language is much more used and much more common, and consequently much
more vigorous and forcible, in the daily press, on the stage, and in the
popular literature than is the case with the Italian language. There are
in Spain the Valencian, the Catalan, the Galician, and the Murcian
dialects and the very ancient language of the Basque provinces. But
Spanish is spoken in the two Castiles, in Arragon, in Estremadura, and
in Andalusia; that is, in the five great provinces. The squib enjoyed at
Saragossa is enjoyed at Seville also; the popular phrase which makes a
hit in the theatres of Salamanca produces the same effect in the
theatres of Granada. They say that the Spanish of to-day is not at all
the language of Cervantes, Quevedo, and Lope de Vega; that the French
have corrupted it; that if Charles V. should come to life again, he
would no longer call it “the language to speak with God;” and that
Sancho Panza would not be understood and enjoyed. Alas! he who has
frequented the little cook-shops and the low-rates theatre of the
suburbs unwillingly acquiesces in this sentence.
To pass from the tongue to the palate, one needs a little good-will to
accustom one’s self to certain sauces, gravies, and poor soups of the
Spanish cuisine, but I accustomed myself to them. The French, who are as
fussy in the matter of eating as spoiled children, invoke the wrath of
Heaven upon it. Dumas says that in Spain he has suffered from hunger. In
a book on Spain which was lately before my eyes it was stated that the
Spanish live only on honey, fungi, eggs, and snails. But this is all
stuff and nonsense. The same might be said of our cooking. I have known
many Spaniards whose stomachs were turned by the sight of maccaroni and
gravy. They make most too many potpies, they do not know how to use fat,
and they season a little too highly, but hardly enough to take away
Dumas’s appetite, and, among other things, they are master-hands at
sweets.
Then their _puchero_, the national dish, eaten every day by everybody in
every place--I speak the truth, I ate it like an out-and-out
glutton,--the _puchero_ is to the culinary art what the anthology is to
literature, a little of the best of everything. A good piece of boiled
beef forms the nucleus of the dish, and around this a wing of a fowl, a
slice of _chorizo_ (sausage), lard, herbs, and bacon, and, above and
below and in all the interstices, _garbanzos_. Epicures pronounce the
name of _garbanzos_ with reverence. They are a sort of chick-pea, very
large, very tender, and very succulent--peas, an extravagant man might
say, that have fallen down from some world where a vegetation equal to
ours is made fruitful by a stronger sun. Such is the ordinary _puchero_.
But every family modifies it according to its purse. The poor are
content with meat and _garbanzos_. The rich add a hundred exquisite
tidbits. After all, it is a dinner rather than a dish, and very many eat
nothing else.
A good _puchero_ and a bottle of _Val de Peñas_ are enough to satisfy
any one. I say nothing of the oranges, the Malaga grapes, asparagus,
artichokes, and every sort of vegetable and fruit, which, as every one
knows, are very fine and good in Spain. Nevertheless, the Spanish are
small eaters, and because the pepper and highly-seasoned sauces and salt
meats predominate in their cuisine, because they eat chorizos
(sausages), which, as they say, _levantan las piedras_, or rather burn
their intestines, they drink very little wine. After the fruit, instead
of beginning to sip a good bottle, they usually take a cup of coffee and
milk, and they rarely drink wine in the morning. At the table d’hote in
the hotels I have never seen a Spaniard empty a bottle, while I, who
emptied mine, was stared at in astonishment, as though I was a
scandalous beast. One rarely meets a drunken man in a Spanish city, even
on a holiday, and on this account, when one considers their hot blood
and the very free use they make of knives and daggers, there occur fewer
fights which lead to death or bloodshed than is generally believed
outside of Spain.
As I had found board and lodging, there remained nothing else for me to
do but wander through the city with the Guidebook in my pocket and a
_tres-cuartos_ cigar in my mouth--“an occupation easy and
straightforward.”
During the first days I could not keep away from the plaza of the Puerta
del Sol. I would stay there hour after hour, and was so amused by it
that I could willingly have spent days there. The square is worthy of
its fame, not so much for its size and beauty as for the people, the
life, the variety of scene which it presents at every hour of the day.
