Three articles on the corrida (Spanish bullfighting) by the ballet-critic Arnold Haskell: ‘The Corrida as Spectacle,’ New English Weekly, vol. 1, no. 24 (29 September 1932), pp. 565–6; ‘The Corrida and the Humanitarian, ibid., no. 25 (6 October 1932), pp. 590–1; and ‘The Literature of the Corrida,’ ibid., vol. 2, no. 7 (1 December 1932), pp. 155–6. The latter reviews Ernest Hemingway’s ‘Death in the Afternoon’ and Roy Campbell’s ‘Taurine Provence.’ I am reproducing them because they are interesting and not otherwise available online. If you own the copyright and want them taken down, let me know.
The Corrida as Spectacle
I had heard for so many years that, as a balletomane, and especially as an enthusiastic amateur of Spanish dancing, I should make a careful study of bull fighting — a very closely related art — that now that the opportunity has come I have taken it, and followed this season’s corridas. It takes many years to master the finer points of the art. I have merely skimmed the surface, but I have gained certain very definite impressions of the spectacle as a whole. I was fully prepared for great cruelty, and I also expected to be disgusted, but I resolved not to write a line until I had witnessed sufficient corridas for my interest to overcome my disgust, and until I could witness the spectacle, entirely forgetful of the moral aspect. That is the attitude of the Spanish public. The spectators are in no sense brutal, degraded, or lovers of cruelty. They have merely become so technically expert that they have ceased to be surprised or shocked. There is actually far less pandering to excitement than in steeple-chasing or dirt-track racing. There is absolutely no question of ‘Let us wait and see a matador killed.’ It is rather, ‘Let us see him make a perfect pass with his cloak,’ and it is that that earns the applause, and not a display of daring, if it is merely foolhardy.
That is the secret of the corrida. It is an art, a ballet (c.f., ‘Let us see him turn a perfect pirouette’), and in no sense a sport. The English term ‘Bull fighting’ is absolutely misleading and incorrect for the ritual that goes on in the ring, and in fact there is no exact Spanish equivalent for the term. There can be no fight where the outcome is so inevitable: fifteen minutes from the start and there is a dead bull, dragged out by the horns: a sacrifice in three set stages. The word ‘sacrifice’ is entirely and literally correct, for when St. Theresa was canonised over 300 bulls were ‘worked’ and killed in her honour. There are endless examples of this relationship between the Church and the ring. The pageant rather than sport element is so much a fact that the afficionados bitterly resent a wily, and therefore especially dangerous bull that does not stick closely to the rules and go through the identical manoeuvres of his fellows. ‘No torero could shine with such a bull,’ they say, all thought of any fight forgotten. The bull too must play his part with care, even to the extent of lowering his head after the right amount of cloak-play, so as to receive the fatal blow. A difficult bull is actually called criminal. Lovers of the art say that it represents the triumph of man over beast, intelligence over strength. This is a catch phrase that will not bear overmuch investigation. Six men or more working in close unison with a battery of weapons against one weakened animal. That is the exact position.
The idea that bull fighting is always highly dangerous is an error. The average matador can give an illusion of danger, but it is only the truly great, such as Belmonte, who scorn all bluff and encroach on the ‘terrain’ of the bull himself. It is about the bull that one could truly say: ‘Cet animal est méchant; quand on l’attaque, il se défend.’ In general, the only risk comes through an accident plus real bad luck, and is rare (less than in the case of acrobatic dancing for instance) with the experienced fighter. It is with the novillo that the proportion of accidents is high.
Bull fighting, then, is purely a theatrical entertainment, or, more accurately, a religious ritual, a sacrifice. Is it effective and artistically justified? On the whole, judged as one would judge any piece of choreography, it has many imperfections. There may be five minutes of real beauty for fifteen that are only too often monotonous, ridiculous, or just simply dirty. The end is always ‘bad theatre,’ with the dead bull so pitiable an object that it robs the performance of its few merits as a drama, for it is unwise to show one’s opponent in such a light that no one could for a moment say, ‘It might all have ended very differently.’
