Gautier Théophile
Wanderings in Spain
The conflict was about to commence. The Alguazil, dressed in everyday costume, and whose duty it was to carry the keys of the toril to the groom of the circus, had a spirited horse, which he managed very awkwardly, prefacing the tragedy with rather an amusing farce. He first lost his hat, and then his stirrups. His trousers, which had no straps, were rucked up as far as his knees in the most grotesque fashion, and, in consequence of the door having been maliciously opened for the bull's entrance, before the alguazil had had time to quit the circus, his fright was increased to a fearful pitch, rendering him still more ridiculous by the contortions he threw himself into on his steed. He was not, however, unhorsed, to the great disappointment of the vulgar; the bull, dazzled by the torrents of light which inundated the arena, did not instantly perceive him, but allowed him to escape without injury. It was therefore in the midst of an immense Homeric and Olympian fit of laughter that the fight began, but silence was soon restored, the bull having ripped up the horse of the first picador, and thrown the second.
All our attention was engrossed by Montes, whose name is popular all through Spain, and whose feats of daring form the subject of a thousand wonderful stories. Montes was born at Chiclana, in the neighbourhood of Cadiz. He is from forty to forty-three years of age, and rather above the middle size. He has a serious cast of countenance, a deliberate, measured walk, and a pale olive complexion, with nothing remarkable about him save the mobility of his eyes, which appear to be the only part of his impassible face endowed with life; he seems to be more supple than robust, and owes his success more to his coolness, the justness of his glance, and his profound study of the art, than to his muscular force. At the very first step a bull takes in the arena, Montes can tell whether he is short or long sighted, whether he is clear or dark; that is to say, whether he attacks frankly or has recourse to stratagem, whether he is de muchas piernas or aplomado, light or heavy, and whether he will shut his eyes to execute the cogida, or keep them open. Thanks to these observations, made with the rapidity of thought, Montes is always enabled to vary his mode of defence as circumstances require. However, as he carries his cool temerity to the greatest possible lengths, he has during his career received a considerable number of thrusts, as the scar down his cheek proves, and, on several occasions he has been borne out of the circus grievously wounded.
On this occasion, he wore an extremely elegant and magnificent suit of apple-green silk embroidered with silver, for Montes is a rich man, and, if he still continues to appear in the arena, it is from a love of the art, and the want of strong emotions; his fortune amounts to more than 50,000 duros, which is a considerable sum for him to possess, if we consider what the matadores have to pay for their dress, a complete suit costing from 1,500 to 2,000 francs, and, also the perpetual journeys they are always making, accompanied by their quadrille, from one town to another.
Montes is not like other espadas, contented with despatching a bull when the signal of his death is given. He is always on the watch, he directs the combat, and comes to the succour of the picadores and chulos in peril. More than one torero owes his life to Montes' intervention. One bull, that would not allow his attention to be diverted by the cloaks that the chulos were waving before him, had ripped up the belly of a horse that he had thrown down, and was endeavouring to do the same to the rider, who was protected by the carcass of his steed. Montes seized the savage beast by the tail, and in the midst of the frantic applause of the whole assembly, caused him to waltz round several times, to his infinite disgust; thus allowing time for the picador to be carried off. Sometimes he will place himself motionless before the bull, with his arms crossed on his breast, and his eye fixed, and the monster will suddenly stop short, subjugated by his opponent's look, which is as bright, as sharp, and as cold as the blade of a sword. A feat of this description is followed by shouts, bellowings, vociferations, stamping of feet and thunders of bravoes, of which it is impossible to form any idea; a feeling of delirium seizes every one present, a general giddiness causes the fifteen thousand spectators, intoxicated with aguardiente, sunshine, and blood, to reel upon their seats; handkerchiefs are waved, and hats thrown up into the air, while Montes alone, calm in the midst of this multitude, enjoys in silence the profound feeling of joy which he restrains within his own breast, merely bowing slightly like a man who is capable of performing many other feats of the same description. I can easily understand a man risking his life every minute for applause like this; it is not dear at the price. O ye singers with golden throats, ye fairy-footed danseuses, ye actors of all descriptions, ye emperors and ye poets, ye who fancy that you have excited a people's enthusiasm, you never heard Montes applauded!
