MADRID.
Streets and Street Population; Female Dress: the Mantilla, the Fan;
aspect of the Streets of Madrid at different hours; the Siesta;
Shops; good and bad Smells; State of the lower Orders; Analysis of
the Population; Street Sketches; Sunday in Madrid; the Calle de
Alcala; Convents; the Street of the Inquisition; private Apartments
in Madrid; the Prado and its Attractions; ludicrous Incongruities;
Spanish Women, and their Claims; the Fan and its uses; Portraits;
inconvenient Exaction of Loyalty; the Philosophy of good walking;
the Retiro; Castilian Skies; the Cafe Catalina and its Visitors;
other Coffee Rooms, and Political Reflections; the Botanical
Garden, strange Regulation on entering; the Theatres; Spanish Play
Bills; Teatro del Principe; the Cazuela and Intrigue; Spanish
Comedy; the Bolero; the Italian Company; cultivation of Music in
Madrid; the Guitar; Vocal Music; Spanish Music.
The traveller who arrives in Madrid from the north, has greatly the
advantage over him who reaches the capital from any other point: every
thing is newer to him. If one enter Spain at Cadiz, and travel through
Seville and Cordova to Madrid, the edge of curiosity is blunted; much
of the novelty of Spanish life is already exhausted; and Madrid
possesses comparatively little to interest: but travelling to the
capital, through Castile, one arrives in Madrid almost as unlearned in
the modes of Spanish life, as if the journey had been performed by sea;
nor is the interest with which the traveller afterwards sees Cordova and
Seville greatly diminished, by having previously seen Madrid. For,
although the aspect of a Spanish town, and the modes of Spanish life are
then familiar to him,--Cordova, and Seville, and the other cities of the
south, possess an exclusive interest, in the remains of the Moorish
empire,--in the peculiarity of the natural productions around them--in
the climate, which exercises an important influence upon the habits of
the people,--and in the taint of Moorish usages, visible in all those
provinces which continued the longest time under the dominion of the
Moors. With curiosity therefore on the tiptoe, to see the capital of
Spain, and the Spaniards in their capital, I hastened into the streets.
The stranger who walks for the first time through the streets of Madrid,
is struck with the sombreness of the prospect that is presented to him:
this, he speedily discovers, arises from the costume of the women. It is
the varied and many-coloured attire of the female sex, that gives to the
streets of other great cities their air of gaiety and liveliness. No
pink, and green, and yellow, and blue silk bonnets, nod along the
streets of Madrid; for the women wear no bonnets,--no ribbons of more
than all the hues of the rainbow, chequer the pavement; for the women of
Madrid do not understand the use of ribbons. Only conceive the
sombreness of a population without a bonnet or a ribbon, and all, or
nearly all, in black! yet such is the population of Madrid. Every woman
in Spain wears a _mantilla_, which varies in quality and expense, with
the station of the wearer: and, for the benefit of those who, though
they may have heard of a mantilla, have an imperfect idea of what it is,
I shall describe it. A mantilla, is a scarf thrown over the head and
shoulders; behind, and at the sides, it descends nearly to the waist;
and falling in front over a very high comb, is gathered, and fastened,
generally by something ornamental, just above the forehead, at the
lower part of the hair. Of old, there was a veil attached to the
fore-part of the mantilla, which was used or thrown back, according to
the fancy of the wearer; but veils are now rarely seen in Spain,
excepting at mass. Of the rank and means of a Spanish woman, something
may be gathered from the mantilla, though this cannot be considered any
certain criterion, since Spanish women will make extraordinary
sacrifices for the sake of dress. Yet there are three distinct grades of
the mantilla: the lady in the upper ranks of life, and most of those in
the middle ranks, wear the lace mantilla; some of blond--some of English
net, worked in Spain; and these vary in price, from 4_l._ or 5_l._ to
20_l._ The Bourgeoises generally wear the mantilla, part lace and part
silk; the lace in front, and the silk behind, with lace trimmings; and
the lower orders wear a mantilla wholly of silk, or of silk, trimmed
with velvet. Spain is the only country in Europe in which a national
dress extends to the upper ranks; but even in Spain this distinction
begins to give way. In the streets, no one yet ventures to appear
without the mantilla; but French hats are frequently seen in carriages
and in the theatre; and the black silk gown, once as indispensible as
the mantilla, sometimes gives place to silks of other colours; and even
a French or English printed muslin, may occasionally be seen on the
Prado.
But although the sombre dress of the women, and the consequent absence
of bright colours, seemed at first to give a gloomy cast to the exterior
of the population of Madrid, a little closer observance of it disclosed
a variety and picturesqueness not to be found in any other of the
European countries. The dress of the women, although sombre, bears in
the eye of a stranger a character of both novelty and grace. The round
turned-up hat and crimson sash of the peasant; the short green jacket
and bare legs and sandals of the innumerable water-carriers, who call
_aqua fresca_; the sprinkling of the military costume; and above all,
the grotesque dresses of the multitudes of friars of different orders,
gave to the scene a character of originality exclusively its own. No
feature in the scene before me appeared more novel than the universality
of the fan; a Spanish woman would be quite as likely to go out of doors
without her shoes, as without her fan. I saw not one female in the
streets without this indispensible appendage. The portly dame, and her
stately daughter; the latter six paces in advance, as is the universal
custom throughout Spain, walked fanning themselves; the child of six
years old, held mamma with one hand, and fanned herself with the other;
the woman sitting at her stall selling figs, sat fanning herself; and
the servant coming from market, carried her basket with one arm, and
fanned herself with the other. To me, who had never before seen a fan
but in the hands of a lady, this seemed ridiculous enough.
