A great satisfaction to his vanity was added to the numerous other
reasons Gallardo had for being proud of his person.
When he spoke with the Marquis de Moraima he regarded him with an almost
filial affection. That gentleman, dressed as a countryman, a rough
centaur with "Zajones" and a strong garrocha, was an illustrious
personage, who could cover his breast with ribbons and crosses, and in
the king's palace wore an embroidered coat, with a gold key sewn on to
one flap. His remote ancestors had come to Seville with that monarch who
had expelled the Moors, and had received as reward for their great
exploits, immense territories wrested from the enemy, the remains of
which were those vast plains on which the Marquis now reared his cattle.
And this great nobleman, frank and generous, who preserved,
notwithstanding the simplicity of his country life, the distinction of
his illustrious ancestry, was looked upon by Gallardo as in some sort a
near relation.
The cobbler's son was just as proud as if he had in reality become a
member of the Marquis's family. The Marquis de Moraima was his uncle,
and though he could neither announce it publicly, nor was the
relationship legitimate, he consoled himself by thinking of the
ascendency he exercised over one female of the family, thanks to a love
which seemed to laugh at all prejudices of rank.
All those gentlemen who up to now had treated him with the rather
disdainful familiarity with which the patrons of the sport of rank
treat toreros, were now in some sort his cousins, and he began to treat
them as equals.
His life and habits had completely changed. He seldom entered the cafés
in the Calle de las Sierpes, where most of the amateurs assembled. They
were good sort of people, simple and enthusiastic, but of little
importance; small tradesmen, workmen who had become employers, small
clerks, nondescripts without profession, who lived miraculously by
strange expedients, apparently having no other business than to talk of
bulls.
Gallardo passed by the windows of these cafés, saluting his admirers,
who waved frantically to him to come in. "I will return presently"; he,
however, did not return, he went further up the street to a very
aristocratic club, decorated in the Gothic style, where the servants
wore knee breeches, and the tables were covered with silver plate.
The son of Señora Angustias could not repress a feeling of pride each
time he passed through the rows of servants drawn up on either side like
soldiers, or when a Major-domo, with a silver chain round his neck, came
to take his hat and stick. In one room fencing was practised, in another
they gambled from the early hours of the afternoon till dawn. The
members tolerated Gallardo because he was a "decent" torero, who spent a
good deal of money, and had powerful friends.
"He is very well educated," said the members gravely, realizing that he
knew just about as much as they did.
The sympathetic personality of his well-connected manager, Don José,
served the torero as a guarantee in his new existence. Besides,
Gallardo, with the cunning of a former street urchin, knew how to make
himself popular with this brilliant set, among whom he met "relations"
by the dozen.
He played heavily. It was the best way of drawing closer to his new
friends. He played and lost, with the proverbial ill-luck of a man
fortunate in other undertakings, and his ill-luck became a matter of
pride to the club.
"Gallardo was cleared out last night," said the members proudly. "He
must have lost at least eleven thousand pesetas."
The calmness with which he lost his money made his new friends respect
him, but the new passion soon grew upon him, even to the point of making
him sometimes forget his great lady. To play with all the best in
Seville! To find himself treated as an equal by these gentlemen! Thanks
to the fraternity established by loans of money and common emotions!
One night a large lamp suddenly crashed down on to the green table.
There was sudden darkness and wild confusion, but the imperious voice of
Gallardo rang out:
"Calm yourselves, gentlemen. Nothing much has happened. Let the game go
on. They are bringing candles."
And the game went on, his companions admiring him even more for his
energetic speech, than for the way in which he killed his bulls.
The manager's friends questioned him as to Gallardo's losses. Surely he
would ruin himself: everything he earned by bull-fighting he lost by
gambling. But Don José smiled disdainfully.
"This year we had more corridas than anyone else. We shall become tired
of killing bulls and piling up money.... Let the lad enjoy himself. He
works for this and is what he is ... the first man in the world."
In his new existence Gallardo not only frequented this club, but some
afternoons he went to the "Forty-Five," which was a kind of Senate of
tauromachia. The toreros as a rule did not gain easy access to its
precincts, for their absence admitted of the fathers of the "sport"
giving free vent to their various opinions.
During the spring and summer the members met in the vestibule, and
overflowed into the street, sitting on cane chairs, waiting for
telegrams about the different corridas. They believed very little in the
opinions of the Press; besides it was necessary for them to have the
news before it got into the papers.
It was an occupation that filled them with pride and elevated them above
their fellow mortals, to sit quietly at the door of their club breathing
the fresh air and knowing exactly, without interested exaggerations,
what had happened that afternoon in the corrida of Bilbao, Coruña,
Barcelona, or Valencia; how many ears one matador had received, how
another one had been hissed, while their fellow-townsmen remained in
complete ignorance, waiting about the streets till the evening papers
were published. When there was "hule" and a telegram came announcing the
terrible wounds of some native torero their feelings and their patriotic
solidarity softened them sufficiently to admit of their imparting the
momentous secret to some passing friend. The news flew instantaneously
through the cafés in the Calle de las Sierpes, and no one could doubt it
for an instant, for was it not a telegram received by the "Forty-Five"?
Gallardo's manager, with his aggressive and noisy enthusiasm, rather
disturbed the social gravity. They endured it as he was an old friend,
and ended by laughing at his flights. But it was impossible for sensible
men to discuss the merits of the various toreros quietly with Don José.
Often when they alluded to Gallardo as "a very brave fellow, but without
much art" they would look timorously towards the door.
"Hush! Pepe[85] is coming," and Pepe would enter waving a telegram
above his head.
"Is that news from Santander?"... "Yes! here it is: Gallardo, two
estocades ... two bulls ... and the ear of the second. Just what I said!
The first man in the world."
The telegrams to the "Forty-Five" often differed, but Don José would
pass it over with a gesture of contempt, breaking out into noisy
protests.
"Lies! All envy! My wire is the true one. What is in yours is only envy
because 'my lad' has lowered so many chignons."
All the members laughed at Don José, lifting a finger to their foreheads
and joking about the first man in the world, and his kind manager.
Little by little Gallardo had succeeded, as an unheard-of privilege, in
introducing himself into this society. The torero would come at first
under pretext of looking for his manager, and ended by sitting down
among the gentlemen, although there were many who were no friends to him
and who had chosen other matadors from among his rivals.
The decoration of the house, according to Don José, was full of
"character." The lower part of the walls were covered with Moorish
tiles, and on the immaculately white walls hung announcements of ancient
corridas, stuffed bulls' heads, of animals celebrated either for the
number of horses they had killed, or for having wounded some celebrated
torero; together with procession capes and rapiers presented by espadas
who had "cut off their pigtails" and retired from the profession.
Servants in dress coats served the gentlemen in their country clothes,
or possibly in their shirt sleeves, during the hot summer evenings.
During the Holy Week and other great holidays in Seville, when
illustrious enthusiasts from every part of Spain came and paid their
respects to the "Forty-Five," the servants wore knee breeches and
powdered wigs, donned the royal livery of red and yellow, and dressed
thus, like servants of the royal household, handed glasses of Manzanilla
to these wealthy gentlemen, many of whom had even dispensed with their
ties.
