Hundreds—thousands, it seemed—of automobiles and carriages were before us;
and as the Gloria was stopped by the stopping of others in front, a shout
rang up to the sky, from behind the high brown walls of the bull-ring. It
was the welcome which the public gave their King and his bride as they
appeared in the royal box.
We were too late to intercept Carmona; for as the royalties had taken
their places, he was certain to be already in his, with his fiancée by his
side.
Covered with dust, burnt by the sun which had shone hotly since
Manzanares, all but spent with fatigue, I leaned back in my seat. For a
moment I did not hear what Dick was saying, although I was conscious that
he spoke; but suddenly the meaning of his words broke in on my tired
brain.
“It’ll be two hours before the King and Queen leave their box and lesser
folks can move,” he said. “I’m not going to have you sitting here in the
heat and dust.”
“I must wait till they come out,” I answered dully. “It’s the only way.”
“No, it isn’t. I told you Pilar’d sent me a ticket. The card says
‘_sombra_,’ so the seat’s in the shade all right, and you’re going to have
it.”
“But you?” I said. “Pilar would never forgive me—”
“She’d never forgive me if I didn’t hand it over to you. But I’ll get in
somehow. It can cost me fifty dollars if it likes to slip past a
policeman, but I guess the price won’t stop me. I don’t mind if I stand up
in the _callijon_. I’m tall enough to see all I want, and more; and if a
bull jumps over the _barrera_, as one did at Seville the other day, my
legs are long enough to save me.”
Ropes was to stay with the car and wait until we came again. Before that
time my fate would be decided. Nothing could keep me from meeting Monica
now; and nothing should keep her from me, if she loved me. If not—if after
all I had been dreaming, why, she would be the Duchess of Carmona
to-morrow.
Under horses’ noses, between backs and bonnets of motors, we edged our way
through the dense crowd of vehicles and people massed together on the
baking plain outside the bull-ring. The circle which had been cleared for
royalty had filled again now, like a sandbank which has caved in upon
itself; but the spectacle on the other side of those steep brown walls had
begun, and the main entrance was comparatively clear.
Armed with the ticket engraved with the magic words “Corrida Real” over a
black and white sketch of a mounted picador, I was allowed to enter. But
when I had passed along a corridor and through a door which opened into a
crowded _tendido_, I heard Dick’s voice at my ear. “Only twenty-five
dollars after all,” said he, “and I can sit on the steps. Grand! We’re
next to _Tendido_ Number 9. I see Pilar; look—close to the end, front
row.”
After the silent rooms of the old Moorish house and the little _patio_
with its tinkling fountain, the brilliant light and colour, the confused
sounds and movement, the vast size of the bull-ring struck me fiercely
between the eyes, bewildering sight and sense.
Seats were valuable in the _tendidos_ for this great day, when almost
every place meant a royal favour; but we were late, and instead of moving
on to search for my twelve inches of plank or stone, I was thankful to
squeeze in close to the entrance. I did not see Colonel O’Donnel, and
though I was close to the famous _Tendido_ Number 9 (which must have held
every eye till the royalties came), I forgot to look for Pilar in that
white-and-rose garden of Spanish loveliness.
The first act of the great royal bull-fight had begun. Twenty glittering,
spangled _espadas_ marched with elastic steps into the ring, followed by
the yellow-trousered picadors on their sorry horses. The three gala
coaches carrying the distinguished amateur picadors and their ducal
patrons who graced this marriage feast, still circled picturesquely in the
arena, making a pageant of the Middle Ages. The sun blazed on nodding
ostrich plumes, gold embroidered hammercloths, dazzling liveries, powdered
heads, and splendid horses in quaint harness, rich with gold and jewels.
The three Dukes, owners of the coaches, had introduced the cavaliers they
patronized to the King-President; the bride-Queen in her white mantilla
and flowers of Spanish colours stood bowing in the glass frame of the
royal box. Gaily decorated _palcos_, _tendidos_, _grados_, tier upon tier,
half in sun, half in shadow, rose above the huge ring like so many
terraced flower-beds, dazzling with the gold lace of uniforms and the
bright tints of women’s dresses softened by white mantillas. Over all was
a fluttering of fans, like thousands of hovering butterflies; and a hum
floated up loud as the humming of a million bees, to the blue dome of sky,
where English and Spanish flags waved together.