The first moment of real beauty is when the performer waits on tip-toe, arms raised, to plant the banderillos in the charging bull; the next moment, the most wonderful of all, is when the matador stands face to face with the bull, his sword hidden under the ‘muleta,’ playing him for position. Then he is the complete dancer, with nothing of the butcher. He makes his préparations, turns pirouettes, and it is here one can see how much the costume has been used for maximum artistic effect, and has in its turn influenced the whole art: an even closer ballet parallel. The matador has a vast repertoire of ‘steps,’ both classic and individual (veronicas, navarras, etc.). Innumerable ballets have been directly influenced by the corrida, notably ‘Le Chapeau Tricorne.’ By chance I met Markova and Dolin at one of the corridas, and they fully confirmed my impressions. Their interest was professional and they could discuss it in the language of their own art.
But I am not writing here purely from a dance lover’s angle either; it is very much the attitude of the Spanish newspaper critics. They say of a torero, whom I saw only yesterday: ‘He is brilliant, but always too much the showman at the expense of the artist,’ and yet he killed his bull at the first thrust. It was the manner in which he received his applause that they resented. (Ballet again.) With a great matador, a Lalanda or a Barrera, those two or three minutes may wash out the whole sordid impression of the slaughter of the skinny, defenceless horses, whose vocal chords have been severed to spare the feelings of the audience, a picture that is so ugly that it robs the proceedings of any dignity; and an undignified sacrifice is quite intolerable. The actual killing might have its beauty too, if it meant the striking down of an animal in full charge, like the Masai warrior and the lion. Theoretically this could be so, and is an actual stroke in the classic repertoire, but in practice it means the deliberate choosing of the right spot in which to plant the sword in an utterly exhausted animal, with a three to one chance — even with a master — of not killing it outright. The actual movements with the sword, the stance and the poise of the whole body would be remarkably effective in ballet, and with no anti-climax to follow, but probably it is their meaning that makes them effective.
I will leave the moral aspect alone. It is quite obvious, and has enough champions in England. (Query: Is there any reason why the bull should have preference over the stag or the fox?) Judged purely as a spectacle, and that is its aim, the bull fight is not wholly the romantic thing that writers in the past have made it. It belongs to the ‘new romanticism’ of a Hemingway, who has given some brilliant bull fight pictures, revealing every side of it. But disgusting as it can be, I know full well that I shall go again and again to see those few moments of some master of the ring. They are the most supremely thrilling that any form of entertainment has to offer. A hardened ‘afficionado’ has talked of crying just because of the beauty of Belmonte’s cloak movements. It is certainly not being ousted by football, as I have been told. Nothing will stop the corrida in Spain, not even excommunication, and that was tried in the past, before Church and arena fraternised. It is an integral part of the life of the Spanish people, rich and poor, to-day just as in the past.
The Corrida and the Humanitarian
I have received so much correspondence about my corrida article and have been involved in so many verbal battles that there are obviously many points that need clearing up. In spite of my wish to deal with the corrida exclusively as a spectacle, the majority of the letters deal entirely with the moral aspect, and falsely assume that bull-fighting is entirely savage and indefensible. In dealing with this it is absolutely necessary to treat of it from three points of view; that of the public, the toreros and the animals. I can write of the first point alone from actual experience, but at any rate with the other two I am on the same ground as my opponents.
The vast public that enjoys any sporting event, applauds violently, and offers much gratuitous advice to the protagonists, is never especially sympathetic, but there is far more to be said for the Spanish afficionado than for the football or boxing fan. Bull-fighting is almost the only national game upon which there can be no betting. The excitement comes from emotional and aesthetic considerations. The element of gain does not exist, and consequently there are none of the ‘manipulations’ from which racing and football suffer. Again, when the afficionado cheers, jeers, boos or cries ‘Olé,’ throws his hat or cigar into the ring, or indignantly casts his cushion at the matador, in very many cases he himself is fully prepared to jump into the ring and face the danger. The Pamplona festival, in which hundreds take part, is proof of this. The armchair critic is not in this case so lethargic and remote as usual. He may be fickle, and consequently exceedingly unjust at times, but he does understand and genuinely love the sport, or rather art, for itself alone. I have already explained how his ejaculations and interferences are directed towards the aesthetic side. He is no sadist, and can look beyond the tripe and the blood at the beauty of the work. He has also the instinct of fair play well developed, and resents any underhand tricks against a worthy bull.
