where in olden days the nuns had wandered on summer evenings, watering
their roses. The iron door was opened and shut behind us; there was a
movement of curiosity at the sight of a stranger, and many turned to
look at me. Such as had illnesses came to the doctor, and he looked at
their tongues and felt their pulse, giving directions to an assistant
who stood beside him with a note-book. Don Felipe was on excellent terms
with his patients, laughing and joking; a malingerer asked if he could
not have a little wine because his throat was sore; the doctor jeered
and the man began to laugh; they bandied repartees with one another.
There were about two hundred in the _patio_, and really they did not
seem to have so bad a time. There was one large group gathered round a
man who read a newspaper aloud; it was Monday morning, and all listened
intently to the account of a bull-fight on the previous day, bursting
into a little cry of surprise and admiration on hearing that the
_matador_ had been caught and tossed. Others lay by a pillar playing
draughts for matches, while half a dozen more eagerly watched, giving
unsolicited advice with much gesticulation. The draught-board consisted
of little squares drawn on the pavement with chalk, and the pieces were
scraps of white and yellow paper. One man sat cross-legged by a column
busily rolling cigarettes; he had piles of them by his side arranged in
packets, which he sold at one penny each; it was certainly an illegal
offence, because the sale of tobacco is a government monopoly, but if
you cannot break the laws in prison where can you break them? Others
occupied themselves by making baskets or nets. But the majority did
nothing at all, standing about, sitting when they could, with the
eternal cigarette between their lips; and the more energetic watched the
blue smoke curl into the air. Altogether a very happy family!
Nor did they seem really very criminal, more especially as they wore no
prison uniform, but their own clothes. I saw no difference between them
and the people I met casually in the street. They were just very
ordinary citizens, countrymen smelling of the soil, labouring men,
artisans. Their misfortune had been only to make too free a use of their
long curved knives or to be discovered taking something over which
another had prior claims. But in Andalusia every one is potentially as
criminal, which is the same as saying that these jail-birds were
estimable persons whom an unkind fate and a mistaken idea of justice had
separated for a little while from their wives and families.
I saw two only whose aspect was distinctly vicious. One was a tall
fellow with shifty eyes, a hard thin mouth, a cruel smile, and his face
was really horrible. I asked the doctor why he was there. Don Felipe,
without speaking, made the peculiar motion of the fingers which
signifies robbery, and the man seeing him repeated it with a leer. I
have seldom seen a face that was so utterly repellent, so depraved and
wicked: I could not get it out of my head, and for a long time saw
before me the crafty eyes and the grinning mouth. Obviously the man was
a criminal born who would start thieving as soon as he was out of
prison, hopelessly and utterly corrupt. But it was curious that his
character should be marked so plainly on his face; it was a
danger-signal to his fellows, and one would have thought the suspicion
it aroused must necessarily keep him virtuous. It was a countenance that
would make a man instinctively clap his hand to his pocket.
The other was a Turk, a huge creature, with dark scowling face and
prominent brows; he made a singular figure in his bright fez and baggy
breeches, looking at his fellow prisoners with a frown of hate.
But the doctor had finished seeing his patients and the iron door was
opened for us to go out. We went upstairs to the hospital, a long bare
ward, terribly cheerless. Six men, perhaps, lay in bed, guarded by two
warders; one old fellow with rheumatism groaning in agony, two others
dazed and very still, with high fever. We walked round quickly, don
Felipe as before mechanically looking at their tongues and feeling their
pulse, speaking a word to the assistant and moving on. The windows were
shut and there was a horrid stench of illness and drugs and antiseptics.
We went through long corridors to the female side, and meanwhile the
assistant told the doctor that during the night a woman had been
confined. Don Felipe sat down in an office to write a certificate.
'What a nuisance these women are!' he said. 'Why can't they wait till
they get out of prison? How is it?'
'It was still-born.'
'_Pero, hombre_,' said the doctor crossly. 'Why didn't you tell me that
before? Now I shall have to write another certificate. This one's no
good.'
He tore it up and painfully made out a second with the slow laborious
writing of a man unused to holding a pen.
