huntsmen of the city militia; then the boys from all the schools,
refuges, and hospitals of Madrid--thousands of them, two by two; then
the wounded veterans of the army, some on crutches, some with bandaged
heads, some supported by their companions, some so feeble that they had
to be almost carried--soldiers and generals in their old uniforms, with
their breasts covered with medals and lace, with long swords and plumed
hats; then a crowd of the officers of the various corps, shining with
gold and silver and dressed in a thousand colors; then the high officers
of state, the provincial deputies, the members of Congress, the
senators; then the heralds of the municipality and the chambers, with
flowing robes of velvet and maces of silver; then all the municipal
clerks and all the judges of Madrid, dressed in black with medallions at
their throats; finally, the king in a general’s uniform, on foot,
accompanied by the mayor, the captain-general of the province, the
generals, ministers, deputies, officers of ordnance, and aides-de-camp,
all with bared heads. The procession was ended by a hundred mounted
guards, resplendent as the warriors of the Middle Ages; the royal guard
on foot with great shakos, after the fashion of the Napoleonic guard;
red swallow-tail coats, white breeches, wide shoulder-belts crossed
over the breast, black gaiters to the knee, swords, epaulets, cordons,
buckles, and ornaments; then the volunteers, soldiers, infantry,
artillery; and the people. They all marched with slow step; all the
bands played, the bells tolled; the people were silent, and altogether,
the children of the poor, the priests, magistrates, wounded veterans,
and the grandees of Spain, presented an appearance of dignity and
magnificence which inspired at the time a feeling of sympathy and
reverence.
The procession turned into the Prado and proceeded toward the monument.
The avenues, the lawns, and the gardens were full of people. Ladies were
standing in their carriages, on chairs, and on the stone seats, holding
their children in their arms; there were people in the trees and on the
roofs; at every step there were banners, funeral inscriptions, lists of
the victims of the second of May; poems pinned to the trunks of trees,
newspapers with borders of black, prints representing episodes of the
massacre, wreaths, crucifixes, little tables with urns for alms, lighted
candles, pictures, statuettes, and toys for children, with a model of
the monument--everywhere memorials of 1808, emblems and signs of sorrow,
festivity, and war. The men were almost all dressed in black; the women
in gay holiday attire, with long funeral trains and veils; there were
groups of peasants from all the surrounding villages dressed in lively
colors, and through all the crowd one heard the discordant cries of
water-carriers, guards, and officers.
The monument of the second of May, which stands at that point where the
greater number of Spaniards were shot, though it does not possess an
artistic value equal to its fame, is--to use a much-abused though
significant word--imposing. It is simple and bold, and to many appears
heavy and ungraceful; but it arrests one’s glance and one’s thought,
even if one does not know what it is; for on first seeing it one
perceives that some event of importance must have transpired in that
place. Above an octagonal base of four steps rises a great square
sarcophagus adorned with inscriptions and arms and a bas-relief
representing the two Spanish officers who were killed on the second of
May in the defence of the Artillery Park. On the sarcophagus rises a
pedestal in the Doric style, on which stand four statues, symbolic of
Patriotism, Bravery, Constancy, and Virtue. In the midst of the statues
rises a high obelisk which bears in characters of gold the words, _Dos
de Mayo_. Around the monument there extends a circular garden
intersected by eight avenues which converge toward a common centre; all
of the avenues are shaded by rows of cypresses, and the garden is
enclosed by an iron railing, which in its turn is encircled by marble
steps. This grove of cypresses, this solitary enclosed garden in the
midst of the gayest promenade of Madrid, is like a vision of death
mingling with the joys of life; one cannot pass without turning to look
at it, and one cannot look at it without thinking: at night, as it lies
in the moonlight, it seems like a fantastic apparition and breathes an
air of solemn mystery.
