walk through all the passages of the building. They go to see the horses
enclosed in a courtyard, and most of them destined to be killed, more’s
the pity! They go to see the dark chambers where are confined the bulls,
which are driven from one enclosure to another until they reach a
corridor and dash into the arena; they go to see the infirmary where the
wounded toreros are borne: once there was a chapel to visit in which
mass was celebrated during the combat, and there the toreros went to
pray before confronting the angry brutes; then they go to the principal
entrance, where are exhibited the _banderillas_ that are to be inserted
in the bulls’ necks, and where one sees a group of old toreros--one
lame, another without an arm, a third on crutches--and the young toreros
who have not yet been admitted to the honors of the circus of Madrid.
One buys a copy of the Bulletin of the Bulls, which promises miracles
for the doings of the day. Then one gets from the guard the programme of
the spectacle and a printed leaflet divided into columns for noting the
strokes of the spear, the thrusts, the falls, and the wounds. One climbs
along endless corridors and interminable stairways in the midst of a
crowd which comes and goes, ascends and descends, crying and shouting,
so that the whole building trembles, and finally one returns to one’s
seat.
The circus is crowded full, and presents a spectacle of which it is
impossible to form an idea unless one has seen it: it is a sea of heads,
hats, fans, and hands waving in the air; on the side where sit the
better classes in the shade all is dark; on the other side, in the sun,
where the common people sit, a thousand brilliant colors of vesture,
parasols, and paper fans--an immense masquerade.
There is not room enough for another child; the crowd is as compact as a
phalanx; no one can go out, and it is difficult even to move one’s arms.
It is not a buzzing like the noise of other theatres; it is different:
it is an agitation, a life altogether peculiar to the circus; everybody
is shouting, gesticulating, and saluting each other with frantic joy;
the women and children scream; the gravest men frolic like boys; the
young men, in groups of twenty and thirty, shout in chorus and beat with
their canes against the stone balustrade as a sign to the mayor that the
hour has arrived. In the boxes there is an overflow of spirits, like
that in the galleries of the regular theatres; the discordant cries of
the crowd are augmented by the howls of a hundred hawkers, who are
throwing oranges in every direction; the band plays, the bulls bellow,
the crowd outside roars; it is a spectacle which makes one dizzy, and
before the struggle commences one is exhausted, intoxicated, and
stupefied.
Suddenly there is a cry, “The king!” The king has arrived; he is come in
a chariot drawn by white horses, with mounted grooms in picturesque
Andalusian costumes; the glass doors of the royal box swing back, and
the king enters with a stately crowd of ministers, generals, and
major-domos. The queen is not there: one foresaw that; every one knows
that she has a horror of this spectacle. Oh! but the king would not miss
it; he has always come. They say he is mad over it. The hour has come,
the spectacle begins. I shall remember to my dying day the chill which
passed over me at that moment.
A blare of trumpets; four guards of the circus on horseback, with cap
and plume _à la Henri IV._, with black mantles, tight-fitting jackets,
jack-boots, and swords, enter by the gate under the king’s box and
slowly make the circuit of the arena. The people separate; every one
goes to his seat; the arena is deserted. The four cavaliers take their
places, two by two, in front of the door opposite the royal box, which
is still closed.
Ten thousand spectators fix their eyes on that spot; there is a
universal silence. For through it will come the _cuadrilla_, with all
the _toreros_ in gala dress to present themselves to the king and the
people. The band plays, the door springs open, there is a burst of
applause; the _toreros_ advance. First come the three _espadas_,
Frascuelo, Lagartijo, and Cayetano, the three famous ones, dressed in
the costume of Figaro in the _Barber of Seville_, in satin, silk, and
velvet, orange, scarlet, and blue, covered with embroidery, fringe,
lace, filigree, tinsel, spangles of gold and silver, which almost
conceal their dress; enveloped in full capes of yellow and red, with
white stockings, silken girdles, a bunch of tassels on the neck, and a
fur cap. Next come the _banderilleros_ and the _capeadores_, a troop
covered like the others with gold and silver; then the _picadores_, on
horseback, two by two, each with a great battle-lance, a low-crowned
gray hat, an embroidered jacket, breeches of yellow buffalo skin, padded
and lined inside with strips of iron; then the _chulos_, or servants,
dressed in their holiday best; and altogether they walk majestically
across the arena toward the box of the king. One cannot imagine anything
more picturesque than this spectacle: there are all the colors of a
garden, all the splendors of a royal court, all the gayety of a rout of
maskers, all the grandeur of a band of warriors; on closing one’s eyes
one sees only a gleaming of gold and silver. They are very handsome
men--the _picadores_ tall, stout of limb like athletes; the others
slight and nimble, with chiselled forms, swarthy faces, and great fierce
eyes--figures like the ancient gladiators, clothed with the magnificence
of Asiatic princes.
