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BLOOD AND SAND
A Novel
by
VICENTE BLASCO IBÁÑEZ
Translated from the Spanish by Mrs. W. A. Gillespie
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers New York
By arrangement with E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc.
Copyright, 1919, 1922,
By E. P. Dutton & Company
All Rights Reserved
Printed in the United States of America
BLASCO IBÁÑEZ AND "SANGRE Y ARENA"
One of the secrets of the immense power exercised by the novels of
Vicente Blasco Ibáñez is that they are literary projections of his
dynamic personality. Not only the style, but the book, is here the man.
This is especially true of those of his works in which the thesis
element predominates, and in which the famous author of _The Four
Horsemen of the Apocalypse_ appears as a novelist of ideas-in-action. It
is, of course, possible to divide his works into the "manners" or
"periods" so dear to the literary cataloguers, and it may thus be
indicated that there are such fairly distinct genres as the regional
novel, the sociological tale and the psychological study; a convenient
classification of this sort would place among the regional novels such
masterpieces as _La Barraca_ and _Cañas y Barro_,--among the novels of
purpose such powerful writings as _La Catedral_, _La Bodega_ and _Sangre
y Arena_,--among the psychological studies the introspective _La Maja
Desnuda_. The war novels, including _The Four Horsemen_ and the epic
_Mare Nostrum_, would seem to form another group. Such non-literary
diversions as grouping and regrouping, however, had perhaps best be left
to those who relish the task. It is for the present more important to
note that the passionate flame of a deeply human purpose welds the man's
literary labors into a larger unity. His pen, as his person, has been
given over to humanity. He is as fearless in his denunciation of evil as
he is powerful in his description of it; he has lived his ideas as well
as fashioned them into enduring documents; he reveals not only a new
Spain, but a new world.
While Blasco Ibáñez does not desire to be known as regional
novelist--nor does a complete view of his numerous works justify such a
narrow description--he has nevertheless in his earlier books made such
effective and artistic use of regional backgrounds that some critics
have found this part of his production best. Speaking from the
standpoint of durable literary art, I am inclined to such a view. Yet is
there less humanitarian impulse in _The Four Horsemen_ than in these
earlier masterpieces? Whether Blasco Ibáñez's background is a corner in
Valencia, a spot on the island of Majorca, a battlefield in France, or
Our Sea the Mediterranean,--the cradle of civilization,--his real stage
is the human heart and his real actor, man.
Upon his election to the Cortes,--Spain's national parliamentary
assembly,--Blasco Ibáñez naturally turned, in his novels, to a
consideration of political and social themes. Beginning with _La
Catedral_ (The Shadow of the Cathedral), one of the most powerful modern
documents of its kind, he took up in successive novels the treatment of
such vital subjects as the relation of Church to State, the degrading
and backward influence of drunkenness, the problem of the Jesuits, the
brutality and psychology of the bull-fight. In all of these works the
writer is characterized by fearlessness, passion and even vehemence; yet
his ardor is not so strong as to lead him into conscious unfairness. A
fiery advocate of the lowly, he yet can cast their shortcomings into
their teeth; they, in their ignorance, are accomplices in their own
degradation, partners in the crimes that oppress them. They slay the
leaders whom they misunderstand; they are slow to organize for the
purpose of bursting their shackles. This appears in _La Barraca_ (one of
the so-called regional novels) no less than in _La Catedral_, _La
Bodega_ and other books of the more purely sociological series. In
varying degree, applied to a nation rather than to a class, this
fearless attitude is evident in _Los Cuatros Jinetes del Apocalipsis_
and _Mare Nostrum_, in which is assailed the neutrality of Spain during
the late and unlamented conflict. This unflinching determination to see
the truth and state it is also discernible in a most personal manner;
the sad inability of such noble spirits as Gabriel Luna (_La Catedral_)
or Fernando Salvatierra (_La Bodega_) to solace themselves with a belief
in future life is perhaps an exteriorization of the author's own views,
even as these revolutionary spirits are, in part, embodiments of
himself.
In the bulk of the noted Spaniard's books there is waged, on both a
large scale and a small, the ceaseless, implacable struggle of the new
against the old. This eternal battle early formed an appreciable part of
even the writer's short fiction. His old seamen look with scorn upon the
steam-vessels that replace their beloved barks; his vintners regret the
passing of the good old days when sherry sold high and had not yet been
ousted from the market by cheap, new-fangled concoctions; his toilers
begin to rebel against ecclesiastical authority; some of his heroes are
even capable of falling in love with Jewesses or with women below their
station (_Luna Benamor_, _Los Muertos Mandan_); everywhere is the
fermentation of transition. His protagonists,--red-blooded, vigorous,
determined,--usually fail at the end, but if there are victories that
spell failure, so are there failures that spell victory. It is the clash
of these ancient and modern forces that strikes the spark which ignites
the author's passion. He is with the new and of it, yet rises above
blind partisanship. His dominant figures, chiefly men, are
representative of the Spain of to-morrow; not that mañana which has so
long (and often unjustly) been a standing reproach to Iberian
procrastination, but a to-morrow of rebirth, of rededication to lofty
ideals and glowing realities.
In _Sangre y Arena_ (_Blood and Sand_, written in 1908) Blasco Ibáñez
attacks the Spanish national sport. With characteristic thoroughness,
approaching his subject from the psychological, the historical, the
national, the humane, the dramatic and narrative standpoint, he evolves
another of his notable documents, worthy of a place among the great
tracts of literary history.
His process, like his plot, is simple; whether attacking the Church or
the evils of drink, or the bloodlust of the bull ring, his methods are
usually the same. He provides a protagonist who shall serve as the
vehicle or symbol of his ideas, surrounding him with minor personages
intended to serve as a foil or as a prop. He fills in the background
with all the wealth of descriptive and coloring powers at his
command--and these powers are as highly developed in Ibáñez, I believe,
as in any living writer. The beauty of Blasco Ibáñez's descriptions--a
beauty by no means confined to the pictures he summons to the mind--is
that, at their best, they rise to interpretation. He not only brings
before the eye a vivid image, but communicates to the spirit an
intellectual reaction. Here he is the master who penetrates beyond the
exterior into the inner significance; the reader is carried into the
swirl of the action itself, for the magic of the author's pen imparts a
sense of palpitant actuality; you are yourself a soldier at the Marne,
you fairly drown with Ulises in his beloved Mediterranean, you defend
the besieged city of Saguntum, you pant with the swordsman in the bloody
arena. This gift of imparting actuality to his scenes is but another
evidence of the Spaniard's dynamic personality; he lives his actions so
thoroughly that we live them with him; his gift of second sight gives us
to see beyond amphitheatres of blood and sand into national character,
beyond a village struggle into the vexed problem of land, labor and
property. Against this type of background develops the characteristic
Ibáñez plot, by no means lacking intimate interest, yet beginning
somewhat slowly and gathering the irresistible momentum of a powerful
body.
Juan Gallardo, the hero of _Blood and Sand_, has from earliest childhood
exhibited a natural aptitude for the bull ring. He is aided in his
career by interested parties, and soon jumps to the forefront of his
idolized profession, without having to thread his way arduously up the
steep ascent of the bull fighters' hierarchy. Fame and fortune come to
him, and he is able to gratify the desires of his early days, as if the
mirage of hunger and desire had suddenly been converted into dazzling
reality. He lavishes largess upon his mother and his childless wife,
and there comes, too, a love out of wedlock.
But neither his powers nor his fame can last forever. The life of even
Juan Gallardo is taken into his hands every time he steps into the ring
to face the wild bulls; at first comes a minor accident, then a loss of
prestige, and at last the fatal day upon which he is carried out of the
arena, dead. He dies a victim of his own glory, a sacrifice upon the
altar of national blood-lust. That Doña Sol who lures him from his wife
and home is, in her capricious, fascinating, baffling way, almost a
symbol of the fickle bull-fight audience, now hymning the praises of a
favorite, now sneering him off the scene of his former triumphs.
The tale is more than a colorful, absorbing story of love and struggle.
It is a stinging indictment brought against the author's countrymen,
thrown in their faces with dauntless acrimony. He shows us the glory of
the arena,--the movement, the color, the mastery of the skilled
performers,--and he reveals, too, the sickening other side. In
successive pictures he mirrors the thousands that flock to the bull
fights, reaching a tremendous climax in the closing words of the tale.
The popular hero has just been gored to death, but the crowd, knowing
that the spectacle is less than half over, sets up yells for the
continuance of the performance. In the bellowing of the mob Blasco
Ibáñez divines the howl of the real and only animals. Not the
sacrificial bulls, but the howling, bloodthirsty assembly is the genuine
beast!
The volume is rich in significant detail, both as regards the master's
peculiar powers and his views as expressed in other words. Once again we
meet the author's determination to be just to all concerned. Through Dr.
Ruiz, for example, a medical enthusiast over tauromachy, we receive what
amounts to a lecture upon the evolution of the brutal sport. He looks
upon bull-fighting as the historical substitute for the Inquisition,
which was in itself a great national festival. He is ready to admit,
too, that the bull fight is a barbarous institution, but calls to your
attention that it is by no means the only one in the world. In the
turning of the people to violent, savage forms of amusement he beholds a
universal ailment. And when Dr. Ruiz expresses his disgust at seeing
foreigners turn eyes of contempt upon Spain because of the bull-fight,
he no doubt speaks for Blasco Ibáñez. The enthusiastic physician points
out that horse-racing is more cruel than bull-fighting, and kills many
more men; that the spectacle of fox-hunting with trained dogs is hardly
a sight for civilized onlookers; that there is more than one modern game
out of which the participants emerge with broken legs, fractured skulls,
flattened noses and what not; and how about the duel, often fought with
only an unhealthy desire for publicity as the genuine cause?
Thus, through the Doctor, the Spaniard states the other side of the
case, saying, in effect, to the foreign reader, "Yes, I am upbraiding my
countrymen for the national vice that they are pleased to call a sport.
That is my right as a Spaniard who loves his country and as a human
being who loves his race. But do not forget that you have institutions
little less barbarous, and before you grow too excited in your desire to
remove the mote from our eye, see to it that you remove your own, for it
is there."
Juan Gallardo is not one of the impossible heroes that crowd the pages
of fiction; to me he is a more successful portrait than, for example,
Gabriel Luna of _The Shadow of the Cathedral_. There is a certain
rigidity in Luna's make-up, due perhaps to his unbending certainty in
matters of belief,--or to be exact, matters of unbelief. This is felt
even in his moments of love, although that may be accounted for by the
vicissitudes of his wandering existence and the illness with which it
has left him. Gallardo is somehow more human; he is not a matinée hero;
he knows what it is to quake with fear before he enters the ring; he
comes to a realization of what his position has cost him; he impresses
us not only as a powerful type, but as a flesh and blood creature. And
his end, like that of so many of the author's protagonists, comes about
much in the nature of a retribution. He dies at the hands of the thing
he loves, on the stage of his triumphs. And while I am on the subject of
the hero's death, let me suggest that Blasco Ibáñez's numerous death
scenes often attain a rare height of artistry and poetry,--for, strange
as it may seem to some, there is a poet hidden in the noted Spaniard, a
poet of vast conception, of deep communion with the interplay of Nature
and her creatures, of vision that becomes symbolic. Recall the death of
the Centaur Madariaga in _The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse_, dashing
upon his beloved steed, like a Mazeppa of the South American plains,
straight into eternity; read the remarkable passages portraying the
deaths of Triton and Ulises in _Mare Nostrum_; consider the deeply
underlying connotation of Gabriel Luna's fate. These are not mere
dyings; they are apotheoses.
Doña Sol belongs to the author's siren types; she is an early sister of
Freya, the German spy who leads to the undoing of Ulises in _Mare
Nostrum_. She is one of the many proofs that Blasco Ibáñez, in his
portrayals of the worldly woman, seizes upon typical rather than
individual traits; she puzzles the reader quite as much as she confuses
her passionate lover. And she is no more loyal to him than is the
worshipping crowd that at last, in her presence, dethrones its former
idol.
