The following Sunday, as the cuadrilla had just entered the circus, some
one knocked loudly at the Puerta de Caballerizas.
An employé of the Plaza shouted ill-humouredly from inside that there
was no entrance that way, they must go round to the other door, but as
the voice outside continued to insist he finally opened the door.
A man and a woman entered, he wearing a white Cordoban felt hat, she
dressed in black with a mantilla.
The man shook the employé's hand, leaving something in it, which
evidently softened his asperity.
"You know me, do you not?" ... said the new comer. "Really, don't you
know me? I am Gallardo's brother-in-law, and this lady is his wife."
Carmen looked all around at the deserted courtyard. Through the brick
walls she could hear the sound of music and the humming of the crowd,
varied by cries of enthusiasm, or murmurs of curiosity.
"Where is he?" enquired Carmen anxiously.
"Where should he be, woman?" replied her brother-in-law roughly. "In the
Plaza, fulfilling his duties.... It is folly to have come here. What a
flighty woman you are!"
Carmen looked round her undecidedly, perhaps half repenting having come;
after all, what was she going to do there?
The employé, whose hand-shake with Antonio had made a marvellous
difference, suggested that if the lady wished to wait till the end of
the corrida she could rest in the gate-keeper's room, but if she wished
to see the corrida he could find her a very good seat even if she had no
ticket.
Carmen was terrified at this proposal. See the corrida? No! She had
never seen her husband fight; she would wait there as long as she
possibly could.
"God's will be done!" said the saddler resignedly. "We will stay here,
though what we shall see opposite this doorway I don't know."
About mid-day on the Saturday, Carmen had called Antonio into the
matador's study, and told him of her intention to go at once to Madrid.
She could not stay in Seville, she had had a week of restless nights,
which her imagination had peopled with horrible scenes, and her feminine
instinct made her fear some great disaster. She felt she must be by
Juan's side, she did not know why, nor what would happen on the journey,
all she wanted was to be near Gallardo.
Life was not worth living like this. She had seen in the papers Juan's
great fiasco on the previous Sunday. She knew his professional pride,
and knew he could not bear this misfortune patiently. The last letter
she had received from him had plainly showed her this.
"No, and again no," she said energetically to her brother-in-law's
objection. "I start for Madrid this afternoon; if you like to come, well
and good, if not, I shall go alone. Above all, not a word to Don José;
he would try to prevent my journey!"...
The saddler finally agreed. After all a free journey to Madrid was not a
thing to be refused, even though it were in such dismal company. During
the journey, Carmen made up her mind; she would speak earnestly to her
husband. Why go on bull-fighting? Had they not enough to live on? He
must retire at once if he did not wish to kill her. This corrida must
be the last one ... and even this was one too many. She hoped to arrive
in Madrid in time to prevent her husband fighting, feeling that by her
presence she might prevent some catastrophe.
"What rubbish! Just like a woman! If they get a thing into their heads
it must be so. Do you think there are no authorities, or laws, or rules
in a Plaza? that it is enough for a woman to be frightened and want to
run and kiss her husband for the corrida to be stopped and the public
disappointed? You may say whatever you like to Juan afterwards, but by
now he will be at the corrida. There is no trifling with the
authorities; we should all be sent to jail."
When they arrived in Madrid, he had to exert all his powers of
persuasion to prevent his companion rushing to her husband's hotel. What
would be the result? She would disturb him by her presence, send him to
the Plaza in a bad humour, upset his calmness, and then if anything
happened all the fault would be hers.
This reflection steadied Carmen, making her give in to her
brother-in-law's wishes and go to an hotel of his choosing, where she
spent the morning lying on a sofa crying as if she considered misfortune
imminent. The saddler, delighted to find himself in Madrid and
comfortably lodged, was furious with this despair, which seemed to him
ridiculous.
The hotel was near the Puerta del Sol, and the noise of the carriages
and people going to the corrida reached her. She could not stay in the
house, she must see him. She had not courage enough to go to the
spectacle, but she wished to feel near him, and she wished to go to the
Plaza. Where was the Plaza? She had never seen it. Even if she could not
go in, she could wander round it, feeling that her near presence might
influence Gallardo's luck.
