About this time Gallardo received several letters from Don José and from
Carmen.
The manager evidently wished to encourage his matador, advising him as
usual to go straight at his bull.... "Zas! a thrust, and you put him in
your pocket!" But through his warm-hearted enthusiasm could be traced a
slight discouragement, as if his perfect faith was a little staggered,
and he had begun to doubt if Gallardo were still "the first man in the
world."
He had received accounts of the discontent and hostility with which the
public received him, and the last corrida in Madrid had fairly
disheartened poor Don José. No, Gallardo was not like other espadas, who
could go straight on through all the whistling of the audience,
satisfied as long as they earned their money. His matador had genius and
professional pride and could show himself off in a circus only if he
were received with great applause. A mediocre result was equivalent to a
defeat. The people were accustomed to admire him for his reckless,
audacious courage, and anything that did not come up to that meant a
fiasco.
Don José pretended to know what was wrong with his espada. Want of
courage?... Never. He would die sooner than admit that fault in his
hero. It was that he felt wearied, that he had not yet entirely
recovered from the tremendous shock of his "cogida." "And for this
reason," he advised in all his letters, "it would be better for you to
retire and rest for a season. Afterwards you can come back and fight,
and be the same as ever." And he offered himself to make all necessary
arrangements. A medical certificate would be sufficient to explain his
momentary inaction, and he would come to some agreement as to all
pending contracts with the managers of the different Plazas, by which
Gallardo would supply a rising torero to fill his place at a moderate
salary. So by this means he would still be making money.
Carmen was the most earnest in her persuasions, using none of the
manager's circumlocutions. He ought to retire at once, he ought to "cut
off his pigtail," as they said in his profession, and spend his life
quietly at La Rinconada or in his house in Seville with his family, she
could bear it no longer. Her heart told her with that feminine instinct
which seldom erred that something serious would occur. She could
scarcely sleep, and she dreaded the night hours peopled with bloody
visions.
Then she wrote furiously against the public, an ungrateful crowd, who
had already forgotten what the torero had done when he was in his full
strength. Bad hearted people, who wished to see him die for their own
amusement, as if he had neither wife nor mother. "Juan, the little
mother and I both beg of you to retire. Why go on bull-fighting? We have
enough to live on, and it pains me to hear these people insulting you
who are not worthy of you. Suppose another accident happened to you?
Jesus! I think I should go mad."
Gallardo was very thoughtful for some time after reading these letters.
To retire!... What nonsense! Women's worries! Affection might easily
dictate this, but it was impossible to carry it out. Cut off his pigtail
before he was thirty! How his enemies would laugh! He had no right to
retire as long as his limbs were sound and he was able to fight. Such an
absurdity had never been heard of. Money was not everything. How about
his fame? And his professional pride? What would his thousands and
thousands of admiring partisans say? What could they reply to his
enemies if those latter threw it in their teeth that Gallardo had
retired through fear?
Besides, the matador paused to consider if his fortune would admit of
this solution. He was rich, and yet he was not. His social position was
not yet consolidated. What he possessed was the result of his first few
years of married life, when one of his greatest pleasures had been to
surprise his mother and Carmen with fresh acquisitions. After that he
had made money in even larger quantities, but it had run away and
vanished in a hundred channels, opened out by his new life. He had
played high, had led an expensive and ostentatious life. Many farms,
added to the extensive estate of La Rinconada, to round it off, had been
bought by loans furnished by Don José or other friends. He was rich, but
if he retired and lost the splendid income from the corridas, often two
or three hundred thousand pesetas a year, he would have to curtail his
expenses, pay his debts, and live like a country gentleman on the income
from La Rinconada, looking after things himself, for at present the
estate, managed by hirelings, produced very little.
Formerly he would have been contented with a very small portion of what
he possessed now, but if he retired he would have to curtail those
Havanna cigars which he now distributed so lavishly, and those
Andalusian wines of fine vintage. He would have to restrain his lordly
generosity, and no longer cry "I pay for everything," as he entered a
café or a tavern.
So he had lived, and so he must go on living. He was a torero of the
old-fashioned style, lavish, arrogant, astonishing every one with
scandalous extravagances, but always ready to help misfortune with
princely generosity. He did not in the least regret his ostentatious
life, and yet they wished him to give it up.
Furthermore, he thought of the expenses of his own household. All of
them were accustomed to the easy, careless life of families with little
regard for money, as they saw it constantly flowing in, in streams.
Besides his mother and his wife he provided for his sister, his
loquacious brother-in-law, and the tribe of children now growing up and
becoming daily more expensive. He would have to bring into ways of order
and economy all these people who had hitherto lived at his expense with
happy carelessness and open-handedness. Every one, even poor Garabato,
would have to go to the Grange, and work like niggers under the burning
sun. His mother, too, would no longer be able to make her last days
happy by her kindly generosity to the poor in the suburb. And Carmen
also, who although she was economical and tried to limit expenses, would
be the first to deprive herself of many little frivolities which
beautified life.
Curse it all!... All this represented degradation to the family, and
Gallardo felt ashamed that such a thing could possibly happen. It would
be a crime to deprive them of what they enjoyed, now they had become
accustomed to ease and comfort. And what ought he to do to prevent
this?... Simply to throw himself on the bulls, fight as he had fought in
former days ... and he would throw himself!...
He replied to his manager's and to Carmen's letters by short and
laboriously written epistles, expressing to both his firm intention not
to retire--most certainly not.
He was determined to be what he had always been, that he swore to Don
José. He would follow his advice. "Zas! a sword thrust, and the bull in
his pocket." He felt his courage rising, and with it the capacity of
facing all bulls, however big they might be.