The bull-fighter himself is an artist of immense courage, great powers of observation and of rapid reasoning; for it takes courage and presence of mind to stand, feet together, facing a charging bull, relying on a turn of the cloak to divert him to right or left (veronica), or to challenge him by trailing the cloak on the ground and stopping him in full charge by bringing it over his eyes (navarra). These are but two moves in the complicated repertoire. A Lalanda can wheel the bull completely round behind his back — perhaps the most glorious sight I have yet seen. The very nature of the torero’s work is such that the team spirit is developed to an extraordinary degree. Any undue selfishness leads, not to a dropped goal, but to a painful wound or death. The cuadrilla is highly disciplined, and must work as one man to protect the fallen picador, or to divert the bull from its leader at a moment of danger; yet without obtruding or wearing out the bull unfairly — a trick that is certain to be noticed. This perfect unison is one of the most remarkable things to watch. There is chivalry too, more than in any other sport. It is an everyday matter to extricate a colleague who is cogida at the risk of one’s own life — and that without hesitation. The bull-fighter is certainly the finest specimen of virile athlete to be seen anywhere to-day.
It is always a difficult thing to talk of the animal and their ‘feelings,’ and incidentally in England a dangerous thing. (How the R.S.P.C.A. members love one another.) So-called humanitarians credit the animal with the nervous system and the reasoning power of a member of the intelligentsia. I am not going to state that there is no pain involved in bull-fighting, but cruelty, an emotional attitude, is absent. There is pain but it is not the main thing, and it is most ridiculously overrated. It is not an argument to cite other blood sports, and to say to the animal-lover (definition: those who kill some kind of animal) ‘Tu quoque,’ but all the same, there is a great deal in the argument quoted in Montherlant’s Les Bestiaires: ‘It is all a question of size.’ ‘In fishing,’ says the author, through one of his characters, ‘the animal dies the most terrible of deaths, through slow strangulation, choking and gasping for air. That is surely cruelty, but any important newspaper that talked of the cruelty of fishing and tried to abolish it, would be laughed at. The bull is bigger and fills the eye, that is all.’ There is a more impressive argument still. For five years the bull lives an ideal existence, plenty of food, plenty of cows, and, above all, his freedom in natural surroundings, where he is certainly happier than the unfortunate and cruelly misused lapdog. The fighting bull is a wild animal with all the instincts of a wild animal. In proof of this, on at least two known occasions a Miura bull was pitted against a lion, and within five minutes the lion was lying dead after being tossed from horn to horn like a sack. It is only the high degree of skill of the matador and his realisation of the danger that prevents more frequent accidents, and usually deceives the foreigner into thinking these animals harmless. This very king of beasts, then, a savage fighter, has to pay for his perfect existence by a mauvais quart d’heure in which his blood is aroused so that he has no time to feel the actual wounds. Even judging the matter from human standards, always rather a ridiculous thing to do, a fresh wound does not hurt at the moment it is inflicted, and few of us have the chance of so swift an exit. In any case, the end of every bull in every country is the slaughter-house. The Spaniard is rightly amazed at the respectable English spinsters who cry in a blood-thirsty manner for the death of the toreadors. (I have heard this happen, and the desire for violent death as a spectacle is pure sadism.) But the ‘humanitarian’ is frequently quite oblivious to human suffering. A case in point is the anti-vivisectionist, who would rather save the horse than the child, though he evades the direct issue by inventing entirely new theories of disease in the face of overwhelming evidence.