Among the secondary characters, as interesting as any, is the friend of
Juan who is nicknamed Nacional, because of his radical political
notions. Nacional does not drink wine; to him wine was responsible for
the failure of the laboring-class, a point of view which the author had
already enunciated three years earlier in _La Bodega_; similar to the
rôle played by drink is that of illiteracy, and here, too, Nacional
feels the terrible burdens imposed upon the common people by lack of
education. Indicative of the author's sympathies is also his strange
bandit Plumitas, a sort of Robin Hood who robs from the rich and succors
the poor. The humorous figure of the bull-fighter's brother-in-law
suggests the horde of sycophants that always manage to attach themselves
to a noted--and generous--public personage.
The dominant impression that the book leaves upon me is one of
power,--crushing, implacable power. The author's paragraphs and chapters
often seem hewn out of rock and solidly massed one upon the other in the
rearing of an impregnable structure. And just as these chapters are
massed into a temple of passionate protest, so the entire works of
Blasco Ibáñez attain an architectural unity in which not the least of
the elements are a flaming nobility of purpose and a powerful directness
of aim.
Once upon a time, and it was not so very long ago, it was the fashion in
certain quarters to regard Blasco Ibáñez as impossible and utopian. The
trend of world events has greatly modified the meanings of some of our
words and has given us a deeper insight into hitherto neglected aspects
of foreign and domestic life. Things have been happening lately in Spain
(as well as elsewhere, indeed!) that reveal our author in somewhat the
light of a prophet. Or is it merely that he is closer to the heart of
his nation and describes what he sees rather than draws a veil of words
before unpleasant situations? Ultimately these situations must be met.
The Spain of to-morrow will be found to have moved more in the direction
of Blasco Ibáñez than in that of his detractors.
The renowned novelist is but fifty-two, energetic, prolific, voluminous;
besides more than a score of novels thus far to his credit he has
written several books of travel, a history of the world war, has
travelled in both hemispheres and made countless volumes of
translations. He has now a larger audience than has been vouchsafed any
of his fellow novelists, and his future works will be watched for by
readers the world over. That is a rare privilege and imposes a rare
obligation. Blasco Ibáñez has it in him to meet both.
ISAAC GOLDBERG.
Roxbury, Mass.
BLOOD AND SAND
CHAPTER I
Juan Gallardo breakfasted early as was his custom on the days of a
bull-fight. A little roast meat was his only dish. Wine he did not
touch, and the bottle remained unopened before him. He had to keep
himself steady. He drank two cups of strong black coffee and then,
lighting an enormous cigar, sat with his elbows resting on the table and
his chin on his hands, watching with drowsy eyes the customers who,
little by little, began to fill the dining-room.
For many years past, ever since he had been given "la alternativa"[1] in
the Bull-ring of Madrid, he had always lodged at that same hotel in the
Calle de Alcala, where the proprietors treated him as one of the family,
and waiters, porters, kitchen scullions, and old chambermaids all adored
him as the glory of the establishment.
There also had he stayed many days, swathed in bandages, in a dense
atmosphere of iodoform and cigar smoke, as the result of two bad
gorings--but these evil memories had not made much impression. With his
Southern superstition and continual exposure to danger he had come to
believe that this hotel was a "Buena Sombra,"[2] and that whilst staying
there no harm would happen to him. The risks of his profession he had
to take, a tear in his clothes perhaps, or even a gash in his flesh,
but nothing to make him fall for ever, as so many of his comrades had
fallen. The recollection of these tragedies disturbed his happiest
hours.
On these days, after his early breakfast, he enjoyed sitting in the
dining-room watching the movements of the travellers, foreigners or
people from distant provinces, who passed him by with uninterested faces
and without a glance, but who turned with curiosity on hearing from the
servants that the handsome young fellow with clean-shaven face and black
eyes, dressed like a gentleman, was Juan Gallardo, the famous
matador,[3] called familiarly by everybody "El Gallardo."
In this atmosphere of curiosity he whiled away the wearisome wait until
it was time to go to the Plaza. How long the time seemed! Those hours of
uncertainty, in which vague fears rose from the depths of his soul,
making him doubtful of himself, were the most painful in his profession.
He did not care to go out into the street--he thought of the fatigues of
the Corrida and the necessity of keeping himself fresh and agile. Nor
could he amuse himself with the pleasures of the table, on account of
the necessity of eating little and early, so as to arrive in the Plaza
free from the heaviness of digestion.
He remained at the head of the table, his face resting on his hands, and
a cloud of perfumed smoke before his eyes which he turned from time to
time with a self-satisfied air in the direction of some ladies who were
watching the famous torero[3] with marked interest.
His vanity as an idol of the populace made him read praises and
flatteries in those glances. They evidently thought him spruce and
elegant, and he, forgetting his anxieties, with the instinct of a man
accustomed to adopt a proud bearing before the public, drew himself up,
dusted the ashes of his cigar from his coat sleeves with a flick, and
adjusted the ring which, set with an enormous brilliant, covered the
whole joint of one finger, and from which flashed a perfect rainbow of
colours as if its depths, clear as a drop of water, were burning with
magic fires.
His eyes travelled complaisantly over his own person, admiring his
well-cut suit, the cap which he usually wore about the hotel now thrown
on a chair close by, the fine gold chain which crossed the upper part of
his waistcoat from pocket to pocket, the pearl in his cravat, which
seemed to light up the swarthy colour of his face with its milky light,
and his Russia leather shoes, which showed between the instep and the
turned-up trouser openwork embroidered silk socks, like the stockings of
a cocotte.
An atmosphere of English scents, sweet and vague, but used in profusion,
emanated from his clothes, and from the black, glossy waves of hair
which he wore curled on his temples, and he assumed a swaggering air
before this feminine curiosity. For a torero he was not bad. He felt
satisfied with his appearance. Where would you find a man more
distinguished or more attractive to women?
But suddenly his preoccupation reappeared, the fire of his eyes was
quenched, his chin again sank on his hand, and he puffed hard at his
cigar.
His gaze lost itself in a cloud of smoke. He thought with impatience of
the twilight hours, longing for them to come as soon as possible,--of
his return from the bull-fight, hot and tired, but with the relief of
danger overcome, his appetites awakened, a wild desire for pleasure, and
the certainty of a few days of safety and rest. If God still protected
him as He had done so many times before, he would dine with the
appetite of his former days of want, he would drink his fill too, and
would then go in search of a girl who was singing in a music-hall, whom
he had seen during one of his journeys, without, however, having been
able to follow up the acquaintance. In this life of perpetual movement,
rushing from one end of the Peninsula to the other, he never had time
for anything.
Several enthusiastic friends who, before going to breakfast in their own
houses, wished to see the "diestro,"[4] had by this time entered the
dining-room. They were old amateurs of the bull-ring, anxious to form a
small coterie and to have an idol. They had made the young Gallardo
"their own matador," giving him sage advice, and recalling at every turn
their old adoration for "Lagartijo" or "Frascuelo."[5] They spoke to the
"espada" as "tu," with patronising familiarity and he, when he answered
them, placed the respectful "don" before their names, with that
traditional separation of classes which exists between even a torero
risen from a social substratum and his admirers.
These people joined to their enthusiasm their memories of past times, in
order to impress the young diestro with the superiority of their years
and experience. They spoke of the "old Plaza" of Madrid, where only
"true" toreros and "true" bulls were known, and drawing nearer to the
present times, they trembled with excitement as they remembered the
"Negro."[6] That "Negro" was Frascuelo.
If you could only have seen him!... But probably you and those of your
day were still at the breast or were not yet born.
Other enthusiasts kept coming into the dining-room, men of wretched
appearance and hungry faces, obscure reporters of papers only known to
the bull-fighters, whom they honoured with their praise or censure:
people of problematic profession who appeared as soon as the news of
Gallardo's arrival got about, besieging him with flatteries and requests
for tickets. The general enthusiasm permitted them to mix with the other
gentlemen, rich merchants and public functionaries, who discussed
bull-fighting affairs with them hotly without being troubled by their
beggarly appearance.
All of them, on seeing the espada,[7] embraced him or clasped his hand,
to a running accompaniment of questions and exclamations:
"Juanillo!... How is Carmen?"
"Quite well, thank you."
"And your mother? the Señora Angustias?"
"Famous, thanks. She is at La Rincona."
"And your sister and the little nephews?"
"In good health, thanks."
"And that ridiculous fellow, your brother-in-law?"
"Well, also. As great a talker as ever."
"And, a little family? Is there no hope?"
"No--not that much----." And he bit his nails in expressive negation.
He then turned his enquiries on the stranger, of whose life, beyond his
love for bull-fighting, he was completely ignorant.
"And your own family? Are they also quite well?--Come along, I am glad
to meet you. Sit down and have something."
Next he enquired about the looks of the bulls with which he was going
to fight in a few hours' time, because all these friends had just come
from the Plaza, after seeing the separation and boxing of the animals,
and with professional curiosity he asked for news from the Café
Ingles,[8] where many of the amateurs foregathered.
It was the first "Corrida"[9] of the Spring season, and Gallardo's
enthusiastic admirers had great hopes of him as they called to mind all
the articles they had read in the papers, describing his recent triumphs
in other Plazas in Spain. He had more engagements than any other torero.
Since the Corrida of the Feast of the Resurrection,[10] the first
important event in the taurine year. Gallardo had gone from place to
place killing bulls. Later on, when August and September came round, he
would have to spend his nights in the train and his afternoons in the
ring, with scarcely breathing time between them. His agent in Seville
was nearly frantic--overwhelmed with letters and telegrams, and not
knowing how to fit so many requests for engagements into the exigencies
of time.
The evening before this he had fought at Ciudad Real and, still in his
splendid dress, had thrown himself into the train in order to arrive in
Madrid in the morning. He had spent a wakeful night, only sleeping by
snatches, boxed up in the small sitting accommodation that the other
passengers managed, by squeezing themselves together, to leave for the
man who was to risk his life on the following day.
The enthusiasts admired his physical endurance and the daring courage
with which he threw himself on the bull at the moment of killing it.
"Let us see what you can do this afternoon," they said with the fervour
of zealots, "the fraternity[11] expects great things from you. You will
lower the Mona[12] of many of our rivals. Let us see you as dashing here
as you were in Seville!"
His admirers dispersed to their breakfasts at home in order to go early
to the Corrida. Gallardo, finding himself alone, was making his way up
to his room, impelled by the nervous restlessness which overpowered him,
when a man holding two children by the hand, pushed open the glass doors
of the dining-room, regardless of the servant's enquiries as to his
business. He smiled seraphically when he saw the torero and advanced,
with his eyes fixed on him, dragging the children along and scarcely
noticing where he placed his feet. Gallardo recognised him, "How are
you, Comparé?"
Then began all the usual questions as to the welfare of the family,
after which the man turned to his children saying solemnly:
"Here he is. You are always asking to see him. He's exactly like his
portraits, isn't he?"
The two mites stared religiously at the hero whose portraits they had so
often seen on the prints which adorned the walls of their poor little
home, a supernatural being whose exploits and wealth had been their
chief admiration ever since they had begun to understand mundane
matters.
"Juanillo, kiss your Godfather's hand," and the younger of the two
rubbed a red cheek against the torero's hand, a cheek newly polished by
his mother in view of this visit.
Gallardo caressed his head abstractedly. This was one of the numerous
godchildren he had about Spain. Enthusiasts forced him to stand
godfather to their children, thinking in this way to secure their
future, and to have to appear at baptisms was one of the penalties of
his fame. This, particular godson reminded him of bad times at the
beginning of his career, and he felt grateful to the father for the
confidence he had placed in him at a time when others were still
doubtful of his merits.
"And how about your business, Comparé?" enquired Gallardo, "Is it going
on better?"
The aficionado[13] shrugged his shoulders. He was getting a livelihood,
thanks to his dealings in the barley market--just getting a livelihood,
nothing more.
