WHAT MAY BE SEEN FROM A PALCO.
The installation was accomplished without difficulty. The marquis
migrated to other shores and it took Maida but a short time to
discover the pleasures of being luxuriously housed. The apartment
which she selected for herself was composed of four rooms; there was a
sitting-room in an angle with windows overlooking the sea and others
that gave on a quiet street which skirted one wing of the villa. Next
to it was a bed-room also overlooking the street, while back of that,
on the garden side, was a bath and a dressing-room. A wide hall that
was like a haunt of echoes separated these rooms from those of her
husband.
Through the street, which was too steep to be much of a thoroughfare,
there came each morning the clinging strain of a pastoral melody, and
a pipe-playing goat-herd would pass leading his black, long-haired
flock to the doors of those who bought the milk. When he had gone the
silence was stirred by another sound, a call that rose and fell with
exquisite sweetness and died away in infinite vibrations: it came from
a little old woman, toothless and bent, who, with summer in her voice,
hawked crisp gold bread of crescent shape, vaunting its delicacy in
birdlike trills. There were other venders who announced their wares in
similar ways, and one, a fisher, chaunted a low and mournful measure
which he must have caught from the sea.
It was pleasant to be waked in this wise, Maida thought, and as she lay
in her great bed of odorous wood, she listened to the calls, and when
they had passed, the boom and retreating rustle of the waves occupied
and lulled her. In such moments the thoughts that visited her were
impermanent and fleeting. She made no effort to stay them, preferring
the vague to the outlined, watching the changes and transformations
of fancy as though her soul and she were separate, as were her mind a
landscape, some
Paysage choisi,
Que vont charmant masques et bergamasques
Jouant du luth et dansant et quasi
Tristes sous leurs déguisements fantasques.
The room was an accomplice of her languor. The windows were curtained
with filmy yellow. Before them were miniature balconies filled with
flowers, and as the sun rose the light filtered through flesh-colored
awnings striated with ochre. The floor was a mosaic of variegated and
lacquered wood. On either side of the bed were silk rugs, sea green and
pink, seductive to the foot; the ceiling was a summer sky at dawn, a
fresco in cinnabar and smalt.
The Blydenburgs, less luxuriously inclined, remained at the hotel.
Mr. Blydenburg had not as yet enjoyed an opportunity of conversing in
Basque; he had indeed attempted to address a mildewed little girl whom
he encountered one day when loitering on the cliffs, but the child had
taken flight, and a mule that was pasturing on a bramble, threw back
its ears, elongated its tail and curving its lips, brayed with such
anguish that Mr. Blydenburg was fain to delay his studies until fortune
offered a more favorable opportunity.
It was at San Sebastian, he thought, that such an opportunity would be
found ready made, and on the morning of the projected excursion he was
in great and expectant spirits.
The morning itself was one of those delicious forenoons that reminded
one of Veronese. In the air was a caress and in the breeze an
exhilaration and a tonic. In the streets and about the squares there
was an unusual liveliness, much loud talking, a great many oaths, and
the irritation and excitement which is the prelude to a festival. The
entire summer colony seemed to be on its way to Spain.
In the court-yard of the Villa Zunzarraga four horses harnessed to a
landau stood in readiness. On the box the driver glistened with smart
buttons and silver braid. His coat was short, his culottes were white,
his waistcoat red, and he had made himself operatic with the galloons
and trappings of an eighteenth-century postilion. It was not every day
in the year that he drove to a corrida. By way of preparation for the
coming spectacle, Karl, who stood at the carriage door, had already
engaged a palco.
When Blydenburg and Milly arrived, and the party had entered the
landau, there was a brisk drive through the town and a long sweep down
the Route d’Espagne than which even the Corniche is not more lovely.
The vaporous Pyrenees seemed near enough to be in reach of the hand,
the elms that lined the roadside were monstrous, like the elms in a
Druid forest, the fields were as green as had they been painted. There
were pink villas with blinds of pale yellow, white houses roofed with
tiles of mottled red, gardens splendid with the scent of honeysuckle,
and children, bright-eyed, clear-featured, devoured by vermin and
greed, ran out in a bold, aggressive way and called for coin.
