Monday, Jan. 05, 1925
Toreador
Pizarro still lies in Lima. At least they say it is he--the shriveled corpse in a glass coffin, scaled these four centuries, with a foot hacked off, a hand gone, a slash in its throat. For a few pesos, the monks of the cathedral will take you into the dusky chapel and gloat, while you stare, at the mummy-like remains in black vestments.* They will tell you, old hatred burning beneath their derision, that this shrunken carcass was once the Conqueror of Peru, the boisterous cattleman from Panama, who sailed home to Spain and had himself made Viceroy of New Castile; who sailed back; slaughtered Incas for their gold at Cuzco and thought himself a very great Emperor indeed. "Ha!" say the monks, and look as if they would spit upon those miserable bones.
Yet the Peruvians are not consistent about their Spanish conquerors. The one they diabolize. Others, of a later day, they well-night canonize for conquests far bloodier than Pizarro's. At the winter fiestas you see them, these modern conquistadors. Slim young daredevils from the bullrings of Spain, they strike attitudes of high insolence before holiday crowds, exacting homage for a flick of a cloak and a deft, scornful sword-jab. They scoop in gold fortunes that would dwarf Pizarro's little pilferings. They laugh aloud at the rich sport of it. They wave gay adieux as they are feted to their ships.
A fortnight ago, in Manhattan, Painter Zuloaga of Spain would not talk to newspapermen about Spanish politics (TIME, Dec. 29). He talked of the paintings he was about to exhibit in the U. S., and particularly he talked of a dark young man whom he has painted three times--Juan Belmonte. Juan is a bullfighter. He is now in Peru, taking the Inca-fortune that is his due for being a bullfighter--the best bullfighter in all Spain. Unnoticed in Manhattan, where he stopped on his way a few weeks ago, Juan's advent in Peru nearly caused a national holiday. When he comes back to Manhattan to spend some of his Inca-gold before returning to Spain, he may or may not become a U. S. fad. It matters not. At home, and in South America, he is a hero, a Pizarro, something of a god.
Before 1921, all Spain was divided into two camps--the supporters of Belmonte and the supporters of one Gallito. Then Gallito was gored and died. For a week the nation draped itself in mourning crepe. There are some Spaniards who have not been to a bull-killing since, some who still bow their heads and cross themselves when Gallito's name is spoken. But not many. The sport is too popular to permit of a reigning favorite, like Juan, being eclipsed by the prowess of a dead man, or even by the exploits of great bull-stabbers, retired but still alive, as Rocardo Torres ("Bombita") and Sanchez Mejia.
It is not easy to become the national champion bull-stabber. One usually begins young, as. a horse-wrangler or cattle-hand. One learns to be fearless with animals. Then one probably becomes apprenticed to a cuadrilla, or troupe, under some great matador. One watches, practices.
In a cuadrilla there are positions to be won. First, that of the picador who, dressed in chain-mail up to the waist, has but to goad the bull with a sharpened lance, keeping his horse's blind-folded eye toward the beast until it charges, gores the horse, and gives the picador time to be dragged over the arena's paling.
The capadero, or capeman, has a more dangerous office. He and his colleagues start an afternoon's entertainment, luring the bull out of his pen by waving before him crimson capes. Later, while dismounted picadors are getting over the fence, the capaderos engage the bull's attention until the coming of the banderilleros.
The latter are exceedingly dexterous fellows. Armed only with gaudy paper-tailed darts, they pose before the bovine onrush, or themselves rush at the bull, jabbing the darts* into his carcass in pairs so as to pick out an approved pattern on and about the withers.
Thus embellished, the bull is now ready for the espada, or matador; the swordsman, the killer, the hero of the day. It is to this final role that the apprentice aspires. Sometimes, through sheer braggadocio, the merest man may spring to fame overnight by leaping down into an arena if some emergency should arise at this crucial juncture of a fight. That is seldom seen, however.
The haughty man of the hour turns his back on the bull, receives his sword and muleta (a brilliant scarlet cloth hung from a short stick) and addresses himself to the president of the fight. He asks permission to commit tauricide and, that received, next dedicates the animal to a portion of the arena, or to a lady, or to a wealthy patron, by tossing his hat into the stand. When the hat comes back, its owner is confident of finding therein some costly gift.
A flourish, a bow, and the hat is swept on again. A cool survey of the arena, and the hero steps jauntily towards his victim. He arranges his muleta as he goes, balancing his sword ' above it with arch precision. Grace is everything. The watching thousands bate their breath to see such bravery in a mincing mayfly. He makes it seem the merest trifle to approach a snorting, bloody-eyed monster where it stands at bay, to halt six paces off and pose a second, waiting for the animal to come into position; to rise on tiptoe and make a dainty death-charge, to strike home lightning-wise between the shoulders, step aside, doff the hat and pose for plaudits.
Some heroes court the danger even more daringly. Antonio Montes, who was killed in 1907, let the bull come to him for the coup de grace. Captain Canedo, who is still alive, kills a! rejon --that is, he rides first as a picador, then dismounts and finishes his job as an espada. And there is Gaona, of Mexico,* who fights without a muleta, relying solely upon the suppleness of his hips to elude the bull's furious charge. It is Gaona's boast that the horns seldom miss him by so much as the breadth of a finger.
For the skilled matador, there is not only wealth (in 1902, Mazzantini and his men cleared some $40,000 in three months in Mexico), but public honor and license such as is unknown even by ball-players and pugilists in the U. S. Wherever they go in public, they are known by their gorgeous dress (black broadcloth, scarlet sash, white hose, shiny pumps). It is an honor to sit with them in cafes, to speak with them or be owed money by them. After a fight, the town they are in is theirs-- wine and women complete.
But there are drawbacks. One must train assiduously. One must never seem awkward in action, never miss the single death stroke. To do either brings hisses, discredit, disgrace. The crowd knows the rules of the game meticulously and insists that its pleasure be exquisitely executed, from the first gravely passionate bar of the Carmen music that is always played, to the way the "butcher" or dagger-man delivers one last stroke of mercy when the bull is in his death throes. Bullfighting is a sport to be appreciated only by a hot-blooded people, folk in whom an artistic bloodlust is but one among many appetites--for seething, hot colors; for the glare of white sun-light on torrid sand; for violent animal action; for full-throated screaming; for rich wine, amorous deviltries; and a swift, red death rather than a gray old age.
*Catholic churches in some 18 other Peruvian towns also have a "Pizarro" on view. Lima's is commonly held to be the most authentic.
*These darts are usually dipped in some irritant--an acid, or "Spanish fly." Or they contain fireworks, to sizzle and pop behind the bull's ears and augment his infuriation.
*Mexico had also a famed bull, Bonito, who fought so gallantly--killing six horses, injuring many men--that the crowds thereafter demanded that his life be spared. Bonito was sent to the breeding pen, died well on in years.