Mechanically my eyes took in the splendid scene, as they searched for
Monica; and finding her, for a time saw nothing else.
She was in a box near the royalties, and sat between her mother and the
Duchess, with Carmona and some man whom I did not know, behind them. She
was in a white dress and white mantilla, with pink and white _malmaisons_
in her hair; and her face was pathetically pale in its frame of falling
lace. In her hand was a fan with which to shut out such horrors of the
fight as none but Spanish women born and bred dare trust themselves to
see. My place was distant and far below; yet my eyes were keen, and it
seemed to me that she looked thin and frail, though very beautiful. If for
an instant, since Dick broke the news to me, I had doubted the loyalty of
her heart, the sight of her sad young face would have driven doubt away. I
was more than ever certain that in promising to marry Carmona she thought
to save me from punishment threatened by him.
Neither he nor she guessed that I was near. But where did she believe me
to be? Perhaps Carmona had said that for her sake he had let me fly danger
after stabbing him in the cathedral, by hurrying back to England.
The Duke was leaning forward to speak to her. She did not look up at him,
but let her eyes listlessly travel over the vast audience. I thought they
lingered on _Tendido_ Number 9, draped with flowered shawls of Andalucía,
and crowded with pretty women. Suddenly she blushed, and turned away. I
looked where she had looked, and knew what had brought the blood to her
cheeks. Pilar, in rose colour, with a white mantilla and the orthodox
_malmaisons_, of pink and crimson, was gazing up at the Carmona box, an
imploring expression on her face. Pilar, too, was pale and thin. I
realized more and more that nearly six weeks had been struck out of my
life.
Each of the three coaches had in its turn stopped under the royal box,
while a ducal patron presented his cavalier to the young King and his
bride; now, the ring was being cleared as the magnificent amateur picadors
mounted their horses, which had been led round by squires in the quaint
dress of 1630. One of four dignified _alguaziles_ in black velvet and lace
doffed his plumed hat to the King as President of the fight, asking the
key of the bull’s cell. Down it flashed, while the music stopped as if
awed into silence, and the _alguazil_ spurred his stallion across the
arena to fling into the _montera_ of _el Buñolero_, janitor of the bull
cells, the key he had received.
“Vivillo is fifth bull,” I said to myself, repeating Dick’s words; and
there, too, was his name on the programme of the fight. Pilar’s favourite
had still a little time to draw the breath of life, stamping in the gloom
of his narrow _toril_. Not yet had that untamed neck of his been stung by
the rosetted dart flaunting his owner’s colours; and much was to happen in
the arena before Vivillo’s brave beauty would call for the clapping of
twice thirteen thousand hands.
First, the three noble amateurs, with their long sharp javelins, must each
in turn play picador with grace to please a queen-bride, and save his
horse’s sides from goring horns. Then, when three bulls had died according
to ancient, chivalrous custom (if the cavalier’s skill served), without
slaughter of horses, the _corrida_ would go on in ordinary Spanish fashion
of to-day, with all its sensational moments and its tragedies,
until—Vivillo’s time came.
As for me, I must sit until the leave-taking of the royalties and royal
guests should empty also the Carmona box. I wondered, as the first bull
rushed into the ring, whether the King and Queen would still be in their
places when the door should open for Vivillo, or whether their departure
would rob Carmona of the spectacle of his mean revenge. I hoped it would,
for I could not bear that he should see the suffering he had inflicted on
Pilar for my sake, and revel in it. Still, when he went I must go too; and
I felt vaguely that I ought to be near Pilar—my loyal sister Pilar—during
the act which would be tragical for her.
As Dick said, there were brilliant moments in the bull-fight; and the
amateurs acquitted themselves in a way to deserve the enthusiasm of the
crowd. The beautiful young Queen threw a jewel to each _torero_ who
finished a bull after the javelins of the cavaliers had done their work;
and when the last of the brave trio had bowed himself out of the ring,
began that phase of the sport which Spaniards know and love. The
blindfolded horses trotted in, ridden by professional picadors with
indifferent, sullen faces; and then a stir of excitement ran from tier to
tier of the audience, as a breeze blows over a wheat-field. The first part
had been but a pretty play; now was coming the real thing, with the best
bulls, and the best _espadas_ of Spain.
