eyes are delighted with the constantly changing groups of all ages,
colour, and costume; one’s ears are filled with sounds of laughter, and
song, and merriment: and one’s senses are galvanised by the vivacity,
the gaiety, and the almost feverish overflow of pleasure by which one is
surrounded. Stroll, if you will, through the beautiful gardens of the
_Plaza Mayor_ (the grand square of Madrid), saunter by the open shops of
the _Calle de Toledo_, cross the oval-shaped _Plaza de Oriente_, which
lies between the Royal Palace and the Royal Theatre, linger on any of
the many handsome bridges, or promenade the beautiful _prados_--the Bank
of Spain, one of the finest public buildings in Europe, is situated in
the _Salon del Prado_--and you shall never escape the carnival spirit
that animates young and old, rich and poor alike.
Rich as Madrid is in obelisks, fountains, and splendid statuary, it has
fewer architectural and antiquarian attractions to afford the visitor
than such cities as Toledo, Granada, or Córdova; but it has a Royal
Picture Gallery which contains one of the finest, if not the very finest
collection of old masters in the world. Velasquez is to be seen here,
and here only, in all his power. Titian is also represented, as also are
Raffælle, Veronese, Murillo, Juan Juanes, Rubens, Tenier, and many
others. Rembrandt alone, of all the great artists, is limited to a
single specimen; but there is a whole host of comparatively unknown and
yet veritable masters, from the sixteenth century Antonio Moro, Coello,
and Pantoja de la Cruz, through Pacheco, Ribera (with, after all, his
only too life-like representations of what old days and old saints
were), Zurbaran and Alonso Cano, down to Valdés Leal; or, the Goya and
Lopez of but a century ago. This quiet Museo is a veritable home of art.
It is all in such deliciously small compass, all so well ordered, all so
good. One has not to walk miles before attaining to favourite spots, or
to stare over acres of unresponsive canvas before lighting upon familiar
faces, or even to command one’s temper against officialism or jostling.
All is contained in a few rooms, and that by exclusion of the bad rather
than through poverty. In the neighbouring Academia of San Fernando--the
Academy of Fine Arts--in the _Calle Alcalá_, there is, besides a fine
collection of minerals, precious stones, and the finest zoological
department in Spain, several excellent Murillos, Riberas, and Zurbarans,
a characteristic Rubens and some sketches of Goya’s. A visit should also
be paid to the _Armeria Real_. Here is housed probably the very finest
collection of armour in the world, a
[Illustration: THE COUNSELLOR OF THE VILLAGE.]
[Illustration: AN ORANGE SELLER.]
[Illustration: AN ANDALUCIAN DANCER.]
[Illustration: FULL LIST OF LOTTERY RESULTS.]
collection that is not only a perfect epitome of the history of the
science of attack and defence, but is full likewise of touching record
and suggestion.
The Royal Palace of Madrid is admittedly one of the most magnificent in
the world; it is, in every sense of the word, a Royal residence. The
building is a square of 470 feet by 100 feet high, occupying, it is
said, the site of the original outpost alcazar of the Moors. The
exterior, despite its noble proportions, does not fulfil the
expectations inspired by the distant view; but once it is entered, the
princely magnificence of its decorations fills the beholder with
feelings of wondering ecstacy. Throughout the palace the appointments
are of extreme richness, and remind one of a time when Spain was in the
zenith of its glory. All the countries of Europe have been laid under
tribute for the art treasures that crowd every corner. In one apartment
there is a collection of timepieces, some of which are worth almost
their weight in gold, and they were all collected by one monarch; while
another sovereign devoted much time to completing a collection of china
which is one of the proudest possessions of the palace. Other kings have
covered the walls with the priceless works of old masters, and the
result is a gallery of paintings of various schools which is one of the
wonders of Europe. But undoubtedly the finest apartment in the palace is
the throne room, which glows with rich colouring and scintillates with a
lavish display of precious metals. The superb throne, made for the
husband of Mary of England, is entirely of silver; the huge lions that
mount guard on each side being of the same metal. Marbles of almost
every colour of the rainbow are to be seen everywhere; and the
furniture, made of the rarest of inlaid woods, delights the eye with its
graceful form. The whole apartment is given a finished and warm
appearance by the costly hangings of crimson velvet. The ball room of
the palace is the largest in Europe. All the arts and manufactures seem
to have contributed to its splendour.