Gallardo looked compassionately at his threadbare Sunday-best clothes.
"Would you like to see the Corrida, Comparé? Well go up to my room and
tell Garabato[14] to give you a ticket.---- Good-bye, my dear fellow.
Here's a trifle to buy yourselves some little thing," and while the
little godson again kissed his right hand, with his other hand the
matador gave each child a couple of duros.
The father dragged away his offspring with many grateful excuses, though
he did not succeed in making clear, in his very confused thanks, whether
his delight was for the present to the children, or for the ticket for
the bull-fight which the diestro's servant would give him.
Gallardo waited for some time so as not to meet his admirer and the
children in his room. Then he looked at his watch. Only one o'clock!
What a long time it still was till the bull-fight!
As he came out of the dining-room and turned towards the stairs, a woman
wrapped in an old cloak came out of the hall-porter's office, barring
his way with determined familiarity, quite regardless of the servants'
expostulations.
"Juaniyo! Juan! Don't you know me? I am 'la Caracolá,[15] the Señora
Dolores, mother of poor Lechuguero."[16]
Gallardo smiled at this little dark wizened woman, verbose and vehement,
with eyes burning like live coals,--the eyes of a witch. At the same
time, knowing what would be the outcome of her volubility, he raised his
hand to his waistcoat pocket.
"Misery, my son! Poverty and affliction! When I heard you were
bull-fighting to-day I said 'I will go and see Juaniyo: He will remember
the mother of his poor comrade.' How smart you are, gipsy! All the women
are crazy after you, you rascal! I am very badly off, my son. I have not
even a shift, and nothing has entered my mouth to-day but a little
Cazaya.[17] They keep me, out of pity, in la Pepona's house, who is from
over there--from our own country,--a very decent five duro house. Come
round there, they would love to see you. I dress girls' hair and run
errands for the men. Ah! If only my poor son were alive! You remember
Pepiyo? Do you remember the afternoon on which he died?----"
Gallardo put a duro into her dry hand and did his best to escape from
her volubility, which by this time was showing signs of imminent tears.
Cursed witch! Why did she come and remind him, on the day of a Corrida,
of poor Lechuguero, the companion of his early years, whom he had seen
killed almost instantaneously, gored to the heart, in the Plaza of
Lebrija, when the two were bull-fighting as Novilleros?[18] Foul hag of
evil omen!
He thrust her aside, but she, flitting from sorrow to joy with the
inconsequence of a bird, broke out into enthusiastic praises of the
brave boys, the good toreros, who carried away the money of the public
and the hearts of the women.
"You deserve to have the Queen, my beauty! The Señora Carmen will have
to keep her eyes wide open. Some fine day a 'gachi' will steal and keep
you. Can't you give me a ticket for this afternoon, Juaniyo? I am
bursting with longing to see you kill!"
The old woman's shrill voice and noisy cajoleries diverted the amused
attention of the hotel servants and enabled a number of inquisitive
idlers and beggars who, attracted by the presence of the torero, had
collected outside the entrance, to break through the strict supervision
that was usually maintained at the doors.
Heedless of the hotel servants, an irruption of loafers, ne'er-do-wells
and newspaper sellers burst into the hall.
Ragamuffins, with bundles of papers under their arms, flourished their
caps and greeted Gallardo with boisterous familiarity.
"El Gallardo," "Olé El Gallardo," "Long live the Brave."
The more daring seized his hand, shaking it roughly and pulling it about
in their anxiety to keep touch of this national hero, whose portraits
they had all seen in every paper, as long as ever they could, and then,
to give their companions a chance of sharing their triumph, they shouted
"Shake his hand. He won't be offended! He's a real good sort." Their
devotion made them almost kneel before the matador.
There were also other admirers, just as insistent, with unkempt beards
and clothes that had been fashionable in the days of their youth, who
shuffled round their idol in boots that had seen better days. They swept
their greasy sombreros towards him, spoke in a low voice and called him
"Don Juan," in order to emphasise the difference between themselves and
the rest of that irreverent, excited crowd. Some of them drew attention
to their poverty and asked for a small donation, others, with more
impertinence, asked, in the name of their love of the sport, for a
ticket for the Corrida,--fully intending to sell it immediately.
Gallardo defended himself laughingly against this avalanche which
jostled and overwhelmed him, and from which the hotel servants, who were
bewildered at the excitement aroused by his popularity, were quite
unable to save him.
He searched through all his pockets until he finally turned them out
empty, distributing silver coins broadcast among the greedy hands held
out to clutch them.
"There is no more! The fuel is finished! Leave me alone, my friends!"
Pretending to be annoyed by this popularity, which in fact flattered him
greatly, he suddenly opened a way through them with his muscular
athletic arms, and ran upstairs, bounding up the steps with the
lightness of a wrestler, while the servants, freed from the restraint of
his presence, pushed the crowd towards the door and swept them into the
street.
Gallardo passed the room occupied by his servant Garabato, and saw him
through the half open door, busy amid trunks and boxes, preparing his
master's clothes for the Corrida.
On finding himself alone in his own room, the happy excitement caused by
the avalanche of admirers vanished at once. The bad moments of the days
of a Corrida returned, the anxiety of those last hours before going to
the Plaza. Bulls of Muira[19] and a Madrid audience. The danger, which
when facing him seemed to intoxicate him and increase his daring, was
anguish to him when alone,--something supernatural, fearful and
intimidating from its very uncertainty.
He felt overwhelmed, as if the fatigues of his previous bad night had
suddenly overcome him. He longed to throw himself on one of the beds
which occupied the end of the room, but again the anxiety which
possessed him, with its mystery and uncertainty, banished the desire to
sleep.
He walked restlessly up and down the room, lighting another Havanna from
the end of the one he had just smoked.
What would be the result for him of the Madrid season just about to
commence? What would his enemies say? What would his professional rivals
do? He had killed many Muira bulls,--after all they were only like any
other bulls,--still, he thought of his comrades fallen in the
arena,--nearly all of them victims of animals from this herd. Cursed
Muiras! No wonder he and other espadas exacted a thousand pesetas[20]
more in their contracts each time they fought with bulls of this breed.
He wandered vaguely about the room with nervous step. Now and then he
stopped to gaze vacantly at well known things amongst his luggage, and
finally he threw himself into an arm-chair, as if seized with a sudden
weakness. He looked often at his watch--not yet two o'clock. How slowly
the time passed!
He longed, as a relief for his nervousness, for the time to come as soon
as possible for him to dress and go to the Plaza. The people, the
noise, the general curiosity, the desire to show himself calm and at
ease before an admiring public, and above all the near approach of
danger, real and personal, would instantly blot out this anguish of
solitude, in which the espada, with no external excitement to assist
him, felt himself face to face with something very like fear.
The necessity for distracting his mind made him search the inside pocket
of his coat and take out of his pocket-book a letter which exhaled a
strong sweet scent.
Standing by a window, through which entered the dull light of an
interior courtyard, he looked at the envelope which had been delivered
to him on his arrival at the hotel, admiring the elegance of the
handwriting in which the address was written,--so delicate and well
shaped.
Then he drew out the letter, inhaling its indefinable perfume with
delight. Ah! These people of high birth who had travelled much! How they
revealed their inimitable breeding, even in the smallest details!
Gallardo, as though he still carried about his person the pungent odour
of the poverty of his early years, perfumed himself abundantly. His
enemies laughed at this athletic young fellow who by his love of scent
belied the strength of his sex. Even his admirers smiled at his
weakness, though often they had to turn their heads aside, sickened by
the diestro's excess.
A whole perfumer's shop accompanied him on his journeys, and the most
feminine scents anointed his body as he went down into the arena amongst
the scattered entrails of dead horses and their blood-stained dung.
Certain enamoured cocottes whose acquaintance he had made during a
journey to the Plazas in the South of France had given him the secret of
combining and mixing rare perfumes,--but the scent of that letter! It
was the scent of the person who had written it!--that mysterious scent
so delicate, indefinable, and inimitable, which seemed to emanate from
her aristocratic form, and which he called "the scent of the lady."
He read and re-read the letter with a beatified smile of delight and
pride.
It was not much, only half a dozen lines--"a greeting from Seville,
wishing him good luck in Madrid. Congratulations beforehand on his
expected triumph----." The letter might have been lost anywhere without
compromising the woman who signed it.
"Friend Gallardo," it began, in a delicate handwriting which made the
torero's eyes brighten, and it ended "Your friend, Sol," all in a coldly
friendly style, writing to him as "Usté"[21] with an amiable tone of
superiority, as though the words were not between equals, but fell in
mercy from on high.
As the torero looked at the letter, with the adoration of a man of the
people little versed in reading, he could not suppress a certain feeling
of annoyance, as though he felt himself despised.
"That gachí!" he murmured, "What a woman! No one can discompose her! See
how she writes to me as 'Usté!' 'Usté'--to me!"
But pleasant memories made him smile with self-satisfaction. That cold
style was for letters only,--the ways of a great lady,--the precautions
of a woman of the world. His annoyance soon turned to admiration.
"How clever she is! A cautious minx!"
He smiled a smile of professional satisfaction, the pride of a tamer who
enhances his own glory by exaggerating the strength of the wild beast he
has overcome.
While Gallardo was admiring his letter, his servant Garabato passed in
and out of the room, laden with clothes and boxes which he spread on a
bed.
He was very quiet in his movements, very deft of hand, and seemed to
take no notice of the matador's presence.
For many years past he had accompanied the diestro to all his
bull-fights as "Sword carrier."[22] He had begun bull-fighting at the
"Capeas"[23] at the same time as Gallardo, but all the bad luck had been
for him and all the advancement and fame for his companion.
He was dark, swarthy, and of poor muscular development, and a jagged,
badly joined scar crossed his wrinkled, flabby, old-looking face like a
white scrawl. It was a goring he had received in the Plaza of some town
he had visited and which had nearly been his death, and besides this
terrible wound, there were others which disfigured parts of his body
which could not be seen.
By a miracle he had emerged with his life from his passion for
bull-fighting, and the cruel part of it was that people used to laugh at
his misfortunes, and seemed to take a pleasure in seeing him trampled
and mangled by the bulls.
Finally his pig-headed obstinacy yielded to misfortune and he decided to
become the attendant and confidential servant of his old friend. He was
Gallardo's most fervent admirer, though he sometimes took advantage of
this confidential intimacy to allow himself to criticise and advise.
"Had he stood in his master's skin he would have done better under
certain circumstances."
Gallardo's friends found the wrecked ambitions of the sword carrier an
unfailing source of merriment, but he took no notice of their jokes.
Give up bulls? Never!! So that all memory of the past should not be
effaced, he combed his coarse hair in curls above his ears, and
preserved on his occiput the long, sacred lock, the pig-tail of his
younger days, the hall-mark of the profession which distinguished him
from other mortals.
When Gallardo was angry with him, his noisy, impulsive rage always
threatened this capillary appendage. "You dare to wear a pig-tail,
shameless dolt? I'll cut off that rat's tail for you! Confounded idiot!
Maleta!!"[24]
Garabato received these threats resignedly, but he revenged himself by
retiring into the silence of a superior being, and only replying by a
shrug of his shoulders to the exultation of his master when, on
returning from a bull-fight, after a lucky afternoon, Gallardo exclaimed
with almost childish vanity, "What did you think of it? Really, wasn't I
splendid?"
In consequence of their early comradeship he always retained the
privilege of addressing his master as "tu." He could not speak otherwise
to the "maestro,"[25] but the "tu" was accompanied by a grave face, and
an expression of genuine respect. His familiarity was something akin to
that of their squires towards the knights errant of olden days!
From his neck to the top of his head he was a torero, but the rest of
his person seemed half tailor, half valet. Dressed in a suit of English
cloth,--a present from his master, he had the lapels of his coat
covered with pins and safety-pins, while several threaded needles were
fastened into one of his sleeves. His dark withered hands manipulated
and arranged things with the gentleness of a woman.