Then we marched on and came to another smaller _patio_ where the females
were. They were comparatively few, not more than twenty or thirty; and
when we entered a dark inner-room to see the woman who was ill they all
trooped in after us--all but one. They stood round eagerly telling us of
the occurrence.
'Don't make such a noise, _por Dios_! I can't hear myself speak,' said
the doctor.
The woman was lying on her back with flushed cheeks, her eyes staring
glassily. The doctor asked a question, but she did not answer. She began
to cry, sobbing from utter weakness in a silent, unrestrained way. On a
table near her, hidden by a cloth, lay the dead child.
We went out again into the _patio_. The sun was higher now and it was
very warm, the blue sky shone above us without a cloud. The prisoners
returned to their occupations. One old hag was doing a younger woman's
hair; I noticed that even for Spain it was beautiful, very thick,
curling, and black as night. The girl held a carnation in her hand to
put in front of the comb when the operation was completed. Another woman
suckled a baby, and several tiny children were playing about happily,
while their mothers chatted to one another, knitting.
But there was one, markedly different from the others, who sat alone
taking no notice of the scene. It was she who remained in the _patio_
when the rest followed us into the sick room, a gipsy, tall and gaunt,
with a skin of the darkest yellow. Her hair was not elaborately arranged
as that of her companions, but plainly done, drawn back stiffly from the
forehead. She sat there, erect and motionless, looking at the ground
with an unnatural stare, silent. They told me she never spoke a word
nor paid attention to the women in the court. She might have been
entirely alone. She never altered her position, but sat there,
sphinx-like, in that attitude of stony grief. She was a stranger among
the rest, and her bronzed face, her silence gave a weird impression; she
seemed to recall the burning deserts of the East and an endless past.
At last we came out, and the heavy iron door was closed behind us. What
a relief it was to be in the street again, to see the sun and the trees,
and to breathe the free air! A cart went by with a great racket, drawn
by three mules, and the cries of the driver as he cracked his whip were
almost musical; a train of donkeys passed; a man trotted by on a brown
shaggy cob, his huge panniers filled with glowing vegetables, green and
red, and in a corner was a great bunch of roses. I took long breaths of
the free air, I shook myself to get rid of those prison odours.
I offered don Felipe refreshment and we repaired to a dram-shop
immediately opposite. Two women were standing there.
'_Ole!_' said the doctor to an old toothless hag with a vicious leer.
'What are you doing here? You've not been in for some time.'
She laughed and explained that she was come to fetch her friend, a young
woman, who had been released that morning. The doctor nodded to her,
asking how long she had been in gaol.
'Two years and nine months,' she said.
And she began to laugh hysterically with tears streaming down her
cheeks.
'I don't know what I'm doing,' she cried. 'I can't understand it.'
She looked into the street with wild, yearning eyes; everything seemed
to her strange and new.
'I haven't seen a tree for nearly three years,' she sobbed.
But the hag was pressing the doctor to drink with her; he accepted
without much hesitation, and gallantly proposed her health.
'What are you going to do?' he said to the younger woman, she was hardly
more than a girl. 'You'd better not hang about in Seville or you'll get
into trouble again.'
'Oh no,' she said, 'I'm going to my village--_mi pueblo_--this
afternoon. I want to see my husband and my child.'
Don Felipe turned to me and asked what I thought of the Seville prison.
I made some complimentary reply.
'Are English prisons like that?' he asked.
I said I did not think so.
'Are they better?'
I shrugged my shoulders.
'I'm told,' he said, 'that two years' hard labour in an English prison
kills a man.'
'The English are a great nation,' I replied.
'And a humane one,' he added, with a bow and a smile.
I bade him good-morning.
XXIII
[Sidenote: Before the Bull-fight]
If all Andalusians are potential gaol-birds they are also potential
bull-fighters. It is impossible for foreigners to realise how firmly the
love of that pastime is engrained in all classes. In other countries the
gift that children love best is a box of soldiers, but in Spain it is a
miniature ring with tin bulls, _picadors_ on horseback and _toreros_.