The bride in her white mantilla looked down at her fan, and counted the
gilded ivory sticks, when the first bull charged the first horse. She, the
Queen of Spain, must not seem to flinch, though her English eyes had never
seen such crimson sights as these. This was the national sport; she must
learn to understand that when men yelled, and even women cried “_Buena
vara!_” it was not with joy because a horse’s side was torn, but because a
picador had made the perfect thrust. She must seem to love what the people
loved, if she wished them to love her; but not far off sat another young
girl in white, who had no such compelling obligations.
Monica, warned beforehand perhaps, when she was forced to come, put up her
fan whenever a bull rushed towards a horse, and would no doubt have kept
it there had not her mother spoken to her more than once, peremptorily. As
for Pilar, though she did not lift her fan, she seemed to see nothing, for
she sat with her head bowed, only starting and looking up when the horn
sounded for a new bull.
At last there was no more question as to whether the King and Queen would
stay to see Vivillo play his part. The fourth bull had been dragged away
dead by the team of tasselled mules, and the piercing blast, which had
grown to sound tragic in my ears, summoned Vivillo, all unknowing, to his
fate. And the royalties kept their seats, though the afternoon waned, and
shadow—like the creeping shadow of death—darkened two-thirds of the arena.
So keen was my sympathy with Pilar that I felt my throat contract and my
mouth go dry. So must it be with her at this moment which called her brave
favourite to his death; so, like mine, only faster and more thickly, must
her heart be beating.
Could she, after all, bear the ordeal? Would she not turn and hurry out
before the first picador drew the blood she had tried so hard to save? But
no; she sat still, her eyes large, her face blanched, and one hand twisted
in the folds of her lace mantilla as it rose and fell on her breast.
Before the dead was well out of the ring, and his red track sanded, the
door of the _toril_ was thrown open for the fifth bull, said never to be a
coward. It was a compliment to Carmona and to Vivillo to be chosen for
this position on the programme, since it has become a proverb that the
pick of the _corrida_ should be fifth on the list. It was also a
compliment to Carmona that the King should wait to see how his Vivillo
would die.
The _buñolero_ sprang back as he opened the door, retiring more hastily
than was his wont into the space between the barriers out of the bull’s
way. It was as if he, too, expected the new-comer to be something beyond
the ordinary in ferocity or cunning; for Carmona’s bulls, like those of
the Muira breed, are famed for their terrible habit of ignoring the cloak
and charging at the body of the man who holds it.
Some bulls had rushed into the arena and blindly attacked the first object
which came within their dazed vision; but my heart had time to beat twice
before that noble form, which I had last seen in peaceful pasture, deigned
to show itself at the dark exit of the _toril_.
It was as if Vivillo wished to prove how he scorned the puny prick of that
fish-hook dart hidden by a rosette of green and purple ribbon, supreme
indifference to the strange scene which burst upon eyes accustomed for
long to darkness, and haughty superiority to thirst and hunger which
irritated weaker animals to frenzy. No one, seeing the great bull stand
with his head up, questioning, surprised, could have mistaken his attitude
for cowardice. There was something ominous, even terrible, in his pause;
and it gave the waiting audience time to appreciate the magnificence of
his proportions, the length and dagger-keenness of his horns, the rippling
of the muscles under the brown satin of his skin, in the great chest and
lean flanks.
“This is not a bull,—it is a mountain,” shouted a voice; and other voices
praised Vivillo’s perfections, so soon to vanish off the earth. “Grandly
armed!” “He would face a battalion!” “Let Fuentes look out for himself!”
For Fuentes, best _espada_ left in Spain, bravest fighter of bulls
according to the classic methods, was to give Vivillo the death stroke,
when picadores and _banderilleros_ had done with him.
The yells of the vast multitude in an instant changed the bull’s proud
astonishment to fury. He seemed to realize that this new world, so
different from the old sweet, green one, was a world of enemies, every
soul against him, and he was ready to fight them all to the death. He
neither pawed the sand nor bellowed, for these are puerile betrayals of
temper to which the noblest bulls do not descend. Like a tornado he swept
across the ring, killed a horse with a single thrust, sent the picador
crashing against the _barrera_; and quick as a wild cat, strong as an
African lion, wheeled to lift another animal and its rider on his horns.
Half the length of the arena he trotted, upholding both, whilst the
audience rose to him and yelled admiration of his savage strength.
“This is like the good old days. You don’t see such a bull in ten
thousand,” men said to each other, as Vivillo flung the dead horse on the
sand, tumbling the picador over the _barrera_ into the _callijon_, and
raced off gamely to a third duel.
