The Blood of the Arena Part 1

The Blood of the Arena.

by Vicente Blasco Ibanez.

CHAPTER I

THE HERO AND THE PUBLIC

JUAN GALLARDO breakfasted early, as he did whenever there was to be a bull-fight. A slice of roast meat was his only dish. Wine he did not even touch; the bottle remained unopened before him. He must keep himself calm. He drank two cups of thick, black coffee, and lighted an enormous cigar, sitting with his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands, looking with dreamy eyes at the guests who one by one filled the dining-room.

It was a number of years ago, not long after he had been given "the alternative" in the bull-ring of Madrid, that he came to lodge at a certain hotel on Alcala Street where his hosts treated him as if he were one of the family, and the dining-room servants, porters, scullions, and old waiters adored him as the glory of the establishment. There, too, he had spent many days wrapped in bandages, in a dense atmosphere heavy with the smell of iodoform, in consequence of two gorings, but the unhappy recollection did not weigh upon him.

In his Southern superst.i.tious mind, exposed to continual danger, he regarded this hotel as a charmed shelter, and thought that nothing ill would happen to him while living in it; accidents common to the profession, rents in his clothing, scratches in his flesh perhaps, but no last and final fall after the manner of other comrades, the recollection of whom haunted even his happier hours.

On the days of the great bull-fights, after the early breakfast, he enjoyed sitting in the dining-room contemplating the movement of travellers. They were foreigners, or people from distant provinces, who pa.s.sed near with indifferent countenances, and without looking at him; and then became curious on learning from the servants that the fine youth with shaven face and black eyes, dressed like a young gentleman, was Juan Gallardo, by all familiarly called Gallardo, the famous bull-fighter. Thus were whiled away the long and painful hours before going to the plaza.

These moments of uncertainty, in which vague fears emerged from the depths of his soul, making him doubt himself, were the bitterest in his professional experience. He would not go out on the street thinking of the strain of the contest, and of the need of keeping himself rested and agile; and he could not entertain himself at the table on account of the necessity of eating a light meal, in order to reach the ring without disturbance of his digestion.

He remained at the head of the table, his face between his hands and a cloud of perfumed smoke before his eyes, turning his gaze from time to time with a certain fatuousness to look at some ladies who were contemplating the famous bull-fighter with interest.

His pride as the idol of the ma.s.ses made him feel that he could divine eulogy and flattery in these looks. They thought him smart and elegant.

And, with the instinct of all men accustomed to pose before the public, forgetting his preoccupation, he sat erect, knocked off with his finger nails the cigar ashes fallen on his sleeves, and arranged his ring, which covered the whole joint of one of his fingers with an enormous diamond surrounded by a nimbus of colors as if its clear liquid depths burned with magic fire.

His eyes roved with satisfaction over his person, admiring the suit of elegant cut, the cap which he wore around the hotel lying on a nearby chair, the fine gold chain that crossed the upper part of his vest from pocket to pocket, the pearl in his cravat that seemed to illuminate the brown tone of his countenance with milky light, and the shoes of Russia leather showing between their tops and the edge of the rolled-up trousers socks of open-work silk embroidered like the stockings of a cocotte.

An atmosphere of English perfumes, mild and vague, but used with profusion, arose from his clothing and from his black and brilliant hair. This he brushed carefully down over his temples, adopting a style certain to attract feminine curiosity. For a bull-fighter the ensemble was not bad; he felt satisfied with his appearance. Where was there another more distinguished, or one who had a better way with women?

But suddenly his preoccupation returned, the brilliancy of his eyes clouded, and he rested his chin in his hands again, puffing at his cigar tenaciously, his gaze lost in the cloud of smoke. He thought wistfully of the hour of nightfall, wis.h.i.+ng it already here; of the return from the bull-ring, sweaty and tired, but with the joy of danger conquered, the appet.i.tes awakened, a mad desire for sport, and the certainty of a few days of safety and rest.

If G.o.d would protect him as heretofore he was going to feast with the appet.i.te of his days of poverty and starvation, get a little drunk, and go in search of a certain girl who sang in a music-hall, whom he had seen on his last trip without having a chance to cultivate her acquaintance. Leading this life of continual change from one end of the Peninsula to the other he did not have time for much in the way of pleasure.

Enthusiastic friends who wished to see the swordsman before going to breakfast at their homes began entering the dining-room. They were old admirers anxious to figure in a _banderia_ and to have an idol; they had made the young Gallardo the _matador_ of their choice, and they gave him sage counsel, frequently recalling their old-time adoration for Lagartijo or Frascuelo.

In addressing Gallardo they called him _thou_, with gracious familiarity, while he put _don_ before their names with the traditional cla.s.s distinction that still exists between the bull-fighter risen from the social subsoil and his admirers. These men linked their enthusiasm with memories of the past to make the young _matador_ feel their superiority of years and experience. They talked of the old plaza of Madrid where only bulls that _were_ bulls and bull-fighters that _were_ bull-fighters were recognized. Coming down to the present, they trembled with emotion on mentioning the Negro, Frascuelo.

