The royal life of Isabel of Bourbon was inaugurated by the
spilled blood of one hundred bulls save one. The gory prophecy of that
day has been well sustained. Not one year has passed since then free
from blood shed in her cause.
But these extraordinary attractions are not necessary to make a festival
of bulls the most seductive of all pleasures to a Spaniard. On any
pleasant Sunday afternoon, from Easter to All Souls, you have only to go
into the street to see that there is some great excitement fusing the
populace into one living mass of sympathy. All faces are turned one way,
all minds are filled with one purpose. From the Puerta del Sol down the
wide Alcala a vast crowd winds, solid as a glacier and bright as a
kaleidoscope. From the grandee in his blazoned carriage to the manola in
her calico gown, there is no class unrepresented. Many a red hand grasps
the magic ticket which is to open the realm of enchantment to-day, and
which represents short commons for a week before. The pawnbrokers' shops
have been very animated for the few preceding days. There is nothing too
precious to be parted with for the sake of the bulls. Many of these
smart girls have made the ultimate sacrifice for that coveted scrap of
paper. They would leave one their mother's cross with the children of
Israel rather than not go. It is no cheap entertainment. The worst
places in the broiling sun cost twenty cents, four reals; and the boxes
are sold usually at fifteen dollars.
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