THE BULL-FIGHTS.
The thirty-first of March inaugurates the spectacle of the bull-fights. Let us discuss them at leisure, for they form a worthy subject.
He who has read Baretti’s description may consider that he has read nothing. Baretti saw only the bull-fights of Lisbon, which are mere child’s play beside those of Madrid. Madrid is the home of the art: here are the great artists, here the stupendous spectacles, here the skilled spectators, here the judges who distribute the honors. The circus of Madrid is the Theatre della Scala of the art of bull-fighting.
The inauguration of the bull-fights at Madrid is even more important than a change of the ministry. A month beforehand the news spreads throughout all Spain: from Cadiz to Barcelona, from Bilbao to Almeria, in the palaces of the grandees and the cabins of the poor, they talk only of the artists and the breed of bulls; they arrange fights for pleasure between the provinces and the capital; he who is short of money begins to save so as to get a good place in the circus on that great day; fathers and mothers promise their children to take them if they will study well; lovers make similar promises to their sweethearts; the papers assure you that it will be a good season; the famous toreros, who already begin to appear in Madrid, are pointed out with the finger; rumors are afloat that the bulls have arrived, and some have seen them or have arranged to do so.
There are bulls from the pastures of the duke of Veragua, the marquis de Merced, and of Her Excellency the dowager of Villaseca, prodigious and terrible. The office is opened to receive subscriptions; the dilettanti crowd around, together with the servants of the noble families, the brokers, and friends commissioned by the absent. The first day the manager has received fifty thousand francs, on the second thirty thousand, and a hundred thousand in a week. Frascuelo, the famous matador, has arrived; Cuco has arrived; Calderón has arrived, and all the others three days before the time. Thousands of people can talk of nothing else; ladies dream of the circus; ministers have no thought for other affairs; old dilettanti can hardly contain themselves; soon laboring-men stop buying their cigarettes to have a few pennies on the day of the spectacle. Finally, on Saturday morning, before dawn, they commence to sell tickets in a room on the street Alcalá. A crowd collects before the doors are opened, yelling, pushing, and knocking each other about; twenty policemen with revolvers in their belts are scarcely able to keep decent order; there is a continuous stream of people until night.
The long-expected day has arrived. The spectacle commences at three o’clock; at noon the people start from all directions toward the circus, which stands at the edge of the suburb of Salamanca, beyond the Prado, outside of the gate of Alcalá; all the streets which lead there are crowded with a procession of people. The circus looks like a great anthill; troops of soldiers and Volunteers of Liberty arrive, headed by bands of music; a crowd of water-carriers and orange-sellers fill the air with their cries; ticket-sellers run here and there, hailed by a thousand voices. Woe for him who has not yet bought his ticket! He will pay double, treble, quadruple! But what cares he if a ticket costs even fifty or eighty francs? They are looking for the king; they say the queen is coming too. The chariots of the great guns begin to arrive; the duke Ferdinando Nunes, the duke d’Abrantes, the marquis de la Vega de Armijo, a crowd of the grandees of Spain, the goddesses of the aristocracy, the ministers, generals, and ambassadors—all that is beautiful, splendid, and powerful in the great city. One may enter the circus by many doors, but before entering one is deafened by the noise.
I entered. The circus is immense. The outside is in no way remarkable; it is a low circular yellow building without windows, but on entering one feels the liveliest surprise. It is a circus for a people, where ten thousand spectators can be seated and in which a regiment of cavalry might drill. The arena is circular, and so vast that it could hold ten of our equestrian circuses. It is encircled by a wooden barrier about even with a man’s shoulders, provided on the inside with a narrow ledge a little way from the ground, on which the toreros place their feet to jump over when the bull chases them. Beyond this barrier there is another higher one, for the bull often leaps over the first; between the two a narrow course, a little more than a metre in width, runs all the way round the arena; here the toreros stroll before the combat, and here stand the attendants of the circus—the carpenters ready to repair the gaps which the bull has made, the guards, the orange-venders, the dilettanti who enjoy the friendship of the manager, and the great guns who are allowed to transgress the rules. Beyond the second barrier rises a tier of stone seats, and beyond this are the boxes; below the boxes runs a gallery containing three rows of seats. The boxes are each large enough to hold three or four families; the king’s box is a great drawing-room; next to it is that of the city officials, in which sits the mayor or whoever presides at the spectacle. Then there is the box for the ministers, for the governors, and for the ambassadors; every noble family has one; the young bon tons, as Giusti would say, have a box to themselves; then there are boxes to let which cost a fortune.
Every seat in the tiers is numbered, every person has a ticket; so the entrance is made without the least disorder. The circus is divided into two parts—one in the shade, the other in the sunshine; in the first one pays more; in the second sit the common people. The arena has four doors at equal distances from each other—the door through which the toreros enter, the door for the bulls, another for the horses, and a fourth, under the king’s box, for the heralds of the spectacle. Over the door through which the bulls enter rises a sort of sloping platform which is called the toril, and well for him who can find a place there! Upon this platform, in a little box, stand the men who at a sign from the mayor’s box sound the trumpet and drum to announce the entrance of the bull. Facing the toril on the opposite side of the arena along the stone balcony is the band of music. The whole balcony is divided into compartments, each of which has its own door.
Before the show begins the people are allowed to enter the arena and to walk through all the passages of the building. They go to see the horses enclosed in a courtyard, and most of them destined to be killed, more’s the pity! They go to see the dark chambers where are confined the bulls, which are driven from one enclosure to another until they reach a corridor and dash into the arena; they go to see the infirmary where the wounded toreros are borne: once there was a chapel to visit in which mass was celebrated during the combat, and there the toreros went to pray before confronting the angry brutes; then they go to the principal entrance, where are exhibited the banderillas that are to be inserted in the bulls’ necks, and where one sees a group of old toreros—one lame, another without an arm, a third on crutches—and the young toreros who have not yet been admitted to the honors of the circus of Madrid. One buys a copy of the Bulletin of the Bulls, which promises miracles for the doings of the day. Then one gets from the guard the programme of the spectacle and a printed leaflet divided into columns for noting the strokes of the spear, the thrusts, the falls, and the wounds. One climbs along endless corridors and interminable stairways in the midst of a crowd which comes and goes, ascends and descends, crying and shouting, so that the whole building trembles, and finally one returns to one’s seat.
The circus is crowded full, and presents a spectacle of which it is impossible to form an idea unless one has seen it: it is a sea of heads, hats, fans, and hands waving in the air; on the side where sit the better classes in the shade all is dark; on the other side, in the sun, where the common people sit, a thousand brilliant colors of vesture, parasols, and paper fans—an immense masquerade.
There is not room enough for another child; the crowd is as compact as a phalanx; no one can go out, and it is difficult even to move one’s arms. It is not a buzzing like the noise of other theatres; it is different: it is an agitation, a life altogether peculiar to the circus; everybody is shouting, gesticulating, and saluting each other with frantic joy; the women and children scream; the gravest men frolic like boys; the young men, in groups of twenty and thirty, shout in chorus and beat with their canes against the stone balustrade as a sign to the mayor that the hour has arrived. In the boxes there is an overflow of spirits, like that in the galleries of the regular theatres; the discordant cries of the crowd are augmented by the howls of a hundred hawkers, who are throwing oranges in every direction; the band plays, the bulls bellow, the crowd outside roars; it is a spectacle which makes one dizzy, and before the struggle commences one is exhausted, intoxicated, and stupefied.
