Part 13

The art of the _picador_ is displayed in the skill with which he avoids the charge of the bull, and turns him on to the next _picador_, who, in turn, will pass him on to the third. In this instance the manœuvre does not come off. The bull’s rush is met by the first _picador_ with the point, but the horse he strides is too ancient to obey with sufficient celerity the rider’s injunction to swerve, and horse and man are rolled over with the force of the impact. The wretched equine is lacerated on his opposing flank, but the spearman appears to be uninjured, and before the bull has completed his circuit of the ring, the horse is on his feet again, and the _picador_ is waiting for the next attack. The _toreros_, with their red _capa_, are immediately on the spot to draw the bull from his victim, but the bull is too eager to waste time on a fallen foe. The second and third horseman avoid his rush; and the bull, smarting from spear thrusts, and confused by the cheers, is inclined, in racing parlance, to “turn it up.” The first horse who crosses the line of sight is caught on the brute’s horns, and is so deeply impaled that the bull has to swerve at right angles to rid himself of his enemy. The second horse is impaled before the combatant can plant his spear in the bull’s neck. Steed and rider are lurched in the air, and fall heavily to the ground, and the momentary victor lowers his head again to the prostrate man, and rolls him over and over. _Toreros_ hasten to the spot to get him away, the people rise in their places, ladies lift their fans and avert their faces, while the air is filled with the usual murmur of lamentation which accompanies an accident. Both the other _picadores_ are unhorsed before the President gives the signal for them to retire. Act one of this most realistic of sporting melodramas is over.

The _banderilleros_ now come forward. They are costumed like Figaro, in the opera of “Il Barbiere de Sevilla,” and their hair is tied into a knot behind. To the English spectator, this part of the performance is the most fascinating and least abhorrent of the entire piece. The _banderillero_ inflicts no more pain on the bull than the humane angler deals out to the wily trout, and the agility and daring with which he addresses himself to his task is superb. His aim is to plant small barbed darts, or _banderillas_, on each side of the neck of the bull. The _chulos_, or apprentices, here open the ball by tantalising the animal, and working him up to a proper pitch of fury. Then the _banderilleros_ circle round him, and one, standing full in his line of flight, “defies” him with the arms raised high over his head. If the bull stops, as he is doing now, the man walks composedly towards him. Then the bull lowers his head and makes his rush, and the athlete, swerving nimbly to one side, pins in his _banderillas_ simultaneously. Again and again the maddened animal, frantic more from impotence than pain, makes his rushes from one tormentor to another. At each rush he receives further instalments of his hated decorations. Then one man bungles. He loses his nerve, or, failing to time the animal’s charge, shirks the onslaught. A howl of execration greets the exhibition, and the unfortunate baiter is tempted to more rash efforts. He seats himself in a chair, and waits with suicidal calmness the rush of the bull. Just as the animal’s horns are thrust beneath him he jumps lightly up, manipulating his darts with miraculous precision, while the chair is tossed high in the air.

Thunders of applause greet this venturesome feat, and the other _banderilleros_, warmed to their work by the plaudits of the public, vie with one another in deeds of coolness and “derring do.” One waits, alert but motionless, for the attacks of the charging bull, and as the galloping brute lowers his head to toss him, places his foot between the terrible horns, and is lifted clear over his onrushing enemy. Another, seizing hold of the lashing tail, swings himself along the bull’s side, and plants himself for one thrilling moment right between the horns.

I once saw a _banderillero_, in response to the jeers of the crowd, take the darts, which are about two feet long, break them across his knee, and plant the stumpy weapons, with unerring precision, on each side of the neck of the bull.

These feats appear to be fraught with infinite danger, and the agility with which the performers acquit themselves cannot be witnessed without a tremour of amazement and admiration. Several times the venturesome _chulos_ escape death as by a miracle: they sometimes seem so close to their end when they vault over the barriers to avoid the pursuing bull, that they appear to be helped over the fence by the bull’s horns. One bull exhibits at this stage of the proceedings an emphatic disinclination to continue the fight. He paws the ground when the darts are driven home, but makes no show of retaliation, and the hoots and opprobrious epithets that are hurled at him by the populace fail to inspire him to renewed efforts. Then the _banderillas de fuego_ are called for. These are arrows, provided with fire crackers, which explode the moment they are affixed in the neck. In a moment the spectacle, which had worked me up to a high pitch of excitement, becomes intensely distasteful. The tortured animal, driven mad with fright and pain, bounds across the ring in a series of leaps like a kid. The people scream with delight, and I mentally wonder what kind of “steadier” the Spaniard resorts to when his stomachic nerve is affected by a detail of the exhibition. The firework display had not lasted long when the last trumpet sounded, and the _espada_ walks forward to a storm of rapturous applause.

