The Skeptical Romancer (6 page)

We went through long corridors to the female side, and meanwhile the assistant told the doctor that during the night a woman had been confined. Don Felipe sat down in an office to write a certificate.

“What a nuisance these women are!” he said. “Why can’t they wait till they get out of prison? How is it?”

“It was still-born.”

“
Pero
,
hombre
,” said the doctor crossly. “Why didn’t you tell me that before? Now I shall have to write another certificate. This one’s no good.”

He tore it up and painfully made out a second with the slow laborious writing of a man unused to holding a pen.

Then we marched on and came to another smaller
patio
where the females were. They were comparatively few, not more than twenty or thirty; and when we entered a dark inner-room to see the woman who was ill they all trooped in after us – all but one. They stood round eagerly telling us of the occurrence.

“Don’t make such a noise,
por Dios
! I can’t hear myself speak,” said the doctor.

The woman was lying on her back with flushed cheeks, her eyes staring glassily. The doctor asked a question, but she did not answer. She began to cry, sobbing from utter weakness in a silent, unrestrained way. On a table near her, hidden by a cloth, lay the dead child.

We went out again into the
patio
. The sun was higher now and it was very warm, the blue sky shone above us without a cloud. The prisoners returned to their occupations. One old hag was doing a younger woman’s hair; I noticed that even for Spain it was beautiful, very thick, curling, and black as night. The girl held a carnation in her hand to put in front of the comb when the operation was completed. Another woman suckled a baby, and several tiny children were playing about happily, while their mothers chatted to one another, knitting.

But there was one, markedly different from the others, who sat alone taking no notice of the scene. It was she who remained in the
patio
when the rest followed us into the sick room, a gipsy, tall and gaunt, with a skin of the darkest yellow. Her hair was not elaborately arranged as that of her companions, but plainly done, drawn back stiffly from the forehead. She sat there, erect and motionless, looking at the ground with an unnatural stare, silent. They told me she never spoke a word nor paid attention to the women in the court. She might have been entirely alone. She never altered her position, but sat there, sphinx-like, in that attitude of stony grief. She was a stranger among the rest, and her bronzed face, her silence gave a weird impression; she seemed to recall the burning deserts of the East and an endless past.

At last we came out, and the heavy iron door was closed behind us. What a relief it was to be in the street again, to see the sun and the trees, and to breathe the free air! A cart went by with a great racket, drawn by three mules, and the cries of the driver as he cracked his whip were almost musical; a train of donkeys passed; a man trotted by on a brown shaggy cob, his huge panniers filled with glowing vegetables, green and red, and in a corner was a great bunch of roses. I took long breaths of the free air, I shook myself to get rid of those prison odours.

I offered don Felipe refreshment and we repaired to a dramshop immediately opposite. Two women were standing there.

“
Ole!
” said the doctor to an old toothless hag with a vicious leer. “What are you doing here? You’ve not been in for some time.”

She laughed and explained that she was come to fetch her friend, a young woman, who had been released that morning. The doctor nodded to her, asking how long she had been in gaol.

“Two years and nine months,” she said.

And she began to laugh hysterically with tears streaming down her cheeks.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she cried. “I can’t understand it.”

She looked into the street with wild, yearning eyes; everything seemed to her strange and new.

“I haven’t seen a tree for nearly three years,” she sobbed.

But the hag was pressing the doctor to drink with her; he accepted without much hesitation, and gallantly proposed her health.

“What are you going to do?” he said to the younger woman, she was hardly more than a girl. “You’d better not hang about in Seville or you’ll get into trouble again.”

“Oh no,” she said, “I’m going to my village –
mi pueblo
– this afternoon. I want to see my husband and my child.”

Don Felipe turned to me and asked what I thought of the Seville prison. I made some complimentary reply.

“Are English prisons like that?” he asked.

I said I did not think so.

