Wanderings in Spain. Gautier Théophile
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that the bull's horn entered up to the root, and disappeared entirely in the wound. While the bull was endeavouring to free his head from the body of the horse, Antonio clung to the edge of the tablas, which he cleared, thanks to the chulos, for when a picador is thrown, he is so weighed down by the iron lining of his boots that he finds it as difficult to move as did the knights of old when encased in their armour.
The poor horse, left to himself, crossed the arena, staggering as if he had been drunk, and entangling his feet in his entrails. A flood of black blood gushed impetuously from his wound, marking the sand with intermittent zigzag lines, which attested the unequalness of his course. At length he fell near the tablas. Two or three times he raised his head and rolled his blue eyes, that were already glazed, drawing back his lips, white with foam, and exposing his fleshless teeth. He struck the ground feebly with his tail, while his hind legs moved convulsively and kicked out for the last time, as if he wished to break the thick skull of Death with his hard hoof. He was hardly dead when the muchachos on service, seeing that the bull was engaged somewhere else, ran up and took off his saddle and bridle. He remained thus, lying on his flank, like some dark outline upon the sand. He was so slight, so flat, that he might have been mistaken for a profile cut out of black paper. I had already remarked, at Montfaucon, what strangely fantastic forms horses assume after death. Of all animals there are certainly none whose dead bodies are so melancholy to look at as that of a horse. His head, that is so noble and pure in form, is so modelled and flattened by the terrible hand of Nothingness that it seems as if it had been inhabited by a human mind; while his dishevelled mane and streaming tail have something picturesque and poetical about them. A dead horse is a corpse; every other animal that has once ceased to live is nothing more nor less than carrion.
I dwell thus upon the death of this horse, because it excited in me a more distressing feeling than anything else I ever saw at a bull-fight. But this horse was not the only victim that day. Fourteen others were stretched dead in the arena, one bull alone killing five.
The picador returned on a fresh horse, and a number of attacks, more or less successful, then ensued. But the bull was beginning to be tired, and his fury to abate, whereupon the banderilleros advanced with their darts, furnished with little pieces of paper, and in a short time the bull's neck was ornamented with a collar of pennons, which all his efforts to shake off only fixed more firmly. A little banderillero of the name of Majaron was particularly bold and successful in discharging his darts, and sometimes he would even cut an entrechat before retiring: as a natural consequence, he was greatly applauded. When the bull had seven or eight banderillas fluttering about him, and felt his skin pierced by their darts, and heard the rustling of their paper pennons in his ears, he began to run about in all directions, and bellow in the most horrible manner. His black muzzle became white with foam, and, in his blind fury, he butted so violently against one of the doors, that he broke it off its hinges. The carpenters, who were closely watching his movements, immediately replaced it, while a chulo enticed him in another direction; but was pursued so closely, that he had scarcely time to clear the barrier. The bull, exasperated and lashed to the highest pitch of fury, made one prodigious effort and followed him over the tablas. All the persons in the intermediate space jumped with marvellous rapidity into the arena, while the bull, receiving on his passage a shower of blows from the sticks and hats of the first row of spectators, re-entered by another door.
The picadores now retired, leaving a free field to the espada, Juan Pastor, who proceeded to salute the box of the ayuntamiento, and requested permission to kill the bull. As soon as this was granted, he threw his montera into the air, as much as to say that he was about to stake everything upon a single cast, and then walked up to the bull with a deliberate step, concealing his sword under the red folds of his muleta.
The espada now waved his piece of scarlet cloth several times, and the bull rushed blindly at it. By a mere movement of his body, the espada avoided the animal's attack. The latter soon returned, however, butting furiously at the light cloth, which he pushed on one side, without being able to pierce it. The favourable instant was come: the espada placed himself exactly opposite the bull, waving his muleta with his left hand, and holding his sword horizontally, with the point on a level with the animal's horns. It is difficult to convey by words an idea of the fearful curiosity, the frantic attention produced by this situation, which is worth all the plays Shakspeare ever wrote. A few seconds more, and one of the two actors will be killed! Which will it be, the man or the bull? There they stand, face to face; the man has no defensive weapon of any kind, he is dressed as if he were going to a ball, in pumps and silk stockings. A woman's pin would pierce through his satin jacket; a mere rag and a slight sword are all that he has to save his life. In this fight all the material advantages belong to the bull, who possesses two terrible horns as sharp as daggers, immense force, and that animal fury which is not conscious of danger. But then, on the other hand, the man has his sword and his courage; the eyes of twelve thousand spectators are fixed upon him, and in a few moments, young and beautiful women will applaud him with their delicate white hands.
The muleta was suddenly thrown on one side, leaving the matador's body exposed to view; the bull's horns were not an inch from his breast; I thought he was lost. A silvery flash passed with the rapidity of lightning between the two crescents, and the bull fell upon his knees with a roar of pain. He had got the hilt of the sword between his shoulders, just as the stag of Saint Hubert is represented in Albert Dürer's marvellous engraving, bearing a crucifix in the midst of his branching antlers.
Thunders of applause burst forth from all parts of the amphitheatre; the palcos of the nobility, the gradas cubiertas of the middle classes, the tendidos of the manolos and manolas cried and shouted with all the ardour and petulance which distinguish the natives of southern climes, "Bueno! Bueno! Viva el Barbero! Viva!!!"
The blow which the espada had just given is held in high estimation, and called la estocada a vuela pies; the bull dies without losing one drop of blood, which is accounted the height of elegance, and by falling on his knees, seems to acknowledge his adversary's superiority. The aficionados (dilettanti) say that the inventor of this blow was Joaquin Rodriguez, a celebrated torrero of the last century.
When the bull does not die immediately, a mysterious little being, dressed in black, and who has hitherto taken no part in the proceedings, is seen to jump over the barrier. This is the cachetero. He advances with a stealthy step, looks at the bull in his death-struggle, to see whether he is capable of getting up again, which is sometimes the case, and, coming behind him, traitorously plunges a cylindrical dagger, shaped at its extremity like a lancet, into his neck; this cuts the spinal marrow, and produces instantaneous death. The best spot is behind the head, some inches from an imaginary straight line drawn from horn to horn.
The military band proclaimed the bull's death, one of the doors was thrown open, and four mules, magnificently caparisoned with feathers, bells, woollen tufts, and little flags, yellow and red, the Spanish national colours, entered the arena. These mules bear off the dead bodies, which are attached to a rope, furnished at the end with a large hook. The horses were taken away first, and then the bull. These four splendid and spirited animals, who dragged along the sand, with frantic velocity, all the dead bodies which, but a short time before, were themselves so active, had a strange, savage look, which made you forget, in some degree, the mournful duty they had to perform. When they had left, a groom came with a basketful of earth, which he spread over the pools of blood, which might otherwise cause the torreros to slip. The picadores resumed their places near the door, the orchestra sounded a flourish, and another bull rushed into the arena, for no time is allowed to elapse between the acts of this drama; nothing stops it, not even the death of a torrero. As we have already mentioned, the doubles are waiting, ready dressed and armed, in case of accidents. It is not our intention to give a separate account of the deaths of eight different bulls who were sacrificed that day; we will merely mention certain variations and remarkable incidents.
The bulls are not always very savage; some are even very gentle, and would only be too happy to lie down quietly in the shade. It is easy to perceive, by their good-natured honest look, that they prefer their pastures to the circus. They turn their backs on the picadores, and, in the most phlegmatic