MADRID.
The Profession of a Nun; Reflections; Description of the Interior
of a Convent; the Monastic Life; Description of a Bull-Fight;
Sketches of Spanish Character; a Horse Race.
No one ever visited a Roman Catholic country, without feeling some
curiosity upon the subject of nuns and convents, monks and monasteries;
and there is certainly no country in the world that affords so many
incitements to this curiosity, or so many facilities for gratifying it,
as Spain. Among all the ceremonies belonging to the church of Rome, none
perhaps possesses so much interest in the eyes of a stranger, as that
which is denominated “taking the veil;” chiefly, because it is the only
one of them all, that addresses the heart more than the eye. I had
always felt great curiosity to witness this extraordinary sacrifice of
reason and nature, at the altar of bigotry and ignorance; but I found
the gratification of this curiosity more difficult than I had imagined.
Heretics are no welcome guests at such times; and during the first month
of my residence in Madrid, I made two unsuccessful attempts to witness
the ceremony of taking the veil! It fortunately happened, however, that
the priest whom I had engaged at my arrival in Madrid, to speak Spanish,
and read Don Quixotte with me, and with whom I passed much of my time,
was the officiating priest in the convent of _Comendadoras de
Calatrava_; and as I had often expressed a strong desire to see a
profession, he came one day with the welcome intelligence, that in that
convent, a profession would take place on the Sunday morning following;
and as it was his duty to officiate on the occasion, and to administer
the sacrament to the new sister, he had it in his power to gratify my
wishes, and to admit me at an early hour: and he also all but promised,
that after the ceremony, I should be permitted to see the interior of
the convent--a privilege even greater than the other.
The chapel of the convent is separated from the apartments by a wide
iron grating--so wide, that every thing which takes place on the other
side, is seen as distinctly as if there was no separation whatever. I
placed myself close to this grating some little time before the ceremony
commenced.
How many strange, wild, and romantic associations are connected with
“taking the veil!” The romances of our earlier days,--the tales, that
professed to reveal the mysteries of the cloister, crowd upon our
memory: we see standing before us the creatures of our imagination--the
inflexible lady abbess--the trembling nun--we hear the authoritative
question, and the timid reply--we see the midnight procession, and hear
the anthem of sweet and holy voices--and a crowd of mysterious and
half-forgotten dreams and visions float before us. Some of these early
visions I had learned to doubt the reality of,--I had already caught
occasional glimpses of those mysterious creatures who inhabit convent
walls, without finding any realization of my vision of charms more than
mortal. I had learned to know that nuns grow old, and that the veil does
not always shadow loveliness; but having understood that the victim
about to sacrifice herself was scarcely seventeen, I dismissed from my
mind all the realities that warred with my romantic illusions, and
recurred to the dream of my earlier days.
At the hour appointed, the abbess entered the room on the other side of
the grating, accompanied by all the nuns, and by several ladies, friends
and relatives of the novice. She entered a moment after; and immediately
knelt down, with her face towards the grating, so that I had a near and
distinct view of her. She was attired in the novice’s robe of pure
white, and wore a crown of flowers upon her head. She seemed scarcely
more than sixteen. Her countenance was gentle, sweet, and
interesting;--there was an expression of seriousness, but not of
sadness, in her face; and a skin, fairer than usually falls to the lot
of Spanish women, was sensibly coloured with a fine carnation,--the glow
of youth, and health, and happiness, yet lingering on her cheek; and
connecting her with the world of light, and life, and freedom, about to
close upon her for ever.
The administrator now entered by the chapel, and placed himself in a
chair close to where I was stationed, and at the side of an opening in
the grating of about a foot square. The novice then rose, and walking
forward to the grating, presented him with a paper, which he read aloud:
this was the act of renunciation of all property, then and for ever; and
during this ceremony the novice retired and knelt as before, holding in
her hand a long lighted taper, with which the abbess presented her. The
preparatory service then commenced by reading and chanting; and this,
although monotonous, was pleasing and impressive, according well with
the solemnity of the scene that had introduced it; and in this service
the novice joined, with a clear sweet voice, in which nothing of emotion
could be distinguished. When this was concluded, the novice again rose,
and advanced to the grating, and pronounced slowly and distinctly the
three vows that separate her from the world,--chastity, poverty, and
obedience. Her voice never faltered; nor could I perceive the slightest
change of countenance; the colour only, seemed to be gradually forsaking
her. The lady abbess, who stood close by her side, wept all the while.