Suddenly there is a cry, “The king!” The king has arrived; he is come in a chariot drawn by white horses, with mounted grooms in picturesque Andalusian costumes; the glass doors of the royal box swing back, and the king enters with a stately crowd of ministers, generals, and major-domos. The queen is not there: one foresaw that; every one knows that she has a horror of this spectacle. Oh! but the king would not miss it; he has always come. They say he is mad over it. The hour has come, the spectacle begins. I shall remember to my dying day the chill which passed over me at that moment.
A blare of trumpets; four guards of the circus on horseback, with cap and plume à la Henri IV., with black mantles, tight-fitting jackets, jack-boots, and swords, enter by the gate under the king’s box and slowly make the circuit of the arena. The people separate; every one goes to his seat; the arena is deserted. The four cavaliers take their places, two by two, in front of the door opposite the royal box, which is still closed.
Ten thousand spectators fix their eyes on that spot; there is a universal silence. For through it will come the cuadrilla, with all the toreros in gala dress to present themselves to the king and the people. The band plays, the door springs open, there is a burst of applause; the toreros advance. First come the three espadas, Frascuelo, Lagartijo, and Cayetano, the three famous ones, dressed in the costume of Figaro in the Barber of Seville, in satin, silk, and velvet, orange, scarlet, and blue, covered with embroidery, fringe, lace, filigree, tinsel, spangles of gold and silver, which almost conceal their dress; enveloped in full capes of yellow and red, with white stockings, silken girdles, a bunch of tassels on the neck, and a fur cap. Next come the banderilleros and the capeadores, a troop covered like the others with gold and silver; then the picadores, on horseback, two by two, each with a great battle-lance, a low-crowned gray hat, an embroidered jacket, breeches of yellow buffalo skin, padded and lined inside with strips of iron; then the chulos, or servants, dressed in their holiday best; and altogether they walk majestically across the arena toward the box of the king. One cannot imagine anything more picturesque than this spectacle: there are all the colors of a garden, all the splendors of a royal court, all the gayety of a rout of maskers, all the grandeur of a band of warriors; on closing one’s eyes one sees only a gleaming of gold and silver. They are very handsome men—the picadores tall, stout of limb like athletes; the others slight and nimble, with chiselled forms, swarthy faces, and great fierce eyes—figures like the ancient gladiators, clothed with the magnificence of Asiatic princes.
The entire cuadrilla stops in front of the royal
box and salutes; the mayor makes a sign that they may begin; the key of the toril, where the bulls are confined, is tossed from the box into the arena; a guard of the circus picks it up and gives it to the custodian, who places himself before the door ready to open it. The band of toreros separates, the espadas leap over the barrier, the capeadores scatter through the arena, waving their red and yellow capas; the picadores retire to await their turn; the rest spur their horses and take their positions to the left of the toril at a distance of twenty paces apart, with their backs to the barrier and their lances in rest.
It is a moment of keen excitement, of unexpressible anxiety: all eyes are fixed on the door by which the bull will enter; all hearts are beating high; a profound silence broods over the whole circus; one hears only the bellowing of the bull as he advances from cell to cell in the darkness of his vast prison; one can almost hear him crying, “Blood! blood!” The horses tremble, the picadores grow pale: another instant a blare of trumpets, the door is thrown wide open, and the terrible bull dashes into the arena saluted by a terrific shout, which bursts at that moment from ten thousand throats. The butchery has begun.
Ah! it is a good thing to have strong nerves: at that moment one turns as white as a corpse.
I can only remember confusedly what followed in the first instance: I do not know where I could have been. The bull rushed against the first picador, retreated, continued his course, and rushed upon the second; if there was a struggle, I do not remember it; then a moment later he rushed against the third, ran to the centre of the arena, stood and looked about him: I too looked about and covered my face with my hands. All that part of the arena where the bull had passed was streaked with blood; the first horse lay dead on the ground with his belly ripped open and his entrails scattered about; the second, with his breast torn by a deep gash from which blood was streaming, staggered about here and there; the third was thrown to the ground and tried in vain to rise; the chulos hurried in, raised the picadores from the ground, took the saddle and bridle from the dead horse, and tried to help the wounded one to his feet: an infernal yell resounded from every part of the circus; thus the spectacle usually begins. The first to receive the onslaught of the bull are the picadores; they sit firmly awaiting him and plant the lance between the head and shoulders of the bull as he is in the act of fastening his horns in the horse. The lance, be it noted, has only a small point, which cannot make a deep wound, and the picadores are obliged by sheer force of arm to ward off the bull and save their steeds. To do this one must have a sure eye, an arm of bronze, and a dauntless heart; they do not always succeed; indeed, they usually fail, and the bull plants his horns in the horse’s belly and the picador is thrown to the ground. Then the capeadores run forward, and while the bull is shaking his horns free from the entrails of his victim they wave their capas before his eyes, turn his attention, make him follow them and leave the fallen horseman in safety; whereupon the chulos come to his aid, and help him again into the saddle if the horse can still stand, or carry him off to the infirmary if he has broken his head.
The bull stood panting in the middle of the arena with bloody horns, looking around as if to say, “Have you had enough?” A band of capeadores ran toward him, surrounded him, and commenced to tease and badger him, making him rush here and there, waving their capas before his eyes, passing them over his head, leading him on, and escaping with the nimblest turns, to return to tease him again, and again flee from him. And the bull turns on them one after another, and chases them as far as the barrier, where he butts his horns against the boards, stamps, cuts capers, bellows, buries his horns in the bodies of the dead horses as he passes, tries to jump into the course, and rushes around the arena in every direction. Meanwhile the other picadores come in to take the places of the two whose horses had been killed, and take their positions at some distance from each other, over beside the toril with lances in rest, ready for the attack of the bull. The capeadores dextrously draw him in that direction, and, seeing the first horse, he made a plunge toward him with lowered head. But this time his blow was parried: the lance of the picador was fixed in his shoulder and checked him.
The bull was stubborn; he strained and lunged forward with all his weight; but in vain: the picador held firm, the bull retreated, the horse was saved, and a thunderous burst of applause greeted the man. The other picador was less fortunate: the bull attacked; he did not succeed in planting his lance firmly; the terrible horns penetrated the horse’s belly as quickly as a sword might have done, were violently twisted in the wound, and withdrawn; the intestines of the poor animal fell through and remained dangling, like a great bag, almost down to the ground; the picador remained in the saddle. There a horrible sight was witnessed. Instead of dismounting, the picador, perceiving that the wound was not mortal, put the spurs to the horse and rode to another place to await a second attack: the horse crossed the arena with his entrails hanging from his belly, striking against his legs, and impeding his steps. The bull followed for a moment and stopped. At that point there was blast on the trumpets: it was the signal for the picadores to withdraw. A gate was opened, and they galloped out one after another; the two dead horses were left, and here and there were pools and streaks of blood which two chulos covered with earth.
