WEATHER PERMITTING.
The sky was in a state of anarchy, neither clear nor overcast, blue
and smiling in one quarter, dark and gloomy in another. The tempest
seemed about to do battle with the fine weather, for they paused
looking at each other from opposite horizons and disputing the sky
inch by inch. The sun, as a neutral party, alternately shone down
upon the earth and hid behind the clouds, leaving it cold and dark.
Notwithstanding the crowd on the _Plaza de Toros_ did not seem to
fear the result. It was an afternoon like most April or May days in
Madrid, rough and windy, but, on the whole, inviting rather than
repellent; bringing more dust than rain, and threatening worse than
it performed, beyond drenching wedding parties, blowing up the
women’s skirts and whisking off the men’s hats.
The amphitheatre was crowded but dull. Excepting for a few minutes
occasionally it was all in shadow. The high structure of iron,
painted slate-colour, looked dingier than ever, its elegant
suggestion of manufactured architecture being little in harmony
with the boisterous, clamorous, inebriate, and debasing character
of the national Spanish festival. The uniformity of dress, which
increases every day to the great loss of æsthetic effect, would give
a public entertainment the aspect of a solemn congregation or a
patriotic meeting, if the picture were not disturbed by the roar of
voices--now an impatient murmur, now harsh yells of rage, in every
key of passion, pleasure and frenzy, forming the hideous music of the
sanguinary opera of which the libretto is the struggle in the arena.
Coloured handkerchiefs are fast disappearing; still, a few bright
spots of red and yellow, like gaudy butterflies, here and there
relieved the huge black spot, and the incessant flutter of fans gave
animation to the long rows of men and women. The uncovered seats on
the shady side, especially those affected by the youth and students
of the town, were closely packed with heads in ranks like the seeds
in an ear of maize. The less crowded places on the sunny side were
occupied by busy knots of press reporters, by country folks, by a
hundred or more of Andalusians, in manners and dress a grotesque
caricature of the _torero_; of hardworked artisans, seeking in this
wild orgy of excitement some respite from the dreary round of labour.
The distinguished society of _mataderos_, butchers, leather-dressers,
tanners, the myrmidons of the slaughterhouse and purveyors of fodder,
seethed like a boiling pot; and the hubbub, with the fitful ringing
of a bell, sounded like the spasmodic progress of a neighing and
kicking beast. The detestable medley of slang and dialects rose up
like the hissing of some coarse and malodorous fry as it simmers
over the fire. The _chula_ muttered a hoarse oath as she insolently
forced her way through the crowd, diffusing a mixed perfume of musk
and garlic; and the miserable lout whose natural destiny it was to
clean tripe and bladders, being incapacitated by nature for any more
worthy function in life, made a speaking-trumpet of his hand to hurl
a torrent of abuse, flavoured with a hot vapour of raw spirits, at
the president’s box, where it would, no doubt, reach the ears of some
official of the Spanish capital--the governor perhaps, or perhaps the
president of the council.
The front seats of the amphitheatre presented a more pleasing
spectacle; here there were a good many white mantillas decking pretty
heads, on which camellias as white as milk or as red as blood,
bloomed as naturally as though they had grown there. The ladies
of the _demi-monde_, with their unmistakable and characteristic
air--a sort of family likeness--their obtrusive elegance and vulgar
assertive beauty, formed a notable proportion of the long row,
elbowing here and there a woman of still lower morality. Some of
these faces were of wonderful beauty, others mere masks of white and
red, and burnt cork. Respectable families of the middle classes filed
in, led by the father--a merchant perhaps, or a rising stockbroker,
the head of a house of business, an infantry officer, a retired
magistrate, a contractor for the supply of bacon to the public
asylums, a stage baritone, an attorney, a professor of music--in
short, whatever you choose--and closed by the youngest child, a
little schoolboy. Here and there might be seen the essentially
Spanish figure of a wealthy woman of the shopkeeping class; showy,
generally very stout, with a certain loftiness as of a Roman matron
grafted on to her florid native smartness; equally proud of her
black eyes and her sparkling rings which cut into the flesh of her
fat fingers; shedding contemptuous glances on all sides, as much
as to convey that she is a very great lady and very rich, that her
shop, with its stock of ancient furniture, or her butchery, or her
pawnbroker’s parlour, is as good as the Bank of Spain, and that
so long as she lives there will be no lack of occupation for the
horrible gladiators below, who are loitering round the arena in green
and gold, or crimson and silver, their cruel weapons in their hands
and their spirits high with bold adventure. There is in the lavish
proportions and air of satiety of these women, in their pretentious
and sometimes cynical expression--particularly when they traffic
in human creatures--an indefinable look of depravity suggesting
Vitellius, Otho, or Heliogabalus; excepting that they are apt to turn
pale when they hear the fatal ‘_morituri te salutant_.’
