By the side of a door hung a pair of old pistols, and I had a pleasant fancy that they were the weapons he had used when in the most celebrated of his many duels, for the sake of Pepa Montanez the dancer (now, I suppose, a toothless and raddled hag) he had killed the Duke of Dos Hermanos.
The scene, with its associations which I vaguely divined, so aptly fitted the romantic poet that I was overcome by the spirit of the place.
Its noble indigence surrounded him with a glory as great as the magnificence of his youth; in him too there was the spirit of the old conquistadores and it was becoming that he should finish his famous life in that ruined and magnificent house.
Thus surely should a poet live and die.
I had arrived cool enough and even somewhat bored at the prospect of my meeting, but now I began to grow a trifle nervous.
I lit a cigarette.
I had come at the time appointed and wondered what detained the old man.
The silence was strangely disturbing.
Ghosts of the past thronged the silent patio and an age dead and gone gained a sort of shadowy life for me.
The men of that day had a passion and a wildness of spirit that are gone out of the world for ever.
We are no longer capable of their reckless deeds or their theatrical heroics.
I heard a sound and my heart beat quickly.
I was excited now and when at last I saw him coming slowly down the stairs I caught my breath.
He held my card in his hand.
He was a tall old man and exceedingly thin, with a skin the colour of old ivory; his hair was abundant and white, but his bushy eyebrows were dark still; they made his great eyes flash with a more sombre fire.
It was wonderful that at his age those black eyes should still preserve their brilliance.
His nose was aquiline, his mouth close set.
His unsmiling eyes rested on me as he approached and there was in them a look of cool appraisal.
He was dressed in black and in one hand held a broad-brimmed hat.
There was in his bearing assurance and dignity.
He was as I should have wished him to be and as I watched him I understood how he had swayed men’s minds and touched their hearts.
He was every inch a poet.
He reached the patio and came slowly towards me.
He had really the eyes of an eagle.
It seemed to me a tremendous moment, for there he stood, the heir of the great old Spanish poets, the magnificent Herrera, the nostalgic and moving Fray Luis, Juan de la Cruz, the mystic, and the crabbed and obscure Gongora.
He was the last of that long line and he trod in their steps not unworthily.
Strangely in my heart sang the lovely and tender song which is the most famous of Don Calisto’s lyrics.
I was abashed.
It was fortunate for me that I had prepared beforehand the phrase with which I meant to greet him.
“It is a wonderful honour, Maestro, for a foreigner such as I to make the acquaintance of so great a poet.”
A flicker of amusement passed through those piercing eyes and a smile for an instant curved the lines of that stern mouth.
“I am not a poet, senor, but a bristle merchant.
You have made a mistake, Don Calisto lives next door.”
I had come to the wrong house.