CHAPTER XIV
The Bull-Fight
We arrived at the amphitheater a little before four o’clock and found everything cheerful and lively as befitted the occasion. Men and boys came in rapidly, took their seats, lighted cigarets and began to call out and joke with one another in a manner characteristic of the Spanish bull-fight audience.
The arena was a square space located against the side wall of a brick house and enclosed on the other three sides by board fences about six feet high. Opposite the brick wall and commanding a good view of it, a platform had been built for the common multitude. On another side of the square was a similar platform containing boxes for the alcalde (mayor) and aristocratic few, including ladies. On the fourth side a skeleton fence had been constructed apparently for the benefit of children who could see but could not pay; in our thrifty country the wall would have been built so as to prevent the children seeing through it. The doctor and I occupied chairs among the common multitude and had the best location, for it commanded a view of the boxes and of the two doors of the bull pen beneath. On each of the four sides of the arena, and about eighteen inches from the fence or wall, was built a strong wooden screen wide enough to conceal four men standing side by side. Thus wherever the fighters might be they were always near a place of safety.
Plaza de Toros.
Feliz Año Nuevo.
GRAN CORRIDA PARA EL DOMINGO, ENERO 1º DE 1905.
Con permiso de la autoridad y si el tiempo lo permite se lidiarán, en el
PATIO DEL CLUB INTERNACIONAL,
cinco bravos toros de la afainada ganadería
“La Jagua” de propiedad del señor Francisco A. Mata, de los cuales serán
DOS DE MUERTE POR EL ESPADA “CHALECO”
La corrida será presidida por el señor Alcalde del Distrito.
GREAT BULL FIGHT
NEW YEARS DAY
The famous Spanish Bull fighter and Matador “CHALECO” will kill two Bull on Sunday at 4 p. m.
Entrance to Bull Ring below the “International Club.”
Reserved. Seats for sale on Saturday at the Walk-Over Shoe Store [American Bazaar].
CUADRILLA.
Director y Primer Espada—Sebastián Rivera (a) Chaleco.
Sobresaliente de Espada con obligaciones de
Banderillera, Pedro Ramierez (a) Rajalala.
BANDERILLEROS.
JOSE JIMENEZ (a) Cara-Ancha.—PEDRO RAMIREZ (a) Hojalata.
RAFAEL LOPEZ (a) Mestizo.—ISMAEL MENDOZA (a) El Pollo.
NOMBRE DE LOS TOROS:
1º EL FANTASMA DE LA ESQUINA.
2º EL ANARQUISTA.
3º EL NOVILERO.
4º EL BISTURI.
5º EL RELAMPAGO.
PRECIOS DE ENTRADAS
Palco con 4 entradas $ 10,00. Sillas de preferencia $ 2,00.
Gradas ,, 1,50. Entrada general ,, 80.
Las entradas se venderán desde el Sábado hasta el Domingo á las 12 m. en el lujoso y afamado Almacéa “Bazar Americano” y de las 12 hasta las 4 p. m. en la Boletaría de la Plaza.
NOTA—La Banda de música tocará las piezas más escogidas de su repertorio moderno. La corrida empezará á las 4 p. m. No se admitirá dinero en las puertas ni arrojar al redon del objetos que impidan la lidia.
LA EMPRESA.
SIR DE TORRE E MITOS PANAMA.
The alcalde appeared promptly at four o’clock, and the National band played the National hymn. While the music was playing and the audience cheering, a gate opened and the gaudily dressed matador with his five butterfly banderilleros ran in and bowed before the alcalde. They wore short scarlet cloaks, skintight, emerald knee-breeches and whitish stockings. The alcalde, who was dressed like a real man, was master of ceremonies to give the sign to begin, to give the sign to kill, and to give the sign to stop. The matador, or killer, threw his show cloak up to the box of the alcalde and the banderilleros, or dart-stickers, threw their show cloaks up over the railing at other places to be cared for by admiring spectators, for they used old cloaks to fight with. There were no picadores or mounted lancers.
The music ceased, the alcalde nodded, the bugle-call sounded, the matador pirouetted and smiled, and the green and glittering banderilleros lined up beside the doors of the bull pen. One of the doors was thrown open and the audience waited in suspense. Suddenly out ran a well-formed animal into the light and looked around and blinked in astonishment. His name was “El Fantasma de la Esquina” (The Phantom of the Corner).
