fight, whose whole defence is red capes with which they mislead and
irritate the bull. Through the windows are visible black heads with
pigtails, and wearing three-cornered hats. The coats of various colors
worn by the capeadors are embroidered with gold and silver tinsel.
These capeadors ride in an omnibus, for the modest pay which they get
for their perilous service does not permit a more showy conveyance.
Somewhat farther, three mounted “picadors” push their way through the
people. The sun plays on their broad-brimmed white hats. They are
athletic in build, but bony and lean. Their shaven faces have a stern,
and, as it were, concentrated look. They are sitting on very high
wooden saddles, hence they are perfectly visible over the crowd. Each
of them holds in his hand a lance, with a wooden ball at the end of it,
from which is projecting an iron point not above half an inch long. The
picador cannot kill a bull with a weapon like that,—he can only pierce
him or stop him for a moment; but in the last case he must have in his
arm the strength of a giant.
Looking at these men, I remember involuntarily Doré’s illustrations to
“Don Quixote.” In fact, each of these horsemen might serve as a model
for the knight “of the rueful visage.” That lean silhouette, outlined
firmly on the sky, high above the heads of the multitude, the lance
standing upright, and that bare-boned horse under the rider, those
purely Gothic outlines of living things,—all answer perfectly to the
conception which we form of the knight of La Mancha, when we read the
immortal work of Cervantes.
But, the picadors pass us, and urging apart the crowd slowly, push
forward considerably. Now only three lances are visible, three hats,
and three coats embroidered on the shoulders. New men ride up, as
incalculably similar to the first as if some mill were making picadors
for all Spain on one pattern. There is a difference only in the color
of the horses, which, however, are equally lean.
Our eyes turn now to the long row of carriages. Some are drawn by
mules, but mules so large, sleek, and beautiful that, in spite of the
long ears of the animals, the turn-out does not seem ridiculous. Here
and there may be seen also Andalusian horses with powerful backs,
arched necks, and curved faces. Such may be seen in the pictures of
battle-painters of the seventeenth century.
In the carriages are sitting the flower of Madrid society. The dresses
are black, there is very black lace on the parasols, on the fans, and
on the heads of ladies; black hair trimmed in forelocks, from under
which are glancing eyes, as it were, of the lava of Vesuvius. Mourning
colors, importance, and powder are the main traits of that society.
The faces of old and of young ladies also are covered with powder, all
of them are equally frigid and pale. A great pity! Were it not for such
a vile custom, their complexion would have that magnificent warm tone
given by southern blood and a southern sun, and which may be admired in
faces painted by Fortuni.
In the front seats of the carriages are men dressed with an elegance
somewhat exaggerated; they have a constrained and too holiday air,—in
other words, they cannot wear fine garments with that free inattention
which characterizes the higher society of France.
But the walls of the circus are outlined before us with growing
distinctness. There is nothing especial in the building: an enormous
pile reared expressly to give seats to some tens of thousands of
people,—that is the whole plan of it.
Most curious is the movement near the walls. Round about, it is black
from carriages, equipages, and heads of people. Towering above this
dark mass, here and there, is a horseman, a policeman, or a picador in
colors as brilliant as a poppy full blown.
The throng sways, opens, closes, raises its voice; coachmen shout;
still louder shout boys selling handbills. These boys squeeze
themselves in at all points among footmen and horsemen; they are on
the steps of carriages and between the wheels; some climb up on the
buttresses of the circus; some are on the stone columns which mark the
way for the carriages. Their curly hair, their gleaming eyes, their
expressive features, dark faces, and torn shirts open in the bosom,
remind me of our gypsies, and of boys in Murillo’s pictures. Besides
programmes some of them sell whistles. Farther on, among the crowds,
are fruit-venders; water-sellers with bronze kegs on their shoulders;
in one place are flower dealers; in another is heard the sound of a
guitar played by an old blind woman led by a little girl.
Movement, uproar, laughter; fans are fluttering everywhere as if they
were wings of thousands of birds; the sun pours down white light in
torrents from a spotless sky of dense blue.