I will not attempt to defend the slaughter of the horses. They are doped, but it is an ugly spectacle. Since 1927 there has been a great change, and some inadequate protective armour is now worn. The public is rapidly realising the necessity for some alteration, and the corrida may develop on modified lines. After all, the fighting of bulls dates from time immemorial, while the corrida in its present form is only 200 years old. The displays in the Portuguese manner, that I have seen with the cavalier, Simao da Vega, on a magnificent horse, able to avoid the bull’s rush, were more beautiful and actually more thrilling. (In bull-fighting beauty and thrills are closely related.) The Spaniards have succeeded in achieving a bloodless revolution, characterised by its humanity, a lesson to the countries of the world. The corrida may not have a beneficial effect on the people at large, but it most certainly has not given them the slightest taint of cruelty, and they at any rate avoid the more unpleasant types of hypocrisy now so closely associated with those who think or write of animals.
The Literature of the Corrida
Hemingway’s Masterpiece
Though naturally there are some thousands of works on the corrida in Spain itself, few ‘world’ authors have chosen this admirable subject. This is surprising, for the corrida, though purely a local event, is a universal subject; a drama with endless aspects that gives the writer boundless scope for tragedy, comedy, philosophy, psychology, description, and straightforward narrative.
The first account that is well known outside Spain is Théophile Gautier’s famous description from his ‘Voyages en Espagne.’ While for him the corrida was a travel incident, part of a series of impressions, he was clearly an ‘afficionado’ and made admirable use of it, seizing on its vital points. His description of Montes de Chiclana, fighting at Malaga, remains unsurpassed (I envy him that particular afternoon). He seizes the very essence, firstly the attitude of the crowd:
‘Because they behold unmoved scenes of carnage which would cause our sensitive Parisian beauties to faint, it must not be inferred that they are cruel and deficient in tenderness of soul. … The sanguinary side of a bull fight, which is what strikes foreigners the most forcibly, is exactly what least interests Spaniards who devote their whole attention to the amount of address…’
He then goes on to deal with the nature of the bull, always misunderstood, and the fairplay required of the matador. His attitude does not differ from that of Hemingway to-day.
The next well-known book on the subject is a modern Spanish one, Ibanez’s ‘Blood and Sand,’ clearly written for a world market by the simplicity of the explanations. It is by no means a great novel; it is in fact superficial in the extreme, but it has captured and exploited one aspect, the glamour of the torero. It is not a Goya, but a very competent Academy picture with a magnificently-painted costume: A Zuluaga in fact. It is very much for foreign consumption.
In many ways a better book is Henry de Montherlant’s ‘Les Bestiaires.’ He concentrates on another aspect, the mystic. ‘We worship the bull, and we kill what we worship lest it kills us.’ Many of the scenes are unforgettable, though the novel as a whole is scrappy. Both these books are an unhappy compromise between drama and information. The chunks of information that are inserted to explain the drama to the uninitiated weaken it considerably. Hemingway reveals that forcibly. The first great corrida in fiction is in ‘Fiesta.’ In the space it occupies it is only an episode in the book, but it is vital in order to reveal the reactions of his characters, an essential portion of the structure and not dragged in for local colour. Although it is here treated subjectively this is a true revelation of all its depth and possibilities. It has been drawn once and for all from the ‘interesting local survival’ category.
In his ‘Undefeated,’ one of the greatest short stories in literature, he treats it from the point of view of the matador. The story is full of information and knowledge, but that again is built solidly into the structure. I went to Spain armed with these works. I have read endless guide and travel books, mostly written by amiable spinsters for amiable spinsters (male or female). They are all entirely worthless, inaccurate in every single detail. The only book I find in the English catalogue is ‘The Spanish Bull Ring,’ by M. Dowsett, valuable as literature on account of the preface by Cunninghame Graham. This contains a good historical sketch, but otherwise it is another passionate tract of the ‘sell no more drink to my father’ variety. I can fully understand a hostile attitude or a feeling of revulsion, which, personally, I have never experienced, but to have any value it should be presented critically, accompanied by a full review of the facts, and the author is lacking in an aesthetic sense, which makes his little book worthy, but unsympathetic.
