Spain, v. 1 (of 2)

by Edmondo De Amicis

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.