“_Estamos en España!_” The carriage had come to a sudden halt. In the
beauties of the landscape the journey had been forgotten. But at the
driver’s word there came to each of them that sudden thrill which
visits every one that crosses a new frontier. Blydenburg looked eagerly
about him. He had expected to be greeted by alcaldes and alguacils, he
had fancied that he would view a jota, or at the very least a roadside
bolero. “Are we really in Spain?” he wondered. In places of ladies in
mantillas and short skirts there was a group of mangy laborers, the
alcaldes and alguacils were represented by a sullen aduenaro, and the
only trace of local color was in a muttered “_Coño de Dios_” that came
wearily from a bystander. Certainly they were in Spain.
The custom-house officer made a motion, and the carriage swept on. To
the left was Fuenterrabia, dozing on its gulf of blue, and soon they
were in Irun. There was another halt for lunch and a change of horses,
and then, on again. The scenery grew wilder, and the carriage jolted,
for the road was poor. They passed the Jayzquibel, the Gaïnchurisqueta,
the hamlet of Lezo, Passaje, from whence Lafayette set sail; Renteria,
a city outside of the year of our Lord; they crossed the Oyarzun, they
passed Alza, another stream was bridged and at last the circus hove in
sight.
The bull-ring of San Sebastian is sufficiently vast for a battalion
to manœuvre in at its ease. It is circled by a barrier some five feet
high, back of which is another and a higher one. Between the two is
a narrow passage. Above the higher barrier rise the tendidos--the
stone benches of the amphitheatre--slanting upwards until they reach
a gallery, in which are the gradas--the wooden benches--and directly
over these, on the flooring above, are the palcos or boxes. Each box
holds twenty people. They are all alike save that of the President’s,
which is larger, decorated with hangings and furnished with chairs, the
other boxes having only seats of board. Under the President’s box, and
beneath the tendidos, is the toril from which the bulls are loosed.
Opposite, across the arena, is the matedero, the gateway through which
the horses enter and the dead are dragged out. In the passage between
the two barriers are stationed the “supes,” who cover up the blood,
unsaddle dead horses, and attend to other matters of a similar and
agreeable nature. There, too, the carpenters stand ready to repair any
injury to the woodwork, and among them is a man in black, who at times
issues furtively and gives a _coup de grace_ to a writhing beast. There
also are usually a few privileged amateurs who seek that vantage ground
much as the dilettanti seek the side scenes of the theatre.
These arrangements, which it takes a paragraph to describe, are
absorbed at a glance, but with that glance there comes an aftershock--a
riot of color that would take a library to convey. For the moment the
eye is dazzled; a myriad of multicolored fans are fluttering like
fabulous butterflies; there are unimagined combinations of insolent
hues; a multitude of rainbows oscillating in a deluge of light. And
while the eye is dazzled the ear is bewildered, the pulse is stirred.
The excitement of ten thousand people is contagious; the uproar is
as deafening as the thunder of cannon. And then, at once, almost
without transition, a silence. The President has come, and the most
magnificent of modern spectacles is about to begin.
Almost simultaneously with the appearance of the chief magistrate of
the town, the Incouls and Blydenburgs entered their box. There was
a blast from a trumpet and an official in the costume known as that
of Henri IV. issued on horseback from the matedero. The ring which a
moment before had been peopled with amateurs was emptied in a trice.
The principal actor, the espada, Mazzantini, escorted by his cuadrilla
and followed by the picadors, advanced to the centre of the arena and
there amid an explosion of bravos, bowed with a grace like that which
Talma must have possessed, first to the President, who raised his high
hat in return, and then in circular wise to the spectators.
He was young and exceedingly handsome, blue of eye and clear-featured;
he smiled in the contented way of one who is sure of his own powers,
and the applause redoubled. The Basques have made a national idol of
him, for by birth he is one of them and very popular in Guipuzcoa.
He was dressed after the fashion of Figaro in the “Barbiere,” his
knee breeches were of vermilion silk seamed with a broad spangle, his
stockings were of flesh color, he wore a short, close-fitting jacket,
richly embroidered; the vest was very low but gorgeous with designs;
about his waist was a scarlet sash; his shoulders were heavy with
gold and on his head was a black pomponed turban, the torero variety
of the Tam O’Shanter. His costume had been imitated by the chulos and
banderilleros. Nothing more seductive could be imagined. They were all
of them slight, lithe and agile, and behind them the picadors in the
Moorish splendor of their dress looked like giants on horseback.
