A MEXICAN BULL-FIGHT.
Mexicans are always mauana until it comes to bull-fights and love
affairs. To know a Mexican in daily life is to witness his courtesy,
his politeness, gentleness; and then see him at a bull-fight, and he
is hardly recognizable. He is literally transformed. His gentleness
and "mauana" have disappeared; his eyes flash, his cheeks flush--in
fact, he is the picture of "diabolic animation." It is all "hoy" to-day
with him. Even the Spanish lady of ease and high heels forgets her
mannerisms and appears like some painted heathen jubilant over the
roasting of a zealous missionary.
There have been some very good bull-fights lately in the suburbs, for
fighting is prohibited within a certain distance of the city. When they
say a good bull-fight, it means that the bulls have been ferocious and
many horses and men have been killed.
It is safe to say that the majority of Americans who visit Mexico do
like the natives, even on the first Sunday; attend divine service in
the morning, a bull-fight in the afternoon and theater in the evening.
But it is with regret that I say that many Americans who are residents
of the city now are as passionately fond of the national inhuman sport
as a native who has been reared up to it. Some never miss a fight, and
their American voice outstrips the Mexican in the shouts of "bravo"
at the bloody thrusts. Yet there are tourists who cannot outsit one
performance, and have no desire to attend a second. While we Americans
cry "brutal" against the national amusement, they in return cry
"brutal" to our prize-fights, in which they see nothing to admire, and
a dog-fight is beneath their contempt.
"Your humane societies would prevent bull-fights in the States," said
a Spanish gentleman; "your people would cry out against them. Yet they
have strong men trying to pound one another to death, and the people
clamor for admission to see the law kill men and women, while in health
and youth, because of some deed done in the flesh. Yes, they witness
and allow such inhuman treatment to a fellow mortal and turn around and
affect holy horror at us for taking out of the world a few old horses
and furnishing beef for the poor."
Read of glorious bull-fights and then witness one, and the scene is
entirely changed. The day of their glory has departed. When Maximilian
graced the country with his presence the fights were indeed fitted for
royal sight. The costumes were of the costliest material; the horses
were of the best blood and breed, and the bulls regular roaring Texans,
which needed no second sight of a red _capa_ to raise their feverish
ire. No fight cost less than $5,000.
Now all is different. Maximilian lies in a grave to which a treacherous
bullet consigned him; Carlotta, still what that bullet made her, a
raving lunatic and a widow. Men of low degree are permitted to grace
the fights, which are but miserable shadows, a farce of the former
royal days.
The National--a narrow gauge--and the Mexican Central, run special
trains consisting of twenty and twenty-five cars, first, second, and
third-class, to the fights every half hour. Tickets are sold during
the week, which include railroad fare, admission to grounds and seat.
Long before the time for leaving, carriages pull up to the stations
and blooming senoras, fair senoritas, handsome senors and delicate,
lovely children, dressed in the height of wealth and fashion, enter
the railway coach and proceed to make themselves comfortable for the
half hour or hour's ride which is to bring them to their destination.
Bands march up and are disposed of in the coaches, and last comes a
troop of soldiers, clad in buckskin suits, elaborately trimmed with
silver ornaments, yard wide sombreros, and armed with gun, revolver,
sword, dagger, mace, and lasso, which they have no hesitation in using
in quite a characteristic manner, asking no questions, expecting no
information, performing their duties fatally.
They are the "daisies" of Mexico, and in appreciation of which they are
sent to grace every bull fight! They are the best paid soldiers in the
Republic, receiving $1 a day, while the highest salary paid to any of
the others is twenty-five cents daily, out of which they provide their
own wearing apparel and food. The same "daisies" were all outlaws,
bandits, fierce and uncontrollable. Their many deeds, always done in
the name of the law, are fearful to relate, so the present president
thought it policy to engage their services. They ride handsome horses,
furnished by the government, and are said to be the most faithful,
reliable men in the employ of the Republic. Their only fault is killing
without asking questions, for which they go scot-free without even so
much as a rebuke. The "daisies" have some of the finest specimens of
manhood in Mexico, and number in their list some handsome, open-faced,
youthful boys. They can maintain order among 6,000 people filled with
pulque without uttering one word. Their presence is sufficient.
On speeds the train. Above the din arises the musical sound of a
strange language. A view from the window exhibits some of Mexico's most
beautiful scenery. Now we pass beautiful farms, magnificent artificial
lakes covered with wild duck, which would delight the heart of our
American hunters, as they arise in dark clouds on the approach of the
train, and move off to a more secluded spot; beautiful fields of grain,
and acres and acres of pulque plant, quaint huts, picturesque, historic
churches, ancient monastries and convents, now used for other purposes,
all surrounded by snow-capped mountains. For miles we keep our eyes on
the strangest and grandest mountain in Mexico, the White Lady, or the
Sleeping Virgin. It deserves chapters of description and praise, but
feeling our inability to do it justice we shall confine ourselves to a
brief remark.
