Romero and Paco Montes,—the world does
not contain the stuff to make their counterparts.
They were serious, earnest men. They would have
let their right arms wither before they would have
courted the applause of the mob by killing a bull outside
of the severe traditions. Compare them with the
men of to-day, with your Rafael Molina, who allows
himself to be gored, playing with a heifer; with your
frivolous boys like Frascuelo. I have seen the
ring convulsed with laughter as that buffoon strutted
across the arena, flirting his muleta as a manola
does her skirts, the bewildered bull not knowing what
to make of it. It was enough to make Illo turn
in his bloody grave.
“Why, my young friend, I remember when bulls
were a dignified and serious matter; when we kept
account of their progress from their pasture to the
capital. We had accounts of their condition by
couriers and carrier-pigeons. On the day when
they appeared it was a high festival in the court.
All the sombreros in Spain were there, the ladies
in national dress with white mantillas. The young
queen always in her palco (may God guard her).
The fighters of that day were high priests of art;
there was something of veneration in the regard that
was paid them. Duchesses threw them bouquets
with billets-doux. Gossip and newspapers have
destroyed the romance of common life.
“The only pleasure I take in the Plaza de Toros
now is at night. The custodians know me and let
me moon about in the dark. When all that is ignoble
and mean has faded away with the daylight, it seems
to me the ghosts of the old time come back upon the
sands. I can fancy the patter of light hoofs,
the glancing of spectral horns. I can imagine
the agile tread of Romero, the deadly thrust of Montes,
the whisper of long-vanished applause, and the clapping
of ghostly hands. I am growing too old for such
skylarking, and I sometimes come away with a cold in
my head. But you will never see a bull-fight
you can enjoy as I do these visionary festivals, where
memory is the corregidor, and where the only spectators
are the stars and I.”
RED-LETTER DAYS
No people embrace more readily than the Spaniards
the opportunity of spending a day without work.
Their frequent holidays are a relic of the days when
the Church stood between the people and their taskmasters,
and fastened more firmly its hold upon the hearts
of the ignorant and overworked masses, by becoming
at once the fountain of salvation in the next world,
and of rest in this. The government rather encouraged
this growth of play-days, as the Italian Bourbons
used to foster mendicancy, by way of keeping the people
as unthrifty as possible. Lazzaroni are so much
more easily managed than burghers!
It is only the holy days that are successfully celebrated
in Spain. The state has tried of late years to
consecrate to idle parade a few revolutionary dates,
but they have no vigorous national life. They
grow feebler and more colorless year by year, because
they have no depth of earth.
Copyrights
Castilian Days from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