In Madrid I sampled for the first time the cooking of the country. The
untravelled Englishman still clings to the superstition that the visitor
to Spain must either starve, or condescend to consume food fried in
rancid oil and seasoned with garlic. The fastidious tourist will be fed
as well in Spain, both in the cities and the country inns, as in any
city or provincial district in Europe. That born master of commissariat,
the Switzer, has introduced himself into the country; and he has
banished garlic and bad oil from Spain, even as he expelled “rare” beef
and parboiled cabbages in England. But the hotel charges of New York and
Paris have not yet been adopted in Madrid, and one can live sumptuously
at the _Hotel de Paris_ for £1 per day. Throughout Spain the charges are
remarkably reasonable, and in the principal cities 10s. a day, including
wine at meals and all et ceteras, is the average at the best hotels.
But the cooking of the _Hotel de Paris_ is not to be met with all over
Spain, nor are the menus of the city caravansary the ones adopted for
the general use throughout the country districts. Pork, in its various
phases--bacon, ham and sausage--is the meat par excellence of provincial
Spain, occupying the same elevated position in the department of
gastronomy as English beef, Welsh mutton, and Irish potatoes. Judging
from the Continent generally, an Englishman is apt to fancy that a
rasher is a delicacy confined to the British Isles; but before he has
been long in Spain, he will discover the truth of Ford’s eulogium: “The
pork of Spain has always been unequalled in flavour. The bacon is fat
and well flavoured; the sausages delicious, and the hams transcendently
superlative, to use the very expression of Diodorus Siculus, a man of
great taste, learning and judgment. Of all the things of Spain, no one
need
[Illustration: SKETCHES IN SPAIN.]
feel ashamed to plead guilty to a predilection and preference for the
pig.” And wherever one travels in the peninsula, one is met by the local
dish, which is, indeed, rather a dinner than a dish; and when one has
become used to it, it is both satisfying and exquisite. The _puchero_,
or stew, would have delighted the heart and stomach of Huckleberry Finn,
whose gastronomic prejudices, it will be remembered, favoured a “barrel
of odds and ends” in which “things get mixed up and the juice kinds of
swaps around and things go better.” The chief ingredients of the
national _puchero_ are bacon, beef, fowl, according to the state of the
larder, cooked in one mass with _garbanzos_, a bean of peculiar size and
tenderness and flavour, cabbage, carrots, gourd and long-pepper, a
sausage or two being thrown in by way of make weight. The _puchero_ is
amenable to unending expansion, according to the status of the
householder. Where the means are straightened, it consists of meat and
_garbanzos_ only, but the wealthy housewife adds to it a hundred
delicious tit-bits; and if the juice that “kinds of swaps around” is
sometimes a trifle over-seasoned, the general result is, as a rule,
delicious. Dumas has left it on record that he suffered from hunger in
Spain. I can only suppose that the supply of _puchero_ was insufficient
for his requirements. I cannot believe that the dish deprived him of his
appetite. Then, again, the Spaniards are great people for sweets; they
are, indeed, masters of this branch of the culinary art, and their
preserved fruits and quince jelly seems to form an indispensable
complement to the dinner table; while their fruits and vegetables, their
oranges, Malaga grapes, asparagus and artichokes are famous in song and
story.
In one field of enterprise, and that, curiously enough, the one in which
their late antagonists, the Americans, claim pre-eminence over the
civilised world, viz., in the journalistic arena, Madrid is ahead of
New York, England, and Paris. In influence the press of Spain is second
to none; in variety it is equal to that of Paris; and in _La
Correspondencia de España_, Madrid has invented a newspaper which has no
counterpart in any other city in the world. It is supposed that nobody
can retire to rest before reading the latest edition of this “night-cap
of Madrid,” as it is commonly styled; and it is certain that few people
in the capital, who profess to take a lively interest in the world’s
doings, ever go to bed until they have perused it. It is innocent of
politics, and almost contemptuous of parties. The object of its wealthy
originator and proprietor is not to propagate views, but to give news.
