"I wish no living thing to suffer pain."--SHELLEY: _Prometheus
Unbound_.
From our first crossing of the Pyrenees we were impressed, even beyond
our expectation, with the Spanish passion for the bull-fight. The more
cultivated Spaniards, to be sure, are usually unwilling to admit to a
foreigner their pleasure in the pastime. "It is brutal," said a young
physician of Madrid, as we discussed it. "It is a very painful thing
to see, certainly. I go, myself, only two or three times a year, when
the proceeds are to be devoted to some religious object--a charity or
other holy work."
No sight is more common in streets and parks than that of a group of
boys playing _al toro_--one urchin charging about with sticks fastened
to his shoulders for horns, or with a pasteboard bull's head pulled
over his ears, and others waving scarlet cloths and brandishing
improvised swords and lances. It is said that in fierce Valencia
youths have sometimes carried on this sport with knives for horns and
swords, the spectators relishing the bloodshed too well to interfere.
Not easily do such lads as these forgive the little king for crying,
like the sensitive child he is, the first time he was taken to the
bull-ring.
The _corridas de toros_, although denounced by some of the chief
voices in Spain, are held almost a national shibboleth. Loyal
supporters of the queen regent will add to their praises the sigh, "If
only she loved the bull-fight!" Cavaliers and ladies fair reserve
their choicest attire to grace these barbarities. It is a common
saying that a Spaniard will sell his shirt to buy a ticket to the
bull-ring, but whatever the deficiencies of the inner costume, the
dress that meets the eye is brave in the extreme. It is recently
becoming the fashion for _caballeros_, especially in the north of
Spain, to discard those very fetching cloaks with the vivid
linings--cloaks in which Spaniards muffle their faces to the eyebrows
as they tread the echoing streets of cities founded some thousand or
fifteen hundred years ago. But for a good old Spanish bull-fight, the
good old Spanish costumes are out in force, the bright-hued _capas_
and broad _sombreros_, and for the ladies, who also are beginning to
discard the customary black mantilla for Parisian headgear, the
exquisite white mantillas of early times and the largest and most
richly decorated fans.
It is in such places as the grim Roman amphitheatre of Italica, whose
grass-grown arena has flowed so red with martyrdoms of men and beasts,
that one despairs most of Spanish ability to give up the bull-fight.
It is in the air, in the soil, in the blood; a national institution,
an hereditary rage. "But it is the link that holds your country bound
to barbarism. The rest of the world is on the forward move. I tell
you, the continuance of the bull-fight means the ruin of Spain," urged
a gigantic young German, in our hearing, on his Spanish friend. The
slight figure of the Madrileno shook with anger. "And I tell _you_" he
choked, "that Spain would rather perish with the bull-fight than
survive without it." _Isabel la Catolica_, who earnestly strove to
put down these savage contests, wrote at last to her Father Confessor
that the task was too hard for her. The "Catholic Kings" could take
Granada, unify Spain, establish the Inquisition, expel Moors and Jews,
and open the Americas; but they could not abolish bull-fighting. Nor
was Pius V, with his denial of Christian burial to all who fell in the
arena, and his excommunication for princes who permitted _corridas de
toros_ in their dominions, more successful. The papal bull, like the
bulls of flesh and blood, was inevitably overthrown.
Spanish legend likes to name the Cid as the first _torero_.
"Troth it goodly was and pleasant
To behold him at their head,
All in mail on Bavieca,
And to hear the words he said."
In mediaeval times the sport was not without chivalric features.
Knights fought for honor, where professionals now fight for _pesetas_.
When the great Charles killed a bull with his own lance in honor of
the birth of Philip II, the favor of the Austrian dynasty was secured.