Ah! if each tear could have told why it flowed, what a history might
have been unfolded. Indignation was the feeling produced in my mind. I
wished for the cannon of the Constitutionalists, to throw down these
most odious of prisons; and even to the priest, who stood by me in his
crimson and gilded surplice, I could not restrain myself from saying,
half audibly, “_Que infamia!_”
When the vows that could never be recalled had been pronounced by this
misguided child, she stepped back, and threw herself prostrate upon the
ground,--this is the act confirmatory of her vows,--symbolical of death,
and signifying that she is dead to the world. The service was then
resumed,--a bell continued slowly to toll; and the priest read; while
the nuns who stood around their new-made sister, responded,--“dead to
the world--separated from kindred--bride of heaven!” and the nun who
lies prostrate is supposed, at the same time, to repeat to God in
secret, the vows she has already pronounced aloud. When this was
concluded, a slow organ peel, and a solemn swell of voices rose, and
died away; and the abbess then raised the nun from the ground, and
embraced her; and all the other nuns and her relations also embraced
her. I saw no tear upon any cheek, excepting upon the cheek of the
abbess, whose face was so full of benignity, that it half reconciled me
to the fate of the young initiated who had vowed obedience to her. When
she had embraced every one, she again knelt for a few moments, and then
approached the grating along with the abbess; and the priest handed to
the abbess through the opening, the vestments of a nun. Then came the
last act of the drama:--the crown was lifted from her head; the black
vestment was put on, and the girdle and the rosary; and the black hood
was drawn over her head;--she was now a nun, and she again embraced the
abbess and all the sisters. Still I could not discover a single tear,
excepting on the cheek of the abbess, who continued to weep almost
without ceasing to the very end: the countenance of the young nun
remained unmoved. The crown was again replaced upon her head, to be worn
all that day; the sacrament was administered, and one last embrace by
friends and relations terminated the scene.
I had thus seen what I had long felt so much anxiety to see,--“taking
the veil;” and I found it, at the same time, a stirring and a melancholy
spectacle: stirring, because it filled the mind with indignation against
those whose cruel and insidious counsel had misled an innocent girl; and
melancholy, because it pointed to a life uncheered by life’s sweetest
charities,--unblest by its holiest ties,--life without interest, without
change, without hope; its sources of enjoyment dried up; and its wells
of affection frozen over.
It is not difficult to account for such sacrifices as this. A young
person enters a convent as a novice at fifteen or sixteen: this requires
little persuasion,--the scene is new, and therefore not without its
attraction. Mothers, sisters, and friends are occasionally seen; and no
vow prevents a return to the world. During the noviciate, she forms
attachments among the nuns, who exert themselves to the uttermost to
please her. The attractions of the world are not presented to her, and
they are, therefore, not felt to be attractions; and all the while, the
priests and confessors have been labouring to impress her with a notion
of the excellence of a religious life,--its pure enjoyment in this
world, and its certain and great reward in another; and these arguments
are enforced by strictures upon the vexations and evils of the world
without, and the lack of enjoyment to be found in it. Such reasoning
cannot fail to produce its effect upon the mind of a young person who
has never known the world, and who is daily assured by the sisters in
the convent that they are happy: add to this, a certain eclât in taking
the veil,--extremely captivating to a youthful mind,--and it will
scarcely seem surprising, that when the noviciate expires, there should
be nothing terrible, or even very affecting in the ceremonial that fixes
the destiny of the novice. She feels that she is vowing a continuance of
the same life that she has already led, and for which habit may even
have taught her an inclination; and her days are to be spent with those
whom she probably loves more than any others without the convent walls.
And what are the vows, to a child who has entered a convent at fifteen?
