THE ATONEMENT OF BLOOD
The _cuadrillas_ had just entered the ring when loud blows were heard on
the door of the _Caballerizas_.
A plaza employee approached it shouting with ill-humor. Nobody entered
there; they must go to another door. But an insistent voice answered him
from without, and he opened it.
A man and a woman entered; he wearing a white Cordovan hat, she dressed
in black and with a _mantilla_ over her head.
The man grasped the employee's hand, leaving something in it that
humanized his fierce aspect.
"You know me, don't you?" said the newcomer. "Really, don't you know me?
I am Gallardo's brother-in-law and this lady is his wife."
Carmen gazed all around the abandoned courtyard. In the distance, behind
the thick brick walls, sounded music, and the respiration of the
multitude could be felt, broken by shouts of enthusiasm and murmurs of
curiosity. The _cuadrillas_ were defiling before the president.
"Where is he?" anxiously inquired Carmen.
"Where should he be, woman?" replied the brother-in-law brusquely. "In
the plaza, doing his duty. It is madness to have come; nonsense. Oh,
this weak character of mine!"
Carmen continued gazing about her, but with a certain indecision, as if
repentant for having come there. What was she to do?
The employee moved by Antonio's hand pressure, or by the relationship of
those two persons to the _matador_ of fame, became obsequious. If the
lady wished to await the termination of the bull-fight, she might rest
at the _concierge's_ house. If they chose to see the _corrida_, he could
get them a good place, although they had no tickets.
Carmen shuddered at this proposition. See the bull-fight? No. She had
come to the plaza by an effort of her will, and she regretted it. It was
impossible for her to endure the sight of her husband in the ring. She
had never seen him fighting bulls. She would wait there until she could
bear it no longer.
"God help me!" said the leather-worker with resignation. "We will stay,
though I don't know what we shall do here in front of the stables."
Encarnacion's husband had been following after his sister-in-law since
the day before, putting up with her hysteria and tears of nervousness
excited by fear.
Saturday at mid-day Carmen had talked to him in her husband's office.
She was going to Madrid! She was determined on taking this journey. She
could not live in Seville. She had spent a week of insomnia, seeing
horrible visions. Her feminine instinct warned her of some great danger.
She must rush to Juan's side. She did not know why, nor what she could
accomplish by the journey, but she longed to be near Gallardo, with that
affectionate desire that believes it can minimize danger by being close
to the person beloved.
This was not living! She had learned through the daily papers about
Juan's bad luck the Sunday before in the Plaza of Madrid. She understood
bull-fighter professional pride. She guessed that he would not tolerate
this misfortune with resignation. He would do mad deeds to reconquer the
applause of the public. The last letter she had received from him gave
her to understand it vaguely.
"Yes, yes!" she said energetically to her brother-in-law, "I am going to
Madrid this very afternoon. If thou wishest, thou mayest accompany me;
if thou dost not wish to come, I will go alone. Above all--not a word to
Don Jose; he would prevent the trip. No one knows about it but
_Mamita_."
The leather-worker accepted. A free trip to Madrid, although in such sad
company! On the way, Carmen gave expression to her fears. She would talk
to her husband forcefully. Why continue fighting bulls? Had they not
enough to live on? He must retire, and immediately; if not, she would
die. This _corrida_ must be the last. Even this one seemed more than she
could bear. She would arrive in Madrid in time to prevent her husband
working that afternoon. Her heart told her that by her presence she
would prevent a great calamity. But her brother-in-law protested in
consternation on hearing this.
"What barbarity! What women are! They get an idea in the head, and
things must be so. Dost thou believe, then, that there is no authority,
nor laws, nor rules of the plaza, and that it is enough for a woman to
take a notion to embrace her husband when she gets frightened, to
suspend a _corrida_ and leave the public with its thumb on its nose?
Thou mayest say what thou wilt to Juan, but it must be after the
bull-fight. Authority can't be played with; we would all go to jail."
The leather-worker imagined the most dramatic consequences if Carmen
persisted in her absurd idea of presenting herself to her husband in
order to prevent his bull-fighting. They would all be locked up. He
already saw himself in prison as an accomplice to this act which in his
simplicity he considered a crime.