The President dropped from his box the key of the toril. The alguacil
is supposed to catch it in his hat, but in this instance he muffed
it; it was picked up by another; the alguacil fled from the ring, the
picadors stationed themselves lance in hand at equal distances about
the barrier, the chulos prepared their mantles, there was a ringing
fanfare, the doors of the toril flew open, and a black monster with the
colors of his _ganaderia_ fastened to his neck shot into the arena.
If he hesitated no one knew it. There was a confused mass of horse,
bull and man, he was away again, another picador was down, and then
attracted by the waving cloak of a chulo he turned and chased it
across the ring. The chulo was over the fence in a second, and the
bull rose like a greyhound and crossed it, too. Truly a magnificent
beast. The supes and amateurs were in the ring in an instant and back
again when the bull had passed. A door was opened, and surging again
into the ring he swept like an avalanche on a picador, and raising him
horse and all into the air flung him down as it seemed into the very
pits of death. The picador was under the horse and the bull’s horns
were seeking him, but the brute reckoned without the espada. Mazzantini
had caught him by the tail, which he twisted in such exquisite fashion
that he was fain to turn, and as he turned the espada turned with
him. The chulos meanwhile raised the picador over the barrier, for
his legs and loins were so heavy with iron that once down he could
not rise unassisted. Across the arena a horse lay quivering in a bath
of gore, his feet entangled in his entrails, and another, unmounted,
staggered along dyeing the sand with zigzags of the blood that spouted,
fountain-like, from his breast. And over all was the tender blue of the
sky of Spain.
When Mazzantini loosed his hold, he stood a moment, folded his arms,
gave the bull a glance of contempt, turned on his heel and sauntered
away. The applause was such as no _cabotin_ has ever received. It was
the delirious plaudits of ten thousand people drunk with the sun,
with excitement--intoxicated with blood. Mazzantini bowed as calmly
as were he a tenor, whose _ut de poitrine_ had found appreciation in
the stalls. And while the applause still lasted, the bull caught the
staggering, blindfolded, unprotected horse and tossed him sheer over
the barrier, and would have jumped after him had he not perceived a
fourth picador ambling cautiously with pointed lance. At him he made
a fresh rush, but the picador’s lance was in his neck and held him
away. He broke loose, however, and with an under lunge disemboweled the
shuddering horse.
There was another blast of the trumpets, the signal for the
banderilleros whose office it is to plant barbs in the neck of the
bull--a delicate operation, for the banderillero must face the bull,
and should he trip he is dead. This ceremony is seldom performed until
the bull shows signs of weariness; then the barbs act like a tonic. In
this instance the bull seemed as fresh as were he on his native heath,
and the spectators were clamorous in their indignation. They called
for more horses; they accused the management of economy; men stood up
and shook their fists at the President; it was for him to order out
fresh steeds, and, as he sat impassible, _pollice verso_, as one may
say, they shouted “_Fuego al presidente, perro de presidente_”--dog of
a president; set him on fire. And there were cat-calls and the screech
of tin horns, and resounding and noisy insults, until the general
attention was diverted by the pose of the banderillas and the leaping
and kicking of the bull, seeking to free his neck from the torturing
barbs. At last, when he had been punctured eight times, he sought the
centre of the ring, and stood there almost motionless, his tufted tail
swaying nervously, his tongue lolling from his mouth, a mist of vapor
circling from his nostrils, seething about his splendid horns and
wrinkled neck, and in his great eyes a look of wonder, as though amazed
that men could be crueler than he.
Again the trumpets sounded. Mazzantini, with a sword concealed in
a muleta of bright scarlet silk, and accompanied by the chulos,
approached him. The chulos flaunted their vivid cloaks, and when the
bull, roused by the hated colors to new indignation, turned to chase
them, they slipped aside and in the centre of the ring stood a young
man dressed as airily as a dancer in a ballet, in a costume that a pin
would have perforated, and before him a maddened and a gigantic brute.
