Even the average bullfighter is a rich man and known for his generosity as well. Directly there is a disaster—railway accident, explosion or flood—a corrida is arranged for the sufferers; and the whole band of fighters give their earnings to the cause. The usual profits of a skilled torero are seven thousand pesetas—two hundred and eighty pounds—a performance. Out of this he must pay his assistants about three thousand pesetas, and the rest he has for himself. When not the lover of some famous dancer, he is often a married man, and they say, aside from his dangerous profession, makes an excellent husband and father. One and all, the bullfighters are religious; the last thing they do before entering the arena is to confess and receive absolution in the little chapel at the Bull Ring, and a priest remains with extreme unction always in readiness in case of serious accident.
The great part of the bullfighters come from Andalucia—there is an academy at Seville to teach the science—but some are from the North and from Mexico and South America, and all are impatient to fight at Madrid, since successful toreo in this city constitutes the bullfighter’s diploma. At the first—and so of course the most exciting—fight I saw the matadors were Bombita and Gallito, from Seville, and Gaona, from Mexico. The latter was even more cordially received by the Spaniards than their own countrymen after they saw his splendid play; but Bombita is acknowledged the best matador—killer—in Spain, and Gallito, a mere boy of eighteen, is adored by the people. Each of the three killed two bulls on the afternoon I attended my first corrida.
It is impossible to describe the change that comes over the whole aspect and atmosphere of Madrid on the day of a bullfight. The old actor in his corner rubs his eyes, shakes himself and looks alive. Crowds are in the streets, buckboards packed with country people dash through the Puerta del Sol and towards the Plaza de Toros; the languid madrileño in the cafés is roused to rapid talk and excited betting with his neighbour, and in the clubs, where the toreros are gathered in their gorgeous costumes, the betting runs higher. Ticket booths are surrounded by a mob of eager enthusiasts, while behind her grating the señora is shaking out her mantilla, fixing the great red and white carnations in her hair, draping the lace above them and her monstrous comb. A carriage drives swiftly down the street to her door, her husband hurries in, calling impetuously to make haste. The slumbrous eyes of the lady catch fire with a thousand sparks; she clicks her fan, flashes a last triumphant smile into her mirror, and is swept away to the Bull Ring.
FAIR ENTHUSIASTS AT THE BULL FIGHT
Here all is seething anticipation: the immense coliseum black with people moving to their seats or standing up to watch the crowd in the arena below; Royalty just arrived, Doña Isabel and her ladies lining the velvet-hung box with their picturesque mantillas; the President of the Bull Ring taking his place of honour; ladies unfurling fans and gossiping, aficionados waving to one another across the ring and calling final excited bets; small boys shouting cushions, cigarettes, postcards, or beer and horchatas. Suddenly a bugle sounds. People scuttle to their seats, the arena is cleared as by magic, and, to a burst of music and thunderous applause from ten thousand pairs of hands, the splendid entrada takes place.
Matadors in their bright suits heavy with gold, banderilleros in their silver, picadors on their sorry horses, march proudly round the ring; while the band plays and the crowd shouts itself hoarse—just for a starter. Then the picadors go out, the torero who is to kill the first bull asks the President for the keys to the ring; the President throws them into the arena, and—the first bull is loosed!
From this point on there is no wit in regarding the spectacle from a humane or sentimental standpoint. He who is inclined to do so had better never have left home. If he has eyes for the prodigal bloodshed, the torture of the bull with the piercing darts, the sufferings of the horses, he will be acutely wretched from beginning to end. But if he can fix his attention solely on the beauty of the torero’s body in constant action, on the utter fearlessness and superb audacity of the man in his taunting the beast; if, in short, he can concentrate on the science and skill of the thing, he will have something worth remembering all his life.
I shall never forget Bombita, with his grave, curiously detached expression, his dark face almost indifferent as he came forward to kill the first bull. This is by far the most interesting part of the fight—after the horses have been disposed of and the stupid picadors have made their exit—when the matador advances with his sword sheathed in the red muleta. He has made his speech to the President, he has ordered his assistants to retire to the background, and he and the bull face one another alone in the centre of the arena.
Then comes the lightning move of every moment in the encounter between man and beast. The spot between the shoulders where the bull is killed covers only about three inches, and must be struck absolutely true—or the crowd is furious. At best it is exceedingly capricious, hissing, whistling and shouting on the slightest provocation, but going literally mad over each incident of the matador’s daring; and finally, if he makes a “neat kill,” throwing their hats and coats—anything—into the arena while the air reverberates with “Bravos!”