“But, my dear Catalina—why, of course, I cannot go—the idea is
preposterous—”
“Now you are talking by the book. Why was Europe made except for the
American to play in and refresh himself for the same old duties at home?
And for a man of your intelligence to balk at a bull-fight—”
“It isn’t that I exactly balk—I mean I am not squeamish—and I could look
away at the worst part—but I do not approve of bull-fights, and think it
wrong to lend my countenance—”
“The bull-fight will go on just the same; and no one race is good enough
to condemn the customs of another. See the world impartially and then go
your own gait. Besides, you have come to study Spain, and how can you
pretend to know it unless you see it at its most characteristic
amusement? Don’t look at the arena if you had rather not—but think of
the opportunity to see Spain en masse at its very worst!”
“There is much in what you say, but—great Heaven!—suppose it ever were
known in America that I had been to a bull-fight! I should lose the
confidence of a million people—I might be driven out of the Church—”
“There aren’t a dozen Americans in Toledo—and the bull-ring holds five
thousand people. You can sit in the back of the box. No one will be
looking at anything but the bull-fight, anyhow.”
Mr. Moulton drew a long sigh. He wanted very much to go to the
bull-fight; and away from his family and alone with Catalina—whom he
could never hope to influence—in this holiday crowd of dark, eager faces
he felt almost emancipated and reckless. Over was ahead with the Señora
Villéna and her daughter, and they were slowly making their way up the
Calle de la Puerta Llana towards the Plaza Ayuntamiento. They reached it
in a moment. It was so crowded with cabs and large, open carry-alls,
waiting to take people to the bull-ring, that there was little room for
foot-passengers. The carry-alls were very attractive with their six
mules apiece, hung with bells and decorated with worsted fringe, and Mr.
Moulton sighed again.
Before the archbishop’s palace a cab awaited the Señora Villéna. It held
but three seats, and she turned with polite hesitation to Mr. Moulton
and Captain Over, as they all stood, united at last, beside it.
“I am so sorry,” she said, “but I fear—”
“We are going in one of those omnibuses,” said Catalina, promptly. “I am
simply dying to go that way—with the crowd; and of course you will not
object, señora, so long as my cousin is with me.”
The señora smiled, very much relieved. “Bueno,” she said. “And I will
await you at the entrance to the sombra.”
“You are a little wretch,” said Over as Mr. Moulton, flushed and
excited, tucked the señora and her daughter into their cab.
“It won’t hurt him, and he will be sure to let it out to Cousin
Miranda.”
“Oh, I see!” He laughed and went to the emptiest of the rapidly filling
carry-alls to secure their seats. Catalina followed immediately, holding
Mr. Moulton firmly by the arm. But that beacon-light of American
literature had the instinct of the true sport in the depths of his
manifold compromises. The die was cast, he had weakly permitted Catalina
to commit him, and he would enjoy himself without his conscience.
And it would have been a far more conscience-stricken man than this to
have remained unaffected by the gay animation that quickened the very
mules. The venders were shrieking their wares; men and women, their hard
faces glowing, were fighting their way good-naturedly towards the
omnibuses, whose drivers cracked their whips and shouted invitations at
so much a head. And then, suddenly, in a corner of the plaza appeared
the picadores in their mediæval gorgeousness of attire, astride the
ill-fated old nags.
It was the signal to start. The picadores wheeled and led the way to the
north, the cabs rattled after; then the willing mules were given rein,
and, jingling all their bells, plunged down the narrow streets to the
high-road, scattering the foot-passengers, who, a motley crowd of men,
women, boys, girls, infants in arms, streamed after. On the rough, dusty
highway they passed 1000 more trudging towards the Plaza de Toros,
eating and drinking as they went. They were come from the surrounding
towns, many from Madrid, and even they led children by the hand and
carried infants blinking in the strong sunlight. They cheered the
picadores, who responded with the lofty courtesy of the mediæval general
on his way to the wars. Far below there was not a sign of life on the
great vega, nor in the villas on the mountain-slopes. All the little
world about seemed to be crowded upon the knotted heights of Toledo.
When Catalina and her cavaliers arrived at the Plaza de Toros other
crowds were struggling through the entrances, but at the door on the
shady side, where tickets were high, there was no one at that moment but
the Señora Villéna and her daughter.
