MADRID—A SABBATH AND A CARNIVAL.
A VALET-DE-PLACE who was leading us to church on Sunday morning in
Madrid, spoke very fair English, and I asked him where he had learned
it. He said, “At the missionary’s school in Constantinople.” He was
quite a polyglot, professing to be able to speak seven languages
fluently. It was interesting to meet a youth who knew our missionaries
there, and entertained a great respect for his old teachers,—and it gave
us an idea, too, of the indirect influence which such schools must be
exerting, when youth are trained in them, and afterwards embark in other
callings than those that are religious in their purpose.
He led us to the Prussian ambassador’s, where the chaplain preaches in
the French language. No Protestant preaching was then allowed in
Madrid,—none, indeed, in Spain,—except under the flag of another
government. The ambassador, or the consul, had the right, of course, to
regulate his own household as he pleases; and, under this necessary
_privilege_, he has, if he is so disposed, a chaplain, and divine
service on Sunday, when his doors are opened to all who choose to
attend. The practical working of it is that a regular congregation comes
to be established under each flag, if there are so many persons of that
country and of a religious tendency as to make it important. In most of
the great capitals of Europe there are people of other countries
resident for business, health, or pleasure, and they find a place of
worship in their own tongue.
The Germans resident in Madrid speak the French language, as well as
their own, and the present chaplain preaches in French. He is an
earnest, excellent man, and his pulpit abilities would make him greatly
useful in a wider sphere than this. In an upper chamber, that would seat
fifty persons, a little congregation, not more than twelve or fifteen,
had come together to hear the Word. The desk, or pulpit, was habited
after the fashion in Germany, with black hangings, embroidered neatly by
the hands of the wife of the Prussian ambassador, and with the words in
French, “Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel.” I was told
that on Christmas and Easter festivals of the church some two or three
hundreds of German _Christians_ come to church and to the communion; but
the rest of the year their spiritual wants do not require the weekly
ordinances, and the congregation rarely exceeds thirty people.
We went after church to the old Palace of the Inquisition. It is now
converted into dwellings. Over the main entrance was the inscription,
common all over these foreign countries, as in some parts of our own,
“_Insured against Fire_.” The poor victims who in former years were
dragged under that portal would have been glad to read such words, if
they could be interpreted into an assurance that they were to be safe
from the fire of an _auto da fe_.
The Spanish Inquisition affords the saddest story in the annals of the
human race. Whatever the name or creed of the persecutor,—Jew or
Gentile, Roman, Greek, Protestant, or Mahometan,—the saddest of all
possible facts is this, that man has put to torture and to death his
fellow-man on account of his religious opinions. Let God be praised that
in all the earth men now may worship him in their own way, with none to
molest or make them afraid.
And it is very well to bear in mind that persecution has its spirit, and
some of its power, even where the victims are by law insured against
fire. In the press and in the pulpit the venom of bigotry and the
bitterness of intolerance may be poured on the heads of those who are
guilty of other opinions than ours, and in God’s sight such persecution
may be as offensive as the rack and boot of the Inquisition. The spirit
of the Master rebukes the use of the sword, even in the hands of Peter,
to cut off a servant’s ear, and the same spirit forbids us to be
uncharitable towards the meanest of those who have not the light of the
grace to see as we see, or to defend Christ in our way.
They have no cathedral in Madrid, but their churches are many, and on
Sunday morning they, women especially, go to church. The Spaniards are
more devout than the Italians. There is a proverb that to go to Rome is
to disbelieve. The people in Spain have not seen Romanism as it has been
seen in Italy, until the popular mind is sick of it. But they make short
work in Spain of their devotions.
The Prado is their park, on the skirts of the town. And this is not
enough for them on Sundays. We saw the crowds pouring out towards one of
the gates, some in carriages, but most of them on foot,—men, women, and
children, hundreds, thousands, in holiday attire,—and we followed.
Beyond the Alcala gate, near which is the bull-ring, half a mile into
the country, we came to the meadows over which these pleasure-seeking
Castillians had spread themselves to enjoy their national and favorite
pastime. A little later in the season, when the weather is warmer,
thousands of these people would stop at the bull-ring, and see the
battle of men and beasts. It is too cool as yet, and the bulls do not
fight well except in hot weather. But it is not too cool to dance out of
doors, and for this divertisement these thousands have come. On the wide
meadows there is not a house, not a shanty, not a shed or booth. We have
passed on the way scores of wine-shops; and there the people can resort
if they choose. But on the grounds there is nothing to be had but the
pure and blessed air. The people are distributed in groups all over the
plain. The grass is green. The sun, a winter sun, is kind and genial.
