There happened to be a local feast of the “Madonna del Pilar,” the patroness of the town, just now, and every hotel was crammed to the roof. The trains were bringing constantly new guests and the hotel proprietors profited by it in fleecing their tenants abominably. We had great difficulty in finding a shelter and were dragged in a crammed omnibus from one hotel to the other. We succeeded at last in installing ourselves at the “Hotel Universo.” The entrance door was locked when we drove to it and our coachman had to give a vigorous pull at the bell; at length it brought a sleepy porter who told us that there was only the drawing-room, which had just been furnished with four beds, available for the moment. We hastened to occupy it, whilst the three Spanish travellers, burdened with their hand-bags, who had alighted from the omnibus together with us, went to seek a shelter elsewhere, muttering angrily “Que diablo!” We found ourselves in a spacious bare room which in the way of conveniences left much to be desired. Long cherished visions of cheering meals and soft couches vanished, and I felt so woefully tired that I was ready to weep.

The “Corridas” generally take place during Saint’s days feasts, all the profit out of them is assigned to charity. The Spanish benevolence is of a very blood-thirsty nature as it appears, a queer pretence of religious feeling with barbarous cruelty. The excitement of the forthcoming bull-fight had invaded the town. The Matadors have just arrived from Madrid, accompanied by their “Quadrillas,” and have put up at our hotel. They are travelling all the year round from one town to another. After Saragossa they are going to take part in the bull-fights of Sevilla. One of the waiters of the hotel procured tickets for us for the “Corrida,” which was to take place on the following day, on the “shady side,” which costs twice as much as those on the “sunny side.” After lunch we sallied forth to the arenas, and had to walk all the way as there was no vehicle to be had. On the day of a “Corrida” the streets are alive with streaming crowds of people, in their gayest dress and mood, on their way to the “Plaza de Toros.” The houses are adorned with flowers and banners; pretty women hung over the gaily-dressed balconies. When we approached the arenas a compact throng stood round the entrance door, and my heart gave a quick throb. Twelve thousand people could be accommodated in the great bull-ring, which resembles an enormous circus. Above was the clear blue sky. In the centre is a sanded place for the bull-fight, encircled by a wooden barrier, six feet high, over which the “Toreros” jump to escape the bull in wild pursuit. The bull-fight was to commence at two o’clock and we had more than an hour to wait yet. The tribunes were lined already with rows of gaily clad spectators. Some of them had brought baskets filled with empty bottles which they intended to throw at the head of the Matadors who happened to be clumsy in killing the bull. Soldiers were stationed everywhere; not unfrequently their services are called into requisition, for nothing excites a Spaniard more than his national bloody game, and disturbances often occur. We sat amid a haze of cigar smoke which made me quite giddy. Amongst a group of ragamuffins a quarrel arose which nearly ended in a fight. An army of grooms dressed in scarlet blouses and wearing yellow caps (the national colours) began to water the arena. The entrance of the President of the Bull-Fight was the signal for the band to strike up, and it continued to play at intervals during the horrible performance.

The door opposite the President opened wide and the procession began. First of all the “Alguazil” (herald) entered the ring, mounted on a beautiful bay horse adorned with a red velvet saddle. He himself was clad as if he had just stepped out of a “Velasquez” painting. He wore a black velvet suit and a large black hat ornamented with scarlet plumes. After having pranced round the ring he stopped beneath the President’s box, and, taking off his plumed hat, begged to know if the performance might begin. Assent being given, the huge golden key of the door, behind which the six bulls who were to be killed that day were shut up, was thrown down and gracefully caught by the “Alguazil” in his hat, after which he pranced to fetch his “Quadrilla.” The gates on the opposite side of the arena were flung open, and a team of six superb grey mules, who were intended to drag out the dead bulls and horses, rushed in, decorated with yellow and scarlet ribbons, with pyramids of plumes and bells upon their heads, harnessed into shafts at the end of which a long iron hook was dragging. After having pranced noisily round the arena, the mules disappeared by the same door. Then the “Quadrilla” appeared on the ring and a roar of applause went up. First came Legartijo and Frascuello, the two most celebrated Matadors of Spain, who were to act that day, clad in spangled, coloured jackets, tight-fitting knee breeches, white stockings and leather slippers, wearing like “Figaro” a black wig with a short pig-tail and a three-cornered hat. Behind came the “Picadores” mounted on their poor decrepit horses. They were dressed in leather suits, their legs covered with armour to save them from the horns of the bull, and wore broad black sombreros. The Picadores blindfold their miserable steeds, tying a cloth round their right eye, and take them into the ring to be gored by an infuriated bull. The horses are slashed and spurred forward to a certain death on the pointed horns of the maddened formidable animal. At each “Corrida” there are about a dozen horses killed. Sometimes, when all the horses are exterminated, the insatiable audience claims new victims, shouting “Mas caballos!” (Bring on other horses!) The Picadores were followed by the “Capadores,” the men who wave their scarlet cloaks in front of the bull to excite him, or to distract his attention as he rushes wildly after some one. They were dressed in beautiful costumes of varied colours with gold embroideries. Last came the Banderillos, holding a dart a couple of feet long and gaily decorated with ribbons in each hand. After waiting for the bull to charge, they rush right up to him and plant the dart into his shoulder, deftly jumping aside. The butcher, with his merciful knife, completed the “Quadrilla.”

