Madrid: its Situation—The Old Town—The Rastro—The New Town—The Puerta del
Sol—_Cafés_—The _Aguadores_—The Prado Park—The Theatre—Spanish
Children—The Museums—The Picture-galleries.
The contrast is great from Seville to Madrid, which is less distinctly
Spanish than any city in the Peninsula. The royal capital, established
by the decree of Philip II., has the appearance of an accidental growth
on the harsh Castilian slopes. The climate is the worst of any town in
Spain. Madrid suffers all the oppressions of the sky—baked by fierce
summer suns, and chilled by the ice of treacherous winds. In point of
distance it is only some twenty leagues, in one direction, from Toledo,
and in the other from beautiful Avila; but in its life it is separated by
centuries from the old Spanish cities. It is the strangest
transformation to come from them into the eager, bustling life of the
modern capital. There are no antiquities here, no great memories, no
romance, nothing but what the people and the natural brightness in the
air give to it.
[Picture: The Throne-Room, Royal Palace, Madrid]
To stay in Madrid is to undergo the most absorbing fatigue. The
Madrileño lives with a speed that in Spain startles. The city never
sleeps, never stays its chatter; its inhabitants are apparently so full
of business that they turn day into night, yet no one seems to work. It
thus comes about that the lover of Spain, who has become used to the
untroubled content of happy Seville or the sleeping peace of Cordova and
Toledo, can with difficulty find himself at home in Madrid.
Madrid is a city of contrasts. Treasures of art abound in its museum,
yet of all cities it is surely the least influenced by the spirit of
beauty and design. Its splendid bridge which gives entrance to the city
has been ridiculed with the question, “Where is the river?” It misses
all charm of environment; the city has no suburbs, and the country around
is barren and without trees and verdure. Yet the Madrileños cannot be
persuaded that any other city is its equal. It is a capital in
transition of a country in transition, and as such it must be regarded.
[Picture: The Rastro Market, Madrid]
The old part of the town, such as the Rastro and surrounding narrow
streets, where on each Sunday is held the market, the largest rag-fair in
the world, still bring one a sensation of living in the Middle Ages. The
wares are laid out in most primitive fashion in the narrow streets in
great piles; all kinds of antiquities are sold, as well as clothes and
wonderful peasant jewellery. The low stalls are piled up with flowers,
fruits, and vegetables, of all colours, in confused abundance. Women and
girls stand in groups of twos or threes, or sit beside their wares,
bundled in bright-coloured shawls, and all with kerchiefed heads. They
talk incessantly; they do not seem to care whether their goods are sold
or not, but they chaffer noisily over every sale. Some of the women have
perfectly-shaped faces with magnetic eyes that recall the East. It was
here once that I saw a _manola_, beautifully attired with a white
_mantilla_, silk shoes, gaily coloured dress and jewellery. She reminded
me of Goya’s pictures.
Fine savage old men in tattered cloaks wander on the outskirts of the
market asking alms, and beautiful, bewitching children play their games
unchecked.
But the Rastro is not the real Madrid. The modern town, with its aspect
of a city still in the making, so that one thinks not so much of what it
is as of what it may become, has grown up in the image of Paris, with
boulevards, wide streets, tall characterless houses and modish shops. It
is to be feared that this new Madrid will overgrow all that is left of
the old city.
The Madrileños spend their lives in the streets and squares, almost all
of which are wide, clean, and well paved. The houses are ornamented with
balconies, the first of which, supported by pillars, forms in many parts
of the city a piazza where the inhabitants may walk under cover. The
Puerta del Sol, the largest and most animated _plaza_, and the centre of
Madrid, is the rendezvous of the idlers of the city. From eight o’clock
in the morning, and far into the night, it is thronged with groups of men
wrapped in their cloaks, which they wear to protect them from the
treacherous winds that sweep the city even in summer. Furnished with
several dozen cigarettes and coppers for _azúcar_ and water, they pass
the hours in endless talking. Politics form the chief subject of
conversation, and the progressive element in Spanish society discusses
here.
Most of the _cafés_ are in this quarter, and they are always filled.
