not rarely a third or a fourth; the blood flows in torrents; all the
_capas_ of the _capeadores_ are sprinkled; the _espada_ is besmeared and
the barrier bespattered; everything is covered with blood; the indignant
spectators load the _torero_ with abuse. Sometimes the bull falls to the
ground badly wounded, but does not die, and lies there motionless with
his head high and threatening, as if he would say, “Come on, assassins,
if you have the courage!” Then the struggle is ended, the agony must be
shortened: a mysterious man climbs the barrier, approaches with stealthy
steps, places himself behind the bull, and, watching his chance, gives
him a blow on the head with a dagger which penetrates to the brain and
kills him. Often this blow does not succeed, either; the mysterious man
must strike twice, thrice, or even four times; then the indignation of
the people bursts forth like a tempest. They call him an executioner, a
coward, an infamous wretch, wish he were dead, and if they had him in
their hands would strangle him like a dog. Sometimes the bull, mortally
wounded, staggers a little way before he falls, and, reeling with slow
step from the place where he was stricken, goes to die in peace in a
quiet corner; all the _toreros_ follow him slowly at a short distance,
like a funeral train; the crowd watches all his movements, counts his
steps, measures the progress of his agony; profound silence attends his
last moments; his death has in it something majestic and solemn. There
are some indomitable bulls that will not bow the head even in drawing
the last breath--bulls that, while the blood runs in streams from their
mouths, still threaten; bulls pierced by ten sword-thrusts, stabbed, and
bleeding to death, that still raise their heads with a superb motion
which makes the crowd of their persecutors recede halfway across the
arena; bulls whose death-agony is more terrible than their first fury;
bulls that tear dead horses, break through the barrier, furiously
trample the _capas_ scattered through the arena, jump into the course,
and run around with a high head, looking at the spectators with an air
of defiance, fall, rise again, and die bellowing.
The agony of the horses, though not so prolonged, is more dreadful. Some
have a leg broken by the bull, others the neck pierced through and
through; others are killed at one blow with a thrust of the horn in the
breast, without shedding a drop of blood; others, overcome with fear,
take to flight, and, running straight ahead, come in violent collision
with the barrier and fall down dead; others welter a long time in a pool
of blood before they die; others, wounded, bleeding, disembowelled, and
mutilated, still gallop about with desperate fury, run against the bull,
are felled to the ground, rise and fight again until they are carried
away, ruined but alive, and then the intestines are replaced, the belly
sewed up, and they serve again; others, terrified at the approach of the
beast, tremble violently, paw the ground, recoil, neigh, and do not wish
to die; and these most excite one’s pity. Sometimes a single bull kills
five horses; sometimes in a _corrida_ twenty are killed; all the
_picadores_ are drenched with blood; smoking entrails are scattered
through the arena, and the bulls grow tired of slaughter.
The _toreros_ also have their ugly moments. The _picadores_ now and
then, instead of falling under the horse, fall between the horse and the
bull; then the bull plunges forward to kill them; the crowd gives a cry,
but a brave _capeador_ throws his _capa_ over the bull’s eyes and at the
risk of his own life saves that of his comrade. Often, instead of
rushing at the _muleta_, the bull turns and rushes toward the _espada_,
grazes him, attacks and follows him, and obliges him to throw away his
weapon and save himself, pale and trembling, on the other side of the
barrier. Sometimes he strikes him with his head and throws him down; the
_espada_ disappears in a cloud of dust; the crowd cries, “He is dead!”
but the bull passes, the _espada_ is saved. Sometimes the bull rushes
unexpectedly, raises him with his head, and tosses him to one side. Not
infrequently the bull does not allow him to take aim with the sword; the
_matador_ does not succeed in striking in the breast, and, as he is
compelled by the laws to strike in a given place, and in that place
only, he makes futile attempts for a long time, grows confused, and runs
a thousand chances of losing his life; meanwhile, the crowd howls,
hisses, and insults him, until finally the poor man in desperation
resolves to kill or to be killed, and strikes at random; and he either
succeeds and is lauded to the skies, or fails and is despised, derided,
and pelted with orange-peels, even though he may be the most intrepid,
bravest, and renowned _torero_ in Spain.
* * * * *
In the crowd, too, a thousand incidents occur during the spectacle.