The saddler expostulated. By the life of.... He certainly intended to
go to the corrida, he had gone out to buy his ticket, and now Carmen
prevented his enjoying the fiesta, by wanting to go to the Plaza
herself.
"What can you do when you get there? What good can your presence do?
Just think, if Juaniyo caught sight of you!"
But to all his arguments Carmen replied with the same obstinacy.
"If you do not care to come with me, I will go alone."
Antonio ended by giving in, and they drove to the Plaza together,
entering by the Puerta de Caballerizas. The saddler remembered the Plaza
well, as he had accompanied Gallardo on one of his journeys to Madrid
during the spring.
He and the employé both felt out of humour with that woman with the red
eyes and streaming cheeks who stood in the court-yard not knowing what
to do.... The two men heard the noise of the people and the music in the
Plaza. Were they going to stay there all night without seeing the
corrida?
At last the employé had a happy inspiration.
"Perhaps the lady would like to go into the chapel!"...
The procession of the cuadrillas was ended, and through the doorway
several horsemen came trotting back from the circus; these were the
picadors who were not on duty, and who withdrew from the arena, ready to
replace their comrades when required. Tied to rings on the wall were a
row of saddled horses, the first who would have to go into the circus in
place of any killed. Behind these the picadors were employing their wait
by making their horses pirouette and turn, and a stable-boy was
galloping a restless horse to quiet it before giving it over to the
picadors. All the horses were kicking, plagued by flies, and dragging
at their halters as if they scented the danger close at hand.
Carmen and her brother-in-law were obliged to take refuge beneath the
arcades, and finally the torero's wife accepted the man's invitation to
go into the chapel. It was a safe and quiet spot, and possibly in there
she might do something to help her husband.
When she found herself in the holy place, close and hot from the crowd
of people who had watched the torero's prayers, she fixed her eyes in
astonishment on the poverty of the altar. Four lights only were burning
before the Virgin of the Dove, which seemed to her a wretched tribute.
She opened her purse to give a duro to the employé. Could he not bring
some more tapers?... The man scratched his head. Tapers? tapers? In the
purlieus of the Plaza such things were not to be found. But he suddenly
remembered that the sisters of a certain matador always brought some wax
tapers whenever he fought there, and the last supply was not all
consumed, they must be in some corner of the chapel. After a long search
they were found, but there were no candlesticks; however, the employé
was a man of resource, and fetching some empty bottles he stuck the
candles in their necks and placed them among the other lights.
Carmen knelt down, and the two men took advantage of her absorbed
devotion to rush away to the Plaza, anxious to see the first events of
the corrida.
She remained alone contemplating with curiosity the dusty painting
reddened by the lights. She did not know this Virgin, but surely she
must be gentle and kind, like the one in Seville, to whom she had prayed
so often. Besides, she was the toreros' Virgin, the one who heard their
last prayer, when coming danger gave those rough men a pious sincerity.
On that pavement also her husband had often knelt.
Her lips moved, repeating the prayers with automatic speed, but her
thoughts were far away, attracted by the noise of the crowd which
reached her.
Ay! the roaring of that intermittent volcano, the surging of those
distant waves, broken at times by a tragic silence.... Carmen fancied
she could unseen watch the corrida. She could guess by the different
intonations of the noises in the Plaza the course of the tragedy which
was being unfolded in the circus. Sometimes it was an explosion of
indignant cries accompanied by whistling, at others thousands and
thousands of voices seemed uttering unintelligible words. Suddenly there
was a scream of terror, long and strident, which seemed to rise even to
heaven, a terrified and gasping exclamation which made her see thousands
of outstretched heads, pale with emotion, following the rapid rush of a
bull on the tracks of a man ... but the cries suddenly ceased and calm
returned. The danger was past.
Sometimes there were long spells of absolute silence, in which the
humming of the flies could be heard, a silence so profound it seemed as
if the immense circus must be empty, as if the fourteen thousand people
on its benches did not even breathe, and that Carmen herself was the
only living creature within its walls.