He wrote gaily to his wife, though his amour-propre was rather wounded
by her doubting his strength. She would soon have news of the next
corrida. He intended to astonish the public so that they might be
ashamed of their injustice. If the bulls were good ones, he would
surpass even Roger de Flor himself!...
Good bulls! This was one of Gallardo's anxieties. Formerly one of his
vanities had been never to concern himself with the brutes, never to go
and see them at the Plaza before the corrida.
"I kill anything that is sent to me," he said arrogantly.
And he saw his bulls for the first time when they were turned into the
circus.
Now he wished to examine them closely, to choose them, to prepare for
his success by a careful study of their dispositions.
The weather had cleared at last, and the sun was shining. Consequently
the second corrida would take place on the following day.
That evening Gallardo went alone to the Plaza. The huge red brick
circus, with its Moorish windows, stood out against a background of low
green hillocks. On the furthest slope of this wide but monotonous
landscape something lay white in the distance which might be a herd of
cattle. It was the cemetery.
As the matador came near the building a troup of squalid beggars,
vagabonds who were allowed to sleep in the stables from charity,
wretches who lived on the alms of the aficionados or the scraps from
neighbouring taverns, gathered round him cap in hand. Many had come from
Andalusia with a consignment of bulls, and had remained hanging about
the precincts of the Plaza.
Gallardo distributed a few coins among these beggars, and then entered
the circus through the Puerta de Caballerizas.
In the courtyard he saw a group of aficionados watching the picadors
trying their horses. Potaje, armed with his spear and huge cowherd's
spurs, was just going to mount. The stable boys accompanied the
contractor who furnished the horses, a stout man, slow of speech,
wearing a large Andalusian felt sombrero, who answered with
imperturbable calm the aggressive and insulting loquacity of the
picadors.
The "monos sabios," with their sleeves rolled up, brought out the
miserable crocks for the riders to try. For several days they had been
riding and training those wretched mounts, who still bore on their
flanks crimson spur marks. They took them out to trot on the open ground
round the Plaza, giving them a fictitious energy beneath their iron
heels, and teaching them to turn quickly so as to become used to their
work in the arena. They returned to the Plaza with their sides stained
with blood, and before entering the stables were refreshed with three or
four pails-full of water. Close to the drinking-trough the water running
in between the cobble-stones was dyed red, like poured out wine.
These unfortunate animals destined for to-morrow's corrida were almost
dragged out of the stables to be examined by the picadors.
As they came out of the stables, depressed remnants of equine misery,
they betrayed in their trembling legs, their heaving flanks, their
starved and miserable appearance, sad signs of human ingratitude, of the
forgetfulness of past services. There were hacks of frightful thinness,
real skeletons, whose sharp and pointed bones seemed ready to pierce the
covering of long and tangled hair. Others holding themselves proudly,
with raised heads and bright eyes, pawing restlessly, with sounder legs
and shining coats, animals of good stamp, who seemed out of place among
their wretched companions, looking as though they had only just been
unharnessed from sumptuous carriages, were in reality more dangerous to
ride, as they were probably afflicted with vertigo or staggers, and
might fall to the ground at any moment, pitching their riders over their
heads; and among these sad examples of misery and decrepitude were also
invalided workers from mills and factories, agricultural horses, cab
horses, all weary with long years of hard work dragging ploughs and
carts, unhappy outcasts who were to be sweated up to the last moment of
their lives, diverting the spectators by their kicks and bounds of agony
when they felt the bull's horns pierce their belly.
It was an interminable defile of bleared and yellow eyes, of galled
necks on which were battening bright green flies gorged with blood, of
bony heads whose skin was swarming with vermin, of narrow chests and
feeble legs, covered down to the hoofs with hair so long and shaggy it
looked almost as though they were wearing trousers. To mount these
decrepit brutes, shaking with fright and almost ready to drop with
weakness, required almost as much courage as to face the bull.
Potaje was very high and mighty in his discussions with the horse
contractor, speaking in his own name and that of his comrades as well,
making even the "monos sabios" laugh with his gipsy oaths. The other
picadors had far better leave him to manage the horse-dealers. No one
knew better than he did how to bring those sort of people to terms.
A groom came out leading a horse with hanging head, tangled coat, and
staring ribs.
"What are you bringing me out there?" shouted Potaje, facing the
contractor. "A crock that no one would dream of mounting."
The phlegmatic contractor replied with calm gravity. "If Potaje did not
dare to mount it, it was because picadors now-a-days seemed afraid of
everything. With a horse like this, so good and docile, Señor Calderon,
or El Trigo, or any fine rider of the good old times would have been
able to fight for two successive afternoons without getting a fall, and
without the animal receiving a scratch. But now-a-days!... There seemed
to him to be plenty of fear and very little dash."
The contractor and the picador abused one another in a friendly fashion,
as if the grossest insults had ceased to have the slightest meaning.
"You are an old cheat," roared Potaje, "a bigger rascal than José Maria
el Tempraniyo. Get out! Hoist your grandmother up on the old brute; a
far better mount for her than the broomstick she rides every Saturday at
midnight."
Every one present roared with laughter, while the contractor shrugged
his shoulders.
"What's the matter with the horse?" he asked quietly. "Look him over
well, old grumbler. He is far better than those that have glanders, or
staggers, who have before now pitched you over their heads and planted
you up to your ears in the sand, before you could face the bull. He is
as sound as an apple. For the five and twenty years he has been in an
ærated water factory, doing his work conscientiously, no one has ever
found fault with him, and now you come along shouting and abusing him,
taking away his character as if he were a bad Christian."
