The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle · Part 12

“What is a bullfight?” I asked.

To my great surprise the Doctor got red in the face with anger. It reminded me of the time when he had spoken of the lions and tigers in his private zoo.

“A bullfight is a stupid, cruel, disgusting business,” said he. “These Spanish people are most lovable and hospitable folk. How they can enjoy these wretched bullfights is a thing I could never understand.”

Then the Doctor went on to explain to me how a bull was first made very angry by teasing and then allowed to run into a circus where men came out with red cloaks, waved them at him, and ran away. Next the bull was allowed to tire himself out by tossing and killing a lot of poor, old, broken-down horses who couldn’t defend themselves. Then, when the bull was thoroughly out of breath and wearied by this, a man came out with a sword and killed the bull.

“Every Sunday,” said the Doctor, “in almost every big town in Spain there are six bulls killed like that and as many horses.”

“But aren’t the men ever killed by the bull?” I asked.

“Unfortunately very seldom,” said he. “A bull is not nearly as dangerous as he looks, even when he’s angry, if you are only quick on your feet and don’t lose your head. These bullfighters are very clever and nimble. And the people, especially the Spanish ladies, think no end of them. A famous bullfighter (or matador, as they call them) is a more important man in Spain than a king—Here comes another crowd of them round the corner, look. See the girls throwing kisses to them. Ridiculous business!”

At that moment our friend the bed-maker came out to see the procession go past. And while he was wishing us good morning and enquiring how we had slept, a friend of his walked up and joined us. The bed-maker introduced this friend to us as Don Enrique Cardenas.

Don Enrique when he heard where we were from, spoke to us in English. He appeared to be a well-educated, gentlemanly sort of person.

“And you go to see the bullfight to-morrow, yes?” he asked the Doctor pleasantly.

“Certainly not,” said John Dolittle firmly. “I don’t like bullfights—cruel, cowardly shows.”

Don Enrique nearly exploded. I never saw a man get so excited. He told the Doctor that he didn’t know what he was talking about. He said bullfighting was a noble sport and that the matadors were the bravest men in the world.

“Oh, rubbish!” said the Doctor. “You never give the poor bull a chance. It is only when he is all tired and dazed that your precious matadors dare to try and kill him.”

I thought the Spaniard was going to strike the Doctor he got so angry. While he was still spluttering to find words, the bed-maker came between them and took the Doctor aside. He explained to John Dolittle in a whisper that this Don Enrique Cardenas was a very important person; that he it was who supplied the bulls—a special, strong black kind—from his own farm for all the bullfights in the Capa Blancas. He was a very rich man, the bed-maker said, a most important personage. He mustn’t be allowed to take offense on any account.

I watched the Doctor’s face as the bed-maker finished, and I saw a flash of boyish mischief come into his eyes as though an idea had struck him. He turned to the angry Spaniard.

“Don Enrique,” he said, “you tell me your bullfighters are very brave men and skilful. It seems I have offended you by saying that bullfighting is a poor sport. What is the name of the best matador you have for to-morrow’s show?”

“Pepito de Malaga,” said Don Enrique, “one of the greatest names, one of the bravest men, in all Spain.”

“Very well,” said the Doctor, “I have a proposal to make to you. I have never fought a bull in my life. Now supposing I were to go into the ring to-morrow with Pepito de Malaga and any other matadors you choose; and if I can do more tricks with a bull than they can, would you promise to do something for me?”

Don Enrique threw back his head and laughed.

“Man,” he said, “you must be mad! You would be killed at once. One has to be trained for years to become a proper bullfighter.”

“Supposing I were willing to take the risk of that—You are not afraid, I take it, to accept my offer?”

The Spaniard frowned.

“Afraid!” he cried, “Sir, if you can beat Pepito de Malaga in the bull-ring I’ll promise you anything it is possible for me to grant.”

“Very good,” said the Doctor, “now I understand that you are quite a powerful man in these islands. If you wished to stop all bullfighting here after to-morrow, you could do it, couldn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Don Enrique proudly—“I could.”

“Well that is what I ask of you—if I win my wager,” said John Dolittle. “If I can do more with angry bulls than can Pepito de Malaga, you are to promise me that there shall never be another bullfight in the Capa Blancas so long as you are alive to stop it. Is it a bargain?”

The Spaniard held out his hand.

“It is a bargain,” he said—“I promise. But I must warn you that you are merely throwing your life away, for you will certainly be killed. However, that is no more than you deserve for saying that bullfighting is an unworthy sport. I will meet you here to-morrow morning if you should wish to arrange any particulars. Good day, Sir.”

As the Spaniard turned and walked into the shop with the bed-maker, Polynesia, who had been listening as usual, flew up on to my shoulder and whispered in my ear,

“I have a plan. Get hold of Bumpo and come some place where the Doctor can’t hear us. I want to talk to you.”

