CORRESPONDENCE.
A BULL-FIGHT AT BARCELONA.
[FROM A CORRESPONDENT.]
THE following account of the national pastime of Spain is taken from private letters :—" A bull-fight is always a
horrible thing ; but to-day it was made worse by a serious, perhaps fatal accident. The picador Rafael Alonzo, surnamed El Chato, is now lying between life and death at the infirmary, with a wound three centimetres deep in his right side. I thought this morning that the wounds of the horses would affect me more than any hurt a man might receive ; for it is easy to see that the men go into the fight knowing the risk, and are therefore less to be pitied than the animals. I saw to-day four bulls tortured to death and five horses butchered, only one of which was killed straight off. But all that has passed from my mind, and the only thing I can see now is that awful, white, upturned face convulsed with pain, and the stiff, lifeless figure being carried out. I waited to see that bull killed—and he died very hard—then went away at once. I had not felt so much horror and disgust as I expected at the treatment of the horses. If you try hard, it is easy not to see the worst points ; but when I saw the poor picador carried out, as most people thought, dead, I felt it was a wicked, criminal thing to sit there consenting unto his death. After all, was he not killed more or less for my amusement ? It is a horrible thought. There is some hope that be will live, though the newspaper El Talio of this evening has a note at the end,—' El pobre Chato este aggravendose rancho.'
" Having found my seat, I made friends with an ancient Spaniard who sat next me with his wife and daughter. We at once entered into conversation, and finding that my Spanish was not first-class, he began to talk French—very bad French —in which his wife, who spoke it pretty well, joined in. She and her daughter were there, like me, for the first time. During the butchery of the horses, they both turned round and fixed their eyes on the people behind, not moving till the trumpet sounded for the next scene. I rather fancy this is nowadays the right thing for Spanish, or at least Catalan ladies to do. The old gentleman got tremendously excited -over the fights ; but a little before the third bull was killed, he retired precipitately, and his wife remarked, Mon maxi a toujours mal ici,' with a gesture which may be understood ;
toujours, toujours.' In fact, he had just retired in order to be ill, as he might have gone to the side of a steamer. He returned in a short time none the worse, and as much excited as ever, shouting with enthusiasm for the toreadors. I must say I applauded Gallito myself enthusiastically ; he was so magnificently calm and fearless, treating the bull's rushes as coolly as I treat Glen's' (my collie's) assaults. How- ever, to get on. The president and his party having come into their box, the procession came out of the cuadra immediately below me, and went up to salute him. First came the two alquazils, in antiquated black costumes, on fat white horses, a great contrast to the poor brutes the picadors rode. After them came six or eight chubs on foot, two-and-two, with their silk cloaks thrown on their left shoulders, left arm akimbo, right hanging by their side. Then the six picadors, dressed in what I have always imagined to be the sort of costume of a Spanish-American planter, with large white sombreros, riding the most wretched-looking horses. Then the two matadors, Cara Ancha and Fernando Gallito, the first of them in vestia granate con oro viejo, the second Lucia un bellissimo terno ague con flout. Cara Ancha's dress a kind of orange, Gallito's blue with silver. They did not wear their hair in a net, like the chubs, but in a very elaborate pigtail. Last of all came the tiros—that is, the teams of four white horses—drawing a kind of bar with a hook, to drag the dead horses and bulls off the arena. They also were fat and well-liking, ornamented with red and yellow ribbons. With these came their attendants, smart•looking men in white jackets, some of them very handsome. The tiro must always be as splendid as possible ; the crowd enjoy it immensely.
