LUIS MIGUEL DOMINGUIN, Spain's best bullfighter, came last week to conquer Mexico. As he appeared in the door of his plane, Dominguin gave the airport crowd a small, arrogant smile and a regal wave. Two burly bodyguards closed in beside him and a motorcycle escort whisked him off to his hotel.

No love is lost between Mexican and Spanish bullfighters; in fact, for several years before 1950 no Spanish matador was allowed in a Mexican bull ring. This was Dominguin's first professional appearance in Mexico, and his father-manager was anxious about his famous son's reception.

In his three-room hotel suite, Dominguin held court. He lounged on the bed in a black and cream silk dressing gown, chain-smoking black Mexican cigarettes and gracefully flicking the ashes to the floor. Behind him the phone jangled incessantly. ("Tell her I'm out," he would say, "and will be back in an hour.") Around him swirled admirers, newspapermen, photographers, bullfighters and favor-seekers, helping themselves to the free Scotch and brandy, and filling the room with smoke and babble. His three personal servants bustled to unpack 15 leather bags, containing 17 suits and a tailcoat, a small treasure in jewelry, seven gold-embroidered bullfight costumes, and a batch of books which included Shakespeare (in Spanish) and Cervantes.

Dominguin shooed his guests away; he wanted to talk business with his father and brother. The talk was in big figures. For each of his four fights in the Plaza Mexico he has been guaranteed $13,300, plus gate percentages that will bring the take up to about $22,800 for each fight. In his twelve years in the bull ring he has made a little under $2,000,000, and he has salted a lot of it away--some of it in Spanish hunting lodges and preserves, some in Colombian and Brazilian coffee investments, some in the National City Bank of New York.

Later, Luis Miguel yawned. He was tired and he wished people would go home, even if it was his birthday. He was 27 years old that day.

NEXT morning Dominguin was up soon after 8, to drink his coffee and read the newspaper accounts of his arrival. Then, though he hates exercise, he went out for some roadwork, to get used to the altitude. After that, he was driven to the Plaza Mexico, the world's biggest bullfight arena, which he had never seen. He stamped over the sand, looking for pitfalls, and paced off the distance from the center of the ring to the barrier. Then he went to look at the bulls, the biggest and best Mexico could provide. Someone asked him how he liked the looks of them. "I never like a bull," he answered. "The enemy is never pretty." He has been gored several times, twice seriously.

On the morning of his first fight, Luis Miguel lay late in bed, eating nothing, drinking black coffee laced with cognac. At 2 o'clock his servants began the elaborate ritual of dressing him. At 4 o'clock he stood in the sunlit arena, facing a capacity crowd of 50,000 and a patter of unenthusiastic applause. Dominguin looked coolly at the crowd, and crossed himself. The gates opened and the first bull charged in.

Within 30 seconds Dominguin tore the first ole! from the packed stands. He maneuvered the bull over to the cheaper seats on the sunny side of the ring where the skeptical and hard-to-please bleacherites sit, and gave them a spectacular series of passes with his left hand, turning the bull in a tight circle and breaking off with a snap that left the animal dazed and dominated. In a roar of oles he turned his back on the bull and walked slowly away, his face a picture of arrogance.

With his second bull he showed the audience something more.

This time he met the first charge kneeling, in the dead center of the ring. As the bull came, he swung his cape in a wide arc, making the bull hurtle past him through the air. He ended one series of passes by tossing aside his cape and kneeling with his back to the bull, which stood transfixed. Sombreros began to rain into the ring. "Torero!" yelled the fans, "torero, torero, torero!" He was awarded both ears of his second bull, and walked twice around the ring as a blizzard of waving white handkerchiefs broke over the whole arena. Said one oldtimer. "The most extraordinary bullfight in Mexico." "I've never seen anything like it," said another.

Luis MIGUEL DOMINGUIN'S long, sensitive hands have killed more than 2,000 bulls. They first held the cape when he was only five years old, playing with young heifers on the ranch of his father, who was once a bullfighter himself, though not a first-rank one. By the time he was 20, Luis Miguel was second only to the great Manolete.

The two were fighting in the same corrida at Linares on the afternoon of Aug. 28, 1946 when Manolete was fatally gored, and some said that Manolete was killed because he was trying to equal Dominguin's performance. Feeling rose high against Dominguin; he was even labeled a murderer, and a menacing crowd awaited his next appearance at the Barcelona ring. The police advised him to leave town, saying they could not be responsible for his safety. But 15 minutes before the fight, Luis Miguel drove up to the ring. He got out of his car some distance from the gate, meticulously adjusted his embroidered cape upon his shoulder and his montera on his forehead, and strode alone toward the mob. The angry crowd fell silent and opened respectfully before him. That afternoon he put on such a show that he was carried back to his hotel on the shoulders of his fans. Bullfighting had a new king.

Dominguin believes that bullfighting is neither a sport nor a business, but an art. He despises most of his fellow bullfighters, whom he regards as "commercial." Consequently, he is unpopular with them. He thinks of himself as a purist, an upholder of the classical style, as opposed to the current fashion which measures a bullfighter by bravery alone.

He has a narrow, pale, somewhat dead face, which is not. however, insensitive. Standing or sitting, he holds himself watchfully, easily erect, with great dignity, conscious of who he is. He is well educated, by the standards of his profession, and an avid reader.

WHEN he is not on tour he divides his time between the family house in Madrid and his parents' ranch, "La Companza," an hour's drive from the city. Luis Miguel is at his best during the private bullfighting parties he gives there, using a miniature ring that stands outside the house. After the fight, his mother, Dona Gracia, serves a large meal cooked by herself. The party progresses to flamenco singing and dancing. Luis Miguel, in his blue jeans, plaid shirt and moccasins, sits on the floor and keeps time by clapping his hands. Among the guests may be two or three dukes, a marchioness or a count, Franco's daughter and son-in-law, diplomats, rich Americans, dwarfs, movie stars, farm hands and aspiring bullfighters.

In Madrid, Dominguin is most likely to be found of an evening at Lhardy's--an early igth century saloon near the old Puerta del Sol. Here, amid a collection of poets, newsmen, critics, painters, sculptors and bullfight purists, Luis Miguel holds court. From Lhardy's, the court is likely to move to a restaurant for dinner, then to a nightclub to sit until dawn, serious and silent, sipping Scotch & soda and watching the floor show fade. From time to time someone will say something sardonic and there will be quick smiles of agreement. It is like watching a doomed prince and his courtiers.

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