"I won't have him, that's all!... If he is so good keep him yourself!"
As he spoke the contractor came slowly towards Potaje, and with the
sang-froid of a man accustomed to such transactions, whispered something
in his ear. The picador, pretending to be very angry, finally went up
to the horse. He did not wish to be thought an intractable man who
wanted to do a bad turn to a comrade.
So putting one foot in the stirrup he let the whole weight of his heavy
body fall on the poor brute. Then, steadying his garrocha under his arm,
he pushed the point against a large post built into the wall, striking
it several times with all his strength, as if a large and heavy bull
were at the lance's point. The poor horse shook all over and doubled up
its legs after each concussion.
"He does not behave so badly," ... said Potaje in a conciliatory
voice.... "The beast is better than I thought. He has a tender mouth and
good legs.... You are quite right. Put him on one side."
And the picador dismounted, disposed to accept anything the contractor
offered after his mysterious whisper.
Gallardo left the group of aficionados who were watching this scene with
amusement. A porter belonging to the Plaza took him to the yard in which
the bulls were enclosed.
The espada went through a little wicket giving access to the enclosure,
which was surrounded on three sides by a wall of masonry, up to the
height of a man's shoulders. This wall was strengthened at intervals by
strong posts which supported a balcony above. Here and there opened
little passages, so narrow that a man could only slip through them
sideways. In this courtyard were eight bulls, some quietly lying down,
others turning over the piles of grass lying in front of them.
Gallardo walked along in the passage behind the wall examining the
animals. Now and then he slipped into the yard, through one of the
narrow passages. He waved his arms, giving savage yells which roused the
bulls from their quiescence. Some leapt up nervously, rushing with
lowered heads at the man who ventured to disturb the peace of their
enclosure, others stood firmly on their feet, with raised heads and
savage look, waiting to see if the intruder would dare to approach them.
Gallardo slipped away quickly behind the wall, considering the looks and
disposition of the fierce creatures, without coming to a decision as to
which he should choose.
The head shepherd of the Plaza accompanied him, a big athletic man in
leather gaiters and huge spurs, dressed in a thick cloth suit, his wide
sombrero fastened under his chin by a strap. He was nicknamed
Lobato,[104] and was a roughrider who spent the greater part of the year
in the open country, behaving when he came into Madrid like a savage,
having no wish to see the streets, and in fact never leaving the
purlieus of the Plaza.
For him the capital of Spain was nothing more than a Plaza in a
clearing, with desert lands surrounding it, while in the distance lay an
agglomeration of houses which he had never had the curiosity to explore.
The most important establishment in Madrid, from his point of view, was
Gallina's tavern, situated close to the Plaza, a place of delight, an
enchanted palace where he supped and dined at the expense of the
management before returning to his pastures mounted on his horse, his
dark blanket on the saddle bow, his saddle-bags on the crupper and his
lance over his shoulder. He delighted in terrorising the servants as he
entered the tavern by his friendly greetings, terrible hand grips which
crushed their bones and drew forth screams of pain; he smiled, delighted
with his strength and being called a brute, and then sat down to his
pittance, which was served him in a dish as deep as a basin, accompanied
by more than one jar of wine.
He herded the bulls bought by the management, sometimes in the pastures
of Munoza, at others during the excessive heat on the grazing uplands of
the Sierra de Guadarrama. He brought them in to the enclosure two days
before the corrida at midnight, driving them across the Abronigal stream
and through the outskirts of Madrid, accompanied by amateur rough-riders
and cowherds. He was rampant when bad weather prevented a corrida taking
place, which kept the herd in the Plaza, and prevented his immediate
return to the peaceful solitudes where the other bulls were still
grazing.
Slow of speech, dull of thought, this centaur, who smelt of leather and
manure, could still speak eloquently, even poetically of his pastoral
life herding the wild bulls. The sky of Madrid seemed to him lower and
with fewer stars. He could describe with picturesque laconicism the
nights on the pastures, with his bulls sleeping beneath the soft light
of the stars, the dense silence only broken by the mysterious noises of
the forest. In this silence the mountain vipers sang with strange song,
yes, Señor, certainly they sang. It was a thing that could not be
discussed with Lobato: he had heard them a thousand times, and to doubt
it was to call him a cheat and a liar, and to expose oneself to the
weight of his fists. As the reptiles sang, so also did the bulls speak,
only he had not yet succeeded in mastering all the mysteries of their
idiom. They were really just like Christians, except that they went on
four legs and had horns. You should see them wake when the sun rose,
bounding about as happy as children, pretending in fun to cross their
horns and fight each other, chasing each other with noisy enjoyment, as
if they were saluting the coming of the sun, which is the glory of God.
Then he spoke of his toilsome excursions through the Sierra de
Guadarrama, following the course of the crystal-clear rivulets, which
brought the melted snow from the mountains to feed the rivers; of the
meadows, with their verdure enamelled by flowers; of the birds who came
fluttering to settle between the horns of the sleeping bulls; of the
wolves who howled afar off in the night, always far off, for they feared
the long procession of wild bulls following the bells of the cabestros,
come to dispute with them their terrible solitudes. Don't let any one
speak to him of Madrid, where one suffocated! The only good thing in
that forest of houses was Gallina's good wine and his savoury stews.
Lobato assisted the espada with his advice in choosing his two bulls.
The overseer showed neither respect nor astonishment at these celebrated
men, so admired by the populace. The shepherd of the bulls almost
despised the toreros. To kill such noble animals, with every sort of
trickery and deceit! He was the really brave man, who lived among them,
passing daily between their horns in the solitudes, with no other
defence than his own arm, and no thought of applause.