The streets of Madrid present a totally different aspect, at different
hours of the day: before one o’clock, all is nearly as I have described
it; bustling and busy, and thronged with people of all ranks, of whom
the largest proportion are always females; for the women of Madrid spend
much of their time in the streets, going and coming from mass, shopping
(a never failing resource,) and going and coming from the Prado. But
from one o’clock till four, the aspect of every thing is changed: the
shops are either shut, or a curtain is drawn before the door; the
shutters of every window are closed; scarcely a respectable person is
seen in the street; the stall-keepers spread cloths over their wares,
and go to sleep; groups of the poor and idle are seen stretched in the
shade; and the water-carriers, throwing their jackets over their faces,
make pillows of their water casks. But the _siesta_ over, all is again
life and bustle; the curtains are withdrawn, the balconies are filled
with ladies, the sleepers shake off their drowsiness, and the
water-carriers resume their vocation, and deafen us with the cry of aqua
fresca. These water-carriers are a curious race, and are as necessary to
the Spanish peasant as the vender of beer is to the English labourer:
with a basket and glass in the right-hand, and a water jar on the left
shoulder, they make incessant appeals to the appetite for cold water,
and during the summer, drive a lucrative trade; and so habituated is the
Spaniard to the use of cold water, that I have observed little
diminution in the demand for it, when the morning temperature of the air
was such as would have made even an Englishman shrink from so
comfortless a beverage.
Frequently, while in Madrid, I walked out early in the morning, that I
might hear the delightful music that accompanies the morning service in
the _Convento de las Salesas_; and then the streets wore a different
appearance,--flocks of goats were bevouacked here and there to supply
milk to those who cannot afford to buy cows’ milk. Porters,
water-carriers, stall-keepers, and market people, were making a
breakfast of grapes and bread; and here and there a friar might be seen,
with his sack slung over his back, begging supplies for his convent. One
morning, I had the curiosity to follow a young friar of the Franciscan
order the whole length of the _Calle de Montera_; he asked upwards of
forty persons for alms, and entered every shop, and only two persons
listened to his petition,--one of these was an old lame beggar, sitting
at a door, who put half a quarto into his hand; the other was an old
gentleman with a cocked hat, and certain other insignia of holding some
government employment.
In my first perambulation of the streets of Madrid, I remarked, with
astonishment, the extraordinary number of shops appropriated to the sale
of combs. Throughout Spain, but especially in Madrid, the comb is an
indispensible and important part of every woman’s dress, and a never
failing accompaniment of the mantilla. A fashionable Spanish comb is
not less than a foot long, and eight or nine inches broad; and no woman
considers from nine to fifteen dollars (from 2_l._ to 3_l._) too much to
give for this appendage; accordingly, every tenth shop, at least, is a
comb shop. Another very numerous class of shops appeared to belong to
booksellers; and a third--shops filled with remnants and shreds of cloth
of all kinds and colours, which partly accounts for the patched
appearance of the garments of the lowest orders, who doubtless find in
these repositories the means of repairing their worn-out clothes. I had
one day the curiosity to walk leisurely through two of the principal
commercial streets, and to take a note of the different shops they
contained. In the _Calle de Carretas_, I found sixteen booksellers, ten
venders of combs, three jewellers, two hardware shops, two gold and
silver embroiderers, two chocolate shops, two fan shops, six drapers and
silk mercers, one woollen draper, one hatter, one perfumer, one
fruiterer, one print shop, one wine shop, and one stocking shop. In the
_Calle de Montera_, I found eight drapers and silk-mercers, eight
jewellers, five hardware shops, four watch-makers, three china and
crystal shops, three grocers, five embroiderers, three booksellers,
three perfumers, three pawnbrokers, three chocolate shops, two fan
shops, four comb shops, four provision shops, two money changers, two
venders of ornaments for churches, two glove shops, two shoemakers, two
gunsmiths, three venders of cocks and hens, and two of singing birds.
Walking through the streets of Madrid, you are one moment arrested by a
pleasant smell, and the next stunned by a bad one; among the former, is
the fragrant perfume from the cinnamon to be mixed with the chocolate:
at the door of every chocolate shop, a person is to be seen beating
cinnamon in a large mortar. Another pleasant smell arises from the heaps
of melons that lie on the streets. This custom, by-the-by, of heaping
fruit on the street, requires that one unaccustomed to the streets of
Madrid should look well to his feet,--melons, oranges, apples, and many
other kinds of fruit, lie every where in the way of the passenger, who
is in constant danger of being toppled over. Among the bad smells that
assail one, the most common, and to me the most offensive, is the smell
of oil in preparation for cooking. The Spanish oil is unpleasant both
to the taste and smell; but I have heard well-informed persons say that
the fault does not lie in the oil, but in the manner of expressing it;
this may probably be true,--the oil of Catalunia is as unpleasant as
that of Andalusia, and yet the olives of Catalunia grow in a latitude
little different from the most southerly parts of France, from which the
most excellent oil is produced. As I have mentioned offensive smells,
let me not omit one offensive sight,--I allude to the constant practice
of combing and cleaning the hair in the street: in most of the less
frequented streets, persons are seen at every second or third door
intent upon this employment; and sometimes the occupation includes a
scrutiny, at the nature of which the reader must be contented to guess;
and even in the most frequented streets, if two women be seated at
fruit-stalls near each other, one is generally engaged in combing,
assorting, and occasionally scrutinizing the hair of the other. Sights
like these neutralize, in some degree, the enjoyment which a stranger
might otherwise find in the delicious flavour of Muscatel grapes.
