Harry De Windt

Cadiz Custom-House Officers—?Spanish Courtship—?Marketplace—?Leave for Seville—?Jerez de la Frontera—?Seville—?Pilate's House—?Las Delicias—?Triana—?Madrid—?Bull Fighting—?"Espadas"—?A Bull Fight—?Frascuelo—?Cruelty to Horses—?Leave for Paris—?A Stormy Passage—?Home Again—?Adieu.

I left for Cadiz by the small trading steamer James Haynes three days after my arrival at Gibraltar. A friend of mine being quartered here, I stayed with him at the barracks, fortunately for myself, as the Gibraltar hotels leave much to be desired in the way of accommodation.

On the approach from seaward Cadiz, with its flat roofs and high towers, presents more the appearance of a Moorish town than a European city, and the afternoon I saw it appeared to fully justify its Spanish appellation of "Pearl of the Sea," white and glittering in the bright afternoon sunshine, in striking contrast to the dark blue colour of the sea surrounding it.

I arrived at four o'clock the afternoon of my departure from Gibraltar, and drove to the Fonda de Cadiz, in the Plaza San Antonio, after considerable annoyance from the custom-house officers, who, although I had nothing contraband about me, seemed determined to make themselves as rude and unpleasant as possible, and appeared to be only second to the Turkish and Egyptian donaniers, as far as robbery and extortion are concerned.

I took a stroll after dinner to the Plaza Nina, the favourite lounge of Cadiz in the cool of the evening. The square was crowded with people of all classes; and the beauty of the women throughout Spain, and especially Seville and Cadiz, is very striking, although the picturesque costume with which one is apt to associate the Spanish lady is fast dying out. Black seemed to be the favourite colour, as it always has been in Spain, but the graceful mantilla is gradually but surely giving way to the Parisian bonnet.

The streets of Cadiz are well paved, and the houses substantially built of white stone. I was much struck at first by the heavy iron bars with which the windows of the ground floors in this, as in all other Spanish towns, are guarded. These, I subsequently ascertained, are for the double purpose of excluding thieves and too ardent lovers(!), for it may not be generally known that when a youth in Spain is paying his addresses to a girl, the doors of her parents' house are closed to him; nor is this all, for all intercourse with his novia, or intended, is forbidden excepting through these gratings!

A visit to Cadiz cathedral, "La Vieja," is well repaid, and I was lucky enough to hear a mass sung there. The interior of the building is very beautiful, although a high altar erected by Queen Isabella in 1866 greatly mars the effect, being in very florid style and bad taste. There were no seats at all in the building, the congregation kneeling and sitting upon the bare flags.

The market at Cadiz is a novel and picturesque sight, its stalls laden with every imaginable kind of fruit—grapes, pears, peaches, apricots, and even bananas—in abundance and at absurdly cheap prices.

I was much struck, throughout Spain, with the appearance of the Spanish soldiery. They all, with but few exceptions, looked smart and well set up, and their uniforms looked clean, and fitted them—an uncommon sight on the Continent.

My bill on leaving for Seville surprised me not a little—a good bed-room, excellent dinner and breakfast, including wine and omnibus to the station—about 8s. 6d. in English money! Would that some hotel-keepers I could mention would act on the same principle!

Railway travelling in Spain is cheap, though very slow, and the carriages exceedingly comfortable.

The intending voyager to Spain would, however, do well to learn the etiquettes of the country before going there, for they are manifold, and their non-observance may sometimes be taken as an insult by the sensitive Spaniard. The latter have an almost ridiculously keen sense of personal dignity, even to the very beggars, who consider themselves caballeros (gentlemen), and expect to be treated as such, as indeed they are by their own countrymen. It is also a good rule in Spain, to bear in mind when much pressed for time, that Spaniards hate being hurried, and that the slightest attempt to do so will probably delay you all the longer.