The city lies in full view, with palaces and domes and pinnacles. And in
the distance, but in this blazing sun and lucid atmosphere apparently
very near, long ranges of mountains stand covered with snow, white,
pure, glistening like silver in the sunlight, and forming a magnificent
background to the gay picture at our feet. In the centre of each of
these many groups a dozen, more or less, of young men and women are
dancing to music. This is furnished by one, two, or three musicians,
strolling bands, with guitars and violins. Often one is an old man,
blind. His wife and daughter are with him, with their instruments. The
airs are not wild, not even lively, as compared with those of Italy. But
they are spirited, and sometimes familiar to a foreign ear; for the airs
of music, like the airs of heaven, travel all around the world. The
dances are pretty and modest, singularly tame, and far from being as
full of frolic and _abandon_ as one would expect to see in the
out-of-door amusements of the common people. For these are the lower
classes only. It is the pastime of the sons and daughters of toil, and
perhaps want. They were not ill dressed, and most of them were well
dressed. But they appeared to be the class of people who had but this
day in the week for pleasure, and were now seeking and finding it in a
way that cost them little or nothing. More were looking on than danced.
Yet the sets changed frequently, and the circle widened as the numbers
of dancers grew, and there was always room for more; for the meadows
were wide, and the heaven was a roof large enough to cover them all.
And the strangest part of this performance is yet to be mentioned; more
than half the men in this frolic of the fields were soldiers of the
regular army, in their uniforms, without arms, enjoying a half holiday.
They and all the rest, men and women, seemed to be as happy as happy
could be. If we had thought the people of Spain, and especially of
Madrid, where the government is felt and seen more severely and nearly
than elsewhere, to be gloomy, sullen, discontented, miserable, and ready
to rise in revolt, such a thought would be put to rout by seeing these
soldiers and others, men and women, thousands and thousands, making
themselves so easily happy of a Sunday afternoon.
In one of the circles of dancers two young men, better dressed than the
rest, were either the worse for liquor, or were feigning to be tipsy. As
the other dancers paid no attention to them, and let them amuse
themselves in their own way, it is quite probable they were playing the
fool. These were the only persons in that multitude, of the lower orders
of the city, who gave any sign of having been drinking any thing that
could intoxicate. There were scores of wine-shops on the street, within
the easy walk of all who wished liquors. It was necessary to pass them
going and coming to and from the city. And thousands doubtless “took
something to drink,” both going and coming. The young men would treat
the girls, and, of course, all would have as much wine as they wished.
For it is almost as cheap as water,—cheaper than water in New York
perhaps; for there the tax that somebody pays for the use of Croton is
something, but here in Spain wine is so cheap that what was left of last
year’s vintage has often been emptied on the ground, or used instead of
water to mix mortar with! Yet drunkenness is not one of the common vices
of Spain.
And so passed my first Sabbath in Spain, worshipping in French with a
dozen Christians in the morning, and looking at thousands of the people
dancing on the green in the afternoon.
Three days before Lent begins the people give themselves up to the
wildest kind of frolic, with a looseness of manner that to a grave and
thoughtful foreigner unused to such scenes at home is at first sight
exceedingly foolish, and then very stupid. The Carnival is a carne-vale,
a farewell to flesh; a grand celebration of the approach of Lent, or the
season when _lentiles_, beans or vegetables only, are to be eaten for
forty days. As the people see the time coming when for more than a month
their religion requires them in a very special manner to abjure the
world, the flesh, and the devil, it seems to be their idea to give the
last three days of liberty to the enjoyment of these three forms of
mammon-worship. If afterwards they served the Lord with half the zeal of
these three days of devil-worship, they would be the most pious people
on the earth. But to one whose religious prejudices are quite vivid
against the nonsense of a Catholic carnival, it seems the queerest way
in the world to get ready for serving God by plunging headlong into a
scene of mad revelry that utterly abjures all sense and reason, and
converts an entire city for three days into a pandemonium.
Yet it is all in such perfectly good humor, so free from riot and
violence and drunkenness, that the only fault to be found with it is
simply this, that the whole community make fools of themselves. The
Romans had a proverb, “It is well to play the fool sometimes,” and
perhaps it is. But when the whole town takes leave of its senses, and
goes frolicking day after day, if it is a good thing, it is too much of
a good thing, and that spoils it all.
Our windows look out upon the Puerta del Sol, the great square of the
city. From it radiate the eight chief streets, and through it every
moment the tide of life is flowing. Now it is the great centre of the
carnival. Along the streets are seen parading small companies of men in
masks and fantastic costumes, with all sorts of musical instruments,
making harsh melodies as they march. Two or three of the set are
constantly soliciting gifts from those they meet, or holding a cap to
catch money thrown to them from the people in the windows and balconies,
who are looking down to see the sport. Some of these rangers are women
in men’s clothes; more are men in petticoats and crinoline, ill
concealing their sex, which a close shaven chin and hard features too
plainly reveal. In this disguise, great liberties are taken. A young
woman stops a man on the sidewalk, claps him on the shoulder, asks him
for money, perhaps chucks him under the chin, and sometimes more
demonstrative still, she throws her arms around his neck and gives him
an affectionate salute in the broad light of day on the most public and
crowded thoroughfare. Even this boldness is taken in good part, and
seldom or never leads to any quarrel. The men were polite to the women.
