pictures in the Academy of San Fernando. In the chambers of Fomento and
in other private galleries one would have to spend month after month to
see everything well, and to describe it would take an equal time, even
if one had sufficient ability to do so. One of the ablest French
writers, a great lover of art and a master of description, when it came
to the point was frightened and knew nothing better to do than to avoid
the dilemma by saying that it would take too long to describe it all;
and if he thought well to keep silent, it must appear that I have said
too much already. It is one of the saddest consequences of a pleasant
journey to discover that one has in one’s mind a crowd of lovely images
and in one’s heart a tumult of grand emotions, and to be able to express
only so small a part of them.
With what profound contempt could I destroy these pages when I think of
those paintings! O Murillo! O Velasquez! O my poor pen!
A few days after my arrival at Madrid, as I was coming from the street
Alcalá into the square of the Puerta del Sol, I saw King Amadeus for the
first time. I felt it to be as great a pleasure as if I had met my most
intimate friend. It is strange to find one’s self in a country where the
only person one knows is the king. One could wish to run after him
saying, “Your Majesty, it is I; I have arrived.”
Amadeus pursued his father’s course at Madrid. He rose at dawn and
walked in the gardens of Moro, which lie between the royal palace and
the Manzanares, or else he visited the museums, walking through the city
on foot with only one attendant. The maids, running home in breathless
haste with their well-filled baskets, told their sleepy mistresses how
they had met the king, how they had passed him so near that he could
have touched them; and the Republican matrons would say, “And so he
ought to!” And the Carlists would make a grimace and mutter, “What sort
of a king is that?” Or as I heard one say, “He seems determined to get
shot at any cost.” On returning to the palace he received the
captain-general and the governor of Madrid, who, in accordance with the
ancient custom, are obliged to present themselves every day to the king
to ask if he has any orders to give to the army or the police. Next came
the ministers. Besides seeing them altogether in council once a week,
Amadeus received one of them every day. On the departure of the minister
the audience began.
Amadeus gave an audience every day of at least one hour’s duration, and
many times prolonged it to two hours. The demands were innumerable, and
the ends sought may be easily imagined--subsidies, pensions, positions,
favors, and decorations. The king heard them all. The queen also
received--not every day, however, on account of her variable health. To
her lot fell all the deeds of charity. She received all sorts of people
in the presence of the major-domo and a lady of honor at the hour of the
king’s audience--ladies, laboring-men, peasant-women, hearing with pity
their long recitals of poverty and suffering; moreover, she distributed
in works of charity a hundred thousand francs a month, without counting
her liberal donations to hospitals, asylums, and other benevolent
institutions, some of which she herself founded.
On the bank of the Manzanares, in sight of the royal palace, in an open
smiling place, one sees a brightly-colored cottage surrounded by a
garden, when as one passes one hears the laughter, the crowing, and the
crying of babies. The queen had this house built to shelter the little
children of washerwomen, who, while their mothers were at work, used to
remain in the streets exposed to a thousand dangers. There are teachers,
nurses, and servants who provide for all the needs of the babies: it is
at the same time a refuge and a school. The funds for the construction
and maintenance of the house were appropriated from the twenty-five
thousand francs a month which the state had granted to the duke of
Puglia. The queen also instituted a foundling hospital, a home or sort
of college for the children of the tobacco-workers, and kitchens where
soup, meat, and bread are distributed to all the poor of the city. She
herself went unexpectedly sometimes to assist at the distribution, to
assure herself that no abuse was made of it, and, discovering that some
trickery was practised, she provided against its repetition. Besides
these acts, the Sisters of Charity received every month thirty thousand
francs with which to succor those families that by reason of their
social position were not able to come to the distribution of soup. These
private deeds of benevolence which the queen performed were very
difficult to discover, because she was accustomed to do them without
speaking to any one. Little is known of her habits, because she did
everything unostentatiously and with a reserve which would be
considered excessive even for a private lady.