It is not a square like other squares: it is at once a great
reception-hall, a promenade, a theatre, an academy, a garden, a
parade-ground, and a bazaar. From the peep of day until after midnight
it contains one stationary crowd, and another crowd that comes and goes
through the ten great streets which meet there, and all the while a
procession and intermingling of carriages which make one’s head whirl.
Business-men congregate there; there gather the demagogues who have
nothing to do, unemployed clerks, old pensioners, and young dandies;
there they talk business and politics, make love, promenade, read the
papers, dun their debtors, search for their friends, hatch plots against
the ministry, coin the false reports which make the round of Spain, and
weave the scandalous chronicle of the city.
On the sidewalks, which are wide enough to hold four carriages abreast,
one is obliged to force one’s way. In a space no larger than a flagstone
you see a civil guard, a matchseller, a broker, a beggar, and a soldier,
all in a bunch. Troops of scholars pass servants, generals, ministers,
peasants, _toreros_, and gentlemen. Ruined spendthrifts ask for alms in
a whisper, so as not to be discovered; lewd wretches look at you with
questioning eyes; women lightly nudge you on the elbow; on every side
there are hats in the air, smiles, shaking of hands, cheery greetings,
cries of “_Largo!_” from the laden porters and from the hawkers with
their wares hanging about their necks; the shouts of newsboys, the
shrill cry of the water-carrier, the tooting of the coach-horns, the
cracking of whips, the clank of swords, the tinkling of guitars, and the
songs of blind beggars. There regiments pass with bands of music; the
king passes; the square is sprinkled with great jets of water, which
cross in the air; men go by carrying placards to advertise the shows;
swarms of gamins with their arms full of extra editions; then an army of
government clerks; the bands of music pass again; lights appear in the
shops; the crowd grows denser; the blows on the elbow become more
frequent; the voices grow louder; the uproar and commotion increase. It
is not the activity of a busy people: it is the vivacity of a
high-spirited race; it is a Carnival gaiety, an idleness that cannot
rest and overflows in a feverish desire for pleasure, which seizes one
and holds him fast or drives him around like a reel and forbids him to
leave the square--a curiosity which never wearies, a happy desire to be
amused, to think of nothing, to talk small talk, to stroll about and
laugh. Such is the famous plaza of the Puerta del Sol.
An hour spent there is enough to make one familiar with the people of
Madrid in their various aspects. The common people dress like those of
our great cities; the upper classes, when they lay aside the cloak which
is worn in winter, are attired in the Parisian mode; and from the duke
to the clerk, from the stripling to the tottering old man, they are all
neat and tastefully dressed, bepowdered and perfumed, as though they had
just stepped out of a toilet-room. In this respect they resemble the
Neapolitans with their fine heads of black hair, their carefully-trimmed
beards, and their feminine hands and feet. One rarely sees a low hat:
they all wear high hats. Then there are canes, chains, ornaments, pins
and ribbons in their buttonholes by the thousand.
Except on certain holidays the ladies also dress like the French. The
women of the middle classes still wear the mantilla, but the ancient
satin shoes, the _peineta_, the bright colors--the national costume, in
a word--have disappeared. They are, however, the same little women, so
praised for their large eyes, their tiny hands, and small feet, with
jet-black hair, a skin that is rather fair than dark, well formed, of
good carriage, active, and vivacious.
In order to view the fair sex of Madrid one should go to the promenade
of the _Prado_, which is to Madrid what the _Cascine_ are to Florence.
The Prado, to be precise, is a very wide avenue, of no great length,
flanked by smaller avenues which run toward the eastern part of the
city. It lies beside the famous gardens of _Buen Retiro_, and is closed
at both ends by two enormous stone vases, the one surmounted by a
colossal Cybele sitting on a shell and drawn by sea-horses; the other,
by a Neptune of equal size, both of them crowned with copious fountains,
whose waters interlace and fall gracefully with a pleasant murmur.