When he had killed three horses (knowing no distinction between their
innocence and man’s cruelty, after his shoulders had felt the lance) he
was apparently as fresh as when he left the _toril_. At this stage of the
death drama most bulls would be breathing hard; but though the brown
velvet of Vivillo’s neck was stained dark crimson, neither fatigue nor
pain made his strong heart labour.
More horses were given him, to die as others had died, all save one, which
the bull refused to touch because it was of the colour he knew and was
friendly with at home. It was led at last unscathed; but Vivillo had now
six horses to his credit, and his popularity with the audience had already
risen far beyond that of his predecessors. Still, his activity, instead of
diminishing, seemed to grow with the rising fever of his fury.
In ordinary cases the trumpet would now have sounded for the second act,
dismissing the picadors and summoning the _banderilleros_; but Vivillo in
his present condition was too formidable a foe to be teased by the bravest
with barbed, beribboned darts; and “_Caballos—caballos!_” was the cry.
Four more sacrificial beasts were brought, and he dealt with all, so
nearly goring one picador that an _espada_, dashing to the rescue, was
raced to the barrier, and had his stocking crimsoned as he vaulted over
it.
Vivillo’s list of victims had now swelled to ten, and though he had
accepted thirty-three _varas_, or thrusts of the lance, his great
shoulders scarcely shuddered under the red rain of his blood. Still, the
first act could not be further prolonged. The sharp, cruel blast of the
cornet gave the signal for the second to begin.
Dick and I had not spoken, and I dared not look towards Pilar. As the
crowd shouted an imperious demand for the great Fuentes to come into the
ring as _banderillero_, it seemed to me that centuries were swept away by
their wild voices; that this was not the bull-ring of Madrid, but the
Coliseum of Rome.
Vivillo waited, his head up, undaunted; and though his face and attitude
were menacing, the brown eyes, set wide apart, were radiantly innocent. He
seemed a creature made up of nature’s best, a product of blue sky, sweet
meadow, and pure air; of his kind, perfection. Did he think now of his old
home in the rich pasture-land, and the tinkle of the friendly _cabestros’_
bells? If he did, the home-sick thought did not make him fear to face what
was to come. Never once had he followed the example of two or three among
his predecessors, and turned towards the shut door of the _toril_ as if
for refuge. Always he had faced the enemy; and now he rushed to play with
his horns for the glittering _banderillas_ which waited for his shoulders.
Fuentes was consenting to the wish of the public, but two ordinary
_banderilleros_ were to precede him. The famous _matador_, who was
afterwards to kill this most popular bull of the day, would plant the last
pair of the six.
The first man, sparkling in satin and silver, lifted on high his two
barb-tipped sticks, gaily ornamented with tinsel paper, and called Vivillo
from a distance. His mocking voice infuriated the bull, who rushed upon
him; then, as he swayed lightly aside, it was all he could do to save
himself from the great animal’s sudden, swift turn, without placing either
of his _banderillas_. Again and again the play was repeated, but the
audience were saying that Vivillo was becoming crafty as Shylock. At last
one gay-coloured stick—“half a pair”—hung from Vivillo’s shoulders; twice
and three times the attempt was made before the “pair” was complete; and
the second _banderillero_ succeeded no better. But as Fuentes entered the
ring, condescending to play at the game of which he was once master, there
went up a roar of applause. Fuentes never failed; and that trick of
his—planting both feet on a handkerchief, nor deigning to move save for a
swaying of the body while planting the two barbs—was famous, a sight worth
seeing when the bull was even half as good as this. But for once even
Fuentes’ brilliant tactics were at a loss. Vivillo had brains, and used
them. He used his eyes, too, before charging, which not one out of five
hundred bulls can do; and if Fuentes played with him, he played also, a
game whose zest came from a hint of pressing danger. Once it seemed that
Vivillo would be over the _barrera_, in the _callijon_, and there was a
stampede of all the onlookers there. Again he threatened to demolish the
wooden barrier with his horns, and there was a wilder scramble than
before. But the _banderillas_ were planted at last, and the blood on
Vivillo’s brown shoulders lay like a crimson cloak. The great round of
applause was as much for the bull as for the _banderillero_; and every
face in the audience was tense with excitement as the horn sounded for the
death scene. With such a king of the arena anything might happen. It was
well that a master like Fuentes was the _espada_ who would deal with him,
or he might deal with the _espada_.