Suddenly this silence was broken by an immense and noisy uproar, so loud
one would have thought that every brick in the building was knocking
against its neighbour, a wild volley of applause which made the whole
place shake. In the courtyard close by the chapel the sound of whacks on
the loins of the horses tied there was heard, then the sound of iron
hoofs on the pavement, lastly the sound of voices. "Who is hit?" And
fresh picadors were called into the arena.
To these distant noises were now joined others nearer and more
terrifying. The sound of steps to the rooms near, doors hurriedly
opened, the panting breathing, and gasping voices of several men, as if
they were staggering under a great weight.
"It is nothing ... only a bruise. You are not bleeding, before the
corrida is ended you will be on your horse again."
A hoarse voice, weak with pain, moaned between sighs in an accent which
reminded Carmen of her own country.
"Oh! Virgin of Solitude! I think something is broken; search well,
doctor.... Ay! my children!"
Carmen trembled with fright. She raised her eyes, suffused with terror,
to the Virgin. She felt as if she might fall fainting on the floor; she
tried again to pray, not to listen to the noises from outside,
transmitted through the walls with such desperate clearness. But in
spite of her endeavour, the sound of splashing water fell on her ears,
and the sounds of men's voices, probably the doctors, encouraging the
patient.
"Virgin of Solitude!... My children!... What will become of my poor
angels if their father cannot fight?"...
Carmen rose. Ay! she could bear it no longer, she should faint if she
remained longer in that dark place terrified by those cries of pain. She
must have air, get out into the sun. She fancied she felt in her own
bones all the pain that unknown man was suffering.
She went out into the courtyard. There was blood on every side! Blood on
the ground, and blood round some pails in which the water was coloured
red.
The picadors were coming out of the circus, the banderilleros were
having their turn now, the riders came in on their horses stained with
blood, their flesh torn, their entrails hanging down.
The riders dismounted, talking with animation of the events of the
corrida. Carmen watched Potaje's ponderous humanity get down stiffly and
heavily, swearing at the mono sabio, who did not help his descent with
sufficient alacrity. He seemed benumbed by his heavy iron leggings and
by the pain of various bruises; he raised one hand ruefully to rub his
shoulders, but all the same he smiled, showing all his yellow tusks.
"Have you all seen how fine Juan has been?" he said to those surrounding
him. "To-day he has been quite splendid."
As he noticed the only woman in the patio and recognized her, he showed
no sort of surprise.
"You here, Señora Carmen! That's right!"...
He spoke quietly, as if his habitual vinous somnolence and his natural
stupidity prevented anything surprising him.
"Have you seen Juan?" he went on. "He lay down on the ground in front of
the bull, under its very nose. No one can do what that Gacho does....
You should go and see him, for to-day he is splendid."
Some one called him from the infirmary door; his companion, the other
picador, wished to speak to him before being taken away to the hospital.
"Adio, Seña Carmen. I must go and see what the poor fellow wants. A bad
fracture, they say. He will not be able to work again this season."
Carmen took refuge beneath the arcades; she tried to close her eyes, not
to see the horrible spectacle in the courtyard, while at the same time
she felt fascinated by the crimson pools of blood.
The monos sabios led in the wounded horses, who were dragging their
entrails along the ground. As she saw them, the head man in charge of
the stables bustled about in a fever of activity.
"Now, my lads, hurry up!" ... he shouted to the stable lads. "Gently!...
Gently, there!"
A stable-boy went carefully up to the horse who was rearing with pain,
and took the saddle off; then he tied ropes round his four feet, drew
them together and threw him.
"Now, my fine fellow!... Gently, gently with him!" he shouted to the
man, never ceasing to move his own hands and feet.
The stable lads in their shirt sleeves, leant over the animal's
ripped-up belly, from which were gushing streams of blood and water,
endeavouring to put back by handfuls the slippery entrails hanging out
of it.
Others held the animal's reins, putting a foot on its head to keep it on
the ground. Its muzzle twitched with pain, and its teeth rattled
together with the anguish of its torment, while its agonized squeals
were smothered by the pressure on its head. The bloody hands of the
workers endeavoured to replace the bowels in the empty cavity, but the
gasping breathing of the unfortunate animal constantly blew out again
the entrails the men were pushing in like bundles. At last they were all
pushed back into the stomach, and the lads with the quickness of long
habit sewed the sides of the wound together.
