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.