Montes the Matador | Page 6

his stroke and failed. You don't know
what that means--'to stand square.'"
"I do partly," I replied, "but I don't see the reason of it. Will you
explain?"

"It's very simple," Montes answered. "So long as the bull's standing
with one hoof in front of the other, his shoulder-blades almost meet,
just as when you throw your arms back and your chest out; they don't
meet, of course, but the space between them is not as regular, and,
therefore, not as large as it is when their front hooves are square. The
space between the shoulder-blades is none too large at any time, for
you have to strike with force to drive the sword through the inch-thick
hide, and through a foot of muscle, sinew, and flesh besides to the heart.
Nor is the stroke a straight one. Then, too, there's always the backbone
to avoid. And the space between the backbone and the nearest thick
gristle of the shoulder-blade is never more than an inch and a half. So if
you narrow this space by even half an inch you increase your difficulty
immensely.
And that's not your object. Well, all this I've been telling you, I divined
at once. Therefore, when I saw the bull wasn't standing quite square I
knew the matador was either a bungler or else very clever and strong
indeed. In a moment he proved himself to be a bungler, for his sword
turned on the shoulder-blade, and the bull, throwing up his head, almost
caught him on his horns. Then I hissed and cried, 'Shame!' And the
people stared at me. That butcher tried five times before he killed the
bull, and at last even the most ignorant of the spectators knew I had
been right in hissing him. He was one of your Mazzantinis, I suppose."
"Oh, no!" I replied, "I've seen Mazzantini try twice, but never five
times. That's too much!"
"Well," Montes continued quietly, "the man who tries once and fails
ought never to be allowed in a ring again. But to go on. That first day
taught me I could be an espada. The only doubt in my mind was in
regard to the nature of the bulls.
Should I be able to understand new bulls--bulls, too, from different
herds and of different race, as well as I understood our bulls? Going
home that evening I tried to talk to my father, but he thought the sport
had been very good, and when I wanted to show him the mistakes the
matadores had made, he laughed at me, and, taking hold of my arm, he
said, 'Here's where you need the gristle before you could kill a bull with

a sword, even if he were tied for you.' My father was very proud of his
size and strength, but what he said had reason in it, and made me doubt
myself. Then he talked about the gains of the matadores. A fortune, he
said, was given for a single day's work. Even the pay of the chulos
seemed to me to be extravagant, and a banderillero got enough to make
one rich for life. That night I thought over all I had seen and heard, and
fell asleep and dreamt I was an espada. the best in Spain, and rich, and
married to a lovely girl with golden hair--as boys do dream.
"Next day I set myself to practice with our bulls. First I teased one till
he grew angry and rushed at me; then, as a chulo, I stepped aside. And
after I had practised this several times, I began to try to move aside as
late as possible and only just as far as was needful; for I soon found out
the play of horn of every bull we had. The older the bull the heavier his
neck and shoulders become, and, therefore, the sweep of horns in an
old bull is much smaller than a young one's. Before the first morning's
sport was over I knew that with our bulls at any rate I could beat any
chulo I had seen the day before. Then I set myself to quiet the bulls,
which was a little difficult, and after I had succeeded I went back to my
pony to read and dream. Next day I played at being a banderillero, and
found out at once that my knowledge of the animal was all important.
For I knew always on which side to move to avoid the bull's rush. I
knew how he meant to strike by the way he put his head down. To plant
the banderillas perfectly would have been child's play to me, at least
with our bulls. The matador's work was harder to practise. I had no
sword; besides, the bull I wished to pretend