After the picadores come the banderilleros. And to the uninitiated this part of the performance is the most entertaining, for the reason that it is the least cruel. The banderillas are little arrows about two spans in length, ornamented with colored paper and provided with a metal tip so formed that when it once penetrates the skin it cannot be withdrawn, and the bull with his running and shaking only drives it farther in. The banderillero takes two of these arrows, one in each hand, and assumes a position about fifteen paces distant from the bull, and then, by waving his hands and shouting, provokes an attack. The bull rushes toward him: the banderillero in his turn runs toward the bull, and just as the bull’s head is lowered to plunge his horns into the man’s body the banderillero plants the arrows in his neck, one on this side, the other on that, and saves himself by a quick turn. If he stops, if his foot slips, if he hesitates an instant, he will be spitted like a frog. The bull bellows, snorts, tosses himself, and turns with dreadful fury to follow the capeadores. In a minute they have all jumped into the course; the arena is cleared, and the brute, with foaming mouth, bloodshot eyes, and neck streaked with blood, stamps the ground, shakes himself, runs at the barrier, demands vengeance, thirsts for blood and slaughter: no one appears to confront him; the spectators fill the air with the cry, “Forward! courage!” “The next banderillero!” The next banderillero advances and plants his arrows, then a third, and then the first again. On that day there were eight arrows inserted. The poor beast, when he felt the last two, gave a long bellow, distressing and horrible, and, dashing after one of his enemies, followed him to the barrier, took the leap, and fell with him into the course. The ten thousand spectators were all on their feet in an instant, crying, “He has killed him!” But the banderillero had escaped. The bull ran backward and forwarded between the two barriers under a rain of blows and thrusts, until he was driven to an open gate and returned to the arena as the gate closed after him. Then all the banderilleros and all the capeadores rushed toward him again: one passed behind and gave his tail a jerk, and disappeared like a flash of lightning; another as he flew past wound a capa around his horns; a third actually had the audacity to snatch off with one hand a little silk bow which was tied to his tail; a fourth, the most rash of them all, planted a pole in the ground as the bull was running, took a flying leap, and passed entirely over him and landed on the other side, throwing the stick between the legs of the astonished animal; and they did all this with the quickness of jugglers and the grace of dancers, as though they were playing with a lamb. Meanwhile, the immense crowd made the circus resound with their laughter and applause and cries of delight, admiration, and terror.
Another blast of the trumpet; the banderilleros are done. Now for the espada. It is a solemn moment, the crisis of the drama. The crowd is still, the ladies lean forward in their boxes, the king rises to his feet. The famous Frascuelo, holding in one hand the sword and in the other the muleta, a piece of red stuff fastened to a stick, enters the arena, presents himself before the royal box, raises his cap, and in a poetic phrase consecrates to the king the bull that he is about to kill; then, tossing his cap in the air, as if to say, “Victory or death!” followed by a splendid train of capeadores, he advances resolutely toward the bull. Here follows a veritable hand-to-hand struggle worthy of Homer’s song. On one side is the brute with his terrible horns, with his enormous strength, his thirst for blood, maddened by pain, blinded by rage, fierce, bloody, terrible; on the other, a young man of twenty, dressed like a dancer, on foot, alone and defenceless but for the short, slender sword in his hand. But the gaze of twenty thousand eyes is bent upon him. The king has a gift at hand; his sweetheart is above there in a box, with her eyes fixed upon him; a thousand ladies are trembling for his life. The bull pauses and looks at him; he looks at the bull and waves the red cloth before him. The bull dashes under it; the espada springs aside; that terrible horn grazes his hip, strikes the red cloth, and cleaves the empty air. A shout of applause bursts from the entire balcony, from all the boxes and galleries. The ladies raise their opera-glasses and cry, “He has not paled!”
All is silence again; there is not a sound; not a whisper. The bold torero flutters the muleta before the eyes of the infuriated animal, passes it overhead between his horns and around his neck, makes him recede, advance, turn, jump; invites an attack ten times, and ten times by the slightest motion escapes death; lets his muleta fall, and picks it up under the eyes of the bull; laughs in his face, taunts him, insults him, and makes sport of him: all at once he stops, puts himself on guard, raises his sword, and takes aim; the bull looks at him; another instant and they will rush toward each other. One of them must die; ten thousand glances run with lightning rapidity from the point of the sword to the tips of the horns; ten thousand hearts beat fast with anxiety and terror; the faces are all tense with excitement; one does not hear a breath; the vast crowd seems petrified. Another instant—the time has come! The bull dashes forward; the man brandishes his sword; a single loud cry, and then a tempestuous burst of applause breaks forth on every side; the sword has been buried to its hilt in the bull’s neck; the bull reels and with a stream of blood flowing from his mouth falls as though he had been struck by lightning.
The man has conquered! Then follows an indescribable tumult; the multitude seems to grow mad; all leap to their feet, wave their arms, and cry at the top of their voices; the ladies wave their handkerchiefs, clap their hands, and shake their fans; the band strikes up; the victorious espada approaches the barrier and makes the circuit of the arena. As he passes, from the galleries, the boxes, and the balconies the spectators, carried away by their enthusiasm, shower upon him packages of cigars, purses, canes, hats, anything which they can lay their hands on; in a few moments the fortunate torero has his arms full of trophies, calls the capeadores to his assistance, throws back the hats to his admirers, thanks them, and responds as well as he can to the salutes, the praises, and the glorious titles with which he is hailed upon every side, and finally comes to the royal box.
Then all eyes are riveted on the king. The king puts his hand in his pocket, takes out a cigar-case full of bank-notes, and tosses it down; the torero catches it in the air, and the multitude bursts into applause. Meanwhile the band is playing a dirge for the bull; a gate opens, four enormous mules gallop in, ornamented with plumes, tassels, and ribbons of yellow and red, driven by a band of chulos, who shout and crack their whips; the dead horses are drawn out one after another, and finally the bull is removed, whereupon he is at once carried to a little square near the circus, where a crowd of gamins is waiting to dip their fingers in his blood, after which he is flayed, butchered, and sold.
The arena is again free; the trumpet sounds, the drum beats: another bull dashes from his prison, attacks the picadores, rips up the bellies of horses, offers his neck to the banderilleros, and is killed by an espada; and so, without any intermission, six bulls are presented in the arena one after the other.
How many shocks, how many tremors, how many chills at the heart and rushes of blood to the head does one feel during that spectacle! how many sudden pallors! But you, stranger, you alone are pale; the boy beside you is laughing, the girl in front of you is wild with delight, the lady whom you see in the next box says she has never enjoyed herself so much. What shouting! what exclamations! That is the place to learn the language! As the bull appears he is judged by a thousand voices: “What a fine head! what eyes! he will draw blood! he is worth a fortune!” They break out into words of love. He has killed a horse. “Bueno! see how much has fallen from the belly!” A picador misses his stroke and wounds the bull badly or is afraid to confront him; then there is a deluge of insulting names: “Poltroon! imposter! assassin! go hide yourself! go and be hanged!” They all rise, point with their fingers, shake their fists, throw orange-peel and cigar-stumps in his face, and threaten him with their canes. When the espada kills the bull with one stroke, then follow the delirious words of lovers and extravagant gestures: “Come here, angel! God bless thee, Frascuelo!” They throw him kisses, call to him, and stretch out their hands as if to embrace him. What a profusion of epithets, witticisms, and proverbs! What fire! what life!
