IN THE SHADOW OF THE VOLCANO
The journey down to the City of Mexico, in itself, was a delight to
me, and I felt how infinitely more I could have enjoyed it had Viola
been with me.
My present companion did not seem able to appreciate any but physical
beauty. If a good looking man came on board the train she glanced over
him, demurely enough, but with the eye of a connoisseur. The glorious
beauty, however, of the painted skies and magnificent stretches of
open country we were passing through affected her not at all.
For four days, on either side of the train, America unrolled before us
her vast tracts of entrancing beauty, from which I could hardly tear
my gaze, and this little almond-eyed doll sat in a lump on the seat
opposite me yawning and fidgeting, or else reading some childish book;
or spent the time at the other end of the car playing with some
American children on board the train.
I did not intend to have my journey spoilt by her, so I gave my own
attention to the scene and told her to go and play, if she wished, or
buy oranges and pictures from the train-venders, do anything she
liked, in fact, as long as she did not disturb me and prevent my
taking a pleasure in the beauty she could not see.
Suzee, annoyed at my admiration of something she could not
appreciate, was mostly sulky and pettish through the day, regaining
her good temper at night when we retired into our section.
As a toy to caress, to fondle, she was enchanting. Nature had
apparently made her for that and for nothing else. Her extreme youth,
her beauty, her joy in love, made her irresistible at such moments.
And as I was young, at the height of youth's powers and desires, our
relations in that way held a great deal of pleasure for us both.
But that was the limit. Beyond this there was nothing.
That exquisite mental companionship, that sharing of every thought and
idea, that constant conversation on all sorts of subjects that
interested us both, all this which I had had with Viola, and which
filled so perfectly those intervals when the tired senses ask for, and
can give, no more pleasure, was completely absent here.
That delight in beauty which is to an artist as much a part of his
life as another man's delight in food or wine Viola had shared with me
in an intense degree.
And sharing any of the delights of life with one we love enhances them
enormously. One can easily imagine a gourmand being dissatisfied with
his wife if she resolutely refused to share any of his meals!
Now, as I gazed through the windows of the slow-moving train and saw
the long blue lines of the level-topped hills, the deep purple edges
of the vast table-lands rising against the amber or the blood red
evening skies, I longed for Viola with that inward longing of the soul
which nothing but the presence of its own companion can satisfy.
One evening, as I gazed out, the whole prairie was bathed in
rose-coloured light that appeared to ripple over it in pink waves. The
tall grass, tall as that of an English hay-field, seemed touched with
fire; far on every side stretched the open plain, absolutely level,
bounded at last in the far distance by that deep purple wall of
mountains, flat-topped, level-lined also, against the sky, the great
mesas or table-lands of Mexico.
And in this vast expanse of waving grasses and low flowering shrubs,
in the pink glow of the evening, stood out two graceful forms, a pair
of coyotes, distinct against the sunset behind them. Only these two
were visible in all that great lonely plain, and they stood together
watching the train go by, their sinuous bodies and low sweeping tails
touched and tipped with fire in the ruby light.
How delighted Viola would have been with that scene, I thought
regretfully, as the train carried us through it.
When we arrived at the City of Mexico, we drove to the Hotel Iturbide
and took a room high up on the third floor, to be well lifted out of
the suffocating atmosphere of the streets.
Suzee was a little overawed by the height of the long, narrow room
that we had assigned to us in this, at one time, palace, but when she
saw that the bed was comfortable and there was a large mirror before
which she could array and re-array herself, she was satisfied.
I saw the room would be a very difficult one to paint in, for it was
dark in spite of the tall window which opened on to an iron balcony
running across the front of the hotel.
The window was draped with thick red curtains and had a deep, handsome
cornice hanging over it.
Suzee went on to the balcony immediately and was delighted with the
incessant stream of gaily dressed people passing underneath. This was
the main street of the city. Not very wide, flanked with lofty, old,
picturesquely built houses on each side, of which the lower part was
often shop or restaurant, it presented somewhat the same heavy, gloomy
appearance as the streets in Italian towns. The air was thick,
dust-laden, and evil-smelling, for the City of Mexico, though at an
elevation of 8,000 feet, has none of the crisp, healthful clearness,
usually to be found at that altitude. Built over the bed of an
enormous dried up lake, in the centre of an elevated table-land, it
is, even at the present day, badly drained and unhealthy.
We had some tea brought up to us and took it at a little table drawn
close to the window,--Suzee chattering away to me of the delights of
this new big city--as big as 'Frisco, she thought. And what gay hats
the women wore! She saw them passing underneath. Would I not take her
out to the shops and buy a great big white muslin hat like theirs,
covered with pink roses?
I promised I would, watching her with a smile.
She was certainly very lovely just now. She seemed to have bloomed
into fairer beauty than she had possessed at Sitka.
Doubtless her gratified passion and happy relations with me helped to
this result, for a woman's beauty depends almost wholly on her inner
life, the life of her emotions and passions.
After tea we went downstairs, hired a carriage, and drove to the
Paseo--or laid-out drive--which is the thing to do in Mexico at that
hour; and to follow the custom of the country you are in is the first
golden rule of the traveller who would enjoy himself.
It was about six o'clock, and darkness was closing in on the thick,
dust-filled air as we drove with the stream of other vehicles of all
descriptions, from the poorest hired carriage to the most splendidly
appointed barouche, into the Paseo, a wide, sweeping drive, lined each
side with trees and lighted with rows of electric arc-light lamps,
some of which glowed pinkly or sputtered out blue rays in the dusk.
