MODERN MADRID
Madrid has grown out of all knowledge in the last thirty years. No one
who had not seen it since the time of Isabel II. would recognise it now,
and even then much had been done since Ferdinand VII. had come back from
his fawning and despicable captivity in France--where he had gloried in
calling himself a "French prince"--to act the despot in his own country.
The Liberal Ministers who, for short periods, had some semblance of
power during the regency of Cristina had done a little to restore the
civilisation and light established by Charles III., and wholly quenched
in the time of his unworthy and contemptible successors. But even in
1865, the Alcalá Gate, standing where the Plaza de la Independencia is
now, formed one boundary of Madrid, the Gate of Atocha was still
standing at the end of the _paseo_ of that name, and the Gate of Sta.
Barbara formed another of the limits of the city. The Museo was
unfinished and only to be entered by a side door, encumbered with
builders' rubbish and half-hewn blocks of stone. The Paseo of la Fuente
Castellana ended the Prado, and not a house was to be seen beyond the
Mint, or outside the Gate of Alcalá.
All the town outside these barriers has arisen since; the magnificent
viaduct across the Calle de Segovia, the Markets, the Parque de Madrid,
the Hippodrome, the present Plaza de Toros, all are new. The old Bull
Ring stood just outside the Alcalá Gate, and all beyond it was open
country; no _casas palacias_ along the Fuente Castellana, no Barrio
Salamanca. Madrid has, however, always been a cheerful, noisy, stirring
city, full of life and the expression of animal spirits. In days not so
very long past the streets were filled with picturesque costumes of the
provinces, with gaily decorated mules and donkeys carrying immense loads
of hay or straw, or huge nets filled with melons or pumpkins, almost
hiding everything but the head and the feet of the animal; or a
smart-looking "Jacket" man from the country districts would go whistling
by, Asturians, Murcians, Gallegos, gypsies, _toreros_ in their brilliant
_traje_ Andaluz--always to be recognised by their tiny pigtails of hair,
and by their splendidly lithe and graceful carriage--all these jostling,
singing, chaffing each other, while the jingling bells on innumerable
horses, mules, donkeys, rang through the sunlit air, and made the Puerta
de Sol and the streets branching from it a constant scene of life and
gaiety. Now and then would come the deep clang of the huge bell of the
draught oxen, drawing their Old-World carts, often with solid discs of
wood for wheels, while the women of the lower class sported their
brilliantly embroidered Manila shawls, chattered, and fluttered their
gaily-coloured fans just like the other señoritas. Mantillas, even then,
were only to be seen on old ladies; but the smart little _velo_
coquettishly fastened with a natural flower adorned all the young
girls--French millinery, which never suits a Spanish face, being kept
for the evening _paseo_. It is a pity these national costumes have gone
out of fashion. A Spanish girl with _velo_ and fan is something quite
superior to the same fascinating young person dressed after the style of
Paris--with a difference; for there is always a difference.
[Illustration: OUTSIDE THE PLAZA DE TOROS, MADRID]
Madrid, in fact, is becoming cosmopolitan, and is little to be
distinguished from other capitals, except in the _barrios bajos_ on the
national _fiestas_, and wherever the country people, as distinguished
from the Madrid work-people, congregate. These last are rapidly losing
all picturesqueness, dressing just as the workers in any other capital
dress. They are, perhaps, still no less _gatos_ (cats), those of them at
least who have had the honour of being born in La Corte, this being the
name given them by their fellow country-people.
If it be meant as a term of reproach, the Madrileño has an excellent
answer in giving the history of its origin. In the reign of Alfonso VI.,
during one of the many war-like operations of this King, he wished to
take an important and difficult fortress, and had collected all his
forces to attack it--the Madrileños alone were late; it was, in fact,
only the day before the assault was to take place that they arrived upon
the scene. The King was furious, and when their leader approached his
Majesty to know where the troops were to bivouac for the night, he
replied that there was no room in his camp for laggards; pointing to the
enemy's fortress, he added: "_There_ will be found plenty of lodging for
those who come too late for any other." Saluting his Majesty very
courteously, the soldier withdrew, understanding thoroughly the indirect
sneer at the valour of his troops; he went back to his regiment,
summoned his officers and men, and repeated to them the King's word. One
and all agreed that they would, in fact, seek their night's lodging just
where the King had indicated. Impossible as the feat appeared, they
instantly rushed to the attack of the formidable fortress with such
irresistible dash that they succeeded in scaling the walls and entering
it, pikes in rest. The King, who had run forward as soon as he heard of
the attack, watched with delight his loyal Madrileños climbing up the
face of the masonry with extraordinary skill, and not a little loss.