But I have spoken only of the doings of one bull; in the entire corrida a thousand accidents occur. In that same day a bull thrust his head under a horse’s belly, raised the horse and horseman, and, carrying them in triumph across the arena, threw them both to the ground like a bundle of rags. Another bull killed four horses in a few minutes; a third attacked a picador so violently that he fell, struck his head against the barrier, fainted, and was carried out. But not for this nor for a graver wound, nor even for the death of a torero, is the spectacle interrupted—it is so stated in the programme; if one is killed, another is ready. The bull does not always attack; there are some cowardly ones which run toward the picador, stop, and after a moment of hesitation run away; others, naturally gentle and placid, do not in the least respond to provocations; they allow the picador to approach them to plant his lance in their neck, back off, shake their heads as if to say, “No, thank you!” run away, and then turn suddenly to look with astonishment at the band of capeadores who follow them, as though they would ask, “What do you want of us? What have we done? Why do you wish to kill us?” Then the crowd bursts forth in imprecations against the cowardly bulls, against the managers, and against the toreros; and first one of the dilettanti over the toril, then the spectators on the sunny side, then the gentlemen on the shady side, then the ladies, then all the spectators in the circus, cry with one voice, “Banderillas de fuego!” The cry is directed toward the mayor. The banderillas of fire serve to infuriate the bull; they are banderillas provided with a fire-cracker, which goes off at the moment the point penetrates the flesh and burns the wound, causing extreme pain; the animal is tortured and enraged to the point of changing from a coward to a daredevil, from quietness to fury. The permission of the mayor is required to use the banderillas de fuego: if he hesitates to give it, all the spectators leap to their feet, and there follows a wonderful sight: one sees ten thousand handkerchiefs waving like the ensigns of ten regiments of lancers, from the boxes to the arena, all the way around, forming a fluttering band of white which almost conceals the crowd, and ten thousand voices cry, “Fuego! fuego! fuego!” Then the mayor may yield, but if he is obstinate in his refusal, the handkerchiefs disappear, fists and canes take their places, and curses burst forth: “Don’t make a fool of yourself! don’t spoil the fun! The banderillas for the mayor! fire for the mayor!”
The agony of the bull is terrible. Sometimes the torero does not strike where he should, and the sword is buried to the hilt, but not in the direction of the heart. Then the bull commences to run about the arena with the sword sticking in his body, sprinkling the ground with blood, bellowing deeply, writhing and twisting in a thousand ways to free himself from that torture; and in his impetuous course sometimes the sword flies out, sometimes it is driven deeper in and causes death.
The espada is frequently obliged to give the bull a second thrust, and not rarely a third or a fourth; the blood flows in torrents; all the capas of the capeadores are sprinkled; the espada is besmeared and the barrier bespattered; everything is covered with blood; the indignant spectators load the torero with abuse. Sometimes the bull falls to the ground badly wounded, but does not die, and lies there motionless with his head high and threatening, as if he would say, “Come on, assassins, if you have the courage!” Then the struggle is ended, the agony must be shortened: a mysterious man climbs the barrier, approaches with stealthy steps, places himself behind the bull, and, watching his chance, gives him a blow on the head with a dagger which penetrates to the brain and kills him. Often this blow does not succeed, either; the mysterious man must strike twice, thrice, or even four times; then the indignation of the people bursts forth like a tempest. They call him an executioner, a coward, an infamous wretch, wish he were dead, and if they had him in their hands would strangle him like a dog. Sometimes the bull, mortally wounded, staggers a little way before he falls, and, reeling with slow step from the place where he was stricken, goes to die in peace in a quiet corner; all the toreros follow him slowly at a short distance, like a funeral train; the crowd watches all his movements, counts his steps, measures the progress of his agony; profound silence attends his last moments; his death has in it something majestic and solemn. There are some indomitable bulls that will not bow the head even in drawing the last breath—bulls that, while the blood runs in streams from their mouths, still threaten; bulls pierced by ten sword-thrusts, stabbed, and bleeding to death, that still raise their heads with a superb motion which makes the crowd of their persecutors recede halfway across the arena; bulls whose death-agony is more terrible than their first fury; bulls that tear dead horses, break through the barrier, furiously trample the capas scattered through the arena, jump into the course, and run around with a high head, looking at the spectators with an air of defiance, fall, rise again, and die bellowing.
The agony of the horses, though not so prolonged, is more dreadful. Some have a leg broken by the bull, others the neck pierced through and through; others are killed at one blow with a thrust of the horn in the breast, without shedding a drop of blood; others, overcome with fear, take to flight, and, running straight ahead, come in violent collision with the barrier and fall down dead; others welter a long time in a pool of blood before they die; others, wounded, bleeding, disembowelled, and mutilated, still gallop about with desperate fury, run against the bull, are felled to the ground, rise and fight again until they are carried away, ruined but alive, and then the intestines are replaced, the belly sewed up, and they serve again; others, terrified at the approach of the beast, tremble violently, paw the ground, recoil, neigh, and do not wish to die; and these most excite one’s pity. Sometimes a single bull kills five horses; sometimes in a corrida twenty are killed; all the picadores are drenched with blood; smoking entrails are scattered through the arena, and the bulls grow tired of slaughter.
The toreros also have their ugly moments. The picadores now and then, instead of falling under the horse, fall between the horse and the bull; then the bull plunges forward to kill them; the crowd gives a cry, but a brave capeador throws his capa over the bull’s eyes and at the risk of his own life saves that of his comrade. Often, instead of rushing at the muleta, the bull turns and rushes toward the espada, grazes him, attacks and follows him, and obliges him to throw away his weapon and save himself, pale and trembling, on the other side of the barrier. Sometimes he strikes him with his head and throws him down; the espada disappears in a cloud of dust; the crowd cries, “He is dead!” but the bull passes, the espada is saved. Sometimes the bull rushes unexpectedly, raises him with his head, and tosses him to one side. Not infrequently the bull does not allow him to take aim with the sword; the matador does not succeed in striking in the breast, and, as he is compelled by the laws to strike in a given place, and in that place only, he makes futile attempts for a long time, grows confused, and runs a thousand chances of losing his life; meanwhile, the crowd howls, hisses, and insults him, until finally the poor man in desperation resolves to kill or to be killed, and strikes at random; and he either succeeds and is lauded to the skies, or fails and is despised, derided, and pelted with orange-peels, even though he may be the most intrepid, bravest, and renowned torero in Spain.
In the crowd, too, a thousand incidents occur during the spectacle. Suddenly two spectators fall to fighting. The people are so closely packed that some one of the neighbors receives a blow from a cane; then they seize their canes and join the fray. The circle of the combatants grows wider; the row extends through entire compartments in the gallery; in a few moments there are hats flying through the air, torn cravats, bloody faces, a din which rises to heaven; all the spectators are on their feet; the guards run about; the toreros cease to be actors and become spectators. At other times a group of lively young fellows turn in one direction and shout all together, “There he is!” “Who?” No one, but meanwhile the persons next to them get up, and those at a distance stand on the seats; the ladies lean from the boxes, and in a moment the whole circus is topsy-turvy. Then the group of young men give a loud laugh; their neighbors, so as not to appear ridiculous, do the same; the laugh spreads to the boxes and through the galleries till ten thousand people are laughing. At other times it is a foreigner, seeing his first bull-fight, who faints; the news spreads in a trice; they all get up, stare, shout, and make a pandemonium that baffles description. Again, it is a good-humored man who hails his friend away on the other side of the theatre in a voice which sounds like a clap of thunder. That great crowd is stirred in a few moments with a thousand contrary emotions, passes with incessant change from terror to enthusiasm, from enthusiasm to pity, from pity to anger, from anger to delight, admiration, and unbridled enjoyment.