The king arrived, mass was celebrated, all the regiments marched past,
and the ceremony was ended. So to the present time they celebrate the
anniversary of the second of May, 1808, with a dignity, an affection,
and a veneration which do honor not alone to the Spanish people, but to
the human heart. It is the true national festival of Spain, the only day
in the year when party strife sleeps and all hearts are united in a
common sentiment. And in this sentiment, as one can readily believe,
there is no bitterness against France. Spain has thrown all the blame of
the war and the massacres which it occasioned upon Napoleon and Murat;
the French are welcomed amicably, like all other foreigners; the
ill-fated days of May are mentioned only to celebrate the honor of the
dead and of their country; everything in this ceremony is noble and
grand, and before that sacred monument Spain has only words of pardon
and peace.
* * * * *
Another thing to be seen at Madrid is the cock-fighting.
I read one day in the _Correspondencia_ the following notice: “En la
funcion que se celebrarà mañana en el circo de Gallos de Recoletos,
hubrà, entre otras dos peleas, en las que figurarán gallos de los
conocidos aficionados Francisco Calderón y Don Josè Diez, por lo que se
espera serà muy animada la diversion.”
The spectacle commenced at noon: I was there. I was impressed by the
originality and grace of the theatre. It looks like a mosque standing on
a little hill in a garden, but yet is large enough to hold at least a
thousand persons. In form it is a perfect cylinder. In the middle rises
a sort of a circular stage about three hands high, covered with green
carpet and surrounded by a railing about as high as the platform; this
is the battle-ground of the cocks. Between the iron uprights of the
railing is stretched a very fine wire netting which keeps the combatants
from making their escape. Around this cage, which is about as large as a
dining-table, runs a circle of arm-chairs, and behind them a second
higher circle, and both of them are upholstered in red cloth. Several of
the chairs on the first row bear inscriptions written in big letters,
_Presidente, Secretario_, and other titles of the persons who compose
the tribunal of the spectacle. Beyond the arm-chairs rise tiers of
benches running back to the walls, and above them extends a gallery
supported by ten slender columns. The light comes from above. The lively
red of the arm-chairs, the flowers painted on the walls, the columns,
the light, and, in a word, the atmosphere of the theatre, have about
them something novel and picturesque which pleases and exhilarates. At
first sight it seems like a place where one ought to listen to joyous
and refined music rather than witness a fight between animals.
When I entered there were already a hundred persons present. “What sort
of people are these?” I asked myself, and truly the frequenters of the
cock-fights do not resemble those of any other theatre: it is a mixture
_sui generis_, such as one sees only in Madrid. There are no women, no
boys, no soldiers, and no working-men, for it is a work-day and at an
inconvenient hour. But, nevertheless, one sees here a greater variety of
feature, dress, and attitude than at any other popular gathering. The
spectators are all persons who have nothing to do the livelong
day--comedians with long hair and others with bald heads;
_toreros_--Calderón, the famous _picador_, was there--with red sashes
around their waists; students bearing on their faces the trace of nights
spent at the gaming-table; dealers in cocks; young dandies; old amateur
fanciers dressed in black with black gloves and cravats. These sit
around the cage. Behind them are the _rari nantes_, some Englishmen,
some blockheads, of the class one sees everywhere; the servants of the
circus, a courtesan, and a policeman. With the exception of the
foreigners and the guard, the others--gentlemen, _toreros_, dealers,
and actors--all know each other, and talk among themselves, in one
voice, of the quality of the cocks announced in the programme, of the
exhibition, the bets made the previous day, the chances of the struggle,
the talons, feathers, spurs, wings, beaks, and wounds, displaying the
very rich terminology of the sport and citing rules, examples, the cocks
of former days, fights, and famous winnings and losses.
The spectacle began at the appointed hour. A man presented himself in
the middle of the circus with a paper in his hand and commenced to read;
they all became silent. He read a series of figures which indicated the
weight of the different pairs of cocks that were to fight, because, pair
by pair, the one cock must not weigh more than the other, in accordance
with the rules laid down for cock-fighting. The conversation began
again, and then was suddenly hushed. Another man came in with two small
cages under his arm, opened a gate in the railing, stepped up on the
platform, and fastened the cages to the arms of a pair of balances
suspended from the ceiling. Two witnesses assured themselves that the
weights on the two ends were almost equal; everybody sat down; the
president took his position; the secretary cried _Silencio!_ the weigher
and another attendant each took one of the cages, and, going to opposite
doors in the railing, opened them simultaneously. The cocks stepped out,
the gates were closed, and for some moments the spectators observed a
profound silence.