The signal for the beginning of the Bull-Fight was given. A man dressed in black, as if he had already donned mourning for the death of the bulls, went to the door exactly opposite to us and unlocked it carefully, concealing himself behind the door, and out rushed bull No. I., a magnificent black animal, with a rosette fixed on his shoulder representing the “hacienda” (torril) from which he came. The huge wild beast galloped into the middle of the ring and then stood still, as though bewildered by the noise and sudden transition from darkness to brilliant sunlight. A “Capador,” running swiftly and waving a red shawl, darted before the bull and retreated rapidly backward, leaping over the barrier. The animal dashed at the shawl with a resounding bellow, and lunged with his sharp horns at the cloth. A Banderillo approached him now, holding in his hand his long darts, the ends of which were shod with little barbs that once firmly planted in the flesh, hold on tightly. He awaited the bull, like the spider watches for the fly, in order to plant his banderillas into him. If the bull is not sensitive enough, to complete the cruelty, the banderillas are charged with crackers (fuegos) which burst in his flesh. A slight stream of blood appeared trickling down the bull’s shoulder; he made a mad rush and stood now facing the Banderillero, strictly on the defensive, legs apart, head down, back humped, and tail lashing the air—a picture of power. The ferocious-looking animal with blood-shot eyes, his red nostrils quivering, pawed great lumps of sand and dug furiously with his mighty horns at the banks of the arena, giving thus the time for the Banderillero to jump over the barrier. We were told that at one of the preceding “Corridas” an infuriated bull, following the example of the fleeing Banderillero, jumped after him and found himself in the stalls amidst the audience. That did not sound very promising! Soon the whole body of the bull became one bloody mass. The people shouted in the stalls. Both men and women became unconscious monsters excited by the horrible spectacle. It was too hideously cruel! I burned with indignation and applied bad epithets to the Spaniards, calling them as many bad names as I could in Russian. The Picadores now pushed their horses on the bull, trying to prick him with their lances. The poor animal, with a loud snort, lowered his head, and with tail arched wickedly, he charged furiously upon one of the Picadores and plunged his horns into the horse’s side, rolling him over. I covered my eyes with my hands to keep off the dreadful sight. Looking up accidentally, I nearly had a nervous attack, and started back with a cry of horror. A horse was there before me, his four hoofs up in the air, disembowelled, with two streams of blood pouring down its gored sides, rolling in convulsions in mortal agony. I shall never forget the sight of this quivering, dying creature! The executioner, dressed in a red blouse, ran up to the horse and, with a butcher’s knife, he deftly cut the poor animal’s throat, giving him the touch of mercy. After fifty minutes of this horrid sport the bugle sounded for the final act, the putting to death of the bull. It was Legartijo’s turn to kill the first bull. Wrapped up in his “capa” he strode out into the ring with a firm step and approached the President’s box, whom he saluted with a theatrical flourish of his hat, after which he extended his “mulata” (sword) and made his announcement to present the bull to the President. Then he threw his hat to the audience, to be kept until his return, and advanced slowly, with an almost devilish expression of cruelty on his face, his sword hidden in the folds of his “capa,” to his victim, and began his “passadas” (passes), whilst the bull, who was by now one bleeding lump, stood motionless and trembled all over, his eyes out of their sockets and tongue hanging out. For the space of half-a-minute both man and beast stood as if turned to stone, then with a quick movement Legartijo stuck his sword up to the hilt into the neck of the bull, nothing but the handle remaining visible. The tortured animal tottered to his knees, bowed his head in the dust, rolled over and died. It was a master-stroke, and the air resounded with deafening applause; flowers and cigars (the highest token of Spanish approval) were thrown into the arena at the Torero’s feet. More bugles, and at the same moment a door was flung open and in galloped the team of mules; the bleeding corpses of the martyred animals were hooked to their yoke by the hind legs, and off they went full speed round the arena, dragging the corpses on the sand. It was unworthy of mankind; my nerves could not stand it any longer, and I had but one desire—to flee from the spot. We struggled with all our might but couldn’t pass, being encompassed on all sides by a dense crowd, and we had to return to our seats.