As Gallardo left the enclosure another man joined them, who saluted the
maestro with great respect. It was the old man charged with the cleaning
of the Plaza. He had been a great many years in this employment, and had
known all the most celebrated toreros of his day. He was very poorly
dressed, but he often wore beautiful rings, and to blow his nose would
draw from the depths of his blouse a small cambric handkerchief trimmed
with fine lace and having a large monogram, still exhaling a delicate
scent.
He undertook by himself during the week the sweeping of the immense
Plaza, its rows of seats and boxes, without ever complaining of the
overwhelming work. If the manager was displeased with him and wished to
punish him he would open the doors to all the riffraff wandering round
the Plaza. The poor man would be in despair, promising amendment, in
order that this swarm of people should not take over his work.
Now and then he allowed half a dozen lads to help him; these were
generally toreros' apprentices, and were faithful to him in exchange for
his allowing them to watch the corrida from the "dogs box," that is, a
door with an iron grating situated near the bulls' boxes, which was used
for taking out wounded men. These helpers, holding on to the iron bars,
fought like monkeys in a cage to obtain first place.
The old man distributed their weekly cleansing work cleverly enough. All
these boys worked on the seats of the sunny side,[105] those occupied by
a poor and dirty crowd, who left as evidence of their presence a rubbish
heap of orange peel, scraps of paper, and cigar ends.
"Look out for the tobacco," he would order his troup. "Whoever filches a
single cigar end will not see the corrida on Sunday."
He himself worked patiently on the shady side, crouching down in the
shadow of the boxes to slip any finds into his pockets--such as ladies'
fans, rings, pocket-handkerchiefs, coins, feminine ornaments, anything
that an invasion of fourteen thousand people might have left behind
them. He collected the scraps of cigar ends, chopping them up after
exposing them to the sun, and selling them as fine tobacco. The more
valuable finds passed into the hands of a dealer, willing to buy these
spoils of a public, either forgetful, or oblivious from excitement.
Gallardo responded to the old man's obsequious bows by giving him a
cigar, and then took leave of Lobato. He had agreed with the overseer
which two bulls should be specially boxed for him. The other toreros
would not object. They were good natured young fellows, full of
youthful ardour, who would kill anything that was put before them.
As he came out again into the courtyard, where the selection of horses
was still in progress, Gallardo saw a tall spare man, with olive
complexion, dressed as a torero, leave the group and come towards him.
Tufts of iron-grey hair appeared from beneath his black felt hat, and
his mouth was surrounded by many wrinkles.
"Pescadero! How are you?" said Gallardo, clasping his hand with sincere
warmth.
He was an old espada, who had had his youthful days of triumph, but very
few now even remembered his name. Other matadors coming after him had
eclipsed this fleeting reputation, so Pescadero, after fighting in
America, and sustaining several cogidas, had retired with a little
capital of savings. Gallardo knew that he owned a small tavern in the
neighbourhood of the circus, but too far off for him to have many
customers among the aficionados and toreros.
"I cannot often come to the corridas," said Pescadero, sadly. "Still,
you see, the sport draws me, and I drop in as a neighbour to see these
things. Now-a-days I am nothing but a tavern-keeper."
Gallardo looked at his shabby appearance, and remembered the brilliant
Pescadero he had known in his childhood, one of his most admired heroes,
gallant and proud, favoured by women, among the smartest in La Campana
whenever he came to Seville, dressed in his velvet hat, his wine
coloured jacket and brightly coloured sash, leaning on an ivory stick
with gold handle. And so would he also be; shabby and forgotten if he
retired from bull-fighting!
They talked a long time about things appertaining to the art. El
Pescadero, like all elderly men embittered by bad luck, was pessimistic.
There were very few good toreros, there were no longer men of
"corazon."[106] Only Gallardo and one or two others killed bulls
"truly," even the animals seemed less powerful than formerly. As he had
met the matador he insisted on his going with him to his house, indeed
as an old friend he could do no less. So Gallardo turned with him into
one of the small streets surrounding the Plaza, and entered the tavern,
which was much like any other, its façade painted red, windows with
curtains of the same colour, a larger show window, in which were
displayed, on dusty plates, cooked cutlets, fried birds, bottles of
pickles, and inside, a zinc counter, barrels and bottles, round tables
with wooden stools by them, and several coloured prints representing
celebrated toreros or remarkable episodes in corridas.
"We will have a glass of Montilla," said El Pescadero to a young man
standing behind the counter, who smiled as he saw Gallardo.
The latter looked at his face, and then at his right sleeve, which was
empty and pinned to his breast.
"It seems to me I know you," said the matador.
"I should think you did know him!" cried Pescadero. "It is Pipi."
The nickname made Gallardo remember his history at once. A plucky
youngster who stuck in his banderillas in most masterly fashion, he also
had been named by the aficionados as "the torero of the future."
Unluckily one day in the Plaza in Madrid his right arm had been so badly
gored as to make amputation necessary, and he had been rendered useless
for further bull-fighting.
"I took him in, Juan," continued El Pescadero. "I have no family and my
wife died, so I look upon him as a son. Do not think that Pipi and I
live in plenty. We live as we can, but whatever I have is for him. We
get on, thanks to old friends who come sometimes to breakfast or to
play a game of cards, and above all thanks to the school."
Gallardo smiled. He had heard something about the school of Tauromachia
established by El Pescadero close to his tavern.