"Look, look!" he cried to those near him. "See how they climb! They are
cats!"
The other forces at once came to their assistance, the fortress fell
into the King's hands before nightfall, and those who had been in "no
hurry" to join the army found their lodgings within it, as his Majesty
had contemptuously recommended them to do. His anger was forgotten in
admiration and praise; and, from that time, all those born in Madrid
have the right to call themselves _gatos_.
It is curious how the observation of those who know Spain intimately
differs--one must suppose according to temperament. Thus Antonio
Gallenga, the well-known correspondent of the _Times_, who really knew
Spain well, has left it on record that the people are not musical, and
that he never remembers to have heard any of them singing in the
streets, or at their work. I do not know how this could have happened,
unless our old friend did not recognise the singing he did hear as
music, for which he might, perhaps, be forgiven. My own experience is
that the people are always singing, more or less, if you agree to call
it so. As the houses are almost all built in flats, many of the windows
open into _patios_, or court-yards, large or small, as the case may be.
You may reckon on always having two or three servants, male or female,
at work in the _patio_, the women washing or scrubbing, the men probably
cleaning their horses, carriages, or harness; but whatever else they may
be doing, you may be quite certain they will all be singing, though it
is equally certain that, by the greatest exercise of amiability, you
could scarcely call the result a song; the words seem to be improvised
as the performer goes on. There was a light-hearted groom in one of the
_patios_ of our flat, in the Calle Lope de Vega, who would continue
almost without a break the whole day. An old friend who used to amuse
himself by listening to this remarkable performer declared that if he
started his song in the early morning with a stick that was thick
enough, he would go on till midnight telling the world in general all
the people he had killed with it, and the other wonders of Hercules it
had performed.
The ditty always begins on a high note, and goes quavering irregularly
downwards, with infinite twirls, shakes, and prolonged notes, these
being sung to the exclamation "Ay!" Minor keys enter a good deal into
this kind of performance, and the most remarkable part of it is that the
singer, once having reached the bottom of the scale--for there is no
end--is able to begin again on the same high note, and hit upon, more or
less, the same variations a second time. If you have nothing better to
do than to listen to some of these improvisatores, you will get a long,
and more or less connected, history of some event; but it takes a long
time--and, perhaps, is not often worth the expenditure. The songs which
you hear to the accompaniment of the guitar are different from these,
though the introduction of the "Ay!" and the frequent shakes and twirls
are always there.
The working Madrileño's ideal of happiness is to go a little way along
one of the dusty _caminos reales_ (highways) to some little _venta_, or
tavern, or to take refreshments out in baskets. They will sit quite
contentedly in the dust by the side of the road, or in a field of
stubble or burnt-up grass, to eat and drink, and then the guitar comes
into play, and the dancing begins. It is always the _jota aragonesa_,
which is not so much dancing as twirling about slowly, and, it would
almost seem, sadly; but there is always a circle of admiring lookers-on,
who beat time with stamping of feet and clapping of hands, and watch the
performance as eagerly as if there were something quite fresh and new
about it. Occasionally, these parties go out by omnibus or tram, as far
as they can, and then start their picnic repast, to be followed by the
inevitable dance and song, just wherever they happen to be.