I was prepared to find much more wretchedness and poverty among the
lower orders in Madrid, than is apparent--I might perhaps say, than
exists there. There is much misery in Madrid, but it lies among a
different class, of whom I shall have occasion to speak afterwards: at
present, I speak merely of the lowest class of the inhabitants, among
whom, in every great city, there is always a certain proportion of
miserably poor. I purposely walked several times into the lowest
quarters of the city, but I never encountered any such pictures of
poverty and wretchedness as are to be found abundantly in Paris, London,
Dublin, Manchester, and other great towns of France and England. When
the king arrived in Madrid from _La Granja_, there were at least 10,000
persons present at his _entrée_; and upon the occasion of the queen’s
accouchement, there were three times that number in the court of the
palace; and yet I did not see a single person in rags--scarcely even a
beggar. It is possible, however, that a cloak may conceal much
wretchedness; and of this I had one day an example. Sauntering one
morning in the retired part of the Prado, in front of the botanical
garden, I sat down upon the low wall that supports the iron railing: a
man, with a decent cloak wrapped around him, sat a few paces distant,
seemingly in a reverie; he happened to have taken his seat upon some
prohibited place, and one of the guards, unperceived by him, walked
forward, and tapped him on the shoulder with his musket: whether the
sudden start which this intrusion occasioned had unfastened the cloak,
or whether he had accidentally let go his hold of it, is of no
consequence; but the cloak dropped half off his body, and I discovered
that it was his _only_ garment, excepting his neckcloth: the man was no
beggar; he hastily replaced the cloak, and walked away. He was probably
one of that class who, in Madrid, sacrifice all to the exterior; or,
possibly, one of those very few Castilians, who yet inherit old
Castilian pride, and who would die rather than ask an alms.
But it is not difficult to assign plausible reasons for the fact, that
the utterly destitute form but a very trifling proportion of the
inhabitants of Madrid. Madrid lives by the court; it is said that the
_employées_, including all grades, and the military, form one fourth
part of the whole inhabitants. The professional persons, especially
those connected with the law, form a large body; the friars and
priests, a still larger. In Madrid, too, are assembled the greater
number of the nobles and rich proprietors; so that more than one half of
the inhabitants live upon their salaries and rents. We have then to
consider the great number of tradespeople, artificers, and shopkeepers
required to supply the wants of the former classes; add to these, the
common labourers, servants, market people, itinerant venders, porters,
water carriers, fruiterers, and the seminaries, hospitals, and prisons;
and if, as is said to be the case, the employées, the military, the
professional men, and all their families, together with priests and
friars, amount to 80,000 persons, we may easily account for the other
80,000, without the necessity of filling up a blank with the utterly
destitute. Indeed, the lowest orders in Madrid, are the water-carriers
and fruiterers; and these are not a fixed population; many belong to the
neighbouring villages, and to the fruit countries bordering on the
Tagus; and in the winter months, these leave the capital. There is
always a resource for the most destitute in Madrid, in the trade of a
water-carrier: he weaves a little basket of rushes; pays a couple of
reals for a couple of glasses, and he is at once equipped as a vender of
aqua fresca. Madrid has no manufacture, so that labour is not attracted
to the capital, to be afterwards subject to the vicissitudes of trade;
nor is there any spirit of enterprise, whose caprices demand a constant
supply of superabundant labour. These may, or may not, be deemed
sufficient reasons for the fact I have wished to account for,--the
reader may probably be able to add others. The fact, however, is
certain, that in no city of Europe ranking with Madrid, is there so
little apparent wretchedness.
There is less appearance of business in the streets of Madrid, than in
any city I have ever seen: the population seem to have turned out to
enjoy themselves. Two things contribute mainly to give that air of ease
and pleasure to the pursuits of the inhabitants of Madrid; the great
proportion of women of whom the street-population is composed,--and the
extreme slowness of movement. The women of Madrid have nothing to detain
them at home; the ladies have no home occupations as in London; nor have
the majority of the bourgeoises any shop duties to perform as in
Paris,--the street is, therefore, their only resource from _ennui_. And
there is something in extreme slowness of motion, that is entirely
opposed to business and duties,--a quick step, and a necessary one, are
closely allied; but the street population of Madrid, with few
exceptions, merely saunter; and wherever you reach an open space,
especially the _Puerta del Sol_,--a small square in the centre of the
city,--hundreds of gentlemen are seen standing, with no other occupation
than shaking the dust from their segars. The great numbers of military
too, strolling arm in arm, and, above all, the innumerable priests and
monks, with whom we at once connect idleness and ease, give to the
street population of Madrid an appearance of pleasure seeking, which is
peculiar to itself, and is perhaps little removed from truth.
On Sunday, Madrid presents the same aspect as on other days, with this
difference, that the shops and the streets are more crowded; and that
the lower classes, and the bourgeoises, are better attired. On Sunday
evening, the houses are deserted; the whole population of Madrid pours
down the _Calle de Alcala_, to the Prado. Every Sunday afternoon, from
four o’clock until six or seven, this street, nearly a mile in length,
and, at least, twice as broad as Portland Place, is crowded from end to
end, and from wall to wall, so that a carriage finds some difficulty in
making its way. Among this crowd, I have often looked in vain, to find
an ill-dressed person; but this exterior is no real index to the
condition of those who throng the Prado. I have reason to know, that
hundreds, who by their dress might pass for courtiers, have dined upon
bread and a bunch of grapes, and go from the _Paseo_ to hide themselves
in a garret; and females have been pointed out to me, whose mantilla,
comb, and fan could not have cost less than 10_l._, who were starving
upon a pension of 2,500 reals (25_l._).