She vows obedience to one whom she feels pleasure in obeying. She
renounces property she never enjoyed, and whose uses are not understood;
and in vowing chastity, she knows only that she is dedicating herself to
heaven. The profession of a girl of sixteen or seventeen, is an
abomination; and admitted so to be, even by the priests. A canon at
Seville--nay, more, a Dominican friar near Alicante, agreed with me in
opinion, that no woman ought to be permitted to take the veil at an
earlier age than twenty-four. If a woman who has tried the world, and
knows its enjoyments and its dangers, chooses to renounce it, and retire
into a convent, she can only accuse herself of folly, or bigotry; but it
is altogether a piece of villany when a child leaves the nursery to
begin her noviciate.
The priest, who had led me to hope that I might be permitted to visit
the interior of the convent, did not disappoint me. This convent is one
of the most complete, and the best fitted up of any in Madrid. No one
enters it who cannot bring to its treasury a considerable fortune; and
its accommodations are accordingly upon a scale of corresponding
comfort. In company with the priest and the porteress, an old nun, I
went over the greater part of the building. The accommodations of each
nun consist of a small parlour and a dormitory adjoining, and a small
kitchen. The nuns do not eat in company. The dinners are separately
cooked, and the whole is then carried to a public room, where it is
blessed; and again carried back to the separate apartments, where each
nun eats alone. The little parlours of the nuns are plain and clean; the
walls white-washed, and the floors generally matted; but the room is
without any fire-place, and contains a table and two chairs. The beds
are extremely small, and extremely hard; and upon the table, in every
dormitory, there is a crucifix. Among other parts, I was conducted to
the chamber of the new-made nun. The bed was strewn with
flowers--marigolds and dahlias,--and a crown of jilly-flowers lay upon
the pillow. Here every thing was new; yet all would grow old along with
the inmate. A new bright lamp stood upon the table; and as I looked at
it, I could not avoid the picture that presented itself in fancy,--the
dull light falling upon the white wall; and the silent inmate of the
chamber with her book and rosary, through the long chill evenings of
winter;--what a contrast from the picture of a cheerful home!
The rooms of the nuns all look into the garden. Those in front are
occupied by ladies who have not taken the veil, but who have retired
from the world, and who live there in tranquillity and seclusion. Many
of these rooms are prettily fitted up, and contain small libraries,
altogether of religious books, and a few pictures of the same character.
In going through the convent, I saw two of the nuns,--old, disagreeable,
ill-favoured women,--the younger sisters were not visible, excepting the
new-made nun, who seemed that day to be allowed the range of the
convent; for I saw her, with her crown still upon her head, in her own
chamber, in one of the corridors, and in the garden: she looked quite
happy. After having been conducted through almost every part of the
convent, I was introduced into the refectory, and presented with wine
and cake. I shall never forget the taste of that cake; it seemed to me,
to taste of the tomb; and crumbled in one’s hand like something touched
by the finger of decay.
The order to which this convent belongs, is not so strict as many
others. The chief difference in strictness between one order and
another, consists in the more rigid observance of fasts, the number of
meagre days, the obligation to night prayers, and the rules as to
solitude and society. In some of the orders, dispensation from the vows
of poverty and obedience may be obtained; and such dispensations
occasionally _are_ obtained,--if, for example, the labour or service of
a nun should be required for the support or comfort of a destitute or
aged mother. Dispensation from the vow of chastity is scarcely to be
obtained; yet even this has sometimes been known. Last year, a lady of
high family who had taken the vows in Barcellona, obtained a general
dispensation, and married,--it is said that she was never happy; and she
died a few months afterwards. It may easily be supposed, that long
accustomed prejudices, and a superstitious bias, acting upon the
imagination, might produce disastrous effects both upon mind and body.
In the case of the late Countess Ofalia, a dispensation was also
obtained. She was five years a nun. She entered the convent at the age
of fourteen; and the dispensation was granted upon the ground of her
youth, and also because her consent was supposed to have been extorted.
This lady had, fortunately, less superstition than the other. She left
the convent at nineteen; and married the Count Ofalia, with whom she
lived happily.