"What can I do now?" said the latter, excusing himself. "One must help
oneself on, and the school consumes more than all the customers in the
tavern. A great many people come, young gentlemen who wish to
distinguish themselves at the 'becerras,'[107] foreigners who become
bewitched by the corridas, and who wish to become toreros in their old
age. I have got one now who comes every afternoon. You shall see him."
They crossed the street towards a plot of ground surrounded by a wall.
Across the joined planks which served as a door was a large placard on
which was written in tar "School of Tauromachia."
They went in. The first thing that attracted Gallardo's attention was
the bull--an animal made of wood and bamboos, mounted on wheels, with a
tail of tow, a head of plaited straw, and pieces of cork for a neck, to
which were attached a pair of real and enormous horns which struck
terror into the pupils' hearts.
A bare-breasted lad, in a cap with two curls of hair above his ears, was
the creature who communicated its intelligence to the beast, pushing it
forward when the pupils stood opposite to it with their capes in their
hands.
In the middle of the plot stood a gentleman, elderly, round shouldered,
and stout, red faced, with large stiff grey moustache, in his shirt
sleeves, with a banderilla in either hand. Close to the wall seated on a
chair, and leaning on another, was a lady of about the same age, and not
less stout and rubicund, in a hat covered with flowers. Each time her
husband executed some good stroke the piles of flowers and false curls
shook and waved wildly as she threw herself back in her chair laughing
and applauding loudly.
El Pescadero explained to Gallardo that most probably those people were
French or possibly from some other country, he was not certain, and it
mattered nothing to him. The couple seemed to have travelled all over
the world and to have lived everywhere; to judge from his stories, he
had been a miner in America, colonist in some distant island, hunter of
wild horses with a lasso in America, and now he wished to earn some
money as torero, and came every afternoon to the school like an
obstinate child, but he paid generously for his lessons.
"Just imagine! a torero with that figure!... And at fifty years of age
well struck!"...
As he saw the two men enter, the pupil dropped his arms holding the
banderillas, and the lady arranged her skirts and her flowery hat. "Ah!
dear master!..."
"Good evening, mosiu!" "Your servant, madame," said the master raising
his hand to his hat.... "Let me see, mosiu, how this lesson is getting
on. You remember what I told you. Stand quiet on your ground. Invite the
'bicho,' let him come, and when he is by your side just bend your hips
and stick the darts in his neck. You need not be anxious to do anything,
the bull will do everything for you. Attention.... Are you ready?"
And the professor standing a little aside made a sign to the terrible
bull, or more properly to the urchin, who with his hands on the hind
quarters was pushing him to the attack.
"Eeeeh!... Enter, Morito!"
Pescadero gave a fearful bellow to induce the bull to "enter," exciting
by those shouts and furious stamping on the ground this terrible beast
with inside of air and reeds and head of straw. Monto attacked like a
furious wild beast with a tremulous rattle of wheels, staggering and
butting on account of the inequalities of the ground. How could any bull
from the most famous herd compare in intelligence with this Morito,
immortal beast; who had been pierced with banderillas and rapier thrusts
a thousand times, only suffering insignificant wounds that the carpenter
had been able to cure. He seemed cleverer than any man! As he came near
to the pupil, he slightly changed his course in order not to touch him
with his horns, going off with a pair of darts well stuck into his cork
neck.
A perfect ovation greeted this exploit, the banderillero remaining firm
in his place, arranging his braces and his shirt cuffs. His wife, wildly
delighted, threw herself back in her chair laughing and clapping.
"Quite masterly, mosiu," shouted El Pescadero. "A stroke of the first
quality!"
The foreigner, delighted by the professor's applause, replied modestly,
beating his breast:
"I have what is most important--courage, a great deal of courage."
Then, in order to celebrate the stroke, he called on Morito's sprite,
who was already creeping out, anticipating the order, to fetch them a
bottle of wine. When they knew that the man who accompanied the
professor was the celebrated Gallardo, whose portraits they had so often
admired on cigarette boxes, their delight knew no bounds, and they
clinked glasses of wine to the success of the torero, even Morito taking
part in the festival.
"Before two months are over, mosiu," said El Pescadero, with Andalusian
gravity, "you will be fixing banderillas in the Plaza in Madrid, and
carrying off all the palms, and the money, and the women ... saving your
lady's presence."
El Pescadero walked with Gallardo as far as the end of the street.
"Adios, Juan," he said gravely, "we may see each other in the Plaza
to-morrow.... You see how low I have come, that I have to live on these
humbugs and idiots."
Gallardo walked away thoughtful. Ay! That man, whom he had seen in his
good days throw away money with princely generosity, so sure was he of
his future!...
He had lost his money in bad speculations, and a torero's life was not
one to teach the management of a fortune. And yet they were proposing to
him to retire from his profession. Never. He must throw himself on the
bulls.
The next day he felt full of courage and went to the Plaza, undisturbed
by his usual superstitious fears. He felt the certainty of triumph, the
high heart-throb of his most glorious days.
From the very first the corrida was full of events. The first bull
showed himself very "tenacious,"[108] attacking furiously all the men on
horseback. In an instant he had overthrown three picadors who were
waiting for him with their lance in rest, two of the horses lay dying,
streams of dark blood gushing out of their torn chests. The other one
mad with pain and terror rushed from one end of the Plaza to the other,
his belly ripped open and the saddle hanging loose, showing between the
stirrups the blue and red entrails. Dragging its bowels along the ground
and trampling them itself with its hind legs, they divided themselves
like a knotted skein which becomes gradually disentangled.