I nudged Bumpo’s elbow and we crossed the street and pretended to look into a jeweler’s window; while the Doctor sat down upon his bed to lace up his boots, the only part of his clothing he had taken off for the night.

“Listen,” said Polynesia, “I’ve been breaking my head trying to think up some way we can get money to buy those stores with; and at last I’ve got it.”

“The money?” said Bumpo.

“No, stupid. The idea—to make the money with. Listen: the Doctor is simply bound to win this game to-morrow, sure as you’re alive. Now all we have to do is to make a side bet with these Spaniards—they’re great on gambling—and the trick’s done.”

“What’s a side bet?” I asked.

“Oh I know what that is,” said Bumpo proudly. “We used to have lots of them at Oxford when boat-racing was on. I go to Don Enrique and say, ‘I bet you a hundred pounds the Doctor wins.’ Then if he does win, Don Enrique pays me a hundred pounds; and if he doesn’t, I have to pay Don Enrique.”

“That’s the idea,” said Polynesia. “Only don’t say a hundred pounds: say two-thousand five-hundred pesetas. Now come and find old Don Ricky-ticky and try to look rich.”

So we crossed the street again and slipped into the bed-maker’s shop while the Doctor was still busy with his boots.

“Don Enrique,” said Bumpo, “allow me to introduce myself. I am the Crown Prince of Jolliginki. Would you care to have a small bet with me on to-morrow’s bullfight?”

Don Enrique bowed.

“Why certainly,” he said, “I shall be delighted. But I must warn you that you are bound to lose. How much?”

“Oh a mere truffle,” said Bumpo—“just for the fun of the thing, you know. What do you say to three-thousand pesetas?”

“I agree,” said the Spaniard bowing once more. “I will meet you after the bullfight to-morrow.”

“So that’s all right,” said Polynesia as we came out to join the Doctor. “I feel as though quite a load had been taken off my mind.”

THE EIGHTH CHAPTER

THE GREAT BULLFIGHT

THE next day was a great day in Monteverde. All the streets were hung with flags; and everywhere gaily dressed crowds were to be seen flocking towards the bull-ring, as the big circus was called where the fights took place.

The news of the Doctor’s challenge had gone round the town and, it seemed, had caused much amusement to the islanders. The very idea of a mere foreigner daring to match himself against the great Pepito de Malaga!—Serve him right if he got killed!

The Doctor had borrowed a bullfighter’s suit from Don Enrique; and very gay and wonderful he looked in it, though Bumpo and I had hard work getting the waistcoat to close in front and even then the buttons kept bursting off it in all directions.

When we set out from the harbor to walk to the bull-ring, crowds of small boys ran after us making fun of the Doctor’s fatness, calling out, “Juan Hagapoco, el grueso matador!” which is the Spanish for, “John Dolittle, the fat bullfighter.”

As soon as we arrived the Doctor said he would like to take a look at the bulls before the fight began; and we were at once led to the bull pen where, behind a high railing, six enormous black bulls were tramping around wildly.

In a few hurried words and signs the Doctor told the bulls what he was going to do and gave them careful instructions for their part of the show. The poor creatures were tremendously glad when they heard that there was a chance of bullfighting being stopped; and they promised to do exactly as they were told.

Of course the man who took us in there didn’t understand what we were doing. He merely thought the fat Englishman was crazy when he saw the Doctor making signs and talking in ox tongue.

From there the Doctor went to the matadors’ dressing-rooms while Bumpo and I with Polynesia made our way into the bull-ring and took our seats in the great open-air theatre.

It was a very gay sight. Thousands of ladies and gentlemen were there, all dressed in their smartest clothes; and everybody seemed very happy and cheerful.

Right at the beginning Don Enrique got up and explained to the people that the first item on the program was to be a match between the English Doctor and Pepito de Malaga. He told them what he had promised if the Doctor should win. But the people did not seem to think there was much chance of that. A roar of laughter went up at the very mention of such a thing.

When Pepito came into the ring everybody cheered, the ladies blew kisses and the men clapped and waved their hats.

Presently a large door on the other side of the ring was rolled back and in galloped one of the bulls; then the door was closed again. At once the matador became very much on the alert. He waved his red cloak and the bull rushed at him. Pepito stepped nimbly aside and the people cheered again.

This game was repeated several times. But I noticed that whenever Pepito got into a tight place and seemed to be in real danger from the bull, an assistant of his, who always hung around somewhere near, drew the bull’s attention upon himself by waving another red cloak. Then the bull would chase the assistant and Pepito was left in safety. Most often, as soon as he had drawn the bull off, this assistant ran for the high fence and vaulted out of the ring to save himself. They evidently had it all arranged, these matadors; and it didn’t seem to me that they were in any very great danger from the poor clumsy bull so long as they didn’t slip and fall.