The _finale_ of the spectacle is approaching. The executioner comes alone: the bull, who has hitherto been tormented by a crowd of enemies, is now able to concentrate his whole attention on one object. _Toro_ has become exhausted with his previous exertions, and he moves without his old dash. The _espada_ studies his foe carefully, to judge the temper of the animal with which he has to deal. With his left hand he waves the _muleta_--the red cloak--to lure the beast into a few characteristic rushes and disclose his disposition. If he is a dull, heavy bull, he will be despatched with the beautiful half-volley; but if he proves himself a sly, dangerous customer, that is cunning enough to run at the man, instead of at the _muleta_, a less picturesque, but safer thrust must be employed. But our bull is neither sly nor leaden. He has recovered from his fright, and is quick to seize his opportunity to make a final effort before the stinging _banderilleros_ return to distract him. Once or twice he thrusts his horns into the unresisting cloak, then gathers himself together for a final rush. The swordsman raises the point of his glimmering Toledo blade; while every nerve of his sinuous, graceful body quivers with the absolute constraint and concentrated effort that hold him. The duellists are both of the same mind. The _espada_ has summed up his antagonist--he is _levantados_, the bold bull, a fit subject for _la suerte de frente_. The bull’s next rush is his last. The fencer receives the charge on his sword, which enters just between the left shoulder and the blade. The bull staggers, lurches heavily on to his knees, and rolls over, at the feet of his conqueror, vomiting blood.

The assembled multitude rend the air with their cheers, the men yell applause, and every face is distorted with excitement and enthusiasm. The only indifferent person in the building is the _espada_. With a graceful and unassertive turn of his wrist, he waves the sword over his fallen foe, wipes the hot blood from the blade, and turning on his heel, approaches the President’s box, and bows with admirable sang-froid. The team of jingling mules enter, and the dead bull is carried off at a rapid gallop. The _espada_ walks composedly away, without another glance at the result of his handiwork.

The superb imperturbability of these _espadas_ always fills me with admiration. They accept the plaudits of the spectators with the same unconcern with which they hear the execrations that fill the air if they do not at the first attempt inflict the _coup de grace_. During the first _corrida_ I attended, an _espada_ failed to aim at the precise spot, and the bull tore up the sand in agony. The populace insulted the swordsman with jeers and howlings, but he remained perfectly cool and collected, and nerved himself with as much composure to his second and successful thrust as if he had been practising with a sack of potatoes in an empty arena. When I had been witness to the death of two bulls, I remarked to my Spanish friend that I had seen as much as I desired, and was quite ready to quit the spot. But my companion was a friend of long standing: he could be firm without seeming discourteous. “No! no!” he said, “you kept me in the theatre last night until ‘Don Juan’ was played to the bitter end: you shall remain to-day to reward me for my exemplary patience and respect for your wishes.” I saw five other bulls done to death during the afternoon.

Although not to be compared with an ordinary _corrida_ as a display of skill, and capacity, and artistic finish, a Royal bull-fight, such as Madrid saw on the occasion of the coronation of King Alfonso XIII., is more interesting as being a revival of the sport as it was originally practised. Bull-fighting to-day is a purely professional business, but in the knightly days of ancient Spain it was employed as a means to teach the chivalrous youth the use of arms. In those days, mounted _caballeros_ encountered the bulls in the ring with lances alone--a more dangerous pastime than is bull-fighting in its modern sufficiently hazardous form. Then the combatants were mounted on good horses, and their business was to save them and turn the bull, to kill the bull if possible, but, at the risk of their own lives, to protect their steeds from injury. It is recorded that in one _Fiesta de Toros_ at the beginning of the sixteenth century, no less than ten young knights lost their lives. The corrida, _Real con Caballeros en plaza_--a Royal bull-fight with gentlemen in the arena--on the olden lines, that was held on May 21st, 1902, in Madrid, was fought by young officers and scions of noble families, who were attired in the gorgeous costumes of Spanish knights of the reign of Philip IV., and attended by their pages and grooms wearing the dress of the same period, and displaying the colours of the noble house which they served. On that occasion, the _Paseo de las Cuadrillas_, or preliminary procession of the bull-fighters across the arena to the strains of military music, was a most imposing sight. The _Padrinos_, the grandees who acted as supporters or godfathers of the knights, accompanied the fighters, followed by their mediævally-clad retinues, to the foot of the Royal box, and presented them to the King. The spectacle was strikingly brilliant, but the display was not to be compared with a professional bout. The horses of the cavaliers had evidently not been sufficiently trained for their work, and the best riding in the world could not bring them off scathless. Let me condense an account of the scene to convey an impression of what the present-day bull-fight has been derived from.

