相思夢裏

As he came out again into the courtyard, where the selection of horses was still in progress, Gallardo saw a tall spare man, with olive complexion, dressed as a torero, leave the group and come towards him. Tufts of iron-grey hair appeared from beneath his black felt hat, and his mouth was surrounded by many wrinkles.

"Pescadero! How are you?" said Gallardo, clasping his hand with sincere warmth.

He was an old espada, who had had his youthful days of triumph, but very few now even remembered his name. Other matadors coming after him had eclipsed this fleeting reputation, so Pescadero, after fighting in America, and sustaining several cogidas, had retired with a little capital of savings. Gallardo knew that he owned a small tavern in the neighbourhood of the circus, but too far off for him to have many customers among the aficionados and toreros.

"I cannot often come to the corridas," said Pescadero, sadly. "Still, you see, the sport draws me, and I drop in as a neighbour to see these things. Now-a-days I am nothing but a tavern-keeper I married my wife and our first child was born.."

Gallardo looked at his shabby appearance, and remembered the brilliant Pescadero he had known in his childhood, one of his most admired heroes, gallant and proud, favoured by women, among the smartest in La Campana whenever he came to Seville, dressed in his velvet hat, his wine coloured jacket and brightly coloured sash, leaning on an ivory stick with gold handle. And so would he also be; shabby and forgotten if he retired from bull-fighting!

appertaining to the art. El Pescadero, like all elderly men embittered by bad luck, was pessimistic. There were very few good[Pg 316] toreros, there were no longer men of "corazon."[106] Only Gallardo and one or two others killed bulls "truly," even the animals seemed less powerful than formerly. As he had met the matador he insisted on his going with him to his house, indeed as an old friend he could do no less. So Gallardo turned with him into one of the small streets surrounding the Plaza, and entered the tavern, which was much like any other, its fa?ade painted red, windows with curtains of the same colour, a larger show window, in which were displayed, on dusty plates, cooked cutlets, fried birds, bottles of pickles, and inside, a zinc counter, barrels and bottles, round tables with wooden stools by them, and several coloured prints representing celebrated toreros or remarkable episodes in corridas.