The Blood of the Arena by Vicente Blasco Ibáñez (big screen ebook reader TXT) 📕

did she decide? Did she think she had the courage to peep into the plaza?

"Take me away!" she said with an agonized accent. "Get me out of here quickly. I am sick. Leave me in the first church we can find."

The leather-worker made a wry face. By the life of Roger—! Leave such a magnificent bull-fight! And as they walked toward the door he was calculating where he could abandon Carmen so as to immediately return to the plaza.

When the second bull came in, Gallardo, still leaning against the barrier, was receiving felicitations from his admirers. What courage that boy had—"when he wished." The whole plaza had applauded the first bull, forgetting their anger at the former corridas. When a picador fell and lay senseless from the terrible shock, Gallardo had rushed up with his cape, drawing the wild beast into the centre of the ring. He made some bold verónicas that at last held the bull motionless and exhausted, after turning from the lure of the red rag. The bull-fighter, taking advantage of the animal's stupefaction, stood erect within a few steps of his muzzle, thrusting his body forward as if in challenge. He felt the heart-throbbing, that happy precursor of his great daring. He must conquer the public with a dash of audacity, and he knelt before the horns with a certain precaution, ready to arise at the slightest sign of charging.

The bull stood quiet. Gallardo reached out a hand until he touched the drivelling muzzle and the animal made no movement whatever. Then he dared something that held the public in palpitating silence. Slowly he laid himself down on the sand, with the cape between his arms serving as a pillow, and thus he remained some seconds lying beneath the nose of the bull who sniffed him with a kind of fear, as if he suspected danger in this body that audaciously placed itself beneath his horns.

When the bull, recovering his aggressive fierceness, lowered his horns, the bull-fighter rolled toward his feet, in this way putting himself out of his reach, and the animal passed over him, vainly seeking in his ferocious blindness the bulk that attacked him.

Gallardo rose brushing off the dust, and the public, which adored feats of daring, applauded him with the old-time enthusiasm. It hailed not alone his audacity, it applauded itself, admiring its own majesty, guessing that the bull-fighter's daring was to reconcile himself with it, to regain its affection. Gallardo came to the corrida disposed to the most daring deeds to reconquer applause.

"He is careless," they said on the tiers of seats, "often he is slack; but he has bull-fighter pride and he is going to redeem his name."

But the enthusiasm of the public, their gay excitement over Gallardo's achievement, and the true sword-thrust with which the other matador had killed the first bull, turned to ill-humor and protest as they saw the second in the ring. He was enormous and of beautiful build, but he ran through the centre of the arena looking with surprise at the noisy multitude on the bleachers, frightened at the voices and hisses that were meant to excite him, fleeing from his own shadow, as if he divined all kinds of intrigue. The peones ran, waving the cape at him. He charged at the red rag, following it some instants, but suddenly he gave a snort of surprise and, turning his hind quarters, fled in the opposite direction with violent springs. His eagerness for flight infuriated the public.

"That's no bull—it's a monkey."

The swordsmen's capes finally managed to attract it toward the barrier, where the picadores waited motionless on their mounts, with lance under arm. He approached a rider with lowered head and with fierce snorts as if to charge. But before the iron could be lodged in his neck, he gave a spring and ran, passing through the capes the peones waved at him. In his flight he met another lancer and repeated the springing, the snorting and the flight. Then he met the third horseman, who, thrusting forward his lance, speared him in the neck, by this punishment only augmenting his fear and his speed.

The public had risen to its feet en masse, gesticulating and shouting. A tame bull! What an abomination! Every one turned toward the president roaring his protest. "Señor Presidente!" That could not be allowed.

A chorus of voices that repeated the same words with monotonous intonation began to rise from some sections.

"Fire! Fi-i-ire!"

The president seemed to hesitate. The bull was running, followed by the combatants, who chased after him, their capes over their arms. When any of these managed to head him off, or to stop him, he smelt the cloth with the usual snort and ran in a different direction, jumping and kicking.

The noisy protest against these flights increased. "Señor Presidente!" Was his lordship deaf? Bottles, oranges, and seat cushions began to fall into the ring around the fugitive animal. The public hated it for its cowardice. One bottle struck on one of the horns and the people applauded this true shot though not knowing who it was. Many of the audience leaned forward as if about to throw themselves into the ring to destroy the bad beast with their hands. What a scandal! To see in the plaza of Madrid oxen that were only fit for meat! "Fire! Fire!"

At last the president waved a red handkerchief and a salvo of applause greeted this signal.

The fire banderillas were an extraordinary sight; something unexpected, that augmented the interest of the corrida. Many who had protested until they were hoarse felt inward satisfaction at this incident. They were going to see the bull roasted alive, running mad with terror at the fire-streams that would be hanging from his neck.

Nacional advanced carrying, hanging from his hands, with the points downward, two thick banderillas that seemed to be encased in black paper. He went toward the bull without great precaution, as if his cowardice merited no art whatever, and he lodged the infernal barbs to the accompaniment of the vengeful applause of the multitude.