In the evenings when the doyen, the illustrious Marquis de Moraima, came
in, the members in big arm-chairs formed a circle round him, and the
famous breeder in a chair higher than the others presided over the
conversation. For the most part they began by talking of the weather.
Most of them were great breeders or wealthy landed proprietors, whose
living depended on the necessities of the earth, and the variations of
the weather. The Marquis explained the observations that his wisdom had
gathered, during interminable rides over the lonely Andalusian plains,
so immense and solitary, with wide horizons, like the sea, on which the
bulls, slowly moving among the waves of verdure, seemed like basking
sharks. He could generally see some piece of paper blown about the
street which served as a basis to his predictions. The drought, that
cruel scourge of the Andalusian plains, gave them conversation for a
whole afternoon, and when after weeks of anxious expectation the
overcast sky would discharge a few big hot drops, the great country
gentlemen would smile, rubbing their hands, and the Marquis would say
sententiously, as he looked at the great round splashes on the pavement:
"Glory be to God!... Each drop of this is worth a five duro piece."
When they were not anxious about the weather, cattle was the subject of
their conversation, and especially bulls, of whom they spoke tenderly,
almost as if there were some relationship between them. The other
breeders listened with deference to the Marquis's opinions, on account
of the advantage given him by his large fortune. The simple
"aficionados" who never left the town admired his skill in producing
fierce animals. What this man knew!... He himself, as he spoke of the
extreme care required by the bulls, seemed quite convinced of the
importance of his occupation. Out of ten calves, at least eight or nine
were fit only for the butcher, after they had been tried to judge of
their fierceness. Only one or two who had shown themselves brave and
ready to charge against the iron of the garrocha were judged fit to pass
as fighting animals; thenceforward these lived apart, with every sort of
care. And what care!
"A breeding establishment of wild bulls ought not to be a business,"
said the Marquis. "It is an expensive luxury. It is true we are paid
four or five times as much for a fighting bull as for the others, but
then, see what it costs to rear!"
They must be watched constantly, their food and water considered, moved
from one place to another, according to variations of temperature, in
fact every bull costs more than the maintenance of a family, and when at
last they were brought to the highest pitch, they had still to be
carefully watched up to the last moment, in order that they should not
disgrace themselves in the circus, but be fit to do honour to the badge
of the herd which hung round their necks.
In certain Plazas the Marquis had even fought with the managers and the
authorities, refusing to hand over his animals, because a band was
stationed just over the bulls' entrance. The noise of the instruments
bewildered the noble animals, robbing them of their bravery and their
calmness as they entered the Plaza.
"They are just like us," said he tenderly, "they only want speech. How
can I say like us? Many are worth more than any of us."
And he spoke of Lobito,[86] the old head of the herd, swearing he would
not sell him if he were offered all Seville, with the Giralda thrown in.
As soon as the Marquis, galloping across the vast plains, came in sight
of the herd to which this treasure belonged, he would instantly respond
to the call of "Lobito."... And leaving his companions would come to
meet the Marquis, rubbing his muzzle against the rider's boots, and this
although he was an immensely powerful animal and the terror of the rest
of the herd. Then the breeder would dismount, and search in his saddle
bags for a piece of chocolate to give to Lobito, who would gratefully
shake his head, armed with those immense horns. Then with one arm round
the bull's neck the Marquis would calmly walk in among the herd of
bulls, made restless and fierce by a man's presence. There was no
danger. Lobito walked like a dog, covering his master with his body,
looking all around him, and imposing respect on his companions with his
fiery eyes. If any one, more venturesome than his comrades, approached
to sniff the intruder they met with Lobito's threatening horns. If
several of them with heavy playfulness joined to bar his way, Lobito
would stretch out his armed head and force them to make way.
When the Marquis related the great deeds of some of the animals reared
on his pastures his white whiskers and his shaven lips would tremble
with emotion.
"A bull!... He is the noblest animal in the world. If only men were more
like him things would go on better in the world. There you have a
portrait of poor Coronel. Do any of you remember that jewel?"
As he spoke he pointed to a large photograph finely framed,
representing himself, much younger, in peasant dress, surrounded by
little girls in white, who seemed to be seated in the midst of a meadow,
on a black mound, at one end of which appeared a pair of horns. This
dark and shapeless bank was Coronel. Of enormous size and very fierce to
his comrades in the herd, this beast showed the most affectionate
gentleness to his master and his family. He was like one of those
mastiffs who are so fierce to strangers, but who let the children of the
family pull their ears and tail, and receive all their teazing with
grunts of pleasure. The little girls were the Marquis's daughters; the
beast would sniff at their little white dresses, while they half
frightened at first, clung to their father's legs, but would suddenly
with childish confidence rub his muzzle. "Lie down, Coronel," and
Coronel would lie down with his feet doubled beneath him, while the
children sat on his broad back heaving with his heavy breathing.
One day, after much hesitation, the Marquis sold him to the Plaza in
Pampeluna, and went himself to assist at the corrida. De Moraima was
deeply moved and his eyes were dim as he recalled the occurrence. Never
in his life had he seen a bull like that one. He rushed gallantly into
the arena, though rather dazed at first by the sudden light after the
darkness of his stall and the roars of thousands of people. But directly
a picador pricked him, he seemed to fill the whole Plaza with his
magnificent onslaughts.
Soon, there were neither men nor horses nor anything else left! In a
moment all the horses were down and their riders tossed in the air. The
peons ran, and the arena was in disarray, as if a branding[87] had been
going on. The audience clamoured for more horses, while Coronel stood
in the middle of the Plaza waiting to turn and rend anyone who came out
against him. The slightest invitation was sufficient to make him attack,
no one had ever seen anything like him for nobility and power, rushing
in to his charge with a grandeur and a dash which drove the populace
mad. When the death signal sounded, he had fourteen wounds in him and a
complete set of banderillas, yet he was as fresh and as brave as if he
had never left his pasture. Then....
When the breeder reached this point he always stopped to steady his
shaking voice.
Then ... the Marquis de Moraima, who was in a box, found himself, he
knew not how, behind the barrier, among the excited servants of the
Plaza and close to the matador, who was slowly rolling up his muleta, as
though he wished to put off the moment when he should have to meet so
formidable an enemy. "Coronel!" ... shouted the Marquis, throwing his
body half over the barrier and striking the woodwork with his hands.
The animal did not move, but he raised his head, as though these shouts
reminded him of the pastures he might never see again. "Coronel!"...
Till, turning his head he saw a man leaning over the barrier calling
him, and rushed straight to attack him. But he stopped half way in his
wild rush, then came on slowly till he rubbed his horns against the arms
stretched out to him. He came with his chest splashed with the streams
of blood from the darts fixed in his neck, and his skin torn by the
wounds which showed the blue muscles beneath.... "Coronel! My son!..."
And the bull, as if he understood these tender words, raised his muzzle
and rubbed the breeder's white whiskers. "Why have you brought me here?"
his fierce blood-shot eyes seemed to say; and the Marquis, no longer
knowing what he did, kissed the beast's nostrils, wet with his furious
snorting, again and again.