It has never seemed to me a very cheerful matter, this drive between
the lights in the formal Paseo, this great string of carriages drawn
mostly by poor unhappy horses and filled with dressed-up women who
stare rudely at each other as they pass and re-pass, solemn and silent
ghosts in a world of grey shadow!
But the fashion amongst the Mexican women of painting and powdering to
an inordinate degree perhaps accounts for their love of this hour
between the lights, when they imagine the falseness of their
complexion cannot be detected.
After about an hour's drive we came back, the great arc-lights now
sending their uncertain, shifting glare across the road and serving to
show the heavy dust through which we moved. Seen sideways, the ray of
light looked solid, so thick was the atmosphere.
When we came back we dined, and then sat outside our window on the
iron balcony, looking down at the gay scene below.
The street was fully lighted now by powerful lamps of electricity,
some belonging to the roadway, others hung out over restaurants and
shops. The latter were all open, having been closed through the middle
of the day. The cafés and restaurants were in full swing, half the
populace seemed in the street, either walking or driving.
"We will go to a theatre as soon as they open," I said. "I don't think
any of them begin till half-past nine or ten."
Suzee clapped her hands.
"That will be nice, Treevor," she said.
"I did like the theatre in Chinatown. I went with Nanine sometimes."
So at half-past nine we drove to a theatre. The performance began at
ten o'clock and continued till one in the morning, with a break in the
middle for supper.
It was a light musical farce, well acted and sung, and I enjoyed it.
Suzee looked on profoundly silent, and seemed to be quite wide-awake
all through it. Just before one o'clock she leant to me and whispered:
"When does the killing begin?"
"Killing?" I returned. "I don't think there'll be any, what do you
mean?"
"Oh," she said, "in Chinese theatres there is always very much
killing; every one's head comes off at the end."
I laughed.
"You little monster," I whispered; "is that what you came to see?"
Suzee nodded.
"All Chinese plays like that," she answered.
We waited till the curtain fell, but there was no killing and all the
heads were left on at the end. Suzee looked quite disappointed, and
explained to me as we were driving away that that was no play at all.
The next morning we were up very late, and after breakfast in our room
there was only time to drive out to the shops and buy for Suzee one of
the hats she coveted before luncheon.
All Orientals have a wonderful, artistic instinct for fabrics and
colours, and always, when left alone, clothe themselves with exquisite
taste. But this instinct seems to desert them when brought amongst
European manufactures and into the sphere of European tints. Suzee now
chose an enormous white hat wreathed round with poppies and
cornflowers that I certainly should not have chosen for her. However,
it pleased and satisfied her, and she was in great good-humour in
consequence.
I found some letters for me at the hotel, forwarded from the club. My
heart sank as I saw there was none from Viola. I thought she might
have written again....
There was one from a friend of mine who was attached to the embassy
here, and he asked me to go and dine with him that evening, or name
some other, if I were engaged that day.
I looked up at Suzee.
"I have an invitation here to go out to dinner," I said to her; "do
you think you can amuse yourself without me this evening?"
Suzee looked sulky.
"You are going out all the evening without me? Can't I come too?"
"I am afraid not," I answered.
"Why? Is it a woman you are going to?"
"No, it is not," I answered a little sharply.
How different this sulky questioning was from Viola's bright way of
assenting to any possible suggestion of mine for my own amusement or
benefit!
How different from this her quick:
"Oh yes, do go, Trevor, do not think about me, I shall be quite happy
looking forward to your coming back!"
Suzee pushed out her lips.
"How long will you be?" she asked.
"I shall go just before seven and return about ten," I answered. "You
must get accustomed to amusing yourself. I can't always be with you."
"I can amuse myself," returned Suzee sulkily. "All the same, I believe
it's a woman you are going to."
The blood rushed over my face with anger and annoyance, but I
restrained myself and made no answer. She was so much of a child, it
seemed absurd to enter into argument or to get angry with her.
I went back to reading my other letters and occupied myself with
answering them till luncheon.
That evening about seven I was dressing for dinner, Suzee standing by
me or playing with my things and somewhat impeding me, as usual. She
seemed to have recovered from her ill-temper and was all smiles and
gay prattle.
Before I took up my hat and coat to leave I bent over her and kissed
her.
"You understand, I don't want you to leave this room till I come back.
They will bring up your dinner here, and you can sit on the balcony
and smoke, and you have lots of picture-books to amuse you. I shall be
back at ten."
She kissed me and smiled and promised not to leave the room, and I
went out.
I really enjoyed the evening with my friend. It was a relief to talk
again with one who possessed a full-grown mind after being so long
with a childish companion, and the time passed pleasantly enough. A
quarter to ten seemed to come directly after dinner and my companion
was astonished at my wanting to leave so early.
I explained the situation in a few words and, of course, caused
infinite amusement to my practical friend.
"The idea of you living with a Chinese infant like that!" he
exclaimed. "I shall hear of your being fascinated with a Hottentot
next, I suppose."
"Maybe," I answered, putting on my hat. "Anyway, I must go now; thanks
all the same for wishing me to stay."
I left him and walked rapidly back in the direction of the Iturbide.
Some of the shops were still open, and as I passed down the main
street the brilliant display in a jeweller's window, under the
electric light, attracted my attention.
I paused and looked in. I thought I would buy and take back some
little thing to Suzee. It had been a dull evening for her. I went in
and chose a necklet of Mexican opals. These, though not so lovely as
the sister stone we generally buy in England, have a rich red colour
and fire all their own.
