MONTI THE MATADOR.
(Originally intended for the F-rtn-ghtly R-v-w.)
"Yes, I'm better, and the Doctor tells me I've escaped once more. That Doctor hates you—I know it. He has saved me—to tell you the story—The story I have been trying to tell to some one for thirty years."
I was talking to Old MONTI, whose full name was MONTI DI PIETA—as a pledge of his respectability. He was a descendant of the Pornbrocheros del Treballos d'Oro. He was subsequently called Monkey—as a tribute to his character.
"I should like you to tell me," I said, "for you must know that for years I have seen the snows on the Lagartigo, and the moonlight on the—"
"Stop!" he cried—"you are going to begin padding. That will do for a magazine, not for me!" and he snapped his fingers at me.
But I was not to be put off. He was weak—a cripple—and I gave him the choice of listening to a personally-conducted tour in the South of Spain, or relating his adventures.
"I will have my revenge!" he muttered. "You shall hear my life from the beginning. You must know, then, that sixty years ago I was born, and—"
"Yes," I returned, interrupting him—"of poor parents. Your father was coarse, your mother pious. You learned all you could about bulls, which you kept from your father, and you were ultimately engaged as a bull-fighter—"
"Stop, stop!" he cried. "If you cut out about a dozen pages of my biography, at least let me explain how I saved my father. You must know—"
"I will do it for you in a line," I said, sharply. "Your father lost his temper, and tried bullying the bull (no joke), and you winked at the animal. He knew you, and stood still. The bull went for your father—you for the bull. Drive on!"
"Let me tell you then, how I prepared myself for the Ring by practising on a dummy bull.—I had no difficulty in sticking pins into it—it was quite calm. Then I tried the same game on a sheep, and got knocked down for my pains! One of my monkey tricks! Then I got acquainted with some Irish bulls, and letting them off on my friends got several thumps on the head."
"No," I interrupted him sternly, "get on with your story."
"Well, at length I met JUAN at the beginning of May."
"Make it first of April," I said, severely.
"He was the Toreador out of Carmen, to put it shortly," he continued, not deigning to notice my interruption—"and he introduced me to the bull-fight. Of course I had to pay my footing (a very uncertain one) in duros, or hard cash. Then every morning I ate a chuto (a sort of small cabbage) at my dinner—then they tried me as a capa, to test (so they said) my capability. The chief patron was the Duke of MEDICINA, who in early youth had been a doctor—hence his title—and I shall never forget his first greeting."
"Your story!" I interrupted, sternly, finding that the old man was once more becoming tedious.
"I returned," replied the dotard, with a senile chuckle, "that he was wrong. His answer was beyond my meaning—he muttered something about 'mutton and capa sauce.' I was engaged," continued the dotard, with a feeble grin, "as a capa for seventy years certain, with an annual benefit once in four years, with a salary of forty-two thousand a year—which in those days seemed to me to be a small fortune."
"They are wretchedly paid in Spain," I observed.
"They are," he acquiesced. "I was paid a week in advance, and have lived upon the proceeds ever since. And now my life was indeed a merry one. I was free of the Ring. Now I played the cornet in the Brassos Banderillos, and my performance pleased the aficionados (or advertising agents) so well, that my name was known throughout the Peninsula."
"Well," once more I interrupted, "I suppose you met a Spanish beauty, fell in love with her, and was cut out by a party of the name of JUAN?"
"However do you think of such clever things?" asked the old man, in a tone of extreme astonishment. "But you are right. I placed CLEMENCIA one day in the pal co (or part reserved for friends), and the bull tossed me. Ah, she trampled upon me—treated me like a mat. But I loved her and adored myself. Hence I was called a 'Mat-Adorer.' I repeat, the bull tossed me, and I did not come down heads."
"Go on."
"I was ill, and neglected, but soon recovered sufficiently to kill sixty-six bulls in succession."
"Surely you are exaggerating?"
"You are perfectly right," he answered, with a blush. "I killed sixty-five—the sixty-sixth was only mortally wounded. And now the people made an idol of me. I was absolutely worshipped"—
"Come to the point," I said, in a tone that showed I was not to be trifled with.
"No that was the fate of JUAN. At the end of a game of toros (which is Spanish for marbles) he said to me (in excellent Spanish), 'MONTI, me bhoy, philaloo! ye will shtay by me?' 'That will I—as shure as me name is TIM—I should say MONTI,' I responded, in choice Castilian. The bull came up, I looked him in the eye, raised my shillalo (a short Spanish club), and, crying 'Whist!' he cut for partners. JUAN was cut a deal."
"That bull was a ripper," I murmured.
"Bedad he was that, Sorr," returned the dotard, whose Spanish became more and more Castilian every moment. "CLEMENICA died the next morning. But I am remorseful—that I did not kill her myself. And now I have had my revenge! I have told ye the story! I know you—your name's H-A-R-"—
He gave a gasp and died.
But I too had my revenge. I sent the tale I had just heard to the F-rtn-ghtly R-v-w.
M.F.H.
NOTICE.—Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.