"Do not kill him!" some kind soul shouted from the seats, and as though
these words reflected the thoughts of the whole audience, an explosion
of voices shook the Plaza, and thousands of handkerchiefs waved like
white doves. "Do not kill him!" And at that moment the crowd, seized
with a vague tenderness, despised their own amusement, abhorred the
torero in his showy dress with his useless heroism, and admired the
bravery of the brute, to whom they felt themselves inferior; and
recognised that among those thousands of reasoning beings, nobility and
affection were alone represented by this poor animal.
"I took him away," said the Marquis, almost sobbing. "I returned the
manager his two thousand pesetas. I would have given him my whole
fortune. After a month on the pasture there was not the vestige of a
scar on his neck.... I should have wished him to die of old age, but it
is not always the good who prosper in this world. A sulky bull, who
would not have dared to look him in the face, killed him treacherously
with a blow of his horn."
The Marquis and his fellow-breeders soon forgot their tender sympathy
for the animals in the pride they felt at their fierceness. You should
have seen the contempt with which they spoke of the enemies of
bull-fighting, and of those who clamoured against this art in the name
of the protection of animals.
"Follies of foreigners," "Ignorant errors," which confound a butcher's
ox with a fighting bull! The Spanish bull is a wild animal: the bravest
wild beast in the world. And he recalled several fights between bulls
and felines, which had always ended triumphantly for the national
beast.
The Marquis laughed as he remembered another of his animals. A fight was
arranged in a certain Plaza between a bull, and a lion and a tiger
belonging to a celebrated tamer. The breeder sent Barrabas, a vicious
animal, which had to be kept apart at the farm, because he had fought
with and killed several of his companions.
"I saw this myself," said the Marquis. "There was a huge iron cage in
the middle of the circus and inside it was Barrabas. They loosed the
lion first, and this accursed feline, taking advantage of a bull being
unsuspicious, sprung upon his hind quarters and began to tear him with
teeth and claws. Barrabas bounded furiously in order to dislodge him and
get him within reach of the horns, which are his defence. At last he
succeeded in throwing the lion in front of him and then ... caballeros!
it was just like a game of ball!... He tossed him from one horn to
another, shaking him like a marionette, till at last, as if he despised
him, he threw him on one side, and there lay the so-called king of
animals, rolled into a ball, and lying like a cat who has just been
beaten.... The second affair was much shorter. As soon as the tiger
appeared Barrabas caught him, tossed him in the air, and after shaking
him well, threw him into the corner like the other.... Then Barrabas,
being an evil-minded beast, trotted up and down, with every indecent
display of triumph over his fallen foes."
These anecdotes always drew shouts of laughter from the "Forty-Five."
The Spanish bull!... The finest wild animal!... It seemed as if the
arrogant bravery of the national animal established the superiority of
the country and the race over all others.
When Gallardo began to frequent the club, a fresh topic of conversation
had arisen to interrupt the endless talk of bulls and field work.
The "Forty-Five," like every one else in Seville, were talking of the
exploits of Plumitas, a brigand, celebrated for his audacity, to whom
the useless efforts of his pursuers daily gave fresh fame. The papers
spoke of his kindly disposition, as if he were a national personage. The
Government, who were questioned in the Cortes, promised a speedy
capture, which was never realized. The civil guard were concentrated,
and a perfect army was mobilized to follow and catch him, while
Plumitas, always alone, with no other help but his carbine and his
horse, slipped through those who were following him like a ghost; he
would turn on them, when they were few in numbers, and stretch many
lifeless, but he was reverenced and helped by all the poor peasantry,
wretched slaves of the enormous landed interest, who looked upon the
bandit as the avenger of the starving, a just but cruel justiciary,
after the fashion of the ancient armour-clad knights errant. He exacted
money from the rich, and then with the manner of an actor before an
immense audience, he would assist some poor old woman, or some labourer
with a large family. These generosities were greatly exaggerated by the
gossip of the rural population, who always had the name of Plumitas on
their lips, but who became both blind and dumb when any enquiries were
made by the Government soldiers.
He went from one province to another like one perfectly acquainted with
the country, and the landed proprietors of Seville and Cordova
contributed largely to his support.... Whole weeks passed and nothing
would be heard of him, then suddenly he would appear in some farm or
village, utterly regardless of danger.
They had direct news of him in the "Forty-Five," precisely as if he had
been a matador.
"Plumitas was at my farm the day before yesterday," a rich farmer would
say. "The overseer gave him thirty duros, and he went away after
breakfasting."
They paid this contribution contentedly, and gave no information except
to friends. Giving information meant making declarations, and every sort
of annoyance. And for what? The civil guard sought him without success,
and had he become incensed against the informers, their goods and
property would have been at his mercy, without any protection whatever
from his vengeance.
The Marquis spoke of Plumitas and his exploits without being in the
least scandalized by them, and treated them as though they were a
natural and inevitable calamity.
"They are poor fellows who have had some misfortune, and have taken to
the road. My father (who rests in peace) knew the famous José Maria, and
had twice breakfasted with him. I have run against several of lesser
fame, who went about the neighbourhood doing evil deeds. They are just
the same as bulls, noble and simple creatures. They only attack when
goaded, and their evil deeds increase with punishment."
He had given orders to all the overseers at his farms and in all his
shepherds' hovels to give Plumitas whatever he asked for; consequently,
as the overseers and cowherds related, the bandit, with the respect of a
country peasant for a kind and generous master, spoke of him with the
greatest gratitude, offering to kill anyone who offended the "Zeno
Marque" in the very slightest degree. Poor fellow! For the wretched
little sums which he demanded, when he made his appearance, wearied and
starving, it was not worth while drawing down on oneself his anger and
revenge.
The breeder, who was constantly galloping alone over the plains where
his bulls grazed, suspected that he had several times come across
Plumitas. He was probably one of those poor-looking horsemen whom he met
in the solitary plains without so much as a village on the horizon, who
would raise his hand to his greasy sombrero, and say with respectful
civility:
"Go with God, Zeno Marque."
The lord of Moraima, when he spoke of Plumitas, looked often at
Gallardo, who declaimed with the vehemence of a novice, against the
authorities for being unable to protect property.
"Some fine day he will turn up at La Rincona, my lad," said the Marquis,
with his grave Andalusian drawl.
"Curse him!... But that would not please me, Zeno Marque! God alive! Is
it for this I pay such heavy taxes?"
No, indeed. It would not please him to run against the bandit during his
excursions at La Rinconada. He was a brave man killing bulls, and in a
Plaza regardless of his own life; but this profession of killing men
inspired him with all the uneasiness of the unknown.
His family were at the farm. Señora Angustias enjoyed a country life,
after the miseries of an existence spent in town hovels. Carmen also
enjoyed it, and the saddler's children required a change, so Gallardo
had sent his family to La Rincona, promising soon to join them. He,
however, postponed the journey by every sort of pretext, living a
bachelor's life (with no other companion than Garabato), which left him
complete liberty as to his relations with Doña Sol.
He thought this the happiest time of his life, and he often quite forgot
La Rinconada and its inhabitants.
He and Doña Sol rode together, mounted on spirited horses, dressed much
the same as on the day when they first met, generally alone, but
sometimes with Don José, whose presence was a sop to people's
scandalized feelings. They would go to see bulls in the pastures round
Seville, or to try calves at the Marquis's dairies, and Doña Sol, always
eager for danger, was delighted when, as he felt the prick of the
garrocha, a young bull would turn and attack her, and Gallardo had to
come to her assistance.