I had not enough money with me to pay for it, but with that delightful
confidence in an Englishman--often unfortunately misplaced--one finds
in some distant countries, the shopman insisted on my taking it, and
said he would send to the hotel in the morning for the money.
I slipped the case in my pocket and went on to the Iturbide.
After all, I thought, as I neared home, with all her faults she was a
very attractive and dear little companion to be going back to.
Full of pleasure at the thought of bestowing the gift and the joy it
would give her, I ran up the stone stairs without waiting for the lift
and pushed open the door of our room.
I entered softly, thinking she might be curled up asleep, but as I
crossed the threshold I heard the sound of laughter. The next moment I
saw there were two figures standing at the end of the long room in
front of the window.
Suzee had her back to me and a man was standing beside her. Just as I
came in I saw her raise her face, and the man put his arm round her
and kiss her. Two or three steps carried me across the room and I
struck them apart with a blow on the side of the man's head that sent
him reeling into a corner.
It was the young Mexican waiter that had hitherto brought us all our
meals.
The table was still covered with the dinner things, a bottle of wine
stood on it and two half-filled glasses. My impression, gathered in
that first furious glance, was that he had brought up her dinner and
she had invited him to stay and share at least the wine and
cigarettes. Some of these lay on the table, and the room was full of
smoke.
Suzee gave a scream of terror and then crouched down on a chair,
looking at me.
The waiter picked himself up, and, catching hold of his iron
stove-fitted basket in which he had brought up the dinner, slunk out
of the room.
I was left alone with Suzee, and I looked at her, with an immense
sense of disgust and repulsion swelling up in me.
"So you can't even be trusted an hour or two, it seems," I said
contemptuously, throwing myself into a chair opposite her.
Suzee began to sob. Tears were her invariable refuge under all
circumstances.
"Treevor, you were so long. I was all alone, and I was sure you were
with another woman."
"If you would learn to believe what I say and not fancy every one
tells lies, as I suppose you do," I answered hotly, "it would be a
great deal better for you. I went to dine with a bachelor friend this
evening, as I told you, and what made me later than I otherwise should
have been was that I stopped to buy a present for you on my way back."
Suzee's tears dried instantly.
"A present! Oh, what is it, Treevor?" she said eagerly. "Do show it
me. Where is it?"
I drew the case out of my pocket and opened it. The electric light
flashed on the opals, and they blazed with orange and tawny fires on
the white velvet.
Suzee gave a little cry of wonder and delight, and then sat staring at
them breathlessly.
"I don't feel at all inclined to give them to you now," I remarked
coldly.
"Oh, yes, Treevor, _do_ let me have them. It was all the man's fault.
I did not want him. I could not help it."
"I heard you laughing as I came in," I returned, more than ever
disgusted by her lies and her throwing all the blame on her companion.
"It's no use lying to me, Suzee, you found that out at Sitka. What I
want to make clear to you is this: if I find you doing this sort of
thing again I shall send you away from me altogether, because I won't
have it."
Suzee looked terror-stricken.
"Send me away! But what could I do? Where could I go?"
"Where you pleased! You would not live any more with me."
"Well, Treevor, I will not do it any more," she answered, her eyes
fixed on the jewels. "Do let me have the necklace. May I put it on?"
And she stretched out her hand to grasp it from the table where I had
laid it. Her avarice, her lack of any real deep feeling about the
matter, filled me with irrepressible anger.
I sprang to my feet and snatched the necklet up, case and all, and
flung it through the window.
"No, you shall certainly not have it," I exclaimed.
Suzee gave a shriek of pain and dismay as she saw the beloved jewels
flash through the air and disappear in the darkness, and rushed to the
window as if she would jump after them.
Fearing she might call to the passers-by below and create a
disturbance, I took her by the shoulder and pulled her back into the
room.
Then I shut the window and bolted it above her head.
I walked over to the door of the room.
"You had better go to bed," I said; "do not wait for me, I shall sleep
elsewhere."
Then I went out and locked the door behind me, putting the key in my
pocket.
I went down the passage slowly. My heart was beating fast and I felt
angry, but the anger was not that deep fierce agony of emotion I had
felt at times when Viola angered or grieved me.
It was more a superficial sensation of disgust and repulsion that
filled me, and, after a few minutes, I grew calm and recovered my
self-possession.
"What could I expect from a girl like this?" I asked myself. "What
could I expect but lies and deceit and trickery and infidelity? She
had shewn me all these at Sitka when I first met her."
I had been willing enough to profit by them, but even then they had
disgusted me. Now I was in the position of Hop Lee, and as she had
treated him so would she treat me. It was true she professed to love
me, and did so in her way. But it was the way of the woman who is
bought and sold.
And why should I feel specially repelled because I had found her with
a servant? Had she not come from a tea-shop in Sitka, where she
herself was serving?
The Mexican boy was handsome enough. Doubtless he presented a
temptation to her.
It was all my own fault, everything that had happened or would happen,
for choosing such an unsuitable companion. The light loves of an hour
with painted butterflies such as Suzee are well enough, but for life
together one must seek and find one's equal, one who sees with the
same eyes, who has the same standard as one's own of the fitness of
things, in whose veins runs blood of the same quality as one's own.
Why had Viola left me? The thought came with a pang of anguish as my
heart called out for her.
The corridor was a lofty one of stone. It was quite empty now and
unlighted. I walked on slowly in the dark till I came to a large
window on my right hand. This window overlooked a wide expanse of lead
roofs belonging to the lower stories of the hotel, and these commanded
a magnificent view of the whole city.