Outlined against a blue sky, only such skies as are habitual to Italy
and Mexico, is a snow-topped mountain in form of a woman lying on a
straight cot; on the head is a snow band, such as worn by Sisters of
Mercy. The arms are folded peacefully on the breast, and the snow
garments fall in graceful folds over the feet. There she lies and
has lain for centuries in perfect outline and peaceful repose. Even
as we look the clouds play fantastically about the beauteous form.
Now they cover her body like a dark shroud. Again they drape her
cot like a pall, then rise in a threatening attitude above her fair
head, but undisturbed she lies there with hands ever folded above the
quiet heart, proudly indifferent to storm or shine, clad in her pure
snowy garments, truly the most beauteous sight in Mexico. With a sigh
we at last leave her behind and are rudely brought to earth by the
announcement that we have reached our destination.
The bull ring resembles somewhat a racecourse; the highest row is
covered and called boxes. They are divided into small squares, which
are meant to hold six but are crowded with four. Miserable chairs
without backs are the comfortable seats. Below is the amphitheater,
arranged exactly like circus seats. Different prices are charged and
the cheapest is the sunny side, where all the poor sit. A fence painted
in the national colors--red, green and white--of some six feet in
height, incloses the ring. Three band-stands, equal distances apart,
are filled with brilliantly uniformed musicians.
The judge is appointed by the municipality, but the fighters have a
right to refuse to fight under one judge whom they think will compel
them to take unnecessary risks with a treacherous bull, for a judge
once chosen his commands are law, and no excuse will be accepted for
not obeying, but a fine deducted from the fighter's salary, and he
loses cast with the audience. The judge is in a box in the center of
the shady side; with him is some prominent man, for every fight must be
honored with the presence of some "high-toned" individual, while behind
stands the bugler, a small boy in gay uniform, with a bugle slung to
his side, by which he conveys the judge's whispered commands to the
fighters in the ring.
Below the judge hangs a row of banderillas. They are wooden sticks
about two feet long with a barbed spear of steel in the end, which
are stuck in the bull to gore him to madness. They are always gayly
decorated with tinsel and gaudy streamers of the national colors.
Sometimes firecrackers are ingeniously inserted, which go off when the
banderilla is deftly fastened in the beast's quivering flesh.
The bands play alternately lively airs, the audience for once find no
charms in the music and forget to murmur mauana, but soon begin to cry
"El toro! El toro!" (The bull! the bull!)
The judge nods to the bugler, and as he trumpets forth the gate is
swung open and the grand entry is made. First comes "El Capitan" or
matador, chief of the ring, and the men who kill the bull with a sword.
Next eight capeadores, whose duty consists in maddening the bull and
urging it to fight by flinging gay-colored _capas_ or capes in its
face. Two picadores, who are armed with long poles, called picas, in
the end of which are sharp steel spears which they fight the bull
with. After come the lazadores, dressed in buckskin suits, elaborately
trimmed with silver ornaments and broad, expensive sombreros. They ride
fine horses, and do some very pretty work at lassoing. Three mules
abreast, with gay plumes in their heads, and a man with a monstrous
wheelbarrow of ancient make, close up the rear. All range before the
judge and make a profound bow, after which the mules and wheelbarrow
disappear.
The dresses of the fighters are very gorgeous: satin knee-breeches and
sack coat of beautiful colors, and highly ornamented, beaded, etc. On
the arm is carried the _capa,_ a satin cape, the color of the suits,
and little rough caps, tied under the chin, grace the head. At the back
of the head is fastened false hair, like a Chinaman's, familiarly known
as "pig tail." Two gayly painted clowns, who, unlike those in the
States, never have anything to say, are always necessary to complete
the company in the ring.
Again the bugle sounds, the band strikes out in all its might, the
people rise to their feet and cry "_El toro,"_ the fighters form a
semicircle around a door, el capitan draws a bolt, flings it open, and
as the bull springs forth from his dark and narrow cell a man perched
above sticks two _banderillas_ into his neck to madden him. With a
snort of rage he rushes for the _capas._ As they are flirted before his
eyes, he tramples them under his hoofs, and the _capeadores_ escape
behind the _bourladera,_ a partition six feet wide, placed in the arena
at four places equally distant.
At the trumpet sound a banderilla runs out waving the banderillas above
his head. He faces the maddened bull with a calm smile. The bull paws
the ground, lowers his head, and with a bellow of rage makes for his
victim. Your eyes are glued to the spot.