The entire _cuadrilla_ stops in front of the royal
[Illustration: _Implanting the Bandillera_]
[Illustration: _The Charge_]
box and salutes; the mayor makes a sign that they may begin; the key of
the _toril_, where the bulls are confined, is tossed from the box into
the arena; a guard of the circus picks it up and gives it to the
custodian, who places himself before the door ready to open it. The band
of _toreros_ separates, the _espadas_ leap over the barrier, the
_capeadores_ scatter through the arena, waving their red and yellow
_capas_; the _picadores_ retire to await their turn; the rest spur their
horses and take their positions to the left of the _toril_ at a distance
of twenty paces apart, with their backs to the barrier and their lances
in rest.
It is a moment of keen excitement, of unexpressible anxiety: all eyes
are fixed on the door by which the bull will enter; all hearts are
beating high; a profound silence broods over the whole circus; one hears
only the bellowing of the bull as he advances from cell to cell in the
darkness of his vast prison; one can almost hear him crying, “Blood!
blood!” The horses tremble, the _picadores_ grow pale: another instant a
blare of trumpets, the door is thrown wide open, and the terrible bull
dashes into the arena saluted by a terrific shout, which bursts at that
moment from ten thousand throats. The butchery has begun.
Ah! it is a good thing to have strong nerves: at that moment one turns
as white as a corpse.
I can only remember confusedly what followed in the first instance: I
do not know where I could have been. The bull rushed against the first
_picador_, retreated, continued his course, and rushed upon the second;
if there was a struggle, I do not remember it; then a moment later he
rushed against the third, ran to the centre of the arena, stood and
looked about him: I too looked about and covered my face with my hands.
All that part of the arena where the bull had passed was streaked with
blood; the first horse lay dead on the ground with his belly ripped open
and his entrails scattered about; the second, with his breast torn by a
deep gash from which blood was streaming, staggered about here and
there; the third was thrown to the ground and tried in vain to rise; the
_chulos_ hurried in, raised the _picadores_ from the ground, took the
saddle and bridle from the dead horse, and tried to help the wounded one
to his feet: an infernal yell resounded from every part of the circus;
thus the spectacle usually begins. The first to receive the onslaught of
the bull are the _picadores_; they sit firmly awaiting him and plant the
lance between the head and shoulders of the bull as he is in the act of
fastening his horns in the horse. The lance, be it noted, has only a
small point, which cannot make a deep wound, and the _picadores_ are
obliged by sheer force of arm to ward off the bull and save their
steeds. To do this one must have a sure eye, an arm of bronze, and a
dauntless heart; they do not always succeed; indeed, they usually fail,
and the bull plants his horns in the horse’s belly and the picador is
thrown to the ground. Then the capeadores run forward, and while the
bull is shaking his horns free from the entrails of his victim they wave
their _capas_ before his eyes, turn his attention, make him follow them
and leave the fallen horseman in safety; whereupon the _chulos_ come to
his aid, and help him again into the saddle if the horse can still
stand, or carry him off to the infirmary if he has broken his head.
