Manuel arose deathly pale.
A _monosabio_ approached the horse, who was still quivering; the
animal raised his head as if to ask help, whereupon the man stabbed
him to death with a poniard.
"I'm going. This is too nasty for anything," said Manuel to Senor
Custodio. But it was no easy matter to leave the ring at that moment.
"The boy," said the ragdealer to his wife, "doesn't like it."
Justa, who had learned what was the matter, burst into laughter.
Manuel waited for the bull to be put to death; he kept his eyes fixed
downward; the mules came out again, and as they dragged off the
horse's body the intestines were left on the ground until a monosabio
came along and dragged them off with a rake.
"Look at that tripe!" cried Justa, laughing.
Manuel, without a word, and unmindful of the eyes that were turned his
way, left the tier. He went down to a series of long galleries, ranged
with vile-smelling urinals, and tried unsuccessfully to locate the
exit.
He was filled with rage against the whole world, against the others
and against himself. The spectacle seemed to him a most repugnant,
cowardly atrocity.
He had imagined bull-fighting to be something utterly distinct from
what he had just witnessed; he had thought that always it would
display the mastery of man over beast, and that the sword-thrusts
would flash like lightning; that every moment of the struggle would
bring forth something interesting and suggestive; and instead of a
spectacle such as he had visioned, instead of a gory apotheosis of
valour and strength, he beheld a petty, filthy thing, a medley of
cowardice and intestines, a celebration in which one saw nothing but
the torero's fear and the cowardly cruelty of the public taking
pleasure in the throb of that fear.
Pages:
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273