As I have mentioned the Calle de Alcala, let me speak of this street as
it deserves to be spoken of. I know of no finer entry to any city; I
might perhaps say, no one so fine, as that to Madrid by the Calle de
Alcala. Standing at the foot of this street, you have on the right and
left the long, wide Prado, with its quadruple row of trees stretching in
fine perspective to the gates that terminate it; behind is the
magnificent gate of Alcala, a fine model of architectural beauty; and
before lies the Calle de Alcala, reaching into the heart of the
city,--long, of superb width, and flanked by a splendid range of unequal
buildings,--among others the hotels of many of the ambassadors; the two
fine convents of _Las Calatravas_, and _Las Ballecas_, and the
Custom-house. But the Calle de Alcala is the only really fine street in
Madrid; many of the other streets are good, and very many respectable,
of tolerable width, and the houses lofty and well built; but there is no
magnificent street, excepting the Calle de Alcala. Like all the other
cities in Spain, the streets, abstracted from the population, have a
sombre aspect, owing to the number of convents, whose long reach of
wall, grated windows, and lack of doors, throw a chill over the mind of
the passer by. There are no fewer than sixty-two convents for men and
women in Madrid; and it frequently happens that one side of a whole
street is occupied by a convent: in the _Calle de Atocha_ there are no
fewer than eight convents; and some of the streets on the outskirts,
contain scarcely any houses, but those dedicated to religion.
Walking one day in company with a priest,--a very intelligent and
learned man, of whose society I was always glad,--I chanced to observe
the inscription upon the corner of one of the streets, and read _Calle
de la Inquisicion_; my curiosity was immediately awakened; I had
intended before leaving Madrid, to have sought out the spot memorable
from the atrocities with which it is connected; and this accidental
_rencontre_ saved me the trouble of a search. I immediately expressed my
anxiety to see the building, and to enter it if possible; and requested
my companion to have the goodness to be my _Cicerone_; but I found that
the terrors of the Inquisition had outlived its power; my companion
assured me there was nothing to see; the building he believed was shut
up, and no one could enter; indeed he doubted if he perfectly knew where
the building was situated. I saw the difficulty of the priest; there
might be danger in guiding a heretic to the precincts of the holy
office; and so, requesting him to wait for me, I went in search of the
building. I had no difficulty in finding it, but there was little to
reward my search; it was the building in which prisoners were confined,
but not that in which they were judged and tortured. This was in an
immediately adjoining street, formerly called the street of the Grand
Inquisitor, whose house, including all the offices of the court, fills
almost one side of the street. It seems at first sight surprising, that
the Inquisition, like the Bastile, was not torn down during the time of
the Constitution; but the prime movers, and even the instruments in that
revolution, were of the upper ranks; and it is a certain fact, that many
among the _Pueblo Bajo_ look even now without any horror, some with
veneration, upon the building once dedicated to the maintenance of the
Roman Catholic faith. The building used as the prison of the
Inquisition, was constructed above immense vaults, originally formed by
the Moors; and afterwards converted into dungeons. I requested
permission to visit them, but I was told that the air in the dungeons
was such as to render a visit to them unsafe.
From the prisons I went to the other branch of the Inquisition in the
adjoining street. A part of the house of the Grand Inquisitor is in a
dilapidated state, but other parts are inhabited by private individuals.
The porter, notwithstanding a liberal bribe, made much difficulty in
allowing me to enter, but I at last prevailed with him, and he conducted
me to the room formerly used as the hall of justice, or rather of
judgment; and although I saw nothing but a long gloomy room without one
article of furniture, it required but little exercise of imagination to
see, in fancy, the Inquisitors and their satellites, the trembling
accused, and the instruments of torture. It appears incredible, that any
others than those to whom its existence would bring power or wealth,
should desire the re-establishment of the Inquisition; and yet, I feel
myself justified in believing, that many would look upon its restoration
with complacency; and that the great majority of the lower orders would
behold this with perfect indifference. If so, they deserve to be cursed
with it.
The dirtiness and want of comfort in the _Cruz de Malta_, would have
driven me into private lodgings, even if the charges in the hotel had
been supportable; I hastened therefore to deliver my letters, that I
might be aided in my search by those to whom I carried recommendations;
and by the kind assistance of Sr. Mozo, one of the _Conséjeros del Rey_,
I was soon established in comfortable apartments in the _Calle de la
Madalena_. It may be interesting to some, to know the nature and price
of private accommodation in Madrid. My apartments were on the second
floor, (in Madrid every floor is a separate house, excepting among the
very highest ranks) and consisted of one very large room, 40 feet long,
by 22 broad, with two very large windows facing the street; a small
bed-room, separated from this large room by a glass door; and another
small room, beyond the bed-room, to be employed as an eating room. These
rooms were brick-floored, as every room is, in the northern and central
parts of Spain; and the walls white-washed. The apartments were
furnished with basket-chairs and sofas, a bed, and two or three tables;
and for this accommodation, including service and cooking, I paid 20
reals per day, or 1_l._ 9_s._ 2_d._ per week. This was certainly not
remarkably cheap; but the situation was good, and the rooms were clean
and airy.
Being thus established in lodgings, my first duty was to find the hotel
of the British minister, and to present to him my letter of introduction
from Lord Aberdeen; and I gladly avail myself of this opportunity to
express my obligations to Henry Unwin Addington, Esq.; not only for his
uniform kindness and attention while we remained in Madrid, and for the
often repeated hospitalities of his house; but for his readiness to
assist me in whatever way the representative of the British Government
could make his interest available in forwarding my objects. For some
lesser favours, I am also Mr. Addington’s debtor; among others, the
privilege of perusing the English newspapers, no small privilege in a
country where the only journal is the _Gaceta de Madrid_. Walking one
day towards my lodgings, with a file of _Couriers_ in my hand, I noticed
that I was followed, and narrowly scrutinized by some persons in
authority; but they, no doubt, became informed where I procured this
forbidden fruit, and I never suffered any farther interruption.
The day after my arrival in Madrid was Sunday, and having finished my
puchero, and drank a reasonable quantity of _Val de Peñas_, I prepared
to join the tide that was slowly rolling towards the Prado.