I stepped out over the low sill and stood on the leads. The night was
soft and cool. The sky, full of the light of a rising moon, shewed
beautifully, against its luminous violet, the outlines of dome and
minaret and spire, and far out beyond the crowded city's confines, the
two incomparable mountains, Popocatepetl and Ixtaccihuatl, the huge
volcanoes, shrouded in eternal snow, rising a sheer ten thousand feet
from the level plain, standing like sentinels guarding the city.
It was a magnificent panorama that surrounded me, a view to remember
for all time. Dome upon dome, rising one behind the other, of all
sizes and shapes, their beautiful tiles gleaming here and there as the
light from the rising moon touched them, delicate spires, pointing
upwards, tipped with silver light, low roof of the commoner's dwelling
and pillared façade of old and stately palace intervening, and, far
away, those cold white, solitary peaks overtopping all else, rising
into the region of the stars, made up a grand, impressive scene.
As I looked all sense of petty annoyance dropped from me. I walked
forwards with a grateful sense of relief and took my seat on a
projecting ledge of one of the roofs and let my eyes wander over the
maze of dim outlines and shapes below me.
How strange it was to think of the past history of the city!
Far back in the dim ages, a clear and glorious lake had lain here
where now the city reared itself so majestically. In the centre of
this vast table-land, eight thousand feet above the sea, the blue
waters rested tranquilly, reflecting in their surface the fires and
the flames of those now silent, burnt-out volcanoes.
The lake was inhabited by the lake-dwellers, quaint little people
living in their curious structures built on poles sunk in the water.
There they fished and made their nets and traded with each other,
passing backwards and forwards in their tiny dug-outs--whole crafts
made from a single hollowed-out log--on the gleaming waters, secure
from the raids of wild beasts or savages that the black, impenetrable
forests on the shore might harbour.
Then came the Toltecs and the Aztecs with their refinement, their
civilisation, and the lake dried gradually through the years, and
causeways were built across the swamp, and one by one dwellings
appeared on the hardest, driest places, and step by step there grew to
be a city. Then came the Spaniards in later days, with the flaming
pomp of religion and the loathsome spirit of cruelty. They killed the
people by thousands with torture, and set up their churches to peace
and good-will. They overthrew the temples with murder and slaughter,
and reared altars to the Most High on the blood-soaked earth.
And this city, as we see it to-day, with its countless beautiful
churches, its exquisite tiled domes flashing in the sun, is the work
of the Spaniards. And each church stands there to commemorate their
awful crimes.
I sat on, as the hours passed, and watched the moon rise till it
poured its flood of silver light all over the city, sat thinking on
the horror of man and wondering what strange law has fashioned him to
be the devil he is.
Towards sunrise, the wind blew cold off the marshes round the city,
and I went in and down to the lower floor of the hotel.
Its world was fast asleep. In the hall I saw two Mexican porters in
their thin white clothes, curled up on the door mat, without covering
or pillow, fast asleep.
I made my way to the little-used reception-room, found my way across
it to a wide old couch, threw myself upon it, and closed my eyes. The
couch smelt musty and the room seemed cold, but I was accustomed to
sleep anyhow and anywhere, and in a few moments, with my thoughts on
Viola, I drifted into oblivion.
At breakfast time the next day I went to the administrador and told
him to send up ours by another waiter, and never to allow the former
one to come into our room again. Then I went upstairs to Suzee. As I
unlocked the door and entered I saw she was up and dressed. She came
to me, looking white and frightened.
"Oh, Treevor, do forgive me, I never will again. Only say you forgive
me. I was so frightened all last night, I thought you had locked me up
here to starve."
Again the absence of deep feeling, of any ethical consideration
prompting her contrition, jarred upon me. She would be good because
she did not want to starve or be otherwise punished. That was her view
of it, and that alone.
I bent over her, took her hand, and kissed her.
"We needn't think of it any more," I said gently. "Only you must
remember if such a thing occurs again, we cease to live together,
that's all."
Suzee reiterated her promises with effusion, and presently an old,
grey-haired waiter appeared with our breakfast.
I could not repress a smile as I saw the administrador had determined
to be on the safe side this time.
Suzee was extremely amiable and docile all that day.
Most women who do not shew gratitude for kindness and consideration,
when the man retaliates or shews any harshness, begin to improve
wonderfully; while a delicate nature like Viola's, that responds to
love and gives devotion in return, would meet that same harshness with
passionate resentment. Suzee sincerely mourned her lost jewels and
gazed wistfully and furtively down into the street where they had
gone in the darkness.
I paid the bill for them that day, but I never knew what became of
them, nor whose neck they now adorn!
The following day was Sunday, the day appointed by the Prince of
Peace, and dedicated here by his followers, the Christians, to the
torture and slaughter of their helpless companions in this world--the
animals. Sunday, throughout Mexico, is the day most usually fixed for
a bull-fight, and to-day there was going to be one, and Suzee had
begged me to take her to see it.
I had hesitated, but finally given in, and taken seats for it.
I felt a strong disinclination to witnessing what I knew would be
merely another example of the loathsome barbarity of the human race,
but it was my rule in life to see and study its different aspects, to
add to my knowledge of it whenever possible, and so I consented with a
sense of repulsion within me. Suzee was in the wildest delight. She
had talked to the waiter, it seemed, and had heard from him wonderful
stories of the big crowds of gaily dressed people in the large ring,
of the music, of the gaily dressed toreadors, of the clapping of hands
and the shouting.
"And you feel no sympathy with the bull that is going to be killed or
the unfortunate horses?" I asked, looking across at her as we sat at
luncheon.
Suzee looked grave.
"I didn't think of that," she said.