This great avenue, lined along the sides with thousands of chairs and
hundreds of benches, where men sell water and oranges, is the most
frequented part of the Prado, and is called the _Salon del Prado_. But
the walk extends beyond the fountain of Neptune: there are other
avenues, other fountains, and other statues, and one may walk among the
trees and fountains as far as Our Lady of Atocha, the famous church
loaded with gifts by Isabella II. after the outrage of February 2, 1852,
and where King Amadeus went to visit the body of General Prim. From that
point there is an extended view of a vast tract of the desert plain
around Madrid and of the snowy summits of the Guadarrama. But the Prado
is the most
[Illustration: _Fountain of Cybele, Alcalá, Madrid_]
famous, not the most beautiful nor the largest, promenade in the city.
Beyond the Salon, toward the fountain of Cybele, the promenade of
_Recoletos_ extends for almost two miles, flanked on the right by the
large, cheerful town of Salamanca, the home of the rich, of the
deputies, and the poets, and on the left by a long chain of small
palaces, villas, theatres, and new buildings painted in vivid colors. It
is not a single promenade: there are ten avenues, one beside another,
and each more beautiful than the last--streets for driving, streets for
riding, walks for persons who like a crowd, and walks for those who
prefer to be alone, divided from each other by endless hedges of myrtle,
bordered and broken by gardens and groves, in which appear statues and
fountains, and little footpaths which cross each other. On fête-days one
may there enjoy a charming spectacle. From one end of the avenues to the
other pass two processions of people, carriages, and horsemen, going in
opposite directions.
In the Prado one can scarcely walk. The gardens are crowded by thousands
of boys; the theatres are full of music; every one hears the murmur of
fountains, the swish of skirts, the shouting of children, and the
cantering of horses. It is not only the movement and the gaiety of a
promenade: it is the pomp, the uproar, the confusion, the feverish
delight of a fête. The city is deserted during those hours. At dusk the
whole of that immense crowd turns back into the great Alcalá Street,
and then from the fountain of Cybele, as far as the Puerta del Sol, one
sees only a sea of heads, furrowed by a line of carriages as far as the
eyes can reach.
For promenades--and, in fact, for theatres and spectacular
exhibitions--Madrid is, without doubt, one of the first cities of the
world. Besides the great opera-house, which is very large and rich,
besides the theatre for comedy, the theatre of the Zarzuela, the Madrid
circus--all of which are first class in point of size, appointments, and
attendance--there is a circle of smaller theatres for dramatic
companies, for equestrian exhibitions, musical organizations, and
vaudevilles--parlor theatres, theatres with boxes and galleries,
theatres, big and little, for high and low, to suit all purses and all
tastes, and for all hours of the night; and there is not one among so
many that is not crowded at every performance.
Then there are the cock-pits, the bull-rings, the popular balls, and the
games. Some days there are as many as twenty different entertainments,
commencing at noon and continuing almost to dawn. The opera, of which
the Spanish are passionately fond, is always magnificent, not only at
the time of the Carnival, but at all seasons. While I was at Madrid,
Fricci sang at the Zarzuela and Stagno at the circus; both were
supported by very able artists, with excellent orchestra and splendid
stage-setting.
The most celebrated singers in the world make an effort to sing in the
capital of Spain, for artists are there sought after and fêted. The
passion for music is the only one which is able to hold its own against
the passion for bull-fights. Comedy is in great vogue also.