At other times they would go to the station of Empalme, if a boxing of
bulls was announced for the different Plazas which were giving special
corridas at the end of the winter.
Doña Sol examined this place, which was the most important centre of
exportation of the taurine industry, with great interest. There were
large enclosures alongside the railway siding, and dozens of huge boxes
on wheels with movable doors. The bulls who were to be entrained,
arrived, galloping along a dusty road edged with barbed wire. Many came
from distant provinces, but on getting close to Empalme they were sent
on with a rush, in order to get them into the enclosures with greater
ease.
In front galloped the overseers and shepherds with their lances on their
shoulders, and behind them the prudent "cabestros" covering the men with
their huge horns. After these came the fighting bulls, well rounded up
by tame bulls who prevented them straying from the road, and followed by
strong cowherds ready to sling a stone at any wandering pair of horns.
Arrived at the enclosures the foremost riders drew to either side,
leaving the gateway open, and the whole herd, an avalanche of dust,
pawings, snortings and bells, rushed in like an overwhelming torrent and
the gate was immediately closed after the last animal.
They tore through the first enclosure without noticing that they were
trapped, the "cabestros," taught by experience and obedient to the
shepherds, stood aside to let them pass into the second, where the herd
only stopped on finding a blank wall before them.
Now the boxing began. One by one they were driven, by shouts, waving
cloths, and blows from garrochas, into a narrow lane, at the end of
which stood the travelling box, with both its side doors lowered. It
looked like a small tunnel, through which the brutes could see a field
beyond, with animals quietly grazing. The suspicious bulls guessed some
danger in this small tunnel, and had to be driven on by clappings and
whistlings and pricks. Finally they would make a dash for the quiet
pasture beyond, making the sloping platform leading to the box shake as
they rushed up it, but as soon as they had mounted this, the door in
front of them was suddenly closed, and then equally quickly the one
behind, and the bull was caught in a cage where he could only just stand
up or lie down comfortably. The box was then wheeled into the railway,
and another one took its place, till all the herd were successfully
entrained.
When the first intoxication of Gallardo's good fortune had passed off,
he looked at Doña Sol with the utmost astonishment, wondering in the
hours of their greatest intimacy if all great ladies were like this one.
The caprices and fickleness of her character bewildered him. He had
never dared to address her as "tu," indeed she had never invited him to
such a familiarity, and on the one occasion when with slow and
hesitating tongue he had attempted it, he had seen in her golden eyes
such a gleam of anger and surprise, that he had drawn back ashamed, and
had returned to the former mode of speech.
She, on the other hand, spoke to him as "tu," but only in the hours of
privacy. If she had to write to him asking him not to come, or saying
she was going out with her relations, she always used the ceremonious
"uste" and there were no expressions of affection, only the cold
courtesies that might be written to a friend of an inferior class.
"Oh! that gachi," murmured Gallardo, disheartened; "it seems as if she
had always lived with rascals who showed her letters to every one. One
would think she cannot believe me to be a gentleman because I am a
matador."
Some of her eccentricities left the torero frowning and sad. Sometimes
on going to the house one of the magnificent servants would coldly bar
his way. "The Señora was not at home," or "The Señora had gone out," and
he knew that it was a lie, feeling the presence of Doña Sol a short
distance from him, the other side of the curtained doors.
"The fuel is spent!" said the espada to himself, "I will not return.
That gachi shall not laugh at me."
But when he did return, she received him with open arms, clasping him
close in her firm white hands, with her eyes wide open and vague, and a
strange light in them which seemed to speak of mental derangement.
"Why do you perfume yourself?" she said, as if she perceived the most
unpleasant smells. "It is unworthy of you. I should like you to smell of
bulls, of horses. Those are fine scents! Don't you love them? Say yes,
Juanin, my animal."
One night in the soft twilight of Doña Sol's bedroom, Gallardo felt
something very like fear, hearing her speak, and watching her eyes.
"I should like to run on all fours. I should like to be a bull, and that
you should stand before me rapier in hand. Fine gorings I would give
you! Here ... and here!"
And with her clenched fist, to which her excitement gave fresh
strength, she planted several blows on the matador's chest only covered
by his thin silk vest. Gallardo drew back, not wishing to admit that a
woman could possibly hurt him.
"No, not a bull. I should like to be a dog ... a shepherd's dog ... one
of those with long fangs, to come out and bark at you. Do you see that
fine fellow who kills bulls, and who the public say is so brave? Well, I
shall bite him. I shall bite him like this! Aaaam!"
And with hysterical delight she fixed her teeth in the matador's arm,
punishing his swelling biceps. Exasperated by the pain the matador swore
a big oath, shaking the beautiful half-dressed woman from him, whose
snake-like golden hair stood up round her head like that of a drunken
bacchante.
Doña Sol seemed suddenly to awake.
"Poor fellow! I have hurt you. And it was I!... I who am sometimes mad!
Let me kiss the bite to cure it. Let me kiss all your glorious scars. My
poor little brute, it made you cry out!"
And the beautiful fury suddenly became tender and gentle, purring round
the torero like a kitten.
One evening, finding her inclined to be confidential, and feeling some
curiosity as to her past, he questioned her as to the kings and other
great personages, whom report said had crossed her path.
With a cold stare in her eyes she replied to his curiosity:
"What does it matter to you? Are you by any chance jealous?... And if it
were true ... what then?"
She remained silent a long while, with a strange look in her eyes, the
look of madness, which was always accompanied by extravagant thoughts.
"You must have struck many women," she said, looking at him curiously;
"do not deny it, it interests me greatly! No, not your wife, I know she
is very good, but all those that toreros mix with; women who love better
when they are beaten. No? Say truly, have you never struck any one?"
Gallardo protested with the dignity of a brave man, incapable of hurting
those weaker than himself. Doña Sol showed a certain disbelief in his
asseverations.
"One day you will have to beat me.... I should like to know what it is"
... she said resolutely....
But her expression darkened, she frowned, and a steely gleam lit up the
golden light in her eyes.
"No, my brute, pay no attention to me, and do not attempt it. You would
be the loser."
The advice was just, and Gallardo had cause to remember it. One day, in
a moment of intimacy, a somewhat rough caress from his fighting hand was
enough to rouse this woman's fury, who was attracted by the man, and yet
hated him at the same time.
"Take that." And with a fist as hard as a club she gave him a blow on
the jaw from below upwards with a precision, which seemed inspired by a
knowledge of the rules of boxing.
Gallardo remained bewildered by pain and shame, while the lady, as if
she suddenly realized her unprovoked aggression, endeavoured to justify
herself with cold hostility.
"It is to teach you better. I know what you toreros are. If I were to
let myself be trampled on once, for ever after you would shake me like a
gipsy of Triana. I am glad I did it. You must keep your distance."
One evening in early spring, they were returning from a trial of calves
at one of the farms belonging to the Marquis, who with some other
friends was riding home along the road.
Doña Sol, followed by the espada, turned her horse into the fields,
delighting in the soft sward under their hoofs, which at this season was
carpeted with spring flowers.
