We moved from San Sebastian to Madrid. My father had received an
appointment to the Geographic and Political Institute. We lived on the
Calle Real, just beyond the Glorieta de Bilbao, in a street which is now
a prolongation of the Calle de Fuencarral.
Opposite our house, there was a piece of high ground, which has not yet
been removed, which went by the name of "_La Era del Mico_," or
"The Monkey Field." Swings and merry-go-rounds were scattered all over
it, so that the diversions of "_La Era del Mico_," together with
the two-wheeled calashes and chaises which were still in use in those
days, and the funerals passing continually through the street, were the
amusements which were provided ready-made for us, as we looked down from
our balcony.
Two sensational executions took place while we lived here--those of the
regicide Otero and of Oliva--one following closely on the heels of the
other. We heard the _Salve_, or prayer, which is sung by the
prisoners for the criminal awaiting death, hawked about us then on the
streets.