They were two _Andalusian cocks of English breed_, to repeat a curious
definition given me by one of the spectators. They were tall, thin, and
straight as arrows, with long necks, very flexible and totally bare of
feathers along the back and from the breast up; they were without
crests, and had small heads and eyes which betokened their warlike
nature. The spectators looked at them closely without saying a word. The
fanciers in a few moments judge by the color, the form, and the
movements of the two animals which will probably be the victor; then
they offer their bets. It is a very uncertain judgment, as any one may
understand, but it is the uncertainty which gives zest to the sport.
Suddenly the silence is broken by an outburst of cries: “A crown on the
right one!”--“A crown on the left!”--“Done!”--“Three crowns on the
black!”--“Four crowns on the gray!”--“Eighty francs on the small
one!”--“Done!”--“I take the bet on the gray!”
They all shout and wave their hands, and signal to each other with their
canes; the bets cross in every direction, and in a few moments there are
a thousand francs at stake.
The two cocks do not look at each other at first. One turns in one
direction, the other looks the opposite way; they crow, and crane their
necks toward the spectators, as if they are asking, “What do you want?”
Little by little, without making any sign of having seen each other,
they approach; it seems as though one is trying to take the other by
surprise; suddenly, as quick as a flash, they spring at each other with
open wings, strike in the air, and separate in a cloud of feathers.
After the first encounter they stop and plant themselves one before the
other, with their heads and beaks almost touching, motionless, and
looking fixedly, as though they wish to poison each other with their
eyes. Then they dash together again with great violence, and after that
the attacks follow without interruption.
They strike with their talons, spurs, and beaks; clasp each other with
their wings, so that they look like one cock with two heads; they dodge
under each other, strike against the wires of the cage, chase each
other, fall, slip, and fly. Soon the blows fall faster; feathers fly
from their heads; their necks turn as red as fire and they begin to
bleed. Then they fall to pecking each other on the head, around and in
the eyes; they tear the flesh with the fury of two maniacs afraid of
being separated; they seem to know that one of them must die; they utter
not a sound or a groan; one hears only the beating of their wings, the
sound of breaking feathers and of beaks striking the bones; there is not
a moment’s respite; it is a fury which leads only to death.
The spectators watch all their motions intently, count the fallen
feathers, and number the wounds, and the shouting becomes all the time
more excited and the wagers heavier: “Five crowns on the little
one!”--“Eight crowns on the gray!”--“Twenty crowns on the
black!”--“Done”--“Done!”
At a certain point one of the cocks makes a motion that betrays his
inferior strength and begins to show signs of weakening. While he still
resists his pecks become slower, the strokes of his spurs feebler, and
his springs lower. He seems to know that he must die. He fights no
longer to kill, but to keep from being killed, retreats, flees, falls,
raises himself, returns to fall again, reels as though seized with
vertigo. Then the spectacle begins to grow horrible. Before the failing
enemy the victor grows fiercer; his pecks fall fast and furious,
striking the eyes of his victim with the regularity of the needle of a
sewing-machine; his neck flies back and forth with the strength of a
spring; his beak seizes the flesh, twists and tears it, then darts into
the wound as if seeking for the most secret fibre; then he pecks the
head again and again as though he wishes to crack the skull and tear out
the brain. There are no words to express the horror of that pecking,
continuous, insatiable, inexorable. The victim defends himself, flees,
and runs around the cage, and after him, beside him, hovering over him
like a shadow, with his head stretched over that of the fugitive,
follows the victor like a confessor, always pecking, piercing, and
tearing. He has about him the air of a jailer and executioner; he seems
to be whispering in the ear of his victim and to accompany every blow
with an insult: “There! take that! suffer! die! No! live; take this blow
and this, and still another!” A little of the cock’s sanguinary fury is
instilled into your veins; that cowardly cruelty inspires a longing for
revenge; one would strangle the creature with one’s hands and crush its
head with one’s feet. The conquered cock, all bedraggled with blood,
featherless, and tottering, still tries now and then to return the
attack, gives a few pecks, turns to flee, and dashes against the irons
of the railing to find a way of escape.