The five banderilleros began to flutter about in front of him and flaunt red cloaks at him. This he apparently resented, but did not seem to know which cloak to hook at. Finally he charged at one, and then at another, but paid no attention to the grass-colored banderilleros. Before long one of the latter stepped up and gracefully stuck two ornamental barbed darts into his shoulders. This made the audience cheer and caused “Fantasma de la Esquina” to run about and jump and kick like a calf until the darts fell off. He was then pursued and teased again. But his moral nature was superior to that of his pursuers, for when they spanked him on one side he jumped around and presented the other. He only tried to defend himself against the cloaks, the only things whose evil intentions he seemed to suspect.
“No sirve,” cried the crowd. (No good.)
And so thought the alcalde. The bull was unworthy of death. He didn’t know a red cloak from a green banderillero.
“To his pen, to his pen,” they cried. The alcalde nodded, and the amiable bull was driven back, and was a phantasm of the past.
Another bugle-call and another well-fed bull, “El Anarquista,” ventured out. As he emerged from the door a couple of the barbed darts with gay ribbons on them were stuck into his shoulders. Like the “Fantasma” he bounded and kicked and stuck up and crooked his tail until the darts fell off, at which he seemed greatly pleased, and quieted down for a rest. However, the red cloaks kept bothering him, so he made a short charge at one of them and then ran to one side out of their way. But the cloaks got after him like mosquitoes, so he charged another one and then trotted about aimlessly, as if reasoning that to keep running was the best way to keep from being stung. A couple of darts were again hooked into his shoulders, making him show his capers again until they were shaken off. “El Anarquista” was also sentenced to live and was shooed back to his pen. There was nothing in his name.
The third bull, “El Novillero,” the Greenhorn of the Arena, received a dart in his shoulders as he came out, and bounded to the center of the arena as if looking for trouble. He kicked at the sky and snorted at the ground and charged vigorously at the red cloaks, and sent banderilleros scurrying behind the screens and one of them over the back fence. He also charged one of the screens, producing an exhilarating, reverberating sound as his horns struck it, and winning the applause of the populace. This full charge upon the screen was by far the most exciting thing that had happened.
After receiving some more darts in his shoulders he charged again and ran straight after one of the banderilleros who, however, outran him and thus reached the screen and was safe. This is the first time any of the bulls had really gone after a man. He was the first one whose intelligence was anything like a match for that of his antagonists. But even this bull did not want to hurt any one. His attitude was, “Let me alone or I’ll hook you. Keep your distance or I’ll chase you.”
To me this fellow seemed, taking him for all in all, brave enough to die for the benefit of Panamaniac sport, but the alcalde thought not and the banderilleros tried to drive him back. But he would not go. He was afraid to turn his short tail toward them long enough to go through the door for fear they would stick a pin into him. So, after many futile efforts to drive him they let all of the other bulls into the arena, “El Fantasma,” “El Anarquista,” “El Bisturi” (Lancet) and “El Relampago” (Lightning). “El Novillero,” the cautious, got into the midst of them and they were all driven back into the pen as a herd. It was perfectly disenchanting.
Another bugle call for another bull. After some hesitation “El Bisturi” ran out and received two darts, but he jumped and kicked cow-fashion until he finally also shook them off. Either hides were tough that day or barbs were dull, for not a dart had remained sticking. Then the routine teasing began. He shook his horns at the cloaks and charged them once or twice; then ran away and was kept running all over the arena, frightened and confused at the number of cloaks waving at him from all sides. “El Bisturi” was the greatest runner of them all.
“No sirve, no sirve,” shouted the gods. “Dé nos nuestra plata.” (Give us our money.)
The alcalde smiled, gave the usual signal and “El Bisturi” was driven back to his fodder.
A fifth bugle-call and out came “El Relampago” (The Lightning). He kicked at the clouds, shook off the darts, charged the cloaks, then stopped and shook his horns at them, and after having had his little sport, stood still and wondered what it was all about anyway. They teased him, but he lost interest in the game, although by means of head shakes, bluffs and short charges he chased two men behind the screens.