When they reached Madrid he had to make renewed efforts to prevent his
companion from rushing to the hotel where her husband was. What good
would that do?
"Thou wilt confuse him by thy presence and he will go to the plaza in a
bad humor, excited, and if anything happens to him the fault will be
thine."
This idea subdued Carmen and caused her to follow her brother-in-law's
advice. She allowed herself to be taken to a hotel of his selection, and
she remained there all the morning lying on a sofa in her room, weeping
as if she were sure of coming adversity. The leather-worker, happy to be
in Madrid, well housed, waxed indignant against this despair which
seemed to him absurd.
"Man alive! What women are! Any one would think thou art a widow, while
thy husband is at this very moment getting ready for the _corrida_ hale
and hearty as Roger de Flor himself. What nonsense!"
Carmen scarcely ate any breakfast, deaf to the praises her
brother-in-law rendered the cook of the establishment. In the afternoon
her resignation vanished again.
The hotel was situated near the Puerta del Sol and the noise and stir of
the people going to the bull-fight reached her. No, she could not stay
in that strange room while her husband risked his life. She must see
him. She lacked courage to witness the spectacle, but she longed to be
near him; she must go to the plaza. Where was the plaza? She had never
seen it. If she could not enter, she would wander around its environs.
The important thing was to feel herself near, believing that by this
proximity she could influence Gallardo's luck.
The leather-worker protested. By the life of--! He intended to see the
bull-fight; he had gone out and bought a ticket and now Carmen spoiled
his pleasure by her determination to go to the plaza.
"But what wilt thou do there, girl? What wilt thou better by thy
presence? Imagine if Juaniyo should chance to see thee."
They argued long, but the woman answered all his reasoning with the same
firm reply:
"Thou needst not accompany me; I will go alone."
The brother-in-law at last surrendered and they rode to the plaza in a
hired coach. The leather-worker remembered a great deal about the
amphitheatre and its dependencies from having accompanied Gallardo on
one of his trips to Madrid for the spring bull-fights.
He and the employee were undecided and ill humored in the presence of
this woman with reddened eyes and sunken cheeks who stood planted in the
courtyard uncertain what to do. The two men felt themselves drawn by the
murmur of the crowd and the music that rose from the plaza. Must they
stand there the whole afternoon and not see the bull-fight?
The employee had a brilliant inspiration.
If the lady wished to pass into the chapel--
The defiling of the _cuadrillas_ was over. Some horsemen came trotting
out of the door that gave access to the ring. They were _picadores_ who
were not on duty and were retiring from the arena to substitute their
companions when their turn came. Hitched to some rings in the wall stood
a row of six saddled horses, the first that must enter the plaza to
supply those fallen. Behind them the lancers passed the time making
evolutions with their steeds. A stable boy mounted a skittish wild mare
and galloped her along the _corral_ to tire her, and then turned her
over to the _piqueros_.
The hacks, tortured by the flies, stamped their feet, pulling on the
rings as if they divined the coming danger. The other horses trotted,
urged on by the riders' spurs.
Carmen and her brother-in-law had to take refuge under the arcades, and
finally the bull-fighter's wife accepted the invitation to pass into the
chapel. It was a safe and tranquil place and there she could do
something useful for her husband.
When she entered the sacred room with its atmosphere made dense by the
respiration of the public that had witnessed the bull-fighters' prayers,
Carmen gazed upon the poverty of the altar. Four lights were burning
before the Virgin of the Dove, but this tribute seemed niggardly to her.
She opened her purse to give a _duro_ to an employee. Could he not bring
more tapers? The man scratched his head. Tapers? Tapers? He did not
believe he could find any among the chattels belonging to the plaza. But
he suddenly recalled to mind the sisters of a _matador_ who brought
candles whenever he fought bulls. Maybe they were not all gone, and
there might be a few in some corner of the chapel. After a long search
he found them. There were no candlesticks, but the employee, a man of
resources, brought a couple of empty bottles, and sticking the candles
into their necks, he lit them and placed them near the other lights.
Carmen had knelt and the two men took advantage of her immobility to
rush to the plaza, eager to witness the first events of the _corrida_.
