Blood and Sand. Vicente Blasco Ibanez
in a delicate handwriting which made the torero's eyes brighten, and it ended "Your friend, Sol," all in a coldly friendly style, writing to him as "Usté"[21] with an amiable tone of superiority, as though the words were not between equals, but fell in mercy from on high.
As the torero looked at the letter, with the adoration of a man of the people little versed in reading, he could not suppress a certain feeling of annoyance, as though he felt himself despised.
"That gachí!" he murmured, "What a woman! No one can discompose her! See how she writes to me as 'Usté!' 'Usté'—to me!"
But pleasant memories made him smile with self-satisfaction. That cold style was for letters only—the ways of a great lady—the precautions of a woman of the world. His annoyance soon turned to admiration.
"How clever she is! A cautious minx!"
He smiled a smile of professional satisfaction, the pride of a tamer who enhances his own glory by exaggerating the strength of the wild beast he has overcome.
While Gallardo was admiring his letter, his servant Garabato passed in and out of the room, laden with clothes and boxes which he spread on a bed.
He was very quiet in his movements, very deft of hand, and seemed to take no notice of the matador's presence.
For many years past he had accompanied the diestro to all his bull-fights as "Sword carrier."[22] He had begun bull-fighting at the "Capeas"[23] at the same time as Gallardo, but all the bad luck had been for him and all the advancement and fame for his companion.
He was dark, swarthy, and of poor muscular development, and a jagged, badly joined scar crossed his wrinkled, flabby, old-looking face like a white scrawl. It was a goring he had received in the Plaza of some town he had visited and which had nearly been his death, and besides this terrible wound, there were others which disfigured parts of his body which could not be seen.
By a miracle he had emerged with his life from his passion for bull-fighting, and the cruel part of it was that people used to laugh at his misfortunes, and seemed to take a pleasure in seeing him trampled and mangled by the bulls.
Finally his pig-headed obstinacy yielded to misfortune and he decided to become the attendant and confidential servant of his old friend. He was Gallardo's most fervent admirer, though he sometimes took advantage of this confidential intimacy to allow himself to criticise and advise. "Had he stood in his master's skin he would have done better under certain circumstances."
Gallardo's friends found the wrecked ambitions of the sword carrier an unfailing source of merriment, but he took no notice of their jokes. Give up bulls? Never!! So that all memory of the past should not be effaced, he combed his coarse hair in curls above his ears, and preserved on his occiput the long, sacred lock, the pig-tail of his younger days, the hall-mark of the profession which distinguished him from other mortals.
When Gallardo was angry with him, his noisy, impulsive rage always threatened this capillary appendage. "You dare to wear a pig-tail, shameless dolt? I'll cut off that rat's tail for you! Confounded idiot! Maleta!!"[24]
Garabato received these threats resignedly, but he revenged himself by retiring into the silence of a superior being, and only replying by a shrug of his shoulders to the exultation of his master when, on returning from a bull-fight, after a lucky afternoon, Gallardo exclaimed with almost childish vanity, "What did you think of it? Really, wasn't I splendid?"
In consequence of their early comradeship he always retained the privilege of addressing his master as "tu." He could not speak otherwise to the "maestro,"[25] but the "tu" was accompanied by a grave face, and an expression of genuine respect. His familiarity was something akin to that of their squires towards the knights errant of olden days!
From his neck to the top of his head he was a torero, but the rest of his person seemed half tailor, half valet. Dressed in a suit of English cloth—a present from his master, he had the lapels of his coat covered with pins and safety-pins, while several threaded needles were fastened into one of his sleeves. His dark withered hands manipulated and arranged things with the gentleness of a woman.
When everything that was necessary for his master's toilet had been placed upon the bed, he passed the numerous articles in review to ensure that nothing was wanting anywhere.
After a time he came and stood in the middle of the room, without looking at Gallardo, and, as if he were speaking to himself, said in a hoarse and rasping voice,
"Two o'clock!"
Gallardo raised his head nervously, as if up to now he had not noticed his servant's presence. He put the letter into his pocket-book, and then walked lazily to the end of the room, as though he wished to postpone the dressing time.
"Is everything there?"
Suddenly his pale face became flushed and violently distorted and his eyes opened unnaturally wide, as if he had just experienced some awful, unexpected shock.
"What clothes have you put out?"
Garabato pointed to the bed, but before he could speak, his master's wrath fell on him, loud and terrible.
"Curse you! Don't you know anything about the profession? Have you just come from the cornfields?—Corrida in Madrid—bulls from Muira—and you put me out red clothes like those poor Manuel, El Espartero, wore! You are so idiotic that one would think you were my enemy! It would seem that you wished for my death, you villain!"
The more he thought of the enormity of this carelessness, which was equivalent to courting disaster, the more his anger increased—To fight in Madrid in red clothes, after what had happened! His eyes sparkled with rage, as if he had just received some treacherous attack, the whites of his eyes became bloodshot and he seemed ready to fall on the unfortunate Garabato with his big rough hands.
A discreet knock at the door cut the scene short—"Come in."
A young man entered, dressed in a light suit with a red cravat, carrying his Cordovan felt hat in a hand covered with large diamond rings. Gallardo recognised him at once with the facility for remembering faces acquired by those who live constantly rubbing shoulders with the crowd. His anger was instantly transformed to a smiling amiability, as if the visit was a pleasant surprise to him.
It was a friend from Bilbao, an enthusiastic aficionado, a warm partisan of his triumphs. That was all he could remember about him. His name? He knew so many people! What did he call himself?—All he knew was that most certainly he ought to call him "tu," as this was an old acquaintanceship.
"Sit down—This is a surprise! When did you arrive? Are you and yours quite well?"
His admirer sat down, with the contentment of a devotee who enters the sanctuary of his idol, with no intention of moving from it till the very last moment, delighted at being addressed as "tu" by the master, and calling him "Juan" at every other word, so that the furniture, walls, or anyone passing along the passage outside should be aware of his intimacy with the great man. 'He had arrived that morning and was returning on the following day. The journey was solely to see Gallardo. He had read of his exploits. The season seemed opening well. This afternoon would be a good one. He had been in the boxing enclosure[26] in the morning and had noticed an almost black animal which assuredly would give great sport in Gallardo's hands——'
The master hurriedly cut short the habitué's prophesies.
"Pardon me—Pray excuse me. I will return at once."
Leaving the room, he went towards an unnumbered door at the end of the passage.
"What clothes shall I put out?" enquired