At this period (summer of 1908) a combination of the bull-fighting craft attempted a boycott of the Miura herd, or at least double pay for killing them. This was done secretly at first, since neither would open confession redound to the credit of the “pig-tail,” nor did it promise favourable reception by the public.
At this conjuncture a notable corrida occurred at Seville—six Miurenos being listed for the fight. Ricardo Torres (Bombita II.) despatched his first with all serenity and valour; with his second, a magnificent animal worthy of a royal pageant, he would doubtless have comported himself with equal skill but for an extraneous incident. Upon rushing into the arena this bull had at once impaled a foolhardy amateur named Pepín Rodriguez who (quite against all recognised rule) had madly sprung into the ring. The poor fellow was borne out only in time to receive the last religious rite.
At the precise moment when Ricardo stepped forth to meet his foe, the murmur reached his ear—Pepín was dead, and his superstitious soul sank down to zero at that whisper from without. When the critical moment arrived—the popular matador stood pale, nerveless, incapable. Then the scorn of the mighty crowd burst forth in monstrous yells. Ricardo Torres had fallen from the pinnacle of fame to the level of a clumsy beginner. In a moment he was disgraced, his increasing reputation ruined for ever under the eyes of all the world—and that by a Miureno bull. From that moment the fallen star organised his colleagues in open rebellion against the victorious breed.
The line of action adopted was to abuse and libel the incriminated herd. It was urged that the bulls lacked the true qualities of dash and valour and only scored by treachery; and especially insinuated that the young bulls were expressly taught at their tentaderos, or trials on the open plains, to discriminate between shadow and substance—in other words, to seek the man and disdain the lure—this naturally making the rôle of matador more dangerous, and double pay was demanded. To outsiders it would appear that on the day when bulls learn this, bull-fighting must cease.
A storm burst that raged all winter—all classes taking part. Spain was rent in twain; press and people, high and low, joined issue in this unseemly wrangle. We cannot here enter into detail of the various schemes, fair and unfair, whereby the bull-fighters’ guild sought to justify their action and their demands and to prejudice the terrible Miurenos in the public eye. They were seconded by most professionals of renown, and soon all but seven had joined the league. But the squabble with its resultant lawsuits and sordid financial aspect finally disgusted the public.
Needless to add, a counter-association of bull-breeders had been forced into existence, which eventually, despite varied and particular personal interests unworthy of definition, united the opposition. Oh! it was a pretty quarrel and one in its essence peculiar to Spain. But it held the whole country engaged all winter in the throes of a semi-civil war!
At the first corrida of the following season—held at Alicante January 18, 1909, and graced by the presence of King Alfonso XIII. in person—the public delivered their verdict, filling the Plaza to overflowing, although the whole of the six champions were of the condemned Miura breed and the matadors, Quinito and Rerre, belonged to the recalcitrant Seven. The bull-fighters’ guild had received a fatal blow.
Such was the situation, the mental equilibrium between the fiercely contending factions, as the crucial period approached—the Easter corridas at Seville. The impresarios of that function, having full grip of the circumstance, engaged matadors of minor repute—Pepete, Moréno de Alcalá, and Martin Vasquez. All three, although but of second rank, were popular and regarded as coming men.
Flaming posters announced that six champions of the Miura breed would face the swordsmen.
The occasion was unique, and D. Eduardo Miura rose to meet it, presenting six bulls of incomparable beauty, magnificent in fine lines, in dash, brute-strength, and valour, yet utterly devoid (as the event proved) of guile or lurking treachery. Such animals as these six demanded a Romero, a Montes, or a Guerrita as equals; instead, these young Toréros who faced them, courageous though they were, lacked calibre for such an undertaking. This corrida marked an epoch, but it acquired the proportions of a catastrophe. The bye-word that “where there are bulls there are no matadors” became that afternoon an axiom.