The bull stood panting in the middle of the arena with bloody horns,
looking around as if to say, “Have you had enough?” A band of
_capeadores_ ran toward him, surrounded him, and commenced to tease and
badger him, making him rush here and there, waving their _capas_ before
his eyes, passing them over his head, leading him on, and escaping with
the nimblest turns, to return to tease him again, and again flee from
him. And the bull turns on them one after another, and chases them as
far as the barrier, where he butts his horns against the boards, stamps,
cuts capers, bellows, buries his horns in the bodies of the dead horses
as he passes, tries to jump into the course, and rushes around the arena
in every direction. Meanwhile the other _picadores_ come in to take the
places of the two whose horses had been killed, and take their positions
at some distance from each other, over beside the _toril_ with lances
in rest, ready for the attack of the bull. The _capeadores_ dextrously
draw him in that direction, and, seeing the first horse, he made a
plunge toward him with lowered head. But this time his blow was parried:
the lance of the _picador_ was fixed in his shoulder and checked him.
The bull was stubborn; he strained and lunged forward with all his
weight; but in vain: the _picador_ held firm, the bull retreated, the
horse was saved, and a thunderous burst of applause greeted the man. The
other _picador_ was less fortunate: the bull attacked; he did not
succeed in planting his lance firmly; the terrible horns penetrated the
horse’s belly as quickly as a sword might have done, were violently
twisted in the wound, and withdrawn; the intestines of the poor animal
fell through and remained dangling, like a great bag, almost down to the
ground; the _picador_ remained in the saddle. There a horrible sight was
witnessed. Instead of dismounting, the _picador_, perceiving that the
wound was not mortal, put the spurs to the horse and rode to another
place to await a second attack: the horse crossed the arena with his
entrails hanging from his belly, striking against his legs, and impeding
his steps. The bull followed for a moment and stopped. At that point
there was blast on the trumpets: it was the signal for the _picadores_
to withdraw. A gate was opened, and they galloped out one after another;
the two dead horses were left, and here and there were pools and
streaks of blood which two _chulos_ covered with earth.
After the _picadores_ come the _banderilleros_. And to the uninitiated
this part of the performance is the most entertaining, for the reason
that it is the least cruel. The _banderillas_ are little arrows about
two spans in length, ornamented with colored paper and provided with a
metal tip so formed that when it once penetrates the skin it cannot be
withdrawn, and the bull with his running and shaking only drives it
farther in. The _banderillero_ takes two of these arrows, one in each
hand, and assumes a position about fifteen paces distant from the bull,
and then, by waving his hands and shouting, provokes an attack. The bull
rushes toward him: the _banderillero_ in his turn runs toward the bull,
and just as the bull’s head is lowered to plunge his horns into the
man’s body the banderillero plants the arrows in his neck, one on this
side, the other on that, and saves himself by a quick turn. If he stops,
if his foot slips, if he hesitates an instant, he will be spitted like a
frog. The bull bellows, snorts, tosses himself, and turns with dreadful
fury to follow the _capeadores_. In a minute they have all jumped into
the course; the arena is cleared, and the brute, with foaming mouth,
bloodshot eyes, and neck streaked with blood, stamps the ground, shakes
himself, runs at the barrier, demands vengeance, thirsts for blood and
slaughter: no one appears to confront him; the spectators fill the air
with the cry, “Forward! courage!” “The next _banderillero_!” The next
_banderillero_ advances and plants his arrows, then a third, and then
the first again. On that day there were eight arrows inserted. The poor
beast, when he felt the last two, gave a long bellow, distressing and
horrible, and, dashing after one of his enemies, followed him to the
barrier, took the leap, and fell with him into the course. The ten
thousand spectators were all on their feet in an instant, crying, “He
has killed him!” But the _banderillero_ had escaped. The bull ran
backward and forwarded between the two barriers under a rain of blows
and thrusts, until he was driven to an open gate and returned to the
arena as the gate closed after him. Then all the _banderilleros_ and all
the _capeadores_ rushed toward him again: one passed behind and gave his
tail a jerk, and disappeared like a flash of lightning; another as he
flew past wound a _capa_ around his horns; a third actually had the
audacity to snatch off with one hand a little silk bow which was tied to
his tail; a fourth, the most rash of them all, planted a pole in the
ground as the bull was running, took a flying leap, and passed entirely
over him and landed on the other side, throwing the stick between the
legs of the astonished animal; and they did all this with the quickness
of jugglers and the grace of dancers, as though they were playing with a
lamb. Meanwhile, the immense crowd made the circus resound with their
laughter and applause and cries of delight, admiration, and terror.