After the animal was mended with this barbarous promptitude, a pail of
water was thrown over its head, its legs were freed from the ropes, and
a few kicks and blows with a stick made it scramble on to its feet. Some
only walked a few steps, falling down again, with torrents of blood
rushing from the re-opened wound. This meant instantaneous death. Others
stood up apparently stronger, from their immense resources of animal
vitality, and the lads after mending them up took them off to the
courtyard to be "varnished." There their stomach and legs were cleansed
by several pailsful of water thrown over them, which left their white or
chestnut coats bright and shining, while streams of bloody water ran
down their legs on to the ground.
They mended the horses just like old shoes, prolonging their agony and
retarding their death, working their weakness up to the last possible
moment. Fragments of their entrails which had been cut off to facilitate
the repairing operation lay about the floor. Other fragments lay in the
circus, covered with sand, till the death of the bull should permit of
the attendants collecting the remains in their baskets. Very often these
rough-and-ready practitioners supplied the horrible absence of the lost
organs by handfuls of tow stuffed into the stomach. The chief thing was
to keep these miserable animals on foot a few moments longer till the
picadors should return to the arena, when the bull would soon take
charge and finish the work.
Even here the noisy shouts of the invisible crowd reached Carmen.
Sometimes they were exclamations of anxiety; an "Ay! Ay!" from thousands
of voices that told of the flight of a banderillero closely pursued by
the bull. Then there would be absolute silence. The man had again turned
on the brute and the noisy applause broke out once more when he had
skilfully fixed two more darts. Then the trumpets sounded, announcing
that the time for the death stroke had come, and the applause rang out
afresh.
Carmen wished to go away. Virgin of Hope! What was she doing there? She
was ignorant of the routine that the matadors followed in their work.
Possibly that blast indicated the moment when her husband had to face
the bull. And she was there, only a few steps away, and unable to see
him! If she could only get away and escape from this torment.
Besides, the blood running over the courtyard sickened her, and the poor
brutes' sufferings. Her womanly sensitiveness rose up against such
tortures, and she put her handkerchief to her face, nauseated by the
smell of the butcheries.
She had never been to a bull-fight. A great part of her life had been
spent in hearing about corridas, but in the accounts of the fiestas she
had never heard or seen anything beyond the outside, just what all the
world saw or heard of, the exploits in the arena under the brilliant
sun, the flash of silk and gold embroideries, all the sumptuous
procession, knowing nothing of the odious preparations taking place in
the secrecy of the outbuildings. And they lived from this fiesta, with
its repulsive torturing of weak animals! Their fortune had been made
from such spectacles!
Tremendous applause broke out in the circus. In the courtyard an
imperious voice gave orders. The first bull had just been killed; the
gates at the end of the passage of the Puerta de Caballos giving access
to the circus were thrown open, and the roars of the crowd poured in
louder and louder still, with the echoes of the music.
The mule teams had trotted into the Plaza, one to bring out the dead
horses, and the other to drag out the carcass of the bull.
Carmen caught sight of her brother-in-law coming along under the
arcades, still trembling from excitement at what he had seen.
"Juan ... is colossal! He has never been anything like this afternoon!
Have no fear! He seems to eat up the bulls alive!"
Then he looked at her anxiously, afraid she might make him lose such an
interesting afternoon. What did she decide to do? Did she feel brave
enough to come into the Plaza?
"Take me away!" she cried in agonized tones. "Get me out of here as
quickly as possible. I feel ill.... You can leave me in the nearest
church."
The saddler pulled a face. By the life of Roger!... To leave such a
magnificent corrida!... And all the while he was taking Carmen towards
the door he was thinking how soon he could leave her and return to the
circus.
When the second bull came out, Gallardo was still leaning on the
barrier, receiving the congratulations of his friends. What courage that
fellow had ... when he chose! The whole Plaza had applauded him with the
first bull, forgetting their anger at the previous corridas. When a
picador remained on the ground insensible from his fall, Gallardo had
rushed up with his cape, and by a series of magnificent "veronicas" had
drawn the bull to the centre of the arena, eventually leaving him
wearied out and motionless after his furious rushes at the deceiving red
cloth. The torero, taking advantage of the brute's bewilderment, stood
erect a few paces from his muzzle, presenting his body as though defying
him. He felt the strong heart-throb--the happy precursor of his greatest
deeds. He knew he must reconcile his public by some sudden dash of
audacity, and quietly he knelt down opposite the horns, albeit with a
certain precaution, ready to slip away at the slightest sign of a
charge.
