I could only imagine how the air would thicken before a bullfight. What an act of savage and grace, exciting and dreadful, sacred and barbaric. How ironic it happened to be the sabbath, and this city is giving the gods in all the glory, a competition between man and beast, a struggle till the last breath.
The arena is full, the bull restless, the energy spouting like blood, and you hear the roaring though uncertain whether it's from the magnificent animal, or the resonance and echoes of the crowd's breathes and thoughts.
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| arena before the fight |
It's something insatiably beautiful and sad, for you know the fight goes on until one side of the opponents is dead.
The sabbath, in a religious sense, is the 7th day in a week, god's sacred day of rest. Depending on which religion you're in, the timing would be different. Here the poet is indicating Christian sabbath, though in Judaism, sabbath starts after sundown on Friday.
It's strikingly a cultural thing, for a bullfight in Spain is like a religious gathering in, well, for example says the poet, in London. Nobilities from all directions swarm in from their country houses, their carriages jamming the streets, to the cathedrals they go.
Yet here in this arena it's a celebration of men's conquering of nature, in finest apparels and noblest agility. Something Byron wouldn't be able to do if I may add, which is possibly why he got so overwhelmed and fascinated by this beauty, or terror, depending on your point of view.
There's no differences between the votaries of god: young, old, rich, poor, their confessions alike, forgiven before the altar, similarly amongst the audience of a bullfight. They are witnessing a crime, committed by men, yet the killers will be rewarded for their courage and heroism. Isn't it ironic if you really think about the nature of the fight?
All is silent before the killing. Imagine, outside of the area the streets would be empty. Everyone you know would be sitting inside of this round, heated, tormenting space overlooking a stretch of crimson coloured earth. The battle between the matador and the bull will soon begin.
You'd be surprised to find out that the audience consists mostly of ladies. It's an exhibition of strength and agility of men, to be sure, indeed an attraction and a fantastical scene.
The arena is a power source ready to release its energy at any time now. It's almost as though nothing else in the universe mattered, and all is focused on the centre of this space: the matador dressed in gold and embroidery; the bull, o that magnificent creature, is a spiritual embodiment of what is expected of the matador. The two of them, discrepant in size and actual strength, yet equivalent in their bosting aura.
It's been documented in memoirs that Byron didn't enjoy the bullfight although inspired by it. I cannot imagine what kind of emotional turmoil he'd been in during the show, but I believe that he would see more of himself, not in the matador but rather in the bull, panting and prancing underneath the gazing of an entire universe. There about to be bloodshed and injury. Just like what his fame did to him, which exploded too quickly when he was mere 24.
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| the Matador - from Charles Lisanby |
Vicente Blasco Ibanez wrote a Blood and Sand (Sangre y Arena). The entire act of a bullfight is almost a reflection of Byron's life, which had been teaming with struggle and mess, metaphorically presented in a limited space: it has more symbolism but much more exciting and concise. I'm not certain whether he enjoyed much of the act, but he surely understood all and sympathized with both. Maybe more with the bull, for the matador represents more of his vanity, yet the bull, his truth identity.
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