"If thou hadst seen him! But thou and those of thy time were at the breast then, or were not even born."

Other enthusiasts began entering the dining-room, poorly clad and hungry-looking; obscure newspaper reporters; and men of problematical profession who appeared as soon as the news of Gallardo's arrival was circulated, besieging him with praises and pet.i.tions for tickets. Common enthusiasm jostled them against great merchants or public functionaries, who discussed bull-fighting affairs with them warmly, regardless of their beggarly aspect.

All, on seeing the swordsman, embraced him or shook his hand with an accompaniment of questions and exclamations.

"Juanillo--how goes it with Carmen?"

"Well, thanks."

"And how is your mother, Senora Angustias?"

"Fine, thanks. She's at La Rincona'."

"And your sister and your little nephews?"

"As usual, thanks."

"And that good-for-nothing brother-in-law of yours, how is he?"

"He's all right--as much of a gabbler as ever."

"Are there any additions to the family? Any expectations?"

"No--not even that."

He made a fingernail crackle between his teeth with a strong negative expression and then began returning the questions to the new arrivals, of whose life he knew nothing beyond their inclination for the art of bull-fighting.

"And how is your family--all right? Well, glad to hear it. Sit down and have something."

Then he inquired about the condition of the bulls that were to be fought within a few hours, for all these friends had come from the plaza and from seeing the separation and penning in of the animals; and, with professional curiosity, he asked news of the Cafe Ingles, a favorite gathering place of bull-fight fans.

It was the first bull-fight of the spring season, and Gallardo's enthusiasts showed great hopes, remembering the glowing accounts in the newspapers of his recent triumphs in other towns of Spain. He was the bull-fighter who had the most contracts. Since the Easter _corrida_ in Seville (the first important one of the taurine year) Gallardo had gone from plaza to plaza killing bulls.

When August and September came, he would have to spend his nights on the train and his afternoons in the rings, without time to rest. His agent at Seville was almost crazy, so besieged was he by letters and telegrams, not knowing how to harmonize so many pet.i.tions for contracts with the exigencies of time. The afternoon before he had fought at Ciudad Real and, still dressed in his spangled costume, he had boarded the train to reach Madrid by morning. He had spent a wakeful night, only napping occasionally, crouched in the portion of a seat left him by the other pa.s.sengers who crowded close together to give some chance for rest to this man who was to expose his life on the morrow, and was to afford them the joy of a tragic emotion without danger to themselves.

The enthusiasts admired his physical endurance, and the rash daring with which he threw himself upon the bulls at the moment of killing.

"We will see what thou art going to do this afternoon," they said with the fervor of true believers. "The devotees expect a great deal of thee.

Thou wilt win many favors, surely. We shall see if thou dost as well as at Seville."

His admirers now began to disperse to go home to breakfast so as to be able to reach the bull-fight at an early hour. Gallardo, finding himself alone, was preparing to retire to his room, impelled by the nervous restlessness that dominated him. A man, leading two children by the hand, pa.s.sed through the doorway of the dining-room, paying no attention to the questions of the servants. He smiled seraphically on seeing the bull-fighter, and advanced, dragging the little boys, his eyes glued upon him, taking no thought as to his feet. Gallardo recognized him.

"How are you, G.o.dfather?"

And then followed the customary questions regarding the health of the family. The man turned to his sons, saying gravely:

"There he is! Are ye not continually asking me about him? Just like he is in the pictures."

The two little fellows reverently contemplated the hero whom they had so often seen in the prints that adorned the rooms of their poor home; he seemed to them a supernatural being whose heroic deeds and riches were their greatest marvel as they began to take notice of the things of this world.

"Juanillo, kiss thy G.o.dfather's hand."

The smaller of the two boys dashed his red face, freshly scrubbed by his mother in preparation for this visit, against the swordsman's right hand. Gallardo patted his head absent-mindedly. It was one of the many G.o.d-children he had throughout Spain. His enthusiastic friends obliged him to be G.o.dfather in baptism to their children, believing thus to a.s.sure them a future.

To exhibit himself at baptism after baptism was one of the consequences of his glory. This G.o.dchild recalled to his memory the hard times when he was at the beginning of his career, and he felt a certain grat.i.tude to the father for the faith he had shown in him in spite of the lack of it in every one else.

"And how is business, _compadre_?" asked Gallardo. "Are things going better?"

The _aficionado_ made a wry face. He was living, thanks to his commissions in the barley market, barely living, no more. Gallardo looked compa.s.sionately at his mean dress--a poor man's Sunday best.

"You want to see the bull-fight, don't you, _compadre_? Go up to my room and let Garabato give you a ticket. Good-bye, my good fellow. Here, take this to buy yourselves something."