The Blood of the Arena Part 4

When the road was clear the carriage began to move at the full speed of the mules, crowding along with the other vehicles that flowed to the plaza. Arrived there it turned to the left toward the gate of the stables that led to the enclosures and stalls, obliged to move now at slower pace among the dense crowd. Another ovation to Gallardo when he descended from the coach followed by his _banderilleros_; blows and pushes to keep his dress from unclean contact; smiles of greeting; concealment of the right hand which all wished to press.

"Make way, gentlemen! many thanks!"

The large enclosure between the body of the plaza and the walls of the outbuildings was full of the curious who wished to see the bull-fighters at close range before taking their seats. Above the heads of the crowd emerged the _picadores_ and guards on horseback in their seventeenth century dress. At one side of the enclosure rose one-story brick buildings with vines over the doors and pots of flowers in the windows, a small community of offices, shops, stables, and houses in which lived the stable boys, the carpenters, and other employees of the bull-ring.

The _matador_ pressed forward laboriously among the a.s.semblage. His name pa.s.sed from mouth to mouth with exclamations of enthusiasm.

"Gallardo! Here is Gallardo! Hurrah! _Viva Espana_!"

And he, wholly preoccupied by the adoration of the public, advanced swaggering, serene as a G.o.d, happy and satisfied, as if he were a.s.sisting at a feast in his honor.

Suddenly two arms encircled his neck, and a strong stench of wine a.s.sailed his nostrils.

"You smasher of women's hearts! You glorious one! Hurrah for Gallardo!"

It was a man of decent appearance; he rested his head on the swordsman's shoulder and thus remained as though falling asleep in spite of his enthusiasm. Gallardo's pushing, and the pulling of his friends, freed the bull-fighter from this interminable embrace. The drunken man, finding himself separated from his idol, broke out in shouts of enthusiasm. "Hurrah! Let all the nations of the world come to admire bull-fighters like this one and die of envy! They may have ships, they may have money, but that's trivial! They have neither bulls nor youths like this--no one to outstrip him in bravery. Hurrah, my boy! _Viva mi tierra_!"

Gallardo crossed a great white washed hall bare of furniture where his professional companions stood surrounded by enthusiastic groups. Way was immediately made among the crowd which obstructed a door, and he pa.s.sed through it into a narrow, dark room, at the end of which shone the lights of the chapel. An ancient painting representing the Virgin of the Dove hung over the back of the altar. Four candles were burning before it and branches of moth-eaten cloth flowers in vases of common earthenware were falling to dust.

The chapel was full of people. The devotees of the humbler cla.s.ses crowded in to see the great men close by. They remained in the dimness with uncovered head; some crowded into the foremost ranks, others stood on chairs and benches, the majority of them with their backs to the Virgin and looking greedily toward the door, ready to shout a name the instant they discerned the glitter of a spangled costume.

The _banderilleros_ and _picadores_, poor devils who were going to expose their lives as much as were the _maestros_, scarcely raised the slightest murmur by their presence. Only the most fervent enthusiasts recognized their nicknames.

Suddenly a prolonged buzzing, a name repeated from mouth to mouth:

"Fuentes!--That is Fuentes!"

And this elegant bull-fighter with his air of gentility and his cape over his shoulder advanced to the altar and bent one knee with theatrical arrogance, his gypsy-like eyes reflecting the lights and his graceful and agile body thrown back as he looked upward. As soon as his prayer was said and he had made the sign of the cross he rose, walking backwards toward the door without losing sight of the image, like a singer who retires bowing to the audience.

Gallardo was more simple in his devotions. He entered swaggering with no less arrogance, cap in hand and his cape folded, but on finding himself in the presence of the image he fell on both knees and gave himself up to prayer, unconscious of the hundreds of eyes fixed on him. His simple Christian soul trembled with fear and remorse. He asked protection with the fervor of ingenuous men who live in continual danger and believe in all kinds of adverse influences and in supernatural protection.

For the first time during the whole exciting day he thought of his wife and mother. Poor Carmen, there in Seville awaiting the telegram! Senora Angustias, happy with her chickens at the farm of La Rinconada, without knowing for a certainty in what place her son fought the bulls to-day!

And he with the terrible presentiment that this afternoon something was going to happen! Virgin of the Dove! Some little protection! He would be good, he would forget the _other one_, he would live as G.o.d commands.

And with his superst.i.tious spirit strengthened with this vain repentance, he left the chapel with troubled eyes, still deeply stirred and heedless of the people who obstructed the way.

Outside in the room where the bull-fighters were waiting, a shaven-faced man, dressed in a black habit which he seemed to wear with a certain slovenliness, greeted him.

