MADRID--_continued_.
The Prado--The Mantilla and Fan--The Spanish
Type--Water-Merchants; Coffee-houses of Madrid--Newspapers--The
Politicians of the Puerta del Sol--Post-Office--The Houses of
Madrid--Tertullias; Spanish Society--The Teatro del Principe--The
Queen's Palace; the Palace of the Cortes, and the Monument of the
Dos de Mayo--The Armeria and El Buen Retiro.
Whenever Madrid is mentioned, the first objects that the word
suggests to our minds are the Prado and La Puerta del Sol. Since
then our inclination leads us to do so, let us now proceed to
the Prado, as it is the hour of the evening promenade. The Prado
consists of a number of alleys and cross-alleys, with a road in
the middle for carriages. It is shaded by stunted pollards, whose
roots are in connexion with a little basin lined with brick,
into which the water is conveyed by small canals at the hours
appointed for watering; without this precaution the trees would
soon be devoured by the dust, and shrivelled up by the sun. The
promenade commences at the Convent d'Atocha, passing by the gate
of that name, as well as by the Puerta d'Alcala, and terminating
at the gate of the Franciscan Friars. The fashionable world,
however, frequents only the space bounded by the fountain of
Cybele and the fountain of Neptune, from the Puerta d'Alcala to
the Carrera de San Jeronimo. Within this space there is a large
plot of ground called the _saloon_, surrounded by chairs, like the
principal walk in the gardens of the Tuileries. Near the _saloon_
there is a cross-walk which bears the name of _Paris_. It is the
Boulevard de Gand of Madrid, and the rendezvous of the fashionable
world. The fashionable world, however, is not, as a general rule,
particularly distinguished by a taste for the picturesque, and in
this instance it has selected the most dusty, the least shady,
and the least convenient part of the whole promenade. The crowd
is so great in this narrow space, confined between the _saloon_
and the carriage-way, that you frequently find it a difficult task
to put your hand into your pocket and take out your handkerchief.
You must "lock up" and follow the stream as you would in the
_tail_ at the doors of a theatre (that is to say, as you would
have done when there were _tails_ at the doors of a theatre).
The only possible reason there could have been for choosing this
spot, is that you can see and salute the persons who are passing
in their carriages (it always looks well for a foot-passenger to
salute a carriage). The equipages are not very brilliant. Most
of them are drawn by mules, whose long, blackish coat, large
belly, and pointed ears, produce a most ungraceful effect; they
resemble the mourning coaches which follow a hearse. The carriage
of the queen herself has but a very simple and tradesman-like
appearance. Any Englishman, with the slightest pretensions to being
considered a millionaire, would most certainly look down upon it
with contempt; there are, doubtless, some exceptions, but they are
rare. The splendid Andalusian horses, however, on which the young
fashionables of Madrid prance about, are charming. It is impossible
to behold anything more elegant, more noble, and more graceful
than an Andalusian stallion, with its plaited mane, long, thick
tail reaching to the ground, trappings ornamented with red tufts,
stately head, sparkling eye, and neck swelling out like a pigeon's
breast. I saw one ridden by a lady, of the colour of a Bengal rose
(the horse and not the lady), frosted over with silver, and of the
most marvellous beauty. What a difference there is between these
noble beasts who have preserved all their splendid primitive form,
and those locomotive machines made of muscles and bones, called
English racers, which have nothing of the horse left about them,
save four legs and a backbone on which to place a jockey!
[Illustration: LADIES ON THE PRADO.]
The Prado most certainly offers one of the most animated sights
it is possible to behold. The promenade is one of the finest in
the world; not for the place itself, which is of the most ordinary
description, in spite of all the efforts made by Charles III. to
supply its natural defects, but on account of the astonishing
concourse of persons that are collected there every evening, from
seven o'clock until half-past ten. There are very few bonnets
to be seen on the Prado. With the exception of some few bright
yellow affairs resembling coal-scuttles, which may have been
used to decorate the head of some learned ass, you meet with
mantillas only. The Spanish mantilla is therefore a fact. I had
previously believed that it existed no longer, save in the ballads
of Monsieur Crevel de Charlemagne. It is made of black or white
lace, but generally black, and is worn at the back of the head,
on the top of the comb; a few flowers placed on each side of the
forehead complete the head-dress, which produces the most charming
effect imaginable. When a woman wears a mantilla, she must be
as ugly as the three theological virtues not to appear pretty;
unfortunately, it is the only part of the Spanish costume which
has been preserved, all the rest is _à la Française_. The lower
folds of the mantilla float above a shawl, an odious shawl, and
the shawl is accompanied by a gown of some stuff or other, which
does not bear the remotest resemblance to the basquina formerly
worn. I cannot avoid being astonished at such blindness, and I
cannot understand how it is that the women, who are generally so
clearsighted in all that relates to their beauty, do not perceive
that their immense efforts to be elegant only cause them, at most,
to look like provincial fashionables, which, after all, is but
a poor result. The old costume is so admirably adapted to the
peculiar beauty, proportions, and manners of the Spanish women,
that it is really the only one that can by any means become them.
The fan corrects, to a certain extent, the bad taste of this
pretension to _Parisianism_. A woman without a fan is something
that I have not yet seen in this happy land; I have seen some who
had satin shoes without stockings, but they always had a fan. The
fan accompanies them everywhere, even to church, where you come
across groups of them of all ages, kneeling down or squatting on
their heels, and praying and fanning themselves most fervently.