In a second the bull was on him, but in that second a tongue of steel
leaped from the muleta, glittered like a silver flash in the air, and
straight over the lowered horns it swept and then cleaved down through
the parting flesh and touched the spring of life. At the very feet of
the espada the bull fell; he had not lost a drop of blood; it was the
supreme expression of tauromaquia, the recognition that skill works
from force.
And then the applause! There was a whirl of hats and cigars and
cigarettes, and had San Sabastian been richer there would have been a
shower of coin. Women kissed their hands and men held out their arms
to embrace him. It was the delirium of appreciation. And Mazzantini
saluted and bowed and smiled. He was quite at home, and calmer and more
tranquil than any spectator. Suddenly there was a rush of caparisoned
mules, ropes were attached to the dead horses, the bull was dragged
out, the blood was concealed with sand, the toilet of the ring was
made, the trumpets sounded and the last act of the first of the
wonderful cycle of dramas was done.
There were five more bulls to be killed that day, but with their
killing the action with which these pages have to deal need not be
further delayed. From the box in the sombra Mr. Incoul had watched the
spectacle with unemotional curiosity. Blydenburg, who had fortified
himself with the contents of a pocket flask, manifested his earliest
delight by shouting Bravo, but with such a disregard of the first
syllable, and such an explosion of the second, that Mr. Incoul
mistaking the applause for an imitation of the bark of a dog had at
last begged him to desist.
The adjoining box was crowded, and among the occupants was a delicious
young girl, with the Orient in her eyes, and lips that said Drink me.
To her the spectacle was evidently one of alluring pathos. “_Pobre
caballo_,” she would murmur when a horse fell, and then with her fan
she would hide the bridge of her nose as though that were her organ
of vision. But no matter how high the fan might be raised she always
managed to see, and with the seeing there came from her compassionate
little noises, a mingling of “_ay_” and “_Dios mio_,” that was most
agreeable to listen to. Miss Blydenburg, who sat so near her that she
might have touched her elbow, took these little noises for signals and
according to their rise and fall learned when and when not to look down
into the terrible ring below.
In the momentary intermission that occurred after the duel between the
espada and the first bull, a mozo, guided by Karl, appeared in the box
bearing with him cool liquids from the caverns beneath. Blydenburg,
whose throat was parched with brandy and the strain of his incessant
shouts, swallowed a naranjada at a gulp. Mr. Incoul declined to take
anything, but the ladies found much refreshment in a concoction of
white almonds which affects the tonsils as music affects the ear.
It was not until this potion had been absorbed that Maida began to take
any noticeable interest. She had been fatigued by the drive, enervated
by the heat, and the noise and clamor was certainly not in the nature
of a sedative. But the almonds brought her comfort. She changed her
seat from the rear of the box to the front, and sat with one arm on
the balustrade, her hand supporting her delicate chin, and as her eyes
followed the prowess of the bull she looked like some fair Pasiphae in
modern guise.
It must have been the novelty of the scene that interested her.
The light, the unusual and brilliant costumes, the agility of the
actors, and the wonder of the sky, entered, probably, as component
parts into any pleasure that she experienced. Certainly it could have
been nothing else, for she was quick to avert her eyes whenever blood
seemed imminent. The second bull, however, was far less active than
the first. He had indeed accomplished a certain amount of destruction,
but his attacks were more perfunctory than angered, and it was not
until he had been irritated by the colored barbs that he displayed
any lively sense of resentment. Then one of the banderilleros showed
himself either awkward or timid; he may have been both; in any event
his success was slight, and as the Spanish audience is not indulgent,
he was hissed and hooted at. “Give him a pistol,” cried some--the acmé
of sarcasm--“_Torero de las marinas_,” cried others. He was offered a
safe seat in the tendidos. One group adjured the President to order his
instant imprisonment. One might have thought that the tortures of the
Inquisition could not be too severe for such a lout as he.
Maida, who was ignorant of the duties of a banderillero, looked down
curiously at the gesticulating crowd below. The cause of their
indignation she was unable to discover, and was about to turn to Mr.
Blydenburg for information, when there came a singing in her ears. The
question passed unuttered from her thoughts. The ring, the people, the
sky itself had vanished. Near the toril, on a bench of stone, was Lenox
Leigh.