THE normal British idea of a bull naturally derives colour from those stolid animals one sees at home, some with a ring through the nose, and which are only kept for stud purposes, but occasionally evince a latent ferocity by goring to death some hapless herdsman.

Between such and the Spanish Toro de Plaza there exists no sort of analogy. The Spanish fighting-bull is bred to fight, and the keen experience of centuries is brought to bear on the selection of the fittest—that, moreover, not only as regards the bulls, for the cows also are tested both for pluck and stamina before admission to the herd-register. The result, in effect, assures that an animal as fierce and formidable as the wildest African buffalo shall finally face the matador.

The breeding of the fighting-bull forms in Spain a rural industry as deeply studied and as keenly competitive as that of prize-cattle or Derby winners in England.

At the age of one year preliminary tests are made, and promising youngsters branded with the insignia of the herd. But it is the completion of the second year that marks their critical period; for then take place the trials for pluck and mettle. The brave are set aside for the Plaza, the docile destroyed or gelded; while from the chosen lot a further selection is made of the sires for future years.

At these two-year-old trials, or Tentaderos, it is customary for the owner and his friends to assemble at the sequestered rancho—the event indeed becomes a rural fÊte, a bright and picturesque scene, typical of untrodden Spain and of the buoyant exuberance and dare-devil spirit of her people.

Nowhere can the exciting scenes of the Tentadero be witnessed to greater advantage than on those wide level pasturages that extend from Seville to the Bay of CÁdiz. Here, far out on spreading vega ablaze with wild flowers, where the canicular sun flashes yet more light and fire into the fiery veins of the Andaluz—here is enacted the first scene in the drama of the TorÉo. For ages these flower-strewn plains have formed the scene of countless tentaderos, where the young bloods of Andalucia, generation after generation, rival each other in feats of derring-do, of skill, and horsemanship.

The remote estancia presents a scene of unwonted revelry. All night long its rude walls resound with boisterous hilarity—good-humour, gaiety, and a spice of practical joking pass away the dark hours and by daylight all are in the saddle. The young bulls have previously been herded upon that part of the estate which affords the best level ground for smart manoeuvre and fast riding, and the task of holding the impetuous beasts together is allotted to skilled herdsmen armed with long garrochas—four-yard lances, with blunt steel tip. All being ready, a single bull is allowed to escape across the plain. Two horsemen awaiting the moment, spear in hand, give chase, one on either flank. The rider on the bull’s left assists his companion by holding the animal to a straight course. Presently the right-hand man, rising erect in his stirrups, plants his lance on the bull’s off-flank, near the tail, and by one tremendous thrust, delivered at full speed, overthrows him—a feat that bespeaks a good eye, a firm seat, and a strong arm. Some young bulls will take two or more falls; others, on rising, will elect to charge. The infuriated youngster finds himself faced by a second foe—a horseman armed with a more pointed lance and who has been riding close behind. This man is termed el Tentador. Straightway the bull charges, receiving on his withers the garrocha point; thrown back thus and smarting under this first check to his hitherto unthwarted will, he returns to the charge with redoubled fury, but only to find the horse protected as before. The pluckier spirits will essay a third or a fourth attack, but those that freely charge twice are passed as fit for the ring.

Should a young bull twice decline to charge the Tentador, submitting to his overthrow and only desiring to escape, he is condemned—doomed to death, or at best to a life of agricultural toil.

Not seldom a bull singled out from the rodÉo declines to escape, as expected; but, instead, charges the nearest person, on foot or mounted, whom he may chance to espy. Then there is a flutter in the dovecotes! Danger can only be averted by skilled riding or a cool head, since there is no shelter. Spanish herdsmen, however (and amateurs besides), are adepts in the art of giving “passes” to the bull—a smart fellow, when caught thus in the open, can keep a bull off him (using his jacket only) for several moments, giving time for horsemen to come up to his rescue. Even then it is no uncommon occurrence to see horseman, horse, and bull all rolling on the turf in a common ruin. Seldom does it happen that one of these trial-days passes without broken bones or accidents of one kind or another.

For four to five more years, the selected bulls roam at large over the richest pasturages of the wide unfrequented prairies. Should pasture fail through drought or deluge, the bulls are fed on tares, vetch, or maize, even with wheat, for their dÉbut in public must be made in the highest possible condition. The bulls should then be not less than five, nor more than seven years old.

The tentadero at the present day brings together aristocratic gatherings that recall the tauromachian tournaments of old. Skill in handling the garrocha and the ability to turn-over a running bull are accomplishments held in high esteem among Spanish youth. Even the Infantas of Spain have entered into the spirit of the sport, and have been known themselves to wield a dexterous lance.

At length, however, the years spent in luxurious idleness on the silent plain must come to an end. One summer morning the brave herd find grazing in their midst sundry strangers which make themselves extremely agreeable to the lordly champions, now in the zenith of magnificent strength and beauty. These strangers are the cabrestos (or cabestros, in correct Castilian), decoy-oxen sent out to fraternise for a few days with the fighting race preparatory to the Encierro, or operation of convoying the latter to the city whereat the corrida is to take place. Each cabresto has a cattle-bell suspended round its neck in order to accustom the wild herd to follow the lead of these base betrayers of the brave. Thus the noble bulls are lured from their native plains through country tracks and bye-ways to the entrance of the fatal toril.

After the Stroke.
After the Stroke.