They are less attractive in their outside appearance than the _cafés_ of
Seville, but the refreshments served are excellent. The Madrileños, like
all Spaniards, drink more water than wine. In every street and _paseo_
you see the picturesque _aguadore_, with his _cántaro_ of white or brown
clay and reed basket, containing glasses, sticks of _azucarillos_, and
oranges or limes. He has not changed from the day when Velazquez painted
him; he still wears a loose jacket of snuff-coloured cloth, breeches,
leather gaiters, and a peaked hat.
Perhaps it is the climate which causes the Madrileños always to suffer
thirst. The _bebidas heladas_, or iced drinks, flavoured with orange,
lemon, strawberry, cherries, or almond, which are sold in every _café_,
are far superior to any English or American beverages. Spanish preserves
also deserve to be mentioned, and there is one variety, known by the name
“angel’s hair,” _cabello de angel_, which is delicious.
Madrid is so much a modern city that at first the stranger hardly
realizes how pleasantly its inhabitants live. It is most fortunately
rich in well-shaded parks and beautiful green promenades.
The Prado is the evening gathering-place of the fashionable Madrileños,
and the tree-shaded promenade, from seven o’clock onwards, affords the
most animated sight. An astonishing number of people collect here. In
the crossways which intersect the carriage-drive, all the families of the
city walk to enjoy the cool of the evening. The Madrileños are seen at
their finest here. The _majos_, resembling plates of fashion in their
tight, faultless clothes, stand about in groups admiring the ladies who
roll past in landaus, for carriages are essential to fashionable Madrid.
Some of the men ride the splendid Andalusian horses; with manes, long
sweeping tails, and gay trappings, like the horses that Velazquez
painted. The Madrileñas have adopted the costumes of Paris, and in
fashionable attire Spanish women always look badly dressed. The
_mantilla_ is, however, worn by most women, and even a plain face looks
beautiful in this fascinating head-dress. Like all Spanish women, each
Madrileña carries a fan, which is held open as a parasol to give shade
from the sun. A woman without a fan is unknown, and there is something
truly Spanish in the use these vivid, bewitching women make of them. The
Madrileña collects fans as an English lady collects jewels; she will
often own more than a hundred of various colours and patterns.
[Picture: Mounting guard in the Plaza De Armas, Royal Palace, Madrid]
During summer this outdoor parade in the Prado is in gay career until
midnight; and as the night advances the promenades are full of gay noise.
There are open-air concerts, and dancing takes place upon the open spaces
of grass. Around the stalls of the _refresco_ sellers, families are
seated talking gaily together. The greatest animation prevails. The
Madrileños never seem to be tired. The abandonment to happiness is
contagious, and the stranger will gain a sense of the joy of life as he
sees the ardent faces of men, women, and children, in whom mirth is never
vulgar, but as natural as speech.
In the winter season the Madrileños visit the theatre, which every
Spaniard adores. Gautier writes that “long before Shakespeare the
Spaniards invented the drama.” Spain in the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries produced an almost countless number of dramatic works, and a
passion for the drama still animates the people. Spanish women, as we
should expect, are first-rate actresses; they mark all shades of
character with appreciation and fine delicacy. It is interesting to note
that it was in Spain that women first played women’s parts, which in
England at the same period were entrusted to boys.
The Teatro Real at Madrid is devoted to Italian opera, but at the more
popular Teatro Español, where La Guerrero, the Bernhardt of Spain holds
sway, there is an opportunity of witnessing the native dramas of Zorilla,
Hartzenbusch, and Tirso de Molina, or the modern society plays of
Echegaray and Galdos. The _sainete_, which takes the place of our
“curtain-raiser,” is usually comic, and those that are most popular are
adapted from the farces of Cervantes and Lope de Rueda.
Even in the heat of summer the Madrileños visit the theatres, but at this
season the performances are limited to the popular _zarzuelas_,
operettas, four of which are given in each evening.
Spanish children share the love of the theatre which belongs to their
elders. At the afternoon performances, which are given on every Sunday
and _fiestas_, half the house is occupied by child ticket-holders, whose
interest in the action of the piece is astonishing. They applaud with
cries of “_bonito_”; they ask questions, and the house is never still for
a single instant.
Spanish children are already grown up when quite young, but they are the
most fascinating little people, at the same time natural and
self-conscious, with a sort of precocious winsomeness. Their bodies are
so full of energy that they give an impression of more vivid life than
the children of Northern countries.
