corrida_, seeing Gallardo work gratis.
The bull-fighter, fired by the violence with which the brute attacked
him, forgot Dona Sol and every one else, intent only on evading his
attacks. The bull became furious, seeing that the man slipped unharmed
from between his horns, and fell upon him again, never encountering
anything but the brilliant red lining of the jacket.
At last he wearied and stood still, his mouth frothing, his head low,
his legs trembling; then Gallardo took advantage of the brute's
stupefaction and taking off his hat touched his head with it. An immense
shout arose behind the palisade, greeting this heroic exploit. Then
yells and ringing of bells sounded at Gallardo's back, cattlemen with
lead-bulls appeared and, surrounding the animal, drove it slowly toward
the thick of the herd.
Gallardo went in search of his mare, which stood motionless, accustomed
to being near the bulls. He picked up his javelin, mounted, and rode
back toward the palisade at a gentle gallop, prolonging the noisy
applause of the crowd by this slow riding. The horsemen who had taken
Dona Sol away greeted him with wild enthusiasm. The manager winked one
eye at him, saying mysteriously, "_Gacho_, thou hast not been slow. Very
good, but very good! Now I tell thee that thou'lt get her."
Dona Sol was in the landau of the Marquis' daughters, outside the
palisade. Her cousins surrounded her, anxious, feeling her over, almost
expecting to find some bone broken by her fall. They gave her glasses of
_manzanilla_ to help her recover from her fright but she smiled with an
air of superiority, passively receiving these feminine demonstrations.
As she saw Gallardo breaking through the lines of people on his horse,
amidst waving hats and extended hands, the lady smiled yet more
brightly.
"Come here, Cid Campeador. Give me your hand!"
And again their hands clasped, with a pressure that lasted long.
In the evening, in the house of the _matador_, this event, which was
talked about throughout the whole city, was commented upon. Senora
Angustias displayed satisfaction, just as after a _corrida_. Her son
saving one of those _senoras_ on whom she gazed with admiration,
habituated to reverence by long years of servitude! Carmen remained
silent, scarcely knowing what to think.
Several days passed without Gallardo's receiving news from Dona Sol.
The manager was out of the city hunting with some friends of the
Forty-five. One afternoon, near nightfall, Don Jose sought him in a
_cafe_ on Sierpes Street where the connoisseurs met. He had returned
from the hunt two hours before and had had to go immediately to Dona
Sol's house in response to a certain note that awaited him at his
domicile.
"But, man alive, thou art worse than a wolf!" said the manager, drawing
his _matador_ out of the _cafe_. "This lady expected thee to go to her
house. She has spent most of her afternoons at home, thinking thou
wouldst come any moment. This shouldn't be. After my having introduced
thee, and after all that happened, thou owest her a call; a question of
asking for her health."
The _matador_ stopped in his walk and scratched his head beneath his
hat.
"Well, but," he murmured with indecision, "well, but I am embarrassed.
Yes, that is it; yes, sir, embarrassed. You know that I have my affairs
with women and that I know how to say a half dozen words to any common
_gachi_; but to this one, no. This is a lady, and when I see her I
realize that I am rough and coarse, and I keep my mouth shut, for I
can't speak without putting my foot in it. No, Don Jose, I am not going.
I ought not to go."
But the manager, sure of convincing him, conducted him toward Dona Sol's
house, talking of his recent interview with the lady. She showed herself
somewhat offended by Gallardo's forgetfulness. The best in Seville had
gone to see her since her accident at Tablada, but not he.
"Thou knowest that a bull-fighter should stand well with the people who
are worth while. One must have education and show that he is not a
herder raised in the branding-pen. A lady of so much importance who
honors thee and expects thee! Come! I will go with thee."
"Ah! If you accompany me!" And Gallardo drew a deep breath on hearing
this, as if he were freed from the weight of a great danger.
They entered Dona Sol's house. The courtyard was in Moorish style, its
many colored arcades of beautiful designs recalling the horseshoe arches
of the Alhambra. The fountain flowing into a basin where gold-fish were
swimming sang with sweet monotony in the afternoon stillness. In the
four surrounding passages with carved ceilings separated from the
courtyard by the marble columns of the arcades, the bull-fighter saw
ancient mosaics, time-darkened paintings, images of saints with livid
countenances, and wood-work worm-eaten as though it had been fusilladed
with small shot.