The woman remained lost in contemplation of the crude image reddened by
the lights. She was not familiar with this Virgin, but she must be sweet
and kind like the one in Seville to whom she had so often made
supplication. Moreover, she was the Virgin of the bull-fighters, she
heard their last prayers when danger near at hand gave sincere piety to
those rough men. On that floor her husband had knelt many times. And
this thought was enough to cause her to feel attracted to the image and
to contemplate her with religious trust, as if she had known her since
childhood.
Her lips moved, repeating the supplications with automatic haste, but
her thoughts fled away from prayer, as if drawn by the noises of the
multitude that reached her.
Ah! that intermittent volcano-like bellowing, that roar of distant
waves, broken from time to time by pauses of tragic silence! Carmen
imagined herself witnessing the invisible bull-fight. She divined by the
variations in the sounds from the plaza the progress of the tragedy that
was taking place within the ring. Sometimes there was an explosion of
angry shouts with accompaniment of hisses; again thousands and thousands
of voices uttered unintelligible words. Suddenly rose a shriek of
terror, prolonged, shrill, that seemed to rise to heaven; a fearful and
halting exclamation that brought to mind thousands of heads in a row,
blanched by emotion, following the swift race of a bull in pursuit of a
man--until it was suddenly broken by a shout, re-establishing calm. The
danger had passed.
There were long intervals of silence; a silence absolute; the silence of
the void, in which the buzzing of the flies hovering around the horses
was magnified, as though the immense amphitheatre were deserted, as
though the fourteen thousand persons seated on its surrounding seats had
become motionless and breathless, and Carmen were the only living being
that existed within its heart.
Suddenly this silence was animated by a loud and indescribable shock as
though every brick in the plaza were loosened from its place and all
were dashing against one another. It was the prolonged applause that
made the ring tremble. In the nearby courtyard sounded blows of the rod
on the hide of the wretched horses, blasphemy, clatter of hoofs, and
voices. "Whose turn?" New lancers were called into the plaza.
To these noises others nearer were added. Footsteps sounded in the
adjoining rooms, doors opened suddenly, voices and labored breathing of
several men were heard, as if they walked burdened by great weight.
"It is nothing--a bruise. Thou'rt not bleeding. Before the _corrida_ is
over thou'lt be lancing again."
A hoarse voice, weakened by pain, groaned between gasps with an accent
that reminded Carmen of home:
"Virgin of Solitude! I must have broken something. Look well, doctor.
Alas, my children!"
Carmen shuddered with horror. She raised her eyes that had wandered in
fear to the Virgin. Her nose seemed drawn out by her emotion to a sharp
point between sunken and pallid cheeks. She felt sick; she feared that
she would fall to the floor in a faint from terror. She tried to pray
again, to isolate herself in prayer; to not hear the noises from
without, transmitted through the walls with a tone of despair. But in
spite of her a dismal sound reached her ear of sponges being wet in
water and voices of men who must be doctors and nurses stimulating the
_picador_, who complained with the energy of a mountaineer, at the same
time striving to hide the pain of his broken bones through manly pride.
"Virgin of Solitude! My children! What will the poor babes have to eat
if their father cannot use the lance?"
Carmen arose. Ah, she could bear no more! She would fall fainting if she
remained in that gloomy place trembling at the echoes of pain. She
thought she felt in her own bones the same torture that caused that
unknown man to groan.
She went out into the courtyard. Blood on all sides; blood on the floor
and around some casks where water mingled with the red fluid.
The _picadores_ were retiring from the ring. The sign for the display of
the _banderillas_ had been given, and the riders came out on their
bleeding horses. They dismounted, talking with animation of the
incidents of the bull-fight. Carmen saw Potaje let his vigorous person
down off his horse hurling a string of curses at the _mono sabio_ who
stupidly assisted him in his descent. He seemed benumbed by his hidden
iron greaves and from the pain of several violent falls. He raised one
hand to his back to ease himself with painful stretches, but he smiled,
showing his yellow horse-like teeth.
"Have ye seen how well Juan does to-day?" he said to those who
surrounded him. "To-day he surely is all right."