“Are they better?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“I’m told,” he said, “that two years’ hard labour in an English prison kills a man.”

“The English are a great nation,” I replied.

“And a humane one,” he added, with a bow and a smile.

I bade him good-morning.

THE DOORS ARE
opened two hours before the performance. Through the morning the multitude has trooped to the Plaza San Fernando to buy tickets, and in the afternoon all Seville wends its way towards the ring. The road is thronged with people, they walk in dense crowds, pushing one another to get out of the way of broken-down shays that roll along filled with enthusiasts. The drivers crack their whips, shouting: “
Un real, un real a los Toros!
”
^*
The sun beats down and the sky is intensely blue. It is very hot, already people are blowing and panting, boys sell
fans
at a halfpenny each. “
Abanicos a perra chica!
”
^†

When you come near the ring the din is tremendous; the many vendors shout their wares, middlemen offer tickets at double the usual price, friends call to one another. Now and then is a quarrel, a quick exchange of abuse as one pushes or treads upon his neighbour; but as a rule all are astonishingly good-natured. A man, after a narrow escape from being run over, will shout a joke to the driver, who is always ready with a repartee. And they surge on towards the entrance. Every one is expectant and thrilled, the very air seems to give a sense of exhilaration. The people crowd in like ants. All things are gay and full of colour and life.

A
picador
passes on horseback in his uncouth clothes, and all turn to look at him.

And in the ring itself the scene is marvellous. On one side the sun beats down with burning rays, and there, the seats being cheaper, notwithstanding the terrific heat people are closely packed. There is a perpetual irregular movement of thousands of women’s fans fluttering to and fro. Opposite, in the shade, are nearly as many persons, but of better class. Above, in the boxes sit ladies in mantillas, and when a beautiful woman appears she is often greeted with a burst of applause, which she takes most unconcernedly. When at last the ring is full, tier above tier crammed so that not a place is vacant, it gives quite an extraordinary emotion. The serried masses cease then to be a collection of individuals, but gain somehow a corporate unity; you realize, with a kind of indeterminate fear, the many-headed beast of savage instincts and of ruthless might. No crowd is more picturesque than the Spanish, and the dark masculine costume vividly contrasts with the bright colours of the women, with flowers in their hair and
mantillas
of white lace.

But also the tremendous vitality of it all strikes you. Late arrivals walk along looking for room, gesticulating, laughing, bandying jokes; vendors of all sorts cry out their goods: the men who sell prawns, shrimps, and crabs’ claws from Cadiz pass with large baskets: “
Bocas, bocas!
”

The water sellers with huge jars
: “Agua, quien, quiere agua? Agua!”
^‡
The word sings along the interminable rows. A man demands a glass and hands down a halfpenny; a mug of sparkling water is sent up to him. It is deliciously cool.

The sellers of lottery tickets, offering as usual the first prize: “
Premio gordo, quien quiere el premio gordo
”
^§
or yelling the number of the ticket: “Who wants number seventeen hundred and eighty-five for three
pesetas
?”

And the newsboys add to the din: “
Noticiero! Porvenir!
” Later on arrives the Madrid paper: “
Heraldo! Heraldo!
”

Lastly the men with stacks of old journals to use as seats: “
A perra chica, dos periodicos a perra chica!
”
^‖

Suddenly there is a great clapping of hands, and looking up you find the president has come; he is supported by two friends, and all three, with comic solemnity, wear tall hats and frock coats. They bow to the public. Bull-fighting is the only punctual thing in Spain, and the president arrives precisely as the clock strikes half-past four. He waves a handkerchief, the band strikes up, a door is opened, and the fighters enter. First come the three
matadors
, the eldest in the middle, the next on his right, and the youngest on the left; they are followed by their respective
cuadrillas
, the
banderilleros
, the
capeadors
, the
picadors
on horseback, and finally the
chulos
, whose duty it is to unsaddle dead horses, attach the slaughtered bull to the team of mules, and perform other minor offices. They advance, gorgeous in their coloured satin and gold embroidery, bearing a cloak peculiarly folded over the arm; they walk with a kind of swinging motion, as ordained by the convention of a century. They bow to the president, very solemnly. The applause is renewed. They retire to the side, three
picadors
take up their places at some distance from one another on the right of the door from which issues the bull. The
alguaciles
, in black velvet, with peaked and feathered hats, on horseback, come forward, and the key of the bull’s den is thrown to them. They disappear. The fighters meanwhile exchange their satin cloaks for others of less value. There is another flourish of trumpets, the gates are opened for the bull.