When the procession had withdrawn, leaving only the _chulos_ and the gallant _caballeros_ in the arena, the door of the _toril_ swung on its heavy hinges, and a splendid specimen of a bull, dungeoned for several hours previously in utter darkness, darted into the light of day, tearing up the ground with its hoofs, and ploughing the air with its horns. Suddenly, a horseman and his prancing steed vaulted into the centre of the ring--the charger, with flowing mane, full-veined ears and shapely head slanted forward--to meet the onrush of the goaded bull. The second _picador_ seeing the bull worried and dazed by the tantalising assistants, scudded past on a swift, white racer, sitting gracefully in his saddle, and then turning deftly as he passed the great brute, plunged his lance into his neck, and whirled aside to avoid possible pursuit. But by sheer accident, the bleeding steer dashed off in the same direction, caught the horse in the hindquarters, raising it on its forelegs and endangering the equilibrium of the rider.

Before the scampering bull had time to recover from the compact, the second _caballero_, dashing up, had planted his lance deep into its neck. The white horse, stung with pain, made a wild rush, but was brought to hand by splendid horsemanship, and his rider urged him along, to inflict another wound in the animal’s head. Then two _toreros_ advanced, beguiling and wearying the bull. By the time the bull had received the fifth lance in his neck, and the white steed had been twice wounded, the edge was taken off the keen thirst for violent emotions, and another _torero_ unfolded his red _capa_, waved it to and fro until the bull swooped down upon him, and a moment later he was sprawling in the sand seemingly gored by the infuriated animal. The next minute the wounded steer tottered, dropped on its forelegs, and turned over on the sand, and a knife put a speedy end to its sufferings.

The second bull, a black massive creature, appeared listless and faint, and made little effort to defend itself. It made one successful attack on the white charger; and, then, at the signal from the King, an amateur _espada_ stepped forward. The attempt was a miserable failure. The young swordsman dedicated, in a few well-chosen words, the death of the bull to his sovereign, and after a dozen passes with the red _capa_, plunged the gleaming blade of Toledo steel into the animal’s neck, but so ineffectually that a storm of hisses resounded through the ring. The second attempt was still more awkward, the sword entering but a few inches. The sword was pulled out, and another effort, made amid groans and hisses, proved equally unsuccessful.

Although the madness had died out of the expiring brute’s eyes, and his forelegs were bending under him, the inexperienced _torero_ seemed unable to put him out of pain. However, he grasped the short, sharp knife, and unsteadily taking aim, plunged it into the neck. Another failure. Yells, groans, shrieks, whistling, and hissing marked the anger of the crowd. The _espada_ may be a paid professional, or the greatest noble in Spain, but in the ring he is judged by the rules of the ring, and his bungling is recognised with the most poignant scorn to which failure could be subjected. He again grasped the sword; and, spurred by the vitriolic exclamations of the public, sheathed it in the bull’s neck. The animal stood still and tottered, his forelegs bent, his head sank upon the moist, red sand, his hind feet quivered, and a flourish of trumpets announced that life was extinct.

It is curious to find, in talking with learned enthusiasts on the relative merits of the bull-fighters, what diversity of opinion exists; but all parties are agreed upon the unrivalled skill and daring of the mighty Frascuelo. In his day, for death’s whistle summoned him from the arena in the height of his fame, Frascuelo was regarded as the greatest _matador_ that Spain had ever seen; and Spaniards, in debating the subject of the bull-ring, never indulge the hope that his equal will ever arise to shed a new glory on the National sport. Frascuelo is dead, and his famous rival, Guerra, or Guerrita--to give him his professional name--has long since cut off his _coleta_, and lives in well-earned retirement at Córdova. But the school of fighters, who claim Frascuelo as their master--the fearless, dare-devil _toreros_, who scorn to concede a yard of ground to the bull, and do all their fighting at close quarters--is widely popular; and if their terribly dangerous methods are attended by frequent casualties, the intoxicating applause that rewards the accomplishment of a brilliant coup is, apparently, ample compensation for the risks that it entails. But the wildest appreciation of a successful feat does not exempt the most popular performer from the furious condemnation of the multitude when his scheme miscarries. The allowances made by a Spanish audience at the ring-side are of the most grudging nature. I once travelled from Barcelona to Madrid in the company of Bombita-Chico--the boy Bombita--who, although he was barely recovered from an unfortunate encounter with a tricky bull eight days before, was on his way to take part in a grand _corrida_ that was to be held in the capital. He was--as his name denotes--no more than a lad, with large, strong hands that sparkled with jewels, while a formidable anchor about five inches long, set with magnificent diamonds, dangled from his watch-chain. I saw him again in the arena a few days later. He seemed nervous, and was, it appeared to me, a little perturbed by the demonstration that welcomed his reappearance in the ring after his accident. Ill fortune allotted him a troublesome animal, and his kill, while creditable enough to untutored eyes, lacked the grace and finish that the critical spectator requires. Bombita was their own Boy of Madrid, and because of his recent misfortune they forgave him, but they did not cheer him; and the lad walked out of the arena amid a silence that could be felt.