The five hours' journey from Cadiz to Seville is through vast sandy plains, not unlike parts of Roumania, excepting in the neighbourhood of Jeres de la Frontera. Here are large vineyards, in the midst of which stand pretty red-roofed villas, the properties of the owners of the vines, which formed pleasant relief to the eye after the glaring dusty plains left behind us, but to which we return on clearing the outskirts of Jerez.[14] Seville is reached at about eight p.m., and we drive to the Fonda de Cuatro Naciones, in the Plaza Nueva, having been recommended thither by a communicative fellow-passenger.

I stayed two days in Seville, and could willingly have remained longer, had I not been pressed, for it is a truly delightful city. Its houses are built very much in the modern French style, but there are also many old Moorish dwellings, with their open courtyards and fountains. One well worth seeing is the Casa de Pilatos, an exact model of Pilate's house at Jerusalem, and built by Enriquez de Ribiera to commemorate his visit there in 1533. Of public gardens Seville has many, the prettiest of these being Las Delicias, a walk stretching for nearly a mile along the banks of the river Gudalquivir, and planted with orange-trees, pomegranates, palms, roses, and all kinds of rare plants. This is the Champs ElysÉes of Seville, and when lit up at night, with innumerable coloured lamps, bears no slight resemblance to them. Triana, a transpontine suburb, is worth a visit in the daytime, as it is the residence of gipsies, smugglers, lower order of bull-fighters, and thieves. In December, 1876, it was nearly destroyed by the floods, and Seville was under water for five days, the water reaching to the cathedral doors.

I arrived in Madrid on the morning of Sunday, October 3rd, after a wretchedly cold night journey from Seville, and the jumps and bounds taken by the carriage I was in put sleep out of the question. On driving through the streets to the hotel, I noticed that every available wall was placarded with the announcement of a bull-fight to come off on that afternoon, and determined, if possible, to secure a seat. This, after breakfast, I managed to do, though only a second-class one, all "boletiere de sombra" or seats in the shade, being already let; the consequence being that at the end of the performance most of the skin had peeled off my face.

Bull-fighting in Spain, at the present time, is very much akin to what racing is in England, the espadas (or matadors) being held very much in the same esteem as our popular jockeys by the public: and the photograph of the champion, at the time of my visit (Frascuelo), was to be seen figuring in most of the photograph shops of Madrid and Seville, the latter town being considered the best academy for the aspiring bullfighter. The Spanish bull-fighters have risen considerably in the social scale during the past century, for they were formerly denied the burial rite. A priest is now, however, in attendance at every fight to give absolution in the event of a fatal accident. The fights are very expensive affairs, costing from £400 to £500 each, and in most towns are only occasionally held, although in Madrid they take place every Sunday throughout the season, which lasts from April to October. Most of the bulls selected are bred at Utrera, in Andalusia, about twenty miles from Seville, and are splendid animals. All are not, however, fit for the ring, the more ferocious ones only being selected. The Plaza is usually under the superintendence of a society of nobles and gentlemen, called Maestanzas, the king being styled "Hermano Major," or elder brother of the Guild.

The bull-fighters themselves are of four grades: the espada or matador, the picadores, chulos, and banderilleros. The first named, who are at the head of the profession, engage in the last single combat with the bull, while the others are employed to annoy and harass him into as wild a state of frenzy as possible.

The fight I attended was graced by the presence of the King and Queen Isabella (not the young Queen, who rarely attends these performances), and the immense building was crowded to excess. It is about two miles out of Seville, comparatively new (the old one having been burnt down in 1875), and built of red and white brick in the Moorish style, with horse-shoe windows, and is capable of accommodating 17,000 persons. The ring is, as in a circus, covered with sand, a wooden barrier about five feet high running round it, separated from the front row of spectators by a narrow passage four feet broad, wherein the chulos or others (except the espada, who must never leave the arena) vault when hard pressed by the bull. The whole of the building is of course open to the sky.

The bills of the performance ran as follows:—

"Plaza de Toros, de Madrid.

"El Domingo, 3 de Octobre, de 1880.