During the French government in Spain, under Joseph Buonaparte, and also
during the time of the constitution, the doors of the convents were open
to whosoever might choose to go again into the world: it is said, that
not more than two in Madrid, and four or five throughout the rest of
Spain, availed themselves of this privilege. This is scarcely to be
wondered at; superstitious fears, and conscientious scruples, interfered
no doubt with the wishes of many; others had grown grey within their
convent walls, and to whom could they return? Some, who might yet have
found enjoyment in the world, had no means of living in it, having
renounced their inheritance; and many, no doubt, had contracted a
partiality for a religious life, and were actuated by pious motives.
Next to the curiosity I had felt to witness the profession of a nun, was
my curiosity to witness an exhibition of a very different kind: the
spectacle of a bull-fight. This is one of the many things that are to be
seen in Spain, and in no other country in the world; and, however
barbarous the spectacle must seem to every one but a Spaniard, it is,
nevertheless, one of so stirring and so extraordinary a kind, that I
think it would almost repay a journey to Madrid, even if the traveller
set off next morning upon his return.
The bull-fight is the national game of Spain; and the love of the
Spaniards for this spectacle, is almost beyond belief. Monday, in
Madrid, is always, during the season of the bull-fights, a kind of
holiday; every body looks forward to the enjoyments of the afternoon;
and all the conversation is about _los toros_. Frequency of repetition
makes no difference to the true amateur of the bull-fight; he is never
weary of it; at all times he finds leisure and money to dedicate to his
favourite pastime. The spectacle is generally announced, in the name of
his majesty, to begin at four o’clock; and, before three, all the
avenues leading towards the gate of Alcala, are in commotion; the Calle
de Alcala, in particular, throughout its whole immense extent, is filled
with a dense crowd, of all ranks and conditions, pouring towards the
gate: a considerable number of carriages are also seen--even the royal
carriages; but these arrive later: and there are also many hack
cabriolets, their usual burden being a peasant, and two girls, dressed
in their holiday clothes; for there is no way of shewing gallantry so
much approved among the lower orders, as _treating_ to a bull-fight; and
when this is carried so far as to include a drive in a red and gilded
cabriolet, the peasant need sigh no longer.
I had been able to secure a place in one of the best boxes, through the
kindness of one of my friends; and, some little time before the fight
begun, I was comfortably seated in the front row, with quite enough to
occupy my attention, until the commencement. The spectacle was most
imposing. The whole amphitheatre, said to contain 17,000 persons, was
filled in every part, round and round, and from the ground to the
ceiling; carrying the imagination back to antiquity, and to “the
butcheries of a Roman holiday.” The arena is about 230 feet in diameter;
this is surrounded by a strong wooden fence, about six feet in height,
the upper half retiring about a foot, so as to leave, in the middle of
the fence, a stepping-place, by which the men may be able, in time of
danger, to throw themselves out of the arena. Behind this fence, there
is an open space about nine feet wide, extending all the way round,
meant as a retreat; and where also the men in reserve are in waiting, in
case their companions should be killed, or disabled. Behind this space,
is another higher and stronger fence bounding the amphitheatre, for the
spectators; from this fence the seats decline backward, rising to the
outer wall; and above these are the boxes, which are all roofed, and
are, of course, open in front. Those on the east side, which are exposed
to the sun, (for the spectacle always takes place in the evening), have
awnings; but these are insufficient to screen the spectators from the
heat; and accordingly, the price of the places on the west side, is
considerably more than the price of those exposed to the sun. Below, in
what may be called the pit, the difference in price, according to sun or
shade, is still greater, because there are there neither coverings nor
awnings: so important, indeed, is this distinction considered, that
there is not only one price for places in the sun, and another for
places in the shade, but there is an intermediate price for places
partly in the sun and partly in the shade,--exposed to the sun during
the first part of the evening, but left in shade the latter part of it.