One of the banderilleros wished to show off and tried to practice a trick of the trade. When the bull made a short charge at his cloak the trickster jerked up the cloak and whirled around so as to present his unprotected back to the horns of the bull. He should have waited until the bull had completed his charge at the cloak and he would have been safe, but he chose the time badly and “El Relampago ran into him. But, the cloak having disappeared, the bull raised his head and merely hit the fellow inadvertently on the shoulders with his nose, instead of the other place with his horns, and thus raised a laugh instead of lifting the man. “El Relampago” was a humorist and a bluffer; but there was no sting to his satire. He was apparently more afraid of injuring what he considered to be one of his masters, than the banderillero was of being hurt by him. He might, instead of stopping like a horse caught by the bridle, have lowered his powerful head again and given the fellow a boost to a warmer place than Panama.
“No sirve. Otro, otro,” cried the crowd. (No good. Another, another.)
But “El Relampago” was the last of the supply of gladiatorial beef, so the alcalde signaled to have it killed.
“Es un asesinado. No lo asesinar.” (It’s an assassination. Do not assassinate him), yelled the crowd. They wanted blood, but they wanted fighting blood, not slaughter-house gore.
But the smiling matador stood before the box of the alcalde with both hands raised to receive the official nod. The alcalde nodded, partly from drowsiness, whereupon the matador turned and danced off quickly, like a martinette, toward the door and received his sword.
The sword was a beautiful one, long and slender, and so bright that it was only visible in the restless hand of the bull-fighter by its flashing. He ran nimbly toward his victim, flourishing the weapon gracefully and ostentatiously, and began confusing the tired, ill-conditioned and unsuspecting bull by swinging a cloak before his eyes. The bull did not move, except slightly with his head as he was being hypnotized. Suddenly there was a flash, and the man stabbed the animal who had been so anxious not to injure him. The deed was done so quickly that Doctor Echeverría, whose sympathies were probably slowing down his mental action, did not see it done.
The bull stood still for a moment, then turned and ran to the center of the arena and, as it happened, faced the alcalde who had ordered his death, and was thus doing his best. He stopped still, lowered his head, began to breathe heavily and lolled out his tongue. He showed great distress and was evidently bleeding internally. He stood that way for a few moments, then walked to the corner near his pen and slowly lay down with his head drooping until his nose nearly touched the ground. He evidently did not understand how this trouble and suffering had come to him.
The matador in the meantime strutted proudly in front of the seats with hands up, smiling and bowing for compliments that were not showered upon him.
Two negro menials went behind the dying bull to put on the finishing touches. The bull lifted up his head and turned it toward them, but not with his former half-defiant, half-playful expression. It was an expression of half alarm and half entreaty, and said as plainly, and much more forcibly, than words could have done, “Why did you hurt me? Don’t come at me again. I’m sick. I did nothing to any of you.” And he lowered his head again, and laid it down on the ground, resigned to die, caring no longer what they did.
“Asesinado,” cried the crowd. (Assassinated.)
“Asesinado,” re-echoed in every breast.
“Dé nos nuestra plata, Señor Alcalde, dé nos nuestra plata.” (Give us our money.)
One of the menials got behind the prostrate bull’s head and began sticking a narrow dagger into the back of his neck, trying to find and sever the spinal cord. After three or four stabs the object was accomplished, for the bull’s body relaxed with sudden paralysis. Thereupon the negro cut the paralyzed animal’s throat wide open, and blood poured out as from a street hydrant. His limbs twitched a little and he relaxed in death—and no one seemed to enjoy it. It was much less satisfactory than a packing-house exhibition.
Then they brought in two little mules in traces, hooked a rope around the dead animal’s horns and tried to drag him out. The mules started and dragged him to the center of the arena, with his nose digging deep into the dirt so as to impede their progress. At the center the mules stopped and gave up the task, upon which two negroes got in front and pulled at their heads, while another negro whipped them vigorously from behind. They started up, took a few more steps forward and gave it up again.
“Whip the front mules,” cried one of the gods, referring to the negroes who were pulling the mules—and the gods laughed.
Finally, by pulling and pushing, the negroes succeeded in getting the dead bull out, one taking hold of the tail and bending it over its back to pull with.
Only one bull had been killed and our desire for gore was supposed to be incomplete. Our expectations were not realized. As no horses were to be gored we did not get much for our money, and had a right to see another bull killed as per program. In Spain a man rides a blindfolded horse in front of the bull and prods him in the forehead, until he disembowels the horse. So another animal was admitted, undoubtedly one of the first ones who had fought. He looked like “El Anarquista” and acted like him, for he could not be made to show fight—he had learned that there was nothing in it for him except a title that was not worth dying for. Hence he was ignominiously driven back, like a tame bossie cow.