The bull remained quiet. Then he put forward one hand till he touched
its foam flecked snout--still the animal remained quiet. Then he dared
something which plunged the audience into palpitating silence. Slowly
he lay down on the sand, using the cape on his arm as a pillow, and so
he remained for some seconds, below the very nostrils of the brute, who
sniffed at this body placing itself so daringly beneath his horns,
evidently suspecting some hidden danger.
When the bull, recovering his aggressive fierceness, lowered his horns,
the torero rolled towards his hoofs, putting himself in this way out of
his reach, and the animal passed over him, seeking in his blind ferocity
for the object to attack.
Gallardo rose, dusting the sand from his clothes, and the audience,
always loving daring deeds, applauded him with all the enthusiasm of
former days. They quite understood that the torero's display of courage
was an attempt at reconciliation with themselves, an effort to regain
their affection. He had come to the corrida ready for any feat of daring
which would earn their plaudits.
"He is often over careful," they said on the benches--"often he is weak,
but he has toreros' pride, and he is regaining his name."
Their delighted excitement at Gallardo's exploit and the death of the
first bull turned to bad humour and expostulations as they saw the
second bull enter the arena. He was of enormous size and fine
appearance, but he began to trot all round the arena, looking with
astonishment at the howling masses of people crowded on the seats,
frightened by the cries and whistling with which they endeavoured to
excite him, and running away from his own shadow, imagining all sorts of
snares. The peons ran towards him spreading their capes. He attacked the
red cloth for an instant, then suddenly giving a snort of surprise he
turned tail and ran away in the opposite direction with leaps and
bounds. His agility for flight made the people furious.
"He is not a bull! ... he is a monkey!"
The maestros' capes finally attracted him towards the barrier, where
the picadors waited for him motionless on their horses, their garrochas
under their arms. He came up to a rider with lowered head and fierce
snorts, as though intending to attack, but before the iron could be
driven into his neck he gave a bound and fled, passing between the
peons' outstretched capes. In his flight he ran against another picador,
repeating the bound, the snort, and the flight. Then he ran against a
third picador, who caught him fairly on the neck with his garrocha,
increasing in this way both his fear and his velocity.
The audience had risen to their feet _en masse_ gesticulating and
shouting. A craven bull! What an abomination!... They all turned towards
the presidential box, shouting their protests: "Señor Presidente! This
cannot be allowed."
From several of the rows came a chorus of voices repeating the same word
with monotonous iteration.
"Fire ... fire!"
The President seemed doubtful. The bull was rushing all about the ring,
followed by the toreros, with their capes on their arms. When some of
them succeeded in getting in front of him and stopping him, he would
sniff the cloths with his usual snort and run off in another direction,
kicking and bounding.
These flights increased the noisy expostulations: "Señor Presidente,"
was his Worship blind? Then bottles, oranges, and seat cushions began to
shower into the arena round the fugitive beast. The masses loathed him
for a coward. Some of them stretched over into the arena, as if they
intended tearing the animal to pieces with their own hands. What a
scandal! To see in the Madrid Plaza oxen only fit for meat! Fire! fire!
At last the President waved a red handkerchief, and a salvo of applause
greeted the gesture.
The fire banderillas were a quite extraordinary spectacle, something
entirely unexpected, which greatly increased the interest of the
corrida. Many who had shouted themselves hoarse were privately delighted
at the incident. They would see the bull burning alive, rushing about
mad with terror at the lightnings fastened into his neck.
El Nacional came forward carrying two large banderillas seemingly
wrapped in black paper, hanging points downward. He went towards the
bull without any great precautions, as though his cowardice did not
deserve any high art, and stuck in the infernal darts amid the
vindictive acclamations of the populace.
Immediately there was an explosion, and two puffs of smoke ran along the
animal's neck. In the sunlight the fire could not be seen, but the hair
disappeared, singed, and a black mark began to spread over the neck.
