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.