Seeing a solitary woman in the courtyard, and recognizing her, he showed
no surprise.
"You here, Sena' Carmen? How good!"
He spoke tranquilly, as if he, in the stupor which wine and his own
bestiality kept him, could not be surprised by anything in the world.
"Have you seen Juan?" he continued. "He laid down on the ground before
the bull, under his very nose. Nobody else can do what that fellow does.
Peep in and see him, for he is very fine to-day."
Some one called him from the door of the infirmary. His companion, the
_picador_, wanted to speak to him before being taken to the hospital.
"Adio', Sena' Carmen. I must see what that poor fellow wants. A fall
with a fracture, they say. He won't use the lance again this whole
season."
Carmen took refuge under the arcades and closed her eyes to the
repugnant spectacle in the courtyard, yet at the same time fascinated by
the sickening sight of the blood.
The _monos sabios_ led in the wounded horses by the bridle reins. A
stable boy, seeing them, began to bestir himself, in a fever of
activity.
"Courage, brave boys!" he shouted, addressing the youths with the
horses. "Firm! Firm there!"
A stable-boy carefully approached a horse that was struggling in pain,
took off his saddle, fastened leather straps around his legs, binding
the four extremities, and threw the animal to the ground.
"There, there! Firm! Firm with him!" the one in charge of the horses
continued shouting, without ceasing his activity.
Another held the reins of the fallen animal and pressed his poor head
against the ground by placing his foot on it. The nose contracted with
distortions of pain, the long yellow teeth gritted with a chill of
martyrdom, his stifled whinnies lost in the dust from the pressure of
the foot. The gory hands of the others worked to return the flaccid
entrails to the open cavity of the abdomen or stuffed it with handfuls
of tow while still others, with a skill acquired by practice, sewed up
the hide.
When the horse was "fixed" with barbaric promptness, they threw a bucket
of water over his head, loosed his feet from the straps and gave him
several blows with a rod to make him stand up. Some, after walking
barely two steps, fell flat, shedding a stream of blood from the wound
stitched with pack-thread. It was instantaneous death. Others were kept
alive by some marvellous resource of animal vigor, and the lackeys,
after this "fixing," took them to the "varnishing," inundating their
feet and bellies with strong ablutions from casks of water. The white or
chestnut color of the animals became glossy and the hair dripped a
rose-colored liquid, a mixture of water and blood. The horses were
patched up as if they were old shoes; their waning strength was
exploited to the last breath, prolonging their agony and death. The
important thing was to keep these animals on their feet a few minutes
longer, until the _picadores_ could get into the plaza again; the bull
would take charge of finishing the work.
Carmen wished to go. Virgin of Hope! What was she doing there? She did
not know the order the _matadores_ were to follow in their work. Maybe
that last trumpet-blast signalled the moment in which her husband would
stand before the wild beast. And she there, a few steps from him, and
not seeing him! She wished to escape, to free herself from this torment.
Moreover, the blood that ran through the courtyard, and the torment of
those poor beasts, caused her the greatest anguish. Her womanly delicacy
rebelled against these tortures, while she held her handkerchief to her
nostrils to stifle the slaughter-house odors.
She had never been to a bull-fight. A great part of her existence had
been spent hearing conversation about bulls, but in the tales of these
sports she saw only the external, what all the world saw, the events in
the ring, in the light of the sun, with glitter of silks and
embroideries and the ostentatious spectacle, without realizing the
odious preparations that took place in the mystery of the wings. And
they lived off this "sport," with its repugnant martyrdom of guiltless
animals; and their fortune had been made at the cost of such spectacles!
A loud applause broke out within the ring. Orders were issued in the
courtyard with imperious voice. The first bull had just died. The
barricade at the end of the passage that communicated with the ring was
opened and the noises of the multitude and the echoes of the music were
borne in with more intensity.
The mules were in the plaza; one team to collect the dead horses,
another to drag out the bull's carcass.
Carmen saw her brother-in-law coming along the arcades. He was still
tremulous with enthusiasm over what he had seen.
"Juan--colossal! This afternoon as he never was before! Fear not. Why,
that boy eats the bulls up alive!"
