DOCTOR RUIZ ON TAUROMACHY
Far into the night the doctor, the manager, and members of the
_cuadrilla_ kept the wounded man company. When Potaje came he sat near
the table trying to keep the bottles within reach of his hand. The
conversation between Ruiz, the manager, and Nacional was always about
bulls. It was impossible to be with Don Jose and talk of anything else.
They commented on all bull-fighters' defects, discussed their merits and
the money they earned, while the convalescent listened in forced
inactivity or fell into a drowsy torpor stupefied by the murmur of
conversation.
Generally the doctor was the only one who talked, followed in his
pompous argument by Nacional's grave and admiring eyes. "Bull-fighting
is an evolution," said he. "Dost thou understand, Sebastian? A
development from the customs of our country, a modification of the
popular diversions which Spaniards of olden times were given to; those
times of which Don Joselito must often have talked of to thee."
Dr. Ruiz, with a glass in one hand, talked and talked, only stopping to
take a sip.
The idea that bull-fighting as we know it is an ancient sport is nothing
but a tremendous lie. They killed wild beasts in Spain for the diversion
of the people but bull-fighting did not then exist as it is known
to-day. The Cid speared bulls skilfully and Christian and Moorish
gentlemen diverted themselves in the bull-ring, but bull-fighting as a
profession did not exist nor did they send the animals to a noble death
according to rules.
The doctor related the history of the national sport for centuries past.
Only on rare occasions, when kings married, when a treaty of peace was
signed, or a chapel in a cathedral was dedicated, were such events as
bull-fights celebrated. There was no regularity in the repetition of
these feasts, nor were there any professional fighters. Titled gentlemen
dressed in costumes of silks went into the bull-ring mounted on their
chargers to spear the beast, or to fight it with lances before the eyes
of the ladies. If the bull managed to throw them off their horses they
drew their swords, and with the assistance of their lackeys put it to
death, wounding it wherever they could, without conforming to any rules.
When the _corrida_ was for the people the multitude descended into the
arena, attacking the bull _en masse_ until they succeeded in routing it,
killing it by dagger thrusts.
"Bull-fights did not exist," continued the doctor. "That was hunting
wild cattle. In fact, the people had other occupations, and reckoned on
other sports peculiar to their epoch, and did not need to perfect this
diversion."
The warlike Spaniard had a sure means of making his career in his
incessant wars in divers parts of Europe, and the exploration of the
Americas always called for valiant men. Moreover, religion afforded
frequent emotional spectacles, full of the thrill provided by the sight
of suffering in others by which indulgences for the soul could be
obtained. The sentences pronounced by the Inquisition and the burning
of human beings at the stake were spectacles that took away interest in
games with mere wild animals. The Inquisition became the great national
festival.
"But there came a day," continued Doctor Ruiz with a fine smile, "in
which the Inquisition began to lose ground. Everything comes to an end
in this world. It finally died of old age, long before the reform
statutes suppressed it. It wore itself out; the world had changed and
such diversions became something like what a bull-fight in Norway would
be among the snows and beneath the gloomy sky. They lacked atmosphere.
They began to be ashamed of burning men, with all the pomp of sermons,
ridiculous vestures, and recantations. They no longer dared pass
Inquisition sentences. When it was necessary to show that it still
existed they contented themselves with beatings given behind closed
doors. At the same time we Spaniards, weary of roving over the world in
search of adventure, began to stay at home. There were no longer wars in
Flanders or in Italy; the conquest of America, with its continual
embarkation of adventurers, terminated, and then it was that the art of
bull-fighting began, that permanent plazas were constructed and
_cuadrillas_ of professional bull-fighters were formed; the game was
adjusted to rules, and the feats of _banderillas_ and of killing, as we
know them to-day, were recognized. The multitude found the sport much to
its liking. Bull-fighting became democratic when it was converted into a
profession. Gentlemen were substituted by plebians who demanded pay for
exposing their lives, and the people flocked to the bull-rings of their
own free will, and dared to insult from their seats in the plaza the
very authority which inspired their terror in the streets. The sons of
those who had frequented with religious and intense enthusiasm the
burning of heretics and the baiting of Jews gave themselves up to
witnessing, with noisy shouts, the struggle between the man and the
bull, in which only occasionally death comes to the man. Is this not
progress?"