The Bourbons looked on the sport more coldly, but as royalty and
nobility withdrew, the people pressed to the fore. Out of the hardy
Spanish multitude rose a series of masters,--Romero the shoemaker,
who, in general, gave to the art its modern form; Martincho the
shepherd, who, seated in a chair with his feet bound, would await the
charging brute; Candido, who would face the bull in full career and
escape by leaping to its forehead and over its back; Costillares, who
invented an ingenious way of getting in the death-stroke; the famous
Pepe Hillo, who, like Candido, perished in the ring; a second Romero,
said to have killed five thousand six hundred bulls; Montes the
brick-layer, and a bloody band of followers. Andalusia is--alas!--the
classic soil of the bull-fight, as every peasant knows, and Seville
the top of Andalusia.
"I have a handsome lover,
Too bold to fear the Devil,
And he's the best _torero_
In all the town of Seville."
The extravagance of the popular enthusiasm for these _fiestas de
toros_ is often ridiculed on the stage, where dramas dealing with
bull-fighting, especially if they bring in the heroes of the arena,
Pepe Hillo, Romero, Costillares, are sure to take. One _zarzuela_
represents a rheumatic old _aficionado_, or devotee of the sport,
trying, with ludicrous results, to screw his courage to the point of
facing the bull. Another spends its fun on a Madrid barber, who is
likewise a brain-turned patron of the ring. Disregarding the shrill
protests of his wife, he lavishes all his time, love, and money on the
_corridas_ and encourages his daughter's _novio_, an honest young
paper-hanger, to throw over his trade and learn to _torear_. After two
years of the provincial arenas, the aspirant, nicknamed in the ring
The Baby, has nothing but torn clothes and bruises to show for his
career, and his sweetheart, eager to recall him from the hazardous
profession, vows a waxen bull, large as life, to the Virgin, in case
he returns to papering, with its humble security and its regularity of
wages. Mary hears. On that great occasion, The Baby's debut at Madrid,
the barber, who has just been lucky in the lottery, rents for him a
gorgeous suit of second-hand finery, but in the _Plaza de Toros_ not
even a rose-and-silver jacket can shield a quaking heart. The Baby is
a coward born, and from the first rush of the first bull comes off
with a bloody coxcomb, crying out his shame on the shoulder of his
Pilar, who shall henceforth have him all her own.
The little artist and I went into Spain with the firm determination
not to patronize the bull-fight. Half our resolution we kept,--her
half. Wherever we turned we encountered suggestions of the _corrida_.
Spanish newspapers, even the most serious, devote columns to _Los
Toros_. Bull-fighting has its special publications, as _El Toril_ and
_El Toreo Comico_, and its special dialect. On the morning after a
holy day the newspapers seem actually smeared with the blood of
beasts. In the bull-fight season, from Easter to All Saints,
_corridas_ are held every Sunday in all the cities of southern and
central Spain, while the smaller towns and villages butcher as many
bulls as they can possibly afford. The May and June that I passed in
the capital gave me a peculiar abhorrence of the Madrid Sunday,--that
feverish excitement everywhere; the rattle of all those extra
omnibuses and cars with their red-tasselled mules in full gallop for
the _Plaza de Toros_; that sense of furious struggle and mortal agony
hanging over the city all through the slow, hot afternoon; those
gaping crowds pressing to greet the _toreros_, a gaudy-suited company,
on their triumphal return in open carriages; that eager discussion of
the day's tragedy at every street-corner and from seat to seat along
the _paseos_, even at our own dainty dinner table and on our own
balconies under the rebuking stars. At this strange Sabbath service
the Infanta Isabel, whose mother's birth was celebrated by the
slaying of ninety-nine bulls, is a regular attendant, occupying the
royal box and wearing the national colors. A French bull-fighter,
visiting the Spanish capital, was invited by the Infanta to an
audience and presented with a diamond pin. Not even the public
mourning for Castelar could induce Madrid to forego the _corrida_ on
that Sunday just before his burial. Past the very senate-house where
his body lay in state rolled the aristocratic landaus, whose ladies
displayed the gala-wear of white mantillas.