Then he glanced at her uneasily, fearful that she would make him lose so
interesting an afternoon. What did she decide? Did she think she had the
courage to peep into the plaza?
"Take me away!" she said with an agonized accent. "Get me out of here
quickly. I am sick. Leave me in the first church we can find."
The leather-worker made a wry face. By the life of Roger--! Leave such a
magnificent bull-fight! And as they walked toward the door he was
calculating where he could abandon Carmen so as to immediately return to
the plaza.
When the second bull came in, Gallardo, still leaning against the
barrier, was receiving felicitations from his admirers. What courage
that boy had--"when he wished." The whole plaza had applauded the first
bull, forgetting their anger at the former _corridas_. When a _picador_
fell and lay senseless from the terrible shock, Gallardo had rushed up
with his cape, drawing the wild beast into the centre of the ring. He
made some bold _veronicas_ that at last held the bull motionless and
exhausted, after turning from the lure of the red rag. The bull-fighter,
taking advantage of the animal's stupefaction, stood erect within a few
steps of his muzzle, thrusting his body forward as if in challenge. He
felt the heart-throbbing, that happy precursor of his great daring. He
must conquer the public with a dash of audacity, and he knelt before
the horns with a certain precaution, ready to arise at the slightest
sign of charging.
The bull stood quiet. Gallardo reached out a hand until he touched the
drivelling muzzle and the animal made no movement whatever. Then he
dared something that held the public in palpitating silence. Slowly he
laid himself down on the sand, with the cape between his arms serving as
a pillow, and thus he remained some seconds lying beneath the nose of
the bull who sniffed him with a kind of fear, as if he suspected danger
in this body that audaciously placed itself beneath his horns.
When the bull, recovering his aggressive fierceness, lowered his horns,
the bull-fighter rolled toward his feet, in this way putting himself out
of his reach, and the animal passed over him, vainly seeking in his
ferocious blindness the bulk that attacked him.
Gallardo rose brushing off the dust, and the public, which adored feats
of daring, applauded him with the old-time enthusiasm. It hailed not
alone his audacity, it applauded itself, admiring its own majesty,
guessing that the bull-fighter's daring was to reconcile himself with
it, to regain its affection. Gallardo came to the _corrida_ disposed to
the most daring deeds to reconquer applause.
"He is careless," they said on the tiers of seats, "often he is slack;
but he has bull-fighter pride and he is going to redeem his name."
But the enthusiasm of the public, their gay excitement over Gallardo's
achievement, and the true sword-thrust with which the other _matador_
had killed the first bull, turned to ill-humor and protest as they saw
the second in the ring. He was enormous and of beautiful build, but he
ran through the centre of the arena looking with surprise at the noisy
multitude on the bleachers, frightened at the voices and hisses that
were meant to excite him, fleeing from his own shadow, as if he divined
all kinds of intrigue. The _peones_ ran, waving the cape at him. He
charged at the red rag, following it some instants, but suddenly he gave
a snort of surprise and, turning his hind quarters, fled in the opposite
direction with violent springs. His eagerness for flight infuriated the
public.
"That's no bull--it's a monkey."
The swordsmen's capes finally managed to attract it toward the barrier,
where the _picadores_ waited motionless on their mounts, with lance
under arm. He approached a rider with lowered head and with fierce
snorts as if to charge. But before the iron could be lodged in his neck,
he gave a spring and ran, passing through the capes the _peones_ waved
at him. In his flight he met another lancer and repeated the springing,
the snorting and the flight. Then he met the third horseman, who,
thrusting forward his lance, speared him in the neck, by this punishment
only augmenting his fear and his speed.
The public had risen to its feet _en masse_, gesticulating and shouting.
A tame bull! What an abomination! Every one turned toward the president
roaring his protest. "_Senor Presidente!_" That could not be allowed.
A chorus of voices that repeated the same words with monotonous
intonation began to rise from some sections.
"Fire! Fi-i-ire!"
The president seemed to hesitate. The bull was running, followed by the
combatants, who chased after him, their capes over their arms. When any
of these managed to head him off, or to stop him, he smelt the cloth
with the usual snort and ran in a different direction, jumping and
kicking.
