Blood and Sand. Vicente Blasco Ibanez

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      "That's not so bad. Now to the Plaza."

      His two friends took their leave hurriedly in order to find a cab and follow him. Garabato tucked under his arm a large bundle of red cloth, from the ends of which projected the pommels and buttons of several swords.

      As Gallardo descended to the vestibule of the hotel, he saw that the street was filled with a noisy, excited crowd, as if some great event had just happened, and he could hear the buzz of a multitude whom he could not see through the door-way.

      The landlord and all his family ran up with outstretched hands as if they were speeding him on a long journey.

      "Good luck! May all go well with you!"

      The servants, sinking all social distinctions, also shook his hand.

      "Good luck, Don Juan!"

      He turned round, smiling on every side, regardless of the anxious looks of the women of the hotel.

      "Thanks, many thanks. … So long!"

      He was another man now. Now that he had slung his dazzling cape over his shoulder, a careless smile lit up his face. He was pale with a moist pallor like a sick man, but he laughed with the joy of life, and, going to meet his public, he adopted his new attitude with the instinctive facility of a man who has to put on a fine air before his audience.

      He swaggered arrogantly as he walked, puffing at the cigar in his left hand, and swayed from his hips under his gorgeous cape, stepping out firmly with the pride of a handsome man.

      "Now then, gentlemen! Make way, please! Many thanks. … Many thanks!"

      As he opened a way for himself he endeavoured to protect his clothes from contact with the dirty crowd of ill-dressed but enthusiastic roughs who crowded round the hotel door. They had no money to go to the corrida, but they took advantage of this opportunity of shaking hands with the famous Gallardo, or even of touching some part of his clothing.

      Close to the pavement was waiting a wagonette drawn by four mules, gaily caparisoned with tassels and little bells. Garabato had already hoisted himself on to the box seat with his bundle of cloth and swords. Behind sat three toreros with their capes on their knees all wearing bright-coloured clothes, embroidered as profusely as those of the Master, only with silver instead of gold.

      Gallardo was obliged to defend himself with his elbows against the outstretched hands, and, amid the jostling of the crowd, he managed at last to reach the steps of the carriage. Amidst the general excitement he was finally unceremoniously hoisted into his seat from behind.

      "Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said curtly to his cuadrilla.

      He took the seat nearest to the step so that all could see him, and he smiled and nodded his acknowledgment of the cries and shouts of applause of a variety of ragged women and newspaper boys.

      The carriage dashed forward with all the strength of the spirited mules and filled the street with a merry tinkling. The crowd opened out to let the team pass, but many hung on to the carriage, in imminent danger of falling under its wheels. Sticks and hats were brandished in the air. A wave of enthusiasm swept over the crowd. It was one of those contagious outbursts which at times sway the masses, driving them mad, and making them shout without knowing why.

      "Olé the brave fellows! … Viva España!"

      Gallardo, still pale but smiling, saluted and repeated "Many thanks." He was moved by this outburst of popular enthusiasm, and proud of the fame that made them couple his name with that of his country.

      A crowd of rough boys and dishevelled girls ran after the carriage as fast as their legs could carry them, as if they expected to find something extraordinary at the end of their mad career.

      For an hour previously the Calle de Alcala had been a stream of carriages, between banks of crowded foot-passengers, all hurrying to the outskirts of the town. Every sort of vehicle, ancient or modern, figured in this transient but confused and noisy migration, from the pre-historic char-a-banc, come to light like an anachronism, to the modern motor car.

      The trams passed along crowded bunches of passengers overflowing on to their steps. Omnibuses took up fares at the corner of the Calle de Sevilla, while the conductors shouted "Plaza! Plaza!" Mules covered with tassels, drawing carriages full of women in white mantillas and bright flowers, trotted along gaily to the tinkling of their silvery bells. Every moment could be heard exclamations of terror as some child, threading its way from one pavement to the other, regardless of the rushing stream of vehicles, emerged with the agility of a monkey from under the carriage wheels. Motor sirens shrieked and coachmen shouted. Newspaper sellers hawked leaflets giving a picture and history of the bulls which were going to fight, or the portraits and biographies of the famous toreros. Now and then a murmur of curiosity swelled the dull humming of the crowd.

      Between the dark uniforms of the Municipal Guard rode showily dressed horsemen on lean miserable crocks, wearing gold-embroidered jackets, wide beaver sombreros with a pompon on one side like a cockade, and yellow padding on their legs. These were the picadors,[33] rough men of wild appearance who carried, clinging to the crupper behind their high Moorish saddles, a kind of devil dressed in red, the "Mono Sabio,"[34] the servant who had taken the horse to their houses.

      The cuadrillas passed by in open carriages. The gold embroidery of the toreros flashing in the afternoon sun seemed to dazzle the crowd and excite all its enthusiasm. "There's Fuentes!" "That's El Bomba!" cried the people, and pleased at having recognised them, they followed the disappearing carriages with anxious eyes, just as if something were going to happen and they feared they would be late.

      From the top of the Calle de Alcala, the whole length of the broad straight street could be seen lying white under the sun with its rows of trees beginning to turn green under the breath of spring. The balconies were black with onlookers and the roadway was only visible here and there amidst the swarming crowd which, on foot and in carriages, was making its way towards La Cibeles.[35]

      From this point the ground rose between lines of trees and buildings and the vista was closed by the Puerta de Alcala outlined like a triumphal arch against the blue sky on which floated a few flecks of cloud like wandering swans.

      Gallardo sat in silence, replying to the people only with his fixed smile. Since his first greeting to the banderilleros he had not uttered a word. They also were pale and silent with anxiety for the unknown. Now that they were amongst toreros they had laid aside as useless the swagger that was necessary in the presence of the public.

      A mysterious inspiration seemed to tell the people of the coming of the last cuadrilla on its way to the Plaza. The group of ragamuffins who had run after the carriage acclaiming Gallardo had lost their breath and had scattered amongst the traffic, but all the same, people glanced behind them as though they felt the proximity of the famous torero and slackened their pace, lining the edge of the pavement so as to get a better view of him.

      Women seated in the carriages rolling along turned their heads as they heard the tinkling bells of the trotting mules. Dull roars came from various groups standing on the pavement. These must have been demonstrations of enthusiasm for many waved their sombreros whilst others greeted him by flourishing their sticks.

      Gallardo replied to all these salutations with the smile of СКАЧАТЬ