Impressions of Spain

by Albert Frederick Calvert

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.

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.

AT CLOSE QUARTERS.