The noisy protest against these flights increased. "_Senor Presidente_!"
Was his lordship deaf? Bottles, oranges, and seat cushions began to fall
into the ring around the fugitive animal. The public hated it for its
cowardice. One bottle struck on one of the horns and the people
applauded this true shot though not knowing who it was. Many of the
audience leaned forward as if about to throw themselves into the ring to
destroy the bad beast with their hands. What a scandal! To see in the
plaza of Madrid oxen that were only fit for meat! "Fire! Fire!"
At last the president waved a red handkerchief and a salvo of applause
greeted this signal.
The fire _banderillas_ were an extraordinary sight; something
unexpected, that augmented the interest of the _corrida_. Many who had
protested until they were hoarse felt inward satisfaction at this
incident. They were going to see the bull roasted alive, running mad
with terror at the fire-streams that would be hanging from his neck.
Nacional advanced carrying, hanging from his hands, with the points
downward, two thick _banderillas_ that seemed to be encased in black
paper. He went toward the bull without great precaution, as if his
cowardice merited no art whatever, and he lodged the infernal barbs to
the accompaniment of the vengeful applause of the multitude.
There was a crackling sound as if something broke and two spirals of
white smoke began to blaze on the animal's neck. In the light of the sun
the fire could not be seen, but the hair singed and disappeared and a
black mark extended around the neck. The bull ran, surprised at the
attack, accelerating his flight as though thus to free himself from
torment, until suddenly detonations like gunshots began to burst on his
neck, the burning embers of paper flying around his eyes. The animal
sprang aloft, filled with terror, his four feet in the air at once,
vainly twisting his horned head to pull out with his mouth those demons
clutched upon his neck. The people laughed and applauded, thinking his
springs and contortions funny. It seemed as if, with his strong heavy
body, he were executing a trained animal's dance.
"How they sting him," they exclaimed, with ferocious laughter.
The _banderillas_ ceased crackling and bursting. His carbonized neck was
covered with blisters of fat. The bull, no longer feeling the burning of
the fire, stood motionless, breathing hard, his head lowered, thrusting
out his dry dark-red tongue.
Another _banderillero_ approached him and put in a second pair. The
smoke spirals rose again above the charred flesh, the shots resounded
and the bull ran madly, trying to reach his neck with his mouth by
twisting his massive body; but now his movements were less violent, as
though the vigorous animal began to habituate itself to martyrdom.
Still a third pair was lodged, and his neck became carbonized, shedding
through the ring a nauseating odor of melted grease, burnt hide, and
hair consumed by fire.
The public continued applauding with vengeful frenzy, as though the
gentle animal were an adversary of their beliefs and they did a pious
deed in burning him. They laughed when they saw him tremulous on his
legs, moving his flanks like the sides of a bellows, lowing with a
shrieking howl of pain, his eyes reddened, and dragging his tongue over
the sand, greedy for a sensation of coolness.
Gallardo, leaning against the barrier, near the president's box, awaited
the sign to kill. Garabato had the sword and _muleta_ ready on the edge
of the wall.
"Curse it!" The bull-fight had begun so well, and for bad luck to
reserve this bull for him, the one he himself had chosen on account of
its fine appearance, but which now that it trod the arena turned out to
be tame!
He excused himself in advance for defective work, talking with the
"intelligent" who occupied seats near the barrier.
"What can be done will be done--and no more," he said, shrugging his
shoulders.
Then he turned toward the boxes, gazing at Dona Sol's. She had applauded
him before, when he achieved his stupendous feat of lying down before
the bull. Her gloved hands clapped with enthusiasm when he turned toward
the barrier, bowing to the public. When Dona Sol saw that the
bull-fighter was looking at her, she bowed to him with an affectionate
manner, and even her companion, despicable fool! had joined this
salutation with a stiff inclination of the body as if he were going to
break off at the waist. Afterward he had several times surprised her
glasses directed persistently at him, seeking him out in his retirement
between barriers. That _gachi_! Perhaps she felt re-attracted to him.
Gallardo decided to call on her next day, to see if the wind had
changed.
The signal to kill was given and the swordsman, after a short speech,
strode up to the animal.