Another blast of the trumpet; the _banderilleros_ are done. Now for the
_espada_. It is a solemn moment, the crisis of the drama. The crowd is
still, the ladies lean forward in their boxes, the king rises to his
feet. The famous Frascuelo, holding in one hand the sword and in the
other the _muleta_, a piece of red stuff fastened to a stick, enters the
arena, presents himself before the royal box, raises his cap, and in a
poetic phrase consecrates to the king the bull that he is about to kill;
then, tossing his cap in the air, as if to say, “Victory or death!”
followed by a splendid train of _capeadores_, he advances resolutely
toward the bull. Here follows a veritable hand-to-hand struggle worthy
of Homer’s song. On one side is the brute with his terrible horns, with
his enormous strength, his thirst for blood, maddened by pain, blinded
by rage, fierce, bloody, terrible; on the other, a young man of twenty,
dressed like a dancer, on foot, alone and defenceless but for the short,
slender sword in his hand. But the gaze of twenty thousand eyes is bent
upon him. The king has a gift at hand; his sweetheart is above there in
a box, with her eyes fixed upon him; a thousand ladies are trembling for
his life. The bull pauses and looks at him; he looks at the bull and
waves the red cloth before him. The bull dashes under it; the _espada_
springs aside; that terrible horn grazes his hip, strikes the red cloth,
and cleaves the empty air. A shout of applause bursts from the entire
balcony, from all the boxes and galleries. The ladies raise their
opera-glasses and cry, “He has not paled!”
All is silence again; there is not a sound; not a whisper. The bold
torero flutters the muleta before the eyes of the infuriated animal,
passes it overhead between his horns and around his neck, makes him
recede, advance, turn, jump; invites an attack ten times, and ten times
by the slightest motion escapes death; lets his muleta fall, and picks
it up under the eyes of the bull; laughs in his face, taunts him,
insults him, and makes sport of him: all at once he stops, puts himself
on guard, raises his sword, and takes aim; the bull looks at him;
another instant and they will rush toward each other. One of them must
die; ten thousand glances run with lightning rapidity from the point of
the sword to the tips of the horns; ten thousand hearts beat fast with
anxiety and terror; the faces are all tense with excitement; one does
not hear a breath; the vast crowd seems petrified. Another instant--the
time has come! The bull dashes forward; the man brandishes his sword; a
single loud cry, and then a tempestuous burst of applause breaks forth
on every side; the sword has been buried to its hilt in the bull’s neck;
the bull reels and with a stream of blood flowing from his mouth falls
as though he had been struck by lightning.
The man has conquered! Then follows an indescribable tumult; the
multitude seems to grow mad; all leap to their feet, wave their arms,
and cry at the top of their voices; the ladies wave their handkerchiefs,
clap their hands, and shake their fans; the band strikes up; the
victorious _espada_ approaches the barrier and makes the circuit of the
arena. As he passes, from the galleries, the boxes, and the balconies
the spectators, carried away by their enthusiasm, shower upon him
packages of cigars, purses, canes, hats, anything which they can lay
their hands on; in a few moments the fortunate torero has his arms full
of trophies, calls the _capeadores_ to his assistance, throws back the
hats to his admirers, thanks them, and responds as well as he can to the
salutes, the praises, and the glorious titles with which he is hailed
upon every side, and finally comes to the royal box.
Then all eyes are riveted on the king. The king puts his hand in his
pocket, takes out a cigar-case full of bank-notes, and tosses it down;
the _torero_ catches it in the air, and the multitude bursts into
applause. Meanwhile the band is playing a dirge for the bull; a gate
opens, four enormous mules gallop in, ornamented with plumes, tassels,
and ribbons of yellow and red, driven by a band of _chulos_, who shout
and crack their whips; the dead horses are drawn out one after another,
and finally the bull is removed, whereupon he is at once carried to a
little square near the circus, where a crowd of gamins is waiting to dip
their fingers in his blood, after which he is flayed, butchered, and
sold.
