This was our last visit to the dear studio in the Pasaje del Alhambra, where for six months J. had worked, where we had all been so happy together. Our stay in Madrid was drawing to a close; we counted the hours now as misers count gold.
“The picture the Czar bought is of the same subject as this,” said J., pointing to The Death of the Matador.
The wounded matador lies on a litter in the chapel of the bull-ring. An old priest stands at his head, reading the prayers for the dying. A group of gorgeously dressed bull-fighters stand about him, their eyes fixed on their comrade’s pale face. At the back of the picture an opening in the wall gives a glimpse of the crowded arena, where the spectators are watching the great game of death, unconscious that a few feet away one of the heroes of the corrida is dying, gored to death by the last bull.
While I was looking for the last time at the picture, Don Jaime came into the studio with a stranger, an immense man, deep in the chest, broad in the shoulders, small in the hips. His head was scarred, so were both his hands. He wore his hair brushed down on his forehead. At the first glance he looked like a priest, at the second like a prize fighter.
“Jaime has kept his word,” whispered J., “that is—the most famous matador in the world.”
“That is something I have seen more than once,” said the matador, looking at the picture. “In my time there was a mass before every corrida, when the priests carried the oils of the extreme unction in procession. I stopped that; it took the heart out of a man.”
The matador came nearer the picture, studied it carefully, taking now the attitude of one figure, now of another. “Muy bien!” he said, nodding his great head in approval.
“You cannot know,” said the Argentino to me, “how good that picture is. No one who is not familiar with the ways of torreros can know. See the one who crosses himself, and bends his knee—it is exactly their manner. See the civil guard in the corner explaining to the other how the accident happened—look at his hand, it tells the story.”
“How many bulls have you killed?” asked Patsy of the matador.
“In twenty-five years I killed three thousand five hundred bulls.”