It is so silent you can hear your heart throb. There can be no possible
escape for the man. But just as you think the bull will lift him on his
horns you see the two banderillas stuck one in either side of the neck,
and the man springs safely over the lowered head and murderous horns
of the infuriated animal, as it rushes forward to find the victim has
escaped. The audience shout "bravo," and wave their serapes, sombreros
and clap their hands. The bull roars with pain, and the banderillas
toss about in the lacerated flesh, from which the blood pours in
crimson streams. "Poor beast! what a shame," we think, and even then
the order is given for the picador to attack the bull.
The horse on which the picador is mounted is bought only to be killed.
It is an old beast whose days of beauty and usefulness are over; $2 or
$4 buys him for the purpose. Sometimes he is hardly able to walk into
the ring. First the brute is blindfolded with a leather band, and a
leather apron is fastened around his neck in pretense of saving him
from being gored.
The picador guides the blinded horse to face the bull. _Capas_ are
flung before the bull tauntingly. The picador dives the pica into the
beast and it vents its pain on the horse. Blood pours from the wound;
trembling the horse stands, unable to see what has wounded it. Again,
they coax the bull to charge, and place the horse so that the murderous
horns will disembowel it. Down goes the blinded beast, and the
capeadores flaunt their _capas_ at the bull while the picadore gets off
the dying animal, which is lassoed and dragged from the ring. Another
horse is brought in, and the same work is gone over until the horse is
killed.
Every bull is allowed to kill two horses, and then the people shout
_"Muerie! muerie!"_ (Kill the bull.) The judge gives the command and
the matador bows to the judge, and then teases the bull with his red
_capa._ The laws prohibit a fighter to strike a bull until it first
charges, and the bull has the chance of three charges at the matador
before he dares to strike. The bull never appears to see the man by his
side, but furiously fights the red _capa_ held before him. _El capitan_
then plunges the sword into the neck between the shoulders and through
to the heart, if deftly done, after which the bull staggers, protrudes
its tongue, tries to find a door for escape, stumbles and dies. Again
the people shout, and the matador, as he makes his bow to the judge,
is thrown money, cigars, fruit, flowers and other favors. Men fling in
their $50 and $100 _sombreros,_ and consider it a great honor when he
picks them up and tosses them back. During all this the three mules are
brought in. At the sight of the dead bull they plunge and tear, but are
finally hitched to it. The clowns jump on the dead beast, and it is
hauled from the ring.
When the bull is tame and, though tortured on all sides, still refuses
to gore the horse, the people hiss and shout "_lazadore_," until the
judge gives the command for the brute, that is more humane than its
tormentors, to be removed and replaced by one that will sate their
feverish desire for blood. Now is the time for the _lazadores_ to
get in some pretty work. The space is small and cramped, but with a
deftness that is bewildering they throw the loop over the horns. The
knowing horse dodges, the bull loses his balance and the horse gives
a sudden jerk, throwing the bull on the ground. He is then allowed
to arise and is started around the ring at a merry gallop, while the
second _lazadore_ exhibits great skill in lassoing the feet, front and
back, of the running beast.
The bull, after being thrown, realizes he is at their mercy, and lies
passive or trembling with fear and pain, while the brutal clowns
spring astride the prostrated beast, and with no gentle hand tear the
banderillas from the quivering flesh, which, still warm and dripping
with blood, are sold as trophies at one and two dollars each. Then the
butcher steps forth and with a sharp knife cuts the spinal cord, and
the beast is done for. When a bull refuses to fight before he is cut,
except for wounds from the pica and banderillas, the people cry in
Spanish, "He is a weak woman," until the judge orders his removal. It
is difficult work, and affords much fun for the Mexicans, for the bull
must be forced back into the dark cell whence he came.
One fight consists of four bulls and as many old horses as they can be
compelled to kill. A bull is not considered much unless he can kill,
at the very least, two horses. The poor horses are very seldom killed
instantly. When wounded so that it is impossible for them to walk, they
are dragged from the ring and left in a vacant field, where they die
that night or the following day, as the Mexicans do not consider them
worth a bullet. The bull finds more mercy. If not killed outright by
the matador, a butcher finishes the work, and ends the misery. When
stabbed fatally he often staggers along the fence, as though in hopes
of finding an exit. The cruel spectators are not satisfied that he is
dying, and allow him some little mercy, but stab his wounded flesh,
tear open his death wound, twist his tail, do all in their power to
enhance his sufferings until he falls dead. One would suppose the
heated, tortured, wounded beef would be of no account, but such is
not the case. Before many hours, after taken from the scene of its
death, the beef is being sold to the people, who buy it without the
least hesitancy or disgust, even boasting that they eat of the bull
that killed so many horses, and if it happened to kill a man it is
considered an honor to eat of it. This makes an American want little
beef, and that little covered with red pepper to kill the taste. When
seated opposite the entrance gate one has full view of the butcher at
work. The hide is taken off the toro immediately, and it is dissected.