Behind are four long rows of humbler folk, the respectable class
looking down on the disreputable class, very unpretending persons,
plain, pretty, or commonplace. Above, in the boxes, there are more
white mantillas--some covering grey heads, others framing the
sweetest specimens of youth and beauty; fiery carnations or starry
jasmine in their hair, cheeks like blush roses, eyes black or blue,
with lashes quivering like butterflies; cherry lips, a glance as
fickle as the light nod of a flower in the wind, and smiles that
reveal teeth like pearls; the all-pervading fan with its wordless
telegraphy in a thousand colours. This forms the bewildering charm of
all large assemblages in Spain--the same in the boxes of a theatre
as in the balconies over the streets--whenever there is a procession
or a spectacle, or whenever a king makes his entry or takes his
departure to do honour to a brand-new constitution.
There were faces there, withered, and faded, which betrayed even at
a distance the pains that had been taken to hide their ruin, and
others, young and innocent, that hid behind a fan when the loathsome
teasing of the bull began; there was no lack of splendour--an
atmosphere of elegance seemed to emanate from the style of dress,
the glances, the air with which the women were pretty or ugly, and
pervaded everything that they wore, from a blossom to the white
paint, from the curl that the breeze fluttered on their temples to
the jewel that rose and fell with every breath, and the glove that
waved as the little hands clapped applause.
There were groups of men too in the boxes, all in black, with their
elbows on the balustrade, and their hats tilted over their eyes,
with nothing vulgarly loud in their dress, but talking a language
savouring equally of the chamber of deputies and of the bull-ring, a
strange medley of high-flown phrases, witty conceits, and slang terms
full of point and metaphor, suggesting a mixture of cabbages and
roses in a basket of flowers. The tone of their conversation was one
of flippant scepticism; that of men who had ceased to believe even
in bull-fights, while they directed the fire of their opera-glasses
up and down the rows of ladies and made brutal comments on not a few
of them. Morality and frivolity were inextricably mixed and fell
together on the ear, just as gold and copper alike slip into the
slit in a poor-box. The same lips pronounced technical criticisms on
the tactics of the arena, and, almost in the same breath, blighted a
reputation.
Among them were legislators and men whose daily occupation was the
issue of decrees and regulations; some were impoverished aristocrats,
some enriched plebeians, wealthy country proprietors, retired
bull-fighters, elaborately preserved old dandies, here and there
an inquisitive foreigner. But the flower of the moneyed youth sat
below, in the places close behind the barrier--the favourite seats
of the true _dilettanti_, where a distinguished company of critical
spectators sit in judgment, including some names famous in the
history of the time; young men who lack neither talent nor culture,
and reporters, who dip their pen in the blood of the bull, so to
speak, to indite a style of prose which, like the atmosphere of the
cheaper boxes, is a steamy compound of raw garlic, musk, and brandy.
The hero of the fight was a bull called Sacristan, a huge brute,
broadly marked with black, strong, wild, and well armed. The sound of
the Olympian roar that hailed the fury of the beast’s first onslaught
was immediately succeeded by a dull murmur of dissatisfaction, and
every face--strange to say--was averted, for across the blood-stained
arena swept the spectre of a horse dragging its bowels, as a kite
drags its tail before it sinks for lack of wind.
The sport went on, though heavy rain-drops were already falling,
and at length, when Higadillos, in scarlet and gold, with his
knife in his iron hand, was inciting the beast just in front of
the president’s box, there was a general stir throughout the
amphitheatre. Every one got up, some screaming and some grumbling;
there was a universal upturning of heads, pushing of elbows, and
trampling of feet; a tremendous thunderclap rattled through the air,
and at the same instant the rain came down as though a sluice gate
had suddenly been opened in the clouds; a torrent--a cataract, that
thrashed the earth like whip thongs.
The confusion was frightful. Annoyance and good-humour vied with each
other in curses and jests. The strongest fairly elbowed their way
through the weaker, the nimblest leaped from seat to seat between
the old and stout, women implored for help, boys howled, the smart
bourgeoise had a head like a sponge and the men streamed like
Tritons. A few here and there, opened umbrellas which got in each
other’s way, their points hooking and catching like bats’ claws.
In the arena, meanwhile, the dripping fighters went on with the sport
and the bull, startled and drenched, was in no mood for play. The
flood of rain washed away every trace of the blood and the wretched
horses snorted up the moist air that refreshed them in their agony.
However, it was soon impossible to continue the fight; the flags were
streaming, it was hardly possible to see across the amphitheatre. The
bell of the tame bull was heard, and the baited beast, following the
sound, was led back into the stable.
The crowd, flying from the rain as if it had been a fire, collected
in the passages which could not contain them in spite of their great
size. Every staircase was blocked, and as no one cared to leave the
place so long as the torrent continued, the vast circular structure
was more like a huge barrel of soaked sardines than anything else.
Not one more could be wedged in. The women shook their cloaks, the
men cursed the skies, and some wrangled to get their money back.
Cries, laughter, jokes; feet trodden on; hats shedding little
rivulets of water; sneezing, shivering, coughing.
