The little old man straightened his bent back with an effort,
reaching a skinny hand toward the shelf above his head.
“The _señor_ plays chess, perhaps?” His hand held a little white
figure carved in ivory; he dusted it off against the faded black of
his coat-sleeve. “A wonderful game, _señor_. This set is of the
Moors—they carve superb in ivory, the Moors. Perhaps in the London
Museum of Victoria and Albert the _señor_ has seen the work before?”
“No,” I said, and moved away down the length of the table. “I lived
in Spain a year. Your place interests me.”
He laid aside the ivory figure and followed me down the room with
feeble steps; I noticed then that one of his feet dragged as he
walked. It was peculiarly unpleasant—indeed the whole personality of
this decrepit little old man seemed unpleasant and repulsive. I
stopped in the red glow of an iron lantern that hung from a bracket
upon the wall.
“I lived in Spain a year,” I repeated. “That is why, when I saw your
sign, I stopped in to look around.”
He stood beside me, looking up into my face, his head shaking with
the palsy of old age, his eyes gleaming into mine.
“In _España_ you have lived, eh?” The thin, cracked treble of his
voice came from lips that parted in a toothless smile. “That is
good—very good, _señor_.”
“In Granada,” I added briefly.
He put a shaking hand upon my arm; involuntarily I drew back from
his touch.
“The _señor_ has lived in Granada! My birthplace, _señor_—yet for
fifteen years have I been here in your New York. Fifteen years,
selling here the treasures of _España_. You have lived in
Granada—ah, then, _señor_, the Alhambra you have seen?”
“Yes,” I said, “of course.”
He picked up a little vase from the table before us. The fire of
patriotism that for an instant had lighted his face was gone;
cupidity marked it instead.
“The _señor_ perhaps is interested in ceramics?” His voice was
almost a whine. “The great Alhambra vase—greatest example of the
ceramic art of the Moors in all the world—here is its miniature,
_señor_. See—gazelles in cream and golden luster upon a blue field.
“And there—over there you see a Moorish plate, painted with a luster
of blue and copper. And there—the golden pottery of Malaga—you have
heard of that, _señor_? _Madre miu_, what beautiful pottery they
made—those Musselmen of Malaga!” He pointed at the lower shelf. “See
it gleam, _señor_ like purest gold. But to you, _señor_, you who
have been to _España_—because we understand these things, you and
I—will I sacrifice my treasure.”
“No,” I said. “The price does not matter.”
On the wall, above the red glow of the lantern, hung an unframed
canvas. In the amber light that shone on it from above I could see
its great splashes of color—the glittering, gaudy parade of a
bull-ring.
“That painting there,” I asked—“what is that?”
Again he put his hand upon my arm, and I felt myself shiver in the
close, warm air of the room.
“The _señor_ perhaps is rich?” His voice came hardly above a
whisper; he strained upward toward my face as though to exchange
some darkly mysterious secret. _Un Americano rico_,” he said, “and
the money perhaps does not matter?”
“Perhaps,” I said, and shook off his hold upon my arm.
“If that be so, _señor_, there are many among my treasures I could
show.”
“I have no money with me to-night,” I said.
He raised his hand deprecatingly. “Naturally, _señor_. We understand
each other. To have money in the pocket—it makes no importance if
one understands.”
I glanced up again at the vivid, colorful bull-ring pictured upon
the wall. His eyes followed mine.
“Francisco Goya,” he said. “Greatest in _España_ to follow the great
Velasquez.”
“You mean that is an original Goya?” I exclaimed.
His voice fell again to whining. “Ah, _señor_, no more can I tell
you than they told to me. You, perhaps, who are of the art a
judge—you can say if indeed it is of Goya.”
He waited, but I did not answer.
“A person very droll, _señor_—the great Goya. A fighter in the
bull-ring once, before he took the brush. And with the women—_Madre
mia_, how they loved him—those women in the court of the fourth
Charles! He painted well, _señor_. And his pictures of the
bull-ring—like that, _señor_”—his hands went up as though in
benediction—“there are none better.”