The
Idlers Who Have Been Lounging In The Arena Are Swept Out By The
Alguaciles, And The Hum Of Conversation Gives Way To An Expectant
Silence.
When the last loafer has reluctantly retired, the great gate is
thrown open, and the procession of the toreros enters.
They advance in a
glittering line: first the marshals of the day, then the picadors on
horseback, then the matadors on foot surrounded each by his quadrille of
chulos. They walk towards the box which holds the city fathers, under
whose patronage the show is given, and formally salute the authority.
This is all very classic, also, recalling the Ave Caesar, morituri,
etc., of the gladiators. It lacks, however, the solemnity of the Roman
salute, from those splendid fellows who would never all leave the arena
alive. A bullfighter is sometimes killed, it is true, but the percentage
of deadly danger is scarcely enough to make a spectator's heart beat as
the bedizened procession comes flashing by in the sun.
The municipal authority throws the bowing alguacil a key, which he
catches in his hat, or is hissed if he misses it. With this he unlocks
the door through which the bull is to enter, and then scampers off with
undignified haste through the opposite entrance. There is a bugle
flourish, the door flies open, and the bull rushes out, blind with the
staring light, furious with rage, trembling in every limb. This is the
most intense moment of the day. The glorious brute is the target of
twelve thousand pairs of eyes. There is a silence as of death, while
every one waits to see his first movement. He is doomed from the
beginning; the curtain has risen on a three-act tragedy, which will
surely end with his death, but the incidents which are to fill the
interval are all unknown. The minds and eyes of all that vast assembly
know nothing for the time but the movements of that brute. He stands for
an instant recovering his senses. He has been shot suddenly out of the
darkness into that dazzling light. He sees around him a sight such as he
never confronted before, - a wall of living faces lit up by thousands of
staring eyes. He does not dwell long upon this, however; in his pride
and anger he sees a nearer enemy. The horsemen have taken position near
the gate, where they sit motionless as burlesque statues, their long
ashen spears, iron-tipped, in rest, their wretched nags standing
blindfolded, with trembling knees, and necks like dromedaries, not
dreaming of their near fate. The bull rushes, with a snort, at the
nearest one. The picador holds firmly, planting his spear-point in the
shoulder of the brute. Sometimes the bull flinches at this sharp and
sudden punishment, and the picador, by a sudden turn to the left, gets
away unhurt. Then there is applause for the torero and hisses for the
bull. Some indignant amateurs go so far as to call him cow, and to
inform him that he is the son of his mother. But oftener he rushes in,
not caring for the spear, and with one toss of his sharp horns tumbles
horse and rider in one heap against the barrier and upon the sand. The
capeadores, the cloak-bearers, come fluttering around and divert the
bull from his prostrate victims. The picador is lifted to his feet, - his
iron armor not permitting him to rise without help, - and the horse is
rapidly scanned to see if his wounds are immediately mortal. If not, the
picador mounts again, and provokes the bull to another rush. A horse
will usually endure two or three attacks before dying. Sometimes a
single blow from in front pierces the heart, and the blood spouts forth
in a cataract. In this case the picador hastily dismounts, and the
bridle and saddle are stripped in an instant from the dying brute. If a
bull is energetic and rapid in execution, he will clear the arena in a
few moments. He rushes at one horse after another, tears them open with
his terrible "spears" ("horns" is a word never used in the ring), and
sends them madly galloping over the arena, trampling out their gushing
bowels as they fly. The assistants watch their opportunity, from time to
time, to take the wounded horses out of the ring, plug up their gaping
rents with tow, and sew them roughly up for another sally. It is
incredible to see what these poor creatures will endure, - carrying their
riders at a lumbering gallop over the ring, when their thin sides seem
empty of entrails.
Sometimes the bull comes upon the dead body of a horse he has killed.
The smell of blood and the unmoving helplessness of the victim excite
him to the highest pitch. He gores and tramples the carcass, and tosses
it in the air with evident enjoyment, until diverted by some living
tormentor. You will occasionally see a picador nervous and anxious about
his personal safety. They are ignorant and superstitious, and subject to
presentiments; they often go into the ring with the impression that
their last hour has come. If one takes counsel of his fears and avoids
the shock of combat, the hard-hearted crowd immediately discover it and
rain maledictions on his head. I saw a picador once enter the ring as
pale as death. He kept carefully out of the way of the bull for a few
minutes. The sharp-eyed Spaniards noticed it, and commenced shouting,
"Craven! He wants to live forever!" They threw orange-skins at him, and
at last, their rage vanquishing their economy, they pelted him with
oranges. His pallor gave way to a flush of shame and anger. He attacked
the bull so awkwardly that the animal, killing his horse, threw him also
with great violence. His hat flew off, his bald head struck the hard
soil. He lay there as one dead, and was borne away lifeless.
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