The best places in the boxes cost about 4_s._; the best in the
amphitheatre below, about 2_s._ 6_d._; the commonest place, next to the
arena, costs four reals. In the centre of the west side, is the king’s
box; and scattered here and there, are the private boxes of the grandees
and amateurs, distinguished by coloured silk drapery hanging over the
front. In the boxes, I saw as many women as men,--and in the lower
parts, the female spectators were also sufficiently numerous; all wore
mantillas: and in the lower parts of the amphitheatre which were exposed
to the sun, every spectator, whether man or woman, carried a large
circular paper fan, made for the occasion, and sold by men who walk
round the arena before the fight begins, raising among the spectators
their long poles, with fans suspended, and a little bag fixed here and
there, into which the purchaser drops his four quartos (1¼_d._).
The people now began to shew their impatience, and shouts of _el toro_
were heard in a hundred quarters; and soon after, a flourish of trumpets
and drums announced that the spectacle was about to commence. This
created total silence,--one of the results of intense interest,--and the
motion of the fans was for a moment suspended:--First entered the chief
magistrate of the city, on horseback, preceded by two alguacils, or
constables, and followed by a troop of cavalry, who immediately cleared
the arena of every one who had no business there; next, an official
entered on foot, who read an ordonnance of the king, commanding the
fight, and requiring order to be kept; and these preliminaries having
been gone through, the magistrates and cavalry retired, leaving the
arena to the two picadores, who entered at the same moment. These are
mounted on horseback,--each holding a long lance or pike, and are the
first antagonists the bull has to encounter; they stationed themselves
on different sides of the arena, about twenty yards from the door at
which the bull enters; and at a new flourish of trumpets, the gate flew
open, and the bull rushed into the arena: this produced a deafening
shout, and then total silence. The bulls differ very widely in courage
and character: some are rash,--some cool and intrepid,--some wary and
cautious,--some cowardly. Some, immediately upon perceiving the horse
and his rider, rush upon them; others run bellowing round the
arena,--some make towards one or other of the Chulos, who at the same
moment that the bull appears, leap into the arena with coloured cloaks
upon their arms; others stop, after having advanced a little way into
the arena, look on every side, and seem uncertain what to do. The blood
of the bull is generally first spilt: he almost invariably makes the
first attack, advancing at a quick trot upon the picador, who generally
receives him upon his pike, wounding him somewhere about the shoulder.
Sometimes the bull, feeling himself wounded, retires, to meditate a
different plan of attack; but a good bull is not turned back by a
wound,--he presses on upon his enemy, even if in doing so, the lance be
buried deeper in his flesh. Attached to the mane of the bull is a
crimson ribbon, which it is the great object of the picador to seize,
that he may present to his mistress this important trophy of his
prowess. I have frequently seen this ribbon torn off at the moment that
the bull closed upon the picador.
The first bull that entered the arena, was a bad bull: he was deficient
both in courage and cunning: the second, was a fierce bull of Navarre,
from which province the best bulls are understood to come; he paused
only for a moment after entering the arena, and then instantly rushed
upon the nearest picador, who wounded him in the neck; but the bull
disregarding this, thrust his head under the horse’s belly, and threw
both him and his rider upon the ground: the horse ran a little way; but
encumbered with trappings, he fell,--and the bull, disregarding for a
moment the fallen picador, pursued the horse, and pushing at him, broke
the girths and disengaged the animal, which finding itself at liberty,
galloped round the arena--a dreadful spectacle, covered with gore, and
its entrails trailing upon the ground. The bull now engaged the chulos:
these young men shew great dexterity and sometimes considerable courage,
in the running fight, or rather play, in which they engage the
bull,--flapping their cloaks in his face,--running zig-zag when pressed,
and throwing down the garments to arrest his progress a moment, and then
vaulting over the fence,--an example which is sometimes followed by the
disappointed animal. But this kind of warfare, the bull of Navarre
seemed to consider child’s play,--and leaving these cloaked antagonists,
he made furiously at the other picador, dexterously evading the lance,
and burying his horns in the horse’s breast: the horse and his rider
extricated themselves, and galloped away; but suddenly the horse dropped
down, the wound having proved mortal. The bull, victorious over both
enemies, stood in the centre of the arena, ready to engage another; but
the spectators, anxious to see the prowess of the bull directed against
another set of antagonists, expressed their desire by a monotonous
clapping of hands, and beating of sticks, a demonstration of their will
perfectly understood, and always attended to.