Sometimes the spectators themselves beg him to execute one of those daring feats in which he is always successful. A pretty girl says to him, as she blows him a kiss, "Come, Señor Montes, come, Paquirro" (which is his christian name), "I know how gallant you are; do some trifle, una cosita, for a lady." Whereupon Montes leaps over the bull, placing his head on the animal's neck as he does so, or else, shaking his cape before the animal's muzzle, by a rapid movement, wraps it round him so as to form an elegant piece of drapery with irreproachable folds; he then springs on one side, and lets the bull, who is unable to stop himself, pass by.
The manner in which Montes kills the bull is remarkable for its precision, certainty, and ease: with him all idea of danger ceases; he is so collected and so completely master of himself, he appears so sure of success, that the combat seems no longer to be serious, and, perhaps, loses somewhat of its exciting nature. It is impossible to fear for his life; he strikes the bull where he likes, when he likes, and how he likes. The chances of the conflict become somewhat too unequal; a less skilful matador will sometimes produce a more startling effect by the risks and danger which he incurs. This will, perhaps, appear to be a piece of refined barbarity; but aficionados, and all those persons who have been present at a bull-fight, and felt interested in favour of some particularly courageous, frank bull, will most certainly share our sentiments. A circumstance which happened on the last day of the performances will prove the truth of our assertion as surely as it proved, rather harshly, to Montes, how strictly impartial a Spanish public is both towards man and beast.
A magnificent black bull had just been let loose in the arena. The quick, decided manner in which he issued from the toril caused all the connoisseurs present to conceive the highest opinion of him. He possessed all the qualities requisite for a fighting bull; his horns were long, sharp, and well-curved; his clean-made, slim, and nervous legs, showed his extreme agility, while his broad dewlap and well-developed flanks gave proof of an immense amount of strength; indeed, he was called the Napoleon of the herd, that being the only name capable of conveying a suitable idea of his incontestable superiority. Without hesitating a single instant, he rushed at the picador stationed near the tablas, overthrew him, together with his horse, who was killed on the spot, and then attacked the second picador, who was not more fortunate, and whom the assistants had scarcely time to help over the barrier, severely bruised and injured by his fall. In less than a quarter of an hour, six horses lay ripped open on the ground; the chulos only shook their coloured capes at a very long distance off, without losing sight of the barrier, over which they leaped immediately Napoleon gave signs of approaching. Montes himself appeared troubled, and on one occasion had actually placed his foot on the ledge of the tablas, ready to jump over to the other side, in case he was too closely pressed; a thing he had not done during the two preceding days. The delight of the spectators was made manifest by the most noisy exclamations, and the most flattering compliments for the bull were heard from every mouth. He shortly afterwards performed a new feat of strength, which wound up the enthusiasm to its highest possible pitch.
A sobre-saliente (double) de picador– for the two principal ones were too much injured to appear again, was awaiting, lance in rest, the attack of the terrible Napoleon; the latter, without paying any attention to the wound he received in the shoulder, caught the horse under the belly, and, with one movement of his head, caused him to fall with his fore-legs on the top of the tablas; then, raising his hind quarters by a second movement, sent him and his master completely over the barrier into the corridor of refuge which runs all round the arena.
So great an exploit caused thunders of applause. The bull was master of the field, galloping about victoriously, and amusing himself, in default of any other adversaries, by tossing into the air the dead bodies of the horses he had already gored. The supply of victims was exhausted, and there were no more horses in the stables of the circus to mount the picadores. The banderilleros were seated astride upon the tablas, not daring to harass with their darts, ornamented with paper, so redoubtable an adversary, whose rage most certainly stood in no need of artificial excitement. The spectators became impatient at this pause in the proceedings, and vociferated, Las banderillas! las banderillas! Fuego al alcade! To the stake with the alcade for not giving the necessary order! At last, at a sign from the director of the games, one banderillero detached himself from the rest, and planted two darts in the neck of the furious animal, immediately retreating as speedily as possible, but yet not quickly enough, as the bull's horn grazed his arm, and tore up his sleeve. On seeing this, and in spite of the hooting and vociferations of the public, the alcade gave the death order, and made a sign to Montes to take his muleta and his sword, contrary to all the rules of Tauromachy, which require that a bull shall have received at least four pairs of banderillas before being delivered up to the sword of the matador.