Then they commence on the horses, but they claim the horses' flesh is
not sold for beef.
At some fights the spectators are favored with a performer, who allows
the maddened toro to attack him, when, by the aid of a long pole, he
jumps clear over it. This is a dangerous and, many times, a fatal leap,
but is a favorite sight of the people.
After the fight comes the _toro embolado._ A bull with balls on its
horns is led in. All the paid fighters leave the ring and any one
among the spectators who has a desire to try the sport can do so. The
number is not few, and the sight is really funny. They wave their
_serapes_ at the bull, who, in return, often tosses them on his horns.
The _lazadores_ prevent him from trampling them, and it is very seldom
anyone is killed, though broken arms and ribs are no unusual thing.
This is the proudest day of the Mexican's life when he gains access to
the bull ring and can exhibit to people his activity and daring.
The most risky amateur is then given a position as fighter, a position
he considers greater than the presidency of the United States, and for
which he would not exchange.
The government charges a license of $250 for each fight. If the bulls
are tame the show is fined for giving a poor performance and swindling
the people. The _matador,_ El Capitan, whose duty it is to strike the
bull's heart with a sword, gets the highest salary, as much as $200 a
performance; the other fighters receive from $10 to $100.
Sometimes a fight is given for charitable purposes. Young girls
dressed like brides in white satin, veil and satin shoes, do all the
directing, and young men of position and birth are the fighters.
It is to be supposed that when a man is killed in the ring the fight
would stop, but that only seems to whet their desire for more blood,
and a dead man is pulled off the field and another takes his place amid
increased enthusiasm. At a fight two weeks ago one man was gored almost
to death, another had his arm broken, and a woman, who had witnessed
this from her seat, entered the ring and tried to kill the bull. She
was caught on its horns and carried once around the ring and whirled
around in her perilous position like a top. The audience shouted and
was much disappointed when the bull cast the woman to the ground,
devoid of clothing and badly bruised, but alive. At another fight three
men were killed. Both times the spectators could hardly be forced to
leave at the end of the performance. It is safe to assert that that
beef sold at a high price.
Bernardo Javino, the man who was gored almost to death two weeks ago,
has quite a history. He came from Spain fifty-one years ago, and is
eighty-two years old, the oldest fighter in Mexico, and the most
famous. He has fought in every bull ring in the Republic, and has
killed four thousand bulls. Senor Javino is a well-built, fine-looking
fellow, and though but lacking eighteen years of one hundred is as
strong as a man of thirty-five. He is a great favorite, and has
received numerous and costly presents, among which he numbers one
thousand fine bulls. But he is to-day very poor, and has only his
salary. He is unmarried. Though the idol and favorite of the people,
they shouted with joy when they saw him being gored. The bull caught
him in the small of the back, and though making only one wound outside
made five inside. He was carried off for dead, but though having a
wound that would have finished any other man, he is still living, and
asserts he will repay many bulls yet for his sufferings. The bull that
had the honor to nearly finish the old warrior, killed three horses,
broke the man's arm, and almost finished the woman.
Senor Javino has a nephew, Juan Moreno, who gives promise of being the
best fighter, after his uncle, in the Republic. He is a six-footer of
magnificent build, with a handsome face, fair complexion, with brown
hair, resembling a handsome American boy, in honor of which the
Mexicans have named him El Americano (the American). Their shouts are
long and loud for El Americano, and presents are showered down on him.
He can accomplish the daring feat of striking the bull's heart with one
thrust of the sword, which he withdraws instantly. This is considered
scientific, for when the sword strikes the heart it is very difficult
to withdraw, and is most always left sticking in until the bull dies.
In the frontier the horns are sawed off the bulls before they go in the
ring, in order to make the fight fierce and bloodier. It is said they
are trying to stop this cruel torture.
The fight being finished the bands depart and the people make their
way to the train with reluctance, where venders earn a mint of money
by stilling them pulque and a mixture of crushed corn and red pepper,
done up in corn husks, which is eaten with a relish. After this Mexican
feast is finished the train pulls out, everybody, men, women, and
children, light their cigarettes, and between puffs they discuss the
merits and demerits of the fight. The homeward trip is a very joyous
one, so much so that "the daisy policemen" are often called on to exert
their influence in quieting the mirth.