the horseman at last, were it not for the capeadors. They press on
the bull, draw away his attention, rush with unheard of boldness
against his rage, saving each moment the life of some participant in
the fight. Once I saw an espada, retreating before the raging beast,
stumble against the head of a dead horse and fall on his back; death
inevitable was hanging over him, the horns of the bull were just ready
to pass through his breast, when suddenly between that breast and the
horns the red capes were moving, and the bull flew after the capes.
It may be said that were it not for that flock of chimpanzees waving
red capes, the work of the picadors would be impossible, and at every
representation as many of them as of horses would perish.
It happens rarely that a picador can stop a bull at the point of a
lance. This takes place only when the bull advances feebly, or the
picador is gifted with gigantic strength of arms, surpassing the
measure of men. I saw two such examples in Madrid, after which came a
hurricane of applause for the picador.
But usually the bull kills horses like flies; and he is terrible when,
covered with sweat, glittering in the sun, with a neck bleeding from
lances and his horns painted red, he runs around the arena, as if in
the drunkenness of victory. A deep bellow comes from his mighty lungs;
at one moment he scatters capeadors, at another he halts suddenly
over the body of a horse, now motionless, and avenges himself on it
terribly,—he raises it on his horns, carries it around the arena,
scattering drops of stiff blood on spectators in the first row; then
he casts it again on the stained sand and pierces it a second time. It
seems to him, evidently, that the spectacle is over, and that it has
ended in his triumph.
But the spectacle has barely passed through one-half of its course.
Those picadors whose horses have survived the defeat, ride out, it is
true, from the arena; but in place of them run in with jumps, and amid
shouts, nimble banderilleros. Every one of them in his upraised hands
has two arrows, each an ell long, ornamented, in accordance with the
coat of the man, with a blue, a green, or a red ribbon, and ending
with a barbed point, which once it is under the skin will not come out
of it. These men begin to circle about the bull, shaking the arrows,
stretching toward him the points, threatening and springing up toward
him. The bull rolls his bloodshot eyes, turns his head to the right,
to the left, looking to see what new kind of enemies these are. “Ah,”
says he, evidently, to himself, “you have had little blood, you want
more—you shall have it!” and selecting the man, he rushes at him.
But what happens? The first man, instead of fleeing, runs toward the
bull,—runs past his head, as if he wished to avoid him; but in that
same second something seems hanging in the air like a rainbow: the man
is running away empty-handed with all the strength of his legs, toward
the paling, and in the neck of the bull are two colored arrows.
After a moment another pair are sticking in him, and then a third
pair,—six altogether, with three colors. The neck of the beast seems
now as if ornamented with a bunch of flowers, but those flowers have
the most terrible thorns of any on earth. At every movement of the
bull, at every turn of his head, the arrows move, shake, fly from one
side of his neck to the other, and with that every point is boring into
the wound. Evidently from pain the animal is falling into the madness
of rage; but the more he rushes the greater his pain. Hitherto the
bull was the wrong-doer, now they wrong him, and terribly. He would
like to free himself from those torturing arrows; but there is no power
to do that. He is growing mad from mere torment, and is harassed to the
utmost. Foam covers his nostrils, his tongue is protruding; he bellows
no longer, but in the short intervals between the wild shouts, the
clapping, and the uproar of the spectators, you may hear his groans,
which have an accent almost human. The capeadors harassed him, every
picador wounded him, now the arrows are working into his wounds; thirst
and heat complete his torments.
It is his luck that he did not get another kind of “banderille.”
If—which, however, happens rarely—the bull refuses to attack the
horses and has killed none, the enraged public rise, and in the circus
something in the nature of a revolution sets in. Men with their canes
and women with their parasols and fans turn to the royal box; wild,
hoarse voices of cruel cavaliers, and the shrill ones of senoritas,
shout only one word: “Fuego! fuego! fuego!” (Fire, fire, fire!)
