Blood and Sand. Vicente Blasco IbanezЧитать онлайн книгу.
the women are crazy after you, you rascal! I am very badly off, my son. I have not even a shift, and nothing has entered my mouth to-day but a little Cazaya.[17] They keep me, out of pity, in la Pepona's house, who is from over there—from our own country—a very decent five duro house. Come round there, they would love to see you. I dress girls' hair and run errands for the men. Ah! If only my poor son were alive! You remember Pepiyo? Do you remember the afternoon on which he died?——"
Gallardo put a duro into her dry hand and did his best to escape from her volubility, which by this time was showing signs of imminent tears.
Cursed witch! Why did she come and remind him, on the day of a Corrida, of poor Lechuguero, the companion of his early years, whom he had seen killed almost instantaneously, gored to the heart, in the Plaza of Lebrija, when the two were bull-fighting as Novilleros?[18] Foul hag of evil omen!
He thrust her aside, but she, flitting from sorrow to joy with the inconsequence of a bird, broke out into enthusiastic praises of the brave boys, the good toreros, who carried away the money of the public and the hearts of the women.
"You deserve to have the Queen, my beauty! The Señora Carmen will have to keep her eyes wide open. Some fine day a 'gachi' will steal and keep you. Can't you give me a ticket for this afternoon, Juaniyo? I am bursting with longing to see you kill!"
The old woman's shrill voice and noisy cajoleries diverted the amused attention of the hotel servants and enabled a number of inquisitive idlers and beggars who, attracted by the presence of the torero, had collected outside the entrance, to break through the strict supervision that was usually maintained at the doors.
Heedless of the hotel servants, an irruption of loafers, ne'er-do-wells and newspaper sellers burst into the hall.
Ragamuffins, with bundles of papers under their arms, flourished their caps and greeted Gallardo with boisterous familiarity.
"El Gallardo," "Olé El Gallardo," "Long live the Brave."
The more daring seized his hand, shaking it roughly and pulling it about in their anxiety to keep touch of this national hero, whose portraits they had all seen in every paper, as long as ever they could, and then, to give their companions a chance of sharing their triumph, they shouted "Shake his hand. He won't be offended! He's a real good sort." Their devotion made them almost kneel before the matador.
There were also other admirers, just as insistent, with unkempt beards and clothes that had been fashionable in the days of their youth, who shuffled round their idol in boots that had seen better days. They swept their greasy sombreros towards him, spoke in a low voice and called him "Don Juan," in order to emphasise the difference between themselves and the rest of that irreverent, excited crowd. Some of them drew attention to their poverty and asked for a small donation, others, with more impertinence, asked, in the name of their love of the sport, for a ticket for the Corrida—fully intending to sell it immediately.
Gallardo defended himself laughingly against this avalanche which jostled and overwhelmed him, and from which the hotel servants, who were bewildered at the excitement aroused by his popularity, were quite unable to save him.
He searched through all his pockets until he finally turned them out empty, distributing silver coins broadcast among the greedy hands held out to clutch them.
"There is no more! The fuel is finished! Leave me alone, my friends!"
Pretending to be annoyed by this popularity, which in fact flattered him greatly, he suddenly opened a way through them with his muscular athletic arms, and ran upstairs, bounding up the steps with the lightness of a wrestler, while the servants, freed from the restraint of his presence, pushed the crowd towards the door and swept them into the street.
Gallardo passed the room occupied by his servant Garabato, and saw him through the half open door, busy amid trunks and boxes, preparing his master's clothes for the Corrida.
On finding himself alone in his own room, the happy excitement caused by the avalanche of admirers vanished at once. The bad moments of the days of a Corrida returned, the anxiety of those last hours before going to the Plaza. Bulls of Muira[19] and a Madrid audience. The danger, which when facing him seemed to intoxicate him and increase his daring, was anguish to him when alone—something supernatural, fearful and intimidating from its very uncertainty.
He felt overwhelmed, as if the fatigues of his previous bad night had suddenly overcome him. He longed to throw himself on one of the beds which occupied the end of the room, but again the anxiety which possessed him, with its mystery and uncertainty, banished the desire to sleep.
He walked restlessly up and down the room, lighting another Havanna from the end of the one he had just smoked.
What would be the result for him of the Madrid season just about to commence? What would his enemies say? What would his professional rivals do? He had killed many Muira bulls—after all they were only like any other bulls—still, he thought of his comrades fallen in the arena—nearly all of them victims of animals from this herd. Cursed Muiras! No wonder he and other espadas exacted a thousand pesetas[20] more in their contracts each time they fought with bulls of this breed.
He wandered vaguely about the room with nervous step. Now and then he stopped to gaze vacantly at well known things amongst his luggage, and finally he threw himself into an arm-chair, as if seized with a sudden weakness. He looked often at his watch—not yet two o'clock. How slowly the time passed!
He longed, as a relief for his nervousness, for the time to come as soon as possible for him to dress and go to the Plaza. The people, the noise, the general curiosity, the desire to show himself calm and at ease before an admiring public, and above all the near approach of danger, real and personal, would instantly blot out this anguish of solitude, in which the espada, with no external excitement to assist him, felt himself face to face with something very like fear.
The necessity for distracting his mind made him search the inside pocket of his coat and take out of his pocket-book a letter which exhaled a strong sweet scent.
Standing by a window, through which entered the dull light of an interior courtyard, he looked at the envelope which had been delivered to him on his arrival at the hotel, admiring the elegance of the handwriting in which the address was written—so delicate and well shaped.
Then he drew out the letter, inhaling its indefinable perfume with delight. Ah! These people of high birth who had travelled much! How they revealed their inimitable breeding, even in the smallest details!
Gallardo, as though he still carried about his person the pungent odour of the poverty of his early years, perfumed himself abundantly. His enemies laughed at this athletic young fellow who by his love of scent belied the strength of his sex. Even his admirers smiled at his weakness, though often they had to turn their heads aside, sickened by the diestro's excess.
A whole perfumer's shop accompanied him on his journeys, and the most feminine scents anointed his body as he went down into the arena amongst the scattered entrails of dead horses and their blood-stained dung.
Certain enamoured cocottes whose acquaintance he had made during a journey to the Plazas in the South of France had given him the secret of combining and mixing rare perfumes—but the scent of that letter! It was the scent of the person who had written it!—that mysterious scent so delicate, indefinable, and inimitable, which seemed to emanate from her aristocratic form, and which he called "the scent of the lady."
He read and re-read the letter with a beatified smile of delight and pride.
It was not much, only half a dozen lines—"a greeting from Seville, wishing him good luck in Madrid. Congratulations beforehand on his expected triumph——." The letter might have been lost anywhere without compromising the woman who signed it.
"Friend