The final impression which this spectacle makes upon the mind is indescribable: it is a mingling of sensations, among which it is impossible to recollect anything clearly or to know one’s thoughts. At one moment you turn in horror to flee from the circus, and swear you will never come back; a moment later, astonished, enraptured, and almost intoxicated, you hope the spectacle will never end; now you are almost sickened; now you, too, like your neighbors, shout, laugh, and applaud; the blood makes you shudder, but the marvellous courage of the men exalts you; the danger clutches at your heart, but you are reassured by the victory; little by little the fever which works in the crowd steals into your veins; you do not know yourself, you are another person; you too are stirred by anger, ferocity, and enthusiasm; you feel bold and valiant; the struggle fires your blood; the gleaming of the sword enrages you; and then the thousands of faces, the clamor, the music, the bellowing, the blood, the profound silences and tumultuous bursts of applause, the vastness, the light, the colors, the indescribable grandeur, courage, cruelty, and magnificence, dazzle, amaze, and bewilder you.
It is a fine sight to see the people go out; there are ten torrents which pour from ten gates and flood in a few moments the suburb of Salamanca, the Prado, the avenues of the Recoletos, and the street Alcalá; a thousand carriages wait at the exits of the circus; for an hour, wherever one turns, one sees only a swarm of human ants as far as the eye can reach; and all is silent: their passions have exhausted them all; one hears only the roar of passing feet; it seems as if the crowd wishes to steal away secretly; a sort of sadness succeeds their clamorous joy. I, for my part, as I came from the circus for the first time, had scarcely strength to stand on my feet; my head was spinning like a top; my ears buzzed, and everywhere I saw the horns of bulls, eyes swimming in blood, dead horses, and flashing swords. I took the shortest way home, and as soon as I arrived there tumbled into bed and fell into a heavy sleep.
On the following morning the landlady came in great haste to ask me, “Well, how did it strike you? Did it amuse you? Are you going again? What do you say?”
“I do not know,” I replied; “it seems like a dream. I will tell you later; I must think it over.”
Saturday came, the day before the second bull-fight. “Are you going?” asked the landlady. “No,” I replied, thinking of something else. I went out, turned into the street Alcalá, and found myself accidentally in front of the shop where tickets are sold; there was a crowd of people. “Shall I go?” I asked myself. “Yes or no?”
“Do you want a ticket?” a boy demanded: “a shady seat, No. 6, near the barrier—fifteen reales?” “Done!” I replied.
But to clearly comprehend the nature of this spectacle it is necessary to know its history. No one knows certainly when the first bull-fight took place: the tradition tells that the Cid Campeador was the first cavalier to descend with his spear into the arena and on horseback kill the terrible animal. Later, the young nobles devoted themselves with great ardor to this sport; bull-fights were held at all the solemn feasts, and only to the nobility was granted the honor of taking part in them; even the kings entered the arena. All through the Middle Ages this was the favorite spectacle of the court—the chosen exercise of warriors, not only among the Spaniards, but among the Moors as well; and they both waged war in the circus as well as on the battlefield. Isabella the Catholic wished to prohibit the bull-fights, because she had been horrified on once seeing them, but the numerous and powerful patrons of the spectacle dissuaded her from putting her purpose into effect. After Isabella the circus received great encouragement. Charles V. with his own hand killed a bull in the great square of Valladolid; Ferdinand Pizarro, the celebrated conqueror of Peru, was a valiant torero; King Sebastian of Portugal won many laurels in the arena; Philip III. adorned the circus of Madrid; Philip IV. fought in it; Charles II. fostered the art; in the reign of Philip V. a number of circuses were built by order of the government, but the honor of fighting belonged exclusively to the nobility; they fought only on horseback, splendidly mounted, and yet the only blood shed was that of the bull.
It was not until the middle of the last century that the art became popular, and toreros, properly called artists of the profession, who fought on foot and on horseback, came into existence. The famous Francisco Romero Deronda perfected the art of fighting on foot, introduced the custom of killing the bull face to face with the sword and muleta, and established the practice. Thereupon the spectacle became national and the people welcomed it with enthusiasm. Charles III. forbade it, but his prohibition only served to increase the popular enthusiasm into a complete epidemic, as a Spanish chronicler puts it. King Ferdinand VII., who was passionately fond of bulls, instituted a school of bull-fighting at Seville. Isabella II. was more enthusiastic than Ferdinand VII.; Amadeus I., it is said, was not a whit behind Isabella II. And now bull-fighting flourishes more than ever before in Spain; there are more than a hundred great proprietors who raise bulls for the spectacles; Madrid, Seville, Barcelona, Cadiz, Valencia, Jerez, and Puerto de Santa Maria have circuses of the first order; there are no less than fifty small circuses, with a capacity of from three to nine thousand spectators; in all the villages where there is no circus they hold the corridas in the square. At Madrid they are held every Sunday, and in the other cities whenever it is possible, and they are always attended by a vast concourse of people from the neighboring cities, villages, countryside, mountains, islands, and even from foreign countries.
If is true that all the Spaniards are not mad over this spectacle; many never attend; not a few disapprove, condemn, and would be glad to see it driven out of Spain; some journalists now and then raise a cry of protest; a deputy the day after a torero is killed talks of petitioning the government; but its enemies are all timid and feeble.
On the other hand, apologies are written in defence of the bull-fights, new circuses are built, old ones are renewed, and the foreigners who cry out against Spanish barbarity are laughed to scorn.
The corridas held in the summer are not the only ones, nor is the spectacle always equally good. In the circus there is an exhibition every Sunday through the winter, but there are not those noble and fiery bulls of the summer season, neither are there the great artists whom Spain admires; there are bulls of smaller size and less courage, and toreros not yet proficient in the art; but there is a spectacle, at all events, and, although the king does not attend or the flower of the citizens as in the summer-time, the circus is always well filled. Little blood is shed, only two bulls are killed, and the spectacle concludes with fireworks; it is an amusement fit for servants and children, as the passionate lovers of the art say in deprecation.
But there is one episode in the winter spectacles which is especially amusing. When the toreros have killed the toros de muerte, the arena is placed at the disposal of the dilettanti; from every part the people jump down, and in a moment there are a hundred workmen, scholars, and street arabs, some with cloaks in their hands, others with shawls, others with any sort of a rag, who crowd to right and left of the toril ready to receive the bull. The door opens; a bull with swathed horns rushes into the arena, and there follows an indescribable tumult; the crowd surrounds, follows, and drags the bull here and there, hitting him with their mantles and shawls, plaguing and tormenting him in a thousand ways, until the poor animal, entirely exhausted, is driven from the arena and another takes his place. It is incredible with what audacity those boys dart under him, twist his tail, and jump on his back; incredible too is the agility with which they dodge the blows. Sometimes the bull with a sudden turn strikes some one, knocks him down, tosses him in the air, or lifts him high on his horns; again he upsets at one blow a half dozen, and bull and men disappear in a cloud of dust, while the spectator fears for an instant that some one has been killed. Nothing of the kind! The intrepid capeadores jump up with bruised limbs and dusty faces, shrug their shoulders, and face him again. But this is by no means the best episode of the winter spectacles. Sometimes the bulls are confronted by toreras instead of toreros: these are women dressed like tightrope-walkers, with faces before which not the angels, but even Lucifer, would
“Make with his wings a cover for his eyes.”
The picadoras ride on mules; the espada—the one I saw was an old woman of sixty, Martina by name, an Asturian, known in all the circuses in Spain,—the espada fights on foot with the rapier, and the muleta like the most intrepid matador of the stronger sex. The entire cuadrilla is accompanied by a train of chulos with great wings and humps on their backs. These unfortunate women risk their lives for forty francs! A bull on the day when I witnessed the spectacle broke the arm of one banderillera and tore the petticoat of another, so that she was left in the middle of the circus with scarcely enough clothes on her back to cover her nakedness.