His admirers shouted advice.
"Despatch him quick! He is an ox that deserves nothing."
The bull-fighter held his _muleta_ before the animal, which charged, but
with a slow step made cautious by torture, with a manifest intention of
crushing, of wounding, as if martyrdom had awakened all his ferocity.
That man was the first object which had placed itself before his horns
since the torture.
The multitude felt its vengeful animosity against the bull vanish. He
did not recover himself badly; he charged. _Ole!_ And all hailed the
_pases de muleta_ with enthusiasm, including combatant and wild beast in
common approbation.
The bull stood motionless, lowering his head, with his tongue
protruding. Silence, the forerunner of the mortal thrust, fell; a
silence greater than that of absolute solitude, product of many
thousands of bated breaths; silence so intense that the faintest sound
in the ring carried to the most distant seats. All heard a slight
clashing of sticks striking against each other. It was the sound made
when Gallardo with the point of his sword laid back over the bull's neck
the charred shafts of the _banderillas_ that rested between the horns.
After this arrangement to facilitate the blow, the multitude thrust
their heads still farther forward, responsive to the mysterious
correspondence that had just been established between its will and that
of the _matador_. "Now!" He was going to fell the bull with a masterful
stroke. All divined the swordsman's resolution.
Gallardo threw himself upon the bull and the whole audience breathed
hard in unison after the nerve-straining pause. The animal drew away
from the encounter, running, bellowing with fury, while the rows of
seats burst out into hisses and protests. As usual! Gallardo had turned
away his face and bent his arm at the moment of killing. The animal bore
in his neck the loose and wavering sword, and after taking a few steps
the steel blade sprang out of the flesh and rolled on the sand.
Part of the public rebuked Gallardo. The charm that had united the
swordsman to the multitude at the beginning of the feast was broken.
Lack of confidence reappeared; criticism of the bull-fighter spread. All
seemed to have forgotten the enthusiasm of a short time before.
Gallardo recovered his sword and with bowed head, lacking spirit to
protest at the ingratitude of a multitude tolerant to others, inflexible
with him, strode up to the bull again.
In his confusion he thought he saw a bull-fighter place himself at his
side. It must be Nacional.
"Be calm, Juan! Don't get rattled."
"Damn it!" Must the same thing always happen to him? Could he no longer
thrust his arm between the horns, as in other times, burying the sword
to the hilt? Was he to spend the rest of his life making audiences
laugh? An ox which they had had to set on fire!
He placed himself before the animal, which seemed to await him, his legs
motionless as if he wished to put an end immediately to his long
torture. He would not make more passes with the _muleta_. He squared
himself, the red rag held near the ground, the sword horizontal at the
height of his eyes. Now for the stroke!
The audience rose to its feet with a sudden impulse. For some seconds
man and beast formed but a single mass and thus moved a few steps. The
most intelligent raised their hands ready to applaud. He had thrown
himself to kill as in his better days. A master stroke!
But suddenly the man emerged from between the horns hurled like a
projectile by a powerful toss of the bull's head, and rolled along the
sand. The bull lowered his head and his horns hooked up the body,
raising it from the ground an instant and letting it fall, to continue
on his race, bearing in his neck the blade of the sword, embedded to the
cross!
Gallardo slowly raised himself and the plaza burst forth into a
deafening applause, eager to repair its injustice. Hurrah! Good for the
bull-fighter of Seville! He had done well!
But the bull-fighter did not respond to these exclamations of
enthusiasm. He put his hands on his abdomen, bent over in an attitude of
pain, and took a few hesitating steps with lowered head. Twice he raised
it and looked toward the door of exit--as if he feared he could not find
it, staggering blindly as though intoxicated.
Suddenly he fell upon the sand--contracted like an enormous worm of silk
and gold. Four _mozos_ of the plaza slowly lifted him up until they
raised him on their shoulders. Nacional joined the group holding the
swordsman's ghastly head with its glassy eyes showing through their
half-closed lashes.