But the Sundays were not enough. Every Catholic feast-day called for
its sacrifice. Granada could not do fitting honor to Corpus Christi
with less than three "_magnificas corridas_." The royal saint of
Aranjuez, Fernando, must have his pious birthday kept by an orgy of
blood. At the _fiesta_ of Christ's Ascension all Spain was busy
staining his earth with the life-stream of His creatures. Valladolid
was, indeed, ashamed to have torn to death only seven horses, but
Segovia rejoiced in an expert who sat at his work and killed his bulls
with drawing-room ease. Bordeaux improved the occasion, with aid of
two celebrated Spanish _espadas_, by opening a French _Plaza de
Toros_, and Valencia had the excitement of sending to the infirmary
one _torero_ with a broken leg and another with a crushed foot. Such
accidents are by no means uncommon. A _matador_ was mortally wounded
in the Valencia ring that summer, a _banderillero_ was trampled at the
Escorial, and those favorite stabbers, Reverte and Bombita, were
themselves stabbed by avenging horns.
If there is a temporary dearth of saint days, Spanish ingenuity will
nevertheless find excuse for _corridas_. Bulls must bleed for holy
charity,--for hospitals, foundling asylums, the families of workmen
out on strike. If the French squadron is at Cadiz, hospitality demands
a bull-fight. In the interests of popular education, an historical
_corrida_ was arranged, with instructed _toreros_ to display the
special styles of bull-killing that have prevailed from the Cid to
Guerrita. Again, as a zoological by-play, an elephant was pitted
against the bulls. This, too, had precedent, for did not Philip IV
once keep his birthday by turning in among the horned herd a lion, a
tiger, a camel, and a bear, "all Noah's ark and AEsop's fables"? A bull
of Xarama vanquished them every one and received the gracious reward
of being shot dead by Philip himself.
It was on a Wednesday afternoon, at one of the three grand _corridas_
of the Seville _Feria_, that I became an accomplice in this Spanish
crime. Our friends in Seville, people of cultivation and liberal
views, had declared from the first that we could have no conception of
Spanish life and character without sharing in the national _fiesta_.
"We ourselves are not enthusiasts," they said. "In fact, we disapprove
the bull-fight. We regard it as demoralizing to the community at
large. It is, nevertheless, a thing scientific, artistic, heroic,
_Spanish_. Besides, a large portion of the proceeds goes to charity.
We do not attend the _corridas_, except now and then, especially when
we have foreign guests who wish to see them. Before going they all
regard bull-fighting as you do, as an atrocity, a barbarity, but
invariably they return from the _Plaza de Toros_ filled with delight
and admiration. They say their previous ideas were all wrong, that it
is a noble and splendid spectacle, that they want to see it again and
again, that they cannot be too grateful to us for having delivered
them from prejudice."
I winced at the word. I have a prejudice against being prejudiced, and
to the bull-fight I went.
My yielding came too late for securing places in a box or in any part
of the house from which one can make exit during the performance. Our
gory-looking tickets admitted us to the uppermost row of high,
whitewashed, stone seats of the circus proper, where we were soon
inextricably wedged in by the human mass that formed around and below
us. The hour of waiting passed merrily enough. The open amphitheatre,
jammed to its full capacity of fourteen thousand, lay half in
brilliant sunlight and half in creeping shadow. Above us arched the
glowing blue sky of Seville, pricked by the rosy Giralda, and from
time to time a strong-winged bird flew over. The great arena, strewn
with yellow sand, was enclosed by a dark red barrier of wood, about
the height of a man. This was encircled, at a little distance, by a
more secure and higher wall of stone. The concourse was largely
composed of men, both roughs and gentles, but there was no lack of
ladies, elegantly dressed, nor of children. Two sweet little girls in
white-feathered hats were just in front of us, dancing up and down to
relieve the thrills of expectancy. White mantillas, pinned with
jewels, bent from the boxes, while the daughters of the people dazzled
the eye with their festival display of Manila shawls, some pure white,
some with colored figures on a white ground or a black, and some a
rainbow maze of capricious needle-work. The rich-hued blossoms of
Andalusia were worn in the hair and on the breast. The sunny side of
the circus was brightly dotted by parasols, orange, green, vermilion,
and fans in all the cardinal colors twinkled like a shivered
kaleidoscope. The men's black eyes glittered under those broad
_sombreros_, white or drab, while they puffed their cigarettes with
unwonted energy, scattering the ashes in soft gray showers over their
neighbors on the seats below. The tumult of voices had a keener note
of excitement than I had yet heard in Spain, and was so loud and
insistent as often to drown the clashing music of the band. The cries
of various venders swelled the mighty volume of noise. Water-sellers
in vivid blouses and sashes, a red handkerchief twisted around the
neck, on the left shoulder a cushion of folded carpeting for the
shapely, yellow-brown jar, and a smart tin tray, holding two glasses,
corded to the belt, went pushing through the throng. Criers of
oranges, newspapers, crabs, and cockles, almond cakes, fans, and
photographs of the _toreros_, strove with all the might of their lungs
against the universal uproar.