A servant conducted them up the broad marble stairway, and there again
the bull-fighter was surprised to see paintings on wood of rude figures
with a gilded background; voluptuous virgins that seemed to be hewn out
with an axe, with delicate colors and faded gold, looted from ancient
altars; tapestries of the soft tone of dry leaves, bordered with flowers
and fruits, some representing scenes from Calvary, others full of hairy
satyrs with hoofs and horns with whom nude girls seemed to play as men
play with bulls in the ring.
"How vast is ignorance," he said to his manager. "And I had thought that
all this was only good for convents. How much these people seem to value
it."
Gallardo received new surprises. He was proud of his own furniture
brought from Madrid, all of gaudy silk and complicated design, heavy and
rich, seeming to proclaim, as it were by shouts, the money it had cost,
but here he was dazzled at the sight of delicate and fragile chairs,
white or green, tables and cupboards of simple lines, walls of a single
tint with no other ornament than small paintings separated by great
distances, and hanging by heavy cords, the whole giving a tone of
subdued and quiet elegance that seemed the handiwork of artists. He was
ashamed of his own stupefaction and of what he had admired in his house
as the supreme of luxury. "How vast is ignorance!" And as he seated
himself he did so with care, fearing lest the chair would crumble
beneath his weight.
Dona Sol's presence banished these thoughts. He saw her, as he had never
before seen her, without _mantilla_ or hat, her glossy hair hanging, and
seeming to justify her romantic name. Her arms, of superlative
whiteness, escaped from the silken funnels of a Japanese tunic crossed
over the breast, which left uncovered a space of adorable neck, slightly
amber-colored, with the lines that suggest the neck of the mother Venus.
Stones of all colors set in rings of strange design covered her fingers
and scintillated with magic splendor as she moved her hands. On her
youthful wrists glistened bracelets of gold, some of Oriental filigree
with mysterious inscriptions, others massive, from which hung amulets
and little foreign figures, mementoes of distant travels. She had
crossed one leg over the other with manlike freedom, and on the point of
one of her feet dangled a red slipper with a high, gilded heel, tiny as
a toy, and covered with heavy embroidery.
Gallardo's ears buzzed, his vision was clouded, he only managed to
distinguish a pair of blue eyes fixed on him with an expression half
caressing, half ironic. To hide his emotion, he smiled, showing his
teeth,--the expressionless smile of a child who wishes to be amiable.
"No, Senora--many thanks. That amounted to nothing."
Thus he received Dona Sol's expressions of gratitude for his heroic feat
of the other afternoon. Little by little Gallardo began to acquire a
certain composure. The lady and the manager talked of bulls, and this
gave the swordsman a sudden confidence. She had seen him kill several
times, and she remembered exactly the principal incidents. Gallardo felt
pride that this woman had gazed upon him at such moments and had even
kept fresh the memory of his deeds. She opened a lacquer box, decorated
with weird flowers, and offered the men cigarettes with golden
mouthpieces which exhaled a strange and pungent perfume.
"They contain opium; they are very agreeable."
And she lighted one, following the smoke spirals with her greenish eyes
which acquired a tremor of liquid gold as they refracted the light. The
bull-fighter, accustomed to the strong Havana tobacco, smoked the
cigarette with curiosity. Pure straw; a mere treat for ladies. But the
strange perfume of the smoke slowly overcame his timidity.
Dona Sol, looking at him fixedly, asked questions about his life. She
wished to get a glimpse behind the scenes of glory, of the subterranean
ways of celebrity, of the miserable wandering life of the bull-fighter
before he gained public acclamation; and Gallardo, with sudden
confidence, talked and talked, telling of his youthful days, dwelling
with proud delectation on the lowliness of his origin, although omitting
all that he considered questionable in his eventful adolescence.
"Very interesting, very original!" said the handsome lady, and
withdrawing her eyes from the bull-fighter they became lost in wandering
contemplation, as if fixed on something invisible.
"The greatest man in the world!" exclaimed Don Jose in frank enthusiasm.
"Believe me, Sol; there are no two youths like this. And the way he
recuperates from horn-stabs--!"
Happy in Gallardo's fortitude, as if he were his progenitor, he
enumerated the wounds he had received, describing them as if they could
be seen through his clothing. The lady's eyes followed him in this
anatomical journey with sincere admiration. A true hero; timid, shy, and
simple, like all strong men. The manager spoke of taking his leave. It
was after seven and he was expected at home. But Dona Sol rose to her
feet with smiling determination as if to oppose his going. He must
remain; they must dine with her; a friendly invitation. That night she
expected no one else. The Marquis and his family had gone to the
country.