When everything that was necessary for his master's toilet had been
placed upon the bed, he passed the numerous articles in review to ensure
that nothing was wanting anywhere.
After a time he came and stood in the middle of the room, without
looking at Gallardo, and, as if he were speaking to himself, said in a
hoarse and rasping voice,
"Two o'clock!"
Gallardo raised his head nervously, as if up to now he had not noticed
his servant's presence. He put the letter into his pocket-book, and then
walked lazily to the end of the room, as though he wished to postpone
the dressing time.
"Is everything there?"
Suddenly his pale face became flushed and violently distorted and his
eyes opened unnaturally wide, as if he had just experienced some awful,
unexpected shock.
"What clothes have you put out?"
Garabato pointed to the bed, but before he could speak, his master's
wrath fell on him, loud and terrible.
"Curse you! Don't you know anything about the profession? Have you just
come from the cornfields?--Corrida in Madrid,--bulls from Muira,--and
you put me out red clothes like those poor Manuel, El Espartero, wore!
You are so idiotic that one would think you were my enemy! It would seem
that you wished for my death, you villain!"
The more he thought of the enormity of this carelessness, which was
equivalent to courting disaster, the more his anger increased--To fight
in Madrid in red clothes, after what had happened! His eyes sparkled
with rage, as if he had just received some treacherous attack, the
whites of his eyes became bloodshot and he seemed ready to fall on the
unfortunate Garabato with his big rough hands.
A discreet knock at the door cut the scene short,--"Come in."
A young man entered, dressed in a light suit with a red cravat, carrying
his Cordovan felt hat in a hand covered with large diamond rings.
Gallardo recognised him at once with the facility for remembering faces
acquired by those who live constantly rubbing shoulders with the crowd.
His anger was instantly transformed to a smiling amiability, as if the
visit was a pleasant surprise to him.
It was a friend from Bilbao, an enthusiastic aficionado, a warm partisan
of his triumphs. That was all he could remember about him. His name? He
knew so many people! What _did_ he call himself?--All he knew was that
most certainly he ought to call him "tu," as this was an old
acquaintanceship.
"Sit down--This is a surprise! When did you arrive? Are you and yours
quite well?"
His admirer sat down, with the contentment of a devotee who enters the
sanctuary of his idol, with no intention of moving from it till the very
last moment, delighted at being addressed as "tu" by the master, and
calling him "Juan" at every other word, so that the furniture, walls, or
anyone passing along the passage outside should be aware of his intimacy
with the great man. 'He had arrived that morning and was returning on
the following day. The journey was solely to see Gallardo. He had read
of his exploits. The season seemed opening well. This afternoon would be
a good one. He had been in the boxing enclosure[26] in the morning and
had noticed an almost black animal which assuredly would give great
sport in Gallardo's hands----'
The master hurriedly cut short the habitué's prophesies.
"Pardon me--Pray excuse me. I will return at once."
Leaving the room, he went towards an unnumbered door at the end of the
passage.
"What clothes shall I put out?" enquired Garabato, in a voice more
hoarse than usual, from his wish to appear submissive.
"The green, the tobacco, the blue,--anything you please," and Gallardo
disappeared through the little door, while his servant, freed from his
presence, smiled with malicious revenge. He knew what that sudden rush
meant, just at dressing time,--"the relief of fear" they called it in
the profession, and his smile expressed satisfaction to see once more
that the greatest masters of the art and the bravest, suffered as the
result of their anxiety, just the same as he himself had done, when he
went down into the arena in different towns.
When Gallardo returned to his room, some little time after, he found a
fresh visitor. This was Doctor Ruiz, a popular physician who had spent
thirty years signing the bulletins of the various Cogidas,[27] and
attending every torero who fell wounded in the Plaza of Madrid.
Gallardo admired him immensely, regarding him as the greatest exponent
of universal science, but at the same time he allowed himself
affectionate chaff at the expense of the Doctor's good-natured character
and personal untidiness. His admiration was that of the populace,--only
recognising ability in a slovenly person if he possesses sufficient
eccentricity to distinguish him from the general run.
He was of low stature and prominent abdomen, broad faced and flat-nosed,
with a Newgate frill of dirty whitish yellow which gave him at a
distance a certain resemblance to a bust of Socrates. As he stood up,
his protuberant and flabby stomach seemed to shake under his ample
waistcoat as he spoke. As he sat down this same part of his anatomy rose
up to his meagre chest. His clothes, stained and old after a few days'
use, seemed to float about his unharmonious body like garments belonging
to someone else,--so obese was he in the parts devoted to digestion, and
so lean in those of locomotion.
"He is a simpleton," said Gallardo--"a learned man certainly, as good as
bread, but 'touched.' He will never have a peseta. Whatever he has he
gives away, and he takes what anyone chooses to pay him."
Two great passions filled his life--the Revolution and Bulls. That vague
but tremendous revolution which would come, leaving in Europe nothing
that now existed, an anarchical republicanism that he did not trouble to
explain, and which was only clear in its exterminatory negations. The
toreros spoke to him as a father, he called them all "tu," and it was
sufficient for a telegram to come from the furthest end of the Peninsula
for the good doctor instantly to take the train and rush to heal a
goring received by one of his "lads" with no expectation of any
recompense, beyond simply what they chose to give him.
He embraced Gallardo on seeing him after his long absence, pressing his
flaccid abdomen against that body which seemed made of bronze.
"Oh! You fine fellow!" He thought the espada looked better than ever.
"And how about that Republic, Doctor? When is it going to come?..."
asked Gallardo, with Andalusian laziness.... "El Nacional[28] says that
we are on the verge, and that it will come one of these days."
"What does it matter to you, rascal? Leave poor Nacional in peace. He
had far better learn to be a better banderillero. As for you, what ought
to interest you is to go on killing bulls, like God himself!... We have
a fine little afternoon in prospect! I am told that the herd...."
But when he got as far as this, the young man who had seen the selection
and wished to give news of it, interrupted the doctor to speak of the
dark bull "which had struck his eye," and from which the greatest
wonders might be expected. The two men who, after bowing to each other,
had sat together in the room for a long time in silence, now stood up
face to face, and Gallardo thought that an introduction was necessary,
but what was he to call the friend who was addressing him as "tu?" He
scratched his head, frowning reflectively, but his indecision was short.
"Listen here. What is your name? Pardon me--you understand I see so many
people."
The youth smothered beneath a smile his disenchantment at finding
himself forgotten by the Master and gave his name. When he heard it,
Gallardo felt all the past recur suddenly to his memory and repaired his
forgetfulness by adding after the name "a rich mine-owner in Bilbao,"
and then presented "the famous Dr. Ruiz," and the two men, united by the
enthusiasm of a common passion, began to chat about the afternoon's
herd, just as if they had known each other all their lives.
"Sit yourselves down," said Gallardo, pointing to a sofa at the further
end of the room, "You won't disturb me there. Talk and pay no attention
to me. I am going to dress, as we are all men here," and he began to
take off his clothes, remaining only in his undergarments.
Seated on a chair under the arch which divided the sitting-room from the
bedroom, he gave himself over into the hands of Garabato, who had opened
a Russia leather bag from which he had taken an almost feminine toilet
case, for trimming up his master.
In spite of his being already carefully shaved, Garabato soaped his face
and passed the razor over his cheeks with the celerity born of daily
practice. After washing himself Gallardo resumed his seat. The servant
then sprinkled his hair with brilliantine and scent, combing it in curls
over his forehead and temples, and then began to dress the sign of the
profession, the sacred pig-tail.
With infinite care he combed and plaited the long lock which adorned his
master's occiput; and then, interrupting the operation, fastened it on
the top of his head with two hairpins, leaving its final dressing for a
later stage. Next he must attend to the feet, and he drew off the
fighter's socks, leaving him only his vest and spun-silk drawers.
Gallardo's powerful muscles stood out beneath these clothes in superb
swellings. A hollow in one thigh betrayed a place where the flesh had
disappeared owing to a gash from a horn. The swarthy skin of his arms
was marked with white wheals, the scars of ancient wounds. His dark
hairless chest was crossed by two irregular purple lines, record also of
bloody feats. On one of his heels the flesh was of a violet colour, with
a round depression which looked as if it had been the mould for a coin.
All this fighting machine exhaled an odour of clean and healthy flesh
blended with that of women's pungent scents.
Garabato, with an armful of cotton wool and white bandages, knelt at
his master's feet.
"Just like the ancient gladiators!" said Dr. Ruiz, interrupting his
conversation with the Bilboan, "See! You have become a Roman, Juan."
"Age, Doctor!" replied the matador, with a tinge of melancholy, "We are
all getting older. When I fought both bulls and hunger at the same time
I did not want all this. I had feet of iron in the Capeas."
Garabato placed small tufts of cotton wool between his master's toes and
covered the soles and the upper part of his feet with a thin layer of
it; then, pulling out the bandages, he rolled them round in tight
spirals, like the wrappings of an ancient mummy. To fix them firmly he
drew one of the threaded needles from his sleeve and carefully and
neatly sewed up their ends.
Gallardo stamped on the ground with his bandaged feet which seemed to
him firmer in their soft wrappings. In the bandages he felt them both
strong and agile. The servant then drew on the long stockings which came
halfway up the thigh, thick and flexible like gaiters. This was the only
protection for the legs under the silk of the fighting dress.
"Be careful of wrinkles! See, Garabato, I don't want to wear sacks," and
standing before the looking-glass, endeavouring to see both back and
front, he bent down and passed his hands over his legs smoothing out the
wrinkles for himself.
Over these white stockings Garabato drew others of pink silk which alone
remained visible when the torero was fully dressed, and then Gallardo
put his feet into the pumps which he chose from amongst several pairs
which Garabato had laid out on a box,--all quite new and with white
soles.
Then began the real task of the dressing. Holding them by the upper
part, the servant handed him the fighting knee-breeches made of
tobacco-coloured silk, with heavy gold embroidery up the seams. Gallardo
slipped them on, and the thick cords, ending in gold tassels, which drew
in the lower ends, hung down over his feet. These cords which gather the
breeches below the knee, constricting the leg to give it artificial
strength, are called "los machos."
Gallardo swelled out the muscles of his legs and ordered his servant to
tighten the cords without fear. This was one of the most important
operations as a matador's "machos" must be well tightened and Garabato,
with nimble dexterity soon had the cords wound round and tucked away out
of sight underneath the ends of the breeches, with the tassels hanging
down.
The master then drew on the fine lawn shirt held out by his servant, the
front covered with zigzag crimpings, and as delicate and clear as a
woman's garment. After he had fastened it Garabato knotted the long
cravat that hung down dividing the chest with its red line till it lost
itself in the waistband of the drawers. Now remained the most
complicated article of clothing, the waist-sash--a long strip of silk
over four yards long which seemed to take up the whole room, and which
Garabato handled with the mastery of long experience.
The espada went and stood near his friends at the other end of the room,
fastening one end of the sash to his waist.
"Now then, pay attention," he said to his servant, "and do your little
best."
Turning slowly on his heels he gradually approached his servant, while
the sash which he held up rolled itself round his waist in regular
curves, and gave it a more graceful shape. Garabato with quick movements
of his hand changed the position of the band of silk. In some turns the
sash was folded double, in others it was completely open, and always
adjusted to the matador's waist, smooth and seemingly like one piece
without wrinkles or unevenness. In the course of his rotatory journey,
Gallardo, scrupulous and very difficult to please in the adornment of
his person, several times stopped his forward movement, to step a few
paces back and rectify the arrangement.
"That is not right," he said ill-humouredly. "Curse you! take more care,
Garabato!"
After many halts on the journey, Gallardo came to the last turn, with
the whole length of silk wound round his waist. The clever valet had put
stitches, pins, and safety-pins all round his master's body, making his
clothing literally all one piece. To get out of them the Torero would
have to resort to the aid of scissors in other hands. He could not get
rid of any one of his garments till he returned to the hotel, unless
indeed a bull did it for him in the open Plaza, and they finished his
undressing in the Infirmary.