The setting sun dyed everything with crimson, lengthening indefinitely
the shadows of the riders with their long lances over their shoulders,
and the broad river half hidden among the vegetation rolled along one
side of the meadows.
Doña Sol looked at Gallardo with imperious eyes.
"Put your arm round my waist."
The espada obeyed, and so they rode on, their horses close together, the
woman watching their shadows thrown as one by the setting sun on the
grass.
"It seems as though we were living in another world," she murmured,--"a
legendary world, something like one sees on the tapestries, the loving
knight and the amazon travelling together, their lances on their
shoulders in search of adventures and dangers. But you do not understand
all this--dunce of my heart. Answer truly, you do not understand me?"
The torero smiled, showing his beautiful strong teeth of luminous
whiteness. She, as if attracted by his rough ignorance, drew closer to
him, laying her head on his shoulder, shivering as she felt his breath
on the back of her neck.
They rode on in silence. Doña Sol seemed to have fallen asleep on the
torero's shoulder. Suddenly her eyes opened, flashing with that strange
light which was always the precursor of the most extraordinary
questions.
"Say! Have you never killed a man?"
Gallardo started, and in his astonishment disengaged himself from Doña
Sol. Who! He?... Never. He had been a good fellow who had followed his
profession without doing harm to anyone. He had scarcely even fought
with his companions at the "capeas," when they held on to the peace
because they were the strongest. He had exchanged a few blows with
others of his profession, or fought a round in a café, but the life of a
man inspired him with deep respect. Bulls were another affair.
"So that you have never felt the slightest wish to kill a man?... And I
who thought that toreros...."
The sun had set, and the landscape, which before had seemed so
brilliant, now looked dull and grey; even the river had disappeared, and
Doña Sol spurred on her horse without saying another word, or even
appearing to notice if the espada were following her.
Before the Holy Week holidays Gallardo's family returned to Seville. The
espada was to fight at the Easter corrida. It was the first time he
would kill in Doña Sol's presence since he had come to know her, and it
made him doubtful of his powers.
Besides, he never could fight in Seville without a certain disquietude.
He could accept an unlucky mischance in any other Plaza in Spain,
thinking he would probably not return there for some time. But in his
own native town, where his greatest enemies lived!...
"We must see you distinguish yourself," said Don José. "Think of those
who will be watching you. I expect you to remain the first man in the
world."
On the Saturday of "Gloria,"[88] during the small hours of the night,
the enclosing of the cattle for the following day's corrida was to take
place, and Doña Sol wished to assist as picqeur at the operation, which
presented the further delight of taking place in the dark. The bulls had
to be brought from the pastures of Tablada to the enclosures at the
Plaza.
In spite of Gallardo's wish to accompany Doña Sol he was unable to do
so; his manager opposed it, alleging the necessity of his keeping
himself fresh and vigorous for the following afternoon. At midnight the
road leading from the pastures to the Plaza was as lively as a fair. In
the country villas the windows were lighted up, and shadows passed
before them, dancing to the sound of pianos. In the little inns, whose
open doors threw broad streaks of light across the road, the tinkling of
guitars, the clinking of glasses, and shouts and laughter let it be
known that wine was circulating freely.
About one in the morning a rider passed along the road at a slow trot.
He was "el aviso,"[89] a rough shepherd, who stopped before the taverns
and gay country houses, warning them that the herd would pass in less
than a quarter of an hour, so that lights might be extinguished and
everything be quiet.
This order, given in the name of the national sport, was obeyed with far
more alacrity than any one given by the authorities. The houses remained
in darkness, the whiteness of their walls confounded with the shadowy
mass of trees. The invisible people, assembled behind the barred and
spiked window gratings, were silent in the expectation of something
extraordinary. In the walks alongside the river the gas lamps were
extinguished one by one as the shepherd advanced shouting the coming of
the herd.
Everything was absolutely silent. Above the trees the stars were
shining, and below on the ground only the slightest rustle; the faintest
murmur betrayed in the darkness the presence of crowds of people. The
wait seemed very long, till at last in the far distance, the faint sound
of deep bells was heard. "They are coming! They will soon be here!"...
The clangour of the bells became louder and at last deafening,
accompanied by a confused galloping which shook the ground. First of all
passed several riders, with lances over their shoulders, who appeared
gigantic in the darkness, their horses at full stretch. These were the
shepherds. Then came a group of amateur garrochists, among whom galloped
Doña Sol, delighted at this mad ride through the darkness, in which the
single false step of a horse, or a fall, meant certain death from
trampling beneath the hard hoofs of the fierce herd rushing blindly on
behind in their furious career.
The herd bells rang wildly; the open mouths of the spectators, hidden by
the darkness, swallowed large gulps of dust, and the furious mob of
cattle rushed by like a nightmare of shapeless monsters of the night,
heavy but at the same time agile, giving horrible snorts, goring at the
shadows with their horns, terrified and irritated by the shouts of the
young shepherds following on foot, and by the galloping of the riders
closing the cavalcade who drove them on with their pikes.
The transit of this ponderous and noisy troupe only lasted an instant.
There was nothing more to be seen ... and the populace, satisfied by
this fleeting spectacle, came out of their hiding places, and many of
the enthusiasts ran after the herd, hoping to see their entrance into
the enclosures.
When they arrived near the Plaza the foremost riders drew on one side,
making way for the animals, who, from the impetus of their rush, and
their habit of following the "cabestros," engaged themselves in "la
manga,"[90] a narrow lane formed of palisades leading to the Plaza.
The amateur garrochists congratulated themselves on the good management
of the enclosing. The herd had been well rounded up without a single
bull being able to stray, or giving work to picqeurs or peons. They were
all well-bred animals, the best from the Marquis' breeding farms, and a
good day might confidently be expected on the morrow. In this hope the
riders and peons soon dispersed. An hour afterwards the surroundings of
the Plaza were completely deserted, and the fierce brutes, safe in their
enclosures, lay down to enjoy their last sleep.
On the following morning Juan Gallardo rose early. He had slept badly,
with an anxiety that peopled his dreams with nightmares.
Why did they make him fight in Seville? In other towns he forgot his
family for the moment; he lived as a bachelor in a room in an hotel
completely strange to him, that contained nothing dear to him, and that
reminded him of nothing. But here--to put on his fighting costume in his
own bedroom, where everything about on the table reminded him of Carmen,
to go out and face the danger from the house that he himself had built,
and which contained all that was dearest to him in life, disconcerted
him, and awoke in him as much trepidation as if he were going to kill
his first bull. Besides, he was afraid of his fellow-townsmen, with whom
he had to live, and whose opinion was more important to him than that of
all the rest of Spain. Ay! and that terrible moment of leaving, after
Garabato had put on his gala dress, and he descended into the silent
courtyard.
The little children came to look at him, frightened by his brilliant
clothes, touching him admiringly, but not daring to speak. His
mustachioed sister kissed him with a look of terror, as if he were being
taken off to die. His mother hid herself in the darkest room. No, she
did not wish to see him; she felt ill. Carmen, deathly pale, was a
little braver, biting her lips white with emotion, blinking her eyes
nervously to keep back the tears, but when she saw him in the courtyard
she immediately raised her handkerchief to her eyes, her whole frame
shaking with the sobs she tried to suppress, and her sister-in-law and
other women had to support her lest she should fall to the ground.