The representatives of the government withhold their consent for a long
time. Hence “Fuego!” is heard ever more threateningly, and drowns all
other voices; the threat rises to such an intensity as to make us think
that the public may pass at any instant from words to a mad deed of
some kind. Half an hour passes: “Fuego! fuego!” There is no help for
it. The signal is given, and the unfortunate bull gets a banderille
which when thrust into his neck blazes up that same instant.
The points wound in their own way, and in their own way rolls of smoke
surround the head of the beast, the rattle of fireworks stuns him;
great sparks fall into his wounds, small congreve rockets burst under
his skin; the smell of burnt flesh and singed hair fill the arena.
In truth, cruelty can go no further; but the delight of the public
rises now to its zenith. The eyes of women are covered with mist from
excitement, every breast is heaving with pleasure, their heads fall
backward, and between their open moist lips are gleaming white teeth.
You would say that the torment of the beast is reflected in the nerves
of those women with an answering degree of delight. Only in Spain can
such things be seen. There is in that frenzy something hysterical,
something which recalls certain Phœnician mysteries, performed on the
altar of Melitta.
The daring and skill of the banderilleros surpass every measure. I
saw one of them who had taken his place in the middle of the arena in
an arm-chair; he had stretched his legs carelessly before him,—they
were in rose-colored stockings,—he crossed them, and holding above his
head a banderille, was waiting for the bull. The bull rushed at him
straightway; the next instant, I saw only that the banderille was
fastened in the neck, and the bull was smashing the chair with mad
blows of his head. In what way the man had escaped between the chair
and the horns, I know not,—that is the secret of his skill. Another
banderillero, at the same representation, seizing the lance of a
picador at the moment of attack, supported himself with it, and sprang
over the back and whole length of the bull. The beast was dumb-founded,
could not understand where his victim had vanished.
A multitude of such wonders of daring and dexterity are seen at each
representation.
One bull never gets more than three pairs of banderilles. When the
deed is accomplished, a single trumpet is heard in the orchestra with
a prolonged and sad note,—and the moment the most exciting and tragic
in the spectacle approaches. All that was done hitherto was only
preparation for this. Now a fourth act of the drama is played.
On the arena comes out the “matador” himself,—that is, the espada.
He is dressed like the other participants in the play, only more
elaborately and richly. His coat is all gold and tinsel: costly laces
adorn his breast. He may be distinguished by this too,—that he comes
out bareheaded always. His black hair, combed back carefully, ends on
his shoulders in a small tail. In his left hand he holds a red cloth
flag, in his right a long Toledo sword. The capeadors surround him as
soldiers their chief, ready at all times to save him in a moment of
danger, and he approaches the bull, collected, cool, but terrible and
triumphant.
In all the spectators the hearts are throbbing violently, and a moment
of silence sets in.
In Barcelona and Madrid I saw the four most eminent espadas in Spain,
and in truth I admit, that besides their cool blood, dexterity, and
training, they have a certain hypnotic power, which acts on the animal
and fills him with mysterious alarm. The bull simply bears himself
differently before the espada from what he did before the previous
participants in the play. It is not that he withdraws before him; on
the contrary, he attacks him with greater insistence perhaps. But
in former attacks, in addition to rage, there was evident a certain
desire. He hunted, he scattered, he killed; he was as if convinced that
the whole spectacle was for him, and that the question was only in
this, that he should kill. Now, at sight of that cold, awful man with a
sword in his hand, he convinces himself that death is there before him,
that he must perish, that on that bloody sand the ghastly deed will be
accomplished in some moments.
This mental state of the beast is so evident that every man can divine
it. Perhaps even this, by its tragic nature, becomes the charm of the
spectacle. That mighty organism, simply seething with a superabundance
of vitality, of desire, of strength, is unwilling to die, will not
consent to die for anything in the world! and death, unavoidable,
irresistible, is approaching; hence unspeakable sorrow, unspeakable
despair, throbs through every movement of the bull. He hardly notices
the capeadors, whom before he pursued with such venom; he attacks the
espada himself, but he attacks with despair completely evident.