Nowhere are children happier and more loved than in Spain; the _niños_
are the idols of their parents, and are universally treated with
indulgence. Yet the Spanish child is not spoilt, and the obedient spirit
is never lacking. Even the poorest child is taught to practise those
courtesies of life which in Spain are never forgotten. Ask a child his
name, and after the answer he will always add, “at the service of God and
yourself.” No child forgets the “_mil gracias_” with which a benefit is
accepted. I recall a small boy of peasant parentage who acted as my
guide upon one occasion, and who, when asked what gift he would like for
his service, answered: “I shall like best, señora, what pleases you most
to give me.” Even in the prayer which Spanish children offer at night
you find an expression of this quaint, delicious politeness:
“Jesus, Joseph, Mary,
Your little servant keep,
While, _with your kind permission_,
I lay me down to sleep.”
Those who have taught Spanish children all praise their intelligence.
During the first twelve years of life both girls and boys develop more
rapidly than other European children.
[Picture: Children at play in the park of the Buen Retiro, Madrid]
This precocious understanding is manifest in their games. Go to the
great park of the Buen Retiro, where during each afternoon the young
Madrileños are busy with their plays of bull-fighting, politics, and
flirtations. The children are attended by their nurses, who most
frequently are the _pasiegas_ from Santander, who wear the charming
national costumes of a pleated red petticoat with silver-lace border,
velvet bodice, and brightly coloured handkerchief as head-dress.
_Al toro_ is the favourite game. The _niños_, using a mask for the bull
and the capes of red and yellow which are sold on the stalls, go through
the whole pantomime of the bull-ring with a vivid and quite grown-up
delight in the sharp appeal made to their sensations. Another group play
at soldiers, armed with sticks for swords and holding a great flag.
Other children, a little older, pass the time in flirtations. The boys
pay the extravagant Spanish compliments to little girls, or in the wooded
groves they sing the native melodies to the answering songs of the
nightingales.
I talked with one young singer, who told me he had reached his fifteenth
year, and already was betrothed. I asked him if he were not too young.
“No, señora,” was his answer; “God is good, and my parents have money to
maintain us.” Afterwards he took up his song, that had something wild
and Oriental in its passionate notes.
Among the excellences of Madrid must be counted her Museums. The Armeria
with its fine collection of arms and weapons, the Museo Naval, and the
Museo Arqueologico, furnish effective mementoes of the entire tragedy of
Spain’s history. Of her art galleries who can say praise enough? It is
only in Madrid that it is possible to realize, to the full extent of
their gifts and limitations, the artists of Spain. The Academia de
Bellas Artes and the Museo de Arte Moderno are rich in pictures. And it
is to see the Museo del Prado that the stranger visits Madrid; no
picture-gallery in the world contains a more wonderful collection of
masterpieces.
It is a splendid art inheritance that is enshrined in the Prado. Spain
in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries was closely connected with the
countries that were then the centres of art. The Catholic Sovereigns had
a fine taste for pictures, and to them we owe largely the collection of
the great works which, after the pictures of Velazquez, are the glory of
the Prado.
The building, of pale brick and white stone, placed in a tree-shaded
park, is well designed, and on the whole well lighted. Externally it is
a model of what a picture-gallery should be. A bronze statue of
Velazquez stands before the entrance. This is fitting. The Prado is in
a very special way the home of Velazquez. No other nation has been so
supremely fortunate in preserving almost intact the work of her greatest
painter. No picture is wanting to the complete understanding of his
exquisite art.
In the Prado there are masterpieces by the world’s great painters—by
Titian, by Rubens, by Raphael, by Albrecht Dürer, by Holbein, and how
many others? But even in the presence of these masters we seek
Velazquez. Here, too, Goya astonishes us with his vigorous and wonderful
art; there are admirable paintings by El Greco, by Ribera, by Murillo;
but we can see nothing but Velazquez. And the emotion of first seeing
these pictures is one of awe. We are not in the presence of an Old
Master, but of a painter who in his perfect art forestalled every modern
movement in painting. This is why Velazquez stands alone among artists.
And the lover of art journeys to the Prado that he may study his
pictures, as the pilgrim journeys to the shrine of his saint.