It was enough to make a coward of even the real Roger de Flor!
"Curse it all! Come along, man," said Gallardo. "I would not fight in
Seville for all the gold in the world, were it not to give pleasure to
my fellow-townsmen, and to prevent evil speakers from saying I am afraid
of the public in my own town."
After rising, the espada had wandered about the house, a cigarette in
his mouth, stretching himself to see if his muscular arms still retained
their suppleness. He went into the kitchen and drank a glass of Cazalla,
where his mother, active in spite of years and stoutness, was
superintending the servants, and looking after the proper ordering of
the house.
Gallardo went out into the patio, so fresh and bright, the birds were
singing gaily in their gilded cages, a flood of sunshine swept over the
marble pavement, and on to the fountain surrounded by plants where the
gold fish swam in the basin.
The espada saw kneeling on the ground a woman's figure in black, with a
pail by her side, washing the marble floor. She raised her head.
"Good-day, Señor Juan," she said, with the affectionate familiarity that
all popular heroes inspire, and she fixed on him admiringly the glance
of her solitary eye. The other was lost in a multiplicity of deep
wrinkles which seemed to meet in the hollow black socket.
The Señor Juan made no reply, but turned away nervously into the
kitchen, calling out to his mother:
"Little mother, who is that one-eyed woman who is washing the patio?"
"Who should she be, son? A poor woman with a large family. Our own
charwoman is ill, so I called her in."
The torero was uneasy, and his look showed both anxiety and fear. Curse
it! Bulls in Seville, and the first person he met face to face was a
one-eyed woman! Certainly those things did not happen to any one else.
Nothing could be of worse augury. Did they want his death?
The poor woman, shocked by his dismal prognostications and by his
vehement anger, tried to exculpate herself. How could she think of that?
The poor woman wanted to earn a peseta for her children. He must pick up
a good heart and thank God, who had so often remembered them and
delivered them from similar misery....
Gallardo was softened by her allusion to their former poverty, which
always made him very tolerant to the good woman. All right, let the
one-eyed one remain, and let what God willed happen. And crossing the
patio with his back turned to her so as not to see that terrible eye,
the matador took refuge in his office close to the vestibule.
The white walls, panelled with Moorish tiles to the height of a man,
were hung with announcements of corridas printed on silks of different
colours and diplomas of charitable societies with pompous titles,
recording corridas in which Gallardo had fought gratuitously for the
benefit of the poor. Innumerable portraits of himself, on foot, seated,
spreading his cape, squaring himself to kill, testified to the care with
which the papers reproduced the gestures and divers positions of the
great man. Above the doorway was a portrait of Carmen in a white
mantilla, which made her eyes appear darker than ever, with a bunch of
carnations fastened in her black hair. On the opposite wall, above the
arm-chair by the writing bureau, was the enormous head of a black bull,
with glassy eyes, highly varnished nostrils, a spot of white hair on the
forehead, and enormous horns tapering to the finest point, white as
ivory at the base and gradually darkening to inky blackness at the tips.
Potaje, the picador, always broke out into poetic rhapsodies as he
looked at those enormous wide-spreading horns, saying that a blackbird
might sing on the point of one horn, without being heard from the point
of the other.
Gallardo sat down by the beautiful table covered with bronzes, where
nothing seemed out of place save the thick coating of several days'
dust. On the writing bureau, which was of immense size, the ink bottles
ornamented by two metal horses, were clean and empty; the handsome pen
tray, supported by dogs' heads, was also empty, the great man had no
occasion to write, for Don José, his manager, brought him all contracts
and other professional papers to the club in the Calle de las Sierpes,
where on a small table the espada slowly and laboriously affixed his
signature.
On one side of the room stood the library, a handsome bookcase of carved
oak, through the never-opened glass doors of which could be seen
imposing rows of volumes remarkable for their size and the brilliance of
their bindings.
When Don José began to call Gallardo "the torero of the aristocracy,"
the latter felt he must live up to this distinction, educating himself
so that his rich friends should not laugh at his ignorance, as had
happened to sundry of his comrades. So one day he entered a book shop
with a determined air.
"Send me three thousand pesetas' worth of books."
When the librarian looked slightly bewildered, as if he did not
understand, the torero proceeded energetically.
"Books. Don't you understand me? The biggest books, and if you have no
objection, I should like them gilt."
Gallardo was quite pleased with the look of his library. When anything
was spoken of at the club which he did not understand, he smiled
knowingly, and said to himself:
"That must be in one of the books I have in the study."
One rainy afternoon when he felt rather poorly, after wandering
listlessly about the house, not knowing what to do, he had opened the
bookcase and taken out a book, the largest of all. But after a few lines
he gave up the reading, and turned over the pages, looking at the prints
like a child who wants to amuse itself. Lions, elephants, wild horses
with flowing manes and fiery eyes, donkeys striped in colours, regular
as if done by rule.... The torero turned them all over carelessly, till
his eyes fell on the painted rings of a snake. Ugh! The beast! The nasty
beast! And he closed convulsively the two middle fingers of his hand,
throwing out the index and little finger like horns, to exorcise the
evil eye. He went on a little, but all the prints represented horrible
reptiles, till at last with shaking hands he shut the book and returned
it to the bookcase, murmuring: "Lizard, lizard," to dispel the
impression of this evil encounter, and the key of the bookcase remained
thenceforward in a drawer of the bureau, covered with old papers.
That morning, the time he spent in his study only served to increase his
anxieties and trepidation. Scarcely knowing why, he had been
considering the bull's head, and the most painful episode of his
professional life had vividly recurred to his memory. What a sweating
that brute had given him in the circus at Zaragoza! The bull was as
intelligent as a man; motionless, and with eyes of diabolical
maliciousness, he waited for the matador to approach him, when, not
deceived by the red cloth, he struck underneath it directly at the man's
body. The rapiers were sent flying through the air by his charges
without ever succeeding in wounding him. The populace became impatient,
whistling at and insulting the torero. The latter came behind the bull,
following his every movement from one side of the Plaza to the other,
knowing full well that if he stood straight and square before the animal
to kill, that he himself would be the one to die; until at last,
perspiring and fatigued, he took advantage of an opportunity to finish
him by a treacherous[91] side blow, to the great scandal of the mob, who
pelted him with bottles and oranges; a remembrance which made him hot
with shame, and which, returning unluckily at this time, seemed to him
of quite as evil augury as meeting the one-eyed woman, and seeing the
snake.
He breakfasted alone and ate little as was his habit on the days of a
corrida, and by the time he went up to dress the women had disappeared.
Ay! how they hated that brilliant costume, kept so carefully wrapped up
in linen. Splendid tools which had built up the luxury of the family!
The farewells were, as usual, disconcerting and troubling for Gallardo.
The flight of the women not to see him come down, Carmen's attempts at
fortitude, accompanying him as far as the door, the wondering curiosity
of the little nephews, everything irritated the torero, grown arrogant
and hectoring as he saw the danger approaching.
"One would think I was being taken to the gibbet! Good-bye for the
present. Calm yourselves. Nothing will happen."
And he got into the carriage, making way for himself through the friends
and neighbours assembled in front of the house to wish "Señor Juan" good
luck.
