The principal commercial and fashionable street of Mexico City is that of Plateros, somewhat narrow and congested, but full of high-class shops. Thence it continues along Bucareli[29] and the broad Avenida de Juarez, which in turn is continued by the famous Paseo de la Reforma, a splendid drive and promenade of several miles in length, which terminates at the Castle of Chapultepec. This great road is planted throughout its length with trees and adorned with a profusion—almost too great—of statues, and along both sides are private houses of modern construction. These are less picturesque, but more comfortable, than the old Spanish-built dwellings before described, although at times somewhat bizarre in their façades, with a certain nouveau riche air, consequent upon the transition period of Mexican life of recent years. The beautiful monument and statue of Guatemoc is planted in this avenue, and is worthily deemed a successful embodiment of Aztec art sculptured by modern chisels. Upon Sunday morning—the fashionable time of serenata or promenade concert—the wealth and beauty of the capital foregather in carriages and upon foot and listen to the strains of the band. Here we may, from the seats of our victoria, observe the Mexican upper class at our—and their—ease. Hats off! A private carriage comes driving swiftly by; its coachman attired after the English fashion, and the whole equipage of similar character. In it is a well-dressed gentleman well past the middle age, with dark complexion and characteristic features. It is the citizen-President, the redoubtable General Diaz, and the universal salutations are evidence of his popularity. The air is balmy and the warmth of the sun pleasant. But at any moment these conditions may change, and a ruthless dust-storm, swept by the wind from the dry adobe plains surrounding the city, descend upon us, the fine dust covering our clothes and bidding us direct our coachman to turn his horses' heads towards our hotel. This, however, is not frequent, but when it does occur it brings a certain sense of disillusion akin to that felt by the British holiday-maker when he has gone down to an English seaside place to enjoy the balmy air and finds a bitter east wind blowing!
29 Named after the viceroy who caused its construction.
But the bull-fight—ha! the bull-fight—takes place this—Sunday—afternoon, for this is the Mexican Sunday sport: a kind of licence, possibly, after the numerous misas of the early morning! We have purchased our seat in the sombra of the great bull-ring, and the corrida is about to begin. Let us glance round the assembly of many thousands of persons. The seats of the great amphitheatre are divided into two classes—the sol and the sombra, "sun" and "shade." That is to say, that the seats in the shady portion—for the structure is open to the sky—are of one class, and command a high price of, say, ten pesos each, whilst the sun-beat portion is of an inferior class, and price, say, one peso. It is a sea of faces we gaze upon, the élite of the city in the sombra, and the lower classes, the peones and others, in the sol.
The arena is empty, but suddenly a bugle-call sounds from the judges' platform, and the picadores, men on horseback, with their legs protected by armour and bearing sharp-pointed lances in their hands, enter and ride around the arena, bowing to the judges and assembled multitude, who receive them with plaudits. Again a bugle-call, and the sliding doors leading from the corral are opened, and a bull, bounding forward therefrom, stops short a moment and eyes the assembled multitude and the men on horseback with wrathful yet inquiring eye. A moment only. Sniffing the air and lashing his tail, the noble bovine rushes forward and engages the picadores; the little pennants of the national colours, which, attached to a barbed point, have been jabbed into his back by an unseen hand as he passed the barrier, fluttering in the wind created by his rush. Furiously he charges the picadores. If they are clever they goad him to madness with their lances, keeping him at bay; if he is resolute down go horse and man—both results tickling the popular fancy immensely—and those frightful horns are buried deep in the bowels of the unfortunate steed, which, maddened with agony and fright, leaps up and tears around the arena, trampling perhaps upon his own entrails which have gushed forth from the gaping wound! At times the wound is hastily sewn up, and the unfortunate horse, with a man behind him with a heavy whip, another tugging at the bridle, and the picador on his back with his enormous spurs, forces the trembling brute to face the savage bull again, whilst the audience once more roars out its applause. As many as ten horses are killed or ruined at times by a single bull, who returns again and again to plunge his horns into the prostrate carcase ere it is dragged away. This is sport!