From their earliest youth boys play at bull-fighting, one of them taking
the bull's part and charging with the movements peculiar to that animal,
while the rest make passes with their coats or handkerchiefs. Often, to
increase the excitement of the game, they have two horns fixed on a
piece of wood. You will see them playing it at every street corner all
day long, and no amusement can rival it; with the result that by the
time a boy is fifteen he has acquired considerable skill in the
exercise, and a favourite entertainment then is to hire a bull-calf for
an afternoon and practise with it. Every urchin in Andalusia knows the
names of the most prominent champions and can tell you their merits.
The bull-fight is the national spectacle; it excites Spaniards as
nothing else can, and the death of a famous _torero_ is more tragic than
the loss of a colony. Seville looks upon itself as the very home and
centre of the art. The good king Ferdinand VII.--as precious a rascal as
ever graced a throne--founded in Seville the first academy for the
cultivation of tauromachy, and bull-fighters swagger through the Sierpes
in great numbers and the most faultless costume.
There are only five great bull-fights in a year at Seville, namely, on
Easter day, on the three days of the fair, and on Corpus Christi. But
during the summer _novilladas_ are held every Sunday, with bulls of
three years old and young fighters. Long before an important _corrida_
there is quite an excitement in the town. Gaudy bills are posted on the
walls with the names of the performers and the proprietor of the bulls;
crowds stand round reading them breathlessly, discussing with one
another the chances of the fray; the papers give details and forecasts
as in England they do for the better cause of horse-racing! And the
journeyings of the _matador_ are announced as exactly as with us the
doings of the nobility and gentry.
The great _matador_, Mazzantini or Guerrita, arrives the day before the
fight, and perhaps takes a walk in the Sierpes. People turn to look at
him and acquaintances shake his hand, pleased that all the world may
know how friendly they are with so great a man. The hero himself is calm
and gracious. He feels himself a person of merit, and cannot be
unconscious that he has a fortune of several million _pesetas_ bringing
in a reasonable interest. He talks with ease and assurance, often
condescends to joke, and elegantly waves his hand, sparkling with
diamonds of great value.
* * *
Many persons have described a bull-fight, but generally their emotions
have overwhelmed them so that they have seen only part of one
performance, and consequently have been obliged to use an indignant
imagination to help out a very faulty recollection. This is my excuse
for giving one more account of an entertainment which can in no way be
defended. It is doubtless vicious and degrading; but with the constant
danger, the skill displayed, the courage, the hair-breadth escapes, the
catastrophes, it is foolish to deny that any pastime can be more
exciting.
The English humanity to animals is one of the best traits of a great
people, and they justly thank God they are not as others are. Can
anything more horrid be imagined than to kill a horse in the bull-ring,
and can any decent hack ask for a better end when he is broken down,
than to be driven to death in London streets or to stand for hours on
cab ranks in the rain and snow of an English winter? The Spaniards are
certainly cruel to animals; on the other hand, they never beat their
wives nor kick their children. From the dog's point of view I would ten
times sooner be English, but from the woman's--I have my doubts. Some
while ago certain papers, anxious perhaps to taste the comfortable joys
of self-righteousness, turned their attention to the brutality of
Spaniards, and a score of journalists wrote indignantly of bull-fights.
At the same time, by a singular chance, a prize-fighter was killed in
London, and the Spanish papers printed long tirades against the gross,
barbaric English. The two sets of writers were equally vehement,
inaccurate and flowery; but what seemed most remarkable was that each
side evidently felt quite unaffected horror and disgust for the
proceedings of the other. Like persons of doubtful character inveighing
against the vices of the age, both were so carried away by moral
enthusiasm as to forget that there was anything in their own histories
which made this virtuous fury a little absurd. There is really a good
deal in the point of view.
XXIV
[Sidenote: Corrida de Toros--I]
On the day before a bull-fight all the world goes down to Tablada to see
the bulls. Youth and beauty drive, for every one in Seville of the least
pretension to gentility keeps a carriage; the Sevillans,
characteristically, may live in houses void of every necessity and
comfort, eating bread and water, but they will have a carriage to drive
in the _paseo_. You see vehicles of all kinds, from the new landau with
a pair of magnificent Andalusian horses, or the strange omnibus drawn by
mules, typical of Southern Spain, to the shabby victoria, with a
broken-down hack and a decrepit coachman.