Every Spaniard is proud of the Prado at Madrid; and but for the Prado,
the inhabitants of Madrid would look upon life as a thing of very little
value; every body goes every night to the Prado; every body--man, woman,
and child--looks forward to the evening promenade with pleasure and
impatience; every body asks every body the same question, shall you be
on the Paseo to night? how did you like the Paseo last night? every
night, at the same hour, the dragoons take their place along the Prado,
to regulate the order and line of carriages: and the only difference
between Sunday night and any other night on the Prado is, that on Sunday
it is frequented by those who can afford to dress only once a week, as
well as by those who can dress every day. It was impossible that I could
permit the first Sunday to pass away without seeing the Prado;
accordingly, accompanied by a colonel in the Spanish service, whose
name, for certain reasons, I refrain from mentioning, I took the road to
the Prado.
The Prado, divested of its living attraction, is certainly not entitled
to the extravagant praises bestowed upon it by the Spaniards: it is a
fine spacious _paseo_, at least two miles long, and from 200 to 300
yards broad, adorned with rows of trees, and with several fountains; the
frequented part, however, is not more than half a mile in length, and
has scarcely any shade. But the Prado, although in itself not possessing
the natural attractions of that of Vienna, or perhaps of some others,
is an admirable resort for a stranger who is desirous of seeing the
population of Madrid. When I reached it, it seemed already crowded,
though a dense stream of population was still pouring into it from the
_Calle de Alcala_. On the part appropriated to carriages, there was
already a double row of vehicles, bespeaking, by their slow motion, the
stateliness of character said to belong to the Spanish aristocracy. The
turn-out of carriages presented a strange _melange_ of elegance and
shabbiness; some few were as handsome as can be seen in Hyde Park;
some--truly Spanish,--were entirely covered over with gilding and
painting; many were like worn-out post chaises; and several like the old
family pieces that are yet sometimes to be seen at the church door on
Sunday, in some remote parishes in England, I observed the most
ludicrous incongruity between the carriages and the servants; many a
respectable, and even handsome carriage might be seen with a servant
behind, like some street vagabond who, seeing a vacant place, had
mounted for the sake of a drive. I actually saw a tolerably neat
carriage driven by a coachman _without stockings_; and another with a
rheumatic lacquey behind, whose head was enveloped in flannel. But let
me turn to the pedestrians.
The Paseo was crowded from end to end, and from side to side; so
crowded, indeed, that by mixing with the tide, it was impossible to see
more than one’s next neighbour; and that I might better observe the
elements of the crowd, I contrived, with some difficulty, to extricate
myself from the stream, and get into the carriage drive. Before visiting
Spain, I had heard much of the beauty of Spanish women,--their graceful
figures,--their bewitching eyes,--their fascinating expression,--in
short, their personal attractions. Whether owing to the representations
of travellers, or the unreal descriptions of poets, or the romance with
which, in the minds of many, every thing in Spain is invested,--it is
certain, that a belief in the witchery of Spanish women obtains very
general credence in England. With curiosity, therefore, considerably
excited, I took up a station to decide upon the claims of the ladies of
Spain. In my expectations of beauty I was miserably disappointed; beauty
of features I saw none. Neither at that time, nor at any subsequent
visit to the Prado, did I ever see one strikingly lovely countenance;
and the class so well known in England, because so numerous, denominated
“pretty girls,” has no existence in Spain. The women were, without
exception, dark,--but the darkness of the clear brunette, is darkness of
a very different kind from that of the Castilian. I saw no fine skin, no
glossy hair: dark expressive eyes I certainly did see, but they were
generally too ill supported to produce much effect. But let me do
justice to the grace of the Spanish women. No other woman knows how to
walk,--the elegant, light, and yet firm step of the small and well
attired foot and ancle,--the graceful bearing of the head and neck,--the
elegant disposition of the arms, never to be seen hanging downward, but
one hand holding the folds of the mantilla, just below the waist; the
other inclining upward, wielding, with an effect the most miraculous,
that mysterious instrument, the fan,--these are the charms of the
Spanish women. As for the fan, its powers are no where seen displayed to
such advantage as on the Prado. I believe I shall never be able to look
at a fan in the hands of any other than a Spanish woman,--certainly no
other woman understands the management of it. In her hands it is never
one moment at rest,--she throws it open, fans herself, furls it to the
right,--opens it again, again fans herself, and furls it to the left,
and all with three fingers of one hand. This is absolutely marvellous to
one who has been accustomed to see a fan opened with both hands, and
furled only on one side. But that I may at once exhaust the subject of
fans, let me add, that in the hands of its true mistress, the fan
becomes a substitute for language, and an interpreter of etiquette. If a
lady perceives that she is an object of attention to some inquisitive
and admiring _caballero_, she has immediate recourse to her fan, that
she may convey to him one most important piece of information. If she be
married, she fans herself slowly; if still señorita, rapidly. The
caballero, therefore, at once ascertains his chances and his risks. This
fact I obtained from a Spanish lady of rank in Madrid, the wife of a
gentleman in a high official situation. The motion of the fan too, marks
distinctly, and with the utmost nicety, the degree of intimacy that
subsists between one lady and another. The shake of the fan is the
universal acknowledgment of acquaintance; and according as the fan is
open or shut, the intimacy is great or small. These are trifling things,
yet they are worth telling. But let me return to the Prado, where,
having decided upon the claims of the Castilian ladies, I had leisure to
observe its other novelties. Here I saw little of the sombreness I had
remarked on the streets, for many of the ladies wore white mantillas;
and in the evening, coloured rather than black gowns are the _mode_. The
very great number, too, of officers of the guards, with their high
cocked hats, and coats entirely covered with silver lace, gave
additional animation to the scene. Other pictures of a different kind
the eye occasionally caught,--here and there a portly priest, with his
ample gown and great slouched hat, mingling in the throng, and evidently
enjoying the scene and its gaiety,--aloof from the crowd, and in the
most retired walks, with hurried step and downcast head, a friar, in his
grey, brown or white cassock,--now and then a tall Andalusian peasant,
with his tapering hat, his velvet and silver embroidered jacket and
crimson sash, his unbuttoned gaiters and white stockings,--the Asturian
nurse, with her short brown jerkin, petticoat of blue and yellow,
trimmed with gold, and bare head. It is always a mark of a woman’s
consequence in Madrid to hire an Asturian nurse; they are supposed to be
models of health and strength, and certainly if breadth of figure be the
criterion of these, the ladies of Madrid make a prudent choice: I never
saw such women as the women of the Asturias. In France, where the women
are generally _mince_, one of them might be exhibited as a curiosity.