Suddenly two spectators fall to fighting. The people are so closely
packed that some one of the neighbors receives a blow from a cane; then
they seize their canes and join the fray. The circle of the combatants
grows wider; the row extends through entire compartments in the gallery;
in a few moments there are hats flying through the air, torn cravats,
bloody faces, a din which rises to heaven; all the spectators are on
their feet; the guards run about; the _toreros_ cease to be actors and
become spectators. At other times a group of lively young fellows turn
in one direction and shout all together, “There he is!” “Who?” No one,
but meanwhile the persons next to them get up, and those at a distance
stand on the seats; the ladies lean from the boxes, and in a moment the
whole circus is topsy-turvy. Then the group of young men give a loud
laugh; their neighbors, so as not to appear ridiculous, do the same; the
laugh spreads to the boxes and through the galleries till ten thousand
people are laughing. At other times it is a foreigner, seeing his first
bull-fight, who faints; the news spreads in a trice; they all get up,
stare, shout, and make a pandemonium that baffles description. Again, it
is a good-humored man who hails his friend away on the other side of the
theatre in a voice which sounds like a clap of thunder. That great crowd
is stirred in a few moments with a thousand contrary emotions, passes
with incessant change from terror to enthusiasm, from enthusiasm to
pity, from pity to anger, from anger to delight, admiration, and
unbridled enjoyment.
The final impression which this spectacle makes upon the mind is
indescribable: it is a mingling of sensations, among which it is
impossible to recollect anything clearly or to know one’s thoughts. At
one moment you turn in horror to flee from the circus, and swear you
will never come back; a moment later, astonished, enraptured, and almost
intoxicated, you hope the spectacle will never end; now you are almost
sickened; now you, too, like your neighbors, shout, laugh, and applaud;
the blood makes you shudder, but the marvellous courage of the men
exalts you; the danger clutches at your heart, but you are reassured by
the victory; little by little the fever which works in the crowd steals
into your veins; you do not know yourself, you are another person; you
too are stirred by anger, ferocity, and enthusiasm; you feel bold and
valiant; the struggle fires your blood; the gleaming of the sword
enrages you; and then the thousands of faces, the clamor, the music, the
bellowing, the blood, the profound silences and tumultuous bursts of
applause, the vastness, the light, the colors, the indescribable
grandeur, courage, cruelty, and magnificence, dazzle, amaze, and
bewilder you.
* * * * *
It is a fine sight to see the people go out; there are ten torrents
which pour from ten gates and flood in a few moments the suburb of
Salamanca, the Prado, the avenues of the Recoletos, and the street
Alcalá; a thousand carriages wait at the exits of the circus; for an
hour, wherever one turns, one sees only a swarm of human ants as far as
the eye can reach; and all is silent: their passions have exhausted them
all; one hears only the roar of passing feet; it seems as if the crowd
wishes to steal away secretly; a sort of sadness succeeds their
clamorous joy. I, for my part, as I came from the circus for the first
time, had scarcely strength to stand on my feet; my head was spinning
like a top; my ears buzzed, and everywhere I saw the horns of bulls,
eyes swimming in blood, dead horses, and flashing swords. I took the
shortest way home, and as soon as I arrived there tumbled into bed and
fell into a heavy sleep.
On the following morning the landlady came in great haste to ask me,
“Well, how did it strike you? Did it amuse you? Are you going again?
What do you say?”
“I do not know,” I replied; “it seems like a dream. I will tell you
later; I must think it over.”
Saturday came, the day before the second bull-fight. “Are you going?”
asked the landlady. “No,” I replied, thinking of something else. I went
out, turned into the street Alcalá, and found myself accidentally in
front of the shop where tickets are sold; there was a crowd of people.
“Shall I go?” I asked myself. “Yes or no?”
“Do you want a ticket?” a boy demanded: “a shady seat, No. 6, near the
barrier--fifteen reales?” “Done!” I replied.
* * * * *
But to clearly comprehend the nature of this spectacle it is necessary
to know its history. No one knows certainly when the first bull-fight
took place: the tradition tells that the Cid Campeador was the first
cavalier to descend with his spear into the arena and on horseback kill
the terrible animal. Later, the young nobles devoted themselves with
great ardor to this sport; bull-fights were held at all the solemn
feasts, and only to the nobility was granted the honor of taking part in
them; even the kings entered the arena. All through the Middle Ages this
was the favorite spectacle of the court--the chosen exercise of
warriors, not only among the Spaniards, but among the Moors as well; and
they both waged war in the circus as well as on the battlefield.