After the women, the wild beasts. At various times they made the bull fight with lions and with tigers; it is only a few years since one of these combats was held in the circus of Madrid. It was that celebrated event which the count-duke de Olivares commanded in honor of the birthday, if my memory does not fail me, of Don Baltasar Carlos of Asturia, prince of the Asturias. The bull fought with a lion, a tiger, and a leopard, and succeeded in conquering them all. Also in a combat a few years ago the tiger and the lion got the worst of it; they both jumped impetuously upon the back of the bull, but before they were able to fasten their teeth in his neck they fell to the ground in a pool of blood, pierced by the terrible horns. Only the elephant—a huge elephant which still lives in the gardens of Buen Retiro—carried the day; the bull attacked him, and he simply placed his head on the bull’s back and pressed, and the pressure was so delicate that his reckless assailant was crushed as flat as a pancake.
But it is not easy to imagine what skill, what courage, and what imperturbable tranquillity of mind must be possessed by a man who with his sword faces an animal that kills lions, attacks elephants, and tears in pieces, crushes, and covers with blood everything that he touches. And there are men who face them every day.
The toreros are by no means artists, as one would suppose, to be placed in the same category with mountebanks and those for whom the people feel no other sentiment than that of admiration. The torero is respected even outside of the circus; he enjoys the protection of the young aristocrats, has his box in the theatre, frequents the best cafés in Madrid, and is saluted in the street with a low bow by persons of refinement. Famous espadas like Frascuelo, Lagartijo, and Cayetano receive the nice little sum of about ten thousand francs a year; they own houses and villas, live in sumptuous apartments, dress with elegance, spend heaps of money on their costumes embroidered with gold and silver, travel like nabobs, and smoke Havana cigars. Their dress out of the circus is very curious: an Orsini hat of black velvet; a jacket fitting closely around the waist, unbuttoned and reaching barely to the trousers; a waistcoat opened almost to the waist, which allows a white shirt of very fine texture to be seen; no cravat; a sash of red or blue silk about the loins; a pair of breeches fitting the limb like the tights of a ballet-dancer; a pair of low shoes, of morocco leather, ornamented with embroidery; a little periwig falling down the back; and then gold studs, chains, diamonds, rings, and trinkets; in short, an entire jewelry-shop on their persons. Many keep their saddle-horse and some their carriages, and when they are not killing bulls they are always walking in the Prado, at the Puerto del Sol, or in the gardens of Recoletos with their wives and their sweethearts, splendidly dressed and proudly affectionate. Their names, their faces, and their deeds are even better known to the people than the deeds, faces, and names of their commanders and statesman. Toreros in comedies, toreros in song, toreros in pictures, toreros in the windows of the
print-shops, statues of toreros, fans painted with toreros, handkerchiefs with figures of toreros,—these one sees again and again, on every occasion and in every place.
The business of the torero is the most lucrative and the most honorable to which a courageous son of the people may aspire: very many, in fact, devote themselves to it, but very few become proficient; most of them remain mediocre capeadores, a few become banderilleros of note, still fewer famous picadores; only the few chosen ones of nature and fortune become brave espadas: it is necessary to come into the world with that bump developed; one is born an espada as one is born a poet. Those killed by the bulls are very few, and one may count them on one’s fingers for a long period of time; but the crippled, the maimed, those who are rendered unfit for the combat, are innumerable. One sees them in the city with canes and crutches, some without an arm, others without a leg. The famous Tato, the first of the toreros of modern time, lost a leg; in the few months which I spent in Spain a banderillero was half killed at Seville, a picador was seriously wounded at Madrid, Lagartijo was injured, and three amateur capeadores were killed at a village. There is scarcely a torero who has not bled in the arena.
Before leaving Madrid I wished to talk to the celebrated Frascuelo, the prince of espadas, the idol of the people of Madrid, the glory of the art. A Genoese captain who knew him took it upon himself to present me: we fixed the day and met at the Imperial Café at the Puerta del Sol. It makes me laugh when I think of my emotions on seeing him in the distance and watching him come toward us. He was very richly dressed, loaded with jewelry, and resplendent as a general in full uniform; as he crossed the café a thousand heads were turned and a thousand eyes fixed upon him, my companion, and myself: I felt myself growing pale. “This is Signor Salvador Sanchez,” said the captain (Frascuelo is a surname). And then, presenting me to Frascuelo, “This is Signor So-and-So, his admirer.” The illustrious matador bowed, I bowed more profoundly; we sat down and commenced to talk. What a strange man! To hear him talk one would say that he had not the heart to stick a fly with a pin. He was a young man, about twenty-five years old, of medium stature, quick, dark, and handsome, with a firm glance and the smile of an absent-minded man. I asked him a thousand questions about his art and his life; he answered in monosyllables; I was obliged to draw the words from his mouth, one by one, by a storm of questions. He replied to my compliments by looking modestly at the tips of his shoes. I asked him if he had ever been wounded; he touched his knee, thigh, shoulder, and breast, and said, “Here, and here, and here, and here too,” with the simplicity of a child. He obligingly wrote out the address of his house for me, asked me to come and see him, gave me a cigar, and went away. Three days later, at the bull-fight, I had a seat near the barrier, and as he paused near me to gather up the cigars which the spectators threw him, I tossed him one of those Milan cigars which are covered with straw; he picked it up, examined it, smiled, and tried to discover who had thrown it: I made a sign, he saw me and exclaimed, “Ah! the Italian!” I seem to see him yet; he was dressed in gray embroidered with gold, and one hand was stained with blood.
But, in conclusion, a final judgment on the bull-fights! Are they or are they not a barbarous sport, unworthy of a civilized people? Are they or are they not a spectacle which corrupts the heart? Now for a frank opinion! A frank opinion? I do not wish to answer in one way and to draw upon myself a flood of invective, nor to answer otherwise and put my foot in a trap, so I must confess that I went to the circus every Sunday. I have told about it and described it: the reader knows as much as I do; let him judge for himself and allow me to keep my own counsel.
I saw at Madrid the famous funereal ceremony which is celebrated every year on the second of May in honor of the Spaniards who died in battle or were killed by the French soldiery eighty-seven years ago, on that terrible day which filled Europe with horror and led to the outbreak of the War of Independence.
At dawn there was a booming of cannon, and in all the parish churches of Madrid and before an altar erected near the monument they began to celebrate mass, and continued to do so until nightfall. The ceremony consists of a solemn procession, which usually forms in the vicinity of the royal palace, proceeds to the church of Saint Isadore, where until 1840 were interred the bones of the dead, to listen to a sermon, and then to march on to the monument to hear mass.
In all the streets where the procession is to pass there are drawn up the volunteer battalions, the regiments of infantry, squadrons of cuirassiers, the civil foot-guard, the artillery, and cadets; everywhere bugles and drums are sounding and bands are playing; one sees in the distance, over the heads of the crowd, a continual passing of the hats of generals, the tossing plumes of adjutants, banners, and swords; all the streets are full of the carriages of members of the Senate and the Cortes, as large as triumphal chariots, gilded even to the wheels, upholstered in velvet and silk, adorned with fringes and tassels, and drawn by superbly plumed horses. The windows of all the houses are ornamented with tapestry and flowers; the whole populace of Madrid is astir.