The espada does not kill him at once, for that is not permitted by the
rules of the play. He deceives the bull with movements of the flag,
himself he pushes from the horns by turns slight and insignificant; he
waits for the moment, withdraws, advances. Evidently he wishes to sate
the public; now, this very instant, he’ll strike, now he lowers his
sword again.
The struggle extends over the whole arena; it glitters in the sun, is
dark in the shade. In the circus applause is heard, now general, now
single from the breast of some señorita who is unable to restrain her
enthusiasm. At one moment bravos are thundering; at another, if the
espada has retreated awkwardly or given a false blow, hissing rends the
ear. The bull has now given some tens of blows with his horns,—always
to the flag; the public are satisfied; here and there voices are
crying: “Mata el toro! mata el toro!” (Kill the bull! kill the bull!)
And now a flash comes so suddenly that the eye cannot follow it; then
the group of fighters scatter, and in the neck of the bull, above the
colored banderilles, is seen the red hilt of the sword. The blade has
gone through the neck, and, buried two thirds of its length, is planted
in the lungs of the beast.
The espada is defenceless; the bull attacks yet, but he misleads him
in the old fashion with the flag, he saves himself from the blows with
half turns.
Meanwhile it seems that people have gone wild in the circus. No longer
shouts, but one bellow and howl are heard, around, from above to below.
All are springing from their seats. To the arena are flying bouquets,
cigar-cases, hats, fans. The fight is approaching its end.
A film is coming over the eyes of the bull; from his mouth are hanging
stalactites of bloody saliva; his groan becomes hoarse. Night is
embracing his head. The glitter and heat of the sun concern him no
longer. He attacks yet, but as it were in a dream. It is darker and
darker for him. At last he collects the remnant of his consciousness,
backs to the paling, totters for a moment, kneels on his fore feet,
drops on his hind ones, and begins to die.
The espada looks at him no longer; he has his eyes turned to the
spectators, from whom hats and cigar-cases are flying, thick as hail;
he bows; capeadors throw back to the spectators their hats.
Meanwhile a mysterious man dressed in black climbs over the paling in
silence and puts a stiletto in the bull, where the neckbone meets the
skull; with a light movement he sinks it to the hilt and turns it.
That is the blow of mercy, after which the head of the bull drops on
its side.
All the participants pass out. For a moment the arena is empty; on it
are visible only the body of the bull and the eviscerated carcasses of
four or five horses, now cold.
But after a while rush in with great speed men with mules, splendidly
harnessed in yellow and red; the men attach these mules to the bodies
and draw them around so that the public may enjoy the sight once again,
then with speed equally great they go out through the doors of the
arena.
But do not imagine that the spectacle is ended with one bull. After the
first comes a second, after the second a third, and so on. In Madrid
six bulls perish at a representation. In Barcelona, at the time of the
fair, eight were killed.
Do not think either that the public are wearied by the monotony of the
fight. To begin with, the fight itself is varied with personal episodes
caused by temperament, the greater or less rage of the bull, the
greater or less skill of the men in their work; secondly, that public
is never annoyed at the sight of blood and death.
The “toreadores” (though in Spain no participant in the fight is called
a toreador), thanks to their dexterity, rarely perish; but if that
happens, the spectacle is considered as the more splendid, and the bull
receives as much applause as the espada. Since, however, accidents
happen to people sometimes, at every representation, besides the
doctor, there is present a priest with the sacrament. That spiritual
person is not among the audience, of course; but he waits in a special
room, to which the wounded are borne in case of an accident.
Whether in time, under the influence of civilization, bull-fights will
be abandoned in Spain, it is difficult to say. The love of those
fights is very deep in the nature of the Spanish people. The higher and
intelligent ranks of society take part in them gladly. The defenders
of these spectacles say that in substance they are nothing more than
hazardous hunting, which answers to the knightly character of the
nation. But hunting is an amusement, not a career; in hunting there is
no audience,—only actors; there are no throngs of women, half fainting
from delight at the spectacle of torment and death; finally, in hunting
no one exposes his life for hire.