Gallardo sat down again and Garabato, taking hold of the pig-tail, freed
it from the support of the pins, and fastened it to the 'Mona,' a bunch
of ribbons like a black cockade, which reminded one of the old
"redecilla"[29] of the earliest days of bull-fighting.
The master stretched himself, as if he wished to put off getting finally
into the rest of his costume. He asked Garabato to hand him the cigar he
had left on the bedside table, enquired what the time was, and seemed to
think that all the clocks had gone fast.
"It is still early. The lads have not yet come.... I do not like to go
early to the Plaza. Every tile in the roof seems to weigh on one when
one is waiting there."
At this moment an hotel servant announced that the carriage with the
"cuadrilla"[30] was waiting for him downstairs.
The time had come! There was no longer any pretext for delaying the
moment of his departure. He slipped the gold-embroidered waist-coat over
the silk sash, and above this the jacket, a piece of _dazzling_
embroidery in very high relief, as heavy as a piece of armour and
flashing with light like live coals. The tobacco-coloured silk was only
visible on the inside of the arms, and in two triangles on the back.
Almost the whole fabric was hidden beneath a mass of golden tufts and
gold-embroidered flowers with coloured precious stones in their petals.
The epaulettes were heavy masses of gold embroidery, from which hung
innumerable tassels of the same metal. The gold work reached the extreme
edge of the jacket where it ended in a thick fringe, which quivered at
every step. Between the gold-edged openings of the pockets appeared the
corners of two silk handkerchiefs which, like the cravat and sash, were
red.
"Give me 'La Montera.'"[31]
Out of an oval box Garabato took with great care the fighting montera
with black frizzed border and pompons which stood out on either side
like large ears. Gallardo put it on, being careful that his mona should
remain uncovered, hanging symmetrically down his back.
"Now the cape."
From the back of a chair Garabato took the cape called "La Capa de
Paseo,"[32] the gala cape, a princely mantle of silk, the same colour as
his clothes, and, like them, covered with gold embroidery. Gallardo
slung it over one shoulder and then looked at himself in the glass, well
satisfied with the effect.
"That's not so bad. Now to the Plaza."
His two friends took their leave hurriedly in order to find a cab and
follow him. Garabato tucked under his arm a large bundle of red cloth,
from the ends of which projected the pommels and buttons of several
swords.
As Gallardo descended to the vestibule of the hotel, he saw that the
street was filled with a noisy, excited crowd, as if some great event
had just happened, and he could hear the buzz of a multitude whom he
could not see through the door-way.
The landlord and all his family ran up with outstretched hands as if
they were speeding him on a long journey.
"Good luck! May all go well with you!"
The servants, sinking all social distinctions, also shook his hand.
"Good luck, Don Juan!"
He turned round, smiling on every side, regardless of the anxious looks
of the women of the hotel.
"Thanks, many thanks.... So long!"
He was another man now. Now that he had slung his dazzling cape over his
shoulder, a careless smile lit up his face. He was pale with a moist
pallor like a sick man, but he laughed with the joy of life, and, going
to meet his public, he adopted his new attitude with the instinctive
facility of a man who has to put on a fine air before his audience.
He swaggered arrogantly as he walked, puffing at the cigar in his left
hand, and swayed from his hips under his gorgeous cape, stepping out
firmly with the pride of a handsome man.
"Now then, gentlemen! Make way, please! Many thanks.... Many thanks!"
As he opened a way for himself he endeavoured to protect his clothes
from contact with the dirty crowd of ill-dressed but enthusiastic
roughs who crowded round the hotel door. They had no money to go to the
corrida, but they took advantage of this opportunity of shaking hands
with the famous Gallardo, or even of touching some part of his clothing.
Close to the pavement was waiting a wagonette drawn by four mules, gaily
caparisoned with tassels and little bells. Garabato had already hoisted
himself on to the box seat with his bundle of cloth and swords. Behind
sat three toreros with their capes on their knees all wearing
bright-coloured clothes, embroidered as profusely as those of the
Master, only with silver instead of gold.
Gallardo was obliged to defend himself with his elbows against the
outstretched hands, and, amid the jostling of the crowd, he managed at
last to reach the steps of the carriage. Amidst the general excitement
he was finally unceremoniously hoisted into his seat from behind.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said curtly to his cuadrilla.
He took the seat nearest to the step so that all could see him, and he
smiled and nodded his acknowledgment of the cries and shouts of applause
of a variety of ragged women and newspaper boys.
The carriage dashed forward with all the strength of the spirited mules
and filled the street with a merry tinkling. The crowd opened out to let
the team pass, but many hung on to the carriage, in imminent danger of
falling under its wheels. Sticks and hats were brandished in the air. A
wave of enthusiasm swept over the crowd. It was one of those contagious
outbursts which at times sway the masses, driving them mad, and making
them shout without knowing why.
"Olé the brave fellows!... Viva España!"
Gallardo, still pale but smiling, saluted and repeated "Many thanks." He
was moved by this outburst of popular enthusiasm, and proud of the fame
that made them couple his name with that of his country.
A crowd of rough boys and dishevelled girls ran after the carriage as
fast as their legs could carry them, as if they expected to find
something extraordinary at the end of their mad career.
For an hour previously the Calle de Alcala had been a stream of
carriages, between banks of crowded foot-passengers, all hurrying to the
outskirts of the town. Every sort of vehicle, ancient or modern, figured
in this transient but confused and noisy migration, from the
pre-historic char-a-banc, come to light like an anachronism, to the
modern motor car.
The trams passed along crowded bunches of passengers overflowing on to
their steps. Omnibuses took up fares at the corner of the Calle de
Sevilla, while the conductors shouted "Plaza! Plaza!" Mules covered with
tassels, drawing carriages full of women in white mantillas and bright
flowers, trotted along gaily to the tinkling of their silvery bells.
Every moment could be heard exclamations of terror as some child,
threading its way from one pavement to the other, regardless of the
rushing stream of vehicles, emerged with the agility of a monkey from
under the carriage wheels. Motor sirens shrieked and coachmen shouted.
Newspaper sellers hawked leaflets giving a picture and history of the
bulls which were going to fight, or the portraits and biographies of the
famous toreros. Now and then a murmur of curiosity swelled the dull
humming of the crowd.
Between the dark uniforms of the Municipal Guard rode showily dressed
horsemen on lean miserable crocks, wearing gold-embroidered jackets,
wide beaver sombreros with a pompon on one side like a cockade, and
yellow padding on their legs. These were the picadors,[33] rough men of
wild appearance who carried, clinging to the crupper behind their high
Moorish saddles, a kind of devil dressed in red, the "Mono Sabio,"[34]
the servant who had taken the horse to their houses.
The cuadrillas passed by in open carriages. The gold embroidery of the
toreros flashing in the afternoon sun seemed to dazzle the crowd and
excite all its enthusiasm. "There's Fuentes!" "That's El Bomba!" cried
the people, and pleased at having recognised them, they followed the
disappearing carriages with anxious eyes, just as if something were
going to happen and they feared they would be late.
From the top of the Calle de Alcala, the whole length of the broad
straight street could be seen lying white under the sun with its rows of
trees beginning to turn green under the breath of spring. The balconies
were black with onlookers and the roadway was only visible here and
there amidst the swarming crowd which, on foot and in carriages, was
making its way towards La Cibeles.[35]
From this point the ground rose between lines of trees and buildings and
the vista was closed by the Puerta de Alcala outlined like a triumphal
arch against the blue sky on which floated a few flecks of cloud like
wandering swans.
Gallardo sat in silence, replying to the people only with his fixed
smile. Since his first greeting to the banderilleros he had not uttered
a word. They also were pale and silent with anxiety for the unknown. Now
that they were amongst toreros they had laid aside as useless the
swagger that was necessary in the presence of the public.
A mysterious inspiration seemed to tell the people of the coming of the
last cuadrilla on its way to the Plaza. The group of ragamuffins who had
run after the carriage acclaiming Gallardo had lost their breath and had
scattered amongst the traffic, but all the same, people glanced behind
them as though they felt the proximity of the famous torero and
slackened their pace, lining the edge of the pavement so as to get a
better view of him.
Women seated in the carriages rolling along turned their heads as they
heard the tinkling bells of the trotting mules. Dull roars came from
various groups standing on the pavement. These must have been
demonstrations of enthusiasm for many waved their sombreros whilst
others greeted him by flourishing their sticks.
Gallardo replied to all these salutations with the smile of a barber's
block. With his thoughts far away, he took little notice of them. By his
side sat El Nacional, the banderillero in whom he placed most trust, a
big, hard man, older by ten years than himself, with a grave manner and
eyebrows that met between his eyes. He was well known in the profession
for his kindness of heart and sterling worth, and also for his political
opinions.
"Juan, you will not have to complain of Madrid," said El Nacional, "you
have taken the public by storm."
But Gallardo, as if he had not heard him but felt obliged to give vent
to the thoughts that were weighing on him, replied, "My heart tells me
that something will happen this afternoon."
As they arrived at la Cibeles the carriage stopped. A great funeral was
passing through the Prado in the direction of Castellana and cut through
the avalanche of carriages coming from the Calle de Alcala.
Gallardo turned still paler as he looked with terrified eyes at the
passing of the silver cross and the procession of priests who broke into
a mournful chant as they gazed, some with aversion others with envy, at
the stream of godless people who were rushing to amuse themselves.
The espada hastened to take off his montero. His banderilleros did the
same, with the exception of El Nacional.
"Curse you!" cried Gallardo, "Take off your cap, rascal."
He glared at him as if about to strike him, fully convinced, by some
confused intuition, that this impiety would bring down on him the
greatest misfortunes.
"All right, I'll take it off," said El Nacional, with the sulkiness of a
thwarted child, as he saw the cross moving off, "I'll take it off but it
is to the dead man!"
They were obliged to stop for some time to let the funeral _cortège_
pass.
"Bad luck!" murmured Gallardo, his voice trembling with rage, "Who can
have thought of bringing a funeral across the way to the Plaza? Curse
them! I said something would happen to-day!"
El Nacional smiled, and shrugged his shoulders. "Superstition and
fanaticism! God or Nature don't trouble about these things!"
These words which increased the irritation of Gallardo, seemed to dispel
the grave preoccupation of the other toreros, and they began to laugh at
their companion, as indeed they always did when he aired his favourite
phrase, "God or Nature."
As soon as the way was clear the carriage resumed its former speed,
travelling as fast as the mules could trot and passing all the other
vehicles which were converging on the Plaza. On arriving there it turned
to the left, making for the door, named "de Caballerizas,"[36] which led
to the yards and stables, but compelled to pass slowly through the
compact crowd.
Gallardo received another ovation as, followed by his banderilleros, he
alighted from the carriage, pushing and elbowing his way in order to
save his clothes from the touch of dirty hands, smiling greetings
everywhere and hiding his right hand which everybody wished to shake.
"Make way, please, gentlemen!" "Many thanks."
The great courtyard between the main building of the Plaza and the
boundary wall of its outbuildings was full of people who, before taking
their seats, wished to get a near view of the bull-fighters, whilst on
horseback, mounted high above the crowd, could be seen the picadors and
the Alguaciles[37] in their Seventeenth Century costumes.
On one side of the courtyard stood a row of single-storey brick
buildings, with vines trellised over the doors and pots of flowers in
the windows. It was quite a small town of offices, workshops, stables
and houses in which lived stablemen, carpenters and other servants of
the bull-ring.
The diestro made his way laboriously through the various groups, and his
name passed from lip to lip amidst exclamations of admiration.
"Gallardo!" "Here is El Gallardo!" "Olé! Viva España!"
And he, with no thought but that of the adoration of the public,
swaggered along, serene as a god and gay and self-satisfied, just as if
he were attending a fete given in his honour.
Suddenly two arms were thrown round his neck and at the same time a
strong smell of wine assailed his nostrils.
"A real man! My beauty! Three cheers for the heroes!"