Isabella the Catholic wished to prohibit the bull-fights, because she
had been horrified on once seeing them, but the numerous and powerful
patrons of the spectacle dissuaded her from putting her purpose into
effect. After Isabella the circus received great encouragement. Charles
V. with his own hand killed a bull in the great square of Valladolid;
Ferdinand Pizarro, the celebrated conqueror of Peru, was a valiant
_torero_; King Sebastian of Portugal won many laurels in the arena;
Philip III. adorned the circus of Madrid; Philip IV. fought in it;
Charles II. fostered the art; in the reign of Philip V. a number of
circuses were built by order of the government, but the honor of
fighting belonged exclusively to the nobility; they fought only on
horseback, splendidly mounted, and yet the only blood shed was that of
the bull.
It was not until the middle of the last century that the art became
popular, and _toreros_, properly called artists of the profession, who
fought on foot and on horseback, came into existence. The famous
Francisco Romero Deronda perfected the art of fighting on foot,
introduced the custom of killing the bull face to face with the sword
and _muleta_, and established the practice. Thereupon the spectacle
became national and the people welcomed it with enthusiasm. Charles III.
forbade it, but his prohibition only served to increase the popular
enthusiasm into a complete epidemic, as a Spanish chronicler puts it.
King Ferdinand VII., who was passionately fond of bulls, instituted a
school of bull-fighting at Seville. Isabella II. was more enthusiastic
than Ferdinand VII.; Amadeus I., it is said, was not a whit behind
Isabella II. And now bull-fighting flourishes more than ever before in
Spain; there are more than a hundred great proprietors who raise bulls
for the spectacles; Madrid, Seville, Barcelona, Cadiz, Valencia, Jerez,
and Puerto de Santa Maria have circuses of the first order; there are no
less than fifty small circuses, with a capacity of from three to nine
thousand spectators; in all the villages where there is no circus they
hold the _corridas_ in the square. At Madrid they are held every Sunday,
and in the other cities whenever it is possible, and they are always
attended by a vast concourse of people from the neighboring cities,
villages, countryside, mountains, islands, and even from foreign
countries.
If is true that all the Spaniards are not mad over this spectacle; many
never attend; not a few disapprove, condemn, and would be glad to see it
driven out of Spain; some journalists now and then raise a cry of
protest; a deputy the day after a _torero_ is killed talks of
petitioning the government; but its enemies are all timid and feeble.
On the other hand, apologies are written in defence of the bull-fights,
new circuses are built, old ones are renewed, and the foreigners who cry
out against Spanish barbarity are laughed to scorn.
The _corridas_ held in the summer are not the only ones, nor is the
spectacle always equally good. In the circus there is an exhibition
every Sunday through the winter, but there are not those noble and fiery
bulls of the summer season, neither are there the great artists whom
Spain admires; there are bulls of smaller size and less courage, and
_toreros_ not yet proficient in the art; but there is a spectacle, at
all events, and, although the king does not attend or the flower of the
citizens as in the summer-time, the circus is always well filled.
Little blood is shed, only two bulls are killed, and the spectacle
concludes with fireworks; it is an amusement fit for servants and
children, as the passionate lovers of the art say in deprecation.
But there is one episode in the winter spectacles which is especially
amusing. When the _toreros_ have killed the _toros de muerte_, the arena
is placed at the disposal of the dilettanti; from every part the people
jump down, and in a moment there are a hundred workmen, scholars, and
street arabs, some with cloaks in their hands, others with shawls,
others with any sort of a rag, who crowd to right and left of the
_toril_ ready to receive the bull. The door opens; a bull with swathed
horns rushes into the arena, and there follows an indescribable tumult;
the crowd surrounds, follows, and drags the bull here and there, hitting
him with their mantles and shawls, plaguing and tormenting him in a
thousand ways, until the poor animal, entirely exhausted, is driven from
the arena and another takes his place. It is incredible with what
audacity those boys dart under him, twist his tail, and jump on his
back; incredible too is the agility with which they dodge the blows.
Sometimes the bull with a sudden turn strikes some one, knocks him down,
tosses him in the air, or lifts him high on his horns; again he upsets
at one blow a half dozen, and bull and men disappear in a cloud of dust,
while the spectator fears for an instant that some one has been killed.