Instead of advancing, according to his usual custom, into the middle of the arena, Montes posted himself at the distance of some twenty paces from the barrier, in order to have a place of refuge in case of failure. He was very pale, and, without indulging in any of those sportive acts and tricks of courage which have procured him the admiration of all Spain, he displayed the scarlet muleta, and called the bull, who required no pressing to come up to him. Montes made two or three passes with his muleta, holding his sword horizontally on a level with the monster's eyes; suddenly the bull fell down, as if struck by lightning, and after giving one convulsive start, expired. The sword had pierced his forehead and entered his brain, contrary to the rules of the art, which require the matador to pass his arm between the horns of the animal, and stab him between the nape of the neck and the shoulders, thereby augmenting the danger of the man, but giving some chance to his four-footed adversary.
When the public understood the blow, for all this had passed with the rapidity of thought, one universal shout of indignation rose from the tendidos to the palcos; a storm of abuse and hisses, accompanied by the most incredible tumult, burst forth on all sides. "Butcher, assassin, brigand, thief, galley-slave, headsman!" were the gentlest terms employed. "A centa Montes! To the stake with Montes! To the dogs with Montes! Death to the alcade!" were the cries which were everywhere heard. Never did I behold such a degree of fury, and I blush to own that I shared in it myself. Mere vociferations, however, did not long suffice; the crowd commenced throwing at the poor wretch fans, hats, sticks, jars full of water, and pieces of the benches torn up for the purpose. There was still one more bull to kill, but his death took place unperceived, in the midst of the horrible tumult. It was Jose Para, the second espada, who despatched the bull, with two very skilful thrusts. As for Montes, he was livid; his face turned green with rage, and his teeth made the blood start from his white lips, although he displayed great calmness, and leant with affected gracefulness on the hilt of his sword, the point of which, reddened against the rules, he had wiped in the sand.
On what does popularity depend! On the first and second days of the performance no person would ever have conceived it possible that so sure an artist, one so certain of his public as Montes, could be punished with such severity for an infraction of the rules, which was, doubtless, called for by the most imperious necessity, on account of the extraordinary agility, strength, and fury, of the animal. When the fight was concluded, he got into a calessin followed by his quadrille, and swearing by all that he held sacred that he would never put his foot in Malaga again. I do not know whether he has kept his word, and remembered the insults of the last day longer than the triumphs and applause of the two preceding ones. At present, I am of opinion that the public of Malaga was unjust towards the great Montes de Chiclana, all whose blows had been superbly aimed, and who, in every case of danger, had displayed heroic coolness, and admirable address, so much so, indeed, that the delighted audience had made him a present of all the bulls he killed, and allowed him to cut off an ear of each, to show that they were his property, and could not be claimed either by the hospital or the proprietor of the circus.
We returned to our parador, giddy, intoxicated, and saturated with violent emotion, hearing nothing, as we passed along the streets, but the praises of the bull, and imprecations against Montes.