Tablada is a vast common without the town, running along the river side,
and here all manner of cattle are kept throughout the year. But the
fighting bulls are brought from their respective farms the morning
before the day of battle, and each is put in an enclosure with its
attendant oxen. The crowd looks eagerly, admiring the length of horn,
forecasting the fight.
The handsome brutes remain there till midnight, when they are brought to
the ring and shut in little separate boxes till the morrow. The
_encierro_, as it is called, is an interesting sight. The road has been
palisaded and the bulls are driven along by oxen. It is very curious to
wait in the darkness, in the silence, under the myriad stars of the
southern night. Your ear is astrung to hear the distant tramp; the
waiting seems endless. A sound is heard and every one runs to the side;
but nothing follows, and the waiting continues. Suddenly the stillness
is broken by tinkling bells, the oxen; and immediately there is a tramp
of rushing hoofs. Three men on horseback gallop through the entrance,
and on their heels the cattle; the riders turn sharply round, a door is
swung to behind them, and the oxen, with the bulls in their midst, pound
through the ring.
* * *
The doors are opened two hours before the performance. Through the
morning the multitude has trooped to the Plaza San Fernando to buy
tickets, and in the afternoon all Seville wends its way towards the
ring. The road is thronged with people, they walk in dense crowds,
pushing one another to get out of the way of broken-down shays that roll
along filled with enthusiasts. The drivers crack their whips, shouting:
'_Un real, un real a los Toros!_'{a} The sun beats down and the sky is
intensely blue. It is very hot, already people are blowing and panting,
boys sell fans at a halfpenny each. '_Abanicos a perra chica!_'{b}
When you come near the ring the din is tremendous; the many vendors
shout their wares, middlemen offer tickets at double the usual price,
friends call to one another. Now and then is a quarrel, a quick exchange
of abuse as one pushes or treads upon his neighbour; but as a rule all
are astonishingly good-natured. A man, after a narrow escape from being
run over, will shout a joke to the driver, who is always ready with a
repartee. And they surge on towards the entrance. Every one is expectant
and thrilled, the very air seems to give a sense of exhilaration. The
people crowd in like ants. All things are gay and full of colour and
life.
A _picador_ passes on horseback in his uncouth clothes, and all turn to
look at him.
And in the ring itself the scene is marvellous. On one side the sun
beats down with burning rays, and there, the seats being cheaper,
notwithstanding the terrific heat people are closely packed. There is a
perpetual irregular movement of thousands of women's fans fluttering to
and fro. Opposite, in the shade, are nearly as many persons, but of
better class. Above, in the boxes sit ladies in _mantillas_, and when a
beautiful woman appears she is often greeted with a burst of applause,
which she takes most unconcernedly. When at last the ring is full, tier
above tier crammed so that not a place is vacant, it gives quite an
extraordinary emotion. The serried masses cease then to be a collection
of individuals, but gain somehow a corporate unity; you realise, with a
kind of indeterminate fear, the many-headed beast of savage instincts
and of ruthless might. No crowd is more picturesque than the Spanish,
and the dark masculine costume vividly contrasts with the bright
colours of the women, with flowers in their hair and _mantillas_ of
white lace.
But also the tremendous vitality of it all strikes you. Late arrivals
walk along looking for room, gesticulating, laughing, bandying jokes;
vendors of all sorts cry out their goods: the men who sell prawns,
shrimps, and crabs' claws from Cadiz pass with large baskets: '_Bocas,
bocas!_'
The water sellers with huge jars: '_Agua, quien quiere agua? Agua!_'{c}
The word sings along the interminable rows. A man demands a glass and
hands down a halfpenny; a mug of sparkling water is sent up to him. It
is deliciously cool.
The sellers of lottery tickets, offering as usual the first prize:
'_Premio gordo, quien quiere el premio gordo_';{d} or yelling the number
of the ticket: 'Who wants number seventeen hundred and eighty-five for
three _pesetas_?'
And the newsboys add to the din: '_Noticiero! Porvenir!_' Later on
arrives the Madrid paper: '_Heraldo! Heraldo!_'
Lastly the men with stacks of old journals to use as seats: '_A perra
chica, dos periodicos a perra chica!_'{e}
Suddenly there is a great clapping of hands, and looking up you find the
president has come; he is supported by two friends, and all three, with
comic solemnity, wear tall hats and frock coats. They bow to the public.