One of the most curious sights of Madrid is the great wash-tub of the
Manzanares. As you descend the steep bluff on which the city stands,
towards the river, you find the banks covered with laundresses, kneeling
at short distances from one another, each scrubbing the clothes on one
board, which slopes down into the water, while another board, fixed so
as to stand out into the stream, or a little embankment made of sand,
dams up the scanty supply of water she can obtain. As the Manzanares in
summer is divided into a great number of small streams, this scene is
repeated on the edge of each one, while the expanse of sand which
occupies the centre of what ought to be the river-bed is one forest of
clothes-props, with all the wash of Madrid hanging on the lines. On the
banks the children, in the intervals of school, are playing bull-fights,
or some of their innumerable dancing and singing games; the women are
one and all performing the gradual descent of the gamut with variations
called singing; and above all is the glorious sun, transfiguring all
things, and throwing deep, purple shadows from the high plane-trees
along the banks.
The road which runs along the bank of the Manzanares, at the farther
side from Madrid, is a revelation to those who only know the plains
through which the railway from the north passes, and which for the
greater part of the year, except when the crops are growing, are quite
as arid as we are accustomed to suppose. On the left lies the Casa de
Campo, an immense extent of park, containing, on the high ground, some
splendid specimens of the Scotch fir, and, in more sheltered spots,
groves of beech, avenues of plane, and masses of the dark-leaved ilex,
which grows to great perfection in this climate. The "Florida," another
of the royal properties, lies to the right, and a splendid road shaded
by majestic trees, and with wide, grassy margins, stretches away to the
village of El Pardillo, where Longfellow established his quarters, and
which he describes in his _Outre Mer_, and from that on to the forest,
or whatever you may call it, of El Pardo, where there is a royal
residence now but seldom used, you may ride for many hours and still
find yourself in this wild park, which many of the inhabitants of Madrid
have never seen. Here one can realise a little how the city may have
once been a hunting lodge of the Kings, as we are told. The Pardo may be
reached through the Casa de Campo, a gate at the extreme end of the
principal drive leading into the forest.
Up on the high ground of the Casa de Campo there is a splendid view of
Madrid, with the Palace crowning the steep bluff overhanging the
Manzanares. It was in the "country house" itself, near the gate, that
our "Baby Charles" is said to have climbed the high wall of the
courtyard to get a glimpse of the Infanta whom he hoped to make his
wife. When I knew the place intimately, on the very highest part of the
Park was a large enclosure of the wild forest, railed in with high
wooden palisading. Within this lived a flock of ostriches, belonging to
the Crown. No one seemed to know anything about them, nor how long they
had been there. What puzzled us much was how they were fed, or if they
were left to cater for themselves. One thing I can answer for: they were
very wild, and very ferocious; the moment they saw our horses coming up
the hill they would run from all parts of the enclosure trying their
best to get at us, striking with their feet and wings, and uttering
gruesome shrieks. It was one of our amusements to race them, keeping
outside their high fence while they strode over the ground, their necks
stretched out, and their absurd wings flapping after the manner of a
farmyard gander; but, with the best efforts, the horses were never able
to keep up the pace for long; the birds invariably won, and we left them
screeching and using language that did not appear to be parliamentary,
when they found that the fence was the only thing that did not give in,
as they craned their necks and stamped in their baffled rage. The
horses, at first rather afraid of the birds, soon learned to enjoy the
fun, and raced them for all they were worth. I do not know if this
strange colony is still settled there.
A curious feature of Spanish country life to us are the goatherds. Where
the large flocks of goats about Madrid pasture, I know not; but I have
often seen them coming home in the evening to be milked, or starting out
in the morning. The goatherd, clad in his _manta_, and carrying a long
wand of office over his shoulder, and I think also a horn, stalks
majestically along with all the dignity of a royal marshal of
processions, and the goats follow him, with a good deal of lagging
behind for play, or nibbling, if they should chance to see anything
green. Still, they scamper after their _generalissimo_ in the end, and
meanwhile he is much too dignified to look back. Taking advantage of
this, I have seen women come out of their cottages on the roadside and
milk a goat or two as it passed; and from the way the animal made a full
stop, and lent itself to the fraud--if such it were--it was evidently a
daily occurrence.