They went up at once, the Americans and the Englishman as curious to see
the crowd as the bull-fight. As the box was Catalina’s she had no
difficulty to persuade the Villénas to occupy the front seats; she sat
just behind with Captain Over, and in the obscure depths of the rear Mr.
Moulton felt himself to be blest indeed.
“It seems incredible that they bring children here,” he said, as his
untiring gaze roved over the rapidly filling amphitheatre. “No wonder
they are callous when they are grown; but I’ll not believe they can see
such a sight unmoved at their tender years. I shall watch them with
great interest.”
It would be half an hour before the entertainment began, but only the
boxes were reserved; long before the signal nearly every seat was
occupied, from the vulnerable lower row up to the light Moorish arcade
through which the sky looked even bluer than above. It was a various and
picturesque sight to foreign eyes. Scarcely a woman wore a hat. There
were many mantillas, of a texture and pattern so fine there could be no
doubt of the breeding of the owners. A few wore the black rebosa, but by
far the greater number were bareheaded, their hair very smooth, and
ornamented with high combs, flowers, or pins. There were enough handsome
Spanish shawls on the shoulders of the women this fiery day to have
furnished a bazaar—brilliant blue shawls heavily embroidered and fringed
with white, black shawls, white shawls, red shawls, all of silk, all
embroidered and fringed. And it was already a thirsty crowd. Venders
were forcing their way between the seats, selling water out of jugs and
wine out of skins, and even here the water made a wider appeal than the
wine. It was anything but a cruel sea of faces, hard though the Spanish
type may be. Many a group of women had their heads together, gossiping,
no doubt, while the men waited in stolid expectation of the treat in
store, signalled to brighter eyes, or discussed the chances of the day
and the talents of the espadas who would do the bulls to death.
“They all now take the sacrament,” the señora informed Catalina, who
translated for the benefit of the two men. “Last night they confessed
and fasted, and their wives pray until the fight is over.”
Mr. Moulton snorted, then reminded himself that he was pleasuring, and
ordered his critical faculty into the depths of its shop.
“By Jove!” said Over.
“Somebody you know?” asked Catalina. “Heavens, what a caricature!”
“She is a ripping nice woman, and a countrywoman of your own—a Mrs.
Lawrence Rothe, of New York. I met her about in London. Remember, now,
she told me she was coming to Spain. She’s a bit made up, but what of
that? So many are, you know. You should see London at the fag end of the
season.”
“A bit!” Catalina lifted her nose with young intolerance. “Her hair
looks like a geranium-bed. Is that her son? He is rather good-looking.”
“That is her husband; they have been married several years. He’s quite a
decent chap—keen on horses—he looks older than he is—thirty—I fancy.
Still, I’m rather sorry for him.”
“I should think so. She must be fifty.”
“That is severe of you. She’s probably getting on to forty-five—not
more. I’m told she was a ripping fine woman five years ago, but she has
had a lot of trouble—all her children refuse to speak to her, and she
got a divorce to marry Rothe. She’s really very jolly. If you will
excuse me a minute I’ll go and speak to her.”
The woman, who was adjusting herself at some pains in the next box but
one, was extremely tall and thin, and her blazing locks, admirably
coiffée as they were above her broken but still handsome face, excited
the comment of others than Catalina. She had sacrificed her face to her
figure and had reached that definite age when women dye their hair with
henna. But even forty is an age when the entire absence of flesh makes a
woman look not youthful but like an old maid; and scarlet hair, that
would harden a young face, is a search-light above every hollow and
patch of manufactured surface. In the case of Mrs. Rothe, however, so
distinct was the air of good breeding with which she carried her
expensive charms, so proud, yet retiring, her manner, and so perfect her
taste in dress, that she ran no risk of being mistaken for a cocotte.
She was stamped deeply and delicately with the brand of the New York
woman of fashion, the difference between whom—the same may be said of
the small groups of her kind in other great American cities—and the
average “stylish” American is as marked in its way as the difference
between the Parisian and the French provincial; indeed, the
juxtaposition is even more unfortunate, for the Frenchwoman of the
provinces is frankly dowdy, and hence escapes looking cheap. Even
Catalina, in a moment, felt her unwilling admiration creeping forth to
the subtle charm of perfect poise and grooming, the firm yet tactful
suggestion of a race apart in a bulk of eighty millions of mere
Americans.