The _banderilleros_ then entered: their business is to throw darts into
the neck of the bull; and in order to do this, they are obliged to
approach with great caution, and to be ready for a precipitate retreat;
because it sometimes happens that the bull, irritated by the dart,
disregards the cloak which the banderillero throws down to cover his
retreat, and closely pursues the aggressor. I saw one banderillero so
closely pursued, that he saved himself only by leaping over the bull’s
neck. The danger, however, is scarcely so great as it appears to the
spectator to be; because the bull makes the charge with his eyes shut.
The danger of the picador who is thrown upon the ground, is much
greater; because, having made the charge, the bull then opens his eyes,
and the life of the picador is only saved by the address of the chulos,
who divert the attention of the victor. Generally, the banderilleros do
not make their appearance until the bull appears by his movements, to
decline the combat with the picadors; which he shews by scraping the
ground with his feet, and retiring. If the bull shew little spirit, and
the spectators wish that he should be goaded into courage, the cry is
“_fuego_,” and then the banderilleros are armed with darts, containing a
kind of squib, which explodes while it sticks in the animal’s neck.
When the people are tired of the banderilleros, and wish to have a fresh
bull, they signify their impatience in the usual way, and the signal is
then given for the _matador_, whose duty it is to kill the bull. The
matador is in full court dress, and carries a scarlet cloak over his
arm, and a sword in his hand: the former he presents to the bull; and
when the bull rushes forward, he steps aside and plunges his sword in
the animal’s neck; at least so he ought to do, but the service is a
dangerous one, and the matador is frequently killed. Sometimes it is
impossible for the matador to engage upon equal terms a very wary bull,
which is not much exhausted. This was the case with the sixth bull which
I saw turned out: it was an Andalusian bull, and was both wary and
powerful. Many times the matador attempted to engage him, but without
success; he was constantly upon the watch, always disregarding the
cloak, and turning quick round upon the matador, who was frequently in
imminent danger. At length the people were tired of this lengthened
combat, and seeing no prospect of it ending, called for the _semi-luna_,
an instrument with which a person skulks behind, and cuts the
ham-strings of the animal: this the bull avoided a long while, always
turning quickly round; and even after this cruel operation was
performed, he was still a dangerous antagonist, fighting upon his knees,
and even pursuing the matador. The moment the bull falls, he is struck
with a small stiletto, which pierces the _cerebellum_; folding doors,
opposite to those by which the bull enters, are thrown open, and three
mules, richly caparisoned and adorned with flags, gallop in; the dead
bull is attached by a hook to a chain, and the mules gallop out,
trailing the bull behind them: this is the work of a moment,--the doors
close,--there is a new flourish of trumpets; and another bull rushes
upon the arena.
And how do the Spaniards conduct themselves during all these
scenes?--The intense interest which they feel in this game is visible
throughout, and often loudly expressed; an astounding shout always
accompanies a critical moment:--whether it be the bull or the man who is
in danger, their joy is excessive; but their greatest sympathy is given
to the feats of the bull. If the picador receives the bull gallantly,
and forces him to retreat; or if the matador courageously faces, and
wounds the bull, they applaud these acts of science and valour: but if
the bull overthrow the horse and his rider; or if the matador miss his
aim, and the bull seems ready to gore him, their delight knows no
bounds. And it is certainly a fine spectacle to see the thousands of
spectators rise simultaneously, as they always do when the interest is
intense: the greatest and most crowded theatre in Europe presents
nothing half so imposing as this. But how barbarous, how brutal is the
whole exhibition! Could an English audience witness the scenes that are
repeated every week in Madrid?--a universal burst of “shame!” would
follow the spectacle of a horse, gored and bleeding, and actually
treading upon his own entrails, while he gallops round the arena: even
the appearance of the goaded bull could not be borne,--panting, covered
with wounds and blood, lacerated by darts, and yet brave and resolute to
the end.