A party of young men from the barrier seats tried to force a way up
to the boxes.
“Let us get upstairs,” said one, “I think that Leon is there. He will
lend us his carriage and go home with the minister.”
“And if he is not there we can go with the Fúcars--gentlemen, if you
please--allow me.--Go on Polito, why are you staying behind?”
“Confound you! don’t you see that I am dying for want of breath?...
and wet to the skin? Wait till I have put a tar lozenge in my
mouth--what a deluge! what a scene!”
With the greatest difficulty, pushing hard and being roundly abused,
they succeeded in reaching the boxes. The crush there was equally
great for, as the rain fell obliquely and had flooded the boxes on
one side of the amphitheatre, the occupants had crowded out into the
corridor behind.
“Here is Leon,” cried Polito, going up to a group that stood round
some great man. “I say, Leon, will you let us have your carriage?”
“Yes, take it, I do not want it.”
“Bravissimo! you are a brick; we can have the carriage--come on!”
Among the men stood ladies in couples, in groups, in dozens, waiting
for the weather to clear. Up here every one was in a good-humour,
laughing and jesting; for this class of spectators is not so
seriously annoyed by a delay which to those below is a serious
grievance. Indeed, the unforeseen has greater charms for them than a
programme fulfilled; they have plenty of pleasures and a surprise or
a little check has a certain relish. After all, the rain is not a
serious evil to people who keep a carriage.
“How will those poor people from the open seats get on?” said a lady
to her companion, as they came out of their box with an elderly man.
“They are really almost justified in asking for their money back.
They paid to see the bull-fight and not to get drenched. However, as
it was for charity....”
The two ladies stopped to speak to one and another of their
acquaintance.
“What fun! What an excitement! It is quite delightful! Where are you
going now? What, are you wet?... They are asking for their money
back, how glad Higadillos must have been--he was dying of fright....
It seems not to be raining so hard now, but the arena is flooded....
Well, I am going.” The speaker lightly laid her hand on the arm of
a gentleman who was talking to some others; bankers, deputies and a
minister or two.
“Are you coming to dinner?”
“With pleasure; but now? at once?--I have burnt my ships--that is to
say I have sent away my carriage.”
“Then come with us,” said the lady taking the arm that Leon offered.
“I have no patience to wait any longer.”
“But it is still pouring; you will have to wait at the entrance and
the line of carriages will be a long one.”
“Never mind, let us go.” The other lady followed on the arm of the
old gentleman.
“I thought you were at Suertebella. You told me that you were not to
come back till next week.”
“I came back to-day because Papa wrote to me that he was to arrive
soon with a Frenchman--a banker--and I had to arrange matters in the
house.”
“When I saw you in the box I meant to go round and speak to you; to
ask if you had any news of Federico.”
“I!” exclaimed the lady with surprise and annoyance. “He does not
write to me; he cannot write to me. I heard from his cousins that he
was leaving Cuba to go--how should I know where he is going; no where
for any good.”
“And the little girl, how is she?”
“I did not bring her with me; I left her there. Sweet pet, she is not
very well, she has been ailing for some days. When are you coming
to see her? I want to get back again; I should not have been here
now but for Papa.... I cannot bear to leave her. He is going to have
a sort of meeting of bankers at our house; you know ... about the
national loan. Don Joaquín Onésimo can tell you all about it and I
had better say nothing about it.”--Here she lowered her voice so as
not to be heard by the couple who were close behind them.--“For he
would bore us to death with the national debt, and taxable property,
and the mortgage of shares. That man is a deluge of administration;
but Papa desired me to be very civil; so this evening we four
will dine together--quite a family party. I hate ceremony; I am
so accustomed to be alone at Suertebella with my little girl that
society tires me and upsets me.”
The two couples made their way down with considerable difficulty. The
wet and dripping mob waiting for the rain to cease had no mind to be
accommodating to those happier individuals who had carriages.
“Allow me, gentlemen--would you mind...?” And at each entreaty they
advanced a step or two.
Once down the stairs and safe in the large hall they drew a breath of
relief, as though they had accomplished a long and difficult journey,
though it was full of people impatiently watching the incessant drip
from the eaves, and putting out their hands to feel whether the storm
were abating. Some ventured forth under umbrellas, others made a rush
for an omnibus. Gentlemen’s coachmen were on the look-out for their
masters, and Pepa’s took up the two ladies and the two gentlemen and
rolled off, splashing up the mud, down the broad street which turns
out of the Carretera de Aragón (Aragón Street). There it turned
into the court-yard of the Fúcars’ house and drew up under a covered
vestibule--a large alcove with scagliola columns and two enormous
candelabra, shrouded in linen covers and looking like a couple of
Carthusian friars.
Leaving the great staircase on the left the party went into the
splendid rooms on the ground-floor which were arranged for daily
use; the first-floor rooms--the most airy, sunniest, pleasant, and
by far the most magnificent, were only opened to the public on great
occasions; thus it is that vanity overrides sanitary considerations.