In times not long past, if indeed they do not still exist, the
dust-heaps outside Madrid were the homes of packs of lean, hungry dogs,
great brindled creatures of the breed to be seen in Velasquez pictures;
these animals prowled about the streets of Madrid in the early morning,
acting as scavengers. When they became too numerous, the civil guards
laid poison about at night in the dust-heaps before the houses, and the
very early riser might see four or five of these great creatures lying
dead on the carts which collect the refuse of Madrid before the world in
general is astir. These wild dogs were disagreeable customers to meet
when riding outside the city, until we learned to avoid the localities
where they spent their days, for they would give chase to the horses if
they caught sight of them, and the only thing to be done was to remain
perfectly quiet until they tired of barking and returned to the
dust-hills to resume their search for food.
The description of peasant life in Madrid would be incomplete if we left
unmentioned the daily siesta in the sun of the Gallegos and lower-class
working-men. On the benches in the Prado, on the pavement, in the full
blaze of the sun, these men will stretch themselves and sleep for an
hour or two after their midday meal. I have seen the Gallego porters
make themselves a hammock with the rope they always carry with
them--_mozos de cuerda_ they are called--literally slinging themselves
to the _reja_ or iron bars of the window of some private house, and
sleep soundly in a position that would surely kill any other human
being. "Taking the sun" (_tomando el sol_) is, however, the custom of
every Spaniard of whatever degree.
The casual visitor to Madrid is always struck with the number of
carriages to be seen in the _paseo_; but the fact is that everyone keeps
a carriage, if it be at all possible, and it is no uncommon thing for
two or three _pollos_ to join together in the expense of this luxury,
and a sight almost unknown to us is common enough in Madrid--young men,
the "curled darlings" of society, lazily lounging in a Victoria or
Berlina in what is known as the "Ladies' Mile." The Madrid _pollo_ is
not the most favourable specimen of a Spaniard; the word literally means
a "chicken," but applied to a young man it is scarcely a complimentary
expression, and has its counterpart with us in the slang terms which
from time to time indicate the idle exquisite who thinks as much of his
dress and his style as any woman does or more. The Madrid _pollo_ often
is, or ought to be, a schoolboy, and the younger he is, naturally, the
more conceited and impertinent he is. It is curious that with the
feminine termination, this word (_polla_) loses all sense of banter or
contempt; it simply means a young girl in the first charm of her
spring-time.
Riding in the Row has always been a favourite pastime in Madrid, but to
English ideas the _pollo_ is more objectionable there than elsewhere,
since his idea of riding is to show off the antics of a horse specially
taught and made to prance about and curvet while he sits it, his legs
sticking out in the position of the Colossus of Rhodes, his heels, armed
with spurs, threatening catastrophe to the other riders. An old English
master of foxhounds, who was a frequent visitor in Madrid, used to
compare the Paseo of the Fuente Castellana at the fashionable hour to a
"_chevaux de frise_ on horseback." These gentlemen must not, however, be
supposed to represent Spanish horsemanship. Ladies ride a good deal in
the Paseo, but one cannot call them good horsewomen. To get into the
saddle from a chair, or a pair of stable steps, and let their steed walk
up and down for an hour or so in the Row, is not exactly what we call
riding. If you hire a carriage in Madrid you are so smart that your best
friends would not recognise you. A grand barouche and pair dashes up to
your door, probably with a ducal coronet on the panels. The coachman and
footman wear cockades, and the moment you appear they both take off
their hats and hold them in their hands until you are seated in the
carriage. This ceremony is repeated every time you alight, the coachman
reverently uncovering as you leave the carriage or return to it, as well
as the footman who is opening the door for you.
It is most comforting; royalty, I feel sure, is nothing to it! We will
not look critically at the lining of the noble barouche, nor at the
varnish on its panels, still less make disagreeable remarks about the
liveries, which do not always fit their wearers--it is economical to
have liveries made a good medium size, so that if the servants are
changed the clothes are not;--one can always feel grateful for the
polite and agreeable attendants. How oddly it must strike the Spaniards
in England to notice the stolid indifference of "Jeames de la Plush,"
and the curt tap of his first finger on the brim of his hat as his lady
enters her carriage or gives her directions!