The bull, attracted by its wild rush, followed it up close, driving his
powerful head under the belly, lifting the horse on his horns, throwing
it on the ground, and then furiously attacking the miserable, torn and
pierced carcass. When the bull left it, kicking and dying, a "mono
sabio" came up to finish it, by driving the steel of his dagger through
the top of the skull. The miserable brute in the extremity of its agony
bit the man, who screamed, lifting his bloody right hand, and striking
home the dagger till the animal ceased to struggle and the limbs
remained rigid. Then other employés of the circus ran up with large
baskets of sand which they threw in heaps over the pools of blood and
the bodies of the horses.
By this time the whole audience were on their feet, shouting and
gesticulating wildly. They were delighted at the bull's fierceness and
protested loudly at there being not a single picador left in the arena,
yelling with one voice: "Horses! More horses!"
They all knew well enough that more would come out immediately, but they
seemed furious that another instant should go by without fresh
butcheries. The bull remained alone in the centre of the arena, superb
and bellowing, his bloody horns held high, and the ribbon with the badge
of his herd floating on his neck, which was covered with red and blue
gashes.
Fresh riders came out, and again the horrible spectacle was repeated. As
soon as a picador with his lance in rest approached the bull, bringing
up his horse sideways with one eye bandaged, so that it should not see
the bull, the shock and the fall were instantaneous. The lances broke
with the splintering of dry wood, the horse was tossed in the air by the
powerful horns, sprinkling the arena with its blood and bowels, and the
picador rolled on the arena like a yellow legged doll, covered
immediately by his companions' capes.
The public hailed the noisy falls of the riders with laughter and
exclamations of delight. The arena rang with the shock of the fall of
the heavy bodies with their iron-clad legs. One fell like a full sack,
his head striking the wall of the barrier with a dull echo.
"That one won't get up," yelled the crowd. "His melon must be cracked."
But nevertheless he got up, stretching his arms, rubbing his head, and
picking up the stout beaver which had rolled on the sand, again mounted
the same horse, which the "monos sabios," by dint of kicks and blows,
had got on to its feet, and bestriding this dying mount, with its
entrails dragging on the sand, he went once more to encounter the
furious beast.
"This is for you!" he shouted, throwing the beaver into a group of
friends.
But no sooner had he again placed himself opposite the bull, driving his
pike into its neck, than man and horse were once more tossed in the air,
parting company from the violence of the shock, each one rolling to a
different side of the arena. Several times before the bull attacked, the
"monos sabios" and also some of the public had advised the rider to
dismount. "Get down, get down." But before his stiffly encased legs
could do so, the horse would fall dead, and the picador would be sent
flying over his ears, his head arriving with a heavy blow on the sand.
The bull had not succeeded in goring any of the riders, but some of the
picadors lay insensible on the ground, and the circus servants were
obliged to carry them out to the infirmary, to be treated for broken
bones, or to be revived from the shock which seemed like death.
Gallardo, most anxious to gain the sympathies of his public, was here,
there and everywhere, earning immense applause by seizing the bull's
tail and pulling, till it turned away from the picador lying on the
ground in danger of being gored.
While the banderilleros were engaged, Gallardo, leaning on the barrier,
passed the boxes in review. Doña Sol was sure to be there. At last he
caught sight of her, but without the white mantilla. There was nothing
about her to remind one of the lady in Seville who was so like one of
Goya's pictures. With her golden hair and her large and elegant hat, she
might have been a foreigner seeing a bull-fight for the first time. By
her side sat that man of whom she spoke so admiringly, and to whom she
was showing the sights of the country. Ay! Doña Sol! Soon she would see
what the fine fellow she had deserted really was! She would have to
applaud him even in the presence of the hated stranger; she would become
enthusiastic, even against her will, carried away by the contagion of
the masses.
When the time came for Gallardo to kill his bull, which was the second,
the masses received him cordially, as if they had forgotten their
annoyance at the previous corrida. The people seemed inclined to be
tolerant after the spell of wet weather, as if they wished to find
everything good in the long expected bull-fight. Besides, the courage of
the first bull and the great mortality among the horses had put the
crowd in a splendid humour.
Gallardo walked towards the bull with his head uncovered after the
"brindis," with the muleta in one hand, and in the other the rapier
waving like a cane. He was followed, though at a prudent distance, by El
Nacional and another torero. Several voices from the sunny side
protested. How many more acolytes!... He looked like a parish priest
going to a funeral!
"Go out everybody!" shouted Gallardo.
The two peons stopped, because it was said in a voice which left no room
for doubt.
He went forward till he came close to the beast, and then unfolded the
muleta, giving some passes quite in his old style, even placing the rag
on the slavering muzzle. "A pass, olé!" and a murmur of satisfaction ran
over the benches. The lad from Seville was again worthy of his name, he
had regained his professional pride. He was going to perform some of his
old strokes as in his best days. His muleta passes were greeted with
noisy exclamations of delight, and on the benches his partisans revived,
rebuking his enemies.
That afternoon was one of his best. When they saw the bull standing
motionless, the public themselves encouraged him with their advice. "Now
then! Strike!"
Gallardo threw himself on the bull with his rapier in front, slipping
quickly away from the menace of the horns.
The applause rang out, but it was short, and followed by a threatening
murmur, mingled with strident whistling. The enthusiasts ceased to look
at the bull, to turn their indignation on the public. What injustice!
What want of knowledge! He had entered to kill splendidly....
But thousands of inimical fingers pointed to the bull without ceasing
their protests, and the whole Plaza joined them in a deafening storm of
whistling.
The rapier had penetrated slant ways, crossing the bull, its point
appearing between his ribs just behind the foreleg.
Every one gesticulated, waving their arms in a paroxysm of fury. "What a
scandal! A bad novillero could not have done worse!"