It was a man of good appearance, a tradesman who had breakfasted with
some friends, whose smiling vigilance he thought he had escaped but who
were watching him from a short distance. He leant his head on the
espada's shoulder and let it remain there, as though he intended to drop
off into a sleep of ecstasy in that position. Gallardo pushed and the
man's friends pulled and the espada was soon free of this intolerable
embrace, but the tippler, finding himself parted from his idol, broke
out into loud shouts of admiration.
"Olé for such men! All nations of the earth should come and admire
toreros like this, and die of envy! They may have ships, they may have
money, but that's all rot! They have no bulls and no men like this!
Hurrah, my lads! Long live my country!"
Gallardo crossed a large white-washed hall, quite bare of furniture,
where his professional companions were standing surrounded by admiring
groups. Making his way through the crowd around a door he entered a
small dark and narrow room, at one end of which lights were burning. It
was the chapel. An old picture called "The Virgin of the Dove," filled
the back of the Altar. On the table four tapers were burning, and
several bunches of dusty moth-eaten muslin flowers stood in common
pottery vases.
The chapel was full of people. The aficionados of humble class assembled
in it so as to see the great men close at hand. In the darkness some
stood bareheaded in the front row, whilst others sat on benches and
chairs, the greater part of them turning their backs on the Virgin,
looking eagerly towards the door to call out a name as soon as the
glitter of a gala dress appeared.
The banderilleros and picadors, poor devils who were going to risk their
lives the same as the "Maestros," scarcely caused a whisper by their
presence. Only the most fervent aficionados knew their nicknames.
Presently there was a prolonged murmur, a name repeated from mouth to
mouth.
"Fuentes! It is el Fuentes!"
The elegant torero, tall and graceful, his cape loose over his shoulder,
walked up to the Altar, bending his knee with theatrical affectation.
The lights were reflected in his gipsy eyes and fell across the fine
agile kneeling figure. After he had finished his prayer and crossed
himself he rose, walking backwards towards the door, never taking his
eyes off the image, like a tenor who retires bowing to his audience.
Gallardo was more simple in his piety. He entered montero in hand, his
cape gathered round him, walking no less arrogantly, but when he came
opposite the image, he knelt with both knees on the ground, giving
himself over entirely to his prayers and taking no notice of the
hundreds of eyes fixed on him. His simple Christian soul trembled with
fear and remorse. He prayed for protection with the fervour of ignorant
men who live in continual danger and who believe in every sort of
adverse influence and supernatural protection. For the first time in the
whole of that day he thought of his wife and his mother. Poor Carmen
down in Seville waiting for his telegram! The Señora Angustias, tranquil
with her fowls at the farm of La Rinconada not knowing for certain where
her son was fighting!... And he, here, with that terrible presentiment
that something would happen that afternoon! Virgin of the Dove! Give a
little protection! He would be good, he would forget "the rest," he
would live as God commands.
His superstitious spirit being comforted by this empty repentance, he
left the chapel still under its influence, with clouded eyes, that did
not see the people who obstructed his way.
Outside in the room where the toreros were waiting he was saluted by a
clean-shaven gentleman, in black clothes in which he appeared ill at
ease.
"Bad luck!" murmured the torero moving on. "As I said before, something
will happen to-day!"...
It was the chaplain of the Plaza, an enthusiast in Tauromachia, who had
arrived with the Holy Oils concealed beneath his coat. He was priest of
the suburb of la Prosperidad and for years past had maintained a heated
controversy with another parish priest in the centre of Madrid who
claimed a better right to monopolise the religious service of the Plaza.
He came to the Plaza accompanied by a neighbour, who served him as
sacristan in return for a seat for the corrida.
On these days he chose by turns from amongst his friends and protégés
the one whom he wished to favour with the seat reserved for the
sacristan. He hired a smart carriage, at the expense of the management,
and, carrying under his coat the sacred vessel, started for the Plaza,
where two front seats were kept for him close to the entrance for the
bulls.
The priest entered the chapel with the air of a proprietor scandalised
by the behaviour of the public. All had their heads uncovered, but they
were talking loudly, and some even smoking.
"Caballeros, this is not a café. You will do me the favour of going
outside. The corrida is about to begin."
This news caused a general exodus, during which the priest took out the
hidden Oils and placed them in a painted wooden box. He, too, having
concealed his sacred deposit, hurried out in order to reach his seat in
the Plaza before the appearance of the cuadrillas.
The crowd had vanished. Nobody was to be seen in the courtyard but men
dressed in silk and gold embroidery, horsemen in yellow with large
beavers, Alguaciles on horseback, and the servants on duty in their
liveries of blue and gold.
In the doorway called "De Caballos," under the arch forming the entrance
to the Plaza, the toreros formed up for the procession with the
promptitude which comes of constant practice. In front the "Maestros,"
some distance behind them the banderilleros, and beyond these again, in
the courtyard outside, the clattering rearguard, the stern, steel-clad
squadron of picadors, redolent of hot leather and manure, and mounted on
skeleton horses with a bandage over one eye. In the far distance, like
the baggage of this army, fidgeted the teams of mules destined to drag
out the carcases, strong, lively animals with shining skins, their
harness covered with tassels and bells, and their collars ornamented
with a small national flag.
At the other end of the archway, above the wooden barricade which closed
the lower half, could be seen a shining patch of blue sky, the roof of
the Plaza, and a section of the seats with its compact, swarming mass of
occupants, amongst which fluttered fans and papers like gaily coloured
butterflies.
Through this arcade there swept a strong breeze, like the breath of an
immense lung, and faint harmonious sounds floated on the waves of air,
betokening distant music, guessed at rather than heard.
Along the sides of the archway could be seen a row of heads--those of
the spectators on the nearest benches, who peered over in their anxiety
to get the first possible glimpse of the heroes of the day.
Gallardo took his place in line with the other espadas. They neither
spoke nor smiled, a grave inclination of the head being all the greeting
that they exchanged. Each seemed wrapped in his own preoccupation,
letting his thoughts wander far afield, or, perhaps, with the vacuity
of deep emotion, thinking of nothing at all. Outwardly this
preoccupation was manifested in an apparently unending arrangement and
re-arrangement of their capes--spreading them over the shoulder, folding
the ends round the waist, or arranging them so that under this mantle of
bright colours their legs, cased in silk and gold, should be free and
without encumbrance. All their faces were pale, not with a dull pallor,
but with the bright, hectic, moist shine of excitement. Their minds were
in the arena, as yet invisible to them, and they felt the irresistible
fear of things that might be happening on the other side of a wall, the
terror of the unknown, the indefinite danger that is felt but not seen.
How would this afternoon end?
From beyond the cuadrillas was heard the sound of the trotting of two
horses, coming along underneath the outer arcades of the Plaza. This was
the arrival of the alguaciles in their small black capeless mantles and
broad hats surmounted with red and yellow feathers. They had just
finished clearing the ring of all the intruding crowd and now came to
place themselves as advance-guard at the head of the cuadrillas.
The doorways of the arch were thrown wide open, as also were those of
the barrier in front of them. The huge ring was revealed, the real
Plaza, an immense circular expanse of sand on which would be enacted the
afternoon's tragedy, one which would excite the feelings and rejoicings
of fourteen thousand spectators. The confused, harmonious sounds now
became louder, resolving themselves into lively reckless music, a noisy,
clanging triumphal march that made the audience hip and shoulder to its
martial air. Forward, fine fellows!
The bull-fighters, blinking at the sudden change, stepped out from
darkness to light, from the silence of the quiet arcade to the roar of
the Ring, where the crowd on the tiers of benches, throbbing with
excitement and curiosity, rose to its feet en masse, in order to obtain
a better view.
The toreros advanced, dwarfed immediately they trod the arena, by the
immensity of their surroundings. They seemed like brilliant dolls on
whose embroideries the sunlight flashed in iridescent hues, and their
graceful movements fired the people with the delight that a child takes
in some marvellous toy. The mad impulse which agitates a crowd, sending
a shiver down its backbone and giving it goose-creeps for no particular
reason, affected the entire Plaza. Some applauded, others, more
enthusiastic or more nervous, shouted, the music clanged, and in the
midst of this universal tumult, the cuadrillas advanced solemnly and
slowly from the entrance door up to the presidential chair, making up
for the shortness of their step by the graceful swing of their arms and
the swaying of their bodies. Meanwhile on the circle of blue sky above
the Plaza fluttered several white pigeons, terrified by the roar which
arose from this crater of bricks.
They felt themselves different men as they advanced over the sand. They
were risking their lives for something more than money. Their doubts and
terrors of the unknown had been left outside the barricades. Now they
trod the arena. They were face to face with their public. Reality had
come. The longing for glory in their barbarous, ignorant minds, the
desire to excel their comrades, the pride in their own strength and
dexterity, all blinded them, making them forget all fears, and inspiring
them with the daring of brute force.
Gallardo was quite transfigured. He drew himself up as he walked,
wishing to appear the tallest. He moved with the arrogance of a
conqueror, looking all round him with an air of triumph, as though his
two companions did not exist. Everything was his, both the Plaza and
the public. He felt himself at that moment capable of killing every
bull alive on the broad pasture lands of Andalusia or Castille. All the
applause was meant for him, he was quite sure of that. The thousands of
feminine eyes, shaded by white mantillas, in the boxes or along the
barriers, were fixed on him only, of that there could be no manner of
doubt. The public adored him, and while he advanced smiling with pride,
as though the ovation were intended for himself alone, cast his eyes
along the rows of seats, noticing the places where the largest groups of
his partizans were massed, and ignoring those where his comrades'
friends had congregated.
They saluted the president, montero in hand, and then the brilliant
parade broke up, peons[38] and horsemen scattering in all directions.
Whilst an alguacil caught in his hat the key thrown to him by the
president, Gallardo walked towards the barrier behind which his most
enthusiastic supporters stood, and gave into their charge his beautiful
cape which was spread along the edge of the palisade, the sacred symbol
of a faction.
His most enthusiastic partizans stood up, waving their hands and sticks,
to greet the matador, and loudly proclaiming their hopes. "Let us see
what the lad from Seville will do!"...
And he smiled as he leant against the barrier, proud of his strength,
repeating to all:
"Many thanks! He will do what he can."
It was not only his partizans who showed their high hopes on seeing him;
everywhere he found adherents amongst the crowd, which anticipated deep
excitement. He was a torero who promised "hule"[39]--according to the
expression of the aficionados, and such "hule" was likely to lead to a
bed in the Infirmary.
Everyone thought he was destined to die, gored to death in the Plaza,
and for this very reason they applauded him with homicidal enthusiasm,
with a barbarous interest, like that of the misanthrope, who followed a
tamer everywhere, awaiting the moment when he would be devoured by his
wild beasts.
Gallardo laughed at the ancient aficionados, grave Doctors of
Tauromachia, who judged it impossible that an accident should happen if
a torero conformed to the rules of the art. Rules forsooth!... He
ignored them and took no trouble to learn them. Bravery and audacity
only were necessary to ensure victory. Almost blindly, with no other
rule than his own temerity, no other help than his own bodily faculties,
he had made a rapid career for himself, forcing outbursts of wonder from
the people and astonishing them with his mad courage.
He had not, like other matadors, risen by regular steps, serving long
years as peon and banderillero at the "maestros'" side. The bulls' horns
caused him no fear. "Hunger gores worse," he said. The great thing was
to rise quickly, and the public had seen him commence at once as espada,
and in a few years enjoy an immense popularity.
It admired him for the very reason which made a catastrophe so certain.
It was inflamed with a horrible enthusiasm by the blindness with which
this man defied death, and paid him the same care and attention as are
paid to a condemned man in the chapel. This torero was not one who held
anything back; he gave them everything, including his life. He was worth
the money he cost. And the crowd, with the brutality of those who watch
danger from a safe place, admired and hallooed on the hero. The more
prudent shrugged their shoulders regarding him as a suicide playing with
fate, and murmured "as long as it lasts...."
Amid a clash of kettledrums and trumpets the first bull rushed out.