The bull, surprised at the attack, accelerated his flight, as if this
could free him from the torture, till suddenly short sharp detonations
like gun shots were heard proceeding from his neck, and showers of ash
paper flew about his eyes. The beast bounded with the agility of terror,
all four feet off the ground at once, twisting his head in the vain
endeavour to tear out with his teeth these demoniacal darts fixed in his
flesh. The mob laughed and applauded, thinking these bounds and
contortions extremely amusing. The animal, in spite of his size and
weight, seemed to be performing a dance like some trained animal.
"How they sting him!" exclaimed the populace with ferocious laughter.
When the banderillas had ceased to explode the melted fat on the neck
formed little bubbles, and the bull no longer feeling the sting of the
fire stopped short, his head hanging, his eyes bloodshot, his muzzle
covered with foam, and his red dry tongue licking the sand in search of
moisture.
Another banderillero came up and stuck in a second pair of darts. Once
more the puffs of smoke ran along the scorched flesh, and the
detonations recommenced. Wherever he rushed, twisting his massive body
in his struggles to get the darts out of his neck, the infernal
detonations went with him; but now his movements were less violent, it
seemed as though his vigorous animalism was being subdued by the
torture.
A third pair of darts were fixed in, and from the burning flesh a
nauseous odour of melted fat, burnt hide, and singed hair spread
throughout the arena.
The public still applauded with vindictive frenzy, as if the poor animal
were an opponent of their religious beliefs, and they were performing a
holy work by this burning. They laughed as they saw him unsteady on his
legs, bellowing with sharp screams of pain, seeking in vain for
something to cool his tongue.
Gallardo awaited, leaning on the barrier near the presidential box, the
signal to kill, while Garabato held the rapier and muleta ready prepared
resting on the top of the barrier.
Curse him! The corrida had begun so well, and now evil fate had reserved
this bull for him, a bull, moreover, of his own choosing on account of
his fine appearance, and who, now he was in the arena, turned out a cur!
He excused himself beforehand to the connoisseurs who were leaning over
the barrier, for his probably indifferent work.
"I will do what I can, but it probably won't be much," said he,
shrugging his shoulders.
Then he glanced round the boxes, fixing his eyes on the one occupied by
Doña Sol. She had applauded him before when he executed his stupendous
exploit of lying down before the bull. Her gloved hands had clapped
enthusiastically when he had turned towards the barrier saluting the
audience. Now, when she realised that the torero was looking at her, she
saluted him with a kindly gesture, and even her companion, that odious
fellow, made a stiff bow, as if he were breaking in two at the waist. He
had surprised her several times with her opera-glasses fixed
persistently on him, or searching for him when he retired behind the
barriers. Ah! that gachi!... Possibly she felt once more attracted by
his courage. Gallardo thought he would go and see her the following day,
possibly the wind might have changed.
The trumpets gave the signal to kill, and the espada, after making a
short "brindis," walked towards the bull.
All the enthusiasts shouted their advice.
"Kill him quickly! He is an ox who deserves nothing!"
The torero spread his muleta before the brute, who attacked, but slowly,
as if warned by his previous torture, but with the evident intention of
crushing and wounding, the suffering having awakened his fierceness.
That man was the first who had stood before him since his torment began.
The crowd felt their vindictive anger towards the bull vanishing. After
all he was not turning out so badly. He was attacking well. Olé! And
they all welcomed the torero's passes with delight, confounding the
torero and the bull in the same noisy approval.
The bull remained motionless, his head lowered, his tongue hanging out.
There fell on the crowd that silence always preceding the mortal
estocade, a silence even greater than absolute solitude, as it came from
thousands of hard-held breathings. The silence was so profound that the
slightest noise reached to the topmost benches. All heard the rattle of
the pieces of wood knocking against each other. It was Gallardo, who
with the point of his rapier was setting aside the burnt banderillas
which had fallen down between the horns. After this arrangement, which
would facilitate the mortal stroke, the crowd stretched their necks even
further forward, feeling the mysterious intercourse re-established
between their will and that of the matador. Now! they all said to
themselves, he would overthrow the bull with one masterly stroke. They
all felt the espada's determination.