The great fault of the less guilty half of humanity--it does not
think! and the other half thinks evil.
"Well, think now," I said sharply. "Would you like to have your inside
torn out for a gaping crowd to laugh at, to be tortured to death for
their Sunday diversion? For that is what you are going to see
inflicted on the animals this afternoon."
Suzee regarded me with a frightened air.
Presently she said, glibly:
"Of course not, Treevor, and I am very, very sorry for the poor
animals if they are going to be hurt."
"Of course they are," I said shortly; "that is what the whole city is
going to turn out to see."
I felt she had no real appreciation of the subject, and that any
sympathetic utterance would be made to please me. How I hate being
with a companion who automatically says what will please me! A servile
compliance that one knows is false is more irritating to a person of
intellect than contradiction.
How different Viola had always been! In physical relations she had
accepted me as her owner, master, conqueror. She had never sought to
deny or evade or resent the physical domination Nature has given the
male over the female. But her mind had been always her own. And what a
glorious strength and independence it possessed! Not even to me would
she ever have said what she did not believe.
Like the old martyrs, she would have given herself to the rack or the
flames rather than let her lips frame words her brain did not approve.
Her mind and her opinions were her own, not to be bought from her at
any price whatever, and, as such, they were worth something.
The assent or dissent of the fool who agrees or disagrees from fear or
love is worth nothing when you've got it.
We finished our luncheon and then, in a hired carriage, drove to the
Plaza de Toros.
I, with a feeling of cold depression, Suzee, gaily dressed and in the
highest spirits.
All the city was streaming out in splendid carriage or miserable shay.
Rich and cultured, poor and illiterate, human beings are all alike in
their love of butchery and blood. We reached the great ragged stretch
of open ground, hideous and bare enough, and the structure of the
bull-ring reared itself before us, a sinister curve against the
laughing blue of the sky.
It seemed to hum like a great hive already; there was a crowd of the
poorer class about it, and men came continually in and out of the
little doors in its base.
We dismissed our carriage at the outer edge of the ragged ground, the
driver insisting he could drive no farther. And the moment we had
alighted he turned his horses' heads and started them at a furious
gallop back to the city in the hope of catching another fare.
We walked forwards towards the principal of the wickets through which
already the people were passing to their seats. In approaching the
bull-ring we had to pass by a circle of little buildings, low dens
with small barred windows and closed doors. Blood was trickling from
under some of these over the brown and dusty earth, and the low, heavy
breathing and groans of a horse in agony came from one or another at
intervals.
I looked through the grated slit of one, as I passed, and saw two men,
or, rather, fiends in the shape of men, crouched on the floor of the
dark and noisome den. Between them lay outstretched the body of a
horse, old and thin, worn to the last gasp in the cruel service of the
streets. On its flank was a long open wound. One of the men, bending
over it, had a red-hot iron glowing in his hand. What they were going
to do I could not tell, and I did not wait to see.
The horse was one, doubtless, which unhappily had survived last
Sunday's bull-fight, and was being horribly patched up, terribly
stimulated by agony to expend its last spark of vitality in this.
In these loathsome little dens this fiendish work goes on, the poor
mangled brutes are brought out from the ring, their gaping wounds are
plugged with straw, or anything that is at hand, and then they are
thrust back on to the horns of the bull.
More than ever filled with loathing of my kind, I passed on in silence
towards the ring.
It was no use speaking to Suzee. She could not understand what I felt.
I thought of Viola. If she had been here, what would she have
suffered? Of all women I had met, I had never known one who had the
same exquisite compassion, the same marvellous sympathy for all living
things as she had.
We shewed our tickets, passed through the wicket, and were inside the
vast circle.
The impression on the eye as one enters is pleasing, or would be if
one's brain were not there to tell one of the scenes of infamy that
take place in that grand arena.
Wide circles, great sweeping lines have always a certain fascination,
and the form that charms one in the coliseum is here also in these
modern imitations.
The huge arena, empty now and clean, sprinkled with fine white sand,
and with circle after circle, tier after tier of countless seats
rising up all round, cutting at last the blue sky overhead, is in
itself impressive.
We passed to our seats, which were a little low down, not much raised
above the level of the boarding running round the arena.
They were on the coveted shady side of the ring, where the sun would
not be in our eyes. On the left of us was the President's box;
opposite, the seats of the common people, let cheap, because the sun's
rays would fall on them through all the afternoon.
These were already full. Occupied by _women_, largely _women_. Dressed
in their gayest, with handkerchiefs in their hands ready to wave, with
brightly painted fans, they sat there laughing, talking, eating
sweets, making the ring in that quarter a flare of colour.
Women! Ah, what a pity it is that there should be such women as these,
stony-hearted, stony-eyed, deaf to the dictates of mercy, of pity.
Women who can congregate with delight to see a fellow-creature die!
For what are the animals but our fellow-creatures? With the same life,
the same heart-beats as our own! With whom, if we acted rightly, we
should share this world in kindly fellowship and love.
The other seats in the shade were filling quickly; soon the whole mass
of dizzy circles, one above the other, flamed with brilliant colour
under the Mexican sun.
Suddenly, with a great crash, the music burst out, and a triumphal
march rolled over the arena as the President and his party arrived and
took their places in their box. The people cheered and the
handkerchiefs were waved, for the President is popular.
Suzee sat in the greatest glee beside me. The vast concourse of
people, the lavish colour, the loud, gay, strident music, the sea of
faces and clapping hands and waving kerchiefs pleased her childish
little soul.
After a few moments the music changed, and to a slow, almost solemn
march, the toreadors filed slowly in to the arena and bowed before the
President's box.