Were I asked if the spectacle is beautiful, I should say yes; beautiful
especially in its surroundings,—that sun, those shades, those thousands
of fans at sight of which it seems as though a swarm of butterflies had
settled on the seats of the circus, those eyes, those red moist lips.
Beautiful is that incalculable quantity of warm and strong tones, that
mass of colors, gold, tinsel, that inflamed sand, from which heat is
exhaling,—finally those proofs of bold daring, and that terror hanging
over the play. All that is more beautiful by far than the streams of
blood and the torn bellies of the horses.
He, however, who knows these spectacles only from description, and
sees them afterwards with his own eyes, cannot but think: what a
wonderful people for whom the highest amusement and delight is the
sight of a thing so awful, so absolute and inevitable as death. Whence
comes that love? Is it simply a remnant of Middle-age cruelty; or
is it that impulse which is roused in many persons, for instance at
sight of a precipice, to go as near as possible to the brink, to touch
that curtain, behind which begin the mystery and the pit?—that is a
wonderful passion, which in certain souls becomes irresistible.
Of the Spaniards it may be said, that in the whole course of their
history they have shown a tendency to extremes. Few people have been
so merciless in warfare; none have turned a religion of love into such
a gloomy and bloody worship; finally, no other nation amuses itself by
playing with death.
[Illustration]
_Other works by Henryk Sienkiewicz._
With Fire and Sword. An Historical Novel of Poland and Russia. By HENRYK
SIENKIEWICZ. Translated from the original by Jeremiah Curtin. Crown 8vo.
Cloth, $2.00. Library edition, 2 vols., crown 8vo, cloth, gilt top,
$3.00.
The Deluge. An Historical Novel of Poland, Sweden, and Russia, a
sequel to “With Fire and Sword,” translated from the Polish of Henryk
Sienkiewicz by Jeremiah Curtin. With photogravure portrait of the author
and map of the country at the period of the stories. 2 vols. Crown 8vo.
Cloth, $3.00.
Every one should read these remarkable books. They have received the
highest praise everywhere. The distinguished writer, Charles Dudley
Warner, in a review of “With Fire and Sword” in “Harper’s Monthly
Magazine,” says that the author has given, in the character of Zagloba,
a new type to the literature of fiction.
Of these extraordinary romances it has been truly said that _action in
the field has never before been described in any language with such a
marvellous expression of energy_. The comparisons which have suggested
themselves to American critics couple the Polish novelist with such
names as Scott, Dumas, Schiller, Cervantes, Shakespeare, and Homer. The
character of Zagloba has been described as “a curious and fascinating
combination of Falstaff and Ulysses.”
“The only modern romance with which ‘Fire and Sword’ can be compared,”
says the “New York Tribune,” “is ‘The Three Musketeers.’”
_A new Historical Romance by Henryk Sienkiewicz, completing “With Fire
and Sword” and “The Deluge.”_
Pan Michael. An Historical Novel of Poland, the Ukraine, and Turkey. A
sequel to “With Fire and Sword” and “The Deluge.” Translated by JEREMIAH
CURTIN. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $2.00.
This great historical romance completes the remarkable series of
historical novels by Sienkiewicz, begun by “With Fire and Sword” and
continued in “The Deluge.” These powerful works have been received
everywhere with enthusiastic commendation, and the publication of
the final story of the trilogy can only add to and continue their
popularity.
_Without Dogma. A new novel by the author of “With Fire and Sword.”_
Without Dogma. A Novel of Modern Poland. By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ.
Translated from the Polish by IZA YOUNG. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.50.
A psychological novel of modern thought, and of great power. Its
utter contrast to the author’s historical romances exhibits in a most
striking manner the remarkable variety of his genius.
A triumph of psychology.—_Chicago Times._
Belongs to a high order of fiction.—_New York Times._
A masterly piece of writing.—_Pittsburg Bulletin._
Intellectually the novel is a masterpiece.—_Christian Union._
Emphatically a human document.—_The Boston Beacon._
Displays the most remarkable genius.—_Boston Home Journal._
Both absorbing and instructive.—_Boston Courier._
Yanko the Musician and Other Stories.
By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin.