Gallardo threw himself on the bull, and all the populace breathed loudly
after their breathless expectation. But from the encounter the animal
emerged, rushing with furious bellowing, while the benches broke out
into whistling and protests. The same thing had happened once again.
Gallardo had turned away his face and shortened his arm at the moment of
killing. The animal carried off the rapier in his neck, loose and
bending, and after a few steps the steel blade flew out of the flesh,
rolling on the sand.
Some of the people blamed Gallardo, and the spell which had united them
to the espada at the beginning of the fiesta was broken. Their distrust
of the torero reappeared and their irritating censures. All seemed to
have forgotten their late enthusiasm.
Gallardo picked up his rapier, with bent head, and without the heart to
protest against the discontent of a crowd so tolerant to others, so
harsh and unjust towards himself, and turned again towards the bull.
In his confusion he thought some other torero placed himself by his
side. It was El Nacional.
"Steady, Juan! Don't get flurried."
Curse it!... Was this same thing always going to happen to him? Could
he not put his arm between the horns as formerly and drive the rapier in
up to the hilt? Was he going to spend the rest of his life as a
laughing-stock for the public? An ox whom they had been obliged to
fire!...
He placed himself opposite the animal, who seemed waiting for him,
steady on its legs. He thought it useless to make any more passes with
the muleta. So he placed himself "in profile" with the red cloth hanging
on the ground, and the rapier horizontal at the height of his eye. Now
to thrust in his arm!
With a sudden impulse the audience rose to their feet, for a few seconds
the man and the bull formed one single mass, and so moved on some steps.
The connoisseurs were already waving their hands anxious to applaud. He
had thrown himself in to kill as in his best day. That was a "true"
estocade!
But suddenly the man was thrown out from between the horns by a crushing
blow, and rolled on the sand. The bull lowered his head, picking up the
inert body, lifting it for an instant on his horns to let it fall again,
then rushing on his mad career with the rapier plunged up to the hilt in
his neck.
Gallardo rose slowly, the whole Plaza burst out into uproarious,
deafening applause, anxious to repair their injustice. Olé for the man!
Well done the lad from Seville! He had been splendid!
But the torero did not acknowledge these outbursts of enthusiasm. He
raised his hand to his stomach, crouching in a painful curve, and with
his head bent began to walk forward with uncertain step. Twice he raised
his head as if he were looking for the door of exit and fearing not to
be able to find it, finally staggering like a drunken man, and falling
flat on the sand.
Four of the Plaza servants raised him slowly on their shoulders, El
Nacional joining the group, to support the espada's pale livid head,
with its glassy eyes just showing through the long lashes.
The audience started with surprise, and their plaudits ceased suddenly.
They looked around at each other unable to make up their minds as to the
gravity of the accident.... Soon optimistic news circulated, but no one
knew from whence it came.... It was nothing, only a tremendous blow in
the stomach which had deprived him of consciousness, but no one had seen
any blood.
The populace, suddenly tranquilized, sat down, turning their attention
from the wounded torero to the bull, who, though in the agonies of
death, still remained firm on his feet.
El Nacional helped to place his master on a bed in the infirmary. He
fell on it like a sack, inanimate, his arms hanging over either side of
the bed.
Sebastian, who had so often seen the espada bleeding and wounded,
without ever losing his calm, now felt the agony of fear, seeing him
lifeless, with his face of a greenish whiteness as if he were already
dead.
"By the life of the blue dove!" he groaned. "Are there no doctors? Is
there no help anywhere?"
The infirmary doctors, after attending to the injured picador, had run
back to their box in the Plaza.
The banderillero was in despair, seconds seemed hours, as he shouted to
Garabato and Potaje to come and help him, not knowing quite what he said
to them.
The doctors arrived, and, after closing the door to remain undisturbed,
they stood undecidedly before the espada's inanimate body. They must
undress him, and Garabato began to unpin, unsew and tear the torero's
clothes.
El Nacional hardly saw the body. The doctors were surrounding the
wounded man, consulting each other by their looks. It must be a collapse
which had apparently deprived him of life. There was no blood to be
seen, and the rents in his clothes were no doubt the result of his toss
by the bull.