After about ten minutes of this kind of thing the small door into the matadors’ dressing-room opened and the Doctor strolled into the ring. As soon as his fat figure, dressed in sky-blue velvet, appeared, the crowd rocked in their seats with laughter.

Juan Hagapoco, as they had called him, walked out into the centre of the ring and bowed ceremoniously to the ladies in the boxes. Then he bowed to the bull. Then he bowed to Pepito. While he was bowing to Pepito’s assistant the bull started to rush at him from behind.

“Look out! Look out!—The bull! You will be killed!” yelled the crowd.

But the Doctor calmly finished his bow. Then turning round he folded his arms, fixed the on-rushing bull with his eye and frowned a terrible frown.

Presently a curious thing happened: the bull’s speed got slower and slower. It almost looked as though he were afraid of that frown. Soon he stopped altogether. The Doctor shook his finger at him. He began to tremble. At last, tucking his tail between his legs, the bull turned round and ran away.

The crowd gasped. The Doctor ran after him. Round and round the ring they went, both of them puffing and blowing like grampuses. Excited whispers began to break out among the people. This was something new in bullfighting, to have the bull running away from the man, instead of the man away from the bull. At last in the tenth lap, with a final burst of speed, Juan Hagapoco, the English matador, caught the poor bull by the tail.

Then leading the now timid creature into the middle of the ring, the Doctor made him do all manner of tricks: standing on the hind legs, standing on the front legs, dancing, hopping, rolling over. He finished up by making the bull kneel down; then he got on to his back and did handsprings and other acrobatics on the beast’s horns.

Pepito and his assistant had their noses sadly out of joint. The crowd had forgotten them entirely. They were standing together by the fence not far from where I sat, muttering to one another and slowly growing green with jealousy.

Finally the Doctor turned towards Don Enrique’s seat and bowing said in a loud voice, “This bull is no good any more. He’s terrified and out of breath. Take him away, please.”

“Does the caballero wish for a fresh bull?” asked Don Enrique.

“No,” said the Doctor, “I want five fresh bulls. And I would like them all in the ring at once, please.”

At this a cry of horror burst from the people. They had been used to seeing matadors escaping from one bull at a time. But five!—That must mean certain death.

Pepito sprang forward and called to Don Enrique not to allow it, saying it was against all the rules of bullfighting. (“Ha!” Polynesia chuckled into my ear. “It’s like the Doctor’s navigation: he breaks all the rules; but he gets there. If they’ll only let him, he’ll give them the best show for their money they ever saw.”) A great argument began. Half the people seemed to be on Pepito’s side and half on the Doctor’s side. At last the Doctor turned to Pepito and made another very grand bow which burst the last button off his waistcoat.

“Well, of course if the caballero is afraid—” he began with a bland smile.

“Afraid!” screamed Pepito. “I am afraid of nothing on earth. I am the greatest matador in Spain. With this right hand I have killed nine hundred and fifty-seven bulls.”

“All right then,” said the Doctor, “let us see if you can kill five more. Let the bulls in!” he shouted. “Pepito de Malaga is not afraid.”

A dreadful silence hung over the great theatre as the heavy door into the bull pen was rolled back. Then with a roar the five big bulls bounded into the ring.

“Look fierce,” I heard the Doctor call to them in cattle language. “Don’t scatter. Keep close. Get ready for a rush. Take Pepito, the one in purple, first. But for Heaven’s sake don’t kill him. Just chase him out of the ring—Now then, all together, go for him!”

The bulls put down their heads and all in line, like a squadron of cavalry, charged across the ring straight for poor Pepito.

For one moment the Spaniard tried his hardest to look brave. But the sight of the five pairs of horns coming at him at full gallop was too much. He turned white to the lips, ran for the fence, vaulted it and disappeared.

“Now the other one,” the Doctor hissed. And in two seconds the gallant assistant was nowhere to be seen. Juan Hagapoco, the fat matador, was left alone in the ring with five rampaging bulls.

The rest of the show was really well worth seeing. First, all five bulls went raging round the ring, butting at the fence with their horns, pawing up the sand, hunting for something to kill. Then each one in turn would pretend to catch sight of the Doctor for the first time and giving a bellow of rage, would lower his wicked looking horns and shoot like an arrow across the ring as though he meant to toss him to the sky.

It was really frightfully exciting. And even I, who knew it was all arranged beforehand, held my breath in terror for the Doctor’s life when I saw how near they came to sticking him. But just at the last moment, when the horns’ points were two inches from the sky-blue waistcoat, the Doctor would spring nimbly to one side and the great brutes would go thundering harmlessly by, missing him by no more than a hair.

Then all five of them went for him together, completely surrounding him, slashing at him with their horns and bellowing with fury. How he escaped alive I don’t know. For several minutes his round figure could hardly be seen at all in that scrimmage of tossing heads, stamping hoofs and waving tails.—It was, as Polynesia had prophesied, the greatest bullfight ever seen.