"Bad sign!" murmured the bull-fighter, continuing on his way. "When I say that something is going to happen to-day--"

The black-robed man was the chaplain of the plaza, an enthusiast in the art of bull-fighting, who had come with the Holy Oils beneath his habit.

He was accompanied by a neighbor who served him as sacristan in exchange for a seat to see the bull-fight. On bull-fight days he hired a carriage, which the management paid for, and he chose by turns among his friends and _proteges_ one on whom to confer the favor of the seat destined for the sacristan, beside his own in the front row near the doors of the bull-pen.

The priest entered the chapel with a proprietary air, scandalized at the behavior of the congregation; all had their hats off, but were talking in a loud voice and some were even smoking.

"Gentlemen, this is not a _cafe_. Be so kind as to go out. The bull-fight is going to begin."

This news caused a dispersion, while the priest took out the hidden Holy Oils and placed them in a box of painted wood. Then he too, as soon as he had secreted the sacred articles, ran out to take his place in the plaza before the appearance of the _cuadrilla_.

The crowd had disappeared. No one was to be seen in the enclosure but men dressed in silk and embroidery, yellow hors.e.m.e.n with great beaver hats, guards on horseback, and the a.s.sistants in their suits of gold and blue.

The bull-fighters formed with customary promptness before the horses'

gate beneath an arch that gave exit to the plaza, the _maestros_ at the front, then the _banderilleros_ keeping far apart, and behind them, in the enclosure itself, stamped the st.u.r.dy rough squadron of the _picadores_, smelling of burnt hide and dung, mounted on skeleton-like horses with one eye bandaged. As rearguard of this army the teams of mules intended for dragging out the slaughtered bulls fretted behind them; they were restless, vigorous animals with shining coats, covered with trappings of ta.s.sels and bells, and wore on their collars the waving national flag.

Beyond the arch, above the wooden gates which half obstructed it, opened a narrow s.p.a.ce, leaving visible a portion of the sky, the tiled roof of the plaza, and a section of seats with the compact mult.i.tude swarming like ants, amid which fans and papers seemed to flutter like gayly colored mosquitoes. Through this gallery entered a strong breeze--the respiration of an immense lung. An harmonious humming was borne on the undulations of the air, making certain distant music felt, rather divined than heard.

About the archway peeped heads, many heads; those of the spectators on the nearby benches were thrust forward, curious to see the heroes without delay.

Gallardo arranged himself in line with the other bull-fighters, who exchanged among themselves grave inclinations of the head. They did not speak; they did not smile. Each one thought of himself, letting his imagination fly far away; or he thought of nothing, lost in that intellectual void produced by emotion. They occupied themselves with a ceaseless arranging of the cape, throwing it loosely over the shoulder, rolling its ends about the waist, and trying to make their legs, encased in silk and gold, show agile and brave under this gorgeous funnel. Every face was pale, not with a deathly pallor, but brilliant and livid, with the sweaty gloss of emotion. They thought of the arena, still unseen, experiencing that irresistible terror of events that take place on the other side of a wall, that fear of the hidden, the unknown danger that makes itself felt though invisible. How would the afternoon end?

Behind the _cuadrillas_ sounded the trotting of the horses that entered through the outer arcades of the plaza. They bore the constables with their long black cloaks and bell-shaped hats decorated with red and yellow feathers. They had just cleared the ring, emptying it of the curious, and they came to put themselves at the head of the _cuadrillas_, serving them as advance guards.

The doors of the archway and those of the barrier wall opposite opened wide. The great ring appeared, the real plaza, the circular s.p.a.ce of sand where the tragedy of the afternoon was to be enacted for the excitement and entertainment of fourteen thousand souls. The harmonious and confused buzzing increased, developing into gay and bizarre music, a triumphal march of sounding bra.s.s that caused arms to swing martially and hips to swagger. Forward, ye brave!

And the bull-fighters, winking at the violent transition, pa.s.sed from the shadow to the light, from the silence of the quiet gallery to the roar of the ring on whose surrounding seats surged the crowd in waves of curiosity, rising to their feet to see to better advantage.

The _toreros_ advanced, seeming suddenly to diminish in size in comparison to the length of the perspective as they trod the arena. They resembled brilliant little puppets, whose embroideries caught rainbow reflections from the sun. Their graceful movements fired the people with an enthusiasm like to that of the child in the presence of a wonderful toy. The mad gust that stirred the crowds, causing their nerves to tingle and their flesh to creep, they knew not why, moved the whole plaza.

The people applauded, the more enthusiastic and nervous yelled, the music rumbled and, in the midst of this outburst which spread in every direction, from the door of the exit to the president's box, the _cuadrillas_ advanced with solemn pace, the graceful movements of arms and bodies compensating for the shortness of step. In the ring of blue ether overhanging above the plaza white doves were winging as if frightened by the roar that escaped from this crater of brick.