Bull-fighting is the only punctual thing in Spain, and the president
arrives precisely as the clock strikes half-past four. He waves a
handkerchief, the band strikes up, a door is opened, and the fighters
enter. First come the three _matadors_, the eldest in the middle, the
next on his right, and the youngest on the left; they are followed by
their respective _cuadrillas_, the _banderilleros_, the _capeadors_, the
_picadors_ on horseback, and finally the _chulos_, whose duty it is to
unsaddle dead horses, attach the slaughtered bull to the team of mules,
and perform other minor offices. They advance, gorgeous in their
coloured satin and gold embroidery, bearing a cloak peculiarly folded
over the arm; they walk with a kind of swinging motion, as ordained by
the convention of a century. They bow to the president, very solemnly.
The applause is renewed. They retire to the side, three _picadors_ take
up their places at some distance from one another on the right of the
door from which issues the bull. The _alguaciles_, in black velvet, with
peaked and feathered hats, on horseback, come forward, and the key of
the bull's den is thrown to them. They disappear. The fighters meanwhile
exchange their satin cloaks for others of less value. There is another
flourish of trumpets, the gates are opened for the bull.
Then comes a moment of expectation, every one is trembling with
excitement. There is perfect silence. All eyes are fixed on the open
gate.
Notes:
{a} 'Twopence-halfpenny to the Bulls.'
{b} "Fans, one halfpenny each!"
{c} 'Water, who wants water? Water!'
{d} 'The first prize, who wants the first prize?'
{e} 'One halfpenny, two papers for one halfpenny.'
XXV
[Sidenote: Corrida de Toros--II]
One or two shouts are heard, a murmur passes through the people, and the
bull emerges--shining, black, with massive shoulders and fine horns. It
advances a little, a splendid beast conscious of its strength, and
suddenly stops dead, looking round. The _toreros_ wave their capes and
the _picadors_ flourish their lances, long wooden spikes with an iron
point. The bull catches sight of a horse, and lowering his head, bears
down swiftly upon it. The _picador_ takes firmer hold of his lance, and
when the brute reaches him plants the pointed end between its shoulders;
at the same moment the senior _matador_ dashes forward and with his
cloak distracts the bull's attention. It wheels round and charges; he
makes a pass; it goes by almost under his arm, but quickly turns and
again attacks. This time the skilful fighter receives it backwards,
looking over his shoulder, and again it passes. There are shouts of
enthusiasm from the public. The bull's glossy coat is stained with red.
A second _picador_ comes forward, and the bull charges again, but
furiously now, exerting its full might. The horse is thrown to the
ground and the rider, by an evil chance, falls at the bull's very feet.
It cannot help seeing him and lowers its head; the people catch their
breath; many spring instinctively to their feet; here and there is a
woman's frightened cry; but immediately a _matador_ draws the cape over
its eyes and passionately the bull turns on him. Others spring forward
and lift the _picador_: his trappings are so heavy that he cannot rise
alone; he is dragged to safety and the steed brought back for him. One
more horseman advances, and the bull with an angry snort bounds at him;
the _picador_ does his best, but is no match for the giant strength. The
bull digs its horns deep into the horse's side and lifts man and beast
right off the ground; they fall with a heavy thud, and as the raging
brute is drawn off, blood spurts from the horse's flank. The _chulos_
try to get it up; they drag on the reins with shouts and curses, and
beat it with sticks. But the wretched creature, wounded to the death,
helplessly lifts its head. They see it is useless and quickly remove
saddle and bridle, a man comes with a short dagger called the
_puntilla_, which he drives into its head, the horse falls on its side,
a quiver passes through its body, and it is dead. The people are
shouting with pleasure; the bull is a good one. The first _picador_
comes up again and the bull attacks for the fourth time, but it has lost
much strength, and the man drives it off. It has made a horrible gash in
the horse's belly, and the entrails protrude, dragging along the ground.
The horse is taken out.
The president waves his handkerchief, the trumpets sound, and the first
act of the drama is over.