The bettors become more excited and shout even louder than before. They
can no longer bet on the struggle, and so begin to bet on the agony:
“Five crowns that it does not make three attacks!”--“Ten crowns that it
does not make five!”--“Four crowns that it does not make
two!”--“Done!”--“Done!”
At this point I heard a remark which made me shudder: “_Es ciego!_” (“It
is blind.”)
I approached the netting, looked at the conquered cock, and averted my
face in horror. It had no skin, it had no eyes; its neck was only a
bloody bone, its head a skull; its wings, reduced to three or four
feathers, hung down like two rags; it seemed impossible that wounded as
it was it could still live and walk; it no longer had any form.
Nevertheless, that remnant, that monster, that skeleton dripping with
blood, still defended itself and fought on in the dark, raising its
broken wings like two stumps, stretching out its fleshless neck, shaking
its skull at random, here and there, like a new-born puppy.
It was so disgusting and horrible that I closed my eyes to blur the
sight. And the executioner continued to peck at the wounds, to pierce
its eyeballs and beat its naked skull; it was no longer a fight; it was
torture; it seemed as though the cock wished to torment without killing;
sometimes, when its victim remained still for a moment, it bent over and
examined it with the scrutiny of an anatomist; sometimes it stepped off
and looked down at it with the indifference of a grave-digger; then,
again, it would leap upon it with the greed of a vampire, peck, suck,
and tear it as vigorously as at first. Finally, the dying fowl stopped
suddenly, bent its head to the ground as though overcome by sleep, and
its executioner looked at it attentively and desisted.
Then the shouting was redoubled; it was no longer possible to bet on the
convulsions of its agony, so they bet on the symptoms of death: “Five
crowns that it will never raise its head!”--“Three crowns that it raises
it twice!”--“Done!”--“Done!”
The dying cock slowly raised its head; the ready executioner leaped upon
it with a storm of blows; the shouting burst out again; the victim made
another slight movement, received another pecking, shook itself;
received another blow; blood rushed from its mouth; it tottered and
fell. The victor, coward that he was, began to crow. An attendant came
and carried them both away.
All the spectators jumped to their feet and a clamorous conversation
followed; the winners laughed loud and long, the losers swore, and one
and all discussed the merits of the cocks and the chances of the
struggle: “A good fight!”--“Good cocks!”--“Poor cocks!”--“They were no
good!”--“You don’t understand it, sir!”--“Good!”--“Bad!”
“Be seated, _caballeros_!” cried the president; they all sat down, and
another fight started.
I glanced toward the battlefield and went out. Some may not believe it,
but that spectacle seemed to me more horrible than my first bull-fight.
I had no idea of such ferocious cruelty; I did not believe until I saw
it that one animal, after rendering another powerless, would be able to
abuse, torment, and torture it in that manner with the fury of hate and
the luxury of revenge; I had not believed that the rage of a beast could
reach the point of presenting the character of the most extravagant
human vice. Even now--and it is a long time since--whenever I remember
that spectacle I involuntarily turn my head to one side as if to avoid
the horrible sight of that dying cock, and I never chance to place my
hand on a railing without casting down my eyes with the expectation of
seeing the ground sprinkled with feathers and blood. If you go to Spain,
take my advice, gentlefolk, and be content with the bulls.
THE CONVENT OF THE ESCURIAL.
Before leaving for Andalusia, I went to see the famous convent of the
Escurial, the Leviathan of architecture, the eighth wonder of the world,
the grandest pile of granite on the earth; and if you wish other
high-sounding names, you have only to create them, but you will find
none that has not previously been applied to the edifice. I left Madrid
early in the morning.
