La Gaviota: A Spanish novel

by Fernán Caballero

Soon the arena was cleared.

Then came forward the picadores, mounted on their unfortunate horses, who, with head lowered, and sorrowful eyes, seemed to be—and were in reality—victims marching to the sacrifice.

Stein, at the appearance of these poor animals, felt himself change to a painful compassion; a species of disgust which he already experienced. The provinces of the Peninsula which he had traversed hitherto, were devastated by the civil war, and he had had no opportunity of seeing these fêtes so grand, so national, and so popular, where were united to the brilliant Moorish strategy the ferocious intrepidity of the Gothic race. But he had often heard these spectacles spoken of, and he knew that the merit of a fight is generally estimated by the number of horses that are slain. His pity was excited towards these poor animals which, after having rendered great services to their masters, after having conferred on them triumph, and perhaps saved their lives, had for their recompense, when age and the excess of work had exhausted their strength, an atrocious death which, by a refinement of cruelty, they were obliged themselves to seek. Instinct made them seek this death; some resisted, while others, more resigned or more feeble, went docilely before them to abridge their agony. The sufferings of these unfortunate animals touched the hardest heart; but the amateurs had neither eyes, attention, nor interest, except for the bull. They were under a real fascination, which communicated itself to most of the strangers who came to Spain, and principally for this barbarous amusement. Besides, it must be avowed, and we avow it with grief, that compassion for animals is, in Spain, particularly among the men, a sentiment more theoretical than practical. Among the lower classes it does not exist at all.

The three picadores saluted the president of the fête, preceded by the banderilleros and the chulos, splendidly dressed, and carrying the capas of bright and brilliant colors. The matadores and their substitutes commanded all these combatants, and wore the most luxurious costumes.

“Pepe Vera! here is Pepe Vera!” cried all the spectators. “The scholar of Montés! Brave boy! What a jovial fellow! how well he is made! what elegance and vivacity in all his person! how firm his look! what a calm eye!”

“Do you know,” said a young man seated near to Stein, “what is the lesson Montés gives to his scholars? he pushes them, their arms crossed, close to the bull, and says to them, ‘Do not fear the bull—brave the bull!’ ”

Pepe Vera descended into the arena. His costume was of cherry-colored satin, with shoulder-knots and silver embroidery in profusion. From the little pockets of his vest stuck out the points of orange-colored scarfs. A waistcoat of rich tissue of silver, and a pretty little cap of velvet completed his coquettish and charming costume of majo.

After having saluted the authorities with much ease and grace, he went, like the other combatants, to take his accustomed place. The three picadores also went to their posts, at equal distance from each other, near to the barrier. There was then a profound, an imposing silence. One might have said that this crowd, lately so noisy, had suddenly lost the faculty of breathing.

The alcalde gave the signal, the clarions sounded, and, as if the trumpet of the Last Judgment had been heard, all the spectators arose with the most perfect ensemble; and suddenly was seen opened the large door of the toril, placed opposite to the box occupied by the authorities. A bull, whose hide was red, precipitated himself into the arena, and was assailed by a universal explosion of cheers, of cries, of abuse, and of praise. At this terrible noise the bull, affrighted, stopped short, raised his head, his eyes were inflamed, and seemed to demand if all these provocations were addressed to him; to him, the athletic and powerful, who, until now, had been generous towards man, and who had always shown favor towards him as to a feeble and weak enemy. He surveyed the ground, turning his menacing head on all sides—he still hesitated: the cheers, shrill and penetrating, became more and more shrill and frequent. Then, with a quickness which neither his weight nor his bulk foretold, he sprang towards the picador, who planted his lance in his withers. The bull felt a sharp pain, and soon drew back. It was one of those animals which in the language of bull-fighting are called boyantes, that is to say, undecided and wavering. It is for that he did not persist in his first attack, but assailed the second picador. This one was not so well prepared as the first, and the thrust of his lance was neither so correct nor so firm; he wounded the animal without being able to arrest his advance. The horns of the bull were buried in the body of the horse, who fell to the ground. A cry of fright was raised on all sides, and the chulos surrounded this horrible group; but the ferocious animal had seized his prey, and would not allow himself to be distracted from his vengeance. In this moment of terror, the cries of the multitude were united in one immense clamor, which would have filled the city with fright, if it had not come from the place of the bull-fight. The danger became more frightful as it was prolonged.