BULL FIGHTS

by Iingworth Kerr

Sometimes, uneasily, one says, ‘This
thing has happened to me before’’—while
crediting neither reincarnation nor yet the
stirring dregs of memory that refuse to
rise. ‘Bah, it is some old thing I read!
A dozen accounts of bull fights . . . Hem-
ingway . .. perhaps Goya's etchings and
aquatints. Certainly not D. H. Lawrence's
description of a bull fight, with the trail-
ing bowels of picador’s horses forever
challenging our claims to civilization. Nor
anything quite so charming as the orig-
inal Ferdinand who so loved smelling
flowers that that other stench is almost

eased in our nostrils .. .’

Of course, I thoroughly enjoyed Ferdin-
and of the Beaux Arts Ball; he was just
as. ornery and convincing— even though
we knew his front and hind quarters would
duly take their separate ways, and not
via an abattoir; but that tantalizing mem-
ory persisted and refused to explain itself
until now, when, rooting hopefully through
an old wallet, I came on a dog-eared slip
of blue paper. A handbill in French.

“Brenes de Arles, 2 bells courses de
nuit, 4 vaches, 2 toros emboules”, I read,
but the picture of a black Spanish bull,
rampant, saves translation: I instantly re-
call that honeymoon night in Arles — just
a week before Munich prophesied the
death of laughter.

We had stopped off at Arles for the
most obvious reason (has Van Gogh not
enshrined the place forever through his
Christlike fanaticism?) and even before
leaving the train we had spotted an old
acquaintance, a high-arched wooden
bridge over a nearby canal, mundane
enough but that one man’s’ impassioned
vision surcharged it with living strokes of
pigment. So, too, for the Southern sun,
autumn's golden fields, the grape rows,
the fences of wooden canes, the so-ancient
cobbled streets of Arles itself. Only when
we came on the Roman amphitheatre did
Van Gogh leave us, slipping away amid
the echoing shouts of history’s long-dead
legions.

There, almost, from the three-story height
of tiered stone seats we might have wit-
nessed Bulwer-Lytton’s gladiators staging
a bloody spectacle in the sun-blistered
area below — but for a newly-painted
wooden fence and some all-too-modern
floodlighting equipment. Apparently this
genuine Roman architecture was still func-
tional. But for what?»

The answer was supplied by a poster.
Bull fights. Bull fighting in France! We
were deeply intrigued. And not only by
the promise of six bulls, but of UN VEAU
pour les enfants. As for the price of
admission, 3 francs (7% cents), it was
hardly prohibitive.

So here we are on a warm September
night, fraternally rubbing shoulders with
bubbling Arlesiennes, most direct descend-
ants of the ancient Romans. They eye us
inquisitively—as they do a young English
couple who somewhat cool the evening in
our vicinity. Intellectuals, one feels with
pity, being swayed by the Arlesiennes’
emotions. For whence from a gloomy
passage that once ushered in lions there
now trots an active little black Spanish
bull all Arles trembles with anticipation.
And no wonder, since in place of profes-
sional toreadors, picadors and matadors the
bull faces ‘only the young men of Arles.
His horns, it is true, are blunted with
leather pads, but the boys are armed only
with capes, gay handkerchiefs and nimble
feet.

Roars from the crowd as an amateur
matador draws the bull into a charge at
his waving cape. The fun is on.

From one cape to another that bull con-
tinues, zigzagging, whirling unexpectedly
in new directions, until momentarily he
gets wise to himself and sulks, balking at
so many baits. Then a young man runs
boldly across his bows—and is only saved
from buffeting horns and hoofs by an
intercepted cape. But beyond that a cape-
less youth is in line and must take io his
heels. He is only saved by vaulting the
five-foot fence. And now as the bull is
drawn back into play we realize that there

is a iouch of method to what might be-
come a rather monotonous game.

Dead centre in the arena is an enor-
mous tub filled with water. Above this
a hoop to which is tied prizes is suspend-
ed from a pulley, and when the bull
nears the tub these prizes are lowered.
The most daring leap to balance them-
selves on the tub’s rim, reach frantically
at now suddenly ascending prizes, miss,
then concentrate on avoiding a bath, the
charging bull, or both.

Pass after pass with split second tim-
ing—vaulting the fence—a leap from the
iub clean over the bull — an undesired
bath—a prize successfully caught—a tre-
mendous smack in the backside which lifts
a lad so high that he lands on the rump
of the bull . . . the crowd ever roaring
approval and mirth and we are part of
the crowd and our neighbours throw their
arms around us, loving us, glaring at the
young Englisii couple who sit as unmoved
as the great stone seats of the ancient
arena.

Finally the bull is fagged, yet too sullen
to leave by the opened gate. A trained
steer with wildly clamoring bell gallops in
and with this spotted clown the weary
black Spaniard goes. In his place comes
a fresh one; then another. The game
whirls on. The crowd roars unwearied
approval. The English depart.

Now the arena is cleared of adults;
only the smallest boys remain and a few
others trickle unceriainly in--to meet with
a rather diminutive bull, but by long odds
the swiftest and most active yet. Ah, the
advertised veau pour les enfants—a calf
for the children—what fun! But the crowd
is suddenly tense with fear. The children

‘have not arms long enough to success-

fully swing a cape, and when one takes
a flying vault over the fence Monsieur le
Veau proves just as agile a jumper and
storms down the alleyway after his hap-
less tormentor. Anxiety sticks in our
throats. Tragedy is averted only by an
inrush of older lads, and even these
Monsieur le Veau give the time of their
lives. He can spin on a dime, he can
leap high enough to catch a prize if he
wished (but probably shares our approval
of French cigarettes). He prefers smack-
ing bottoms.

“Bravo le veau! Bravo le veau!"

An echo through time were the bravos
of the Beaux Arts Ball. The colour of our
emotions is not dimensional, and seldom
translatable. I can only offer this figment
of memory as a contrast—two burlesques
ef bull fighting—both of which serve my
faith. If humanity progresses slowly, at
least Munich did not finally decree the
death of laughter!

Vive le Beaux Aris Ball!

eB