The spectacle continued two hours and a half; and during that time,
there were seven bulls killed, and six horses. When the last bull was
dispatched, the people immediately rushed into the arena, and the
carcass was dragged out amid the most deafening shouts.
The expenses of the bull-fights are great; but the receipts far exceed
them, leaving a very handsome sum for the benefit of the hospital,
which, it is said, draws a revenue from these entertainments of 300,000
reals, (3000_l._ sterling). Some persons begin to affect a dislike of
the bull-fight, but they go to it notwithstanding; and I think I may
venture to say, from my own observation, that this national
entertainment is not yet on the decline. The king occasionally goes; Don
Carlos rarely; but Don Francis and his wife are generally to be seen
there; and I noticed, that the private boxes of the nobility were as
well filled as any other part of the house. On leaving the amphitheatre,
I counted forty-five private carriages in waiting.
A few weeks afterwards, I was present at another bull-fight. I have no
intention of describing this also; but I gathered some information from
it that had escaped me upon the former occasion. This time, I paid more
attention to the demeanour of the people, than to the fight; and instead
of securing a place in the boxes, I took my seat in the commonest
division, that I might the better observe the character of the lower
orders. It is not at all unusual for those of the nobility who are
amateurs of the bull-fight, to place themselves among the lowest
classes; a true lover of the bull-fight likes to be under no
restrictions, but to express his delight as loudly as a peasant. In that
place he is at his ease; he gives himself up to the full enjoyment of
his passion; he applauds, he condemns, and gives vent to his joy like
the people that surround him. This is true happiness to him. It is said
that Don Francis occasionally disguises himself; and enjoys, even though
Infante, the pleasure of a water-carrier.
At this fight, all the bulls were indifferent excepting one; but he
proved himself a perfect master of the science. He rushed first at one
picador and then at the other, and overthrew both the horses and their
riders; killing both horses, and wounding one of the picadores. Two
fresh picadores immediately appeared; and these, he served in a
precisely similar way: but the overthrow was more tragical--one of the
horses and his rider were raised fairly into the air; and the horse
falling so as to crush the rider between its body and the fence, he was
killed upon the spot. The bull was now master of the arena; he had
cleared it of men--three horses lay dead--and he stood in the midst,
lashing his tail, and looking round for another enemy. This was a time
to observe the character of the people. When the unfortunate picador was
killed, in place of a general exclamation of horror, and loud
expressions of pity, the universal cry was “_Que es bravo ese toro!_”
Ah, the admirable bull!--the whole scene produced the most unbounded
delight; the greater horror, the greater was the shouting, and the more
vehement the expressions of satisfaction--I did not perceive a single
female avert her head, or betray the slightest symptom of wounded
feeling. Accidents do not occur so frequently as a spectator would be
apt to imagine: danger is in fact more apparent than real, because those
who engage the bull are well trained to the combat. There is, both in
Madrid and at Seville, a regular school of instruction, where those
destined for Las Corridas, practise the art with young animals; and
excepting the matadores, who are occasionally killed, no other of the
combatants runs great risk from the bull. When the picador is killed,
the catastrophe is always occasioned by the horse falling upon his
rider, or crushing him against the inclosure.