I saw the procession pass through the street Alcalá. First came the huntsmen of the city militia; then the boys from all the schools, refuges, and hospitals of Madrid—thousands of them, two by two; then the wounded veterans of the army, some on crutches, some with bandaged heads, some supported by their companions, some so feeble that they had to be almost carried—soldiers and generals in their old uniforms, with their breasts covered with medals and lace, with long swords and plumed hats; then a crowd of the officers of the various corps, shining with gold and silver and dressed in a thousand colors; then the high officers of state, the provincial deputies, the members of Congress, the senators; then the heralds of the municipality and the chambers, with flowing robes of velvet and maces of silver; then all the municipal clerks and all the judges of Madrid, dressed in black with medallions at their throats; finally, the king in a general’s uniform, on foot, accompanied by the mayor, the captain-general of the province, the generals, ministers, deputies, officers of ordnance, and aides-de-camp, all with bared heads. The procession was ended by a hundred mounted guards, resplendent as the warriors of the Middle Ages; the royal guard on foot with great shakos, after the fashion of the Napoleonic guard; red swallow-tail coats, white breeches, wide shoulder-belts crossed over the breast, black gaiters to the knee, swords, epaulets, cordons, buckles, and ornaments; then the volunteers, soldiers, infantry, artillery; and the people. They all marched with slow step; all the bands played, the bells tolled; the people were silent, and altogether, the children of the poor, the priests, magistrates, wounded veterans, and the grandees of Spain, presented an appearance of dignity and magnificence which inspired at the time a feeling of sympathy and reverence.
The procession turned into the Prado and proceeded toward the monument. The avenues, the lawns, and the gardens were full of people. Ladies were standing in their carriages, on chairs, and on the stone seats, holding their children in their arms; there were people in the trees and on the roofs; at every step there were banners, funeral inscriptions, lists of the victims of the second of May; poems pinned to the trunks of trees, newspapers with borders of black, prints representing episodes of the massacre, wreaths, crucifixes, little tables with urns for alms, lighted candles, pictures, statuettes, and toys for children, with a model of the monument—everywhere memorials of 1808, emblems and signs of sorrow, festivity, and war. The men were almost all dressed in black; the women in gay holiday attire, with long funeral trains and veils; there were groups of peasants from all the surrounding villages dressed in lively colors, and through all the crowd one heard the discordant cries of water-carriers, guards, and officers.
The monument of the second of May, which stands at that point where the greater number of Spaniards were shot, though it does not possess an artistic value equal to its fame, is—to use a much-abused though significant word—imposing. It is simple and bold, and to many appears heavy and ungraceful; but it arrests one’s glance and one’s thought, even if one does not know what it is; for on first seeing it one perceives that some event of importance must have transpired in that place. Above an octagonal base of four steps rises a great square sarcophagus adorned with inscriptions and arms and a bas-relief representing the two Spanish officers who were killed on the second of May in the defence of the Artillery Park. On the sarcophagus rises a pedestal in the Doric style, on which stand four statues, symbolic of Patriotism, Bravery, Constancy, and Virtue. In the midst of the statues rises a high obelisk which bears in characters of gold the words, Dos de Mayo. Around the monument there extends a circular garden intersected by eight avenues which converge toward a common centre; all of the avenues are shaded by rows of cypresses, and the garden is enclosed by an iron railing, which in its turn is encircled by marble steps. This grove of cypresses, this solitary enclosed garden in the midst of the gayest promenade of Madrid, is like a vision of death mingling with the joys of life; one cannot pass without turning to look at it, and one cannot look at it without thinking: at night, as it lies in the moonlight, it seems like a fantastic apparition and breathes an air of solemn mystery.
The king arrived, mass was celebrated, all the regiments marched past, and the ceremony was ended. So to the present time they celebrate the anniversary of the second of May, 1808, with a dignity, an affection, and a veneration which do honor not alone to the Spanish people, but to the human heart. It is the true national festival of Spain, the only day in the year when party strife sleeps and all hearts are united in a common sentiment. And in this sentiment, as one can readily believe, there is no bitterness against France. Spain has thrown all the blame of the war and the massacres which it occasioned upon Napoleon and Murat; the French are welcomed amicably, like all other foreigners; the ill-fated days of May are mentioned only to celebrate the honor of the dead and of their country; everything in this ceremony is noble and grand, and before that sacred monument Spain has only words of pardon and peace.
Another thing to be seen at Madrid is the cock-fighting.
I read one day in the Correspondencia the following notice: “En la funcion que se celebrarà mañana en el circo de Gallos de Recoletos, hubrà, entre otras dos peleas, en las que figurarán gallos de los conocidos aficionados Francisco Calderón y Don Josè Diez, por lo que se espera serà muy animada la diversion.”
The spectacle commenced at noon: I was there. I was impressed by the originality and grace of the theatre. It looks like a mosque standing on a little hill in a garden, but yet is large enough to hold at least a thousand persons. In form it is a perfect cylinder. In the middle rises a sort of a circular stage about three hands high, covered with green carpet and surrounded by a railing about as high as the platform; this is the battle-ground of the cocks. Between the iron uprights of the railing is stretched a very fine wire netting which keeps the combatants from making their escape. Around this cage, which is about as large as a dining-table, runs a circle of arm-chairs, and behind them a second higher circle, and both of them are upholstered in red cloth. Several of the chairs on the first row bear inscriptions written in big letters, Presidente, Secretario, and other titles of the persons who compose the tribunal of the spectacle. Beyond the arm-chairs rise tiers of benches running back to the walls, and above them extends a gallery supported by ten slender columns. The light comes from above. The lively red of the arm-chairs, the flowers painted on the walls, the columns, the light, and, in a word, the atmosphere of the theatre, have about them something novel and picturesque which pleases and exhilarates. At first sight it seems like a place where one ought to listen to joyous and refined music rather than witness a fight between animals.
When I entered there were already a hundred persons present. “What sort of people are these?” I asked myself, and truly the frequenters of the cock-fights do not resemble those of any other theatre: it is a mixture sui generis, such as one sees only in Madrid. There are no women, no boys, no soldiers, and no working-men, for it is a work-day and at an inconvenient hour. But, nevertheless, one sees here a greater variety of feature, dress, and attitude than at any other popular gathering. The spectators are all persons who have nothing to do the livelong day—comedians with long hair and others with bald heads; toreros—Calderón, the famous picador, was there—with red sashes around their waists; students bearing on their faces the trace of nights spent at the gaming-table; dealers in cocks; young dandies; old amateur fanciers dressed in black with black gloves and cravats. These sit around the cage. Behind them are the rari nantes, some Englishmen, some blockheads, of the class one sees everywhere; the servants of the circus, a courtesan, and a policeman. With the exception of the foreigners and the guard, the others—gentlemen, toreros, dealers, and actors—all know each other, and talk among themselves, in one voice, of the quality of the cocks announced in the programme, of the exhibition, the bets made the previous day, the chances of the struggle, the talons, feathers, spurs, wings, beaks, and wounds, displaying the very rich terminology of the sport and citing rules, examples, the cocks of former days, fights, and famous winnings and losses.