Nothing in Spain, or out of it, which reaches Madrid is omitted from _La
Correspondencia_, of which there are three editions published during the
day, the last of which appears somewhere between ten o’clock and
midnight. Nobody takes it for its views, or its special articles,
although the mania of the moment has seized its millionaire proprietor,
and compelled him to adopt something of the movement of contemporary
journalism, but for its news it is read by everybody in Madrid. Its
advertisement charges are, consequently, very high; and also,
consequently, it has its imitators. But they do not prosper.
Although the Spaniard has an enormous capacity for enjoyment, his
popular pastimes are not numerous. Bull-fighting, as I shall explain, is
meat and drink to him, and it is something more, because it is his
horse-racing, cricket, football, and the prize-ring rolled into one. It
is his National sport. Horse-racing is creeping into popularity; but
although all Madrid attends the meetings at the Hippodrome, and ladies
don their most gorgeous gowns to do honour to the sport, it is doubtful
if it will imperil the strong position which the bulls hold in the
affections of the people. After bull-fighting, the only other universal
amusement is the guitar and the dance. The upper classes affect polo and
tennis; in the Basque provinces Pelota rouses enthusiasm, and
cock-fighting is still practised amongst the lower classes in most of
the Spanish towns; but these must be classed in “side-shows” in the
gallery of their general recreations.
[Illustration: A MILK STALL.]
A widespread and entirely erroneous impression prevails in this country
that the Spanish national dances are indecent. People who entertain this
notion may dispense with it as soon as possible. Londoners are
frequently given the opportunity of witnessing Spanish dancing at the
Alhambra by Otero, or Guerrero, or that even more splendid exponent of
the art, Consuelo Tortajada. I was present one evening at London’s
Alhambra, when the last-named was dancing the “Malagueña”--a variety to
which the description “poetry of motion” may be applied with full
justice--and a spectator remarked to me: “Very fine, very fine indeed,
but you should see it danced in Madrid. You wouldn’t recognise it for
the same thing.” And his look was more meaningful than his words.
Although he was not aware of it, he had informed me that he had never
been to Madrid, or at least had never witnessed the Andalucian dance on
the stage of a theatre there; and I suspect that if I had displayed a
craving for further information, I should have been assured that Spanish
women generally are ladies of flexible ethics, who indulge in
cigarettes. I believe that by paying for the edifying spectacle, certain
gipsy dances of the Hindoo “nautch” variety can be witnessed in the
gipsy quarter of Seville; but the Spaniard leaves these exhibitions to
the English and American tourists, who call it “studying the life of the
country,” or “gaining experience.” Those shows have no more connection
with the national dances than has burglary with the marriage service. In
the streets outside the cafes, and in the theatres, the dances of Spain
are as irreproachable as a _pas de seul_ by Miss Topsy Sinden.
In the Spanish theatre, with the exception of the leading playhouses in
the larger cities, the two, and even more shows a night system is an
ancient and universal practice. The pieces are short, and the charges
for admission are not based on the idea of so much a seat, but so much a
piece. Each item costs the spectator fivepence, and the audience is
constantly being changed and renewed during the evening. Variety is the
spice of the entertainment; and in the provincial towns, where the
theatres are always well patronised, a constant change of bill is
maintained. Madrid alone supports no less than nineteen theatres; and
Madrid, let it be remembered, is a city with under half-a-million
inhabitants. At the same rate, London would have over two hundred.
If one could extend the list of amusements without fear of being thought
irreverent, I should be inclined to include the saints’ festivals in
this category. Although these religious observances are conducted with
sincere devotional decorum, they provide, as they do in all Roman
Catholic countries, the excuse for, as well as the main feature of, a
general holiday. I have seen many festival crowds in Spain, and the good
humour, the innocent happiness and universal sobriety that characterise
them, is to an Englishman acquainted with English holiday-makers, as
novel as it is delightful. The festival of San Isidro del Campo, the
tutelary saint of Madrid, is the principal festival of the Madrilenian
year, and is religiously celebrated by all the lower classes and the
peasants
[Illustration: THE BULL-RING, MADRID.]