"I am alone--not another word. I command. You will stay and take
pot-luck with me."
And as if her orders admitted of no question, she left the room.
The manager protested. No, he could not remain; he had come from outside
the city that very afternoon, and his family had scarcely seen him.
Besides, he had invited two friends. As for his _matador_, it seemed to
him natural and proper that he should stay. Really, the invitation was
meant for him.
"But stay a while at least!" said the swordsman, distressed. "Damn it!
Don't leave me alone. I shall not know what to do; I shall not know what
to say."
A quarter of an hour afterward Dona Sol appeared again, dressed in one
of her Paris gowns, a Paquin model, the desperation and wonder of
relatives and friends.
Don Jose insisted again. He must go, but his _matador_ should stay. He
would take care to let them know at home so that they would not wait for
him. Again Gallardo made a gesture of agony, but he grew calm at a look
from the manager.
"Don't worry," he whispered, going toward the door, "dost thou think I
am a child? I will say thou art dining with some connoisseurs from
Madrid."
What torment Gallardo suffered during the first moments of the dinner!
He was intimidated by the grave and lordly luxury of the dining-room in
which he and the lady seemed to be lost, seated face to face at the
centre of a great table, under enormous silver candelabras with electric
lights and rose-colored shades. The imposing servants inspired awe; they
were ceremonious and impassive as if habituated to the most
extraordinary actions; as if nothing this lady did could surprise them.
He was ashamed of his dress and manners, feeling the strong contrast
between the environment and his appearance. But this first impression of
fear and shyness vanished little by little. Dona Sol laughed at his
moderation, at the fear with which he touched the plates and cups.
Gallardo ended by admiring her. What an appetite the blonde woman had!
Accustomed to the squeamishness and abstinence of the _senoritas_ he
had known, who thought it bad taste to eat much, he marvelled at Dona
Sol's voracity and at the naturalness with which she disposed of the
viands. Mouthfuls disappeared between her rosy lips without leaving the
slightest trace of their passage; her jaws worked without in the least
diminishing the beautiful serenity of her countenance; she carried the
glass to her mouth without the slightest drop of liquor spilling a
colored pearl upon her clothing. Surely thus must goddesses eat!
Gallardo, fired by her example, ate, and above all, drank much, seeking
in the varied and heavy wines a remedy for that stupidity that made him
silent as if abashed in the lady's presence, and unable to do more than
to smile and repeat, "Many thanks."
The conversation grew animated; the _matador_ became loquacious and
talked of funny incidents in the tauromachic life, ending by telling
about Nacional's original propaganda, and the feats of his _picador_
Potaje, a wild fellow who swallowed hard-boiled eggs whole; how he was
minus half an ear on account of one of his _compadres_ having bitten it
off, and how, on being carried injured into the infirmaries of the ring,
he would fall on the bed with such a weight of armor and muscle that he
would cut through the mattresses with his enormous spurs, and then had
to be unriveted.
"Very original! Very interesting!"
Dona Sol listened, smiling at the details of the existence of these
rough men, ever close to death, whom she had until then admired only at
a distance.
The champagne completed the work of upsetting Gallardo, and when he
rose from the table he gave his arm to the lady, surprised at his own
audacity. Did not they do so in the great world? He was not so ignorant
as he seemed at first sight!
In the drawing-room where coffee was served he saw a guitar. Dona Sol
offered it to him, asking him to play.
"But I don't know how! I am the most unskilled fellow in the world,
aside from killing bulls!"
He regretted that the _puntillero_ of his _cuadrilla_ was not there, a
boy who set the women crazy with his "hands of gold" for plucking the
strings of a guitar.
Gallardo was leaning back on a sofa smoking the magnificent Havana a
servant had offered him. Dona Sol was smoking one of the cigarettes
whose perfume created such a vague drowsiness. The heaviness of
digestion weighed upon the bull-fighter, closing his mouth and
permitting him no other sign of life than a fixed smile of stupidity.
The lady, wearied, doubtless, at the silence in which her words were
lost, seated herself before a grand piano, and striking the keys with
virile force, drew forth the gay rhythm of _Malaguenas_ followed by
_Sevillanas_, and then all the old Andalusian songs, melancholy and of
Oriental dreaminess, which Dona Sol had stored in her memory as an
enthusiastic admirer of _la tierra_.