In no case did I see any rudeness offered by a person in male attire to
a female on the street. The maskers were only out in hundreds, while the
others, looking on and enjoying, were thousands on thousands. These were
in the usual dress of ladies and gentlemen. They expected to find
walking somewhat rough, but they were prepared for it, and would have
been disappointed had it been otherwise. The maskers wore costumes as
various as the fancy of the wearers or the makers could invent them.
Some were clothed in white from head to foot, with stripes of red or
black; their faces painted white like ghosts, or with horns to look as
much like devils as possible. Many were imitation negroes, and this
seemed to be a fashionable attire, as if the African were popular among
the Spaniards, who once had a great horror of the Moors. Some wore a
fantastic head-gear that excited shouts of laughter as they passed. One
man strode along with a false head five times the life size, so nicely
fitted to his shoulders that it looked to be a sudden expansion of his
head into that of a monster. Solemnly the bearer of this prodigious
topknot walked the streets, apparently unconscious of the presence of
the little-headed race of beings who were laughing at his swelled head.
Carriages, open, splendid barouches, and some with seated platforms
prepared for the purpose, drawn by four or six horses, passed by, with
six, eight, and even twelve maskers, all clad in the most inconceivably
ludicrous robes, with queer hats and trimmings; and some of them with
musical instruments, singing, gesticulating, bowing to the ladies in the
windows, and exchanging salutations with the people in the way. The
drivers and postilions and footmen were all rigged in livery to match
the costumes of the company in the carriage, who thus aped the nobility
and even royalty itself in its mockery of stately grandeur. And in the
midst of these maskers, carriages with elegant ladies, in full dress for
riding, go by, and among them, with his legs hanging over the side of
the carriage, is one of the most fantastically got-up maskers, whose
outlandish costume and ridiculous situation call out tremendous
applause.
On the Prado, the great park of the city, thousands of elegant equipages
are out in the afternoon, and the most fashionable people of Madrid are
in the frolic. The ladies are loaded with sugar-plums to throw among the
maskers, and these gay fellows will rush up to any carriage, leap on the
steps, and demand a supply. On the walks, an old dowager in a splendid
velvet cloak and dress, masked and representing an ancient belle, got up
regardless of expense, attracts marked attention as she displays her fan
and feathers, and struts as if in a drawing-room where she imagines
herself admired. An old monk hobbles along, as if broken down with age
and poverty. A procession of priests mocks at religion itself, in a
country where we had thought it a capital crime to make fun of the
priesthood.
And there goes the Pope himself; a man has actually mounted a hat like
the Pope’s, and with white robes and gold lace has made a disguise that
tells its story instantly. And the people laugh to see it. Nothing is
too sacred nor too dignified to be travestied here. A company of mock
soldiers pretend to keep order by making confusion more confounded. By
some strange metamorphosis a man has turned himself into a very
creditable goose, and waddles along most naturally, having some wires at
his command with which he works his bill, his wings, and tail. A bear on
horseback rides up, and Bruin is received with bravos. An ox is mounted
also on a horse, and then a wolf; and even the devil is represented on
horseback, and a woman rides astride behind him and her arms around him,
a hideous, incongruous, but exceedingly ludicrous spectacle. Her hoops
spread far behind, covering the horse’s hips and tail, so that the
figure is half horse, half devil, and the other half woman. One man, as
an orang-outang, leads and exhibits another dressed in the same way.
Parties of dancers, all in these ridiculous costumes, form a ring and
dance the fandango, with castanets and cymbals and guitars, executing
the freest flings and giving themselves to the wildest _abandon_ in the
public streets. Others, men and women, disguised as if in their
night-clothes and ready to go to bed, are wandering about, pretending to
be lost, and their appearance is so comical that one almost forgets it
is play, and pities the poor wanderers.
But the description is growing more wearisome than the scene itself.
Nonsense all, but such nonsense as makes one laugh at first and then
feel sad that grown-up men and women can find amusement, day after day,
in such infinite folly. And where the religion comes in, it is hard to
see. Yet we observe that our American and English friends who have
leanings through their own church towards the Church of Rome, take a
wonderful interest in the carnival. They have some associations with it,
and the fast that follows, that give to all this sport some significance
quite incomprehensible to the uncovenanted unbelievers in the outer
courts.