Then comes a moment of expectation, every one is trembling with excitement. There is perfect silence. All eyes are fixed on the open gate.

PRESENTLY, IN A
clearing, I caught sight of three men on donkeys, walking slowly one after the other, and I galloped after to ask my way. The beasts were laden with undressed skins which they were taking to Fuentes, and each man squatted cross-legged on the top of his load. The hindermost turned right round when I asked my question and sat unconcernedly with his back to the donkey’s head. He looked about him vaguely as though expecting the information I sought to be written on the trunk of an olive-tree, and scratched his head.

“Well,” he said, “I should think it was a matter of seven leagues, but it will rain before you get there.”

“This is the right way, isn’t it?”

“It may be. If it doesn’t lead to Marchena it must lead somewhere else.”

There was a philosophic ring about the answer which made up for the uncertainty. The skinner was a fat, good-humoured creature, like all Spaniards intensely curious; and to prepare the way for inquiries, offered a cigarette.

“But why do you come to Ecija by so roundabout a way as Carmona, and why should you return to Seville by such a route as Marchena?”

His opinion was evidently that the shortest way between two places was also the best. He received my explanation with incredulity and asked, more insistently, why I went to Ecija on horseback when I might go by train to Madrid.

“For pleasure,” said I.

“My good sir, you must have come on some errand.”

“Oh yes,” I answered, hoping to satisfy him, “on the search for emotion.”

At this he bellowed with laughter and turned round to tell his fellows.

“
Usted es muy guason
,” he said at length, which may be translated: “You’re a mighty funny fellow.”

I expressed my pleasure at having provided the skinners with amusement and bidding them farewell, trotted on.

I went for a long time among the interminable olives, grey and sad beneath the sullen clouds, and at last the rain began to fall. I saw a farm not very far away and cantered up to ask for shelter. An old woman and a labourer came to the door and looked at me very doubtfully; they said it was not a
posada
, but my soft words turned their hearts and they allowed me to come in. The rain poured down in heavy, oblique lines.

The labourer took Aguador to the stable and I went into the parlour, a long, low, airy chamber like the refectory of a monastery, with windows reaching to the ground. Two girls were sitting round the
brasero
, sewing; they offered me a chair by their side, and as the rain fell steadily we began to talk. The old woman discreetly remained away. They asked about my journey, and as is the Spanish mode, about my country, myself, and my belongings. It was a regular volley of questions I had to answer, but they sounded pleasanter in the mouth of a pretty girl than in that of an obese old skinner; and the rippling laughter which greeted my replies made me feel quite witty. When they smiled they showed the whitest teeth. Then came my turn for questioning. The girl on my right, prettier than her sister, was very Spanish, with black, expressive eyes, an olive skin, and a bunch of violets in her abundant hair. I asked whether she had a
novio
, or lover; and the question set her laughing immoderately. What was her name? “Soledad – Solitude.”

I looked somewhat anxiously at the weather, I feared the shower would cease, and in a minute, alas! the rain passed away; and I was forced to notice it, for the sun-rays came dancing through the window, importunately, making patterns of light upon the floor. I had no further excuse to stay, and said goodbye; but I begged for the bunch of violets in Soledad’s dark hair and she gave it with a pretty smile. I plunged again into the endless olive-groves.