Hardly was the ring cleared before the second bull rushed in and the programme was repeated. The new bull looked quite peaceful, and, instead of rushing into battle, he walked from right to left, looking for a loophole to escape, but nevertheless he was made to go through all the traditional tortures. It was Frascuello’s turn to march on the bull. The Matador didn’t show any pluck. With the first passes of the “mulata” he had missed his bull and only injured the animal without killing him, at which shouts of encouragement to the bull were raised on all sides, “Viva el toro!” they cried. The arena resounded with whistles and invectives to the Matador, and the populace fiercely threw orange-peels and empty bottles at him. Frascuello paled with suppressed rage, and had to strike several times before putting his victim to death. The Matador ventures to face the bull when the last spirit had been beaten out of him, and I find there is much less danger for them than for the Russian peasant going to hunt bears, armed only with a spear, whereas the Matadors charge on an unfortunate animal driven into a circle whence he could not escape.

After the second bull we pushed resolutely through the crowd, we had to fight our way as best we could by a series of manœuvres, and managed this time to decamp. I had my first, and I am sure of it, my last experience of a bull-fight, the one thing that makes Spain hateful to me. Outside the bull-ring we saw the carcasses of the martyred bulls, whose meat was sold at low prices to the lower classes.

We returned to the hotel in a cab. When we asked our driver if his horse was also doomed for the bull-fight, he answered that for some years yet his animal would escape the bull’s horns.

My blood being still hot from the remembrance of what I had seen, I locked myself up in my room heart-sick, whilst Sergy went to make a tour in Saragossa. He crossed a bridge and found himself on the other side of the river Ebro. It happened to be a market day and there was a horse-fair on a large square, where more than ten thousand horses and mules were brought for sale.

I heard a carriage stop before our hotel, and thinking that it was my husband who was returning home, I went out on the balcony and saw Legartijo, the hero of the day, stepping out of a smart phaeton. A rich marquis had begged, as an honour, to drive him up to his hotel in his four-in-hand. Behind the phaeton came the Picadores on their poor nags, who had been spared to-day, to be disembowelled to-morrow perhaps. There was great animation in the street, carriages drove by containing gaily dressed ladies, wrapped in soft lace mantillas, returning from the bull-fight. Newspaper boys were shouting the triumph of Legartijo, and announced the issue of the bull-fight. It appears that after our departure two Banderillos had been severely wounded.

Sergy took me after dinner to see the dances of the “Gitanas” in a more than dubious-looking tavern, where the male audience consisted of individuals belonging to the “Fra Diavolo type,” whom one would not care to meet at night turning the corner of a street. Four Andalusian gitanas and two guitarists, with red kerchiefs wrapped round their heads, and the navaja (knife) stuck in their belt, composed the troop. The gitanas, arrayed in scarlet frocks and different coloured shawls, with the traditional red flower stuck just over the ear, and huge gold ear-rings, bounced about to the sound of the guitars and the clinking of castanets, occasionally indulging in a sudden shrill shout, whilst the audience clapped their hands in tune. After that the gitanas went round for collections and came and sat at the guest’s tables to be regaled with molluscs and snails, which they swallowed uncooked. A fat and rather unattractive terpsichore seated herself at the table next to ours, and cast alluring glances on the male audience, but lost her time in vain, for nobody paid attention to her. My neighbour, who with his savage-looking beard resembled a highwayman, offered me a cigarette and wanted me to taste some of those horrid molluscs, and was extremely astonished at my refusal.