Mazantini, now grown old and heavy, was in his day an undoubtedly fine _matador_. There are some that still regard him as the head of his profession. But the majority, remembering what he was, regret that he has not gone into honourable retirement. But Mazantini cannot tear himself away from the fascination of the arena, although his appearances grow less frequent every year. Conejito, who was wounded in Barcelona in the spring of 1903, is generally regarded as the most accomplished _matador_ now before the public; but Fuentes is, _par excellence_, the best all-round man. For, with the exception of the _picador_ business, Fuentes plays every part in the piece. Other _espadas_ have their assistants, who play the bull with their _capas_, and stand by while the _banderilleros_ ply their infuriating darts. It is only when the bull has been prepared for the slaughter by the other performers that the _matador_ comes forward to put the finishing touch to the grim tragedy. Fuentes, on the other hand, on special occasions--of which the _corrida_ which I attended in Madrid was one--keeps his assistants entirely in the background; he takes the stage when the _picadores_ leave it, and keeps it to the end. So close does he keep to the bull, that during the _corrida_ in Madrid, of which I am writing, he seldom allowed the animal to be a dart’s length away from him. On one occasion his _capa_ got caught so tightly on the bull’s horns that he tore it in jerking it away; and at another time the bull stopped dead, with his forefeet on the hated sash. As a _banderillero_, Fuentes is without equal in Spain. He frequently works with darts that have previously been broken short, and he uses them sparingly. Yet the encounter between the _banderillero_ and the bull when Fuentes is on the scene is the most thrilling part of the whole performance. It is a contest between human intellect and brute intelligence--a duel between mind and matter. Fuentes does not avoid the bull, but by exerting some magnetic power he repulses the animal and compels it to halt. When the bull charges, in response to his “defiance,” he waits with the _banderillas_ suspended above his head until the animal is within a few yards of him. Then he deliberately, but without haste, lowers one arm until the arrow is on a level with the brute’s eyes. The bull wavers in his onslaught, slows up, and stops dead within a foot or two of the point. Sometimes Fuentes walks backwards, while the bull glares at him with stupefied impotence, until he escapes the eyes that

hold him, and gallops away. Again and again the _banderillero_ taunts his enemy to attack him, only to arrest his charge and force him to turn from his deadly purpose by the irresistible power of his superior mentality. The crowd follows this superb exhibition with breathless interest, and in a silence that is more eloquent of admiration than the wildest cheers would be. But the end is nearly reached. Fuentes grasps his stumpy darts and advances against his bewildered antagonist, who waits his approach with sulky indifference. The man’s arms are flung up with a gesture of exasperating defiance, and when the bull makes his final rush, his opponent, instead of stopping him, steps lithely on one side, and the brute thunders past him with the two galling arrows firmly implanted in his huge neck. Fuentes has already moved to the side of the ring. The bull turns and charges back at him. The _banderillero_ glides gracefully over the sand, but his pace is not equal to that of his infuriated pursuer. The distance between them decreases rapidly; in half-a-dozen yards he will be upon him. Fuentes glances over his shoulder and, without changing his pace, doffs his cap and flings it in the bull’s face. This stratagem only arrests the rush of the brute for a moment, but it gives the man time to reach the barrier, where he receives his _muleta_ and sword from an attendant and returns to complete his task.

All the kings of the bull-ring have their own particular feats or strokes, which the Spaniards appreciate as Englishmen revel in Ranjitsinhji’s acrobatic hitting, or Morny Cannon’s inimitable “finishes.” Bombita-Chico’s speciality in playing his bull is to kneel in the arena and allow the animal to charge through the _capa_ which is held within three feet of the ground. The nerve required for this feat fires the audience with enthusiastic approval. The tale is told of a _torero_, whose name I have forgotten, who gained distinction by his exceptional skill in facing the bull with the long vaulting pole, known as the _salto de la garrocha_. With this instrument he would goad the bull on to the attack. When the brute was in full gallop he would, timing his movements to the instant, run a few yards to meet him, and swing himself high into the air at the end of his pole. The oncoming bull would charge the pole, the grounded end would be tossed upwards, and the _torero_ would drop lightly to the ground and make good his escape. On one occasion the man performed his risky “turn” at a moment when the attention of a royal lady was attracted from the arena, and she sent an attendant to the expert to command him to repeat it. In vain the poor fellow protested that it was impossible for him to accomplish the same feat again with the same bull. The lady’s desire had been expressed. “But it is more than my life is worth,” argued the athlete. “It is the lady’s wish,” responded the attendant. The _torero_ bowed, and “I dedicate my life to Her Royal Highness,” he said. The attempt fell out as he foretold. The bull charged and stopped dead. The man vaulted aloft, his body described a half circle, and fell--on the horns of the bull. He was dead before the attendants could entice the animal from his victim.