Suddenly and from all sides are heard cries of “mira, mira!” (look,
look!) After a while these cries are turned into a roar of applause,
which like real thunder flies from one extreme to another; now it is
quiet, now it rises and extends around the whole circus.
What has happened? Surely the queen is approaching, and with her the
court?
No! near by is heard “eviva Frascuello!” That is the most famous
espada, who is coming for laurels and applause.
All eyes turn to him, and the whole throng of women push toward his
carriage. The air is gleaming with flowers thrown by their hands to
the feet of that favorite, that hero of every dream and imagining,
that “pearl of Spain.” They greet him the more warmly because he has
just returned from a trip to Barcelona, where during the exhibition
he astonished all barbarous Europe with thrusts of his sword; now he
appears again in his beloved Madrid, more glorious, greater,—a genuine
new Cid el Campeador.
Let us push through the crowd to look at the hero. First, what a
carriage, what horses! More beautiful there are not in the whole of
Castile. On white satin cushions sits, or reclines, we should say, a
man whose age it is difficult to determine, for his face is shaven
most carefully. He is dressed in a coat of pale lily-colored satin, and
knee-breeches of similar material trimmed with lace. His coat and the
side seams of his breeches are glittering and sparkling from splendid
embroidery, from spangles of gold and silver shining like diamonds in
the sun. The most delicate laces ornament his breast. His legs, clothed
in rose-colored silk stockings, he holds crossed carelessly on the
front seat,—the very first athlete in the hippodrome at Paris might
envy him those calves.
Madrid is vain of those calves,—and in truth she has reason.
The great man leans with one hand on the red hilt of his Catalan blade;
with the other he greets his admirers of both sexes kindly. His black
hair, combed to his poll, is tied behind in a small roll, from beneath
which creeps forth a short tress. That style of hair-dressing and the
shaven face make him somewhat like a woman, and he reminds one besides
of some actor from one of the provinces; taken generally, his face is
not distinguished by intelligence, a quality which in his career would
not be a hindrance, though not needed in any way.
The crowds enter the circus, and we enter with them.
Now we are in the interior. It differs from other interiors of circuses
only in size and in this,—that the seats are of stone. Highest in the
circle are the boxes; of these one in velvet and in gold fringe is
the royal box. If no one from the court is present at the spectacle
this box is occupied by the prefect of the city. Around are seated the
aristocracy and high officials; opposite the royal box, on the other
side of the circus, is the orchestra. Half-way up in the circus is
a row of arm-chairs; stone steps form the rest of the seats. Below,
around the arena, stretches a wooden paling the height of a man’s
shoulder. Between this paling and the first row of seats, which is
raised considerably higher for the safety of the spectators, is a
narrow corridor, in which the combatants take refuge, in case the bull
threatens them too greatly.
One-half of the circus is buried in shadow, the other is deluged with
sunlight. On every ticket, near the number of the seat, is printed
“sombra” (shadow) or “sol” (sun). Evidently the tickets “sombra” cost
considerably more. It is difficult to imagine how those who have “sol”
tickets can endure to sit in such an atmosphere a number of hours and
on those heated stone steps, with such a sun above their heads.
The places are all filled, however. Clearly the love of a bloody
spectacle surpasses the fear of being roasted alive.
In northern countries the contrast between light and shadow is not so
great as in Spain; in the north we find always a kind of half shade,
half light, certain transition tones; here the boundary is cut off in
black with a firm line without any transitions. In the illuminated
half the sand seems to burn; people’s faces and dresses are blazing;
eyes are blinking under the excess of glare; it is simply an abyss of
light, full of heat, in which everything is sparkling and gleaming
excessively, every color is intensified tenfold. On the other hand, the
shaded half seems cut off by some transparent curtain, woven from the
darkness of night. Every man who passes from the light to the shade,
makes on us the impression of a candle put out on a sudden.
At the moment when we enter, the arena is crowded with people. Before
the spectacle the inhabitants of Madrid, male and female, must tread
that sand on which the bloody drama is soon to be played. It seems to
them that thus they take direct part, as it were, in the struggle.