The public made a movement of surprise, ceasing their applause. Every
one gazed about, undecided as to the gravity of the event. But suddenly
optimistic news circulated, coming from no one knew where; that
anonymous opinion, which all heed and which at certain moments fires a
multitude or causes it to remain motionless. It was nothing. A wound in
the abdomen that deprived him of his senses. No one had seen blood.
The crowd, suddenly tranquillized, began to be seated again, turning its
attention from the wounded bull-fighter to the wild beast, which was
still on its feet, resisting the agonies of death.
Nacional helped to place his _maestro_ on a bed in the infirmary. He
fell on it like a sack, inanimate, his arms hanging outside the couch.
Sebastian, though he had often seen his _maestro_ wounded and bleeding,
and had kept his serenity in spite of it, now felt an agony of fear,
seeing him inert and of a greenish white color, as if he were dead.
"By the life of the blue dove!" he moaned. "Are there no doctors? Is
there nobody here?"
The man in charge of the hospital, after sending away the mangled
_picador_, had rushed back to his box in the plaza.
The _banderillero_ was in despair; the seconds seemed hours; he screamed
to Garabato and to Potaje who had followed after him, not sure what he
was trying to tell them.
Two doctors came and after closing the door so that no one could disturb
them, they stood undecided before the swordsman's inanimate body. He
must be undressed. Garabato began to unbutton, rip, and tear the
bull-fighter's clothing, by the light that entered through a window in
the ceiling.
Nacional could hardly see the body. The doctors stood around the wounded
man, consulting each other with significant glances. It must be a
collapse that had apparently deprived him of life. No blood was seen.
The rents in his clothing were the effect, no doubt, of the tumbling the
bull had given him.
Doctor Ruiz entered hastily and his colleagues made way for him,
respecting his skill. He swore in his nervous precipitation while he
began to assist Garabato to open the bull-fighter's clothing.
There was a movement of astonishment, of painful surprise, around the
bed. The _banderillero_ dared not inquire. He looked between the heads
of the doctors and saw Gallardo's body with the shirt raised above his
breast. The naked abdomen was gashed by a tortuous aperture like
bleeding lips, through which appeared patches of bright blue.
Doctor Ruiz sadly shook his head. Besides the atrocious and incurable
wound, the bull-fighter had received a tremendous shock from the bull's
tossing. He did not breathe.
"Doctor--doctor!" cried the _banderillero_, begging to know the truth.
Doctor Ruiz, after a long silence, shook his head again.
"It is all over, Sebastian. Thou must seek another _matador_."
Nacional raised his eyes aloft. Thus to end a man like that, unable to
press the hand of his friends, without a word, suddenly, like a
miserable rabbit struck in the neck!
In despair he left the infirmary. Ah, he could not see that! He was not
like Potaje who stood quiet and frowning at the foot of the bed,
contemplating the body as though he did not see it, while he twirled his
beaver hat in his fingers.
He was about to cry like a child. His breast heaved with anguish, and
his eyes filled with tears.
He had to make way through the courtyard to give passage to the
_picadores_ who were entering the ring again.
The terrible news began to circulate through the plaza. Gallardo was
dead! Some doubted the truth of the information; others accepted it;
still no one moved from his seat. The third bull was soon to come in.
The _corrida_ had not yet reached its first half, and there was no
reason for abandoning it.
Through the door of the ring came the murmur of the multitude and the
sound of music.
The _banderillero_ felt a fierce hatred born within him for all that
surrounded him; an aversion to his profession and to the public that
supported it. In his memory danced the sonorous words with which he had
made the people laugh, finding in them now a new expression of justice.
He thought of the bull which was at that moment being dragged out of the
arena, its neck burned and blood-stained, its legs rigid, and its glassy
eyes staring at blue space as do those of the dead.
Then in imagination he saw the friend who lay but a few steps away from
him on the other side of a brick wall, also motionless and stiff, his
breast bare, his abdomen torn open, a glazed and mysterious brilliancy
between his half-closed lashes.
Poor bull! Poor _matador_!
Suddenly the murmuring amphitheatre burst forth into a bellowing,
hailing the continuation of the spectacle. Nacional closed his eyes and
clenched his fists.
It was the bellowing of the wild beast, the real and only one!
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's The Blood of the Arena, by Vicente Blasco Ibanez