Nothing of the kind! The intrepid _capeadores_ jump up with bruised
limbs and dusty faces, shrug their shoulders, and face him again. But
this is by no means the best episode of the winter spectacles. Sometimes
the bulls are confronted by _toreras_ instead of _toreros_: these are
women dressed like tightrope-walkers, with faces before which not the
angels, but even Lucifer, would
“Make with his wings a cover for his eyes.”
The _picadoras_ ride on mules; the _espada_--the one I saw was an old
woman of sixty, Martina by name, an Asturian, known in all the circuses
in Spain,--the _espada_ fights on foot with the rapier, and the _muleta_
like the most intrepid matador of the stronger sex. The entire
_cuadrilla_ is accompanied by a train of _chulos_ with great wings and
humps on their backs. These unfortunate women risk their lives for forty
francs! A bull on the day when I witnessed the spectacle broke the arm
of one _banderillera_ and tore the petticoat of another, so that she was
left in the middle of the circus with scarcely enough clothes on her
back to cover her nakedness.
After the women, the wild beasts. At various times they made the bull
fight with lions and with tigers; it is only a few years since one of
these combats was held in the circus of Madrid. It was that celebrated
event which the count-duke de Olivares commanded in honor of the
birthday, if my memory does not fail me, of Don Baltasar Carlos of
Asturia, prince of the Asturias. The bull fought with a lion, a tiger,
and a leopard, and succeeded in conquering them all. Also in a combat a
few years ago the tiger and the lion got the worst of it; they both
jumped impetuously upon the back of the bull, but before they were able
to fasten their teeth in his neck they fell to the ground in a pool of
blood, pierced by the terrible horns. Only the elephant--a huge elephant
which still lives in the gardens of Buen Retiro--carried the day; the
bull attacked him, and he simply placed his head on the bull’s back and
pressed, and the pressure was so delicate that his reckless assailant
was crushed as flat as a pancake.
But it is not easy to imagine what skill, what courage, and what
imperturbable tranquillity of mind must be possessed by a man who with
his sword faces an animal that kills lions, attacks elephants, and tears
in pieces, crushes, and covers with blood everything that he touches.
And there are men who face them every day.
The _toreros_ are by no means artists, as one would suppose, to be
placed in the same category with mountebanks and those for whom the
people feel no other sentiment than that of admiration. The _torero_ is
respected even outside of the circus; he enjoys the protection of the
young aristocrats, has his box in the theatre, frequents the best cafés
in Madrid, and is saluted in the street with a low bow by persons of
refinement. Famous _espadas_ like Frascuelo, Lagartijo, and Cayetano
receive the nice little sum of about ten thousand francs a year; they
own houses and villas, live in sumptuous apartments, dress with
elegance, spend heaps of money on their costumes embroidered with gold
and silver, travel like nabobs, and smoke Havana cigars. Their dress out
of the circus is very curious: an Orsini hat of black velvet; a jacket
fitting closely around the waist, unbuttoned and reaching barely to the
trousers; a waistcoat opened almost to the waist, which allows a white
shirt of very fine texture to be seen; no cravat; a sash of red or blue
silk about the loins; a pair of breeches fitting the limb like the
tights of a ballet-dancer; a pair of low shoes, of morocco leather,
ornamented with embroidery; a little periwig falling down the back; and
then gold studs, chains, diamonds, rings, and trinkets; in short, an
entire jewelry-shop on their persons. Many keep their saddle-horse and
some their carriages, and when they are not killing bulls they are
always walking in the Prado, at the Puerto del Sol, or in the gardens of
Recoletos with their wives and their sweethearts, splendidly dressed and
proudly affectionate. Their names, their faces, and their deeds are even
better known to the people than the deeds, faces, and names of their
commanders and statesman. _Toreros_ in comedies, _toreros_ in song,
_toreros_ in pictures, _toreros_ in the windows of the
[Illustration: _Matadors, Madrid_]
print-shops, statues of _toreros_, fans painted with _toreros_,
handkerchiefs with figures of _toreros_,--these one sees again and
again, on every occasion and in every place.