Gallardo, with his working cloak devoid of ornament hanging on his arm,
remained by the barrier, close to the benches where his partizans sat,
disdainfully motionless, as though the eyes of the whole audience were
fixed on him. That bull was for some one else. He would give signs of
existence when his own bull came out. But the applause at the cloak play
executed by his companions, drew him out of this immobility, and in
spite of his intentions he joined in the fray, performing several feats
in which he showed more audacity than skill. The whole Plaza applauded
him, roused by the delight they felt at his daring.
When Fuentes killed his first bull, and went towards the presidential
chair saluting the crowd, Gallardo turned paler than before, as though
any expression of gratification that was not for him was a studied
insult. Now his turn had come: they would see great things. He did not
know for certain what they might be, but he was disposed to startle the
public.
As soon as the second bull came out, Gallardo, thanks to his mobility
and his desire to shine, seemed to fill the whole Plaza. His cape was
constantly close to the beast's muzzle. A picador of his own cuadrilla,
the one named Potaje, was thrown from his horse, and lay helpless close
to the horns. The maestro seizing the fierce beast's tail, pulled with
such herculean strength, that he obliged it to turn round till the
dismounted rider was safe. This was a feat that the public applauded
wildly.
When the play of the banderilleros began, Gallardo remained in the
passage between the barriers awaiting the signal to kill. El Nacional
with the darts in his hand challenged the bull in the centre of the
arena. There was nothing graceful in his movements, nor any proud
daring, "simply the question of earning his bread." Down in Seville he
had four little ones, who, if he died, would find no other father. He
would do his duty and nothing more, stick in his banderillas like a
journeyman of Tauromachia, not desiring applause, and trying to avoid
hissing.
When he had stuck in the pair, a few on the vast tiers applauded, while
others, alluding to his ideas, found fault with the banderillero in
chaffing tones.
Quit politics and strike better!
And El Nacional, deceived by the distance, heard these shouts, and
acknowledged them smilingly like his master.
When Gallardo leapt again into the arena, the crowd, hearing the blare
of trumpets and drums which announced the final death stroke, became
restless and buzzed with excitement. That matador was their own, now
they would see something fine.
He took the muleta[40] from the hands of Garabato, who offered it to him
folded from inside the barrier, and drew the rapier, which his servant
also presented to him. Then with short steps he went and stood in front
of the president's chair, carrying his montero in one hand. All
stretched out their necks, devouring their idol with their eyes, but no
one could hear the "brindis."[41] The proud figure with its magnificent
stature, the body thrown back to give more strength to his voice,
produced the same effect on the masses as the most eloquent harangue. As
he ended his speech, giving a half turn and throwing his montero on the
ground, the noisy enthusiasm broke out. Olé for the lad from Seville!
Now they would see real sport! And the spectators looked at one another,
mutely promising each other tremendous happenings. A shiver ran over all
the rows of seats, as if they awaited something sublime.
Then silence fell on the crowd, a silence so deep that one would have
thought that the Plaza had suddenly become empty. The life of thousands
of people seemed concentrated in their eyes. No one seemed even to
breathe.
Gallardo advanced slowly towards the bull, carrying the muleta resting
against his stomach like a flag, and with sword waving in his other
hand, swinging like a pendulum to his step.
Turning his head for an instant, he saw he was being followed by El
Nacional and another peon of his cuadrilla, their cloaks on their arms
ready to assist him.
"Go out, everybody!"
His voice rang out in the silence of the Plaza reaching up to the
furthest benches, and was answered by a roar of admiration.... "Go out
everybody!"... He had said "go out" to everybody.... What a man!
He remained completely alone close to the beast, and instantly there was
again silence. Very calmly he unrolled the muleta, and spread it,
advancing a few steps at the same time, till he flung it almost on the
muzzle of the bull who stood bewildered and frightened at the man's
audacity.
The audience did not dare to speak, nor scarcely to breathe, but
admiration flashed in their eyes. What a man! He was going up to the
very horns:... He stamped impatiently on the sand with one foot,
inciting the animal to attack, and the enormous mass of flesh, with its
sharp defences, fell bellowing upon him. The muleta passed over its
horns, which grazed the tassels and fringes of the matador's costume.
He remained firm in his place, his only movement being to throw his body
slightly back. A roar from the masses replied to this pass of the
muleta, "Olé!"...
The brute turned, once more attacking the man and his rag, and the pass
was again repeated amid the roars of the audience. The bull, each time
more infuriated by the deception, again and again attacked the fighter
who repeated the passes with the muleta, scarcely moving off his ground,
excited by the proximity of danger and the admiring acclamations of the
crowd, which seemed to intoxicate him.
Gallardo felt the wild beast's snorting close to him. Its breath moist
with slaver fell on his face and right hand. Becoming familiar with the
feeling he seemed to look on the brute as a good friend who was going to
let himself be killed, to contribute to his glory.
At last the bull remained quiet for a few instants as if tired of the
game, looking with eyes full of sombre reflexion at this man and his red
cloth, suspecting in his limited brain the existence of some stratagem
that, by attack after attack, would lead him to his death.
Gallardo felt the great heart-beat of his finest feats. Now then! He
caught the muleta with a circular sweep of his left hand, rolling it
round the stick, and raised his right to the height of his eyes,
standing with the sword bending down towards the nape of the brute's
neck. A tumult of surprised protest broke from the crowd: "Don't
strike!" ... shouted thousands of voices: "No!... No!"...
It was too soon. The bull was not well placed, it would charge and catch
him. He was acting outside all rules of the art. But what did rules or
life itself signify to that reckless man!...
Suddenly he threw himself forward with his sword at the same instant
that the beast fell upon him. The encounter was brutal, savage. For an
instant man and beast formed one confused mass, and thus advanced a few
paces. No one could see who was the conqueror; the man with one arm and
part of his body between the two horns; or the brute lowering his head
and fighting to catch on those horns the brilliantly coloured golden
puppet which seemed to be slipping away from him.
At last the group separated. The muleta remained on the ground like a
rag, and the fighter, his hands empty, emerged staggering from the
impetus of the shock, till some distance away he recovered his
equilibrium. His clothes were disordered, and the cravat floating
outside the waistcoat was gashed and torn by the bull's horns.
The bull continued its rush with the impetus of the first charge. On its
broad neck, the red pommel of the sword, buried up to the hilt scarcely
could be seen. Suddenly it stopped short in its career, rolling with a
painful curtseying motion; then folded its fore-legs, bent its head till
its bellowing muzzle touched the sand, and finally subsided in
convulsions of agony.
It seemed as though the whole Plaza were falling down, as if all its
bricks were rattling against one another; as if the crowd was going to
fly in panic, when all rose suddenly to their feet, pale, trembling,
gesticulating, waving their arms. Dead! What a sword thrust!... They had
all thought for a second, that the matador was impaled on the bull's
horns, all thought they would assuredly see him fall bleeding on the
sand, but now they saw him, standing there, still giddy from the shock,
but smiling!... The surprise and astonishment of it all increased their
enthusiasm.
"Oh! the brute!" ... they roared from the benches, not finding any
better word with which to express their unbounded astonishment.... "What
a savage!"...
Hats flew into the arena. Overwhelming rounds of applause ran like a
torrent of hail from bench to bench, as the matador advanced through the
arena, following the circle of the barriers, till he arrived opposite
the presidential chair.
Then as Gallardo opened his arms to salute the president, the thundering
ovation redoubled, all shouted claiming the honours of the
"maestria"[42] for the matador. "He ought to be given the ear."[43]
"Never was the honour better deserved." "Sword-thrusts like that are
seldom seen," and the enthusiasm waxed even greater when one of the
attendants of the Plaza presented him with a dark, hairy, bloody
triangle; it was the tip of one of the beast's ears.
The third bull was already in the circus, and still the ovation to
Gallardo continued, as if the audience had not recovered from its
astonishment, and nothing that could possibly happen during the rest of
the corrida could be of the slightest interest.
The other toreros, pale with professional jealousy, exerted themselves
to attract the attention of the public, but the applause they gained
sounded weak and timid after the outburst that had preceded it. The
public seemed exhausted by their former excess of enthusiasm, and only
paid absent-minded attention to the fresh events unfolding themselves in
the arena.
Soon violent disputes arose between the rows of seats.
The supporters of the other matadors who by this time had become calm,
and had recovered from the wave of enthusiasm which had mastered them in
common with everyone else, began to justify their former spontaneous
outburst by criticising Gallardo.
"Very brave," "very daring," "suicidal," but that was not art. On the
other hand the worshippers of the idol who were even more vehement and
brutal, and who admired his audacity from innate sympathy, were rabid
with the rage of zealots who hear doubts cast on the miracles of their
own particular saint.
Various minor incidents which caused commotion amidst the benches also
distracted the attention of the audience. Suddenly there was a commotion
in some section of the amphitheatre. Everybody stood up, turning their
backs on the arena, and arms and sticks were flourished above the sea of
heads. The rest of the audience forgot the arena, and concentrated their
attention on the fracas, and the large numbers painted on the walls of
the inside barrier, which distinguished the blocks of seats.
"A fight in No. 3!" they yelled joyfully. "Now there's a row in No. 5!"
Finally the whole audience caught the contagion, got excited, and stood
up, each trying to look over his neighbour's head, but all they were
able to see was the slow ascent of the police, who pushed a way for
themselves from bench to bench, and finally reached the group where the
disturbance was going on.
"Sit down!" ... shouted the more peaceable, who were prevented from
seeing the arena, where the toreros were continuing their work.
The general tumult was gradually calmed and the rows of heads round the
circular line of benches resumed their previous regularity during the
progress of the corrida. But the audience seemed to have its nerves
over-strained, and gave vent to its feelings, by uncalled-for animosity,
or contemptuous silence towards certain of the fighters.
The crowd, exhausted by its previous outburst of emotion, regarded all
that followed as insipid, and so diverted its boredom by eating and
drinking. The refreshment sellers of the Plaza walked round between the
barriers, throwing up the articles asked for with marvellous dexterity.
Oranges flew like golden balls up to the very highest benches, in a
straight line from the hands of the seller to that of the buyer, as if
drawn by a thread. Bottles of aerated drinks were opened, and the golden
wine of Andalusia shone in the glasses.
Soon a current of curiosity ran round the seats. Fuentes was going to
fix banderillas in his bull, and everyone expected something
extraordinarily dexterous and graceful. He advanced alone into the midst
of the Plaza, with the banderillas in his hand, quiet and
self-possessed, moving slowly, as if he were beginning some game. The
bull followed his movements with anxious eyes, astonished to see this
man alone in front of him, after the previous hurly-burly of outspread
cloaks, cruel pikes sticking into his neck, and horses which placed
themselves in front of his horns, as if offering themselves to his
attack.
The man hypnotised the beast, approaching so close as even to touch his
pole with the banderillas. Then with short tripping steps he ran away,
pursued by the bull, which followed him as though fascinated, to the
opposite end of the Plaza. The animal seemed cowed by the fighter, and
obeyed his every movement, until at last, thinking the game had lasted
long enough, the man opened his arms with a dart in either hand, drew up
his graceful slim figure on tip-toe, and advancing towards the bull with
majestic tranquillity, fixed the coloured darts in the neck of the
surprised animal.
Three times he performed this feat, amid the acclamations of the
audience. Those who thought themselves "connoisseurs" now had their
revenge for the explosion of admiration provoked by Gallardo. This was
what a true torero should be! This was real art!
Gallardo stood by the barrier, wiping the sweat from his face with a
towel handed to him by Garabato. Afterwards he drank some water, and
turned his back on the circus, so as not to see the prowess of his
rival. Outside the Plaza he esteemed his rivals with the fraternity
established by danger; but once they trod the arena they all became his
enemies and their triumphs pained him like insults. This general
enthusiasm for Fuentes which obscured his own great triumphs seemed to
him like robbery. On the appearance of the fifth bull, which was his, he
leapt into the arena, burning to astonish everybody by his prowess.