All the mules, and most of the horses, ponies, or donkeys ridden by the
"Jacket" men or country people are trained to pace instead of to trot;
it is said to be less fatiguing on a long journey. The motion as you
ride is, to our notions, very unpleasant, being a kind of roll, which at
first, at any rate, gives one the feeling of sea-sickness. The animal
uses the fore and hind feet together alternately, as he literally runs
over the ground. It does not appear to be a natural pace, but is
carefully taught, and, once acquired, it is very difficult to break the
animal of it; his idea of trotting has become quite lost; nor is it a
pretty action, nor one suited to show off good qualities--it has always
something of a shuffle about it. If it has its advantages, except that
stirrups may be dispensed with, they are not very apparent to those
accustomed to the usual paces of an English horse. Personally, I
disliked it particularly.
There have been many efforts to introduce racing, with its contingent
improvement in the breed of horses, perhaps the earliest during the
regency of Espartero; but these ended, as most things did in the old
days when Spain was only beginning her long struggle for freedom, in
failure and loss to the enterprising gentlemen--of whom the then Duque
de Osuna was one--who spent large sums of money in the effort. The old
race-course of that time lay somewhere in the low ground outside Madrid
on the course of the Manzanares; many a good gallop I have had on it,
though it was abandoned and forgotten long ago by the Madrileños. At the
present time horse-racing may be said to have become naturalised in
Spain under the _Sociedad del Fomento de la Cria Caballar_ (Society for
the Encouragement of Horse-breeding), and all that concerns horsemanship
is naturally improved and improving.
A good idea of Spanish horses may be gained by a visit to the Royal Mews
in Madrid. There are the cream-coloured horses from the royal stud at
Aranjuez, _jacuitas_ from Andalucia, as well as the mountain ponies of
Galicia. Those who have never seen the Spanish mule have no idea what
the animal is--powerful, active, graceful, and almost impossible to
injure. They are used in the royal stables and in those of the nobility,
for night work, since they are so hardy as not to be injured by long
waiting in the cold or wet. They are the correct thing in the carriages
of the Papal Nuncio and all ecclesiastics, and are generally preferred
to horses for long or difficult journeys. They are a great feature in
the army; kept in splendid condition and of great size, they not only
drag the heavy guns, but in the celebrated mountain artillery each mule
carries a small gun on his back. A brigade of this arm would have been
invaluable to the British in South Africa, having no doubt had its
initiation in the guerilla warfare of Spain's frequent civil wars.
The clipping of mules and donkeys, which are also very superior animals
to anything we know by that name, is in the hands of the gypsies, who
have a perfect genius for decorating their own animals and any others
committed to their manipulation. Only the upper part is shaved, or
clipped to the skin, the long winter coat being left on the legs and
half-way up the body. Generally, on the shoulders and haunches a pattern
is made by leaving some of the hair a little longer; the figure of the
cross with rays is not uncommon, but it is wonderful how elaborate and
beautiful some of these patterns are, looking as if embossed in velvet
on the skin. One day, passing a _venta_ in a street in Madrid, we were
attracted by a gaily-decked donkey standing outside. He had the words,
_Viva mi Amo_ (Long live my Master!), finished with a beautiful and
artistic scroll pattern, in rich velvet across his haunches. While we
stood admiring this work of art, the master within laughingly warned us
that the ass kicked if anyone came near him. Perhaps the elaborate
decoration was a practical joke!
The mules and donkeys which come in from the country are generally very
picturesque, with a network of crimson silk tassels over their heads,
and a bright-coloured _manta_ thrown across their sleek, glossy backs.
These _mantas_ serve many purposes; they are made of two breadths of
brightly striped and ornamented material of wool and silk, sewn up at
one end, or sometimes for some distance at each end, like a purse;
sometimes they are thrown across the mule to serve as saddle-bags,
sometimes one end is used as a hood and is drawn over the master's head,
while the remainder is thrown across his chest and mouth and over the
left shoulder. The best of these _mantas_ are elaborately trimmed at
both ends with a deep interlacing fringe, ending in a close row of
balls, and have a thick ornamental cord sewn over the joining. These,
which are intended for human wraps and not as saddle-bags, are only sewn
up at one end, so as to form something very like the old monkish hood.
