There appeared one evening among the "friends of the house" a young man of twenty, of singularly attractive appearance and personality. Clear-eyed, of lithe yet muscular frame, and a spring-like quickness in every movement, he was noticeable above all for his modest deportment, having barely a touch of that arrogant self-esteem that is so frequently the dominating characteristic of the Spaniard. His speech was the soft, musical Andalusian; his conversation quickly demonstrated him a man of a high rate of intelligence.
Such was Faustino Posadas, bullfighter, already a favorite among the aficionados of Spain, though it is by no means often that a youth of twenty finds himself vested with the red muleta. Son of the spare-limbed old herder who has been keeper for many years of the Tabladas, or bull pastures, of Seville, he had been familiar with the animals and their ways from early childhood. At sixteen he was already a banderillero. A famous espada carried him in his caudrilla to Peru and an accident to a fellow torero gave him the opportunity to despatch his first two bulls in the plaza of Lima. He returned to Spain a full-fledged "novillero" and was rapidly advancing to the rank of graduate espada, with the right to appear before bulls of any age.
Once introduced, Posadas appeared often in the calle San Bernardo; much too often in fact to leave any suspicion that either his friendship for "Don Ricardo" or the charms of our conversation was the chief cause of his coming. A very few days passed before it had become a fixed and accepted custom for him to set out toward nine for the Paseo with the radiant daughter of the house--though mother waddled between, of course, after the dictates of Spanish etiquette. Within a week he was received by the family on the footing of a declared suitor; and of his favor with the señorita there was no room for doubt.
There was always a long hour between the termination of supper and the time when Madrid began its nightly promenade, during which it was natural that our conversation should touch chiefly upon affairs of the ring.
"Don Henrico," asked Capita one evening--for I was known to the company as "Henrico Franco"--"is it true that there are no bullfights in your country?"
"Vaya que gente!" burst out Moreno, when I had at length succeeded in making clear to them our national objections to the sport. "What rubbish! What does it matter if a few old hacks that would soon fall dead of themselves are killed to make sport for the aficionados? As for the bull-- Carajo, hombre! You yourself, if you were in such a rage as the toro, would no more feel the thrust of a sword than the pricking of a gadfly."
Posadas, on the other hand, readily grasped the American point of view. He even admitted that he found the goring of the horses unpleasant and that he would gladly see that feature of the córrida eliminated if there were any other way of tiring the bull before the last act. But for the bull himself he professed no sympathy whatever.
"What would you have us do?" he cried in conclusion. "Spain offers nothing else for a son of the people without political pull than to become torero. Without that we must work as peasants on black bread and a peseta a day."
"As in any other trade," I inquired, "I suppose you enter the ring without any thought of danger, any feeling of fear?"
"No, I don't remember ever being afraid," laughed the Sevillian, "though when Miúra furnishes the stock I like to hear mass before the córrida."