None of the court ladies knew that she went to hear the sermon at San
Luis de Francis; a lady saw her there for the first time, by chance,
among the other worshippers. In her dress there was nothing distinctive
of royalty, not even on the days of the court dinners. Queen Isabella
wore a great red mantle with the arms of Castile, a diadem, ornaments,
and insignia; not so Donna Victoria. She usually dressed in the colors
of the Spanish flag, with a simplicity which proclaimed her royalty much
better than splendor and magnificence would have done. It was not
Spanish gold which had to do with this simplicity: all the expenses
which were incurred for herself, her children, and her servants were
paid from her privy purse.
When the Bourbons were on the throne the whole of the royal palace was
occupied. The king resided in the left wing toward the plaza of the
armory; Montpensier lived in the part opposite to that of the queen; the
princes had each an apartment looking toward the garden of Moro. When
King Amadeus resided there a great part of the immense edifice remained
empty: he occupied only three small rooms--a study, a bed-chamber, and a
dressing-room. His chamber opened into a long corridor which led to the
two little rooms of the princes, opposite to which was the queen’s
apartments, for she would never be separated from her children.
Then there was a reception-room. All that part of the palace which
served for the entire royal family was formerly occupied by Queen
Isabella alone. When she learned that Amadeus and Victoria were content
with such small quarters, she is said to have exclaimed with
astonishment, “Poor young things! they won’t have room to turn around.”
The king and queen used to dine with a major-domo and one of the court
ladies. After dinner the king smoked a Virginia cigar (if the detractors
of this prince of cigars care to know it) and entered his cabinet to
attend to the affairs of state. He was accustomed to take a great many
notes and frequently consulted with the queen, especially when he was
trying to reconcile the ministers or to conciliate the heads of
departments. He read a great many magazines of every bias; anonymous
letters which threatened him with death and those which gave him advice;
satirical poems, schemes of social revolution,--everything, indeed, that
was sent to him. About three o’clock he left the palace on horseback;
the guards blew their trumpets and a squire in red livery followed him
at a distance of fifty paces. To see him one would have said that he did
not know he was the king: he looked at the children as they passed him,
at the signs of the shops, the soldiers, the coaches, and the fountains
with an expression of almost childish curiosity. He rode the whole
length of the street Alcalá slowly, like an ordinary citizen thinking of
his own affairs, and would turn into the Prado to enjoy his part of the
air and the sunshine.
The ministers clamored against it; the Bourbons, accustomed to the
imposing equipage of Isabella, said that he was trailing the majesty of
the throne of San Fernando through the streets; even the squire who
followed him looked around with a shamefaced air, as if to say, “See
what folly!” But whatever they might say, the king gave no sign of fear.
And the Spaniards, it must be said, did him justice, and, whatever may
have been their opinion of his administration and government, they never
failed to add, “So far as courage goes, there is nothing to say.”
Every Sunday there was a court dinner. Invitations were extended to
deputies, professors, academicians, and illustrious men of letters and
scientists. The queen talked with them all on every subject with a
confidence and grace which, for all they had previously heard of her
genius and culture, quite exceeded their expectations. The people
naturally exaggerated in speaking of her attainments, and talked of
Greek, Arabic, Sanskrit, astronomy, and mathematics. But true it is that
she talked intelligently on subjects far removed from the ordinary
course of feminine studies, and not in the evasive and superficial
manner of those who know only the names and titles. She had made a
careful study of the Spanish language, and finally spoke it as though it
were her own; the history, literature, and customs of her adopted
country were alike familiar to her, and she lacked only the desire to
remain in Spain to have made her a thorough Spaniard. The Liberals
murmured, the Bourbons said, “She is not our queen,” but they all
regarded her with profound respect. The bitterest journals went no
farther than to call her the wife of Amadeus instead of the queen. The
most violent of the Republican deputies in alluding to her in a speech
at the Cortes could do no less than pronounce her illustrious and
virtuous. She was the only person of the royal household against whom no
one would permit a slur either by tongue or pen. She was like a white
figure left in the centre of a group of spiteful caricatures.