The animal, with the hilt of the sword in his neck and the point
appearing from the wrench of the espada's arm began to hobble, its
enormous bulk swaying with its unsteady gait. This seemed to move every
one to a generous indignation. "Poor bull! Such a good one, so
noble...." Many threw themselves forward, roaring with fury, as if they
intended throwing themselves bodily into the arena. "Thief! Son of
a...!" "To torture a "bicho" like that who is better than he is!..." All
shouted, seized with a vehement tenderness for the brute's suffering,
just as though they had not paid to see its death.
Gallardo, stupefied at his deed, bent his head beneath the whirlwind of
insults and threats. Cursed bad luck! He had entered to kill splendidly,
just as in his best days, overcoming the nervous shrinking which made
him turn his face away as though he could not endure the sight of the
brute coming down on him. But the desire to avoid danger, to get out
from between the horns as quickly as possible, had made him ruin his
luck by that disgraceful and unskilful stroke.
The bull, after limping about for some time with painful staggering,
stood still.
Gallardo took another sword and again placed himself in front of the
beast.
The public guessed his intention. He was proceeding to the "descabello,"
the only thing he could do after such a criminal stroke.
He leant the point of the rapier between the two horns, while with the
other hand he waved the muleta so that the beast, attracted by the
fluttering cloth, should lower its head to the ground. The espada struck
with his rapier, but the bull, feeling himself wounded, tossed his head
wildly, and ejected the weapon.
"One!" roared the crowd with almost laughable unanimity.
The matador again repeated his stroke, and once again drove in the
rapier, the only result being to make the brute shiver.
"Two!" sang out from the gods in derision.
A fresh attempt only succeeded like the others in drawing a low bellow
from the tortured animal.
"Three!"... But to this ironical chorus the masses now joined whistles
and cries of protest. When would that matador finish it?
On the fourth attempt he succeeded in severing the spinal cord, and the
bull fell instantaneously, lying on his side with his legs rigid.
The espada wiped the perspiration from his face and walked slowly round,
almost gasping for breath, to salute the president. At last he was free
from that animal. He thought he never would have finished it. On his way
the mob either greeted him sarcastically or with contemptuous silence.
No one applauded. He saluted the president amid the general
indifference, and then took refuge behind the barrier, like a school boy
ashamed of his misdeeds. While Garabato offered him a glass of water his
eyes ran round the boxes, meeting those of Doña Sol, which had followed
him to his refuge. What would that woman think of him? How she would
laugh with her travelling companion, seeing him ridiculed by the public!
What an unlucky idea of hers to come to that corrida!
He remained between the barriers, trying to avoid further fatigue, till
the last bull he had to kill should come out. His broken leg pained him
greatly from having run so much. He was no longer the same--he was
obliged to recognize it. All his confidence, all his resolutions of
throwing himself on the bull were useless. His legs were neither as
light nor as steady as formerly, neither had his right arm that daring
which made it throw itself out without fear, anxious to reach the neck
of the bull as soon as possible. Now it drew itself in against his will,
with the cautious instinct of certain animals who think if they hide
their faces they can in this way avoid danger.
His old superstitious terrors suddenly reappeared, crushing,
overwhelming.
"I am in bad luck," thought Gallardo. "My heart tells me the fifth bull
will catch me. He will catch me, nothing can be done!"
All the same, when the fifth bull came out into the Plaza the first cape
to meet him was Gallardo's. What an animal! He looked quite different
from the one he had chosen in the yard the evening before. Fear went on
singing in the torero's ears. "Bad luck!... He will catch me; to-day I
shall leave the circus feet foremost."
In spite of this, he continued playing with the bull and drawing it away
from the endangered picadors. At first his endeavours were received in
silence, but later the people softened a little and applauded him
feebly.
When the supreme moment arrived for the death of the bull, all present
seemed to guess the confusion of his mind. His play was disordered, it
was sufficient for the bull to shake his head for him to take it as a
sign of charging, throwing his feet backwards, and receding by long
bounds, while the public greeted those attempts at flight with a chorus
of mockery.
"Juy! Juy! He is catching you!"
Suddenly, as if he wished to finish it as soon as possible in any way,
he threw himself on the beast with his rapier, obliquely, to get out of
the danger as quickly as he could. There was an explosion of whistling
and shouting. The rapier had only gone in an inch or two and after
vibrating in the brute's neck, was ejected by him to some distance.
Gallardo turned to pick tip the rapier and again approached the bull. He
was squaring himself to go in to kill, when the bull charged him at the
same moment. He wished to fly, but his legs had no longer the agility of
former days. He was caught and rolled over by the impetus of the rush.
While everyone ran to his help Gallardo picked himself up, covered with
sand, with a rent in the back of his breeches, through which his shirt
tail appeared, minus a shoe, and without the "mona" which adorned his
pigtail.
That gallant and dashing young fellow, who had been the admiration of
the populace for his elegance, now looked pitiful and ridiculous, with
his shirt tail sticking out, his hair disarranged and his pigtail fallen
down and unfastened, looking like a wretched tail.
Many capes were pityingly spread round him to help and protect him,
while the other espadas with generous comradeship worked the bull and
prepared him so that Gallardo might finish him without difficulty. But
Gallardo seemed blind and deaf; the sight alone of the animal was enough
to make him throw himself back at the slightest sign of attack; it
seemed as though his recent overturn had driven him mad with fright. He
did not seem to understand what his comrades said to him, and with
frowning brows and face intensely pale, he stammered out, scarcely
knowing what he said:
"Go out, every one! Leave me alone!"
While terror was singing in his heart: "To-day you will die! This is
your last cogida!"