And so it was to end in the usual tragedy, and after a few more brilliant
moments of play the brave heart of the beast must feel the sword. I had
known, of course, that it must be so, and yet until now it had not seemed
a cold certainty. Perhaps I had vaguely hoped that Vivillo would vault the
_barrera_, and refuse to be coaxed back again; but, even if he had, he
could not have saved himself, and might have had to die some death less
glorious than by the _espada’s_ blade.
Fuentes was bowing under the royal box, asking the King-President’s
gracious permission to kill Vivillo as so noble a bull should be killed.
Then, sword and red _muleta_ in hand, he went to meet Vivillo, an alert
look on his face; for this was no common _res_, but a brave and wary
foeman, most worthy of his steel.
The deep silence of the thirteen thousand spectators was as great a
compliment as could be paid to man or bull, and Fuentes knew it. He knew
that the audience expected such play, before the death stroke, as had not
been seen in Spain for years, and he did not mean to disappoint them.
Still marvellously fresh, considering his doughty feats and loss of blood,
Vivillo showed no distress. But he had become visibly thoughtful, as if
realizing at last that this was no wild sport, but the end of all things.
Fuentes waved off his men—“_fuera gente_,” knowing that this sign of
serene courage would thrill thirteen thousand hearts, already warm for
him, and adjusted his red _muleta_ to the small, spiked stick which
secured it. Then, graceful as a wave which rears its crest to
breaking-point, he moved towards the bull, wary yet defiant.
Vivillo, as if to prove the power and fulness of his lungs, bellowed for
the first time since he had entered the arena, as he hurled his dark body
upon the _torero_, his huge head down. The _muleta_ met his horns and
smothered them, to be swept up and away, while Fuentes stood motionless,
smiling. But to the agitation of the audience, instead of following the
_muleta’s_ scarlet wave, Vivillo halted with horns lowered to gore, and
charged the man.
Lightly Fuentes stepped aside, tempting the bull again with the _muleta_;
but Vivillo would have none of it. Then came such give and take between
man’s skill and brute’s ferocious cunning that the audience lost all
self-consciousness in watching.
Nearer and nearer Fuentes and Vivillo drew to the barrier. Now they were
close to _Tendido_ Number 9, and mechanically I lifted my eyes from the
arena to find Pilar. She was no longer to be seen there, and I thought
that she had fled before the death. But as Vivillo made a lunge which all
but caught Fuentes, a door in the barrier flashed open, flashed shut, and
a girl stood in the ring.
It was Pilar in her white dress and lace mantilla. She had left her seat,
gone down alone to the entrance of the _tendido_, had waited her chance,
and slipped into the arena. But she could hide no longer. At sight of the
girl’s figure, white against the dark red barrier, a wild, warning shout
went up. Two or three of Fuentes’ _cuadrillo_ ran towards her, but with a
passionate gesture she motioned them off, holding out her arms to the
royal box.
“Pardon, pardon for Vivillo, the brave bull!” she cried. And I knew now
that this was what she had meant from the first. If Vivillo were brave, if
he won the respect of the King and the crowd by supreme strength and
courage, she had hoped to save him as other bulls had been saved from time
to time, since, in earliest days, Spain had followed Roman customs. I had
read of those pardoned bulls and heard of them from my father—one hero,
may be, in ten years. For this she had come; for this she had sat watching
Vivillo’s blood flow, waiting until he had proved himself so brave that
thirteen thousand voices might join hers in asking the bull’s life of the
King-President.
At sound of his name, cried in those dear, familiar tones as if calling
him from across the valley of death, Vivillo raised his head, turned his
back for the first time upon the enemy, and bounded towards the girl.
Horrified, the audience shrieked at her, at him, waving their hands,
throwing hats into the ring in front of the bull as if to distract him
from a helpless victim. But they need not have feared. His sides heaving
under their mantle of blood, Vivillo’s rush subsided to a trot, as in the
home-pasture far away. Half-blinded with fury as he had been a moment ago,
the kind young face and voice loved by him since he was a calf at his
mother’s side brought Vivillo back to himself. Hope must have quickened in
his heart as he heard that call, which in old days had meant choice food
and sweet caresses. It was the call of life, and he answered it with
gratitude.
[It was the call of life, and he answered it with gratitude.]