The same evening, in spite of my fatigue, I procured a guide to conduct me to the theatre, wishing to pass immediately from the sanguinary reality of the circus to the intellectual emotions of the stage. The contrast was striking; the one was full of life and noise, the other was deserted and silent. The house was almost empty, only a few spectators being scattered here and there over the melancholy benches; and yet the entertainments consisted of "The Lovers of Ternel," a drama by Don Juan Eugenio Hartzembusch, and one of the most remarkable productions of the modern Spanish school. It is the touching and poetical story of two lovers, who remain unalterably faithful to one another, in spite of a thousand various seductions and obstacles. Notwithstanding all the author's endeavours – which are often very successful – to vary a situation that is always the same, the piece would appear too simple to a French audience. The passionate portions are treated with a great deal of warmth and impulse, occasionally disfigured by a certain melodramatic exaggeration, to which the author abandons himself too easily. The love of the Sultana of Valencia for Isabel's lover, Juan Diego Martinez Garces de Marsilla, whom she causes to be drugged with a narcotic and brought into the harem; the vengeance of this same Sultana when she sees that she is despised, the guilty letters of Isabel's mother, which are found by Roderigo d'Azagra, who uses them as a means of marrying the daughter, and threatens to show them to the deceived husband, are, perhaps, rather improbable incidents, but they afford an opportunity for touching and dramatic scenes. The piece is written partly in verse and partly in prose. As far as a foreigner can judge of the style of a language, all the niceties of which he can never fully appreciate, Hartzembusch's verses struck me as being superior to his prose. They are free, bold, animated, and offer a great variety in their form; they are also tolerably free from those poetical amplifications into which the facility of their prosody often leads the poets of southern countries. His prose dialogue appears to be imitated from that of modern French melodramas, and offends by its heavy, bombastic style. "The Lovers of Ternel" is really a literary work, far superior to the translations, arranged, or deranged, from the pieces played in the Boulevard theatres of Paris, and which inundate the Peninsula. In "The Lovers of Ternel," you perceive traces of the old ballads and great Spanish dramatists; and it is greatly to be desired that the young poets on the other side the Pyrenees would pursue this course rather than translate a quantity of wretched melodramas into a Castilian more or less pure.
A very comic saynete followed the serious piece. It set forth the troubles of an old bachelor, who takes a pretty servant of "all-work," as the advertisements say. The little rogue first introduces as her brother a great strapping Valencian, six feet high, with enormous whiskers, a tremendous navaja, an insatiable appetite and inextinguishable thirst; she then brings into the house a cousin, who is quite as wild a gentleman as her brother, and is bristling with an unlimited number of blunderbusses, pistols, and other dangerous arms. The said cousin is followed by an uncle, who is a smuggler, and carries with him a complete arsenal and a face to correspond, to the great terror of the old man, who is very repentant for his improper levity. All these various rascals were represented by the actors in the most truthful and admirable manner. At last, a nephew appears, who is a well-behaved young soldier, and delivers his uncle from the band of ruffians who have taken up their quarters in his house, embraced his servant while they were drinking his wine, smoked his cigars and pillaged his dwelling. The uncle promises never to be served for the future by any but old men-servants. The saynetes resemble our vaudevilles, but the plot is less complicated, sometimes consisting merely of detached scenes, like the interludes in Italian comedies.
The performances terminated with a bayle nacional, executed by two couples of dancers and danseuses, in a very satisfactory manner. Although the Spanish danseuses do not possess the correct and accurate precision, or the elevated style of the French danseuses, they are, in my opinion, vastly superior to them by their graceful and fascinating appearance. As they study but little, and do not subject themselves, in order to render their bodies supple, to those terrible exercises which cause a professional dancing-room to resemble a chamber of torture, they avoid that race-horse sort of thinness which makes our ballet-dancers look rather too deathlike and anatomical; they preserve the outlines and fulness of their sex; they resemble women dancing and not danseuses, which is a very different thing. Their style has not anything in common with that of the French school. In the latter, the immovability and perpendicularity of the upper part of the body are expressly recommended, and the body never takes part in the movement of the legs. In Spain, the feet hardly leave the ground; there are none of those grand pirouettes or elevating of the legs, which make a woman look like a pair of compasses opened to their fullest extent, and which, in Spain, are considered revoltingly indecent. It is the body which dances, the back which undulates, the sides which bend, the waist which moves with all the suppleness of an Almee or a serpent. When a Spanish danseuse throws herself back, her shoulders almost touch the ground; her arms, in a deathlike swoon, are as flexible and limp as a floating scarf; you would think that her hands could scarcely raise and rattle the ivory castagnettes with their golden strings, and yet, when the proper moment is come, this voluptuous languor is succeeded by the activity of a young African lion, proving that the body as soft as silk envelopes muscles of steel. At the present day, the Moorish Almees follow the same system; their dancing consists of a series of harmoniously wanton undulations of the bust, the hips, and the back, with the arms thrown back over the head. The Arabian traditions have been preserved in the national dances, especially those of Andalusia.