"Crece el entusiasmo;
Crece la alegria;
Todo es algazara;
Todo es confusion."
A tempest of applause marked the entrance in a box above of a popular
_prima donna_, who draped a resplendent carmine scarf over the railing
before her seat. Immediately the complete circuit of the rail was
ablaze with color, cloaks and shawls instantly converting themselves
into tapestry.
At last two attendants entered the arena, walked up to a hydrant in
the centre, fastened on a hose, and watered the great circle. They
pulled out the hydrant and raked sand over the hole. Simple as these
actions were, a dreadful quiet fell on all the circus.
A trumpet blared. Mounted _alguaciles_, or police, tricked out in
ancient Spanish costume, on blue saddles, and with tall blue plumes in
their hats, rode in and cleared the arena of all stragglers. A door
opened, and forth issued the full circus troupe, making a fine show of
filigree, and urging their wretched old nags to a last moment of
equine pride and spirit. Amid roars of welcome, they flaunted across
the sanded enclosure and saluted the presiding officer. He dropped the
key of the _toril_, that dark series of cells into which the bulls had
been driven some hours before. An _alguacil_ caught the key and handed
it to the _torilero_, who ran with it toward a second door, ominously
surmounted by a great bull's head. Then there was a twinkling of the
pink stockings and black sandals. Most of the gay company leaped the
barrier, and even the _chulos_ who remained in the ring placed
themselves within convenient distance of the rail. Some of the
_picadores_ galloped out, but a few awaited the coming charge, their
long pikes in rest. The door on which all eyes were bent flew open,
and a bellowing red bull rushed in. The fierce, bloodthirsty, horrible
yell that greeted him checked his impetuous onset. For a few seconds
the creature stood stock-still, glaring at the scene. Heaven knows
what he thought of us. He had had five perfect years of life on the
banks of the Guadalquivir,--one baby year by his mother's side, one
year of sportive roving with his mates, and then had come the trial of
his valor. He had found all the herdsmen gathered at the ranch one
morning, and, nevertheless, flattered himself that he had evaded those
hateful pikes, _garrochas_, that were always goading him back when he
would sally out to explore the great green world. At all events, here
he was scampering alone across the plain. But promptly two horsemen
were at his heels, and one of these, planting a blunt _garrocha_ on
his flank, rolled the youngster over. Up again, panting with surprise
and indignation, he felt a homesick impulse to get back to the herd,
but the second horseman was full in his path. So much the worse for
the horseman! The mettlesome young bull lowered his horns and charged
the obstacle, only to be thrown back with a smarting shoulder. If he
had yielded then, his would have been the quiet yoke and the long,
dull life of labor, but he justified his breed; he charged anew, and
so proved himself worthy of the arena. Three more years of the deep,
green river-reeds and the sweet Andalusian sunshine, three years of
free, far range and glad companionship, and then the end. His days had
been exempt from burden only to save his wild young strength for the
final tragedy. One summer morning those traitors known as decoy-oxen,
with bells about the neck, came trotting into the herd. The noble
bulls, now at their best hour of life, the glory of their kind,
welcomed these cunning guests with frank delight and interest, and
were easily induced to follow them and their tinkling bells across the
rich pastures, along rough country roads, even to the city itself and
the fatal _Plaza de Toros_. The herdsmen with their ready pikes
galloped behind the drove, and everywhere along the way peasants and
townsfolk would fall in for a mile or two to help in urging the
excited animals onward to their cruel doom.