The spectacle began at the appointed hour. A man presented himself in the middle of the circus with a paper in his hand and commenced to read; they all became silent. He read a series of figures which indicated the weight of the different pairs of cocks that were to fight, because, pair by pair, the one cock must not weigh more than the other, in accordance with the rules laid down for cock-fighting. The conversation began again, and then was suddenly hushed. Another man came in with two small cages under his arm, opened a gate in the railing, stepped up on the platform, and fastened the cages to the arms of a pair of balances suspended from the ceiling. Two witnesses assured themselves that the weights on the two ends were almost equal; everybody sat down; the president took his position; the secretary cried Silencio! the weigher and another attendant each took one of the cages, and, going to opposite doors in the railing, opened them simultaneously. The cocks stepped out, the gates were closed, and for some moments the spectators observed a profound silence.
They were two Andalusian cocks of English breed, to repeat a curious definition given me by one of the spectators. They were tall, thin, and straight as arrows, with long necks, very flexible and totally bare of feathers along the back and from the breast up; they were without crests, and had small heads and eyes which betokened their warlike nature. The spectators looked at them closely without saying a word. The fanciers in a few moments judge by the color, the form, and the movements of the two animals which will probably be the victor; then they offer their bets. It is a very uncertain judgment, as any one may understand, but it is the uncertainty which gives zest to the sport. Suddenly the silence is broken by an outburst of cries: “A crown on the right one!”—“A crown on the left!”—“Done!”—“Three crowns on the black!”—“Four crowns on the gray!”—“Eighty francs on the small one!”—“Done!”—“I take the bet on the gray!”
They all shout and wave their hands, and signal to each other with their canes; the bets cross in every direction, and in a few moments there are a thousand francs at stake.
The two cocks do not look at each other at first. One turns in one direction, the other looks the opposite way; they crow, and crane their necks toward the spectators, as if they are asking, “What do you want?” Little by little, without making any sign of having seen each other, they approach; it seems as though one is trying to take the other by surprise; suddenly, as quick as a flash, they spring at each other with open wings, strike in the air, and separate in a cloud of feathers. After the first encounter they stop and plant themselves one before the other, with their heads and beaks almost touching, motionless, and looking fixedly, as though they wish to poison each other with their eyes. Then they dash together again with great violence, and after that the attacks follow without interruption.
They strike with their talons, spurs, and beaks; clasp each other with their wings, so that they look like one cock with two heads; they dodge under each other, strike against the wires of the cage, chase each other, fall, slip, and fly. Soon the blows fall faster; feathers fly from their heads; their necks turn as red as fire and they begin to bleed. Then they fall to pecking each other on the head, around and in the eyes; they tear the flesh with the fury of two maniacs afraid of being separated; they seem to know that one of them must die; they utter not a sound or a groan; one hears only the beating of their wings, the sound of breaking feathers and of beaks striking the bones; there is not a moment’s respite; it is a fury which leads only to death.
The spectators watch all their motions intently, count the fallen feathers, and number the wounds, and the shouting becomes all the time more excited and the wagers heavier: “Five crowns on the little one!”—“Eight crowns on the gray!”—“Twenty crowns on the black!”—“Done”—“Done!”
At a certain point one of the cocks makes a motion that betrays his inferior strength and begins to show signs of weakening. While he still resists his pecks become slower, the strokes of his spurs feebler, and his springs lower. He seems to know that he must die. He fights no longer to kill, but to keep from being killed, retreats, flees, falls, raises himself, returns to fall again, reels as though seized with vertigo. Then the spectacle begins to grow horrible. Before the failing enemy the victor grows fiercer; his pecks fall fast and furious, striking the eyes of his victim with the regularity of the needle of a sewing-machine; his neck flies back and forth with the strength of a spring; his beak seizes the flesh, twists and tears it, then darts into the wound as if seeking for the most secret fibre; then he pecks the head again and again as though he wishes to crack the skull and tear out the brain. There are no words to express the horror of that pecking, continuous, insatiable, inexorable. The victim defends himself, flees, and runs around the cage, and after him, beside him, hovering over him like a shadow, with his head stretched over that of the fugitive, follows the victor like a confessor, always pecking, piercing, and tearing. He has about him the air of a jailer and executioner; he seems to be whispering in the ear of his victim and to accompany every blow with an insult: “There! take that! suffer! die! No! live; take this blow and this, and still another!” A little of the cock’s sanguinary fury is instilled into your veins; that cowardly cruelty inspires a longing for revenge; one would strangle the creature with one’s hands and crush its head with one’s feet. The conquered cock, all bedraggled with blood, featherless, and tottering, still tries now and then to return the attack, gives a few pecks, turns to flee, and dashes against the irons of the railing to find a way of escape.
The bettors become more excited and shout even louder than before. They can no longer bet on the struggle, and so begin to bet on the agony: “Five crowns that it does not make three attacks!”—“Ten crowns that it does not make five!”—“Four crowns that it does not make two!”—“Done!”—“Done!”
At this point I heard a remark which made me shudder: “Es ciego!” (“It is blind.”)
I approached the netting, looked at the conquered cock, and averted my face in horror. It had no skin, it had no eyes; its neck was only a bloody bone, its head a skull; its wings, reduced to three or four feathers, hung down like two rags; it seemed impossible that wounded as it was it could still live and walk; it no longer had any form.
Nevertheless, that remnant, that monster, that skeleton dripping with blood, still defended itself and fought on in the dark, raising its broken wings like two stumps, stretching out its fleshless neck, shaking its skull at random, here and there, like a new-born puppy.
It was so disgusting and horrible that I closed my eyes to blur the sight. And the executioner continued to peck at the wounds, to pierce its eyeballs and beat its naked skull; it was no longer a fight; it was torture; it seemed as though the cock wished to torment without killing; sometimes, when its victim remained still for a moment, it bent over and examined it with the scrutiny of an anatomist; sometimes it stepped off and looked down at it with the indifference of a grave-digger; then, again, it would leap upon it with the greed of a vampire, peck, suck, and tear it as vigorously as at first. Finally, the dying fowl stopped suddenly, bent its head to the ground as though overcome by sleep, and its executioner looked at it attentively and desisted.
Then the shouting was redoubled; it was no longer possible to bet on the convulsions of its agony, so they bet on the symptoms of death: “Five crowns that it will never raise its head!”—“Three crowns that it raises it twice!”—“Done!”—“Done!”
The dying cock slowly raised its head; the ready executioner leaped upon it with a storm of blows; the shouting burst out again; the victim made another slight movement, received another pecking, shook itself; received another blow; blood rushed from its mouth; it tottered and fell. The victor, coward that he was, began to crow. An attendant came and carried them both away.
All the spectators jumped to their feet and a clamorous conversation followed; the winners laughed loud and long, the losers swore, and one and all discussed the merits of the cocks and the chances of the struggle: “A good fight!”—“Good cocks!”—“Poor cocks!”—“They were no good!”—“You don’t understand it, sir!”—“Good!”—“Bad!”
“Be seated, caballeros!” cried the president; they all sat down, and another fight started.
I glanced toward the battlefield and went out. Some may not believe it, but that spectacle seemed to me more horrible than my first bull-fight. I had no idea of such ferocious cruelty; I did not believe until I saw it that one animal, after rendering another powerless, would be able to abuse, torment, and torture it in that manner with the fury of hate and the luxury of revenge; I had not believed that the rage of a beast could reach the point of presenting the character of the most extravagant human vice. Even now—and it is a long time since—whenever I remember that spectacle I involuntarily turn my head to one side as if to avoid the horrible sight of that dying cock, and I never chance to place my hand on a railing without casting down my eyes with the expectation of seeing the ground sprinkled with feathers and blood. If you go to Spain, take my advice, gentlefolk, and be content with the bulls.