Ruiz insisted on his idea. In the middle of the eighteenth century when
Spain retired within herself, renouncing distant wars, and new
colonizations, and when religious cruelty languished for lack of
atmosphere, then was the time when bull-fighting flourished forth.
Popular heroism needed new heights to scale for notoriety and fortune.
The ferocity of the multitude, accustomed to orgies of death, needed a
safety valve to give expansion to its soul, educated for centuries to
the contemplation of torture. The Order of the Inquisition was replaced
by the bull-fight. He who a century before would have been a soldier in
Flanders, or a military colonizer in the solitudes of the New World,
became a bull-fighter. The people, finding their avenues of expansion
closed, saw in the new national sport a glorious opening for all the
ambitious ones who had valor and courage.
"It was progress!" continued the doctor. "That seems clear to me. So I,
who am revolutionary in everything, am not ashamed to say I like the
bulls. Man needs a spice of wickedness to enliven the monotony of
existence. Alcohol is bad also and we know it does us harm, but nearly
all of us drink it. A little savagery now and then gives one new energy
to go on living. We all like to take a look into the past once in a
while and live the life of our remote ancestors. Brutality renews those
mysterious inner forces that it is not well to let die. You say
bull-fights are barbarous? So they are; but they are not the only
barbarous sport in the world. The turning to violent and savage joys is
a human ailment that all people suffer equally. For that reason I am
indignant when I see foreigners turn contemptuous eyes on Spain, as if
such things only existed here."
And the doctor railed against horse-races, in which many more men are
killed than in bull-fights; against fox hunting with trained dogs,
witnessed by civilized spectators; against many modern games out of
which the champions come with broken legs, fractured skulls, or
flattened noses; against the duel, fought in the majority of cases
without other cause than an unhealthy desire for publicity.
"The bull and the horse," railed Ruiz, "bring to tears the very people
that don't raise the slightest outcry in their own countries when they
see a racing animal fall in the hippodrome, ruptured, or with broken
legs, the very people who think the establishment of a zoological garden
the complement to the beauty of every great city."
Doctor Ruiz was indignant because, in the name of civilization,
bull-fights were anathematized as barbarous and sanguinary, while in the
name of the same civilization the most useless as well as harmful
animals on earth were lodged and fed and warmed in princely luxury. Why
is that? Science knows them perfectly and has them catalogued. If their
extermination is objected to, one must still protest against the dark
tragedies that take place every day in the cages in the zoological
parks, the goat bleating piteously as he is thrust defenceless into the
panther's den, to be crushed to death by the wild beast burying his
claws in the victim's entrails, and his chops in his steaming blood;
timid rabbits, torn from the mountain's fragrant peace, trembling at the
breath of the boa which hypnotizes them with its eyes and winds the
coils of its grotesque rings about them. Hundreds of poor animals which
should be protected because of their weakness die to sustain absolutely
useless ferocious wild beasts that are kept and feasted in cities which
boast of belonging to the higher civilization; and from these same
cities insults are hurled against Spanish cruelty, because brave and
expert men, following rules of undisputed wisdom, kill a proud and
fearful wild beast face to face, in broad day, beneath the blue heavens,
in the presence of a noisy, gay-colored multitude, adding the charm of
picturesque beauty to the emotion of danger. _Vive Dios!_
"They insult us because we have become weak," said Ruiz, waxing
indignant over what he considered universal injustice. "Our world is
like a monkey that imitates the gestures and joys of the one he respects
as a master. Just now England leads, and both hemispheres approve
horse-racing; crowds stupidly gather to watch lank nags run around a
race-track, a spectacle that could not be surpassed in insipidity. If in
the days of Spain's supremacy bull-fighting had been as popular as
to-day, there would now be bull-rings in many European countries. Don't
talk to me about the superior foreigners! I admire them because they
have made revolutions, and we owe much of our thought to them; but
regarding bulls, heavens, man, they talk nothing but nonsense!"