In that strange, maddening sea of faces, that hubbub of hostile
voices, the bull, as soon as his blinking eyes had effected the change
from the darkness of the _toril_ to the glaring light and gaudy
colors of the coliseum, caught sight of a horseman with the familiar
pike. Here was something that he recognized and hated. Lowering his
head, the fiery brute dashed with a bellow at that tinselled figure.
Ah, the pike had never been so sharp before! It went deep into his
shoulder, but could not hold him back. He plunged his horns, those
mighty spears, into the body of the helpless, blindfolded horse, which
the _picador_, whose jacket was well padded and whose legs were cased
in iron, deliberately offered to his wrath. The poor horse shrieked,
plunged, reeled, and fell, the _chulos_ deftly dragging away the
armored rider, while the bull ripped and trampled that quivering
carcass, for whose torment no man cared, until it was a crimson,
formless heap.
Such sickness swept over me that I did not know what followed. When I
looked again, two bloody masses that had once been horses disfigured
the arena, and the bull, stuck all over like a hedge-hog with
derisive, many-colored darts, had gone down under Guerrita's steel.
My friends, observing with concern that I was not enjoying myself as
much as they had promised, tried to divert my attention to the
technical features of their ghastly game. It was really, they
explained, a drama in three acts. It is the part of the mounted
_picador_ to draw off the first rage and vigor of the bull, weakening
him, but not slaying him, by successive wounds. Then the jaunty
_banderilleros_, the streamers of whose darts must correspond in color
with their costumes, supply a picturesque and amusing element, a comic
interlude. Finally an _espada_, or _matador_, advances alone to
despatch the tortured creature. The death-blow can be dealt only in
one of several fashions, established by rule and precedent, and the
_espada_ who is startled into an unprofessional thrust reaps a bitter
harvest of scoffs and hisses.
A team of gayly-caparisoned mules with jingling bells had meanwhile
trundled away the mangled bodies of the slaughtered animals, fresh
sand had been thrown over the places slippery with blood, and the band
pealed the entrance of the second bull. This was a demon, black as a
coal, with a marvellous pride and spirit that availed him nothing.
Horse after horse crashed down before his furious rushes, while the
circus, drunk with glee, shouted for more victims and more and more.
It was a massacre. At last our hideous greed was glutted, and the
_banderilleros_ took their turn in baiting the now enfeebled but
undaunted bull. Wildly he shook himself, the fore half of his body
already a flood of crimson, to throw off the ignominy of those
stinging darts. The _chulos_ fretted and fooled him with their waving
cloaks of red and yellow, till at last the creature grew hushed and
sullen. A strain of music announced that the _matador_ Fuentes was
asking beneath the president's box permission to kill the bull. For my
part, I gave the bull permission to kill the man. Fuentes, all pranked
out in gray and gold, holding his keen blade behind him and
flourishing a scarlet square of cloth, swinging from a rod, the
_muleta_, advanced upon the brute. That bleeding body shook with a new
access of rage, and the other _espadas_ drew near and stood at watch.
But even before a blow was struck the splendid, murdered creature sank
to his knees, staggered up once more, sank again with crimson foam
upon his mouth, and the music clashed jubilantly while Fuentes drove
the weapon home. And again the team of mules, with foolish tossing of
their bright-ribboned heads, jerked and jolted their dead kindred off
the scene.
The third bull galloped in with a roar that was heard far beyond the
_Plaza_ and gored his first two horses so promptly and so frightfully
that, while the hapless beasts still struggled in their agony, the
amphitheatre howled with delirious joy. Several _capas_ were caught
away on those swift, effective horns, and one _picador_ was hurt. But
the rain of darts teased and bewildered the bull to the point of
stupidity, although he was dangerous yet.
"Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within doth boil;
And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he paws to the turmoil.
His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of snow;
But now they stare with one red glare of brass upon the foe."