who come from the neighbouring villages. It takes place on May 15th, and
provides the most genuine bit of local colour that is to be witnessed
outside Toledo. The great concourse sets out early; and crossing the
Manzanares, follows a road which is lined with men and women offering
their “agua fresca” (cold water) from large jugs. Water, it may be
noted, is the staple beverage of all Spanish fairs and festivals. On the
other side of the river--in May, the Manzanares belies the
description--the miscellaneous vehicles (some drawn by as many as six
mules) discharge their crowded freights, and soon the country is like an
ant-hill, except that ants are usually in mourning, and do not wear such
bright colours as the peasant women and the soldiers who form so large a
portion of the crowd. There are innumerable booths for eating and
drinking, and other common features of folk festivals. More unique are
the family groups scattered everywhere, eating their slices of cold
meat, salad, red pepper and oranges. Many have their wine in the same
old pig-skins of which one reads in _Don Quixote_. At every hundred
yards there is some sort of primitive music, to the rhythm of which the
young men and young women dance with an expression of delighted
absorption. Indeed the whole crowd wear a look of indifference to the
past and future, and a determination to make the most of the passing
moment. Away up the hill are long rows of booths with pottery, toys for
children and cakes, and further up still is the saint’s chapel, into
which all the people crowd in turn to kiss a silver image held by the
priest, to receive a printed picture of the saint, and to drop a copper.
But that wonderful crowd, whether at dance, or meat, or its devotion,
contained the greatest number of happy faces I have ever seen together
in my life.
El Escorial.
Another of the Spanish royal residences, of which no other European
country can boast so many, is, to give the edifice its correct title:
“El Real sitio de San Lorenzo el Real del Escorial,” which is situated
some twenty-five miles from Madrid. The ancient glory of _El Escorial_,
its revenues, its monks and its magnificence, are vanished, but the
activity and importance of the district have been revived by virtue of
the wonderful copper mines which lie almost under the shadow of the
mighty walls of the historical building. The immediate vicinity of the
Escorial is extremely beautiful. Close at hand rises a mountain range,
highly picturesque in form and outline, and of a colouring singularly
rich and varied, while many of the upland slopes are clothed with
thickets and bushy patches of copse-wood, their varied tints thrown into
bright relief by the dark grey rocks cropping out here and there along
the face of the mountain. Immediately below lies the park with its dark
foliage of ibex, while to the east lies a tiny lake, which glistens
under the early sunbeams.
The Escorial, which has been pronounced to be the “eighth wonder of the
world,” owed its existence to Philip II. and the celebrated architects,
Juan Bautista de Toledo and Juan de Herrera, and is at once a palace, a
monastery and the pantheon of the monarchs of Spain. Formerly, it was
known as the Royal Monastery of St. Lawrence, and it was raised in
commemoration of the battle of St. Quentin, when the Spanish army routed
the French on the festival day of the martyr, St. Lawrence. Philip II.,
or the architect, or both, are commonly believed to have designedly
planned the outline of the building in the shape of a gridiron, out of
respect for the butchered saint, whose martyrdom on one of those
utensils is a matter of history. Probably, however, chance rather than
design is responsible for the exact plan; though there can be no doubt,
looking down at the Escorial from the top of the neighbouring mountains,
that the simile is justifiable. A desire to protect majesty from the
keen winds and to obtain for majesty’s apartments the bulk of the
sunshine in the neighbourhood, perhaps helped to make the Escorial what
it is, architecturally speaking.
[Illustration: ESCORIAL MONASTERY, THE EVANGELIST’S COURT.]
Before the French invasion, the church teemed with treasures
of art--sacred vessels of gold and silver--a multitude of
shrines--reliquaires--and a tabernacle of such exquisite workmanship,
that it was wont to be spoken of as worthy to be one of the ornaments of
the celestial altar. All these were destroyed by La Houssage’s troopers
when they occupied the Escorial in 1808, by way of giving vent to their
national feeling respecting the battle of St. Quentin, two-and-a-half
centuries before. The Escorial sustained a still greater loss in 1837,
during the Carlist war, when about a hundred of the choicest paintings
were removed, for safety’s sake, to the Museo at Madrid.
The exploration of the Escorial is a formidable undertaking, comprising
as it does the inspection of a palace, a convent, two
[Illustration: GENERAL VIEW OF THE MONASTERY.]
colleges, three chapter-houses and three libraries, with their
concomitant complement of halls, dormitories, refectories and
infirmaries. There are no fewer than eighty-six staircases; and someone,
gifted with a turn for statistics, has calculated that to visit every
individual room and to traverse each staircase and corridor, would
occupy four entire days, and carry the adventurer over a distance of
about a hundred and twenty English miles. The square of the building
covers 500,000 feet; there are eighty-eight fountains, fifteen
cloisters, sixteen courtyards, and 3,000 feet of painted fresco.