If a picador fell he spread his cloak and drew the bull to the other end
of the arena, bewildering it with a succession of cloak play that left
the beast motionless. Then Gallardo would touch it on the muzzle with
one foot, or would take off his montero and lay it between the animal's
horns. Again and again he took advantage of its stupefaction and exposed
his stomach in an audacious challenge, or knelt close to it as though
about to lie down beneath its nose.
Under their breath the old aficionados muttered "monkey tricks!"
"Buffooneries that would not have been tolerated in former days!"...
But amidst the general shouts of approval they were obliged to keep
their opinion to themselves.
When the signal for the banderillas was given, the audience was amazed
to see Gallardo take the darts from El Nacional, and advance with them
towards the bull. There was a shout of protest. "He with the
banderillas!"... They all knew his failing in that respect. Banderilla
play was only for those who had risen in their career step by step, who
before arriving at being matadors had been banderilleros for many years
by the side of their masters, and Gallardo had begun at the other end,
killing bulls from the time he first began in the Plaza.
"No! No!" shouted the crowd.
Doctor Ruiz yelled and thumped inside the barrier.
"Leave that alone, lad! You know well enough what is wanted. Kill!"
But Gallardo despised his audience, and was deaf to its advice when his
daring impulses came over him. In the midst of the din he went straight
up to the bull, and before it moved--Zas! he stuck in the
banderillas.[44] The pair were out of place and badly driven in. One of
them fell out with the animal's start of surprise, but this did not
signify. With the tolerance that a crowd always has for its idol
excusing, even justifying, its shortcomings, the spectators watched this
daring act smilingly. Gallardo, rendered still more audacious, took a
second pair of banderillas and stuck them in, regardless of the warnings
of those who feared for his life. This feat he repeated a third time,
badly, but with such dash, that what would have provoked hisses for
another, produced only explosions of admiration for him. "What a man!
How luck helped that fearless man!"...
The bull carried four banderillas instead of six, and those were so
feebly planted that it scarcely seemed to feel the discomfort.
"He is still fresh!"[45] shouted the aficionados from the benches,
alluding to the bull, while Gallardo with his montero on his head,
grasping rapier and muleta in his hands, advanced towards him, proud and
calm, trusting to his lucky star.
"Out--all of you!" he cried again.
He turned his head, feeling that some one was remaining close to him
regardless of his orders. It was Fuentes a few steps behind him who had
followed him with his cloak on his arm pretending not to have heard, but
ready to rush to his assistance, as if he foresaw some accident.
"Leave me, Antonio," said Gallardo half angrily, and yet respectfully,
as if he were speaking to an elder brother.
His manner was such that Fuentes shrugged his shoulders disclaiming all
responsibility. Turning his back he moved slowly away, certain that he
would be suddenly required.
Gallardo spread his cloth on the very head of the wild beast, which at
once attacked it. A pass. "Olé!" roared the enthusiasts. The animal
turned suddenly, throwing itself again on the torero with a violent toss
of its head that tore the muleta out of his hand. Finding himself
disarmed and attacked he was obliged to run for the barrier, but at this
instant Fuentes' cloak diverted the animal's charge. Gallardo, who
guessed during his flight the cause of the bull's sudden distraction,
did not leap the barrier, but sat on the step and there remained some
moments watching his enemy a few paces off. His flight ended in applause
of this display of calmness.
He recovered his muleta and rapier, carefully re-arranged the red cloth,
and once again placed himself in front of the brute's head, but this
time not so calmly. The lust of slaughter dominated him, an intense
desire to kill as soon as possible the animal which had forced him to
fly in the sight of thousands of admirers.
He scarcely moved a step. Thinking that the decisive moment had come he
squared himself, the muleta low, and the pommel of the rapier raised to
his eyes.
Again the audience protested, fearing for his life.
"Don't strike! Stop!"... "O..h!"
An exclamation of horror shook the whole Plaza; a spasm which made all
rise to their feet, their eyes starting, whilst the women hid their
faces, or convulsively clutched at the arm nearest them.
As the matador struck, the sword glanced on a bone. This mischance
retarded his escape, and caught by one of the horns he was hooked up by
the middle of his body, and despite his weight and strength of muscle,
this well-built man was lifted, was twirled about on its point like a
helpless dummy until the powerful beast with a toss of its head sent him
flying several yards away. The torero fell with a thump on the sand with
his limbs spread wide apart, just like a frog dressed up in silk and
gold.
"It has killed him!" "He is gored in the stomach!" they yelled from the
seats.
But Gallardo picked himself up from among the medley of cloaks and men
which rushed to his rescue. With a smile he passed his hands over his
body, and then shrugged his shoulders to show he was not hurt. Nothing
but the force of the blow and a sash in rags. The horn had only torn the
strong silk belt.
He turned to pick up his "killing weapons."[46] None of the spectators
sat down, as they guessed that the next encounter would be brief and
terrible. Gallardo advanced towards the bull with a reckless excitement,
as if he discredited the powers of its horns now he had emerged unhurt.
He was determined to kill or to die. There must be neither delay nor
precautions. It must be either the bull or himself! He saw everything
red just as if his eyes were bloodshot, and he only heard, like a
distant sound from the other world, the shouts of the people who
implored him to keep calm.
He only made two passes with the help of a cloak which lay near him,
and then suddenly quick as thought like a spring released from its catch
he threw himself on the bull, planting a thrust, as his admirers said,
"like lightning." He thrust his arm in so far, that as he drew back from
between the horns, one of them grazed him, sending him staggering
several steps. But he kept his feet, and the bull, after a mad rush,
fell at the opposite side of the Plaza, with its legs doubled beneath it
and its poll touching the sand, until the "puntillero"[47] came to give
the final dagger thrust.
The crowd seemed to go off its head with delight, A splendid corrida!
All were surfeited with excitement. "That man Gallardo didn't steal
their cash, he paid back their entrance money with interest." The
aficionados would have enough to keep them talking for three days at
their evening meetings in the Café. What a brave fellow! What a savage!
And the most enthusiastic looked all around them in a fever of pugnacity
to find anyone that disagreed with them.
"He's the finest matador in the world!... If anyone dares to deny it,
I'm here, ready for him."
The rest of the corrida scarcely attracted any attention. It all seemed
insipid and colourless after Gallardo's great feats.
When the last bull fell in the arena, a swarm of boys, low class
hangers-on, and bull-ring apprentices invaded the circus. They
surrounded Gallardo, and escorted him in his progress from the
president's chair to the door of exit. They pressed round him, anxious
to shake his hands, or even to touch his clothes, till finally the
wildest spirits, regardless of the blows of El Nacional and the other
banderilleros, seized the "Maestro" by the legs, and hoisting him on
their shoulders, carried him in triumph round the circus and galleries
as far as the outbuildings of the Plaza.
Gallardo raising his montero saluted the groups who cheered his
progress. With his gorgeous cape around him he let himself be carried
like a god, erect and motionless, above the sea of Cordovan hats and
Madrid caps, whence issued enthusiastic rounds of cheers.
When he was seated in his carriage, passing down the Calle de Alcala,
hailed by the crowds who had not seen the corrida but who had already
heard of his triumphs, a smile of pride, of delight in his own strength,
illuminated his face perspiring and pale with excitement.
El Nacional, still anxious about his Master's accident and terrible
fall, asked if he was in pain, and whether Doctor Ruiz should be
summoned.
"No, it was only a caress, nothing more.... The bull that can kill me is
not born yet."
But as though in the midst of his pride some remembrance of his former
weakness had surged up, and he thought he saw a sarcastic gleam in El
Nacional's eye, he added:
"Those feelings come over me before I go to the Plaza.... Something like
women's fancies. You are not far wrong Sebastian. What's your saying?...
"God _or_ Nature"; that's it. Neither God _or_ Nature meddle with
bull-fighting affairs. Every one comes out of it as best he can, by his
own skill or his own courage, there is no protection to be had from
either earth or heaven.... You have talents, Sebastian; you ought to
have studied for a profession."
In the optimism of his triumph he regarded the banderillero as a sage,
quite forgetting the laughter with which at other times he had always
greeted his very involved reasonings.
On arriving at his lodging he found a crowd of admirers in the lobby
waiting to embrace him. His exploits, to judge from their hyperbolic
language, had become quite different, so much did their conversation
exaggerate and distort them, even during the short drive from the Plaza
to the hotel.
Upstairs he found his room full of friends. Gentlemen who called him
"tu" and who imitated the rustic speech of the peasantry, shepherds,
herdsmen, and such like, slapping him on the back and saying, "You were
splendid ... absolutely first class."
Gallardo freed himself from this warm reception, and went out into the
passage with Garabato.
"Go and send off the telegram home. You know--'nothing new.'"
Garabato excused himself, he wished to help his master to undress. The
hotel people would undertake to send off the wire.
"No: I want you to do it. I will wait.... There's another telegram too
that you must send. You know for whom it is--for that lady, for Doña
Sol.... Also 'nothing new.'"
FOOTNOTES:
[1] _Vide_ Glossary.
[2] "Good shadow"--lucky.
[3] _Vide_ Glossary.
[4] _Vide_ Glossary.
[5] Two Matadors. "Little Lizard" and "Flask."
[6] Frascuelo dressed in black in the bull-ring on account of his
political opinions.
[7] _Vide_ Glossary.
[8] A café specially frequented by toreros.
[9] _Vide_ Glossary.
[10] Easter.
[11] Aficion. _Vide_ Glossary.
[12] The knot of hair, dressed with ribbons, worn at the back of the
head by toreros, principally to lessen the shock of a fall. The Mona was
only "lowered" when a torero retired finally from the ring, either on
account of age or inefficiency.
[13] _Vide_ Glossary.
[14] Garabato. Balafré--scarred.
[15] The Snail.
[16] Lettuce seller.
[17] A kind of Anisette made at Cazalla, in the Sierra Morena.
[18] _Vide_ Glossary.
[19] Muira, a famous breeder whose bulls have a reputation for ferocity.
[20] About £40. A peseta is worth about 9½d.
[21] A contraction of "Vuestra Merced"--Your Worship. The usual Spanish
address to an equal or superior.
[22] Mozo d'estoque--sword or rapier, about a yard long, sharpened on
both sides. The hilt is very small, in the shape of a cross, and is
bound round with red stuff to give a better hold. At the top of the hilt
is a knob which fits into the palm of the hand and strengthens the
thrust.
[23] _Vide_ Glossary.
[24] A small portmanteau. Term applied to a torero's valet, but an
insult if applied to a torero.
[25] Maestro--one high up in the profession.
[26] Before the fight the bulls are divided and those chosen for the
day's work are put into separate boxes or stalls.
[27] _Vide_ Glossary.
[28] Nickname of one of the banderilleros forming part of Gallardo's
cuadrilla.
[29] Old Spanish head-dress, a kind of net.
[30] _Vide_ Glossary.
[31] Toreador's small round hat, like a pork pie.
[32] Procession cape.
[33] _Vide_ Glossary.
[34] These servants have to strip the harness off dead horses and
sprinkle sand over the pools of blood.
[35] The name of a fountain.
[36] 'Of the stables.'
[37] _Vide_ Glossary.
[38] Banderilleros, Chulos, etc., who fight on foot.
[39] Lit.:--excitement.
[40] Square of red silk fastened to a wand--used to irritate the bull
and to throw over his eyes as he charges.
[41] Brindis.--The matador has to declare before the president in whose
honour--man or woman--he will kill the bull. There is an ancient formula
used: "I dedicate this bull to so and so--either I will kill him or he
will kill me." He then throws his montero on the ground behind him and
fights the bull bareheaded.
[42] Maestria--complete knowledge.
[43] As the fox's brush or otter's pad is given with us.
[44] The banderillas ought to be evenly and symmetrically placed in
pairs--three pairs is the proper complement.
[45] Term applied to a bull which, after much punishment, is still
plucky and strong.
[46] Trastos de Matar.
[47] A man who finishes the bull with a dagger thrust.