L’Hatzembuch, Breton de los Herreros, Tamayo, Ventura, D’Ayala,
Gutiérrez, and a great many other dramatic writers, some living and some
dead, who are known even beyond Spain, have enriched the modern stage by
a large number of comedies, which, although they do not bear that strong
national stamp which has immortalized the dramatic works of the great
century of Spanish literature, are nevertheless full of life, wit, and
cleverness, without the unwholesome tendency of the French comedy. But,
although they perform modern comedies, they are not unmindful of the
old. On the anniversaries of Lope de Vega, Calderón, Morito, Tirso de
Molina, Alarcon, Francesco de Rojas, and the other great lights of the
Spanish theatre their masterpieces are performed with solemn pomp. The
actors, however, do not seem able to satisfy the authors, and show the
defects of our own actors--too much action, ranting, and excessive
sobbing. Many even prefer our actors, because they find in them a
greater variety of cadence and inflection. Besides tragedy and comedy,
they perform a dramatic composition that is thoroughly Spanish--the
_zainete_, of which Ramon de la Cruz was the master. It is a sort of
farce which in great part consists of tableaux of Andalusian costumes,
with national and popular characters, and actors who imitate the dress,
speech, and customs of the period in an admirable manner. The comedies
are all published, and are eagerly read even by the lowest classes, and
the names of the authors are very popular. Dramatic literature, in a
word, remains to-day, as it was in former times, the richest and most
general.
There is also a great passion for the _zarzuela_, which is usually
represented in the theatre to which it has given the name, and is a
composition midway between comedy and melodrama, between opera and
vaudeville, with an easy interchange of prose and verse, of recitation
and singing, of the serious and burlesque--a composition exclusively
Spanish and very delightful. In some theatres they perform political
comedies, a mixture of song and prose after the style of Scalvini’s
“reviews;” satirical farces to take off the questions of the day; a sort
of sacred tableaux, with scenes from the Passion of Our Lord, during
Holy Week; and balls and dances and pantomimes of every sort.
In the small theatres they give three or four performances a night, one
after the other, and new spectators come in for each performance. At
the famous _Capellanes_ Theatre every night in the year they dance a
_can-can_, scandalous beyond the wildest imagination, and there crowd
the dissolute young men, the fast women, and the old libertines with
wrinkled noses, armed with monocles, spectacles, opera-glasses, and
every sort of optical instrument which helps to bring nearer the forms
advertised on the stage, as Aleardi says.
After the theatres are closed one finds all the cafés crowded, the city
illuminated, the streets filled with countless carriages, just as in the
early evening. One feels a little sad on coming out of a theatre in a
foreign country, there are so many beautiful creatures, and not one of
them deigns to bestow so much as a glance upon one. But an Italian finds
one comfort in Madrid. The actors almost always sing Italian operas, and
they sing in Italian, and so, as you return to your lodging, you hear
them humming in the words of your own language the airs which you have
known from infancy. You hear a _palpito_ here, a _fiero genitor_ there,
a _tremenda vendetta_ yonder; and these words are like the greetings of
a friendly people. But to reach your house what a thick hedge of
petticoats you must climb over! The palm is given to Paris, and
doubtless she deserves it, but Madrid is not to be laughed at. What
boldness! what words of fire! what imperious provocations! Finally, you
arrive before your house to find that you have no door-key.
“Do not be disturbed,” says the first citizen you meet. “Do you see that
lantern at the foot of the street? The man who carries it is a _sereno_,
and the _serenos_ have keys for all the houses.” Then you cry “Sereno!”
at the top of your voice, and the lantern approaches, and a man with an
enormous bunch of keys in his hands gives you a searching glance, opens
the door, lights you to the second story, and bids you good-night. So it
is every night; for a franc a month you escape the annoyance of carrying
the door-key in your pocket. The sereno is a public officer, and there
is one in every street, and each of them has a whistle. If the house
takes fire or thieves force your lock, you have only to throw up a
window and cry, “Sereno! help!” The sereno who is in the street sounds
his whistle, the serenos of the neighboring streets whistle, and in a
few moments all the serenos in the district run to your assistance. At
whatever hour of the night you awake you hear the voice of the sereno
announcing the time, or if it is fine weather, or if it is raining or
going to rain. How many things he knows! and how many he never tells!
this nocturnal sentinel. How many whispered farewells he hears from the
lips of lovers! How many little letters flutter from the windows before
his eyes! how many little keys fall on the pavement! and how many hands
wave mysteriously in the air! Muffled lovers glide through narrow
doorways, and lighted windows are suddenly darkened, and black shadows
vanish along the walls at the first streaks of dawn.