As for the king, it seemed as though the Spanish press enjoyed an
unrestrained liberty, and under the safeguard of the titles the
_Savoyard_, the _foreigner_, and the _young courtier_ the journals which
were opposed to his rule could say in substance whatever they chose; and
didn’t they say charming things? One took it to heart that the king was
homely in face and figure, another was displeased because he walked so
stiffly, a third tried to ridicule his manner of returning a salute, and
other trifling matters which are almost incredible. Nevertheless, the
people of Madrid had for him, if not the enthusiasm of the Azenzia
Stefani, at least a very real sympathy.
The simplicity of his habits and his kindheartedness were proverbial
even among the children. It was known that he bore no malice toward any,
not even toward those who had treated him badly; that he had never given
an affront to any one; that no bitter word against his enemies had ever
escaped him. If one spoke of the personal dangers which he incurred,
every good citizen answered indignantly that the Spanish people respect
those who trust them; his bitterest enemies spoke of him with anger, but
not with odium; the very men who would not raise their hats on meeting
him in the street felt their blood boil when others followed their
example, and could not conceal a feeling of sadness at the occurrence.
There are images of fallen kings over which one casts a dark covering;
others are concealed by a white veil which makes them appear more
beautiful and venerable: over this one Spain has cast the white veil.
And who knows but that one day the sight of this image will call from
the breast of every honest Spaniard a secret sigh, like the memory of a
beloved one who has been offended, or like a gentle and benign voice
which says in sad tones of reproach, “Nevertheless, thou hast wronged
me”?
One Sunday the king held a review of the Volunteers of Liberty, a sort
of national guard like that of Italy, with this difference--that the
Italians do good service voluntarily, while the Spaniards will do
nothing even by force.
The _Voluntarios_ were drawn up along the avenue of the Prado, where an
immense crowd had collected. When I arrived there were already three or
four battalions of them. The first was the battalion of veterans, all
men above fifty, and not a few very old, dressed in black and wearing
the cap _à la Ros_, with gold and silver lace and crosses upon crosses,
as spruce and tidy as the students of a military academy, and from the
proud and dignified rolling of their eyes they might have been
confounded with the grenadiers of the Old Guard. After them came another
battalion in a different uniform--gray breeches, a coat open and turned
back over the breast, with large lapels of scarlet cloth; instead of the
caps _à la Ros_, hats with blue plumes--and carrying guns with fixed
bayonets. Another battalion and another uniform--the Ros caps again
instead of the hats, and green cloth instead of the red, breeches of
another color, and daggers instead of bayonets. A fourth battalion and
arms all different. Other battalions come up, in various array. Some
wear Prussian helmets, others helmets without points; some carry
bayonets, some straight daggers, some curved and others spiral daggers;
here there are soldiers with corded coats, there those without cords,
and again those with cords; belts, epaulets, cravats, plumes; everything
changes every moment.
All the divisions are gay and pompous, with a hundred colors and a
hundred banners which wave, flash, and float in the air. Every battalion
has a different banner covered with embroidery, ribbons, and fringe.
Among the others one sees soldiers dressed like peasants with any sort
of a stripe sewed loosely down a pair of ragged trousers; some without
cravats, some with black cravats, open jackets, and embroidered tunics;
boys from twelve to fifteen, armed at all points, walking in the ranks;
vivandières, with short skirts and red breeches, carrying baskets full
of cigars and oranges. At the head of the battalions there is a
continual hurrying of mounted officials. Every major wears on his head
or on his breast or on his saddle some ornament of his own device; at
every moment a courier of some unknown corps passes; one sees lace of
liver, gold, and wool on the arms, on the shoulders, and around the
neck; medallions and crosses so thick that they conceal half the breast,
fastened one above the other, both above and below the belt; gloves of
all the colors of the rainbow; sabres, swords little and big, pistols
and revolvers--a mixture, in short, of all the uniforms and arms of
every army; a variety that would appall ten ministerial commissioners
for the modification of dress; a confusion that turns one’s head. I do
not remember whether there were twelve or fourteen battalions; as each
one of them selected its own uniform, there was necessarily the greatest
possible diversity among them. They were commanded by the mayor, who
also wore a fantastic uniform. There were about eight thousand men.