All the horses, mules, donkeys, and oxen wear bells: the oxen have
generally only one large bronze bell, which hangs under the head; the
others have rows of small jingling silver or brass bells round their
collars or bridles.
These draught oxen are beautiful animals, mostly a deep cream in colour,
with dark points, magnificent eyes, and a sphinx-like look of patience,
as if biding their time for something much better to come. Their harness
is not apparently irksome to them, and is not so heavy as one sees on
the Portuguese oxen, for instance. They are coupled by a wooden bar
across the head, and their driver, if such he can be called--rather,
perhaps, the guide--walks in front with a long stick, possibly a wand of
office, over his shoulder to show them the way. The dress of this
functionary is picturesque: a wide-brimmed hat (_sombrero_), a shirt,
short trousers to the knees, with gaiters of woven grass (_esparto_), a
_faja_ round his waist, and _manta_ thrown over his shoulder if cold. He
stalks majestically along, followed by his equally majestic _bueyes_,
and one wonders of what all three are thinking as they trudge along the
sun-smitten roads, regardless of dust or of anything else. The cars are
rude enough, and the wheels sometimes solid discs of wood. Occasionally,
a hood of bent pieces of wood covered with linen is fixed. Tame oxen, or
_cabestros_, as they are called, play a very important part in the
_ganaderos_ and the bull-rings. They appear to be held in some sort of
superstitious reverence, or strange affection, by the poor beasts who
only live to make sport for men. In driving the bulls from one pasture
to another, or bringing them into the towns, the _cabestros_ are
followed with unwavering faith by these otherwise dangerous animals;
where the _cabestro_ goes, clanging his great bell, the bull follows,
and while under the charge of his domesticated friend he is quite
harmless.
[Illustration: BUEYES RESTING]
At one time, the bulls used to be driven to the bull-ring outside Madrid
in specially made roads sunk some fifteen feet below the level of the
fields, and paved. Along these the _pastor_, or shepherd, and
_picadores_, armed with long lances, went with the _cabestros_ and the
herd of bulls to be immolated. I have frequently met this procession
when riding, either in the early morning or late evening, outside
Madrid; but so long as the _cabestros_ are present, there is nothing to
fear, for the bulls are perfectly quiet and harmless. Once, however,
riding with a friend, I had a disagreeable and exciting adventure. We
were quietly walking our horses along the Ronda de Alcalá, when we heard
an immense amount of shouting, and suddenly became aware that we
ourselves were the objects of the excitement, waving of hands,
screaming, and gesticulating. Before we had time to do more than realise
that we were being warned of some terrific danger in wait for us round
the corner of the high wall, some little distance in advance, two
_picadores_ on horseback, armed with their long pikes, galloped round
the corner, also shouting wildly to us, and pointing across the fields
as if telling us to fly, and almost at the same moment the whole drove
of bulls, tearing along at a terrific rate, without _cabestros_,
appeared, charging straight towards us. We did not need a second hint.
At one side of the road was the old wall of Madrid, at the other a high
bank with a wide ditch beyond it. Without a word, we put our horses at
the bank,--they had realised the situation as quickly as we had,--jumped
the ditch at a flying leap from the top of the bank, and were off across
a field of young wheat. Once only I looked behind, and saw a magnificent
black bull, with his tail in the air--a signal of attack--on the top of
the bank over which I had just leaped, preparing to follow me. Long
afterwards, as it seemed, when my horse slackened his pace, I found
myself alone in a wide plain, neither bulls nor fellow-rider to be seen.
His horse had bolted in another direction from mine, and we heard
afterwards that the _picadores_ had galloped in between me and the
sporting bull and turned him back. Eventually, the _cabestros_ appeared
on the scene, and the poor misguided bulls were inveigled into the
shambles for the _fiesta_ of the morrow. How they had ever managed to
break away or gain the public road at all, we were never able to learn.