Mrs. Rothe was talking to Over with a great show of animation, and her
companion—a virile, good-looking young man, evidently college-bred—had
greeted the Englishman with an enthusiasm suspicious in the travelling
husband.
“She is going to Granada next week,” whispered Over, significantly, as
he took his seat once more beside Catalina. “I have asked if I may take
you to call on her to-morrow.”
“Yes,” said Catalina, absently. The president of the occasion, the mayor
of Toledo, had entered his box; the mounted police, in crimson and gold,
to the sudden rush of martial music, were careering about the arena
driving the stragglers to their seats. A moment later came the Paseo de
la Cuadrilla, the procession of all the bull-fighters across the arena
to the foot of the president’s box—the espadas and their understudies,
the banderilleros, the picadores and chulos, all gorgeous in the
gold-embroidered short clothes and brocades of old Spain. None of them
looked young, in spite of picturesque finery and pigtails, and their
smoothly shaven faces may best be described by the expressive
Americanism “tough”; but between bull-fights they do not live the lives
of model citizens, and may be younger than they look; certainly their
calling demands the agility and unbrittle brain-cells of youth.
The president, who received them standing, bowed with much ceremony and
then cast a key into the arena. It unlocked one of the dark cells, or
toriles, adjoining the arena, where the first of the angry bulls was
bellowing for light and space and dinner.
The picadores, with one exception, retired, this hero of the first
engagement taking his stand by the door whence all had emerged. The
espadas, banderilleros, and others of lower estate, scattered at safe
distances from the door of the toril, near which stood a chulo to direct
the attention of the bull to the picador, lest he fly first at the
unmounted men and disappoint the spectators of their whet of blood.
But the bull might have been rehearsed for his part. As the door of his
toril was cautiously opened he flew straight at the blindfolded horse
without a side glance or a roar; and not waiting for the teasing prod of
the picador’s pike, he bored his horns into the luckless animal’s side
and dragged out his entrails.
Catalina closed her eyes and turned her back—she felt horribly
faint—then looked at Mr. Moulton. He also had turned his back, and his
profile was green. Nevertheless, he had the presence of mind to observe
a small boy of seven or eight years, whom he had singled out for
psychological investigation. The boy looked bored.
“The worst is past for the moment,” said Over to Catalina, and under
cover of her mantilla he took her hand. “They will take the poor brute
out, and the rest is pure sport.” And Catalina, in a tensity of emotion,
held fast to his hand during the rest of the performance, quite
unconscious of the act.
The bull, meanwhile, had dashed for the glittering figures in the middle
of the arena, his red horns looking as if they would rip the earth did
they encounter nothing more inviting. Then came the graceful, agile
antics of the banderilleros. After the chulos, with their flirting
capes, had tormented and bewildered the bull for a few moments, first
one banderillero and then another received him in full charge, leaping
aside as he lowered his horns to gore, and thrust the barbed darts,
flaunting with colored ribbons, into the back of his neck. One man
leaped clear over the bull, planting his darts in his flight. The next
went over the wall of the arena into the narrow passage below the front
row of seats, the bull in full tilt after him, but diverted by a chulo
before he reached the wall.
It was true sport, and Catalina had forgotten her horror and was leaning
forward with interest, when she gave a sharp cry and dug her nails into
Over’s hand. The picador, instead of retiring with his stricken horse,
had leisurely ridden down the arena to see the sport, and there he sat
serenely, the bright entrails of the poor brute upholding him hanging to
the ground. But only for a moment. A young horse could have stood no
more, and the old hack reserved for the sacrifice by an economical
people suddenly sank and expired without a shiver. He had not uttered a
sound as the bull ripped him open, but he had started and quivered
mightily; he had been dying ever since, and collapsed in an instant.
Catalina cowered behind her fan. “I wish I had not come!” she gasped
into Over’s ear. Mr. Moulton was in need of consolement himself. “Why
didn’t you tell me?”
“I had never been to a bull-fight, and you told me you were an old hand
at it.”
“That was only child’s play. And all the accounts of bull-fights I have
ever read gave me the impression that the brutality was quite lost in
the picturesqueness. This is hideously business-like.”