The village of the Escurial, which gives the convent its name, lies
about eight leagues from the city, a short distance from the Guadarrama;
the road crosses a desolate, arid plain bounded by a horizon of
snow-clad mountains. When I arrived at the station of the Escurial a
cold, drizzling rain was falling, which chilled me through.
From the station to the village there is a climb of half a mile. I
entered a diligence, and after a few minutes’ ride was set down in a
solitary street bordered on the left by the convent, and on the right by
the houses of the village, and closed in the distance by the mountains.
At the first sight one can make out nothing clearly: one expected to
see a building, and sees a city; one does not know whether one is
already in the convent or still outside of it; on every side there are
walls; one goes forward, and finds one’s self in a square, looks around,
and sees streets, but has scarcely entered these before the convent
again closes around, and one has lost one’s bearings and does not know
which way to turn. The first feeling is one of sadness. The entire
building is of dirt-colored stone pointed with white lines; the roofs
are covered with plates of lead. It seems like a building of earth. The
walls are very high and bare, and there are a great number of windows,
which look like loopholes. One would call it a prison rather than a
convent. Everywhere one sees that sombre, dead color; there is not a
living soul stirring, and the silence of an abandoned fortress broods
over it; beyond the black roofs rises the black mountain, which seems to
hang over the edifice and give it an air of mysterious solitude. The
place, the lines, the colors, everything, seems to have been chosen by
the founder for the purpose of offering to the eyes of man a sad and
solemn spectacle.
Before entering you have lost your gaiety; you no longer smile; you
think. You are arrested at the doors of the Escurial by a sort of
trepidation, as at the gates of a desolate city; it seems that if the
terrors of the Inquisition still linger in any corner of the earth,
they must be found within these walls; you would say that here one might
see its last traces and listen to its last echo.
Every one knows that the basilica and convent of the Escurial were
founded by Philip II. after the battle of San Quintino, in fulfilment of
a vow to Saint Lawrence made during the siege where the besieging force
was obliged to storm a church consecrated to that saint. Don Juan
Batista of Toledo began the work, and Herrera finished it; twenty years
were spent in its construction. Philip II. wished the edifice to present
the form of a gridiron, in commemoration of the martyrdom of Saint
Lawrence, and such indeed is its form. The foundation is a rectangular
parallelogram.
At the four corners rise four great square towers with pointed roofs,
which represent the four feet of the gridiron; the church and the royal
palace, which rise on one side, are symbolic of the handle, the interior
buildings, which connect the two sides lengthwise, answer for the
cross-bars. Other smaller buildings rise beyond the parallelogram at a
short distance from the convent, and extend along one of the longer
sides and one of the courts, forming two great squares; on the other two
sides are gardens. The façades, the doorways, the vestibules--everything
is in harmony with the grandeur and dignity of the edifice, and it is
useless to add description to description. The royal palace is most
splendid, and it is well to see it before entering the convent and the
church, so as not to confuse the different impressions. This palace
occupies the north-east corner of the structure. Some of the rooms are
full of paintings; others hung from floor to ceiling with tapestries
designed by Goya, representing bull-fights, popular balls, sports,
festivals, and Spanish costumes; others royally furnished and adorned;
the pavement, the doors, the windows covered with marvellous workmanship
in mosaic and superb gilding.
But the chamber of Philip II. is the important one among all these
rooms--a cell rather than a room, bare and squalid, with an alcove which
opens into the royal oratory of the church, so that from the bed, when
the doors are closed, one may see the priests saying mass. Philip II.
slept in that cell, there he had his last sickness, and there he died.
One may still see some chairs which he used, his writing-desk, and two
small benches on which he rested his gouty leg. The walls are white, the
ceiling is flat and without ornament, and the floor is of brick.
After seeing the royal palace one leaves the building, crosses the
square, and re-enters by the principal doorway. A guide attaches himself
to your person; you are led through a large vestibule and find yourself
in the Courtyard of the Kings.