Four Months Afoot in Spain

by Harry Alverson Franck

Just back of this, four stories above the Plaza de la Verduga, or Place of the Green Stuff, lives a widow whose little spare chamber is let in the winter season to some unpretentious student of the now unpretentious university. I engaged this, together with what of physical nourishment should be reasonable, at three pesetas a day. As I took possession, the daughter of the hostess, a muchacha of eight, peered in upon me hugging a doll under one arm.

"Qué muñeca más bonita!" I hazarded, which turned out to be unwise, for the homage so overcame her diffidence that she came in not only to offer the information that my complexion strangely resembled that of a lobster in the salmantino museum, but such a fund of further information that it was long before I had inveigled her outside the door and, throwing myself on the bed, slept the clock round.

As in many another city it had been my fortune to reach Salamanca on the eve of one of her great festivals. Indeed, that must be a foresighted traveler who can journey through Spain without being frequently caught up in the whirlpool of some local fiesta. The excuse this time was Assumption Day. The festivities within the city walls offered nothing of extraordinary, being chiefly confined to a band concert in the central plaza. Richer by far would be the richest city of the earth could she purchase and transplant into her own midst the Plaza Mayor of Salamanca, with its small forest of palms, the rich brown medallioned façades and surrounding colonnades beneath which the salmantino is wont to stroll, la salmantina on his arm, while the band plays in the flower-shrouded stand in its center. Salamanca might sell, too, in spite of her boast that it is the finest in Spain, being poorer than the proverbial church mouse, were she not also Spanish and prouder than she is poor.

The real fiesta, however, took the form of a bullfight that had a character all its own. Salamanca, as I have hinted, is no longer a city of wealth. Indeed, those occasions are rare in these modern days when she can indulge in a round of the national sport, even though she possesses one of the largest bullrings in Spain. On this great holiday, however, the city fathers had decided that nothing within the bounds of reason was too good for the recreating of Salamanca's long unfeasted children. A full-sized bullfight would, to be sure, have far overstepped the bounds above mentioned. But after long debate and deep investigation it had been concluded that a córrida with four bulls, no horses, one real matador, and seats of all shades and distinctions at one peseta each might be conceded.

With this unlimited choice of vantage-points at my own price I went out early to the plaza and picked my place in the sombra in what was evidently a section reserved for the guardia civil; for before long the guards, in full uniform and their three-cornered hats, began to gather about me, first in pairs, then in groups, then in swarms, until I was wholly, shut in and surrounded by guardias civiles like a dandelion in the center of a bed of tulips. Far from resenting my intrusion, however, if such it was, they initiated me into their order with botas and cigarettes and included me in their conversation and merriment during the rest of the day.

The entertainment began at four. With that exception, however, it had few points of similarity with the regulation córrida. The procession entered, fully six men in torero garb--though that of two or three of them fitted like amateur theatrical costumes--followed by two horsemen, two, in their shirt-sleeves, as was also señor el alcalde in his box. The key thrown, the fight began; with the elimination of the one unquestionably unpleasant feature,--the killing of horses. Even aged hacks cost money and, as I have already more than once suggested, money is a rare commodity in Salamanca. When the bull had been worried a bit with the cloaks, the banderilleros proceeded at once to plant their darts. The professional matador, a young man rejoicing in the name of Trueno--"Thunder"--had, therefore, a far more difficult task than usual, for more than anything else it is the venting of his rage and strength on the blindfolded steeds that tires the bull, and on this occasion it was a still wild and comparatively fresh animal which the diestro was called upon to face. He despatched his three allotted bulls, however, without accident and to the vociferous satisfaction of the audience, which filled even at the low price only a bit more than the shaded section. It was not, as the guardia beside me was at some pains to explain, that there were not salmantinos quite sufficient to pack the plaza to overflowing, but that there were not pesetas enough in town to go round. In the throng, too, were no small number of peasants from all the widely surrounding country, some in the old dress with knee breeches.

But to touch upon the unusual features of the córrida. As a part of the worrying of the second bull a chulo placed a chair in the ring and, standing upon it with neither weapon nor cloak, awaited the charge. When the bull had all but reached him he sprang suddenly into the air, the animal dashed under him and, falling upon the unoffending article of furniture, dissolved it thoroughly into its component parts and scattered them broadcast about the arena.

The most nerve-thrilling performance, however, that it was my privilege to see in all the devil-may-care land of Spain was the feat that followed immediately on the death of the chair-wrecker. It was the "star attraction" of the day and was announced on the posters in all the Spaniard's richness of superlatives--and he is a born and instinctive writer of "ads." Clinging as closely as possible to the eloquent phraseology of the original the announcement may be set forth in near-English as follows:

"Various are the chances (tricks) which are executed in the different plazas of Spain inside the taurine art, but none that has more called attention than that which is practised by JOSÉ VILLAR son of the memorable matador (killer, murderer) of bulls Villarillo who"--not father Illo, who has left off all earthly sport, but son José--"locating himself in the center of the arena and placed with the head towards below and the feet by above imploring the public to maintain the most impressive silence during the risk (fate) consummates the trick (chance) of Tancredo; very well, this Management not reflecting on (sparing) either expense or sacrifice has contracted with him in order that he shall fulfill (lift, pull off; sic.) this trick (risk) on the third bull to the end that the salmantinos shall know it, with which program this Management believes to have filled to the full the desires of the aficionados (rooters, fans, amateurs)."

The second bull, therefore, having been ignominiously dragged to oblivion and the butcher-shop, and the blood patches of the arena resanded, there sallied forth from the further gate a small, athletic man of thirty-five or so, hatless--and partly hairless--dressed from head to foot in the brightest red, of a material so thin that the movement of his every muscle could be plainly seen beneath it. He was entirely empty-handed. He marched with sprightly stride across the ring and, bowing low to the alcalde in his box above, addressed to the public a warning and an entreaty to maintain the utmost silence during the "consummation of the risk." An assistant then appeared, carrying a small wooden box with a piece of gas-pipe six feet long fixed upright in the top of it. This Villar placed exactly in the center of the ring, a hundred yards or more in every direction from the barrier. Across the gas-pipe, near the top, he fastened a much shorter piece, thus forming a cross. On the box he placed a circular roll of cloth, stood on his head thereon, hooked his toes over the cross-piece, waved a hand gaily to the public, and folded his arms. Every other torero stepped outside the ring, and the toril gate swung open.