And the vehement doctor, with the blindness of fanaticism, condemned in
his execration everybody on the planet who abominated the Spanish sport
while at the same time they upheld other sanguinary diversions which
cannot even justify themselves with the pretext of beauty.
After a stay of ten days in Seville the doctor had to return to Madrid.
"Well, young fellow," he said to the sick man, "thou dost not need me
now and I have a great deal to do. Don't be imprudent. After two months
thou wilt be well and strong. It is possible thou mayest be a little
stiff in the leg, but thou hast a constitution of iron and thou wilt
mend."
Gallardo's recovery took place within the time set by Ruiz. When at the
end of a month his leg was freed from its enforced quiet, the
bull-fighter, weak and limping slightly, could go out and sit in an
arm-chair in the courtyard, where he received his friends.
During his illness, when the fever was high and he was lost in delirium,
one thought, ever the same, held firm in the midst of his imaginative
wanderings. Dona Sol--did that woman know of his misfortune?
While he was still in bed he ventured to ask his manager about her one
day when they were alone.
"Yes, man," said Don Jose, "she has thought of thee. She sent me a
telegram from Nice, asking about thy health three days after the
accident. Doubtless she heard of it through the newspapers. They have
talked about thee everywhere, as if thou wert a king."
The manager had answered the telegram but had heard nothing from her
since.
Gallardo was satisfied with this news for some days but then he began
to ask again, with the insistence of a sick man who thinks the whole
world interested in the state of his health. Had she not written? Had
she not asked for more news of him? The manager tried to excuse Dona
Sol's silence and thus console his _matador_. He must remember that the
lady was always travelling. How could any one know where she might be at
that moment?
But the bull-fighter's sorrow at thinking himself forgotten obliged Don
Jose to lie out of pity. Days before he had received a short note from
Italy in which Dona Sol asked for news of the wounded man.
"Let me see it," said Gallardo eagerly.
When he pretended to have forgotten it at home, Gallardo implored him,
"Bring it to me. I so long to see her writing, to convince myself that
she remembers me."
To avoid new complications, Don Jose invented a correspondence which
never reached his hands because it was directed to some one else. Dona
Sol wrote, according to him, to the marquis in regard to business
connected with her fortune, and at the end of every letter she asked
about Gallardo's health. Again, the letters were to a cousin of hers and
in them was the same thought of the bull-fighter.
Gallardo heard this news joyfully but at the same time shook his head
with a doubtful expression. When would he see her again! Would he ever
see her? Ah, that erratic woman, who had flown without reason at the
caprice of her strange disposition!
"What thou shouldst do," said the manager, "is to forget women and think
about business a little. Thou art no longer in bed. How dost thou feel
in regard to strength? Tell me, shall we fight bulls or not? Thou hast
the rest of the winter in which to grow strong. Shall we accept
contracts to fight this year, or shall we refuse?"
Gallardo raised his head proudly, as if something dishonorable had been
proposed to him. Give up bull-fighting? Pass a year without being seen
in the ring? Was it possible the public could be resigned to such an
absence?
"Accept, Don Jose. From now till spring there is time to get strong. I
will fight whatever they put before me. You can make a contract for the
Easter bull-fight. It seems to me this leg is going to give me a good
deal of trouble, but by then, God willing, I'll be as if made of iron."
It was two months before the bull-fighter grew strong. He limped
slightly and felt less agility in his arms; but he made light of these
troubles as insignificant when he began to feel the power of health
reanimating his vigorous body.
Finding himself alone in his wife's room (for he had returned to it when
he abandoned the sick chamber), he stood before a mirror and squared
himself as though facing a bull, placing one arm above the other in the
form of a cross as though holding the sword and _muleta_ in his hands.
_Zas!_ A sword-thrust at the invisible bull. To the very hilt! He smiled
proudly thinking how his enemies were going to be deceived, those who
prophesied his immediate decadence whenever he was gored.
It would be a long time yet before he could enter the ring. He longed
for the glory of applause and the acclamation of the multitudes with the
eagerness of a beginner,--as though the recent injury had closed a past
existence; as if the former Gallardo were another man while now he had
to begin his career anew.