It was the turn of Bombita, a dandy in dark-green suit with silver
trimmings; but his comrades, pale and intent, stood not far off and
from time to time, by irritating passes, drew the bull's wrath upon
themselves, wearying him ever more and more, until at last Bombita had
his chance to plant a telling blow.
Would it never end? Again the fatal door swung open, and the fourth
bull bounded in to play his tragic role. He was of choicest pedigree,
but the utter strangeness of the scene turned his taurine wits. He
made distracted and aimless rushes hither and thither, unheeding the
provocations of the horsemen, until he came upon the spot drenched
with his predecessor's life-blood. He pawed away the hasty covering of
sand, sniffed at that ominous stain, and then, throwing up his head
with a strange bellow, bolted back to the door by which he had
entered, and turned tail to the arena. The fourteen thousand, crazy
with rage, sprang to their feet, shook their fists, called him _cow_.
The _chulos_ brandished their cloaks about his horns; men leaned over
from the barrier and prodded him with staffs. Finally, in desperation,
he turned on the nearest horse, rent it and bore it down. The
_picador_, once set up by the _chulos_ upon his stiff, iron-cased
legs, his yellow finery streaked with red from his lacerated horse,
tugged savagely at the bridle to force that dying creature to a second
stand. One attendant wrenched it by the tail, another beat it
viciously over the face; the all-enduring beast, his entrails swinging
from a crimson gash, struggled to his feet. The _picador_ mounted,
drove in the spurs, and the horse, rocking and pitching, accomplished
a few blind paces toward those dripping horns that horribly awaited
him. But to the amazement and scandal of the _aficionados_, the circus
raised a cry of protest, and the discomfited rider sprang down in the
very moment when his horse fell to rise no more. A _chulo_, at his
leisurely convenience, quieted those kicking hoofs by a stab,--the one
drop of mercy in that ocean of human outrage.
Straw-colored darts, wine-colored darts, sky-colored darts, were
pricking the bull to frenzy. I wished he had any half-dozen of his
enemies in a clear pasture. Those glittering dragon-flies were always
just out of reach, but he stumbled on the sodden shape of the unhappy
horse and tossed it again and again, making the poor carcass fling up
its head and arch its neck in ghastly mockery of life. Cowardice
avails a bull as little as courage. This sorry fighter had been deeply
pierced by the _garrochas_, and now, as he galloped clumsily about
the arena, in unavailing efforts to escape from his tormentors, his
violent, foolish plunges made the dark blood flow the faster. It was
Guerrita, Guerrita the adored, Guerrita in gold-laced jacket and
violet trousers, who struck the ultimate blow, and so cleverly that
_sombreros_ and cigarettes, oranges and pocket-flasks, came raining,
amid furies of applause, into the arena. This was such a proud moment
as he had dreamed of long ago in the Cordova slaughter-house, when,
the little son of the slaughter-house porter, he had stolen from his
bed at midnight to play _al toro_ with the calves, and then and there
had solemnly dedicated himself to the glorious profession. Now the
master of his art and the idol of all Spain, easily making his
seventy-five thousand dollars a year, earning, in fact, three thousand
on that single afternoon, Guerrita little foresaw that with the coming
autumn he should go on pilgrimage to _La Virgen del Pilar_, and before
her beloved shrine at Saragossa cut off his bull-fighter's pigtail and
renounce the ring.
The fifth bull was black as ebony. He dashed fearlessly into the
arena, charged and wheeled and tossed his horns in the splendor of his
strength, sending every red-vested _chulo_ scrambling over the wall.