A burst of applause greeted their appearance, and Suzee watched
entranced these men parading in the ring, in their various red, blue,
and green velvet costumes fitting tightly their fine figures, with
their gorgeous cloaks of red velvet thrown over one arm and the flat
round hats of the toreadors sitting lightly above their bold handsome
faces.
They disappeared, there was a pause in the music, the great arena
stood empty, the vast audience were silent, a few moments of waiting
expectancy, then one of the low doors opposite us in the inner circle
flew open, shewing a long black tunnel leading into darkness. From
this came confused roarings and bellowings, and then with his head
flung high and his great eyes starting with pain and rage from the
goadings he had received, a glorious black Andalusian bull charged
into the arena. The people, delighted at his size and strength and
apparent ferocity, cheered and applauded loudly while, still further
excited by the sudden glare of light and the deafening noise, the
creature galloped round the sandy ring.
Jet-black, sleek-coated, and with a long pair of slender, tapering
horns, sharply pointed, crowning his great head, he was a magnificent
animal, far finer in make and shape than any of these brutes round him
who had come to see him die. As he galloped round the ring, I saw that
he was looking wildly, eagerly, for somewhere to escape. The animals
have no innate savagery, as man has. They do not love inflicting pain,
torture, and death upon others. That vile instinct has been given to
man alone. They kill for food. They fight for their mates. But no
animal fights or kills for the love of blood as we do.
And now this great monarch of the hills and plains, in all the pride
and glory of his strength, had no wish to attack or kill; he bounded
round and across the sandy space hoping to find some outlet, longing
to be again upon his wild Andalusian hills he was never to see again.
Another burst of music, a great fanfare of trumpets, and then slowly
in triumphal procession the picadors, mounted bull-fighters with
lances, entered the ring.
Theoretically, when these men enter, the savage beast they are
supposed to be encountering immediately makes a terrible charge upon
them; but, as a matter of fact, the bull never wishes to fight or
attack any one, and does not, until his brutal captors absolutely
force him into doing so. That is why a bull-fight, as well as being
hideously degrading and cruel, is also dull and tedious.
If one were watching the grand natural passion of an animal fighting
for his life on the prairie, against another, with an equal fortune of
war for both, there would be excitement in it. But in this case one
sees an unwilling animal tortured into a fight, which it neither seeks
nor understands, and which it has from the start no chance of winning.
In this case, as in all I have seen, the beautiful Andalusian, having
made his gallop round the ring and finding no chance of escape, had
subsided into a quiet trot and when the picadors entered he stood
still, demurely regarding them from the opposite side of the arena.
The sunlight fell full upon him, on his glossy sides and grand head,
from which the noble, lustrous brown eyes looked out with benign and
gentle dignity on the great multitude, the sandy space, and the
picadors who were stealing slowly up to him.
It is a difficult matter for the picador to approach the bull, for the
horses shrink from the awful fate awaiting them, and only by plunging
great spurs into their sides can their riders get them to advance.
Anything more unutterably cowardly and despicably mean than the
picador can hardly be imagined. Riding a poor, aged horse, generally
one that has been wounded in a previous combat, and that is
absolutely naked of all protection from the bull's horns, he is
himself cased from head to foot in metal and leather, so that by no
possibility can he be scratched.
He comes into the ring with the deliberate intention of riding his
tottering, naked horse on to the horns of the bull, and the greater
number of these helpless creatures he can get mangled and
disembowelled under him, the greater and finer picador he is and the
more the people love him. Such is humanity!
On this afternoon the bull eyed the horses' approach with no ill-will,
he seemed to be reflecting--"Perhaps these are friends of mine and
will show me the way out." But when at last the picador, having
spurred his flinching horse close up to the bull's side, jabbed at his
glossy neck with his lance and the pain convinced the great monarch
they were hostile, he threw up his head with a snort and in a lithe,
agile bound he passed by them and trotted quietly away.
This enraged the people, and screams of "Coward! Coward!" went up from
all parts of the ring.
How they can twist into any semblance of cowardice the benignity of an
animal that scorns to take any notice of what it sees is a feeble and
puny opponent is amazing, a fit illustration of the weakness of the
human intellect.
As the bull continued his gentle trot, unmoved, the audience grew
furious, and then began that tedious and utterly sickening chase of
the unwilling bull by the faltering and unwilling horses.
The bull, conscious of his great strength and absolutely fearless, had
all that chivalry which seems inherent in animals and which is quite
lacking in man in his attitude to them.
As the unfortunate horses were ridden up to and across the face of the
bull, he did his best to avoid them. Over and over again the picadors
stabbed him with their lances and thrust their naked horses at his
head, but his whole attitude and manner said plainly: "Why should I
toss these poor old, trembling horses? I have no quarrel with them. I
could kill them in a minute, but I don't want to."
The screaming fiends above him yelled and cursed and tore pieces of
wood from the seats to throw at him. Insults and invectives were
showered on the picadors, until at last one of them, stung by the
filthy abuse of the mob, drove his spurs so deep into his horse that
the animal reared a little; the picador then, with spur and knee,
almost lifted him on to the long pointed horns of the bull, who,
forced back against the hoarding, had lowered his head in anger as the
blood streamed from the lance wounds in his neck.
Then there was the horrid, low sound of grating horn against the ribs
of the horse, the ripping of the hide; the animal was lifted into the
air a moment, then fell. There was a gush of blood on the sand, blood
and entrails; with a groan it staggered quivering to its feet, made a
step forwards, trod on its own trailing, bleeding insides, fell again,
groaning with anguish, quivering convulsively.