Although the Spanish male dancers are but mediocre, they have a dashing, bold, and gallant bearing, which I greatly prefer to the equivocal and vapid graces of ours. They are taken up neither by themselves nor the public, and have not a look or a smile for any one but their partner, of whom they appear passionately enamoured, and whom they seem ready to defend against all comers. They possess a ferocious kind of grace, a certain insolently daring demeanour, which is peculiar to them. After wiping off their paint, they would make excellent banderilleros, and might spring from the boards of a theatre to the arena of the circus.
The Malagueña, which is a dance confined to Malaga, is really most poetical and charming. The cavalier appears first, with his sombrero slouched over his eyes, and his scarlet cloak thrown round him, like that of some hidalgo walking about in search of adventures. The lady then enters, draped in her mantilla, and with her fan in her hand, like a lady who is going to take a turn in the Almeda. The cavalier endeavours to catch a glance of the mysterious siren, but she manœuvres her fan so coquetishly, and so well, she shuts and opens it so opportunely, she twists it about so promptly on a level with her pretty face, that the gallant is completely baffled, and retires a few steps to think of some new stratagem. He rattles the castagnettes under his cloak. Directly she hears them, the lady pricks up her ears; she smiles, her breast heaves, and the tip of her little satin shoe marks the time in spite of her; she throws aside her fan and her mantilla, and appears in a gay dancing costume, glittering with spangles and tinsel, with a rose in her hair, and a large tortoiseshell comb at the back of her head. The cavalier then casts aside his mask and cloak, and the two personages execute a deliciously original dance.
As I returned along the beach, and looked upon the sea which reflected in its mirror of dark steel the pale visage of the moon, I reflected on the contrast between the crowded circus and the empty theatre, – on the eagerness displayed by the multitude for brutal reality, and its indifference for the speculations of the mind. As a poet, I could not help envying the gladiator, and I regretted having given up action for reverie. The day before, at the same theatre, they had played a piece of Lope de Vega, which had not been more attractive than the work of the younger writer; so that ancient genius and modern talent were not worth a thrust from the sword of Montes!
Nor are the other theatres in Spain much better attended than that at Malaga, not even the Teatro del Principe in Madrid, although there is a very great actor there, – namely, Julian Romea – and an excellent actress, Matilde Diez. The course of the old Spanish drama appears to be hopelessly dried up; and yet never did a more copious stream flow in a broader channel, – never did there exist a more profound and inexhaustible amount of fecundity. Our most prolific vaudeville writers are still far behind Lope de Vega, who never had any one to assist him, and whose works are so numerous that the exact number is not known, and there is hardly a complete copy of them to be found. Without including his comedies de cape et d'épée, in which he has no rival, Calderon de la Barca has written a multitude of autos sacramentales, which are a kind of Roman-catholic mysteries, in which strange profundity of thought and singularity of conception are united to the most enchanting and luxuriously elegant poetry. It would require a whole series of folio catalogues merely to enumerate the titles of the pieces written by Lope de Rueda, Montalban, Guevara, Quevedo, Tirso, Rojas, Moreto, Guilhen de Castro, Diamante, and a host of others. The number of theatrical pieces written in Spain during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries surpasses all that we can imagine: we might as well endeavour to count the leaves in the forest or the grains of sand upon the sea-shore. They are almost all composed in verse of eight feet, varied by assonants, and printed in two columns quarto, with a coarse engraving as a frontispiece, each forming a book of from six to eight leaves. The booksellers' shops are full of them; thousands may be seen hung up pell-mell in the midst of the ballads and legends in verse sold at the bookstalls in the streets. Without any exaggeration, the epigram written on a too prolific Roman poet, who was, after his death, burnt upon a funereal pile formed of his own books, might be applied to most of the Spanish dramatic authors. They possess a fertility of invention, an abundance of incidents, and a complication of plot, of which no one can form any idea. Long before Shakspeare the Spaniards invented the Drama; their works are dramatic in the broadest acceptation of the word; and, with the exception of some few erudite puerilities, they copy neither from the Greeks nor the Romans, but, as Lope de Vega says in his "Arte Nuevo de hacer Comedias in este Tiempo," —
" … Cuando he de escribir una comedia
Encierro los preceptos con seis llaves."
