“Well,” said the amiable husband, “if you are going to talk bull, I will go into the reading-room and have a smoke.” He went out, and she went on:—
“These men” she said; “but I ought to say, you men, are so squeamish; you faint at the sight of a little blood; what would you do in a fight, a real battle with bullets and brains flying all about you and men bleeding to death by hundreds, if you can’t bear to see a bull cut down or a horse ripped up. Why, I saw a horse run all about the bull-ring with his entrails trailing on the ground, and a bull with his hamstrings cut, and making splendid fight on his knees. You must go and see it; now there’s my husband, poor fellow, he ought not to go to such places, it doesn’t agree with him!”
“Well, I would rather have you describe a fight,” said I, “than to go and see it. I have no particular taste for blood, but any thing would be agreeable that you would undertake to describe.”
“Thank you. You have seen the ring; every city in Spain has its bull-ring: a circular theatre, open to the sky, with seats rising from the arena in the centre. The seats on the east and southerly quarters are covered to protect the grandees, while the multitude sitting in the sun hold fans before their faces or take it as it comes. This ring will seat some fifteen to twenty thousand people, and a gayer, grander sight it is rare to see, than these bright-colored, dressy people; the women are the most beautiful in the world; they are far handsomer than American women, you know they are, don’t you?”
“Perhaps so, present company excepted, and one or two others: but pray go on,—I am more anxious to hear of bulls than women.”
“A blast of trumpets sounds the hour for the spectacle to begin, and the eager shout of the multitude shows their impatience to see the fun. A great show precedes, the magistrates riding in with a troop to give something like dignity to the occasion, and when they have swept around the circle and retired, the spectators sit in breathless silence. Two mounted men, called picadors, ride in, each with a long spear at rest, and take their position, some fifty feet in front of the gateway through which the beasts are to enter. All things being ready, and the breathless throng thirsting for the fray, the huge door unfolds, and a fierce bull dashes into the arena. The multitude greet him with a shout of ecstasy. He makes straight upon the picadors, if he is a bull of spirit. There’s a great difference in the animals; some of them go scouring all around the ring, head down and tail up, pursued by the picador; but a real bull of Navarre—they are the fiercest and pluckiest—pitches right ahead for the first enemy he sees. The horseman levels his lance to meet the tremendous monster as he comes; sometimes catches him on the shoulder, and the blood spouts from the wound. But he does not stop for trifles. It takes more than a scratch to stop a good bull; he rushes on and sometimes buries the iron deeper in his flesh, or tosses it off, and catching the horse on his horns, hoists him and his rider into the air, and as they come down in a heap, he drives on to meet other antagonists lying in wait, and ready to do him mischief. The very last time I was there, it was this sight that made my husband sick; the horse scrambled up, and actually went trotting around the ring, when there was more of him outside than in, he was so terribly ripped open by that one lunge of those splendid horns. I was in hopes that the bull would beat the whole of them; now he met the men on foot, with red cloaks on their arms, which they shake to attract the excited gentleman’s attention. He sees them and bears down gallantly upon them like a Monitor or a Miantonomoh, and the wily chulos, or cloakers, leap dexterously to one side, and sometimes they jump over the barriers among the spectators, where they have been followed by the raging bull himself. This is not often, however. He has still another set of fighters to drive out of the ring. These are the banderilleros, who throw fiery darts into the bull’s neck; these darts are provided with a powder squib which explodes when it strikes in the flesh, and puts his majesty into a horrid rage: by this time, the bull, hunted by all these foes, charging upon one and speared by another, is becoming exhausted, or the spectators are wearied with the sameness of the fight, and want a new victim. The matador, or chief butcher, then enters the field in a full court dress, with a scarlet robe in one hand and a sharp stiletto in the other. He brandishes the red skirt to draw the bull on, and as he comes he aims a stab at his neck, and, if he is a master at his work, takes him in the right spot, and the huge fellow falls dead at his victor’s feet. Once I saw the matador miss his aim, the bull wheeled suddenly, one horn took him in the side, and he went over the head of the bull and came down a mangled corpse. Then a shout went up as if to shake the skies. I felt badly myself, but these Spanish people seemed to relish it amazingly, and I suppose they get used to it. But the bull generally gets the worst of it. When he has had the finishing stroke, a team of mules is driven in, the dead beast is hitched on by a hook and chain and drawn out rapidly, and the ring is clear for another fight. All this has not taken half an hour, and a similar scene is repeated until four, five, or six bulls, and often as many horses, are killed.
“When a good hit is made the spectators rise en masse and shout their applause. This is the triumph of the gladiators in the sand. A little riband on the bull’s mane is a prize which the combatant seeks to capture, and this he presents to his lady-love as the evidence of his bravery and skill. The ladies are evidently quite as enthusiastic in their love of the national sport as the men, and they show it by clapping their little hands or fans and crying bravo, as eagerly as any.”
“And do you really find pleasure in this bloody spectacle?” I inquired somewhat anxiously, for I had been quite interested in her graphic description, and could readily see that she had spoken with feeling.
“Well, I must say that I do like the excitement of it. I never could see any sport in looking on when two or three or four horses were thrashed to make them run faster; yet many women think it the height of enjoyment to see a horse-race. The noblest men of England delight to stand in a ring around two men who beat each others’ faces into a jelly, and they call it the ‘manly art’! The ladies of New York go to theatres and operas with their necks and more exposed to the gaze of men, and the ladies look at the licentious dancing of ballet girls who have been tortured into the art of showing themselves disgustingly to every virtuous taste. And I have come to the conclusion that in all parts of the world people have their own ideas about amusement, and there is no great difference in the moral of it. For my part I like a good fair stand-up bull-fight more than any of them.”
My fair enthusiast rested; I thanked her for the information she had given, and added: