THE FIGHTING BULL
When the fighting bulls come in at sunset, led from the lush pastures by the belled bullocks that have been their lifelong companions, one animal walks alone in the rear of the herd. He is of more than common size and splendidly armed, if one may use the bull-fighter’s term in speaking of his horns, but his is a gentle nature, and even the ganadero’s daughter, little Golisa, who has no more than ten summers to her credit, may bring him a handful of corn without fear. He is nine years old, and has many peaceful seasons before him, for he is El Perdonado.
Never heard of him, you say? That must be because you don’t know Andalusia. I saw the historic fight of which he was the hero; heard the greatest diestro in Spain make an appeal to the President that El Cuchillo, as he was then called, might be pardoned for bravery. And I saw the Spanish grandee, one of whose ancestors was immortalised by Velazquez, bare his head and pronounce the verdict of acquittal that is not heard once in five years in the plaza de toros. So El Perdonado (The Pardoned One) is by way of being an acquaintance of mine, and I have ridden for miles across country to see him browsing peacefully on the grass lands beyond Utrera, where he was born and bred. Now I will try to set his history before you, that you may know something more of fighting bulls than the plaza de toros can teach. The most of what I have to tell I have seen for myself, but for some of the more intimate details I am indebted to El Conecito, most expert of Andalusian banderilleros, with whom I used to chat over horchatas in the café of the Emperadores that is on the Sierpes of Seville. He will never see this acknowledgement of his help, for he slipped in the plaza de toros at Valencia during the corrida in honour of the feast of the Santissima Trinidad, slipped on a purple patch that had not been properly covered with sand, and died as he had lived—quite fearlessly.
El Perdonado was born on a Utrera bull-farm, in one of those restful districts that delight the traveller between Seville and the sea. The alqueria had whitewashed walls and a red roof, from which a belfry rose; it lay amid rich pastures. There were pools shaded with willows, and avenues of poplars that stood like sentinels against the sky-line, and over all the country-side brooded the spirit of deep and abiding peace. The young bull’s mother was of the notorious Miura herd of the Duke of Veragua, “the herd of death,” famous for their prowess throughout the arenas of Spain, and known by the red divisa that they carry into the ring. His sire was from a northern province, and not so well known to fame, but highly esteemed by the aficionados, the men who study the science of the bull-ring.
As soon as the calf was weaned he was turned out on to the rich lands that are watered by one of the tributaries of the Guadalquivir, and there he passed his days, eating lazily or standing in one of the pools to keep cool. He and his fellows were placed in the charge of a ganadero, who rode tirelessly across the meadows throughout the day, watching that his charges came to no harm and guiding or correcting them as he thought fit with a long pole. The young bulls were as hard to manage as a pack of foxhounds. They had every sort of temper among them; they were vicious, crafty, daring and sulky in turn, but they had one quality in common, and that was terror of the master’s pole. For Miguel, the ganadero, could knock a troublesome bull calf head over heels with his formidable weapon; he could ride like a vaquero of the pampas and turn a score of animals together in any direction he desired. Yet for all that he was fierce and pitiless, Miguel was the slave of any animal that fell sick, and never a racehorse received better attention in time of trouble.
Our friend gave little or no anxiety to the ganadero, and there was nothing in his behaviour during the first two years of his life that might outline his character, until the day when the proprietor of the farm rode down to the pastures with a company of friends and expert professionals to test the novillos, as the young bulls were then called. Each bull in turn was separated from the herd and charged by a stranger on horseback who was armed with such a pole as Miguel used.
Some of the animals would not face the charge at all, but fled in terror from it—to be driven into a fenced pasture and become mere butcher’s meat in the fulness of time. Others realised that their enemy was not Miguel, and charged him with fury. These were acclaimed by their owner, named on the spot, and entered in the stud-book as fighting-bulls. None of the novillos made so fierce a charge as the subject of this story, and because of the strength, shape and sharpness of his horns, he was entered in the records as El Cuchillo (The Knife). Among the bulls tested were some not quite of the first class in development and horn growth, though they were not lacking in courage and strength. These were sent away to provincial bull-rings, where they served, in corridas de novillos, to give practice to matadors of the second class, and to satisfy the blood-thirst of men and women who could not afford the time or money to visit the large arenas.
For El Cuchillo and the chosen companions of his year, life took a new and agreeable form when the first test had been withstood. They were kept by themselves in the lowest and richest meadows, where the grass came to their flanks and the water never failed. In the evening the tame bullocks that carried cow-bells round their necks came to fetch them home, and when they reached their stalls there was always a measure of fine corn for supper. So they increased in strength and natural ferocity until only Miguel dared face them, and he relied chiefly upon his old reputation. It is more than likely that he would have fared ill in a contest with the least of them now; but, as he carried the familiar pole, was a stranger to fear, and never allowed an order to be disobeyed, his rule was not seriously challenged. He called each bull by its name as though he were the huntsman and his charges were a pack of hounds.
One afternoon when El Cuchillo was rather more than three and a half years old, the tame bullocks came to the prairie some hours before their time, and in their wake followed half a dozen ganaderos, with Miguel at their head, all carrying long poles. Some eight bulls, including El Cuchillo, were separated from the rest of the company, and round these the belled bullocks formed a little circle, and the company started along an unfamiliar and deserted road, through lanes overblown with flowers of richest colour and fragrant with the perfume of wild thyme. Past farmhouses well-nigh smothered in greenery, and tiny wayside ventas where little groups of interested spectators were gathered under the vine-trellised arbours, men and beasts took their slow and peaceful way. Before nightfall a quiet meadow received the company of bulls and bullocks and, while five of the ganaderos went to claim the shelter of a neighbouring farmhouse, Miguel kept watch during the few dark hours.
In the afternoon of the next day the journey was resumed, and the fierce bulls went forward in orderly fashion enough, because they were accustomed by now to the company of bullocks and the tinkling of their bells. So that the bullocks knew the way, the bulls were well content to follow. Only on the fourth evening did they reach their destination, the tablada that lies within five miles of Seville and offers a clear view of the Giralda Tower and the cathedral. There for some days bulls and bullocks rested from their labours, and the corn supply of the former was renewed by Miguel with a lavish hand. Such little fatigue as might have been associated with the journey over dry and dusty roads was speedily forgotten.
A very gay procession rode out of Seville to the tablada on the afternoon of the Friday following the arrival of the animals. There were several noble patrons of the bull-ring, a tall, fair-bearded man who was treated with special deference, and a dancing-girl whose name was known from London to New YorkviâSt. Petersburg. One of Spain’s leading matadors was of the party—a heavy-jawed dull-eyed man, who rode his horse very awkwardly; there were two of the directors of the plaza de toros, and some of the lesser lights of the arena, including El Conecito, the banderillero. The bulls took little notice of the intruders. Their friends, the tame bullocks, were feeding by their side, and Miguel, armed with his pole, sat watching over them from the horse of which he seemed to be a part.
The company rode past the bulls, noting their points as connoisseurs should, and when the great matador—why hide the fact that it was Espartero himself?—saw El Cuchillo, he positively trembled with excitement. In thick guttural tones he asked Miguel a few questions; then, with a light in his eyes that seemed to change the character of his face, he cantered heavily to where the great bull stood. “We shall meet on Sunday, my beauty,” he cried aloud, “and then you shall feel my sword in your heart or I will take your horns to my body.”
And El Cuchillo, who at other times would permit no man to come within ten yards of him, raised his huge head and stared at the finest swordsman in all Spain, as though he understood the challenge and accepted it.
“You seem pleased with that fellow, Espartero,” said the tall man, turning for a moment from the lady with whom he had been conversing.
“Your highness,” replied the great diestro, “since the day when I entered a plaza for the first time, I have never seen a bull better set-up, better armed or in more splendid condition. And if I read him aright, half a dozen horses won’t tire him.”
Having spoken he drew back, the animation passed from his face as rapidly as it had come there, and he rode silently back to the city in the wake of his gay companions. Only Miguel remained in the tablada, perhaps in that moment the proudest man in Andalusia. For it was to his care and tireless work that El Cuchillo’s perfect condition was due.
More than twenty-four hours passed uneventfully, save that the supply of corn was doubled, but as Saturday night drew on many unaccustomed sounds disturbed the bulls—sounds of carriage wheels, the tramp of many horses and the noise of human voices. More than once the huge animals rose to their feet and looked round uneasily, but the bullocks showed no sign of nervousness, and Miguel was in his place. Night deepened, but moon and stars shone with a good grace, and soon there were other lights moving close to the ground—lanterns carried by horsemen at the end of long poles. Miguel’s voice sounded across the tablada, calling the beasts by name; they rose to their feet and came together, a dark, unwieldy nervous mass that a false movement might have turned into a destructive force. But other ganaderos were riding through the tablada now and calling the bullocks, that, obedient to the summons, gathered round the bulls and, preceded by Miguel and one ganadero, led the way through the pastures to the high road. As soon as this was reached Miguel’s companion shook his reins and darted off at a thundering gallop along the Seville road. His the duty to warn belated travellers that the encierro had commenced, to turn carriages and waggons into side lanes, and then to continue his headlong rush until the plaza de toros was reached, and he could summon the men on duty there to light their fires and open the great gate leading to the toril. It was a simple matter enough to take the bulls from their native pasture to the place they were leaving now, but the last few miles between the tablada and the bull-ring were full of dangers, for all Seville was accustomed to turn out to see the procession.
When bulls, bullocks and their guardians were safely on the high road, a long procession of carriages, followed by men on horse and afoot, came from a turn in the main road and formed a sort of rearguard.
The fascination of the night-ride was at once their justification and their excuse. The air was so still that the ringing sound of flying hoofs reached the ear when the first ganadero was some two miles in advance of the procession; one was conscious of the heavy, intoxicating perfume that stole out from gardens on either side of the road. From the poplar trees came the ceaseless call of the cigarrons, nightingales sang amid the orange-orchards of Las Delicias, the melancholy cry of the bittern rose from the river marshes, mingled with the croaking of the bull-frogs never at rest. And every venta along the roadside was crowded, the garden trees were hung with lanterns, guitars tinkled an accompaniment to malagueñas, jotas, boleros and other songs and dances of Southern Spain, and through the pageant and festivities prepared in their honour the bulls moved with silent dignity. Right along the Guadalquivir’s bank, where the lights shone from the faluchas at rest upon its waters, they tramped almost up to the Tower of Gold, and then the plaza de toros shone out clearly in the light of huge bonfires kindled just beyond its boundaries. Guided for the first and last time by the poles of the ganaderos, the bullocks turned sharply to the right, and after a moment’s hesitation that gave the one touch of suspense to the proceedings, the fighting bulls followed. The heavy doors were drawn behind them, the procession dispersed, and, quite unseen by any eyes save those of the men engaged, each bull was driven to his own condemned cell, while the bullocks remained by themselves in a small straw-covered yard. Then profound silence reigned throughout the city, broken only when the bells clashed from the Giralda Tower and the old serenos who paraded the streets with spear and lantern cried to the Maria Santissima that the night was clear.
In his narrow prison El Cuchillo may have noted the coming of the morning when one white bar of light fell across the wall. There were sounds of activity beyond the toril, but he remained undisturbed. He had little room to turn, there was no food, and, worse still, no water. Hunger, thirst and fear yielded slowly to an overmastering sense of anger, founded upon his consciousness of giant strength. He bellowed savagely, and would have given effect to his rage had it been possible to move freely.
Long hours passed; morning yielded to afternoon. The great splash of light that came through the bars waxed intense and intolerant and then waned slowly with the passing hours, while an indescribable sense of movement filled the twilight of the condemned cell. In some subtle fashion it told of the gathering of an expectant multitude. On a sudden a military band, somewhere just beyond the toril, crashed out the Spanish National Anthem, there were cheers and shouts, succeeded by a death-like stillness that was broken in its turn by a shrill, penetrating trumpet call. Time after time, for more than an hour, came the reverberating notes, the snatches of wild music, the cries from many thousand throats. Only one word rang clear: “Espartero”.
At last El Cuchillo became conscious of voices on either side of him, the light broadened, and a hand, shooting out a little way above him, stuck the barbed point of a red rosette in his shoulder. A moment later the trumpets called again, the front wall of his prison opened as though by magic, and he dashed forward with a rush that brought him half way across the yellow arena. A yell from twelve thousand throats arrested him; he lashed his flanks, blinked a little—for even the setting sun hurt his eyes after those long hours of darkness—and then answered his audience with a roar of defiance. Certainly he knew that he was surrounded by his enemies; perhaps the awful odour of blood that filled the arena gave him some prevision of the butchery that was to accompany his death.
Let us pass over the first few minutes of the struggle. El Cuchillo knew no difference between the armour-cased picadores who carried the spiked poles, and the hapless, unprotected, blindfolded horses they bestrode. That is all that needs be said by way of excuse for the six carcases that strewed the arena when the tercio sounded, carcases from which the blue-coated attendants had stripped saddle and bridle. With one exception the picadores had fallen behind their horses in the most approved fashion; the exception, a heavy man, protected at all vital points against the reddened horns, was tossed high into the air and carried off with a broken collar-bone; while Espartero himself drew El Cuchillo away with some of the most superb cloak-work Seville had seen since Lagartijo retired from the bull-ring.
With the enthusiasm of the huge auditorium a thrill of amazement was mingled. Though the bull’s neck bore red marks of the picadores’ poles, he was singularly fresh, his breathing was not short and sharp as it should have been, and he was in no sense distressed.
Conecito came forward with his banderillas, the beribboned spears used for the second attack upon the bull, and the crowd cheered lustily, for the banderillero was a favourite. Bull and man seemed to charge together, and then Conecito was seen travelling post-haste for the barrier, which he reached just in time, while his opponent drew up and trotted off gamely but with “half a pair” (the technical term for one banderilla) hanging from his shoulder. The second banderillero tried next and failed altogether—El Cuchillo’s pace beat him utterly; and then, to the accompaniment of a roar of applause and a burst of barbaric music, Espartero himself came forward with a pair of the light lances. This time there was no mistake. For all Cuchillo’s wonderful habit of using his eyes as he charged he could never quite tell where the great matador would cross him, and at the second attempt the two lances were beautifully placed. Then Conecito tried again, with the same result as before, save that the one sent home was on the other side of the bull’s flank, so that he carried two pairs now. The second banderillero was quite beaten, but the renowned Rafael Guerra, who led the second cuadrilla, succeeded, amid thunders of acclamation. Then the judge raised his hand to the string with which he signalled, the trumpeters sounded the third call and a great hush fell upon the arena.
Espartero was to kill. The great diestro, who had been testing the quality of two or three swords, and giving instructions to the footmen of his cuadrilla, now chose his weapon, and wrapping the scarlet muleta round it strode across the arena until he stood below the President’s box.
Hat in hand, he asked permission to kill El Cuchillo in manner that would do honour to Seville. The President raised his hat in token of assent; Espartero flung his own over the barrier and turned towards the middle of the arena, where El Cuchillo, standing sturdily defiant, greeted his coming with a thunderous bellow, and stared with bloodshot eyes at the gold epaulettes and braid, the gaudy coat, the red waistband and blood-stained white stockings of his enemy.
Conecito, who now carried one of the plum-coloured cloaks, stood a little to the left of his chief and heard Espartero speak to the bull as though he were a human being.
“El Cuchillo,” he said slowly, almost solemnly, “you are a great bull and know no fear. You have killed six horses and you are still fresh. I, Espartero, salute and honour you. And now one of us must die.”
So saying, he unfurled the scarlet cloth, the muleta, and flashed it across the bull’s startled eyes, so that he charged the uncanny thing. It jumped up out of his reach, and came back just below his nose, and buzzed round him like a hornet, and led him to jump and turn and twist and lose his caution, and stand with his forelegs closer and closer together as Espartero wished, for when they were quite in the normal condition he could send his espada through the matted hair over the shoulder and through the lungs to the heart. Then on a sudden, when the aficionados were telling each other that the end of the splendid animal would be tame enough, and speculating whether Espartero would kill with his favourite volapies, or would fall back on the descabello à pulso, that must be difficult with a bull whose movements were so uncertain, El Cuchillo seemed to recover his nerve. He ignored the muleta and rushed at Espartero himself, and in that moment all the diestro’s plans were upset, and he was forced to save himself by one of the agile turns of which he was the master.