The athletes felt themselves different men as they advanced across the arena. They exposed their lives for something more than money. Their uncertainty and terror in the presence of the unknown were left behind those barriers; now they were before the public; they faced reality. And the thirst for glory in their barbarous and simple souls, the desire to outstrip their comrades, their pride of strength and skill, blinded them, made them forget fear and filled them with a brutal courage.

Gallardo had become transfigured. He walked erect, aspiring to be taller; he moved with the arrogance of a conqueror. He gazed in all directions with a triumphant air, as though his two companions did not exist. Everything was his; the plaza and the public. He felt himself capable of killing every bull that roamed the pastures of Andalusia and Castile. All the applause was for him, he was sure of it. The thousands of feminine eyes shaded by white _mantillas_ in boxes and benches, dwelt only on his person. He had no doubt of it. The public adored him and, as he advanced, smiling flippantly, as though the entire ovation were directed to his person, he looked along the rows of seats on the rising tiers knowing where the greater number of his partisans were grouped and seeming to ignore those sections where his rivals' friends were a.s.sembled.

They saluted the president, cap in hand, and the brilliant defile broke up, lackeys and hors.e.m.e.n scattering about the arena. Then, while a guard caught in his hat the key thrown by the president, Gallardo turned toward the rows of seats where sat his greatest admirers and handed them his glittering cape to keep for him. The handsome garment, grasped by many hands, was spread over the wall as though it were a banner, a sacred symbol of loyalty.

The most enthusiastic partisans stood waving hands and canes, greeting the _matador_ with shouts manifesting their expectations. "Let the boy from Seville show what he can do!"

And he, leaning against the barrier, smiling, sure of his strength, answered, "Many thanks. What can be done will be done."

Not only were his admirers hopeful of him, but all the people fixed their attention upon him in a state of great excitement. He was a bull-fighter who seemed likely to meet with a catastrophe some day, and the sort of catastrophe which called for a bed in the hospital.

Every one believed he was destined to die in the plaza as the result of a horn-stab, and this very belief caused them to applaud him with homicidal enthusiasm, with barbaric interest like that of the misanthrope who follows an animal tamer from place to place, expecting every moment to see him devoured by his wild beasts.

Gallardo laughed at the old professors of tauromachy who consider a mishap impossible as long as the bull-fighter sticks to the rules of the art. Rules! He knew them not and did not trouble himself to learn them.

Valor and audacity were all that were necessary to win. And, almost blindly, without other guide than his temerity, or other support than that of his physical faculties, he had risen rapidly, astonishing the public into paroxysms, stupefying it with wonder by his mad daring.

He had not climbed up, step by step, as had other _matadores_, serving long years first as _peon_ and _banderillero_ at the side of the _maestros_. He had never known fear of a bull's horns. "Hunger stabs worse." He had risen suddenly and the public had seen him begin as _espada_, achieving immense popularity in a few years.

They admired him for the reason that they held his misfortune a certainty. He fired the public with devilish enthusiasm for the blind way in which he defied Death. They gave him the same attention and care that they would give a criminal preparing for eternity. This bull-fighter was not one of those who held power in reserve; he gave everything, his life included. It was worth the money it cost. And the mult.i.tude, with the b.e.s.t.i.a.lity of those who witness danger from a point of safety, admired and urged the hero on. The prudent made wry faces at his deeds; they thought him a predestined suicide, shielded by luck, and murmured, "While he lasts!"

Drums and trumpets sounded and the first bull entered. Gallardo, with his plain working-cape over one arm, remained near the barrier close to the ranks of his partisans, in disdainful immobility, believing that the whole plaza had their eyes glued on him. That bull was for some one else. He would show signs of existence when his arrived. But the applause for the skilful cape-work of his companions brought him out of his quiet, and in spite of his intention he went at the bull, achieving several feats due more to audacity than to skill. The whole plaza applauded him, moved by predisposition in his favor because of his daring.

When Fuentes killed the first bull and walked toward the president's box, bowing to the mult.i.tude, Gallardo turned paler, as though all show of favor that was not for him was equivalent to ignominious oblivion.

Now his turn was coming; great things were going to be seen. He did not know for a certainty what they might be but he was going to astound the public.

Scarcely had the second bull appeared when Gallardo, by his activity and his desire to shine, seemed to fill the whole plaza. His cape was ever near the bull's nose. A picador of his cuadrilla, the one called Potaje, was thrown from his horse and lay unprotected near the horns, but the maestro, grabbing the beast's tail, pulled with herculean strength and made him turn till the horseman was safe. The public applauded, wild with enthusiasm.