Every time I attended a bull-fight, I was more and more impressed with a
conviction of its cruelty and brutality. It is improperly termed a
fight, because the bull has never a chance of victory and escape; it is
merely a massacre,--and the series of abominable cruelties exhibited in
the treatment of the horses, stamps the whole with a character of
brutality and barbarism, sufficient, in my opinion, to separate Spain
from the list of civilized nations. It is not merely the atrocities that
an interested contractor for the bull-fights may permit,--not merely
that the picador continues to ride upon an animal bathed in blood, and
whose entrails trail upon the ground,--but that the Spanish people can
witness and tolerate such barbarity. I do not wish to seem prejudiced;
but I cannot believe that there are many among the very lowest ranks in
this country who would not, at such a spectacle, cry out “kill him!” It
was proposed by the present queen to envelope the horses in a net, by
which the most disgusting part of the exhibition would have been
concealed; but this was a refinement which it was thought would not be
relished by the mob, and I believe it was never attempted. By the horses
having no power of defence, and by their being deprived of the means of
consciousness of their condition, the cruelty of the spectacle is
increased. Townshend, that very respectable and accurate writer, is in
error when he speaks of the courage shewn by the horses in facing their
enemies: this, if true, would give a character of greater nobility to
the entertainment; but the horses know neither their enemies nor their
danger; their eyes are blinded, and their ears are tied up. If the
horses were netted round the body, and if they were led off the arena
when wounded; if their eyes were uncovered, that when the rider was
unhorsed, they might have a chance of escape, in place of standing to be
gored, unconscious of the vicinity of the enemy,--if the semi-luna were
discontinued;--and, above all, if a valiant bull, which could unhorse
two picadores without being wounded, and parry two or three thrusts of
the matador, were allowed the reward of its victory--life: then the
bull-fight would be divested of much of its barbarism, without losing,
but, on the contrary, greatly adding to the interest which it at present
possesses.
It is impossible to witness a spectacle like this, without being
impressed with a conviction that such exhibitions must produce some
influence upon the character of a people. One would naturally argue that
there must be an affinity between the character of a people and their
amusements, especially since we actually find this affinity among
several savage nations; and yet I should be doing gross injustice to the
Spanish character, if I said that any such affinity existed in Spain.
There is nothing of deliberate cruelty in the character of a
Spaniard,--less hard-heartedness than I have found among most other
nations:--he invariably treats his mule with the utmost kindness, he is
mindful even of his dog and his cat. The murders which are so frequent
in the south of Spain, are the result of an irascible temper, brandy,
and a hot climate; but are never deliberate: and the robberies, which
originate in poverty, and which bad laws encourage, are rarely attended
by violence. All this is a riddle,--nor is it less a riddle, that the
females who can look unmoved, and even with pleasure, upon scenes from
which a woman of any other nation turns away disgusted, do not possess
less refinement than the females of other countries. Generally speaking,
the character of the Spanish woman is kind and compassionate; and even
among the lower ranks, I have heard sentiments that would do honour to
the women of those countries that are esteemed the foremost in
refinement.
The first attempt at a horse race in Madrid, was made last autumn; and
as I am upon the subject of diversions, I shall give a slight sketch of
the Spanish mode of conducting these things. The ground chosen for the
race, was a sandy road, extending from the bridge of Toledo along the
canal. The road is a common cart road, covered with stones, and full of
ruts; and the distance was about two miles. A large concourse of persons
was attracted to the spot by the novelty of the entertainment. There
were between two and three hundred horsemen, and upwards of twenty
carriages on the ground; among others, the handsome equipage of the Duke
of San Carlos, the owner of one of the horses, an English mare, called
Pensive. Her only opponent was a Spanish horse. Pensive was ridden by a
jockey, dressed in the English fashion; the horse, by a Spanish groom,
in the dress of a peasant. Pensive was a very indifferent animal, but
had seen better days, and would have been distanced at a sixth-rate
English race. Before starting, the horses were held by a man at the head
of each, and at a signal, they were let go. The greatest possible
anxiety was shewn by the spectators, that the English mare might be
beaten; but it came in two or three lengths before its opponent. This
created extraordinary disappointment; but the crowd resolved that the
next heats should be different; and they carried their resolution into
effect. They formed an avenue just wide enough for the horses; and as
the Spanish horse passed, every one struck it with a stick, a whip, a
stone, or whatever was at hand, and so urged it on; and partly owing to
this, and partly owing to some carts intercepting the road, the Spanish
horse gained both heats. This triumph was followed by loud acclamations;
and so intemperate was the mob in its joy, that the grossest insults
were offered to the carriage of the Duke of San Carlos as he left the
ground. I heard it reported, that the Duke intended to take the field
again with better horses, and upon better ground; and that horse races
in Madrid would re-commence at a future time, under the patronage of one
of the Infantes.