Gallardo interrupted the music with his exclamations, just as he did
when seated near the stage of a music-hall.
"Good for those little hands of gold! Let's hear another."
"Do you enjoy music?" asked the lady.
"Oh, very much!" Gallardo had never been asked this question until now,
but undoubtedly he enjoyed it.
Dona Sol passed slowly from the lively rhythm of the popular songs to
other music more slow, more solemn, which the _matador_, in his
philharmonic wisdom, recognized as "church music." He no longer shouted
exclamations of enthusiasm. He was overcome by a delicious quiet, trying
to keep awake by contemplating the handsome lady whose back was turned
toward him. What a figure--Mother of God! His Moorish eyes fastened
themselves on the nape of her neck, round and white, crowned by an
aureole of wild, rebellious, golden hair. An absurd idea danced through
his blunted mind, keeping him awake with the tickling of temptation.
"What would that _gachi_ do if I should rise and creep up behind her
step by step and give her a kiss on that rich little neck of hers?"
But his design did not venture beyond a tempting thought. That woman
inspired an irresistible respect. Moreover, he remembered his manager's
talk of the arrogance with which she could frighten away troublesome
bores; of that little game learned in foreign lands which taught her how
to manage a strong man as if he were a rag. He continued gazing at the
white neck, like a moon surrounded by a nimbus of gold seen through the
clouds which drowsiness hung before his eyes. He was going to fall
asleep! He feared that suddenly a loud snore would interrupt the music,
a music incomprehensible to him, and which, consequently, must be
magnificent. He pinched his legs to keep awake; stretched out his arms;
covered his mouth with one hand to stifle his yawns.
A long time passed. Gallardo was not sure whether he had slept or not.
Suddenly Dona Sol's voice woke him from this painful somnolence. She had
laid down her cigarette with its blue spirals of smoke, and in a low
voice that accentuated the words, giving them impassioned trembling, she
sang, accompanying herself by the melody of the piano.
The bull-fighter cocked his ears to try to understand something. Not a
word. They were foreign songs. "Damn it! Why not a _tango_ or a _solea_?
And yet a Christian is expected to keep awake."
Dona Sol ran her fingers over the keys, casting her eyes upward,
throwing her head back, her firm breast trembling with musical sighs. It
was Elsa's prayer, the lament of the blonde virgin thinking of the
strong man, the brave warrior, invincible before men, and sweet and
timid with women. She dreamed awake in her song, throwing into her words
tremors of passion, the moisture rising to her eyes. The simple strong
man! The warrior! Maybe he was behind her! Why not?
He did not have the legendary aspect of the other; he was rough and
unpolished, but she could yet see, with the clarity of a vivid
recollection, the grace with which days before he had rushed to her
rescue; the smiling confidence with which he had fought a bellowing,
infuriated beast, just as the Wagnerian heroes fought frightful dragons.
Yes; he was _her_ warrior. And shaken from her heels to the roots of her
hair by a voluptuous fear, giving herself up for conquered in advance,
she thought she could divine the sweet danger that was approaching
behind her. She saw the hero, the knight, rise slowly from the sofa, his
Moorish eyes fixed upon her; she heard his cautious steps; she felt his
hands on her shoulders; then a kiss of fire on her neck, a brand of
passion that marked her his slave for all time--But suddenly the romance
ended, and nothing had happened; she had experienced no other impression
than her own thrills of timid desire.
Disappointed, she turned around on the piano stool; the music ceased.
The warrior was there, buried in the sofa, with a match in his hand,
trying to light his cigar for the fourth time, and opening his eyes
immeasurably wide to drive the torpor from his senses.
Seeing her eyes fastened upon him, Gallardo rose to his feet. Ah, the
supreme moment was coming! The hero strode toward her, to press her with
manly passion, to conquer her, to make her his.
"Good-night, Dona Sol. I must go, it is late. You will want to rest."
Impelled by surprise and dismay, she extended her hand, not knowing what
she did. Strong and simple like a hero!
All the feminine conventionalisms went rushing in confusion through her
mind, the traditional expressions a woman never forgets, not even in the
moments of her greatest abandon. Her desire was impossible. The first
time he entered her house? Without the slightest pretence of resistance?
Could she go to him? But when the swordsman clasped her hand she looked
into his eyes, eyes that could only gaze with impassioned steadiness,
that in their mute tenacity expressed his timid hopes, his silent
desires.
"Don't go--come; come!"
And she said no more.