The arena is again free; the trumpet sounds, the drum beats: another
bull dashes from his prison, attacks the _picadores_, rips up the
bellies of horses, offers his neck to the _banderilleros_, and is killed
by an _espada_; and so, without any intermission, six bulls are
presented in the arena one after the other.
How many shocks, how many tremors, how many chills at the heart and
rushes of blood to the head does one feel during that spectacle! how
many sudden pallors! But you, stranger, you alone are pale; the boy
beside you is laughing, the girl in front of you is wild with delight,
the lady whom you see in the next box says she has never enjoyed herself
so much. What shouting! what exclamations! That is the place to learn
the language! As the bull appears he is judged by a thousand voices:
“What a fine head! what eyes! he will draw blood! he is worth a
fortune!” They break out into words of love. He has killed a horse.
“_Bueno!_ see how much has fallen from the belly!” A _picador_ misses
his stroke and wounds the bull badly or is afraid to confront him; then
there is a deluge of insulting names: “Poltroon! imposter! assassin! go
hide yourself! go and be hanged!” They all rise, point with their
fingers, shake their fists, throw orange-peel and cigar-stumps in his
face, and threaten him with their canes. When the _espada_ kills the
bull with one stroke, then follow the delirious words of lovers and
extravagant gestures: “Come here, angel! God bless thee, Frascuelo!”
They throw him kisses, call to him, and stretch out their hands as if to
embrace him. What a profusion of epithets, witticisms, and proverbs!
What fire! what life!
But I have spoken only of the doings of one bull; in the entire
_corrida_ a thousand accidents occur. In that same day a bull thrust his
head under a horse’s belly, raised the horse and horseman, and, carrying
them in triumph across the arena, threw them both to the ground like a
bundle of rags. Another bull killed four horses in a few minutes; a
third attacked a _picador_ so violently that he fell, struck his head
against the barrier, fainted, and was carried out. But not for this nor
for a graver wound, nor even for the death of a _torero_, is the
spectacle interrupted--it is so stated in the programme; if one is
killed, another is ready. The bull does not always attack; there are
some cowardly ones which run toward the _picador_, stop, and after a
moment of hesitation run away; others, naturally gentle and placid, do
not in the least respond to provocations; they allow the _picador_ to
approach them to plant his lance in their neck, back off, shake their
heads as if to say, “No, thank you!” run away, and then turn suddenly to
look with astonishment at the band of _capeadores_ who follow them, as
though they would ask, “What do you want of us? What have we done? Why
do you wish to kill us?” Then the crowd bursts forth in imprecations
against the cowardly bulls, against the managers, and against the
_toreros_; and first one of the dilettanti over the _toril_, then the
spectators on the sunny side, then the gentlemen on the shady side, then
the ladies, then all the spectators in the circus, cry with one voice,
“_Banderillas de fuego!_” The cry is directed toward the mayor. The
_banderillas_ of fire serve to infuriate the bull; they are
_banderillas_ provided with a fire-cracker, which goes off at the moment
the point penetrates the flesh and burns the wound, causing extreme
pain; the animal is tortured and enraged to the point of changing from a
coward to a daredevil, from quietness to fury. The permission of the
mayor is required to use the _banderillas de fuego_: if he hesitates to
give it, all the spectators leap to their feet, and there follows a
wonderful sight: one sees ten thousand handkerchiefs waving like the
ensigns of ten regiments of lancers, from the boxes to the arena, all
the way around, forming a fluttering band of white which almost conceals
the crowd, and ten thousand voices cry, “Fuego! fuego! fuego!” Then the
mayor may yield, but if he is obstinate in his refusal, the
handkerchiefs disappear, fists and canes take their places, and curses
burst forth: “Don’t make a fool of yourself! don’t spoil the fun! The
_banderillas_ for the mayor! fire for the mayor!”
The agony of the bull is terrible. Sometimes the _torero_ does not
strike where he should, and the sword is buried to the hilt, but not in
the direction of the heart. Then the bull commences to run about the
arena with the sword sticking in his body, sprinkling the ground with
blood, bellowing deeply, writhing and twisting in a thousand ways to
free himself from that torture; and in his impetuous course sometimes
the sword flies out, sometimes it is driven deeper in and causes death.