[Illustration: THE ESCORIAL LIBRARY.]
Twenty-one years were occupied in its construction, but a century did
not suffice to collect the wonderful literary treasures which it now
contains. One of the most famous MSS. in the Escorial library is the
“Libro de Oro,” the letters of which are composed of eight kilogrammes
(18 lbs.) of gold leaf. These letters, which are of course very thin,
are attached to parchment. Forty-two richly-decorated altars are to be
seen in the interior of the palace church, but more wonderful in their
way than the altars are the service books for the use of the choir. It
is said that each leaf of each book was made from an entire calf-skin,
17,000 skins being used in the process.
[Illustration: MASS BOOK OF PHILIP II., THE ESCORIAL LIBRARY.]
Beneath the church is the burial place of the kings of Spain; the one
spot, one would imagine, where etiquette would not rule; but where, in
reality, it is most rigorously observed; for right royal dust must not
mingle with the dust of princes, and a separate pantheon was for this
cause built for those sons of kings who had not actually worn the
purple. Apart from its treasures and its curiosities, there is one
quarter of the Escorial which is of particular interest to
English-speaking peoples. In three small rooms, as bare as the cell of
the anchorite, dwelt the husband of Queen Mary of England, that monkish
and forbidding sovereign at whose command the myriad ships of the
Invincible Armada were hurled against England. His ambition was to make
England the appanage of Spain; all he obtained were a few English elms
which still flourish in the palace gardens.
[Illustration: THE ROYAL PALACE, ARANJUEZ.]
Yet another Royal Palace, occupying an extensive valley, surrounded by
hills, is situated at Aranjuez, in the extreme south of the province of
Madrid, on the left bank of the full-flowing river Tajo. In the town of
Aranjuez there are splendid farms, palaces and hotels, wide
thoroughfares, good churches, theatre, hospital, barracks, very
beautiful promenades, and all the other adjuncts of a model town. All
these, however, are surpassed by the beauty of the gardens and parks
which, with the Royal Palace, are the property of the Crown. The
illustration shows the side of the Royal dwelling which opens on to what
are called the Island gardens, on account of their being surrounded by
the waters of the river Tajo. The first thing that strikes one is the
monumental fountain which deals with the allegory of the Pillars of
Hercules, and was designed by the Italian sculptor, Alexander Algardi.
The building, which was commenced in 1561 by Philip II. and continued by
all the Bourbon kings, is elegantly proportioned, and is surrounded by
delicious gardens, luxurious avenues of trees, picturesque woods, and
large lakes.
Barcelona.
Don Quixote was a true lover of Barcelona, which he addressed as “the
home of courtesy, refuge for strangers, country of the valiant.” Its
history is replete with records of its valour; its everyday life is
illumined with a grave courtesy; the stranger within its gates is
welcomed with a cordiality in which suspicion has no part. The Catalan
is afraid of nobody on this earth; he has no use, as the Americans put
it, for suspicion. He is a distinct race in costume, habits, and
language; combining the grace and charm of the Spanish manner, with the
mental vitality of the French, and the commercial enterprise and
integrity of the English. Physically he is strong, sinewy, and active;
and his dogged perseverance, his enormous powers of endurance, and his
patience under privation and fatigue make him as fine a soldier as the
world has seen. The Catalans take what our grandmothers used to call a
proper pride in themselves. The hauteur of the proud Castilians is not
theirs; they regard the poetic language and indolent gaiety of the
Andalucians without envy; they know themselves to be the most serious,
industrious, and progressive people in the Peninsula; they are
Spaniards, but Spaniards, be it understood, of Catalonia.
This feeling is not of course peculiar to the Catalans. Spanish
character, and the special localism that forms one of its most
distinctive features, has changed but little since Richard Ford, writing
more than half-a-century ago, said: “The inhabitants of the different
provinces think, indeed, that Madrid
[Illustration: BARCELONA--GENERAL VIEW.]