The bull, on first coming out, is doubtful what to do generally. Then the chubs make for him and attract him with their cloaks. The object of everything, waving the cloaks for him to run at, boring him with spears, sticking banderillos into him, and all that, is not only to irritate the bull, but
to fatigue him, and so make him an easier prey to the matador at last. Consequently, the picador has really the most dangerous part of the work. He has to meet the bull when quite fresh. He cannot slip out of the way as the chubs do. He has only a weak old horse to trust to, often badly wounded, and a spear which only serves to irritate and worry the bull, without doing him any serious harm. These same weak old horses, however, devote themselves heroically to save their riders. As no horses in their senses would face a wild bull, they have a yellow bandage over their eyes, generally over the right eye only, as the picador always presents the right side to the bull ; but even then they often won't advance. In that case, the attendants beat them, and even lead them by the bridle in front of the bull. Once well opposite to him, the picador brandishes his spear to attract the bull's attention. The bull puts down his head and paws the ground a bit. This is a formality which no well-bred bull would think of omitting. During this time the picador chooses the spot to hit with his spear, always on the shoulder. Finally, the bull dashes at the horse. Often he fails to gore him ; often he raises his head too soon, and just strokes the horse's flanks with his forehead or nose. The picador never misses his point, and the bull's shoulders are pretty red before this act finishes. I saw a good many picadors thrown, some even when their horses were unwounded ; in one case, the horse not being hurt, but the rider thrown, the long bridle, as it escaped from his hands, fell on the bull's horns, and the horse was dragged some way round the ring before they got loose again. Another time, a picador was thrown right in front of the bull. Three chubs, totally regardless of their own lives, rushed in and distracted the bull's attention, and the man got up and remounted amid frantic cheering. Yet when the poor Chato was gored, there was not a sign of sympathy. The fourth bull, a dun bull, the others having been black, was evidently from the first a very tough customer. He came out of the toril like a shell from a gun, and made straight for one of the chubs at the other end, who, after literally running for his life, just got over the barrier in time. The bull did not run at his cloak, but went straight at the man, and it was a mercy he escaped. Poor Rafael did not have the same luck. I do not very well remember how it began, but my impression is that the bull charged him. This would be very unusual, as all bulls fear the spear—I believe it is used by the vaqueros in driving them—but all the spectators agreed that this was an unusually bold and ferocious bull. It is only on the idea of the bull attacking him that I can conceive the picador getting into such an awkward place. The bull had him jammed against the barrier. He rushed at the horse and gored it three times in rapid succession, the poor brute falling dead without a struggle. The picador rose in the stirrups, but the great heavy wooden stirrup hampered him, and then the bull attacked him. Once the horn was turned aside by the leather and iron defence he wore ; the second time it was driven into his side. It was a horrible sight. The chubs rushed at the bull with that splendid courage which atones for a great deal of the horrors of the fight, and the bull's attention was drawn away. No sound of complaint escaped the picador. Slowly and laboriously, he got one leg over the barrier. There were plenty of attendants to help him, and he was pulled over. For one moment he straightened himself in the arms of the men, and it was then I saw turned to me the colourless face, with its horrible look of agony. Then I think he fainted, and was carried out quite stiff and rigid in the arms of his bearers. Il est mort, ce picador,' said the old gentleman next me, quite calmly. I should have liked to have thrown him down into the ring ! Do you suppose the people cared P Not they ! Los muertos no tienen amigos is one of their proverbs. Another picador mounted hastily to take the vacant place.
"As a further instance of the feeling of the people, I may add what happened with another bull. No sooner was it per- ceived that he had killed his third horse, than the enthusiasts on the lower seats near the ring rose en masse and cheered the bull to the echo, waving their hats and handkerchiefs, and shouting,—" Bravo toro, bravo ! Viva toro !" A minute afterwards, the bull was bellowing pitifully with pain and bewilderment, two skilfully planted banderillos having gone deep into him, and the spectators jeered and mocked at his pain as fiercely as they had applauded before. My neighbour was very enthusiastic, Un carincero,' he remarked, ex- ultingly, a real butcher,' as the third horse fell ; and even tried to express himself in English, holding out three fingers saying, Three, three horse.'
" The death-scene when the bull is killed is very horrible. The only redeeming point is the magnificent coolness of the matador. It is beneath his dignity to jump out of the way as the chubs do. A mere turn of the foot gets him as much out of the way as he deigns to go. And when he is meditating his stroke, he is grand, standing straight in front of the bull, not two yards off, calmly poising his sword and selecting the right place to strike the infuriated wild beast, who has all the will to kill him, and really the power, but who is helpless as a little puppy-dog before the terrible skill of el diestro, the cunning mail,' as the historians of the ring delight to call him. The matador has a scarlet flag, which irritates the bull much more than the crimson cloak of the chubs. They all have little tricks of bravado. Cara Ancha would wrap his sword in the flag and hold it out to the bull, to show that he could not use it to defend himself. Gallito, instead of drawing the flag away when the bull made his rush, would calmly draw it over his back. This he did five times without moving from his place, turning round each time as the bull, recovering himself after the first rash, turned and dashed at him again. That time I myself applauded : it was really a very grand sight. But the killing was horrible. On two occasions the bull was killed with one blow, the nearest thing to the foudroyant death-stroke of which Ford speaks, that I saw. But then there was very little applause. It was too merciful a death. The third and fourth bulls were killed in a way which was a disgrace to humanity. It may Seem a strange thing to say, but the most horrible sight of all to me is the extinction of the bull's intelligence before his death. A time comes when he gets quite stupid. He stares vacantly at the red flags, which no longer excite him ; he evidently can no longer understand what is going on, and sometimes at this point he gives a perfectly heartrending bellow, which seems a last despairing appeal to be allowed at least to die in peace. The fierce dun bull which had gored the picador, and which had quite worn himself out with his wild rashes at the begin- ning, remained a long time in this state. Though he had gored the poor picador, I must say I felt a great disposition to cry' when the poor, gallant wild beast died. To hear the bulls' cries for mercy in their poor inarticulate language that no one but God understands, and to hear it met with brutal, pitiless jeering, is very dreadful. Thank heaven, the horses didn't cry. I don't think I could have stood that. In any case, it is a. horrible and degrading sport, which ought to be put down by force."
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