Then he backed to the middle of the sanded circle, snorting and pawing
the earth. Another instant, and the nearest horse and rider went
crashing against the barrier. The _picador_, with a bruised face,
forced up the gasping horse, mounted and rode it, the beast treading
out its entrails as it went, to meet a second charge. But the swaying
horse fell dead before it reached those lowered horns again. The next
_picador_, too, went down heavily under his jade and received an
awkward sprain. He mounted once more, to show that he could, and the
circus cheered him, but his horse, torn to death, could not bear his
weight. He gave it an angry push with the foot as he left it writhing
in its life-blood. This whirlwind of a bull, who shook off all but one
of the _banderillas_, mortified even the _matadores_. Disregarding the
red rag, he rushed at Fuentes himself. The nimble _torero_ leapt
aside, but the bull's horn struck his sword and sent it spinning half
across the arena. His comrades immediately ran, with waving _capas_
and bright steel, to his aid, but that too intelligent bull, fighting
for his life, kept his foes at bay until the circus hissed with
impatience. The _toreros_, visibly nettled, gathered closer and
closer, but had to play that death-game cautiously. This bull was
dangerous. The coliseum found him tedious. He took too long in dying.
Stabbed again and again and again, he yet agonized to his feet and
shook those crimsoned horns at his tormentors, who still hung back. It
really was dull. The _matadores_ buzzed about him, worrying his dying
sight, but he stood sullen in their midst, refusing the charges to
which they tempted him, guarding his last drops of strength, and,
cardinal offence in a _toro_, holding his head too high for the
professional stroke. His vital force was ebbing. Red foam dripped from
his mouth. That weary hoof no longer pawed the earth. The people
shouted insults even to their pet Guerrita, but Guerrita, like the
rest, stood baffled. At last that formidable figure, no longer black,
but a red glaze of blood and sweat and foam, fell in a sudden
convulsion. Then his valiant murderers sprang upon him, the stabs came
thick and fast, and the jingling mule-team pranced in to form his
funeral cortege.
One more,--the sixth. I was long past indignation, past any acuteness
of pain, simply sickened through body and soul and unutterably
wearied with this hideous monotony of slaughter. The last bull, a
white star shining on his black forehead, tore into the arena, raced
all about the circle, and struck with amazing rapidity wherever he saw
a foe. Three horses were down, were up again, and were forced, all
with trailing intestines, to a second charge. The bull flashed like a
thunderbolt from one to another, rending and digging with his savage
horns, until three mangled bodies writhed on the reddened sand, and
stabbers watched their chances to run forward and quiet with the knife
the horrible beating of those hoofs in air. The circus yelled delight.
It had all been the work of a moment,--a brave bull, a great
sensation! For the performers it was rather too much of a good thing.
Those disembowelled carcasses cluttered up the arena. The scattered
entrails were slippery under foot. The dart-throwers hastened to the
next act of the tragedy. Theirs was a subtlety too much for the
fury-fuddled wits of that mighty, blundering brute. He galloped to and
fro, spending his strength in useless charges and, a score of times,
ignoring the men to hook wildly at their brandished strips of colored
cloth. The darts had been planted and he was losing blood. The
_matador_ went to his work, but the uncivil bull did not make it easy
for him. Bombita could not get in a handsome blow. The house began to
hoot and taunt. A stentorian voice called to him to "kill that bull
to-morrow." Exasperated by the laughter that greeted this sally,
Bombita drove his Toledo blade to its mark. While the final scene of
general stabbing was going on, boys, men, even women vaulted into the
arena, played over again with one another the more memorable
incidents, ran to inspect those shapeless carcasses of what God
created horses, and escorted the funeral train of the bull, one
small boy riding in gleeful triumph on top of the great black body,
harmless and still at last. As we passed out by a hallway where the
dead animals had been dragged, we had to pick our way through pools of
blood and clots of entrails. Thus by the road of the shambles we came
forth from hell.
[Illustration: THE GIRALDA]
"I do not understand at all," sincerely protested my Spanish host,
disconcerted by the continued nausea and horror of red dreams which,
justly enough, pursued me for weeks after. "It was a very favorable
_corrida_ for a beginner,--no serious accident, no use of the
fire-darts, no houghing of the bull with the demi-lune, nothing
objectionable. And, after all, animals are only animals; they are not
Christians."
"Who were the Christians in that circus?" I asked. "How could devils
have been worse than we?"
He half glanced toward the morning paper but was too kindly to speak
his thought. It was not necessary. I had read the paper, which gave
half a column to a detailed account of a recent lynching, with
torture, in the United States.
X