The Salzburg Tales by Christina Stead Page A

The advertisement appeals to the merciful as well as to the bloodthirsty heart, for the “proceeds from the bull-fight will go to the rebuilding of the dormitories of the Convent of Mary of Seville.”
    Don Juan reads the notice, and “The dormitory walls were strong enough,” he says to Sganarelle, “some twenty years ago,” and his mind goes back to that time of his youth when he attempted to carry off one of the nuns. A procession of nuns coming back from an Easter service passes them at this moment, and he tries to look under their bonnets to see if his inamorata is among them, and how she looks after twenty years’ service to Juan’s great rival among the virginities, the ascetic Syrian Don.
    As he passes through the street leading to the Plaza he recognises with a grave salute a forlorn woman in black, whose black eyes follow him. It is Donna Elvira with wild and pallid face, like the ghost of that splendid and beauteous Spain which was still living when Juan lay in his voluptuary’s cradle, and which is now passingaway in the throes of madness, iniquity and superstition. No doubt Elvira holds a knife in her dress to repay an unkind thrust of the other night. But her hand trembles and tears once more stand in her eye: even now, he triumphs.
    At the entrance to the arena, “Don Juan, Don Juan, bravo!” shout the people, and those who are too poor to get into the show, crowd near, with savage elbowings and strokes of their knobbed sticks, to see one of the heroes of the day, and try to size up, even at this distance, the chances of the combat. They have followed the bulls in from their pastures, belabouring the fierce beasts, and coming to blows among themselves, about their points: now their blood is feverish, and they’ll have no blood to cool it—tantalising hour. Then, for he has a reputation as a breaker of God’s laws and man’s, Juan hears lewd compliments from the grinning whitetoothed loafers and low smart-alecks, and the cries, loud kisses and unblushing language of the lusty women.
    He looks the sun in the eye with his black eye, as look the bull, the eagle and the serpent: he looks towards the arena packed with the terrible and ridiculous crowd, and the thrill that goes through his body is the annunciator of victory. “Don Juan! Don Juan!” it seems to him the bells ring in their full peal. The band plays Spanish martial music, mournful and wild. Monks press about the entrance now, selling indulgences, rosaries, crucifixes and relics, all the products of the godderies, charms against the evil eye, charms for matadors. A poor knight who enters these lists with trembling (for his purse’s not his honour’s sake), buys one gratefully and asks a monk to bless him. A monk offers a charm to Don Juan who kicks him away: the bagman of salvation mutters, but the crowd pushes him away, vociferating and laughing. “Don Juan! Don Juan!” the bells ring with rising, interweaving clangour.
    Is the sun dimmer? Is there a threatening undertone in the last volley of bells? Did the martial music call up from far off the rumble of a battle? Did a thunderstorm growl? Was there a hostile murmur in the crowd? Don Juan looks behind at his train: Sir Sganarelle,the poor knight, who serves him with fidelity and jibes, and jibs like a brother, some humbler gentlemen in their finery, the runners in fancy costumes as Persian soldiers, his body-servant, a groom in a red shirt. All is in order. Let the ladies look. A beauteous fighter of bulls; and pride!—the pride of an old grandee, the pride of a King’s favourite, one would say a Medina Sidonia! A most noble master of the horns, a signal coucher of lances: quick, quick, let’s not miss the fun, Don Juan’s entering the arena!
    But what ails Don Juan? His digestion is perfect! The feast of beaux and actresses that he attended last night, the last of a long series worthy of the bards of