Numerous groups of men are standing, lighting their cigarettes and
discoursing vivaciously concerning the merits of bulls from this herd
or that one. Small boys tease and pursue one another. I see how one
puts under the eyes of another a bit of red cloth, treating him just as
a “capeador” treats a bull. The boy endures this a while patiently; at
last he rolls his eyes fiercely and runs at his opponent. The opponent
deceives him adroitly with motions of a cape, exactly again as the
capeador does the bull. The little fellows find their spectators, who
urge them on with applause.
Along the paling pass venders of oranges proclaiming the merits of
their merchandise. This traffic is carried on through the air. The
vender throws, at request, with unerring dexterity, an orange, even
to the highest row; in the same way he receives a copper piece, which
he catches with one hand before it touches the earth. Loud dialogues,
laughter, calls, noise, rustling of fans, the movement of spectators as
they arrive,—all taken together form a picture with a fulness of life
of which no other spectacle can give an idea.
All at once from the orchestra come sounds of trumpets and drums. At
that signal the people on the arena fly to their places with as much
haste as if danger were threatening their lives. There is a crush. But
after a while all are seated. Around, it is just black: people are
shoulder to shoulder, head to head. In the centre remains the arena
empty, deluged with sunlight.
Opposite the royal box a gate in the paling is thrown open, and in ride
two “alguazils.” Their horses white, with manes and tails plaited,
are as splendid as if taken from pictures. The riders themselves,
wearing black velvet caps with white feathers, and doublets of similar
material, with lace collars, bring to mind the incomparable canvases
of Velasquez, which may be admired in the Museo del Prado. It seems
to us that we are transferred to the times of knighthood long past.
Both horsemen are handsome, both of showy form. They ride stirrup to
stirrup, ride slowly around the whole arena to convince themselves that
no incautious spectator has remained on it. At last they halt before
the royal box, and with a movement full of grace uncover their heads
with respect.
Whoso is in a circus for the first time will be filled with admiration
at the stately, almost middle-age, ceremonial, by the apparel and
dignity of the horsemen. The alguazils seem like two noble heralds,
giving homage to a monarch before the beginning of a tournament. It
is, in fact, a prayer for permission to open the spectacle, and at the
same time a request for the key of the stables in which the bulls are
confined. After a while the key is let down from the box on a gold
string; the alguazils incline once again and ride away. Evidently this
is a mere ceremonial, for the spectacle was authorized previously,
and the bulls are confined by simple iron bolts. But the ceremony is
beautiful, and they never omit it.
In a few minutes after the alguazils have vanished, the widest gate
is thrown open, and a whole company enters. At the head of it ride
the same two alguazils whom we saw before the royal box; after them
advance a rank of capeadors; after the capeadors come “banderilleros,”
and the procession is concluded by picadors. This entire party is
shining with all the colors of the rainbow, gleaming from tinsel, gold,
silver, and satins of various colors. They come out from the dark side
to the sunlighted arena, dive into the glittering light, and bloom
like flowers. The eye cannot delight itself sufficiently with the many
colors of those spots on the golden sand.
Having reached the centre, they scatter on a sudden, like a flock of
butterflies. The picadors dispose themselves around at the paling, and
each one drawing his lance from its rest, grasps it firmly in his right
hand; the men on foot form picturesque groups; they stand in postures
full of indifference, waiting for the bull.
This is perhaps the most beautiful moment of the spectacle, full of
originality, so thoroughly Spanish that regret at not being a painter
comes on a man in spite of himself. How much color, what sunlight might
be transferred from the palette to the canvas!
Soon blood will be flowing on that sand. In the circus it is as still
as in time of sowing poppy seed,—it is barely possible to hear the
sound of fans, which move only in as much as the hands holding them
quiver from impatience. All eyes are turned to the door through which
the bull will rush forth. Time now is counted by seconds.
Suddenly the shrill, and at the same time the mournful, sound of a
trumpet is heard in the orchestra; the door of the stable opens with a
crash, and the bull bursts into the arena, like a thunderbolt.
