shade,” is a luxury to be prized; but in February, in Madrid, we need
all the warmth and glare that the sun can give us. The present Bull
Ring, which was built at a cost of £80,000, and opened in 1874, seats
15,000 persons. It stands on a gentle elevation in a broad stretch of
bare yellow land, where it raises its brick-coloured walls--the only
land-mark in the barren, treeless, desolate expanse between the city and
the solemn distant mountains. Around the various entrances countless
human beings cluster like bees, and the Plaza is alive with men and
horses, mules with tinkling bells, soldiers, police, picadors, and
fruit-sellers. What strikes one most curiously about this concourse of
human beings, both outside the bull-ring and within the huge
amphitheatre, which rises tier above tier from the brown sand till it is
almost lost in the vast expanse of blue above, is its single-mindedness,
its patience, and the entire absence of horseplay. To a Spaniard this is
not curious, but to the English spectator some familiar characteristic
of a crowd appears to be absent.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE OF THE BULL.]
Punctuality is not a strong trait in the Spanish character, but
punctuality will be observed to-day. At the hour and the minute
appointed, the President enters his _palco_, the signal is given, and
the proceedings commence. The procession, headed by two _caballeros_,
habited in black velvet, moves slowly across the ring to the front of
the President’s seat. The two _espadas_ in yellow and violet, and gold
and green costumes respectively, follow the _caballeros_. After them
come half-a-dozen stoutly-protected _picadores_, then eight
_banderilleros_, gay with a profusion of silk sashes, short breeches,
and variously-coloured hose, and the rear is brought up by a _posse_ of
attendants, leading the mules, all bedecked in plumes and rich
trappings, which are to drag off the carcases from the arena. The
entrance of the glittering cavalcade is announced by a trumpet sound,
and the President tosses the key of the _toril_ into the ring.
To the “new chum,” all this preliminary detail, commonplace and
“circusy” as it is, is sufficient to strain the nerves, and expectancy
changes to apprehension. The creak emitted by the opening of the heavy
door of the _toril_ intensifies the feeling. The clutch of curiosity
with which the entire concourse awaits the entrance of the first bull is
contagious. Instinctively one strains forward and catches one’s breath.
Toro does not keep us long in suspense. There is a momentary lull, and
then the bull dashes from his dark cell into the glint of the Spring
sunshine. The novelty of the environment staggers him for a moment. He
hesitates in the centre of the ring, and looks wildly around him. The
arena is empty, with the exception of three picadores, who sit rigidly
in a row on their sorry hacks, waiting for the bull to recognise their
presence.
Our first victim is a doughty warrior. He is as ignorant as the
blindfold knackers--that would be dear at a pound a leg--of the fate in
store for him. He may make a brave fight, kill horses, upset men, and
leap the barriers with a heroic rush, but in twenty minutes his corpse
will be coupled up to the mules, and fresh sand will be strewn on the
red trail that will mark his last passage across the arena. The
inevitableness of the outcome of the encounter, so far as the principal
actor is concerned, is the least pleasing feature of the sport. The fox
and the stag are
[Illustration: ANTONIO FUENTES.]
[Illustration: LUIS MAZZANTINI AND CUADRILLA.]
[Illustration: GUERRITA. _Bandillero._]
given a gambling chance, the grouse is not without hope, and the
gladiator of the cock-pit may live to fight another day, but the bull is
a doomed animal. Happily he is not capable of calculating the
uselessness of his efforts. The horses stand but little better chance,
and the _picadores_, despite their iron and leather greaves and spears,
are paid to take risks.
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.
[Illustration: THE PICADOR.]
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.
[Illustration: AT CLOSE QUARTERS.]
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.
[Illustration: A TURN WITH HIS BACK TO THE BULL.]
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.
[Illustration: FIXING THE BANDERILLAS.]
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
[Illustration: THE MATADOR.]