I have spoken only of the theatres; at Madrid there is a concert, one
may safely say, every day. There are concerts in the theatres, concerts
in the academy halls, concerts in the streets, and then a company of
strolling musicians who deafen you at all hours of the day. After all
this one has a right to ask why it is that a people so infatuated with
music that it seems as necessary, so to speak, as the air they breathe,
have never produced any great master of the art. The Spanish will not be
comforted.
One could cover many pages if he were to describe the fine suburbs of
Madrid, the gates, the parks beyond the city, the squares, the historic
streets; and, if nothing were willingly to be omitted, the splendid
cafés, the “Imperial” in the square of the Puerto del Sol and the
_Fornos_ in Alcalá Street, two vast saloons, in which, if the tables
were removed, a company of dragoons could be drilled, and the
innumerable other cafés which one finds at every step, where two hundred
dancers could be easily accommodated; the magnificent shops which occupy
the entire ground-floor of vast buildings, and among them the great
Havana tobacco warehouse (a meeting-place for gentlemen), filled with
cigars, little and big, round, flat, pointed, and twisted, winding like
snakes, bent like bows, hook-shaped, of every shape, for every taste,
and at every price, enough to content the maddest fancy of a smoker and
to stupefy the entire population of a city; spacious markets; the grand
royal palace, in which the Quirinal and the Pitti Palace might hide
without fear of discovery; the great street Atocha, which crosses the
city; the immense garden of _Buen Retiro_, with its great lake, with its
hills crowned with Moorish domes, and its thousands of rare birds....
But, worthy of attention above everything else, the museums of armor and
painting, and the Naval Museum, to each of which one might easily
dedicate a volume.
The armory of Madrid is one of the most beautiful in the world. As you
enter the vast hall your heart gives a leap, your blood tingles, and you
stand still on the threshold like one demented. A complete army of
cavalry in full armor, with drawn swords and lances in rest, gleaming
and terrible, rushes toward you like a legion of spectres. It is an army
of emperors, kings, and dukes, clad in the most splendid armor that has
ever left the hands of man, upon which pours a flood of light from
eighteen enormous windows, producing a marvellous play and flashing of
light, dancing sunbeams, and dazzling colors. The walls are covered with
cuirasses, swords, halberds, jousting-spears, huge blunderbusses, and
enormous lances which reach from the floor to the ceiling. Banners of
all the armies of the world hang from the ceiling--trophies of Lepanto,
of San Quintino, of the War of Independence, of the wars of Africa,
Cuba, and Mexico. On every side there is a profusion of glorious
standards, of illustrious arms, of marvellous works of art, of effigies,
emblems, and immortal names.
One does not know what first to admire. One runs first here, then there,
looking at everything and seeing nothing, and becomes tired before one
has really begun. In the middle of the hall is the equestrian armor, the
cavaliers and their horses, drawn up in line by threes and by twos, and
all wheeling just like a squadron on the march. Among the arms one at
first sight discovers those of Philip II., of Charles V., Philibert
Emmanuel, and Christopher Columbus. Here and there, on pedestals, one
sees helmets, casques, morions, gorgets, and shields which belonged to
kings of Arragon, Castile, and Navarre, adorned with very fine reliefs
in silver representing battles, mythological subjects, symbolic figures,
trophies, grotesques, and garlands: some of these are works of the
greatest power, the workmanship of the most famous artists of Europe;
others are uncouth in form, with excessive ornament, with crests,
visors, and colossal top-pieces. Then there are the little helmets and
cuirasses of princes, swords and shields the gifts of popes and
monarchs. In the midst of the knightly armor one sees statues dressed in
the fantastic costumes of the American Indians, of Africans, and of
Chinese, with feathers and bells, bows and quivers; then, too, horrible
warmasks and the dresses of mandarins of gold woven with silk. Along
the walls is other armor--the arms of the marquis de Pescara, of the
poet Garcilasso de la Vega, of the marquis de Santa Cruz, the gigantic
armor of John Frederick, the magnanimous duke of Saxony, and scattered
here and there are Arabian, Persian, and Moorish banners falling to
decay.