“That expresses it. And there is no enthusiasm as yet, because there has
not been enough blood. It will take two more mangled horses to rouse
them. Do you want to go?”
“After this act. I’d never sit through another; but I’ll see this
through.”
The bull, the blood streaming from the wounds in his neck where the
banderillas still quivered, plunged or darted about the arena, striving
to reach his tormentors; but, charge with the swiftness of the wind as
he might, the leaping banderilleros either planted their darts or as
dexterously plucked them out.
Suddenly the president rose and made a signal. The chulos and
banderilleros enticed the bull to the right of the arena, and then the
espada of the first engagement, hitherto posing for the admiration of
the spectators, brought forth his sword and red muleta, and, walking
with a sort of jaunty solemnity to the foot of the president’s box,
dedicated the death of the bull to the functionary whose honor it was to
preside over this Corridas de Toros. He then walked over to the bull and
waved the red cloth before his eyes.
In descriptions of bull-fights, especially when the espada is the hero
of the tale, this final episode is always pictured as one of great
excitement and involving a terrible risk. As a matter of fact, it is
deferred until the bull is nearly exhausted. He has some fight left in
him, it is true, and an inexperienced espada might easily be tossed. But
those that oftener meet with death in the bull-ring are the
banderilleros, who plant their darts as the bull charges. The legs of
the picadores are padded, and they are always close enough to the wall
to leap over if the bull brings the horse down.
Nothing could be tamer than the final scene in the first act of to-day’s
continuous performance. The espada danced about the bull for a few
minutes, waving his red rag, and then, as the brute stood at bay with
his head down, looking far more weary than belligerent, he stepped
lightly to one side and drove his sword through the neck in the
direction of the heart, a very neat and decent operation.
The bull did not drop at once, and there was no applause. He stood as if
lost in thought for a few moments, and the espada was forgotten; he had
failed. Then the bull turned, wavered, sank slowly to earth. Another
door flew open and in rushed a team of four mules abreast, jingling with
gala bells. The bull was dragged out at their tails, and his trail of
blood covered with fresh sand.
Catalina rose and bent over her duenna. “We will go now, señora,” she
said. “But you will remain, of course. I shall be well taken care of.”
The Señora Villéna looked up with polite amazement. “You go? Are you
ill, dear señorita? It has only begun. There are many more bulls to
kill.”
“I have had enough to last me for the rest of my life. Hasta luego.”
It was not at every bull-fight that the señora sat in a box, and she
settled back in her conspicuous seat thankful that the very bourgeois
Señor Moulton had accompanied her singular charge.
As they were leaving the box Catalina saw that another picador had
entered and stood precisely as his predecessor had done, with the
profile of his blindfolded horse towards the door of the toril.
Fascinated, she stood rooted to the spot, some deep, savage lust slowly
awakening. Again the door of the toril was cautiously opened; again a
bull, as if he had been rehearsed for the part, rushed straight at the
helpless horse and buried his horns in his side. Catalina fancied she
could hear the rip of the hide. But this bull was more powerful than the
other. He lifted horse and rider on his horns, and the picador, amid the
belated enthusiasm of the multitude, leaped like a monkey over the wall
as the torn horse was tossed and fell cracking to the ground.
“Well,” said Over, “have you had enough? They say, you know, that the
horror soon passes and the fascination grows.”
“I am glad to know it was not my Indian blood. I can now understand the
fascination, but I shall never come again, all the same.”
“We are none of us so far from savagery—Miss Shore, Mrs. Rothe.”
They were in the passage behind the boxes, and Mrs. Rothe, who was
pallid with disgust and delighted to express herself to a sympathetic
woman—her young husband had sulkily torn himself from the ring—walked
out with Catalina anathematizing the Spanish race. As they emerged, Mr.
Moulton, green and very silent, disappeared. When he returned he was
still pale, but normal once more, and after a speech of five minutes’
duration, in which, ignoring the finer flowers of his working
vocabulary, he consigned Spain to eternal perdition—Catalina had driven
off with Mrs. Rothe—he was quite restored, and celebrated his recovery
by a long pull at a wine-skin.
“I believe I am quite demoralized,” he said, cheerfully; and then, in
company with Over and young Rothe—whose wife had amiably bade him
stay—he returned to the ring.