At the hour assigned a sudden scurrying of staff-officers and a loud
blast of trumpets announced the arrival of the king. Amadeus had, in
fact, arrived on horseback by the street Alcalá in the uniform of
commander-in-chief, with cavalry boots, white breeches, and swallow-tail
coat, and behind him a closely-formed group of generals, aides-de-camp,
servants in scarlet livery, lancers, cuirassiers, and guards. After he
had reviewed the entire front of the army from the Prado as far as the
church of Atocha, surrounded by a dense, silent crowd, he returned
toward the street Alcalá. Here there was a vast multitude which surged
and murmured like the sea. The king and his staff took their stand in
front of the church of San José, with their backs toward the façade, and
the cavalry with great trouble succeeded in opening a narrow space
through which the battalions might march.
They marched in platoons. As they passed, at a signal from the
commander, they cried, “_Viva el Rey! Viva Don Amadeo primero!_” It was
an unfortunate idea for the first officer to give the cry. The
spontaneous cheer of the first became a duty to all the others, and this
resulted in the public taking the greater and the less vigor and harmony
of the voices as a sign of political demonstration. Some of the platoons
gave such a weak, short cheer that it seemed like the cry of a group of
sick men calling for aid; then the crowd burst out laughing. Other
platoons gave a deafening shout, and that was interpreted as a
demonstration hostile to the government. There were several reports
passing among the people crowded about me. One said, “There comes such a
battalion: they are republicans; you will see they will not cheer.” The
battalion passed without cheering. The people coughed. Another said, “It
is an outrage, a fault of education; I don’t like Amadeus much myself,
but I keep quiet and respect him.” There was some disturbance. A young
fellow shouted _Viva_ in a falsetto voice, and a _caballero_ told him he
was impertinent; he resented this, and they both raised their hands,
whereupon a third separated them.
Between the different battalions marched citizens on horseback; some did
not raise their hats or even look toward the king, and then one might
hear different expressions through the crowd, as “Well done!” and “What
bad manners!” Others, whose will was good enough to salute him, were
afraid to do so, and passed with bowed head and blushing face. Others,
on the contrary, disgusted by the spectacle, made a courageous
demonstration for Amadeus in the face of them all, marching past, hat in
hand, and looking first respectfully toward the king and then fiercely
toward the crowd for the distance of ten paces. The king sat until the
end of the procession motionless, with an unchanged expression of serene
haughtiness. So ended the review.
This national militia, although it is not so disorganized and exhausted
as ours, is nothing more than the ghost of an army: the ridiculous has
gnawed at its very roots; but as an amusement on a holiday, although the
number of volunteers is much reduced (they numbered thirty thousand at
one time), it is always a spectacle which far surpasses all the
flag-poles and red rags of Signor Ottino.
THE BULL-FIGHTS.
The thirty-first of March inaugurates the spectacle of the bull-fights.
Let us discuss them at leisure, for they form a worthy subject.
He who has read Baretti’s description may consider that he has read
nothing. Baretti saw only the bull-fights of Lisbon, which are mere
child’s play beside those of Madrid. Madrid is the home of the art: here
are the great artists, here the stupendous spectacles, here the skilled
spectators, here the judges who distribute the honors. The circus of
Madrid is the Theatre della Scala of the art of bull-fighting.
The inauguration of the bull-fights at Madrid is even more important
than a change of the ministry. A month beforehand the news spreads
throughout all Spain: from Cadiz to Barcelona, from Bilbao to Almeria,
in the palaces of the grandees and the cabins of the poor, they talk
only of the artists and the breed of bulls; they arrange fights for
pleasure between the provinces and the capital; he who is short of money
begins to save so as to get a good place in the circus on that great
day; fathers and mothers promise their children to take them if they
will study well; lovers make similar promises to their sweethearts; the
papers assure you that it will be a good season; the famous _toreros_,
who already begin to appear in Madrid, are pointed out with the finger;
rumors are afloat that the bulls have arrived, and some have seen them
or have arranged to do so.