"Se lidiaran siete Toros los seis primeros de la Antigua y a creditada ganaderia de Don Manuel Bannelos y Salcedo, vecino de Columiar Viejo, con divisa azul turqui, y'el setimo de la de D. Donato Palonimo vecino de chozas de la Sierra, con diviza amarilla."

Then followed the names of espadas (one of whom was the celebrated Frascuelo), picadores, chulos, &c.

A flourish of trumpets now sounded, and announced the arrival of the king and queen, which was the signal for the immediate clearing of the arena and commencement of the performance by the quadrilla, or procession of bull-fighters. These entering at the end of the building opposite, advanced to the front of the royal box and bowed. The espadas (three in number) looked particularly graceful, and were most gorgeously dressed in green, violet, and light blue satin, covered with gold lace; all wore the national Spanish dress—jacket, short breeches, and silk stockings, their hair being twisted up in a knot behind, and secured in a silk net. At the end of the procession came two picadores, mounted on two sorry steeds, who looked only fit for the knacker, as indeed they were. Their riders wore broad-brimmed grey felt hats and had their legs encased in iron and leather, to withstand the bull's horns. Each was armed with a garrocha, or spear, the blade of which, however, is only about an inch long, as the picadores are not allowed to kill the bull, but merely to irritate and goad him. They are subject to narrow squeaks sometimes, and few have a sound rib left, owing to the fearful falls they get, when the bull sometimes tosses both man and horse in the air. As I have said, the horses are fit for little else than the knacker, and as such are the excuse for most unmeasured cruelties, as the reader will see anon. The poor brutes' eyes are bound round with white cloths, or they would probably refuse to face the bull. If merely wounded, the gap is sewn up, and stuffed with tow, and I saw one poor brute who was desperately gored in the first encounter, go through three succeeding fights with blood pouring from wounds in his side, until a more furious charge, and plunge of the bull's horns put an end to his misery. The procession over, there was a breathless pause while the chulos got into position, and this being finished, and everything ready, the doors of his prison were opened, and the bull trotted out. He had evidently been well goaded in his cell before being released, as was evinced by the suppressed roars he gave as he caught sight of the chulos. The first act of the drama now commences, and the chulos pursue him round the arena with their red cloths, showing the while most wonderful grace and activity. The bull invariably charges at the cloth, and not the man; sometimes, however, making a frantic rush at both, when the chulos vaults over the barrier, so closely pressed as to give one the idea of his being lifted over by the bull's horns. This was carried on for about five minutes, when another trumpet sounded, and the picadores entered, mounted on the poor brutes (a brown and a grey) already mentioned.

The bandage having slipped off from over the grey horse's eyes, it was hastily readjusted, and only just in time, for the bull, as soon as ever he caught sight of the horses, made straight for the grey. Maddened by the shouts of the people and the cloaks of the "chulos," his charge was not a light one, and he buried his horns deep in the poor brute's flank, the picador meanwhile scooping a large piece of flesh out of his back with his garrocha. Maddened and exasperated, he then made for the brown, this time fortunately missing him, only, however, to reserve the poor beast for a worse fate. Another furious charge now unhorsed the picador, at which the chulos leaped into the ring, and distracted the bull's attention with their red cloths while the fallen picador scrambled over the barrier into safety, a feat which his heavy accoutrements rendered by no means easy.

The trumpets now sounded for the approach of the banderilleros, while the horses were led away out of sight, to be patched up for the succeeding engagement; a quantity of sand was thrown over the blood stains, which were pretty numerous throughout the arena. The banderilleros were three in number, and smart, dapper, little fellows, beautifully dressed in light blue satin and gold. Each was armed with the banderillo, small barbed darts, about a foot long, ornamented with coloured paper. Their duty is to go straight up to the bull, facing him, and as soon as he stoops his head to charge them, stick their barbs, one on each side of his neck, and slip aside. This seemed to be the most graceful feat of the day, and one requiring nearly as much nerve as that of the "espada," whose arrival a final flourish of trumpets now announced.