Doctor Ruiz entered hurriedly, the other doctors making way for him,
acknowledging his superiority. He swore in his nervous hurry as he
helped Garabato to undo the torero's clothes.
There was a start of wonder, of painful surprise round the bed. The
banderillero did not dare to enquire, he looked between the doctors'
heads at Gallardo's body. His shirt was drawn up, and he saw that the
stomach, which was uncovered, was torn by a jagged wound with bloody
lips, from between which the bluish viscera were protruding.
Doctor Ruiz shook his head sadly. Besides the terrible and incurable
wound, the torero had received a tremendous shock from the bull's head.
He was no longer breathing.
"Doctor! doctor!" moaned the banderillero, imploring to know the truth.
And Doctor Ruiz, after a long silence, turned his head.
"It is finished, Sebastian.... You must seek another matador."
El Nacional raised his eyes to heaven. Was it possible that such a man
should die in this way, unable to clasp a friend's hand, unable to say a
word, suddenly, like a wretched rabbit whose neck you wring!
Despair drove him from the infirmary. Ay! he could not stay and look at
_that_! He was not like Potaje, who stood motionless and frowning at the
foot of the bed, twisting his beaver in his hand, looking at the body as
if he saw it not.
In the courtyard he had to stand aside to let some picadors pass who
were returning to the circus.
The terrible news had begun to run through the Plaza. Gallardo was
dead!... Some doubted the truth of the news, others affirmed it, but no
one moved from their seats. They were going to loose the third bull. The
corrida was only in its first half, and they really could not give it
up.
Through the great doorway came the noise of the crowd and the sound of
music.
The banderillero felt a fierce hatred arise in his heart for everything
surrounding him; a disgust and aversion to his profession and to those
who maintained it.
He thought of the bull who was now being dragged out of the arena, with
his neck burnt and bloody, his legs stiff and his glassy eyes gazing up
at the sky.
Then he thought of the friend lying dead a few paces from him, only the
other side of a brick wall. His limbs also rigid, his stomach ripped
open, and a mysterious dull light shining through his half open eyelids.
Poor bull! Poor espada!... And suddenly, as noisy cries of delight burst
out in the circus applauding the continuation of the spectacle, El
Nacional closed his eyes and clenched his fists.
It was the roaring of the wild beast, the true and only one.
GLOSSARY
As certain Bull-fighting terms have no possible English equivalents, a
short explanatory glossary is appended, but the Spanish terms will be
used throughout the book.
_Alguacil._--Policeman. In this case a kind of steward of the ring
and master of the ceremonies.
_La Alternativa._--Ceremony in the bull-ring by which a rising
torero is recognised by his superiors as a finished matador, and
henceforward he ranks with them as a master of his profession.
_Aficion._--The sport, bull-fighting more especially. Ford and Sir
Richard Burton translate this as "the fancy," the "fraternity."
_Aficionados._--Devotees of the sport--amateurs--patrons.
_Banderilla._--Darts stuck into the bull's neck.
_Banderillero._--Man who fixes the darts into the bull.
_Cuadrilla._--The matador's troupe, composed of two banderilleros,
two picadors on horseback, three peons on foot, and one dagger man.
The discipline is most severe, implicit obedience being exacted.
_Capea._--A bull run consisting merely of dexterous cape play, in
which no horses are employed, and the bull is not killed except at
the owner's wish. The capeas on the Saints' day festivals in
different villages are the practising grounds of young toreros.
_Corrida._--Any sort of bull-fight, whether officially recognised,
as in the large bull-rings, or merely the baiting of young bulls
and calves at capeas.
_Cogida._--Any sort of injury received during a
bull-fight--literally "a catching."
_Diestro, Torero, Espada, Matador._--Synonymous terms for the
matador who kills the bulls with his rapier.
_Fiesta._--Any popular holiday, whether of the Church or otherwise.
_Olé._--Hurrah! Well done!
_Novillo._--Young bull up to four years old.
_Novillada._--Baiting of young bulls, as at the capeas.
_Novillero._--The young toreros who bait the young bulls.
_Picador._--A man on horseback who attacks the bull with a lance.
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|Transcriber's note: |
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|Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. |
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