There are bulls from the pastures of the duke of Veragua, the marquis de
Merced, and of Her Excellency the dowager of Villaseca, prodigious and
terrible. The office is opened to receive subscriptions; the dilettanti
crowd around, together with the servants of the noble families, the
brokers, and friends commissioned by the absent. The first day the
manager has received fifty thousand francs, on the second thirty
thousand, and a hundred thousand in a week. Frascuelo, the famous
_matador_, has arrived; Cuco has arrived; Calderón has arrived, and all
the others three days before the time. Thousands of people can talk of
nothing else; ladies dream of the circus; ministers have no thought for
other affairs; old dilettanti can hardly contain themselves; soon
laboring-men stop buying their cigarettes to have a few pennies on the
day of the spectacle. Finally, on Saturday morning, before dawn, they
commence to sell tickets in a room on the street Alcalá. A crowd
collects before the doors are opened, yelling, pushing, and knocking
each other about; twenty policemen with revolvers in their belts are
scarcely able to keep decent order; there is a continuous stream of
people until night.
The long-expected day has arrived. The spectacle commences at three
o’clock; at noon the people start from all directions toward the circus,
which stands at the edge of the suburb of Salamanca, beyond the Prado,
outside of the gate of Alcalá; all the streets which lead there are
crowded with a procession of people. The circus looks like a great
anthill; troops of soldiers and Volunteers of Liberty arrive, headed by
bands of music; a crowd of water-carriers and orange-sellers fill the
air with their cries; ticket-sellers run here and there, hailed by a
thousand voices. Woe for him who has not yet bought his ticket! He will
pay double, treble, quadruple! But what cares he if a ticket costs even
fifty or eighty francs? They are looking for the king; they say the
queen is coming too. The chariots of the great guns begin to arrive;
the duke Ferdinando Nunes, the duke d’Abrantes, the marquis de la Vega
de Armijo, a crowd of the grandees of Spain, the goddesses of the
aristocracy, the ministers, generals, and ambassadors--all that is
beautiful, splendid, and powerful in the great city. One may enter the
circus by many doors, but before entering one is deafened by the noise.
I entered. The circus is immense. The outside is in no way remarkable;
it is a low circular yellow building without windows, but on entering
one feels the liveliest surprise. It is a circus for a people, where ten
thousand spectators can be seated and in which a regiment of cavalry
might drill. The arena is circular, and so vast that it could hold ten
of our equestrian circuses. It is encircled by a wooden barrier about
even with a man’s shoulders, provided on the inside with a narrow ledge
a little way from the ground, on which the toreros place their feet to
jump over when the bull chases them. Beyond this barrier there is
another higher one, for the bull often leaps over the first; between the
two a narrow course, a little more than a metre in width, runs all the
way round the arena; here the toreros stroll before the combat, and here
stand the attendants of the circus--the carpenters ready to repair the
gaps which the bull has made, the guards, the orange-venders, the
dilettanti who enjoy the friendship of the manager, and the great guns
who are allowed to transgress the rules. Beyond the second barrier
rises a tier of stone seats, and beyond this are the boxes; below the
boxes runs a gallery containing three rows of seats. The boxes are each
large enough to hold three or four families; the king’s box is a great
drawing-room; next to it is that of the city officials, in which sits
the mayor or whoever presides at the spectacle. Then there is the box
for the ministers, for the governors, and for the ambassadors; every
noble family has one; the young _bon tons_, as Giusti would say, have a
box to themselves; then there are boxes to let which cost a fortune.
Every seat in the tiers is numbered, every person has a ticket; so the
entrance is made without the least disorder. The circus is divided into
two parts--one in the shade, the other in the sunshine; in the first one
pays more; in the second sit the common people. The arena has four doors
at equal distances from each other--the door through which the toreros
enter, the door for the bulls, another for the horses, and a fourth,
under the king’s box, for the heralds of the spectacle. Over the door
through which the bulls enter rises a sort of sloping platform which is
called the _toril_, and well for him who can find a place there! Upon
this platform, in a little box, stand the men who at a sign from the
mayor’s box sound the trumpet and drum to announce the entrance of the
bull. Facing the _toril_ on the opposite side of the arena along the
stone balcony is the band of music. The whole balcony is divided into
compartments, each of which has its own door.