Blood and Sand. Vicente Blasco IbanezЧитать онлайн книгу.
diestro with the superiority of their years and experience. They spoke of the "old Plaza" of Madrid, where only "true" toreros and "true" bulls were known, and drawing nearer to the present times, they trembled with excitement as they remembered the "Negro."[6] That "Negro" was Frascuelo.
If you could only have seen him! … But probably you and those of your day were still at the breast or were not yet born.
Other enthusiasts kept coming into the dining-room, men of wretched appearance and hungry faces, obscure reporters of papers only known to the bull-fighters, whom they honoured with their praise or censure: people of problematic profession who appeared as soon as the news of Gallardo's arrival got about, besieging him with flatteries and requests for tickets. The general enthusiasm permitted them to mix with the other gentlemen, rich merchants and public functionaries, who discussed bull-fighting affairs with them hotly without being troubled by their beggarly appearance.
All of them, on seeing the espada,[7] embraced him or clasped his hand, to a running accompaniment of questions and exclamations:
"Juanillo! … How is Carmen?"
"Quite well, thank you."
"And your mother? the Señora Angustias?"
"Famous, thanks. She is at La Rincona."
"And your sister and the little nephews?"
"In good health, thanks."
"And that ridiculous fellow, your brother-in-law?"
"Well, also. As great a talker as ever."
"And, a little family? Is there no hope?"
"No—not that much——." And he bit his nails in expressive negation.
He then turned his enquiries on the stranger, of whose life, beyond his love for bull-fighting, he was completely ignorant.
"And your own family? Are they also quite well?—Come along, I am glad to meet you. Sit down and have something."
Next he enquired about the looks of the bulls with which he was going to fight in a few hours' time, because all these friends had just come from the Plaza, after seeing the separation and boxing of the animals, and with professional curiosity he asked for news from the Café Ingles,[8] where many of the amateurs foregathered.
It was the first "Corrida"[9] of the Spring season, and Gallardo's enthusiastic admirers had great hopes of him as they called to mind all the articles they had read in the papers, describing his recent triumphs in other Plazas in Spain. He had more engagements than any other torero. Since the Corrida of the Feast of the Resurrection,[10] the first important event in the taurine year. Gallardo had gone from place to place killing bulls. Later on, when August and September came round, he would have to spend his nights in the train and his afternoons in the ring, with scarcely breathing time between them. His agent in Seville was nearly frantic—overwhelmed with letters and telegrams, and not knowing how to fit so many requests for engagements into the exigencies of time.
The evening before this he had fought at Ciudad Real and, still in his splendid dress, had thrown himself into the train in order to arrive in Madrid in the morning. He had spent a wakeful night, only sleeping by snatches, boxed up in the small sitting accommodation that the other passengers managed, by squeezing themselves together, to leave for the man who was to risk his life on the following day.
The enthusiasts admired his physical endurance and the daring courage with which he threw himself on the bull at the moment of killing it. "Let us see what you can do this afternoon," they said with the fervour of zealots, "the fraternity[11] expects great things from you. You will lower the Mona[12] of many of our rivals. Let us see you as dashing here as you were in Seville!"
His admirers dispersed to their breakfasts at home in order to go early to the Corrida. Gallardo, finding himself alone, was making his way up to his room, impelled by the nervous restlessness which overpowered him, when a man holding two children by the hand, pushed open the glass doors of the dining-room, regardless of the servant's enquiries as to his business. He smiled seraphically when he saw the torero and advanced, with his eyes fixed on him, dragging the children along and scarcely noticing where he placed his feet. Gallardo recognised him, "How are you, Comparé?"
Then began all the usual questions as to the welfare of the family, after which the man turned to his children saying solemnly:
"Here he is. You are always asking to see him. He's exactly like his portraits, isn't he?"
The two mites stared religiously at the hero whose portraits they had so often seen on the prints which adorned the walls of their poor little home, a supernatural being whose exploits and wealth had been their chief admiration ever since they had begun to understand mundane matters.
"Juanillo, kiss your Godfather's hand," and the younger of the two rubbed a red cheek against the torero's hand, a cheek newly polished by his mother in view of this visit.
Gallardo caressed his head abstractedly. This was one of the numerous godchildren he had about Spain. Enthusiasts forced him to stand godfather to their children, thinking in this way to secure their future, and to have to appear at baptisms was one of the penalties of his fame. This, particular godson reminded him of bad times at the beginning of his career, and he felt grateful to the father for the confidence he had placed in him at a time when others were still doubtful of his merits.
"And how about your business, Comparé?" enquired Gallardo, "Is it going on better?"
The aficionado[13] shrugged his shoulders. He was getting a livelihood, thanks to his dealings in the barley market—just getting a livelihood, nothing more.
Gallardo looked compassionately at his threadbare Sunday-best clothes.
"Would you like to see the Corrida, Comparé? Well go up to my room and tell Garabato[14] to give you a ticket.——Good-bye, my dear fellow. Here's a trifle to buy yourselves some little thing," and while the little godson again kissed his right hand, with his other hand the matador gave each child a couple of duros.
The father dragged away his offspring with many grateful excuses, though he did not succeed in making clear, in his very confused thanks, whether his delight was for the present to the children, or for the ticket for the bull-fight which the diestro's servant would give him.
Gallardo waited for some time so as not to meet his admirer and the children in his room. Then he looked at his watch. Only one o'clock! What a long time it still was till the bull-fight!
As he came out of the dining-room and turned towards the stairs, a woman wrapped in an old cloak came out of the hall-porter's office, barring his way with determined familiarity, quite regardless of the servants' expostulations.
"Juaniyo! Juan! Don't you know me? I am 'la Caracolá,[15] the Señora Dolores, mother of poor Lechuguero."[16]
Gallardo smiled at this little dark wizened woman, verbose and vehement, with eyes burning like live coals—the eyes of a witch. At the same time, knowing what would be the outcome of her volubility, he raised his hand to his waistcoat pocket.
"Misery, my son! Poverty and affliction! When I heard you were bull-fighting to-day I said 'I will go and see Juaniyo: He will remember the mother of his poor comrade.'