There is one very unpleasant thing connected with a promenade on the
Prado, whether in a carriage or on foot; this is the necessity of paying
honour to every branch of the royal family, however frequently they may
pass along. Every carriage must stop, and those within must take off
their hats, or if the carriage be open stand up also; and every person
on foot is expected to suspend his walk, face-about, and bow, with his
head uncovered. When the king passes, no one perhaps feels this to be a
grievance; because, however little respect the king may in reality be
entitled to from his subjects, it is felt to be nothing more than an act
of common good breeding to take off one’s hat to a king; but I have
fifty times seen all this homage paid to a royal carriage with a nurse
and an infant--not an _infanta_--in it; and one evening I was absolutely
driven from the Prado by the unceasing trouble of being obliged to
acknowledge the royal presence every few minutes, the spouse of the
Infante Don Francis having found amusement in cantering backward and
forward during an hour at least. From the expected homage, no one is
exempt: even the foreign ambassadors must draw up, rise, and uncover
themselves, if but a sprig of royalty in the remotest degree, and of the
tenderest age, happens to drive past. Both the British and the American
Minister told me, that for that reason they never went to the Prado.
The promenade continues long after dark; and on fine moonlight nights in
the month of September, I have seen it continued without any diminution
in the crowd until after ten o’clock; generally, however, when dusk
begins to usher in darkness, and when the great object of going to the
Prado is accomplished,--seeing and being seen--the crowd thins, and
there is soon no remnant of it visible, excepting pairs, or single
individuals, here and there, who have their reasons for remaining. In
Madrid,--indeed throughout all Spain, nobody walks for pleasure; at all
events no woman: and this fact is I think sufficient to account for the
superiority of the Spanish women in the art of walking, without making
it necessary for us to suppose any deficiency in elegance of limb or
symmetry of form among the women of other countries. An Englishwoman
walks for health; she puts on her bonnet, and a pair of strong shoes,
and a shawl, and walks into the country; and the nature of the climate
creates a necessity for walking fast; there is no one to look at her,
and she thinks of nothing so little as her manner of walking: but a
Spanish woman never walks for health or exercise; she never goes out but
to go to the Paseo, and never without having paid the most scrupulous
attention to her toilette. On the Paseo, she studies every step, because
the object of going there is to be seen and admired, and the nature of
the climate, obliges her to walk slow.
My evening walk in Madrid was more frequently to the _Retiro_ than to
the Prado; this is a vast and ill-laid out garden and shrubbery, three
or four miles in circumference, situated upon an elevation behind the
Prado, the entrance to which is by the court of the old palace, which
was destroyed daring the war. The Retiro possesses no particular
attraction, excepting its fresh air, and freedom from dust. There are
some elevations in this garden, from which an extensive prospect is
enjoyed; but it embraces little that is interesting, excepting the city,
and the skies--an object of no small interest to one accustomed to the
dense atmosphere and cloudy heavens of a northern latitude. During the
several months that I remained in Madrid, I scarcely ever saw a cloud;
and I frequently walked to the Retiro for the sole purpose of looking at
the glorious sky, and the gorgeous sun-set: such skies are glorious,
even when they canopy a desert. From the Retiro, the eye ranges over
nothing but a desert, bounded on one side by the _Siérra Guadarama_, on
the other by the Toledo mountains; and Madrid, standing alone in the
midst of this treeless and lifeless plain, seemed, when the setting sun
flamed upon its domes and spires, to have been placed there by
enchantment.
Returning from the Prado, or the Retiro, I frequently stepped into the
Café de _Santa Catalina_, the most brilliant place of the kind in
Madrid, and generally resorted to after the promenade, by many of the
most distinguished persons. I greatly prefer this _café_ to any in
Paris; to any, indeed, that I have seen elsewhere. You pass through a
magnificent and brilliantly illuminated room, where those who love the
light are assembled, into an open court,--open to the skies above, but
surrounded by the backs of lofty buildings; a covered arcade runs round
the court, dimly lighted by suspended lamps, to meet the taste of those
who desire a certain quantity of light and no more. But this light
scarcely reaches the centre of the court, which is illuminated only by
the stars; and here, as well as under the arcade, tables and chairs are
placed for those who are indifferent about light. All sorts of
refreshments suited to a warm climate, are to be found in this café; and
rows of sweet smelling flowers in pots, add to the luxury of the place.
It may easily be believed, that the Café Catalina is celebrated on other
accounts than for the excellence of the refreshments which it furnishes.
In the illuminated room, all is mirth and gaiety: the ladies, escaped
from the monotony, and proprieties, and etiquette of the Prado, give
way to their natural liveliness and wit; and accept, with smiling looks
of conscious merit, and with quick flutterings of the fan, the proffered
courtesies and gallantry of the caballeros who escort them. In the
court, the scene is different: within the arcade, quieter parties are
seated, enjoying a sort of half-seclusion; while, throughout the centre,
are scattered, pairs in conversation; and the light of a lamp, as it
occasionally flashes upon their privacy,--revealing a sparkling eye, and
the flutter of a fan,--interprets its nature. The use of the _toledo_ or
the _bravo_, to avenge private wrongs among the upper ranks, is now
comparatively unknown in Spain; else I should often have run some risk,
by strolling leisurely through the centre of the Café Catalina, that I
might get some insight into the state of Castilian morals.