There was a crackling sound as if something broke and two spirals of white smoke began to blaze on the animal's neck. In the light of the sun the fire could not be seen, but the hair singed and disappeared and a black mark extended around the neck. The bull ran, surprised at the attack, accelerating his flight as though thus to free himself from torment, until suddenly detonations like gunshots began to burst on his neck, the burning embers of paper flying around his eyes. The animal sprang aloft, filled with terror, his four feet in the air at once, vainly twisting his horned head to pull out with his mouth those demons clutched upon his neck. The people laughed and applauded, thinking his springs and contortions funny. It seemed as if, with his strong heavy body, he were executing a trained animal's dance.

"How they sting him," they exclaimed, with ferocious laughter.

The banderillas ceased crackling and bursting. His carbonized neck was covered with blisters of fat. The bull, no longer feeling the burning of the fire, stood motionless, breathing hard, his head lowered, thrusting out his dry dark-red tongue.

Another banderillero approached him and put in a second pair. The smoke spirals rose again above the charred flesh, the shots resounded and the bull ran madly, trying to reach his neck with his mouth by twisting his massive body; but now his movements were less violent, as though the vigorous animal began to habituate itself to martyrdom.

Still a third pair was lodged, and his neck became carbonized, shedding through the ring a nauseating odor of melted grease, burnt hide, and hair consumed by fire.

The public continued applauding with vengeful frenzy, as though the gentle animal were an adversary of their beliefs and they did a pious deed in burning him. They laughed when they saw him tremulous on his legs, moving his flanks like the sides of a bellows, lowing with a shrieking howl of pain, his eyes reddened, and dragging his tongue over the sand, greedy for a sensation of coolness.

Gallardo, leaning against the barrier, near the president's box, awaited the sign to kill. Garabato had the sword and muleta ready on the edge of the wall.

"Curse it!" The bull-fight had begun so well, and for bad luck to reserve this bull for him, the one he himself had chosen on account of its fine appearance, but which now that it trod the arena turned out to be tame!

He excused himself in advance for defective work, talking with the "intelligent" who occupied seats near the barrier.

"What can be done will be done—and no more," he said, shrugging his shoulders.

Then he turned toward the boxes, gazing at Doña Sol's. She had applauded him before, when he achieved his stupendous feat of lying down before the bull. Her gloved hands clapped with enthusiasm when he turned toward the barrier, bowing to the public. When Doña Sol saw that the bull-fighter was looking at her, she bowed to him with an affectionate manner, and even her companion, despicable fool! had joined this salutation with a stiff inclination of the body as if he were going to break off at the waist. Afterward he had several times surprised her glasses directed persistently at him, seeking him out in his retirement between barriers. That gachí! Perhaps she felt re-attracted to him. Gallardo decided to call on her next day, to see if the wind had changed.

The signal to kill was given and the swordsman, after a short speech, strode up to the animal.

His admirers shouted advice.

"Despatch him quick! He is an ox that deserves nothing."

The bull-fighter held his muleta before the animal, which charged, but with a slow step made cautious by torture, with a manifest intention of crushing, of wounding, as if martyrdom had awakened all his ferocity. That man was the first object which had placed itself before his horns since the torture.

The multitude felt its vengeful animosity against the bull vanish. He did not recover himself badly; he charged. Olé! And all hailed the pases de muleta with enthusiasm, including combatant and wild beast in common approbation.

The bull stood motionless, lowering his head, with his tongue protruding. Silence, the forerunner of the mortal thrust, fell; a silence greater than that of absolute solitude, product of many thousands of bated breaths; silence so intense that the faintest sound in the ring carried to the most distant seats. All heard a slight clashing of sticks striking against each other. It was the sound made when Gallardo with the point of his sword laid back over the bull's neck the charred shafts of the banderillas that rested between the horns. After this arrangement to facilitate the blow, the multitude thrust their heads still farther forward, responsive to the mysterious correspondence that had just been established between its will and that of the matador. "Now!" He was going to fell the bull with a masterful stroke. All divined the swordsman's resolution.

Gallardo threw himself upon the bull and the whole audience breathed hard in unison after the nerve-straining pause. The animal drew away from the encounter, running, bellowing with fury, while the rows of seats burst out into hisses and protests. As usual! Gallardo had turned away his face and bent his arm at the moment of killing. The animal bore in his neck the loose and wavering sword, and after taking a few steps the steel blade sprang out of the flesh and rolled on the sand.

Part of the public rebuked Gallardo. The charm that had united the swordsman to the multitude at the beginning of the feast was broken. Lack of confidence reappeared; criticism of the bull-fighter spread. All seemed to have forgotten the enthusiasm of a short time before.

Gallardo recovered his sword and with bowed head, lacking spirit to protest at the ingratitude of a multitude tolerant to others, inflexible with him, strode up to the bull