The business of the _torero_ is the most lucrative and the most
honorable to which a courageous son of the people may aspire: very many,
in fact, devote themselves to it, but very few become proficient; most
of them remain mediocre _capeadores_, a few become _banderilleros_ of
note, still fewer famous _picadores_; only the few chosen ones of nature
and fortune become brave _espadas_: it is necessary to come into the
world with that bump developed; one is born an _espada_ as one is born a
poet. Those killed by the bulls are very few, and one may count them on
one’s fingers for a long period of time; but the crippled, the maimed,
those who are rendered unfit for the combat, are innumerable. One sees
them in the city with canes and crutches, some without an arm, others
without a leg. The famous Tato, the first of the _toreros_ of modern
time, lost a leg; in the few months which I spent in Spain a
_banderillero_ was half killed at Seville, a _picador_ was seriously
wounded at Madrid, Lagartijo was injured, and three amateur _capeadores_
were killed at a village. There is scarcely a _torero_ who has not bled
in the arena.
* * * * *
Before leaving Madrid I wished to talk to the celebrated Frascuelo, the
prince of _espadas_, the idol of the people of Madrid, the glory of the
art. A Genoese captain who knew him took it upon himself to present me:
we fixed the day and met at the Imperial Café at the Puerta del Sol. It
makes me laugh when I think of my emotions on seeing him in the distance
and watching him come toward us. He was very richly dressed, loaded with
jewelry, and resplendent as a general in full uniform; as he crossed the
café a thousand heads were turned and a thousand eyes fixed upon him, my
companion, and myself: I felt myself growing pale. “This is Signor
Salvador Sanchez,” said the captain (Frascuelo is a surname). And then,
presenting me to Frascuelo, “This is Signor So-and-So, his admirer.” The
illustrious _matador_ bowed, I bowed more profoundly; we sat down and
commenced to talk. What a strange man! To hear him talk one would say
that he had not the heart to stick a fly with a pin. He was a young man,
about twenty-five years old, of medium stature, quick, dark, and
handsome, with a firm glance and the smile of an absent-minded man. I
asked him a thousand questions about his art and his life; he answered
in monosyllables; I was obliged to draw the words from his mouth, one by
one, by a storm of questions. He replied to my compliments by looking
modestly at the tips of his shoes. I asked him if he had ever been
wounded; he touched his knee, thigh, shoulder, and breast, and said,
“Here, and here, and here, and here too,” with the simplicity of a
child. He obligingly wrote out the address of his house for me, asked me
to come and see him, gave me a cigar, and went away. Three days later,
at the bull-fight, I had a seat near the barrier, and as he paused near
me to gather up the cigars which the spectators threw him, I tossed him
one of those Milan cigars which are covered with straw; he picked it up,
examined it, smiled, and tried to discover who had thrown it: I made a
sign, he saw me and exclaimed, “Ah! the Italian!” I seem to see him yet;
he was dressed in gray embroidered with gold, and one hand was stained
with blood.
But, in conclusion, a final judgment on the bull-fights! Are they or are
they not a barbarous sport, unworthy of a civilized people? Are they or
are they not a spectacle which corrupts the heart? Now for a frank
opinion! A frank opinion? I do not wish to answer in one way and to draw
upon myself a flood of invective, nor to answer otherwise and put my
foot in a trap, so I must confess that I went to the circus every
Sunday. I have told about it and described it: the reader knows as much
as I do; let him judge for himself and allow me to keep my own counsel.
* * * * *
I saw at Madrid the famous funereal ceremony which is celebrated every
year on the second of May in honor of the Spaniards who died in battle
or were killed by the French soldiery eighty-seven years ago, on that
terrible day which filled Europe with horror and led to the outbreak of
the War of Independence.
At dawn there was a booming of cannon, and in all the parish churches of
Madrid and before an altar erected near the monument they began to
celebrate mass, and continued to do so until nightfall. The ceremony
consists of a solemn procession, which usually forms in the vicinity of
the royal palace, proceeds to the church of Saint Isadore, where until
1840 were interred the bones of the dead, to listen to a sermon, and
then to march on to the monument to hear mass.
In all the streets where the procession is to pass there are drawn up
the volunteer battalions, the regiments of infantry, squadrons of
cuirassiers, the civil foot-guard, the artillery, and cadets; everywhere
bugles and drums are sounding and bands are playing; one sees in the
distance, over the heads of the crowd, a continual passing of the hats
of generals, the tossing plumes of adjutants, banners, and swords; all
the streets are full of the carriages of members of the Senate and the
Cortes, as large as triumphal chariots, gilded even to the wheels,
upholstered in velvet and silk, adorned with fringes and tassels, and
drawn by superbly plumed horses. The windows of all the houses are
ornamented with tapestry and flowers; the whole populace of Madrid is
astir.