Spanish dramatic authors do not seem to have paid much attention to the delineation of character, although fine, cutting instances of observation are to be met with in each scene. But man is not studied philosophically; and in their dramas you seldom find those episodical figures so frequent in England's great tragic poet, – those life-like sketches which are only indirectly connected with the action of the piece, and have no other object than that of presenting another phase of the human soul, another original individuality, or reflection of the poet's mind. The Spanish author rarely allows the public to perceive anything of his own peculiar character until he asks pardon, at the conclusion of the drama, for the faults of which he has been guilty.
The primum mobile in Spanish pieces is the point of honour.
"Los Cusos de la honra son mejores,
Porque mueven con fuerza a toda gente,
Con ellos las acciones virtuosas
Que la virtud es donde quiera amada,"
says Lope de Vega, who was a pretty good judge in the matter, and did not fail to follow his own precept. The point of honour played the same part in the Spanish comedies as Fatality did in the tragedies of the Greeks. Its inflexible laws and cruel alternatives easily gave rise to dramatic scenes of deep interest. El Pundonor, which was a kind of chivalric religion, with its own laws, subtleties, and niceties, is far superior to the Ἀνάγκη, or Fatality of the ancients, whose blow fell blindly, and by mere chance, on the innocent, as well as on the guilty. When a person reads the Greek tragic authors, his mind frequently revolts at the situation of the hero, who is equally guilty, whether he acts or no; but the point of honour of the Castilians is always perfectly logical, and consonant with itself. Besides, it is only an exaggerated representative of all human virtues carried to the highest pitch of susceptibility. In his most horrible fits of rage, and in his most frightful acts of revenge, the hero maintains a noble and solemn attitude. It is always in the name of loyalty, conjugal fidelity, respect for his ancestors, and the honour of his name, that he draws his iron-hilted sword, frequently against those whom he loves with all his soul, and whom he is compelled by stern necessity to immolate. From this struggle of the passions with the point of honour springs the interest of most of the pieces of the old Spanish theatre, a profound and sympathetic interest keenly felt by the spectators, who in a similar position would not have acted otherwise than the personages of the drama. We can no longer be astonished at the prodigious fertility of the old dramatists of the Peninsula, when we reflect upon the inexhaustible nature of their subject, which was so well suited to the manners of the times. Another source of interest, not less rich, was found in virtuous actions, chivalric devotion, sublime self-abnegation, supernatural passion, and ideal delicacy, resisting the most skilfully-combined plots, and the most complicated intrigues. In cases of this description, the poet seems to have undertaken the task of representing to the spectators a finished model of human perfection, heaping on the head of his prince or princess all the good qualities on which he can lay his hand, and making them more careful of their purity than the white ermine, who prefers death to a single spot upon its snow-like fur.
A profound sentiment of catholicism and feudal customs pervades the whole Spanish theatre, which is truly national, both in matter and form. The division of the pieces into three days adopted by the Spanish authors, is certainly the most reasonable and most logical. Every well-constructed dramatic piece naturally consists of the exposition, the complicated consequences arising therefrom, and the unravelling of the same. This is an arrangement we should do well to adopt, in place of the ancient form in five acts, two of which are often useless, the second and the fourth.
It must not, however, be supposed that the old Spanish pieces were exclusively sublime. The grotesque, that indispensable element of mediæval art, is often introduced under the form of the gracioso, or bobo (simpleton), who enlivens the serious portion of the action by pleasantries and jokes more or less broad, producing, in contrast to the hero, the same effect as the misshapen dwarfs playing, in their many-coloured doublets, with greyhounds bigger than themselves, as we see them represented by the side of kings and princes, in the old pictures of public galleries.