The afternoons when the espada fought in Seville were the most agonizing
for the family. When he fought away from home they were obliged to
resign themselves patiently to wait for the evening telegram. Here, the
danger being close at hand, a desperate anxiety for news awoke, and the
necessity of hearing every few minutes how the corrida was going on.
The saddler, dressed as a gentleman, in a suit of light flannel and a
silky white felt hat, offered to let the women know what was happening.
After every bull that Juan killed he would send some urchin with news.
All the same he was furious at the incivility of his illustrious
brother-in-law, who had not even offered him a seat in the carriage with
the cuadrilla to drive to the Plaza!
Gallardo knew the soil he was treading: it was familiar to him and was
in a sense his own. The sand of the different Plazas exercised an
influence on his superstitious temperament. He recalled the large Plazas
of Valencia and Barcelona, with their white sand, the dark sand of the
northern Plazas, and the red sand of the huge circus in Madrid. But the
sand in Seville was different from any other; drawn from the
Guadalquivir it was a bright yellow, like pulverized ochre. The
architecture of the buildings, too, had a certain influence over him,
some built in Roman style, others again Moorish, but the Plaza of
Seville was like a cathedral full of memories. There the glorious
inventors of different strokes had brought their art to perfection; the
school of Ronda with its steady and dignified fighting, and the school
of Seville with its light play and mobility which caught the public
fancy; and it was there that he, too, this afternoon would be
intoxicated by the applause, by the sun, by the roar of the crowd,
possibly by the sight of a blue bodice and a white mantilla leaning over
the edge of a box, and he felt capable of the most reckless hardihood.
Anxious to outshine his companions, and monopolize all the applause,
Gallardo seemed to fill the circus with his agility and boldness. Never
had he been in such form. Don José, after each one of his splendid
strokes, stood up shouting, challenging invisible enemies hidden among
the benches. "Who dares to say anything against him! The first man in
the world!"
At Gallardo's order, El Nacional, by clever cloak-play brought his
master's second bull in front of the box, where the blue bodice with the
white mantilla was seated. It was Doña Sol, accompanied by the Marquis
and his two daughters.
Followed by the eyes of the audience Gallardo approached the barrier
holding his rapier and the muleta in one hand. When he arrived opposite
the box he stopped, took off his montera, and offered the bull as homage
to the Marquis' niece. Many people smiled maliciously. "Olé! the lad has
good luck." He gave a half turn, threw his montera behind him when he
had ended the "Brindis," and waited for the bull which the peons were
bringing up to him by dexterous cloak-play.
Keeping the animal in a very limited space, he prevented it moving away
from that spot, and successfully accomplished his task. He wanted to
kill under Doña Sol's eyes, so that she should see him close at the
moment when he defied danger. Every pass from his muleta drew forth
exclamations of enthusiasm and cries of anxiety. The horn seemed to
graze his chest; it seemed impossible that blood should not flow after
the bull's attacks. Suddenly he squared himself, the rapier well in line
forward, and before the public could give its advice, by shouts or
counsels, he had thrown himself swiftly on the bull and for a few
instants man and bull looked as one body.
When the man disengaged himself, the bull rushed forward with uncertain
step bellowing, its tongue hanging from its mouth, and the red pommel of
the rapier scarcely visible on the crest of its bloody neck. After a few
steps it fell, the spectators rose to their feet as one man and a hail
of applause and furious shouting burst from all parts of the
amphitheatre. There was no one in the world as brave as Gallardo! Had
that man ever felt fear?
The espada saluted before the box, opening his arms with the rapier and
muleta in either hand, while the white-gloved hands of Doña Sol clapped
feverish applause.
Then something small was passed down from spectator to spectator, from
the box down to the barrier. It was the lady's handkerchief, the one
which she had held in her hand, a small scented square of lawn and lace,
passed through a diamond ring, which she presented to the torero in
acknowledgment of his "brindis."
The applause broke out afresh on seeing this recognition, and the
attention of the public, hitherto fixed on the matador, was now turned
on Doña Sol, many turning their backs on the circus to look at her, and
extolling her beauty with the familiarity of Andalusian gallantry. Then
a small hairy and still warm triangle was passed up from hand to hand
to the box. It was the bull's ear, sent by the matador in witness of his
"brindis."
Before the fiesta was ended the news of Gallardo's great triumph had
spread all over the town, and when the espada returned to his house half
the neighbourhood had assembled to applaud him, as though they had all
been at the corrida.
The saddler, forgetting his annoyance with the espada, admired him even
more for his friendly relations with the nobility than for his exploits
in the bull-ring. He had his eyes fixed on a certain appointment, and he
made very little doubt about getting it, seeing his brother-in-law's
intimacy with the best people in Seville.
"Show them the ring. My goodness, Encarnacion, what a present! It is
worthy of Roger de Flor!"
The ring passed from hand to hand, with cries of admiration from the
women. Carmen only pursed up her lips on seeing it. "Yes, it is very
pretty," and she passed it on hurriedly to her brother-in-law, as if it
burnt her fingers.
After this corrida, the travelling season began. Gallardo had more
engagements than in any previous year. After the corridas in Madrid, he
was to fight in every Plaza in Spain. His manager was nearly distracted
over the railway time tables, making endless calculations for the future
guidance of his matador.
Gallardo went from triumph to triumph. Never had he been in such good
form! He seemed to have gained fresh strength. Before the corridas,
cruel doubts overwhelmed him, tremors nearly akin to fear, such as he
had never known in his early days, when he was only beginning to make
his name; but as soon as he found himself in the arena, these fears
vanished and an almost savage bravery possessed him, which was always
accompanied by fresh laurels.
When his work was over in some provincial town, and he returned to the
hotel with his cuadrilla, for they all lived together, he would sit down
perspiring, wearied with the pleasant fatigue of triumph, and before he
could change his gala dress, all the wiseacres in the locality would
come to congratulate him. He had been "colossal." He was the first
torero in the world! That estocada of the fourth bull!...
"Yes, indeed," said Gallardo, with almost childish pride. "Really I was
not bad in that."
With the interminable verbosity of all conversations about bulls, the
time passed without either the espada or his friends wearying of talking
about the afternoon's corridas, or about those of previous years. Night
fell, the lights were lit, but still the aficionados did not go. The
cuadrilla, according to bull-fighting discipline, listened silently to
all this babel of talk at the further end of the room. As long as the
master had not given his permission, his "lads" could neither undress
nor sup. The picadors, fatigued by the iron armour on their legs and the
terrible bruises resulting from their falls from horseback, held their
coarse beaver hats between their knees: the banderilleros, their
skintight silk garments, wet with perspiration, were all hungry after
their afternoon's violent exercise; all were thinking the same thing and
casting furious looks at these enthusiasts.
"When on earth will those tiresome idiots leave? Curse their hearts!"
At last the matador noticed them. "You may go," he said. And the
cuadrilla escaped, pushing each other like school boys let loose, while
the maestro continued listening to the praises of the connoisseurs, and
Garabato waited silently to undress him.
On his days of rest, the maestro, free from the excitements of danger
and glory, turned his thoughts towards Seville. Now and then one of
those short little perfumed notes came for him, congratulating him on
his triumphs. Ay! If only Doña Sol were with him!
