On the Mexican Highlands, with a Passing Glimpse of Cuba

by William Seymour Edwards

It was an hour before the set time, but none too early. The crowds, all well dressed on this side, every one of whom had paid five dollars for a ticket, kept pouring in. Across on the other side swarmed the cheap mob. Behind me was a row of young Spaniards. They stood up and called nicknames to all their friends who entered within reach of their vision. They cheered every pretty well dressed woman. They howled like mad when the band came in, they fairly burst themselves when, at last, Manzanillo, the toreador, the matadores, picadores, the valiant gold-laced company of bullfighters, entered and marched around the ring.

TEASING EL TORO

Manzanillo sat on a superb Andalusian charger which pranced and threw up his forefeet as though conscious of the illustrious character of his master. Then Manzanillo dismounted and took his place, the picadores stationed their horses on either side and pulled over their eyes the bandages to blindfold them, others carrying big gold-embroidered red shawls, stood all attention, the band struck up, the door opposite me was thrown open and a handsome, black-brown bull trotted in. As he passed the gate he received his first attention. Two rosettes of scarlet and gold ribbons were hooked into his shoulders, with steel teeth, enough to irritate him just a little. He stood there amazed. The crowd cheered him. A man in gold lace promptly flaunted a red shawl in his face. He charged it. The man stepped lightly aside and bowed to the audience, who cheered vociferously. “Bravo! Well done!” Then one of the blindfolded horses was spurred toward the bull. The bull was dazed and angry. He charged right at the horseman. The horseman lowered his spear and caught the bull in the shoulder. The bull flinched to one side. The audience cheered the picador, but the bull dexterously turning, charged the horse on the other side, and, before the poor beast could be turned, drove his sharp horns into his abdomen, ripped it up and upset the rider and horse in a cloud of dust. The audience now cheered the bull. A dozen men rushed to the rescue and dragged the picador away. The horse lay there and the bull charged it again, and again ripped out more entrails. The audience cheered the bull, and the bull, encouraged by the applause, took another turn at the dying horse. Just then a dexterous footman slung the red sheet in the bull’s face and he turned to chase it. But all in vain! Charge the red vision all he would, he never caught anything but thin air! He could never catch the man.

Then the bull saw another horse blindly sidling towards him, for though blindfolded, the old horse could yet smell the bull and the blood, and only went forward under the pressure of savage spur and bit. The bull stood gazing at the horse and rider a moment, then he charged right at them with head down. He caught the horse in the belly and ripped out its entrails, which dragged on the ground, while the brave picador continued to ride it about, and sought yet again to engage the attention of the bull.

But the bull was now tired. He thought of his mountain pastures and the sweet, long grass of the uplands. He would go home. He would fight no more. He wanted to get out, he wanted badly to get out. The now hissing mob scared him worse than when they cheered. He ran about the ring trying all the locked doors. He couldn’t force them. Then he tried to climb over the high wall, to jump over anyway. He was frantic with pathetic panic. But shouting men stood round the parapet and clubbed him over the head. So he gave up and returned to the center of the ring, panting, his tongue hanging out, foam dripping from his jaws. He was altogether winded.

THE GARDENS OF CHAPULTEPEC

Now was Manzanillo’s opportunity. He carried a small purple gold-fringed scarf over his left arm, and his long, straight naked sword in his right hand. He stood directly in front of the bull. He caught its eye. He waved the purple banner. Almost imperceptibly he approached. The bull stood staring at him, legs wide apart, sides panting, tail lashing, head down, tired but ready to charge. Then, quick as lightning, Manzanillo stepped up to the bull, straight in front of him, and reaching out at arm’s length drove the sword to the very hilt right down between the shoulder blades. It was a mortal stroke, a wonderful thrust, perfect, precise, fatal. Only a master of his craft could do just such a perfectly exact act. And as quick as lightning did Manzanillo step aside, fold his arms and stand motionless, not ten feet from the bull, to watch him die. He gave only one sweeping bow to the audience. The Spaniard is a connoisseur in all the delicate and subtle masterstrokes in this duel of man and beast. Manzanillo had sustained his reputation as the greatest living bullfighter of old Spain. The nerve, the agility, the lightning-like act—too quick for human eye to follow—the perfect judgment of time and distance and force, all these he had now displayed. The vast audience broke out into one simultaneous “Bravo,” rose to its feet and then, like the matador, stood silent and breathless to watch the bull die,—to see the hot blood pour from mouth and nostrils, the sturdy thighs and shoulders shake, the powerful knees bend. The nose sank to the dust, the knees trembled, the bull rolled in the sand, quite dead. Manzanillo drew out his reeking sword. Again he bowed to the vast multitude, and no human being ever received a more overwhelming ovation than did he. Flowers were thrown him in heaps. Sometimes women even take off their jewels and throw them, and kiss the hero when they later meet him on the street. So great is the joy of the blood-lust! So has the frenzy of the Roman arena descended to some of Rome’s degenerate sons. Mules in gay red and gold trappings now dragged out the bull as they had the horse. There would be cheap stews for the multitude in the city to-night.