That is a lordly beast, with a powerful and splendid neck, a head
comparatively short, horns enormous and turned forward. Our heavy
breeder gives a poor idea of him; for though the Spanish bull is not
the equal of ours in bulk of body, he surpasses him in strength, and,
above all, in activity. At the first cast of the eye you recognize a
beast reared wild in the midst of great spaces; consequently with all
his strength he can move almost as swiftly as a deer. It is just this
which makes him dangerous in an unheard of degree. His forelegs are a
little higher than his hind ones; this is usual with cattle of mountain
origin. In fact, the bulls of the circus are recruited especially from
the herds in the Sierra Morena. Their color is for the greater part
black, rarely reddish or pied. The hair is short, and glossy as satin;
only the neck is covered somewhat with longer and curly hair.
After he has burst into the arena, the bull slackens his pace toward
the centre, looks with bloodshot eyes to the right, to the left,—but
this lasts barely two seconds; he sees a group of capeadors; he lowers
his head to the ground, and hurls himself on them at random.
The capeadors scatter, like a flock of sparrows at which some man has
fired small-shot. Holding behind them red capes, they circle now in the
arena, with a swiftness that makes the head dizzy; they are everywhere;
they glitter to the right, to the left; they are in the middle of the
arena, at the paling, before the eyes of the bull, in front, behind.
The red capes flutter in the air, like banners torn by the wind.
The bull scatters the capeadors in every direction; with lightning-like
movements he chases one,—another thrusts a red cape under his very
eyes; the bull leaves the first victim to run after a second, but
before he can turn, some third one steps up. The bull rushes at that
one! Distance between them decreases, the horns of the bull seem to
touch the shoulder of the capeador; another twinkle of an eye and he
will be nailed to the paling,—but meanwhile the man touches the top of
the paling with his hand, and vanishes as if he had dropped through the
earth.
What has happened? The capeador has sprung into the passage extending
between the paling and the first row of seats.
The bull chooses another man; but before he has moved from his tracks
the first capeador thrusts out his head from behind the paling, like a
red Indian stealing to the farm of a settler, and springs to the arena
again. The bull pursues more and more stubbornly those unattainable
enemies, who vanish before his very horns; at last he knows where they
are hidden. He collects all his strength, anger gives him speed, and
he springs like a hunting-horse over the paling, certain that he will
crush his foes this time like worms.
But at that very moment they hurl themselves back to the arena with
the agility of chimpanzees, and the bull runs along the empty passage,
seeing no one before him.
The entire first row of spectators incline through the barrier, then
strike from above at the bull with canes, fans, and parasols. The
public are growing excited. A bull that springs over the paling
recommends himself favorably. When people in the first row applaud him
with all their might, those in the upper rows clap their hands, crying,
“Bravo el toro! muy buen! Bravo el toro!” (Bravo the bull! Very well,
bravo the bull!)
Meanwhile he comes to an open door and runs out again to the arena. On
the opposite side of it two capeadors are sitting on a step extending
around the foot of the paling, and are conversing without the slightest
anxiety. The bull rushes on them at once; he is in the middle of the
arena,—and they sit on without stopping their talk; he is ten steps
away,—they continue sitting as if they had not seen him; he is five
steps away,—they are still talking. Cries of alarm are heard here and
there in the circus; before his very horns the two daring fellows
spring, one to the right, the other to the left. The bull’s horns
strike the paling with a heavy blow. A storm of handclapping breaks
out in the circus, and at that very moment these and other capeadors
surround the bull again and provoke him with red capes.
His madness passes now into fury: he hurls himself forward, rushes,
turns on his tracks; every moment his horns give a thrust, every moment
it seems that no human power can wrest this or that man from death.
Still the horns cut nothing but air, and the red capes are glittering
on all sides; at times one of them falls to the ground, and that second
the bull in his rage drives almost all of it into the sand. But that is
not enough for him,—he must search out some victim, and reach him at
all costs.
Hence, with a deep bellow and with bloodshot eyes he starts to run
forward at random, but halts on a sudden; a new sight strikes his
eye,—that is, a picador on horseback.
The picadors had stood hitherto on their lean horses, like statues,
their lances pointing upward. The bull, occupied solely with the hated
capes, had not seen them, or if he had seen them he passed them.
Almost never does it happen that the bull begins a fight with horsemen.
The capes absorb his attention and rouse all his rage. It may be,
moreover, that the picadors are like his half-wild herdsmen in the
Sierra Morena, whom he saw at times from a distance, and before whom he
was accustomed to flee with the whole herd.
But now he has had capes enough; his fury seeks eagerly some body to
pierce and on which to sate his vengeance.
For spectators not accustomed to this kind of play, a terrible moment
is coming. Every one understands that blood must be shed soon.
The bull lowers his head and withdraws a number of paces, as if to
gather impetus; the picador turns the horse a little, with his right
side to the attacker, so the horse, having his right eye bound with a
cloth, shall not push back at the moment of attack. The lance with
a short point is lowered in the direction of the bull; he withdraws
still more. It seems to you that he will retreat altogether, and your
oppressed bosom begins to breathe with more ease.
Suddenly the bull rushes forward like a rock rolling down from a
mountain. In the twinkle of an eye you see the lance bent like a bow;
the sharp end of it is stuck in the shoulder of the bull,—and then is
enacted a thing simply dreadful: the powerful head and neck of the
furious beast is lost under the belly of the horse, his horns sink
their whole length in the horse’s intestines; sometimes the bull lifts
horse and rider, sometimes you see only the upraised hind part of the
horse, struggling convulsively in the air. Then the rider falls to the
ground, the horse tumbles upon him, and you hear the creaking of the
saddle; horse, rider, and saddle form one shapeless mass, which the
raging bull tramples and bores with his horns.
Faces unaccustomed to the spectacle grow pale. In Barcelona and Madrid
I have seen Englishwomen whose faces had become as pale as linen.
Every one in the circus for the first time has the impression of a
catastrophe. When the rider is seen rolled into a lump, pressed down
by the weight of the saddle and the horse, and the raging beast is
thrusting his horns with fury into that mass of flesh, it seems that
for the man there is no salvation, and that the attendants will raise a
mere bloody corpse from the sand.
But that is illusion. All that is done is in the programme of the
spectacle.
Under the white leather and tinsel the rider has armor which saves him
from being crushed,—he fell purposely under the horse, so that the
beast should protect him with his body from the horns. In fact the
bull, seeing before him the fleshy mass of the horse’s belly, expends
on it mainly his rage. Let me add that the duration of the catastrophe
is counted by seconds. The capeadors have attacked the bull from
every side, and he, wishing to free himself from them, must leave his
victims. He does leave them, he chases again after the capeadors; his
steaming horns, stained with blood, seem again to be just touching
the capeadors’ shoulders. They, in escaping, lead him to the opposite
side of the arena; other men meanwhile draw from beneath the horse the
picador, who is barely able to move under the weight of his armor, and
throw him over the paling.
The horse too tries to raise himself: frequently he rises for a moment,
but then a ghastly sight strikes the eye. From his torn belly hangs
a whole bundle of intestines with a rosy spleen, bluish liver, and
greenish stomach. The hapless beast tries to walk a few steps; but his
trembling feet tread on his own entrails, he falls, digs the ground
with his hoofs, shudders. Meanwhile the attendants run up, remove the
saddle and bridle, and finish the torments of the horse with one stab
of a stiletto, at the point where head and neck come together.
On the arena remains the motionless body, which, lying now on its
side, seems wonderfully flat. The intestines are carried out quickly
in a basket which is somewhat like a wash-tub, and the public clap
their hands with excitement. Enthusiasm begins to seize them: “Bravo
el toro! Bravo picador!” Eyes are flashing, on faces a flush comes,
a number of hats fly to the arena in honor of the picador. Meanwhile
“el toro,” having drawn blood once, kills a number of other horses. If
his horns are buried not in the belly but under the shoulder of the
horse, a stream of dark blood bursts onto the arena in an uncommon
quantity; the horse rears and falls backward with his rider. A twofold
danger threatens the man: the horns of the bull or, in spite of his
armor, the breaking of his neck. But, as we have said, the body of the
horse becomes a protection to the rider; hence, every picador tries
to receive battle at the edge of the arena, so as to be, as it were,
covered between the body of the horse and the paling. When the bull
withdraws, the picador advances, but only a few steps, so that the
battle never takes place in the centre.