There were moments in which he felt compelled to confide his sadness to
El Nacional with that irresistible impulse of confession which all feel
who carry a heavy weight in their hearts.
Besides, now he was away from Seville, he felt a greater affection for
the banderillero, a kind of reflected tenderness. Sebastian knew of his
loves with Doña Sol; he had seen her, though from afar, and she had
often laughed when Gallardo told her of the picador's originalities.
Sebastian received his master's confidences with severe looks.
"What you have got to do, Juan, is to forget this lady. Family peace is
worth more than anything to us who knock about the world, constantly
exposed to danger and liable to be brought home any day feet foremost.
See! Carmen knows a great deal more than you think. She is perfectly
acquainted with everything, and she has even questioned me indirectly as
to your relations with the Marquis' niece. Poor little thing! It is a
shame to make her suffer!... She has a temper, and if you arouse it, it
may give you some trouble."
But Gallardo, away from his family, and with his thoughts dominated by
the remembrance of Doña Sol, did not seem to understand the dangers of
which El Nacional spoke, and shrugged his shoulders at these sentimental
scruples. He felt the need of speaking of his remembrances, of making
his friend the confidant of his past happiness.
"You do not know what that woman is! You are an unlucky man, Sebastian,
who does not know what is good. Take all the beautiful women in Seville
together--they are as nothing. See all those we meet on our
travels--neither are they anything. There is only one--Doña Sol, and
when you know a woman like that, you do not want to know any others. If
you only knew her as I do, gacho! Women of our class reek of health and
clean linen, but this one!... Sebastian, this one!... Picture to
yourself all the roses in the gardens of the Alcazar--No, something
better still--jasmine, honeysuckle, all the bewildering perfumes of the
gardens of Paradise, and those sweet scents seem to belong to her, not
as if she put them on, but as if they were flowering in her veins.
Besides, she is not one of those who once seen are always the same. With
her there is always something still to desire, something to hope for,
something which is never attained. I cannot, Sebastian, express myself
better.... But you do not know what a great lady is; so don't preach any
more, and shut your beak."
Gallardo no longer received any letters from Seville. Doña Sol was
abroad. He saw her once when he was fighting in San Sebastian. The
beautiful woman was staying in Biarritz and she came over with some
French ladies who wished to know the torero. After that he heard very
little of her; only from the few letters he got, and from the news his
manager collected from the Marquis de Moraima.
She was at the seaside, then he heard she had gone to England, then to
Germany, and Gallardo despaired of ever seeing her again.
This possibility saddened the torero, and revealed the ascendancy this
woman had gained both over himself and his will. Never to see her again!
Why then should he expose his life and become famous? Of what use was
the applause of the populace?
His manager reassured him. She would return: he was quite certain. Even
if it were only for a year, for Doña Sol, with all her mad caprices, was
a very practical woman, and knew how to look after what belonged to her.
She needed her uncle's assistance to disentangle the most involved
affairs, both of her own and her late husband's fortune, produced by
their long and expensive stay abroad.
The espada returned to Seville towards the end of the summer. He had
still a good many corridas for the autumn, but he wanted to take
advantage of a month's rest, during the absence of his family at the
Baths of San Lucar.
Gallardo shivered with emotion when one day his manager announced the
unexpected return of Doña Sol.
He went to see her at once, but after the first few words felt
intimidated by her cold amiability and the expression of her eyes.
She looked at him as if he were different. In her glance a certain
surprise at his rough exterior, at the difference between herself and
this man, the matador of bulls, could be guessed.
He also felt this gulf which seemed opening between them. He looked at
her as though she were another woman; a great lady of a different race
and country.
They talked quietly. She seemed to have forgotten the past, and Gallardo
did not dare to remind her of it, nor to make the slightest advance,
fearing one of her outbursts of anger.
"Seville!" said Doña Sol. "It is very beautiful ... very pleasant. But
there is more in the world! I warn you. Gallardo, that some day I shall
take flight for ever. I guess that I shall be bored to death. My Seville
seems quite changed."
She no longer "tutoyed" him, and it was many days before the torero
dared during his visits to make the slightest allusion to the past. He
confined himself to gazing at her in silence, with his moist and adoring
Moorish eyes.
"I am bored. Some day I shall go away," she exclaimed at all these
interviews.
Other times the imposing servant would receive the torero at the wicket
and tell him the Señora was out, when he knew quite certainly that she
was at home.
Gallardo told her one evening of a short excursion he was obliged to
make to his farm of La Rinconada. He wanted to see some olive yards his
manager had bought for him during his absence, and added to the
property. He wanted also to look after the general work.
The idea of accompanying the espada on this expedition delighted Doña
Sol. To go to that grange where Gallardo's family spent the greater part
of the year! To enter with the startling scandal of irregularity and sin
into the quiet atmosphere of that country house, where the poor fellow
lived with his belongings!...
The absurdity of the wish decided her. She also would go. The idea of
seeing La Rinconada interested her.
Gallardo felt afraid. He thought of all the farm people, of the gossips
who would probably tell his family of this trip, but Doña Sol's glance
beat down all his scruples. Who could tell? ... possibly this trip might
bring on a return of their former intimacy.
All the same he wished to oppose one obstacle to this wish.
"How about El Plumitas?... According to what I hear, he is wandering
round La Rinconada."
"Ah! El Plumitas!" Doña Sol's face, darkened by boredom, seemed to light
up with an inward flame.
"How curious! I should be so delighted if you could present him to me."
Gallardo arranged the journey. He had thought of going alone, but Doña
Sol's company obliged him to seek an escort, fearing some evil encounter
on the road.
He looked up Potaje, the picador. He was extremely rough, fearing
nothing in the world but his gipsy wife, who when she was tired of being
beaten would turn and bite him. There would be no need to give him any
explanations, only wine in abundance. Alcohol and his atrocious falls in
the arena seemed to keep him in a perpetual muddle, as if his head were
buzzing, and only permitted his few slow words and a cloudy vision of
everything.
He ordered also El Nacional to accompany them, he would be one more, and
was of tried discretion.
The banderillero obeyed from subordination, but he grumbled when he knew
Doña Sol was going with them.
"By the life of the blue dove! To think of the father of a family mixing
himself up in such ugly doings!... What will Carmen and the Señora
Angustias say of me when they come to hear of it?"
But when he found himself in the open country, seated by the side of
Potaje, in front of the espada and the great lady, his annoyance
gradually vanished.
He could not see her well, wrapped up as she was in a large blue veil
which covered her travelling cap, and falling over her yellow silk coat;
but she was very beautiful.... And to hear them talk! What things she
knew!
Before the journey was half over, El Nacional, in spite of his
twenty-five years of conjugal fidelity, forgave his master's weakness,
and quite understood his infatuation.
If ever he found himself in a like situation he would do exactly the
same!
Education!... It was a great thing, capable of infusing respectability
even into the most heinous sins.
FOOTNOTES:
[85] Diminutive of José.
[86] Little wolf.
[87] Branding of young bulls on the thighs with a hot iron. An operation
which is not conducted without some commotion.
[88] Holy Saturday, so called from a religious ceremony in the Cathedral
during which the "Gloria" is sung.
[89] The warner.
[90] The sleeve.
[91] This is looked upon as "hitting below the belt."