An animated spectacle it is on the eve of the corrida when, amidst clouds of dust and clang of bells, the tame oxen and wild bulls are driven forward by galloping horsemen and levelled garrochas. The excited populace, already intoxicated with bull-fever and the anticipation of the coming corridas, line the way to the Plaza, careless if in the enthusiasm for the morrow they risk some awkward rips to-day.

Once inside the lofty walls of the toril it is easy to withdraw the treacherous cabestros, and one by one to tempt the bulls each into a small separate cell, the chiquero, the door of which will to-morrow fall before his eyes. Then, rushing upon the arena, he finds himself confronted and encircled by surging tiers of yelling humanity, while the crash of trumpets and glare of moving colours madden his brain. Then the gaudy horsemen, with menacing lances, recall his day of trial on the distant plain—horsemen now doubly hateful in their brilliant glittering tinsel.

What a spectacle is presented by the Plaza at this moment!—one without parallel in the modern world. The vast amphitheatre, crowded to the last seat in every row and tier, is held for some seconds in breathless suspense; above, the glorious azure canopy of an Andalucian summer sky; below, on the yellow arena, rushes forth the bull, fresh from his distant prairie, amazed yet undaunted by the unwonted sight and bewildering blaze of colour which surrounds him. For one brief moment the vast mass of excited humanity sits spell-bound; the clamour of myriads is stilled. Then the pent-up cry bursts forth in frantic volume, for the gleaning horns have done their work, and Buen toro! buen toro! rings from twice ten thousand throats.

We have traced in brief outline the life-history of our gallant bull; we have brought him face to face with the matador and his Toledan blade—there we must leave him.[33] In concluding this chapter, may we beg the generous reader, should he ever enter the historic precincts of the Plaza, to go there with an open mind, to form his own opinion without prejudice or bias. Let him remember that to untrained eyes there must ever fall unseen many of the finer “passes,” much of the skilled technique and science of tauromachian art. The casual spectator necessarily loses that; he perceives no more difficulty in the perilous suerte de vol-Á-piÉ than in the simpler but more attractive suerte de recibir, and a hundred similar details. Finally, before crystallising a judgment, critics should endeavour to see a few second-or third-rate corridas. It is at these that the relative values of the forces opposed—brute strength and human skill—are displayed in truer and more speaking contrast. At set bull-fights of the first-class, the latter quality is often so marked as partly to obscure the difficulties and dangers it surmounts. Watch torÉros of finished skill and the game seems easy—as when some phenomenal batsman, well set, knocks the best bowling in England all over the field. Yet that bowling, the expert knows, is not easy. Nor are the bulls. At second-rate fights the forces placed face to face are more evenly balanced; and there it is often the bull that scores.

The Miura Question

A raging controversy, illuminative of Tauromachia, has recently split into two camps the bull-fighting world and agitated one-half of Spain. The breeding of the fighting-bull is in this country a semi-Æsthetic pursuit, analogous to that of short-horns or racehorses in England, and the possession of a notable herd the ambition of many of the grandees and big landowners of Spain.

Among the various crack herds that of Don Eduardo Miura of Sevilla had always occupied a prominent rank; while during recent years the power and dashing prowess of the Miureno bulls had raised that breed almost to a level apart, invested with a halo of semi-mysterious quality. Captures occurred at every corrida; man after man had gone down before these redoubted champions, and the minds of surviving matadors—saturated one and all with gipsy-sprung superstition—began to attribute secret or supernatural powers to the dreaded herd. Not a swordsman but felt unwonted qualm when meeting a Miureno on the sanded arena. Showy players with the capa and the banderillos proved capable of giving attractive exhibitions, but it was another matter when the matador stood alone, face to face with his foe. Even second-class torÉros can, with almost any bull, show off their accomplishments in these lighter sÉances; but in the supreme rÔle—that of killing the bull as art demands—there is no room for half-measures or deceptions. To valour, ability must be united. When those two qualities are not both coupled and balanced, then one of two things happens: Either the scene becomes a dull one, a mixture of funk and feebleness made patent all round; or disaster is at hand. This one hears forecast in the strange cries of this meridional people—from all sides come the shouts of “Hule! Hule!” Now Hule is the name of the material with which the stretchers for the killed and wounded are covered!

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.

A gettatura, or atmosphere of superstition, surrounded the bulls and unnerved or confounded their opponents. Pepete was caught by the first bull, MorÉno de AlcalÁ by the fourth, while Martin Vasquez (already thrice caught) succumbed to the fifth.

The sixth bull thus remained unopposed champion of the Plaza—not a matador survived to face him, and it became necessary to entice an unfought bull (by means of trained oxen) to quit the arena—an event unprecedented in the age-long annals of Tauromachy!

A typical incident, trivial by comparison, intervened. A youthful spectator, frenzied to madness by the scene, had seized a sword, leapt into the ring, and ... promptly met his death.

Every contention of the bull-fighters’ guild had been falsified, and the association collapsed. A Sevillian paper summed up the event thus:—

The six bulls were each worthy to figure in toromaquian annals for their beautiful stamp, their lines, weight, bravery, and caste. We witnessed a tragedy when, on the death of the fifth bull, not a matador remained. But had that tragedy been caused by malice, wickedness, or treachery on the part of the bulls, surely a declaration of martial law in this city would have been demanded by not a few! But that was not so; each of the six competed in the qualities of bravery, nobility, and adaptability—such bulls are worthy of better swordsmen.