Unstinted praise makes dull reading and generally defeats its purpose, but I come to ‘Death in the Afternoon’ with some knowledge of the subject both in life and letters, and my admiration is reasoned and critical. There is only one point upon which I disagree with Mr. Hemingway, and that violently. In spite of his statement to the contrary, Spanish pickpockets do not return their victim’s passports and personal papers. I know.
My first feeling on receiving this magnificently produced volume was one of shame that I should have approached the same subject with such a limited experience. On reading it that feeling has turned to relief when I realise that I have not actually made a fool of myself, and that my ‘point de départ’ was correct enough, though I have obviously missed half the finesse of the play. So clear and vivid, however, are Mr. Hemingway’s descriptions, so fine his analyses of the various toreros, that I am able to enjoy in retrospect my corrida afternoons, and to look forward to more with impatience. By that time I shall know ‘Death in the Afternoon’ by heart.
I do not know how this will affect those who have never seen the sport. They will surely read it with enjoyment because Hemingway is incapable of writing a dull line, they will be considerably mystified, and if they are wise they will refrain from passing violent opinions on a subject so complicated in its every aspect.
I advise the reader to approach the text by way of the photographs. These, with their admirable captions, almost a running commentary, suggests an entirely new form of literature. The photographs with their detailed views of wounds, operations and death, immediately reveal the scope of the whole book, and the author’s own attitude towards his subject. The corrida is far more than the many beautiful passes that form its main technical equipment. Hemingway quotes a well-known writer as saying that there was no emotion comparable in intensity except first sexual intercourse. He himself has seized this vivid drama, so closely linked to every phase of life and death, and has made what might have been just a valuable scientific manual into an enduring work of art; and just as ‘Moby Dick’ is far more than a whaling manual, so is this far more than a book about bull fighting. His interpolated remarks on Spanish painting show him to be that rare thing, a writer capable of intense plastic appreciation, while the short war story is perhaps more powerful and more painful in its dialogue than anything he has yet done. Painting, life, death, all fit naturally into a work on bull fighting. It is not a tour de force, an uncomfortable feat of balancing, it is all there for the person who can see beyond the blood and the entrails of the horse.
‘Taurine Provence’
This little book so full of good things, is an immense disappointment largely through lack of self restraint on the author’s part. It is badly planned, so that it always promises, but never actually fulfils and satisfies. The author is violent and reckless, he continually turns away from the bull to launch attacks on Shaw and others, an admirable pursuit only in the right place. The corrida follows a carefully-planned sequence, and is a subtle art.
The title is definitely misleading. Although the formal corrida is not truly indigenous to France much of the space is taken up by an exceedingly interesting but scrappy essay on its technique, while the truly Provençal sport, the razet, is treated at too little length. In Provence the bull is the true hero, in Spain the matador, and while nothing can be more beautiful than a ‘mise à mort’ at Nîmes or Arles, it is very definitely an importation, and less popular than the local sport.
Mr. Campbell is at his very best when he plants the banderillos in those hypocrites who decry bull-fighting, yet take an active interest in some other blood sport, big-game hunting, for instance, which requires none of the courage of ‘the priests of Mithras who are forced to put their victims to death from the most perilous position (before a trained and critical crowd) with the horns of the bull within an inch of their entrails.’
Later in the book he makes a definite kill with: ‘the murder (the bloodier the better) of a man or a woman is as fine sport to the dog-loving humanitarian English public as is the triumph of a human matador to the Spanish public: it is in fact the English corrida. … The mental cannibalism of the German, English and Americans has made murder into a national industry.’ But he continually spoils his case by some hysterical exaggeration. There is so much to be written on the Bull, and Mr. Campbell is so obviously a lover and a connoisseur, that it would be far more profitable were he to write for the already converted. He wastes his rich creative talent in bitter attacks against a public, not sufficiently interested even to know what it is all about — the bull breaking his fine horns on the barrier.
The greatest compliment I can pay the book is to say that I hope its author will write a long, balanced volume from any one of the chapters of this loose rich collection of notes.
It is pleasantly decorated by the author.
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