There is a great paucity of cafés in Madrid; excepting the Café de Santa
Catalina, and another, the name of which I forget, in the neighbourhood
of the Prado, there is only the _Fontaña de Oro_ in the _Calle de San
Geronimo_. But it is not likely that there should be many coffee-houses
in a country where there are no newspapers. Both in France and in
England, the majority of persons who frequent coffee-houses, go to read
the newspapers; but in Spain, no one enters a coffee-room except to sip
iced water. During the forenoon, indeed, the doors of the cafés,
excepting the Fontaña de Oro, are generally shut, and nobody is within.
An Englishman, or a Frenchman, who is accustomed to connect with a
coffee-room,--half-a-dozen public journals,--organs of intelligence and
public opinion, upon subjects connected with his political rights, and
with the state of his country,--is instantly reminded on entering a
Spanish coffee-room, of the degraded political condition of the country
he is in: and the difference between the enjoyment and the want of
political rights, is forcibly thrust upon him. He takes up the _Gaceta
de Madrid_, and finds there a royal ordinance, breathing vengeance
against those who desire to be restored to their homes and their
country; and whose prayers are for its happiness. He turns over the
leaf, and he finds another ordinance, declaring that the universities
shall be closed, and education suspended, during his Majesty’s pleasure;
and he then looks for the comment upon these facts: but he looks in
vain. He sees that his Majesty and the royal family enjoy good health;
that the king has appointed a bishop to one cathedral; and that the
bishop has named a canon to another; and that the procession of _St.
Rosalio_ will issue from the convent of St. Thomas, precisely at four
o’clock next day; but he sees not a syllable about the ordinances that
deal out injustice, or strangle improvement; and he says within himself,
this is the most wonderful country under the sun; for here, intellect
wields no power.
Before dismissing the Paseos of Madrid, I must notice the Botanical
Garden; not much used as a Paseo, but certainly the most charming of
them all. While I remained in Madrid, waiting until the heats had so far
subsided as to allow me to journey into Andalusia, I generally walked
there during an hour or two after breakfast, having access to it at all
times, through the interest of a friend. The garden is very extensive;
the trees are full-grown; and there is a charming variety of rare and
beautiful plants. The garden, although not by any means neglected, is
not in such perfect order, or under such excellent management as it was
during the time of the constitution: it was then under the direction of
_Sr. La Gasca_, Professor of Botany, and a Member of the _Cortes_;
now a resident in England, where I believe his learning is appreciated
as it deserves. There is a curious and very unmeaning regulation,
connected with the _entrée_ of this garden. Every lady, on entering,
must throw aside her mantilla, and walk with the head uncovered; she is
not even allowed to drop it upon her neck; it must be carried upon the
arm. This regulation is almost an order of exclusion to a Spanish woman,
who considers the proper arrangement of the mantilla no trifling or easy
matter, and not to be accomplished without the aid of a mirror; it is
rarely, therefore, that a Spanish woman subjects herself to a regulation
by which she runs the risk of afterwards appearing on the Paseo with her
mantilla awry.
The only occasion upon which a Spaniard absents himself from the Paseo,
is when he goes to the theatre. The inhabitants of Madrid are a
theatre-going population; but their propensities that way are sadly
cramped for want of room; if, however, the theatre now erecting in the
neighbourhood of the palace be ever finished--a point certainly
doubtful, since the palace itself makes no progress towards
completion--half Madrid will find accommodation in it, and have the
honour of being seated in the largest theatre in Europe. I should
probably not have visited the theatre so soon, if the road from my
lodgings to the Calle de Alcala had not led me daily past the theatre,
where I generally stopped a moment to read “the bills of the play.”
These, as in the olden times in England, set forth the merits of the
play,--narrate a few of the principal events,--tell how, in one act,
there is a most witty dialogue,--and how, in another, there is a scene
which must delight every body; and conclude with some eulogy upon the
genius of the writer. The first visit I made to the theatre was to
witness the representation of a comedy by _Solis_, to be acted in the
_Teatro del Principe_. I walked in and took my seat without any one
asking for my ticket, which is not demanded until the play is nearly
concluded; so that a lover of the theatre, who might be scarce of money,
might gratify his appetite for nothing.
The Teatro del Principe is miserably small for a metropolitan theatre:
it will contain no more than 1500 persons; but it is light and pretty,
painted in white and gold, and round the ceiling are the busts of the
principal Spanish poets, dramatists and novelists, their names being
inscribed under each. The six in front are no doubt intended to occupy
the most honourable places: they are Calderon, Lopez de Vega, Cervantes,
Garcilaso, Ercillo, and Tirso. Calderon and Lopez are placed in the
front, where I think Cervantes ought to have been. The house was well
filled; the ladies generally wore mantillas, but some were in full
dress; and a few had ventured upon French hats. There is one peculiarity
in the Spanish theatres, which seems at first sight, inconsistent with
the state of society and manners. Excepting the private boxes, there is
scarcely any place to which a lady and a gentleman can go in company. In
Madrid the only places of this description will not contain thirty
persons; but, on the other hand, an ample provision is made for ladies.
The greater part of the space occupied by the first tier of boxes in the
English theatres, is thrown into one space, called the _cazuela_; and
here, ladies, and only ladies, have the right of entrée. The most
respectable women go to the cazuela, and sit there unattended; nor is
this arrangement unfavourable to intrigue. The entrée to the cazuela
secures the entrée of the whole house; and between the acts the cazuela
is almost deserted, some having gone to visit persons in the boxes, but
the greater number getting no farther than the lobby, where it is not
unusual to meet a friend; and when the comedy ends, every lady finds an
escort ready. It is a fact too, that if the cazuela be crowded during
the first act, there is generally room enough during the second, and
more than enough during the third. This needs no explanation.