The trumpets sounded a single warning note; Espartero had gone beyond the time allotted to him. A murmur of astonishment rippled round the vast arena; never before in the history of Seville had Espartero been warned. Even the boys who sell programmes and fruit and sandwiches ceased their cries; the flutter of fans on the sunny side of the ring faded into stillness almost automatically; and the gaudy flags that decked the arena seemed to hang breathless. Alone in that vast concourse matador and bull preserved their tranquillity, and it would be hard to say which of the two needed it most.
Espartero realised the need for prompt action. With splendid disregard for danger he returned to his work, and once again the muleta flashed all round the bull’s head, bewildering, dazing and almost stupefying him, while one of the banderillas that lay right across the animal’s shoulder was lifted into its proper place by a daring stroke of the sword. For a moment the forelegs came together, and it seemed as though Espartero hurled himself upon the bull, but a second later the sword was high in the air, the matador’s stroke had been foiled by one of El Cuchillo’s sudden movements, and one blood-stained horn ripped Espartero’s red waistcoat as he jumped aside avoiding death by a hand’s-breadth. The capadores rushed in to cover their chief’s defeat, and El Cuchillo, disdaining the plum-coloured cloaks, made for one man. The moment of mad chase to the barrier was one of horrible uncertainty, the capador vaulted and fell, badly bruised, on the other side, and then El Cuchillo trotted back to the centre of the arena, distressed and bleeding, but unbeaten. The trumpet called again.
Espartero examined the sword that had been picked up and brought to him, only to fling it aside. Armed with a fresh one, he paused to replace and reassure his wondering cuadrilla, and moved forward again. His face was perfectly colourless, his hand was shaking, the fatigue of the work done during the long afternoon was making itself felt, for he had killed two difficult bulls already, and El Cuchillo had been more than twenty minutes in the arena.
“Give me your horns or take my sword this time,” he cried, as he approached his enemy, and, as though in reply, El Cuchillo bellowed his defiance to Spain and its champion matador.
Now, in those last moments, the silence was almost as oppressive as the heat.
Something of the fury of despair seemed to seize upon man and beast, some shadow of their overwhelming anxiety lay heavily upon the audience. The muleta had seemingly lost its power to charm, and the matador seemed resolved to set his life upon the point of his own sword. With a superb gesture, he lowered the scarlet rag and invited El Cuchillo to charge. Hundreds of men and women, used though they were to all the carnage of the arena, turned their eyes away, until a deafening roar roused them to see Espartero hurled on one side and El Cuchillo in pursuit of the plum-coloured cloaks, with the sword quivering in his shoulder.
As the shout rolled through the arena, and Espartero walked slowly to the barrier, the setting sun made a final effort and flooded half the arena with yellow crocus-coloured light. The pigeons from the Giralda Tower swept right across the plaza, and from the sunny side rose a sudden shout of “Pardon! pardon.”
It was caught up all over the arena as El Cuchillo, with a mighty effort, shook the sword out of his shoulder and, with splendid valour, returned to the centre of the arena, unbeaten still, and ready for the next attack.
The clamour increased and became deafening until Espartero was seen walking empty-handed to the corner below the President’s box. Then it died away to absolute silence.
In clear tones that could be heard all over one side of the arena the great matador asked the President to grant pardon to El Cuchillo for his splendid fight, which had given more honour to the famous plaza de toros than would come to it by his death. And the President, listening gravely to his appeal, raised his hat and replied, “We pardon El Cuchillo on account of his bravery”.
Amid a scene of extraordinary enthusiasm the trumpets sounded again, and the tame bullocks came into the arena by way of the toril. They grouped themselves round El Cuchillo, while people cheered and flung hats and cigars and flowers to Espartero, and the band played Spain’s National Anthem. So the long-horned hero of “the herd of death” passed to the toril, where the barbs were removed, his wounds were dressed and his raging thirst was satisfied. And the crowd that had gathered along the river-side road to see him pass to his death gathered on the morrow to do him honour on his way back to the pleasant pastures of Utrera, where old age comes to him to-day, slowly and in peaceful guise.