The people were delighted. They shouted and screamed and stood up on
their seats and waved their kerchiefs, especially the women!
The picador, who picked himself up unhurt--indeed, cased in armour, he
could not well be otherwise--was cheered and cheered, and bowed and
smiled and took off his cap and swept it to the ground. And the band
crashed loudly to drown the terrible groaning of the dying horse,
struggling in agony on the sand. The bull, sorry rather than otherwise
apparently, walked away to another part of the ring, tossing his head
in pain as the blood dripped from it.
The people clapped delightedly. Suzee seeing all the women about her
doing so, put up her little hands and clapped too.
I bent towards her and caught them and held them down in her lap.
"Be quiet," I said; "I won't have you clap such a disgusting sight."
She stopped at once. A Mexican woman on my other hand, looked daggers
at me for an instant, divining my words, but she was too eager to see
all the blood and the anguish in the arena, not to miss a throe of the
dying horse, to turn her eyes away for more than a moment.
So, after a scowl at me, she directed them again, bulging with
satisfaction, on the scene before her.
From then on, for about an hour, the same hideous thing went on; horse
after horse was brought forward, pushed on the horns of the bull, torn
and mangled beneath its cowardly rider, and then, if completely ripped
open, dragged dead or dying from the ring; if its wound was not large
enough to cause instant death, stuff or straw was thrust into it by
the attendants and the dying animal kicked, lashed, and dragged to its
feet to be thrown again on to the sharp horns amidst the shouts and
laughs of the delighted crowd.
Once, in a general mêlée, when the bull and several picadors were in a
tangled mass at one side of the ring, I saw one of these horses,
terribly wounded, with its life pouring from it, emerge from the
conflict and stagger unnoticed to the hoarding.
It came close to the wall of the ring and looked over; its glazed,
anguished eyes gazed from side to side as if asking: "Is there no
escape, no mercy anywhere?"
A spectator on the audience side of the hoarding raised his hand and
struck it between the eyes. It tottered, staggered, and sank within
the ring.
Eight horses had now been rendered useless, the arena was black and
red with blood, in spite of the assiduous sprinkling of fresh sand,
and there was a pause in the entertainment. The picadors had had their
turn, the banderilleros were ready to appear, but the people were
thoroughly enjoying themselves now and they stamped and roared
"Caballos" till they were hoarse. That horrid cry for more and more
horses to be produced that alarms the administrador, or manager, of
the bull-fight.
In vain the attendants lashed and goaded the dying horses in the
arena. They could not get them to their feet again. There is a limit
to man's sway, the tortured life at last escapes him. The bodies were
dragged away, more sand, and then the administrador himself, pale as
ashes, stepped out before the audience howling for more blood.
"Señors," he commenced, "it is impossible to supply more than eight
horses for one bull; there are five more bulls to be dispatched. They
are more savage than this one. I must keep horses for them. Let the
señors be reasonable and allow the show to continue."
At this promise of five more bulls there was general applause. The
band rolled out fresh music. There was a thunder of drums and the
banderilleros came on, gorgeous in velvet, glittering in spangle and
tinsel.
The bull is weary now and has lost much of his blood; as from the
first, he only longs to escape from this ring, and the mad monkeys who
are gibing and gibbering at him in it. They came forward with their
fresh weapons, shafts and arrows of iron decked up with coloured
ribbons, which they throw at him and which stick on his shoulders and
in his sides, drawing streams of blood wherever they strike him.
Maddened by those, he rushes at the flaming coats the men trail before
his eyes; but the cruel little, dancing, monkey-like man with the
cloak darts away before he can be touched, and at last, after repeated
rushes and repeated failures, the grand creature stands still, wearied
and disdainful, his head erect, the blood flowing from his wounds in
which the darts move, swaying to and fro each time he stirs, causing
him an agony he cannot understand. So he faces the great crowded ring
contemptuously, and the people shout at him and call him a coward and
scream for the espada to come and dispatch him.
The banderilleros retire: they have weakened the bull so that there is
now no danger for the puny little two-legged creature who struts in
next with a sword, and who is greeted with plaudits and triumphal
music. Flowers are thrown him, bouquets, the men call him hero, the
women throw kisses to him.
He bows to the President, then turns towards the bull who stands
erect still, though the loss of blood must be telling upon him, stands
with that same air of deadly _ennui_, of weary scorn of all this folly
which he has possessed from the first. Dusty and blood-stained his
glossy coat, bloodshot his great lustrous eyes. As he looks round the
circle already growing dim to them, does he long for his green
Andalusian pastures, does he see again those pleasant streams by which
his herd is wandering?
The little manikin sidles up and jabs him behind the shoulder with his
sword. The bull turns upon him, and he runs for his life. But the bull
does not deign to follow. With a great show of precaution where there
is really no danger, the little man with the sword approaches again.
Amidst cheers from the onlookers he plunges his sword between the
shoulders of the dying monarch and then rushes backwards. The great
beast sways, shivers in mortal anguish for a moment, and then without
a sound sinks, for the first time in this cruel and unequal combat, to
his knees. Sinks, full of a superb dignity to the end, and one asks
oneself--"What _can_ the scheme of creation be that gives a creature
so clean-souled, so grand, into the power of such a miserable mass of
vile lusts as man?"
A moment more and the head crowned with its tapering crescent horns
sinks forwards. A gush of blood from the nostrils on the sand, and it
is over. The glossy form is still--at peace.
