Blood and Sand. Vicente Blasco Ibanez

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СКАЧАТЬ block. With his thoughts far away, he took little notice of them. By his side sat El Nacional, the banderillero in whom he placed most trust, a big, hard man, older by ten years than himself, with a grave manner and eyebrows that met between his eyes. He was well known in the profession for his kindness of heart and sterling worth, and also for his political opinions.

      "Juan, you will not have to complain of Madrid," said El Nacional, "you have taken the public by storm."

      But Gallardo, as if he had not heard him but felt obliged to give vent to the thoughts that were weighing on him, replied, "My heart tells me that something will happen this afternoon."

      As they arrived at la Cibeles the carriage stopped. A great funeral was passing through the Prado in the direction of Castellana and cut through the avalanche of carriages coming from the Calle de Alcala.

      Gallardo turned still paler as he looked with terrified eyes at the passing of the silver cross and the procession of priests who broke into a mournful chant as they gazed, some with aversion others with envy, at the stream of godless people who were rushing to amuse themselves.

      The espada hastened to take off his montero. His banderilleros did the same, with the exception of El Nacional.

      "Curse you!" cried Gallardo, "Take off your cap, rascal."

      He glared at him as if about to strike him, fully convinced, by some confused intuition, that this impiety would bring down on him the greatest misfortunes.

      "All right, I'll take it off," said El Nacional, with the sulkiness of a thwarted child, as he saw the cross moving off, "I'll take it off but it is to the dead man!"

      They were obliged to stop for some time to let the funeral cortège pass.

      "Bad luck!" murmured Gallardo, his voice trembling with rage, "Who can have thought of bringing a funeral across the way to the Plaza? Curse them! I said something would happen to-day!"

      El Nacional smiled, and shrugged his shoulders. "Superstition and fanaticism! God or Nature don't trouble about these things!"

      These words which increased the irritation of Gallardo, seemed to dispel the grave preoccupation of the other toreros, and they began to laugh at their companion, as indeed they always did when he aired his favourite phrase, "God or Nature."

      As soon as the way was clear the carriage resumed its former speed, travelling as fast as the mules could trot and passing all the other vehicles which were converging on the Plaza. On arriving there it turned to the left, making for the door, named "de Caballerizas,"[36] which led to the yards and stables, but compelled to pass slowly through the compact crowd.

      Gallardo received another ovation as, followed by his banderilleros, he alighted from the carriage, pushing and elbowing his way in order to save his clothes from the touch of dirty hands, smiling greetings everywhere and hiding his right hand which everybody wished to shake.

      "Make way, please, gentlemen!" "Many thanks."

      The great courtyard between the main building of the Plaza and the boundary wall of its outbuildings was full of people who, before taking their seats, wished to get a near view of the bull-fighters, whilst on horseback, mounted high above the crowd, could be seen the picadors and the Alguaciles[37] in their Seventeenth Century costumes.

      On one side of the courtyard stood a row of single-storey brick buildings, with vines trellised over the doors and pots of flowers in the windows. It was quite a small town of offices, workshops, stables and houses in which lived stablemen, carpenters and other servants of the bull-ring.

      The diestro made his way laboriously through the various groups, and his name passed from lip to lip amidst exclamations of admiration.

      "Gallardo!" "Here is El Gallardo!" "Olé! Viva España!"

      And he, with no thought but that of the adoration of the public, swaggered along, serene as a god and gay and self-satisfied, just as if he were attending a fete given in his honour.

      Suddenly two arms were thrown round his neck and at the same time a strong smell of wine assailed his nostrils.

      "A real man! My beauty! Three cheers for the heroes!"

      It was a man of good appearance, a tradesman who had breakfasted with some friends, whose smiling vigilance he thought he had escaped but who were watching him from a short distance. He leant his head on the espada's shoulder and let it remain there, as though he intended to drop off into a sleep of ecstasy in that position. Gallardo pushed and the man's friends pulled and the espada was soon free of this intolerable embrace, but the tippler, finding himself parted from his idol, broke out into loud shouts of admiration.

      "Olé for such men! All nations of the earth should come and admire toreros like this, and die of envy! They may have ships, they may have money, but that's all rot! They have no bulls and no men like this! Hurrah, my lads! Long live my country!"

      Gallardo crossed a large white-washed hall, quite bare of furniture, where his professional companions were standing surrounded by admiring groups. Making his way through the crowd around a door he entered a small dark and narrow room, at one end of which lights were burning. It was the chapel. An old picture called "The Virgin of the Dove," filled the back of the Altar. On the table four tapers were burning, and several bunches of dusty moth-eaten muslin flowers stood in common pottery vases.

      The chapel was full of people. The aficionados of humble class assembled in it so as to see the great men close at hand. In the darkness some stood bareheaded in the front row, whilst others sat on benches and chairs, the greater part of them turning their backs on the Virgin, looking eagerly towards the door to call out a name as soon as the glitter of a gala dress appeared.

      The banderilleros and picadors, poor devils who were going to risk their lives the same as the "Maestros," scarcely caused a whisper by their presence. Only the most fervent aficionados knew their nicknames.

      Presently there was a prolonged murmur, a name repeated from mouth to mouth.

      "Fuentes! It is el Fuentes!"

      The elegant torero, tall and graceful, his cape loose over his shoulder, walked up to the Altar, bending his knee with theatrical affectation. The lights were reflected in his gipsy eyes and fell across the fine agile kneeling figure. After he had finished his prayer and crossed himself he rose, walking backwards towards the door, never taking his eyes off the image, like a tenor who retires bowing to his audience.

      Gallardo was more simple in his piety. He entered montero in hand, his cape gathered round him, walking no less arrogantly, but when he came opposite the image, he knelt with both knees on the ground, giving himself over entirely to his prayers and taking no notice of the hundreds of eyes fixed on him. His simple Christian soul trembled with fear and remorse. He prayed for protection with the fervour of ignorant men who live in continual danger and who believe in every sort of adverse influence and supernatural protection. For the first time in the whole of that day he thought of his wife and his mother. Poor Carmen down in Seville waiting for his telegram! The Señora Angustias, tranquil with her fowls at the farm of La Rinconada not knowing for certain where her son was fighting! … And he, here, with that terrible presentiment that something would happen that afternoon! Virgin of the Dove! Give a little protection! He would be good, he would forget "the rest," he would live as God commands.

      His СКАЧАТЬ