The espada, or man of death, now stands alone with his victim, and having bowed to the royal box, he throws his montero, or cap, among the audience, and swears to do his duty. In his right hand is the long Toledan blade la espada, while in his left he holds the muleta, or small red flag about a foot square, which is his weapon of defence, and on the skill of using which his safety depends. The now maddened bull's first tactic was to charge furiously at the red flag, which the espada held at arm's length, and so wonderfully skilled was Frascuelo that he never moved an inch, while the animal rushed by him beneath his arm. Gradually decoying him along the edge of the ring with the muleta, Frascuelo paused in front of the royal box with his victim, and played him for a while, preparing in the meantime to give him the coup de grÂce. This is done when the bull is preparing for the final charge; the espada meeting him with his sword, plunges it hilt deep, just at the back of the head, and severing the dorsal column. The bull is now stationary for a few seconds, hardly knowing what to make of it, the espada holding up his hand to enjoin silence, till at length the brute sways slowly from side to side, and falls down dead, amid the jeers and applause of the populace, while the victorious espada withdraws, and wipes his sword, and walks slowly round the ring, the spectators throwing him cigars, packets of cigarettes, and—this last a great honour—their hats, a compliment he returns by throwing them back again. If, however, the espada is long in despatching the bull, or in the slightest degree "shows the white feather," he is grossly insulted, and empty bottles, orange-peel, cigar stumps, &c. are thrown at him till he leaves the Plaza. Frascuelo's performance was, however, apparently all that could be desired, and a team of fourteen mules, gaily caparisoned with bells and flags, now entered, and dragged away the carcase of the dead bull at full gallop—the fight having occupied a little over twenty minutes.

The arena was now raked over, and put in order, preparatory to the arrival of the second bull, Florido, who evidently did not care about the game at all. Disregarding all the attempts of the chulos to harass him, he repeatedly charged at the barrier, and endeavoured to clear it and get out of their way. The picadores tried him with no further success, until a waving of handkerchiefs was seen among the audience. This is the sign for the banderillos del fuego to be applied. These are barbs made with crackers, which go off with a loud report as soon as they are stuck in the bull's shoulder. But even this last resource failed to rouse Florido, who was ignominiously despatched by a cacheterro, and dragged out of the ring to the strains of "Nicholas" (in derision) by the band!

But if this performance had been a tame one, the succeeding one fully made up for it. Carbonero, the bull who now made his appearance, was evidently not to be trifled with. Galloping into the arena, he made short work of the chulos, who soon decamped to make way for the picadores, mounted on the wretched brown aforementioned and another poor brute in place of the grey already butchered. Carbonero lost no time, and, making his rush suddenly, rolled the brown horse and his rider over and over, repeatedly goring the wretched brute with his long horns (the picador having made his escape over the barrier). In vain did the chulos try to get the bull to leave his prey; in vain did the second picador seek to divert his attention; all was useless, until, at length, with a maddened effort, the wretched horse staggered up and galloped wildly round the ring, treading on its own entrails, and closely pursued by the bull! The poor brute was caught at length and despatched by the cacheterro. "Banderilleros" were dispensed with on this occasion, so rabid had the bull become, and Frascuelo, after a ten minutes' encounter, succeeded in killing him, amid shouts that might have been heard at Madrid, two miles off, and applauded by none more vociferously than those occupying the royal box.

There were five more bulls to be killed, but the last performance had sickened me of bull-fighting and everything connected with it, and I left the Plaza wondering that such things are allowed to exist in a civilised country![15]

I left Madrid the following day for Paris, breaking the journey at Bordeaux, and after two days spent in the gay city, am once more on the Chemin de Fer du Nord, en route for Calais. A stormy passage across (which makes us feel considerably queerer than we have in all our travels on sea), and we enter the tidal express, which seems to fairly tear along, after the crawlers we have left abroad. Two hours more, and we are at Charing Cross, scarcely realising that we are really home again until the window is opened and a good gust of "home-made" London fog enters, convincing us that there is no mistake about it.

And here—after a journey of over 20,000 miles, during which I trust the reader has not tired of and forsaken me—I must say, Adieu.