Illustrated by Edmund H. Garrett. 16mo. White and gold. $1.25.
This charming volume contains the following stories of two continents
by the popular author of “With Fire and Sword,” “The Deluge,” etc.:
I. Yanko the Musician; II. The Lighthouse Keeper of Aspinwall; III.
From the Diary of a Tutor in Poznan; IV. A Comedy of Errors, a Sketch
of American Life; V. Bartek the Victor. “Yanko the Musician,” the
initial story of the volumes, won the author his fame. In a review of
Sienkiewicz in Blackwood’s Magazine, this beautiful story was fittingly
described as _a little poem in prose, absolutely perfect of its kind_.
“Bartek the Victor” is the story of a hero of the Franco-Prussian war.
The Blackwood reviewer, writing of it, says: “The battle of Gravelotte
is so admirably described that it is difficult to believe the writer
not to have been actively engaged in it himself.”
The stories are deeply intellectual.—_Philadelphia Public Ledger._
The tale of Yanko has wonderful pathos.—_Chicago Herald._
Exquisite in technical expression.—_Boston Beacon._
There is an outdoor freshness about these tales, and an impulse which,
like Polish music, sets one’s blood a-tingling.—_New Haven Register._
They are full of powerful interest.—_Boston Courier._
The simple story of the lighthouse man is a little masterpiece.—_New
York Times._
The admirers of the distinguished Polish novelist will not be
disappointed in this volume of short stories, which is beautifully
illustrated by Edmund H. Garrett, and daintily bound.—_Boston Home
Journal._
These stories show that he touches nothing without mastery.—_Christian
Register._
The title story is a strangely simple, pathetic story of a weakling
child with a passion for music. The careful, loving treatment of the
slight plot makes it, even in translation, a beautiful story.—_Chicago
Figaro._
Five stories, all conceived with great power and written with masterly
skill.—_Boston Gazette._
The Blind Musician.Translated from the Russian of VLADIMIR KOROLENKO by
Aline Delano. With Introduction by George Kennan, and illustrations by
Edmund H. Garrett. 16mo. Cloth, gilt top, $1.25.
This unique and exquisite little book is less a story than a
wonderfully faithful and delicate study in psychology. Though told in
prose, it is in essence a poem. The volume is in _edition de luxe_,
with dainty and charming bits of vignette illustration and a perfection
of finish which gives refined pleasure to the touch as well as to the
eye.—_Boston Transcript._
A Woman of Shawmut. A Romance of Colonial Times. (Boston, 1640.) By
EDMUND JANES CARPENTER. With 12 charming full-page illustrations and
numerous chapter-headings from pen-and-ink drawings by F. T. Merrill.
16mo. Cloth, extra, gilt top, $1.25.
Has qualities placing it _among the prose poems of recent
literature_.—_Boston Journal._
Clever pictures of old Boston.—_Boston Transcript._
A decidedly artistic specimen of bookmaking.—_Boston Gazette._
Carine, a Story of Sweden. By LOUIS ÉNAULT. Translated from the French
by Linda De Kowalewska. With thirty-nine Illustrations by Louis K.
Harlow. 16mo. Cloth, gilt top, $1.25. Uniform with “A Woman of Shawmut.”
Swedish life in all its varying domestic aspects, as seen from intimacy
with cultivated and refined people, is _revealed with exquisite
fidelity_; and the portrayal of Carine’s problematic character is
elaborated in a veritably artistic manner. _The whole story has the
idyllic touch._—_Boston Beacon._
Lyrics and Legends. By NORA PERRY, author of “After the Ball,” “A Flock
of Girls and Their Friends,” etc. Illustrated by Edmund H. Garrett.
16mo. Cloth, gilt top, $1.25.
Many of the songs have already sung themselves into the hearts of those
who love beautiful thought in beautiful form.—_Public Opinion._
LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., Publishers.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] The Polish word for angel is _aniol_, distorted by the old woman
into _jamiol_, which is pronounced _yamyol_.
* * * * * *
Transcriber’s note:
Obvious errors were corrected.