He decided to pass the rest of the winter at La Rinconada with his
family, to gain strength. Hunting and long trips would improve his
broken leg. Besides, he would ride on horseback overseeing the work, he
would visit the flocks of goats, the herds of swine, the droves of
cattle and horses pastured in the meadows. The administration of the
plantation was not getting on well. Everything cost him more than other
proprietors and the profits were less. It was the estate of a
bull-fighter of generous habits accustomed to earning great quantities
of money without knowing the restriction of economy. His travels during
a part of the year, and his accident, which had brought stupefaction and
disorder into his house, caused business to go awry.
Antonio, his brother-in-law, who had established himself at the
plantation for a season with the airs of a dictator intending to set
everything in order, had only impeded the progress of the work and
provoked the ire of the laborers. Fortunately Gallardo counted on
certain returns from the bull-fights, an inexhaustible source of wealth
for repairing his prodigality.
Before leaving for La Rinconada Senora Angustias begged her son to go
and kneel before the Virgin of Hope. It was to fulfil a promise she had
made in that dismal twilight when she had seen him brought home upon a
stretcher, pale and motionless as a dead man. How often had she wept
before the Macarena, the beautiful Queen of Heaven with her long lashes
and olive cheeks, asking her not to forget her poor Juanillo!
The occasion was a popular event. The gardeners of the Macarena ward
were called upon by the master's mother, and the Church of San Gil was
filled with flowers arranged in tall heaps like pyramids on the altars,
or hanging in garlands between the arches and suspended from the lamps
in great clusters.
The sacred ceremony took place one bright morning. In spite of its being
a week-day the church was filled with the best families of the nearby
wards; stout women with black eyes and short necks, with waists and hips
outlined in coarse curves, wearing black silk gowns with lace
_mantillas_ over their pale faces; workmen recently shaven, in new
suits, round hats, and with great gold chains on their waistcoats.
Beggars came in bands as if a wedding were to be celebrated and stood at
the doors of the temple in double file. The good wives of the ward,
unkempt and with babies in their arms, formed groups, impatiently
awaiting the arrival of Gallardo and his family.
A mass was to be sung with accompaniment of orchestra and voices,
something extraordinary, like the opera in the theatre of San Fernando
at Christmas time. Then the priests would sing the _Te Deum_ as a
thanksgiving for the recovery of Senor Juan Gallardo, just as when the
king entered Seville.
The _cortege_ appeared making its way through the crowd. The
bull-fighter's mother and wife, with relatives and friends, walked in
advance, while the heavy silk of their skirts rustled as they passed,
smiling sweetly beneath their _mantillas_.
Behind came Gallardo, followed by an interminable escort of
bull-fighters and friends, all dressed in light colors, with chains and
rings of amazing splendor, wearing on their heads white felt hats which
contrasted with the blackness of the feminine headgear.
Gallardo was grave. He was a sincere believer. He thought little about
God and blasphemed Him in difficult moments with the automatism of
custom; but this was a different thing; he was going to give thanks to
the Most Holy Macarena, and he entered the temple with an air of pious
compunction.
All went in except Nacional, who abandoned his wife and offspring and
remained outside in the churchyard.
"I am a free-thinker," he believed the time opportune to declare before
a group of friends. "I respect all beliefs; but what is going on inside,
for me is--_liquid!_ I don't want to be lacking in respect to the
Macarena, nor to rob her of her due, but, comrade, if I had not arrived
in time to attract the bull away when Juaniyo was stretched on the
ground--!"
The sound of the instruments was borne out to the churchyard, with the
voices of the singers, a sweet, voluptuous harmony, accompanied by
breaths of perfume from the flowers and the odor of wax candles.
The bull-fighters and devotees of Gallardo who were gathered outside the
temple smoked cigarette after cigarette. From time to time some of them
strayed off to while away the time in the nearest tavern.
When the company came forth again the poor appeared smiling and
gesticulating, their hands full of coin. There was money for all. The
_maestro_ Gallardo was liberal.
Senora Angustias wept, with her head reclining on a friend's shoulder.
At the door of the church the _matador_, smiling and magnificent, gave
his arm to his wife, who walked tremulous with emotion and with lowered
eyes, a tear quivering on her lashes.
Carmen felt as if she had just been married a second time.