I saw only one really beautiful countenance in the theatre; but there
were some expressive faces, and inexpressibly fine eyes, almost worthy
of a serenade. Here, the fan seemed a most indispensible companion; for
besides its common uses, it exercised the powers of a critic, expressing
approbation or dislike; and between the acts, it proved itself a
powerful auxiliary to the language of the eyes.
The play, like most of the Spanish comedies, was a piece of intrigue,
plot within plot, and abounding in strange situations, and innumerable
perplexities and difficulties, scarcely to be comprehended by a
spectator unless possessing a previous knowledge of the piece; and to be
thoroughly enjoyed by a Spaniard only. The acting was spirited, the
dresses characteristic, and the orchestra not contemptible; and the
satisfaction of the audience was shewn in immoderate bursts of laughter.
The play being ended, the next part of the entertainment consisted in
the _Bolero_. This is danced by two persons; the man, in the dress of an
Andalusian peasant--for to Andalusia the dance properly belongs--with
dark embroidered jacket, short white embroidered waistcoat, crimson
sash, white tight small clothes, white stockings, and the hair in a
black silk knot; his partner in a gaudy dress of red, embroidered with
gold. These are nothing more than the usual holiday-dresses of the
Andalusian peasantry. The dance itself, is a quick minuet; advancing,
retiring, and turning; the feet all the time performing a step, and the
hands occupied with the castanets. I had heard much of the indelicacy of
the Bolero, but I could find nothing in it in the slightest degree
indecorous. The dance is long, at least it is often repeated; three or
four times the dancing ceases, the music continuing, and the dancers
standing opposite to each other; and after a short interval, the
entertainment is resumed.
At this theatre, and at the _Teatro de la Cruz_, Italian operas are
performed twice a week; sometimes at the one theatre, and sometimes at
the other; a very bad arrangement, because it forces the lover of
Italian music to have a box in both houses; and after all, one is apt to
make a mistake as to the house in which the opera is performed. The
Italian opera is a losing concern in Madrid; the prices are too low, and
the house is not large enough to ensure a return. The star, when I was
in Madrid, was a _Signora Tossi_, who received no less than 1,200_l._
sterling to perform three nights a week for five months. This Signora
Tossi was a remarkable favourite in Madrid; she performed in an opera
which had been written expressly for her; and when this opera was
announced, the house would have been filled even if it had been three
times larger. Nothing could gain admittance but bribery; if one inquired
for a ticket, the answer invariably was, that all were sold: but if one
chose to add, “I would give a handsome gratuity for a ticket,” a ticket
was produced, and an additional dollar given for it. Upon this occasion
the corregidor of Madrid pocketed as many as 40 or 50 dollars a day by
trafficking in tickets; he bought 40 or 50 tickets before the theatre
opened, and sold them during the day at different prices, according to
the demand. So great was the rage for the opera, and so great the dearth
of tickets, that the most disgraceful means were resorted to in order to
gain admittance: one evening I myself saw two persons detected with
forged tickets. The excellence of the Opera of Madrid last season,
almost excused the madness,--not the meanness of the public. Tossi, I
thought a great singer: she resembles Catalini more nearly than any one
I have ever heard; but she possesses more sweetness and melody of tone;
and is a better actress, and a finer woman than Catalini ever was. The
other vocal parts were well supported, and the orchestra, with a hint
and a rebuke now and then from Tossi, acquitted itself well. The prices
of the theatres in Madrid are as moderate as the poorest amateur could
desire; the best places in the house are to be had for 2_s._ 6_d._, and
very excellent seats cost but 1_s._ 3_d._; the public benches in the
pit are only 10_d._
The existence of a good Italian opera in Madrid, and the easy access to
it, have no doubt had some effect in fostering a taste for music,
especially Italian music. Spain, with all its sins, has not to answer
for the sin of neglecting the fine arts. There are at this moment four
Italian operas in Spain: in Madrid,--in Malaga, in Granada, and in
Barcellona; and this is fewer than usual; for Cadiz and Seville can also
generally boast of an Italian company; and wherever there is an operatic
company, there is also a company of comedians. I shall have occasion
afterwards, to notice the operas of Malaga, Granada, and Barcellona; at
present I confine myself to Madrid. There, music is universally
cultivated; and it is rare to find a Spanish woman, even in the middle
ranks, who is not a good pianist. The music of Rossini, set to the
piano, is the most in vogue; but the German masters also are known to
many,--and justice is done to them. That instrument so interwoven with
our ideas of Spain--the guitar, is now little cultivated in Castile by
the higher or middle ranks; it is in the southern provinces, and in
some of the more retired Spanish towns, such as Toledo, that the guitar
still maintains its power, and exercises its witcheries. In Madrid too,
in the evening, the lower orders are frequently seen sitting at their
doors thrumming their guitars; and I have more than once observed a
soldier sitting before the guard-house with his guitar, while his
comrades sat on the ground listening, and joining in the chorus. If the
ladies of Madrid know how to play the guitar, they refrain from
displaying their knowledge. The piano is their instrument, and they do
it justice. In vocal music, the ladies of Madrid are not proficients;
there is a want of melody in their voices which forbids excellence. This
roughness in the voices of the Spanish women, forcibly strikes a
stranger upon his first entrance into Spanish society, and is felt to be
disagreeable even in conversation: of its effect in vocal performance,
one has rarely an opportunity of judging.
In Madrid, Spanish music is not much cultivated,--this is a pity; for
although it knows neither operatic performances, nor any compositions of
a sustained character, it owns many beautiful and original airs, well
worthy of being preserved. A collection of these has lately, I believe,
been published in England, accompanied with some charming poetry, from
the pens of Mrs. Hemans and Dr. Bowring.--These are to be heard in the
theatres, and occasionally in the mouths of the lower orders. If a lady
be requested to play a Spanish air, she will comply; but otherwise, she
will always prefer Italian music.