With ridiculous manoeuvres the little man comes up again to the great
beast, obviously dead and harmless, and withdraws his sword which he
waves triumphantly before the applauding populace.
While he capers about before his delighted admirers, the attendants
come in and draw away with some difficulty the magnificent form of the
slaughtered bull.
The music broke into a loud march. There was an interval of relaxation
for the audience, to move, look about, chatter, and take refreshments.
"This is the end," I said to Suzee; "let us go now."
"Oh, but Treevor, that man said he had five more bulls, look, nobody
is going yet," she returned, having evidently followed in her own
sharp way the sense of the Spanish speech of the administrador.
"Do you want to see any more?" I asked. "I think it is dull and
tedious, as well as horrible."
"The killing is not nice," she said, in deference to my opinions, I
suppose; "but the music and the people are fun, I think. Do let us
stay for one more fight. You won't want to bring me again."
"No, I certainly shan't," I answered.
"Then do let me stay now, Treevor, just one more time."
I shrugged my shoulders and sat back in my seat, and after a second
the little door opposite opened and another bull, this time apparently
mad with pain, dashed into the ring.
The people applauded him and the shouts and clappings increased his
excitement.
He bounded at full gallop across the sandy space and charged the
hoarding that hemmed him in.
The audience were delighted, but the toreadors entered the ring and
stood together at one side, looking anxious, and some of the
attendants came up and received orders from them.
From the first the animal was unmanageable, out of all control. The
goading and the enraging that goes on in the dens behind the arena had
been overdone apparently, for the bull, wild with rage and pain,
galloped madly round, taking no notice of the pallid group of
toreadors.
At last one or two came forward with their cloaks of scarlet; the bull
made a dash at them, scattering them on either side, then bounded on
and with one tremendous leap cleared the hoarding that separates
spectators from the rings, and landed bellowing in the corridor that
ran round it just below our seats. It was full of onlookers drawn
nearer than usual to the hoarding by the excitement, and they
scattered and fled in all directions, while shriek upon shriek went up
from the women all round us as they saw the bull clear the hoarding
and come down amongst them.
With one accord they stood up. Like a great wave breaking, they rushed
upwards to the highest part of the ring, shrieks and screams on every
side telling of the trampled children and injured women in the frantic
panic.
Suzee rose with the rest, livid and trembling, and would have rushed
after that seething mass behind us, if I had not seized her arm and
forced her back to her seat.
"Sit down, stay where you are," I said; "the bull will do you less
harm than that trampling horde."
We were left there alone; groans and cries came from the
panic-stricken, struggling mass of people behind us; just beneath us
in the emptied corridor stood the bull, snorting with lowered head,
pawing the ground; in the arena, the administrador, green with terror
and anxiety, shouted commands to the pallid and trembling attendants.
I sat still, holding Suzee. The bull paused for a moment in front of
us, then with his head lowered almost to the ground, made a terrific
rush forwards, shattering the woodwork of the platform at our feet to
atoms with his horns. Suzee gave a piercing shriek and fell across me,
unconscious. The animal, startled by the scream, raised its head.
In its rolling eyes I saw nothing but the madness of pain and terror.
As it drew back for a second charge, in its mad effort to dash through
the woodwork to liberty, I slipped sideways with the dead weight of
Suzee on my arm, into the seats on one side. It was not an instant too
soon. The next, the bull rushed forwards and our seats were falling in
splinters about his head. Along, sideways, over chair after chair, I
slipped, dragging and supporting Suzee as best I could. I heard
screams of terror and suffering all round us as the panic spread
amongst the people and they forced themselves in an ever-increasing
mass upwards, fighting their way to the exits at the top of the ring.
My mind was made up. All before me was clear and open, the seats
deserted, below me ran the corridor leading to the entrance by which
we had come in. For that I would make.
There was some slight risk, for the bull, tired now of his futile
efforts to destroy the wooden barriers in front of him, had turned
back into the corridor and started on a mad gallop down it round the
ring.
I must drop down into the corridor before I could arrive at the
entrance, and unless he were stopped he might meet us in the corridor
before I could reach the exit. But his arc of the circle was a long
one, mine to the exit was short, and, anyway, I preferred to chance
meeting him to trusting myself to the mercies of my own kind.
I leapt down into the passage, and, lifting Suzee into my arms, passed
on rapidly to the wicket.
There was no one there. I went through, out into the golden sunlight.
Outside, the accident and the panic had not yet become known. I saw a
carriage, with its driver asleep upon the box, close to the main gate.
I went up to it, put Suzee in and spoke to the man.
"The lady has fainted," I said; "drive us back to the Hotel Iturbide."
The man, delighted at securing a fare so soon, seized the whip and
reins and drove away full tilt before one of the struggling wretches
in the bull-ring had succeeded in getting out.
Suzee recovered consciousness just before we reached the hotel, but
when she had opened her eyes she closed them again instantly and
covered her face with her hands with a cry of terror.
"Oh, Treevor, that awful bull; where is it now? It can't get at us,
can it?"
"No, poor brute," I answered. "You are safe enough now, Suzee; you are
miles away from the bull-ring."
She was trembling so much she could hardly walk up the stairs to our
room, and when we got there I made her go to bed while I sat by her
putting cold compresses on her head. She complained of such pain in
it, I was afraid that the fright and shock would do her serious harm.
I sat up with her through the night, and towards morning she fell into
a tranquil sleep.
I paced up and down the quiet room lighted only by the night light,
thinking over the horrid scene of the afternoon, and when it grew to
be day I was hungering so for a companion to speak to and to feel with
me, that I drew out my writing-case and wrote a long letter to Viola.