The public guessed the espada's thoughts by the wildness of his
movements.
"He is terrified of the bull! Panic has seized him!"
Even his most fervent partisans were ashamed and silent, unable to
explain a thing such as they had never seen before.
The people seemed to enjoy his terror with the valour of those in a safe
place. Others, thinking themselves defrauded of their money, shouted
themselves hoarse.
Gallardo, protected by his companions' capes, took advantage of any
opportunity of wounding the beast with his sword, deaf to the sarcastic
jests of the populace; but they were thrusts the animal scarcely seemed
to feel. His terror at being caught lengthened his arm, making him stand
far off, only wounding the beast with the point of the sword.
Some of the rapiers shook themselves loose, being scarcely fixed in the
flesh, others remained stuck in a bone, but the greater part of the
length uncovered, bending with the brute's movements. The bull was
following the circuit of the barrier bellowing with his head low, as if
complaining of this useless torture. The espada followed him, muleta in
hand, anxious to finish him, yet dreading to expose himself, and behind
him came a whole troup of peons, spreading their capes, as though by
this fluttering of stuffs they were trying to persuade the bull to
double up his legs and to lie down on the sand. The bull's progress
close to the barrier, with his neck bristling with rapiers, provoked
storms of sarcasms and insults.
"It's like la Dolorosa!"[109] they shouted.
Others compared the animal to a pincushion full of pins.
"Thief! Bad torero!"
Others insulted the torero by changing his name to the feminine.
"Juanita! Don't run into danger."
Much time was being lost, and part of the audience becoming furious
turned towards the presidential box.
"Señor Presidente! How long is this scandal to go on?"
The President made a gesture which silenced the storm, and then made a
sign. Soon an alguacil in his feathered hat and fluttering cape was seen
running round the barrier to the spot where the bull was standing, then,
directing his gesture towards Gallardo he raised one closed fist with
the forefinger outstretched. The mob applauded. It was the first
warning. If before the third the matador had not killed his bull, it
would be taken back to the yard, and the matador would remain under the
stigma of the deepest dishonour.
Gallardo, as if awakening suddenly from his somnambulism, crushed by
this threat, placed his rapier horizontally and threw himself on the
bull. It was only one estocade the more which scarcely penetrated into
the bull's body.
The espada let his arms fall, utterly disheartened. Was that brute
immortal! The rapier thrusts seemed to do him no harm. It seemed as
though he would never die.
The futility of the last stroke infuriated the people. They all rose to
their feet, the storm of whistling became absolutely deafening, obliging
the women to stop their ears. Oranges, scraps of bread, cushions, any
projectile ready to hand, was hurled into the arena at the matador. From
the sunny side came stentorian voices, roars like a siren, which it
seemed impossible should come from human throats, a horrible din of
cow-bells rang out suddenly like a tocsin, while from the benches close
to the bulls' box a chorus began to chant the "gori-gori"[110] of the
dead.
Many turned towards the President. When would the second warning be
given? Gallardo wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchief,
looking all around him, as if astounded at the injustice of the
populace. He turned his eyes towards Doña Sol, but she had turned her
back to the circus. Did she feel any pity? Or was she ashamed of her
condescensions in the past?
Again he threw himself on the bull to kill, but very few could see what
was happening, for the spread capes fluttering incessantly round him
concealed everything.... At last the bull fell, a stream of blood
rushing from its mouth.
At last!... The public quieted down a little, ceasing to thump, but
still continuing shouting and whistling. The animal was finished by the
puntilero, he was fastened by his poll to the team of mules, and dragged
out of the arena, leaving behind him a broad belt of smoothed sand
covered with blood-stains, which the servants obliterated with rakes and
baskets of sand.
Gallardo hid himself between the barriers, shrinking from the storm of
insults his presence raised. There he remained, weary and panting, his
leg paining him greatly; but, in the midst of his discouragement,
feeling an intense comfort at being out of danger. He had not died by
the bull's horns ... but he owed it to his prudence. Ah! that public!...
After all they were only a crowd of murderers anxious for a man's death,
as if they alone loved life!
The exit from the Plaza was heart-rending, through the crowd of people
massed outside, carriages, automobiles, and long rows of tramways.
Gallardo's coach was obliged to go slowly to avoid running over the
crowds coming out of the Plaza; these opened out to let the mules pass,
but on recognizing the espada they seemed to repent of their courtesy.
Gallardo guessed by the movement of their lips that they were insulting
him: carriages full of pretty women in white mantillas passed close to
him, but they turned their heads away, while others looked at him with
pitying eyes.
The espada drew back as if he wished to pass unnoticed, hiding himself
behind the bulk of El Nacional, who sat silent and frowning.
A group of urchins following the carriage began to whistle, while many
walking on the pavements followed their example. The news of Gallardo's
fiasco had spread rapidly, and they were glad of an opportunity to
insult a man whom they imagined had gained such immense wealth.
"Curse them! Why are they whistling? Have they by any chance been to the
corrida?... Has it cost them any money?"...
A stone struck the wheel, and the ragamuffins were shouting close to the
step, when two mounted policemen rode up and dispersed the hostile
manifestation, afterwards escorting the whole length of the Calle de
Alcala, the famous matador Juan Gallardo ... "the first man in the
world."
FOOTNOTES:
[104] Wolf cub.
[105] The sunny side corresponds to the "gallery gods" or the pit with
us.
[106] Heart--courage.
[107] Trials of yearling calves.
[108] When a bull stands by the object of his attack--attacking it again
and again.
[109] The Virgin of Seven Sorrows whose heart is pierced with swords.
[110] The "de profundis."