| BULL-FIGHT IN THE CITY OF MEXICO, SHOWING THE SPECTATORS OF THE "SOL," THE PICADORES, AND THE ENTERING BULL. |
But perhaps the bull himself is faint-hearted! Then, indeed, the noble Spanish blood of the audience is aroused to fever pitch. "Otro toro! Otro toro"—"Another bull! bring another bull!"—rises from a thousand throats. Otherwise the other acts of the performance take their course, and the banderilleros, bull-fighters armed with short gaudily decorated spears with barbed points, come on. Some "pretty" play now ensues, the banderilleros constantly facing the bull at arm's length with the object of gracefully sticking the spears or banderillas in the neck of the animal, where, if successful, they hang dangling as, smarting with the pain, the bull tears round the arena, to the accompaniment of the delighted roar of the crowd. This scene is repeated again and again, until perhaps several pairs of banderillas are depending from the shoulders of the maddened animal. The capeadores have not been idle, and the bull, repeatedly charging them and meeting only the empty flapping of the capas—the scarlet cloaks which the bull-fighters charged with this office wield—works himself into a paroxysm of rage, which must be seen to be understood. Oftentimes the capeadores are severely injured; sometimes killed in the act by a terrific stroke of the bull's horns.
But hark! once more a bugle-call, strong and sonorous, from the judges' box; the well-known notes which call the espada to his task; the last act in the drama—for drama it is. The espada is the most famous bull-fighter of all. His salary is a princely one; his reputation extends over two continents, from Old Madrid to Old Mexico. He is the great star in all that richly-dressed galaxy of toreros—for their gorgeous silver and gold spangled attire baffles description—and all his compañeros are but lesser lights, paling before his name and powers. And now the band, which has hitherto sent forth joyous music, plays a sad and mournful air. The espada takes the sword from an attendant and examines and curves it with critical and expert eye. Then, taking off his gold and silver-embroidered cocked-hat, he bows low towards the judges and to the fair ladies of the sombra; and in fitting phrase "dedicates" the stroke he is about to perform to them. Or otherwise, with his hand upon his heart, he turns towards the occupants of the sol, and again bowing low dedicates the coming stroke and the doomed bull thus: "Al Querido Pueblo!"—"To the beloved people"! A hush falls upon the great assembly: a pin might be heard to drop: the bull, who during these preliminaries—somewhat fatigued but full of life and anger—has been standing in the arena with his attention diverted by the capeadores, is now left to face his doom at the hands of the expert espada. Bull and man slowly approach, eyeing each other as those whose quarrel is to the death, whilst the notes of the music sound low and mournful. Within arm's length the espada extends his shining blade. He glances along it; the bull leaps forward to charge; there is a swift thrust; the blade goes home in that fatal spot which only the expert knows; and tottering, swaying, and falling, the noble bull leans over and falls prone to the dust. He raises his head with a last effort; the espada rushes forward, places his foot upon the prostrate neck, and, exerting a mighty strength, draws forth the scarlet, dripping blade, and a crimson stream of life-blood spurts forth from the wound, whilst the animal, making "the sign of the cross" with its forefoot upon the sand, lowers his noble crest—dead!
Then are the bounds of pandemonium let loose. How the audience of the sol shrieks and cheers! Hats, sticks, cloaks, belts, even money, are thrown into the arena like hail, and nothing is too good for the successful espada and the idol of the moment. Even the dignified sombra shouts itself hoarse, and at times showers bank-notes and jewellery down, and perhaps—let it be whispered low, for it is not unknown!—a billet-doux or papelito for the brave torero from some newly-created female admirer. Grave gentlemen in frock-coats and ladies in elegant attire, on the one hand, discuss the points of the entertainment, whilst the red serapes of the peones and pelados and their great sombreros rush animatedly to and fro. The band plays, the crowd pours into the street, and the long shadows fall from the blue Mexican sky across the dust of their departure, whilst a team of horses drag forth the quivering flesh of the vanquished bull to the corral, and the Sabbath Day draws to its close.
The Mexican upper and middle class share the general Spanish-American characteristic of preference for life in their cities. Expeditions into the country are matters to be avoided if possible. The gilded youth of the capital and members of polite society generally, do not like to leave the conveniences of good pavements, restaurants, fashionable bars and clubs and the like, and to venture into the hot sun or cold winds of the country regions. It is true, however, that there is a certain exodus to their haciendas of the upper-class families in the season corresponding thereto; but the love of the country for its own sake, or for sport, exercise, or exploration, as understood by Englishmen, is unknown. There are no country houses, as in Great Britain, where wealthy people reside because they prefer it; for the Mexican prefers to live in the main streets of his cities, the great doorway of his patio and his barred windows opening and looking immediately on to the streets.