Then they let in one whose bloody shoulders bore evidence of the previous encounter with darts and banderilleros. He charged a little, but only in self-defense. This was the third of those who had been introduced, “El Novillero,” the Greenhorn of the Arena, the only one who had shown any spirit. But that was out of him now and he was as unwilling to do any harm to his masters as the others had been.
The alcalde made a signal to stop the farce and the show collapsed. Some got up to go and some sat still; but no one paid any attention to the bull, who stood where he had been left and contemplated the moving crowd with wonder and uncertainty. However, he seemed quite contented to be a spectator.
The doctor and I sat silently in our seats, not being sufficiently excited either to say or do anything, when unexpectedly the most interesting part of the entertainment commenced. A boy nine or ten years old crept over the low fence and sneaked toward the screen in front of the brick wall near which the bull stood, and ran behind it. Then he stepped forth, held out his hand and when the bull looked at him jumped back. Immediately two other boys who were on the fence climbed down and sneaked behind the screen, and also tried to tease the bull, who now placed himself on the defensive. More boys jumped down into the arena and began to leap about near the screens and whistle and halloa at the astonished “Novillero.” As there were now too many little fellows in the enclosure to find room behind the screens, I began to fear for their safety. The noise and antics, however, of so many little devils seemed to confuse the dumb gladiator, and he merely remained on the defensive, making feints at those who ventured near him.
Bye and bye a boy about fifteen years of age procured one of the red cloaks, ran up to the bull and shook it in his face, while he himself stood at one side of it. The bull, who was not afraid of cloaks, made a sort of short bluff charge at it and as he passed the boy almost grazed him, for he was so near the brick wall that there was hardly space for sidestepping. The boy repeated the maneuver and so did the bull, who was becoming trained to the cloak charging exhibition and acquitted himself like a trained dog. This greatly amused the spectators who knew what a simple matter it was to let a bull charge at a cloak with closed eyes, for they always close their eyes just before striking the object of attack. This closing of the eyes is what gives the banderilleros the opportunity of performing apparently perilous antics right in the path of a bull, who also completes his charge when he strikes the cloak, particularly if he considers himself merely on the defensive, as most of them do.
There were now about forty little boys in the arena, and when the boy with the cloak got tired the whole crowd of children rushed toward the animal, who backed up against the wall and stood at bay with head down. Now for some broken bones, I thought.
Little by little the crowd grew bolder and came quite close to him. Giving plenty of warning, he made a short, slow charge at them and sent them scattering and hooting and yelling in all directions. A cow would have hooked them. After a couple of similar bluffs he started on a trot after them, stopped in the middle of the arena, then went back to the wall and again assumed a restful defensive attitude. He was a good bull to have about children. Evidently he did not wish to injure any one, and I think that but for the recollection of the severe treatment he had received from the banderilleros previously, he would have entered into the spirit of the game with the boys and would have enjoyed it. And yet this animal had been brought in to be pricked with barbed darts, teased with red cloaks, stabbed with a sword, to have his spine transfixed and his throat cut—rough treatment for an animal who refused to harm the children. We left the children playing with him.
Doctor Echeverría had not discussed the bull farce at the time, nor did he do so on the way back to the hotel, but while we were at dinner he suddenly said in his gentle, deliberate way:
“Do you know, doctor, there are some things we see in our lives that we can never forget, things that mark off periods in our lives? I feel that this bull-fight is one of those things.”
“You are right,” I said, trying to cheer him. “It was neither a bull-fight nor a bully fight, it was merely a fight between bulls and bullies.”
In the evening the regular Sunday open-air concert was given in the Parque de la Catedrál, in front of Hotel Centrál. We did not go out and promenade, for with the morning excursion to the sabanas to tire us, the funeral to depress us, the bull-fight to haunt us, and our failure to win at the lottery to shame us, we were content to retire early and listen to the music and mosquitoes through the bars.
I lay listening to the well-played music, sometimes loud and martial as for soldiers marching to battle, at other times rhythmic and sensuous as for dancing, or soft and sentimental as for love-making, until I fell asleep to dream. I dreamed of a place where there was no killing for sport, no premature dying from disease, no gambling with lottery tickets, no scale of unearned wages, no rivalry for luxury and no system of imposition upon the weak by the crafty. Such a world there is, but it is in the region of the spirit or in the land of dreams, not in Panama nor in Pan-America.
PART II
The Pan-American
Medical Congress
Part II