The proceedings are frequently varied by their making the sign of
the cross in the Spanish manner, which is much more complicated
than ours; they execute this manœuvre with a degree of rapidity and
precision worthy of Prussian soldiers. The management of the fan is
an art that is totally unknown in France. The Spanish women excel
in it; the fan opens, shuts, and is twirled about in their fingers
so rapidly and so lightly, that a conjurer could not do it better.
Some ladies who are great amateurs have a most valuable collection
of fans. We ourselves saw a collection of this kind which numbered
more than a hundred, of various patterns. There were fans of every
country and every period; fans made of ivory, tortoiseshell,
sandal-wood, adorned with spangles, or painted in water-colours, in
the style of Louis XIV. and Louis XV.; fans made of China or Japan
rice-paper; in a word, fans of every possible description. Some
of them were decorated with rubies, diamonds, and other precious
stones. This custom of forming large collections of fans is a piece
of tasteful extravagance, a charming mania in a pretty woman. The
shutting and opening of the fans produce a little hissing sound,
which, being repeated more than a thousand times a minute, pierces
the confused hum which floats above the crowd, and has something
very strange about it for a French ear. When a woman meets one
of her acquaintance, she makes a little sign with her fan, and
pronounces the word _agur_ as she passes him. At present let us say
something about Spanish beauty.
What we Frenchmen believe to constitute the Spanish type does
not exist in Spain; at least, I have not met with it as yet. We
generally picture to ourselves, whenever a señora or a mantilla is
mentioned, a long, pale, oval face, large black eyes with velvet
eyebrows, a sharp nose, slightly arched, a pair of bright red
lips, and, to complete the whole, a warm, gold-like tint, bearing
out the line in the song, _Elle est jaune comme une orange_ (She
is as yellow as an orange). This is the Arabic or Moorish, and
not the Spanish type. The women of Madrid are charming creatures,
in the fullest acceptation of the word; out of every four, there
are three who are pretty; but they do not correspond in the least
with the notion we have formed of them. They are short, delicate,
and well-shaped; their foot is small, their figure graceful, and
their bust full and voluptuous; but their skin is very white,
their features fine and irregular, and their mouth formed like a
heart, resembling exactly some of our beauties in the time of the
Regent.[6] Many have light chestnut hair, and you cannot take two
turns upon the Prado without meeting seven or eight women with fair
hair of every possible shade, from the light blond to the most
vivid red, like the beard of Charles V. It is an error to suppose
that there are no fair-complexioned women in Spain. Blue eyes are
very common, but they are not so highly esteemed as black ones.
During the first few days, we had some difficulty in accustoming
ourselves to the sight of women with their shoulders exposed as
if they were going to a ball, their arms bare, their feet encased
in satin shoes, and their fan in their hand, walking about alone
in a public thoroughfare, for it is not the custom to offer your
arm to a lady unless you are her husband or some near relation;
you content yourself with merely walking by her side, at least as
long as it is light, for after nightfall, this practice is not so
rigorously observed, especially with foreigners who are not used to
it.
We had heard people talk a great deal of the _manolas_ of
Madrid; the type of the _manola_ has disappeared, like that of
the grisette in Paris, and of the _transteverini_ in Rome; it
certainly does exist, but it has been stripped of all its primitive
characteristics. The _manola_ no longer wears her old costume,
which was so spirited and picturesque. The ignoble gown of printed
calico has replaced the bright-coloured basquina, embroidered with
extravagant patterns; the frightful leather shoe has superseded
the satin slipper, and, horrible idea, their gowns are lengthened
at least two good inches. In former days, the _manolas_ lent
an aspect of variety to the Prado by their lively manner and
their singular dress; at present, it is difficult to distinguish
them from the wives of the lower class of tradespeople. I looked
for the _full-blood_ manola in every corner of Madrid; at the
bull-fights, in the Garden _de las Delicias_, at the _Nuevo
Recreo_, and on the Festival of Saint Anthony, without finding a
perfect one. Once, as I was crossing the quarter of the _Rastro_,
the Temple[7] of Madrid, after I had picked my way between an
immense number of dirty wretches, who were stretched out asleep,
upon the ground, in the midst of the most horrible collection of
rags, I found myself in a little deserted lane. There, for the
first time, did I behold the manola I was in search of. She was a
tall, strapping girl, about four-and-twenty, which is the greatest
age that a _manola_ or a grisette can ever attain. She had a dark
complexion, a sorrowful but determined look, rather thick lips, and
something strangely African in the general formation of her face.
An immense roll of hair that was so intensely black as to appear
blue, and plaited like so much basket-work, encircled her head and
terminated in a large high-backed comb. A bunch of coral hung from
each ear, her tawny neck was adorned with a necklace of the same
material; a mantilla of black velvet was wound around her head
and shoulders, her robe, which was as short as those of the Swiss
girls in the Canton of Berne, was formed of embroidered cloth, and
exposed to view her well-shaped nervous legs encased in a pair
of tightly-fitting black silk stockings; her shoes were of satin
according to the old fashion; and to complete the whole, a red fan
fluttered about like a cinnabar butterfly between her fingers,
which were loaded with silver rings. The last of the _manolas_
turned round the corner of the lane and disappeared from my sight,
leaving me in a state of astonishment at having once, at least,
seen walking about in the every-day world a costume so admirably
adapted for the masquerades at the Opera! On the Prado, too, I
saw some _pasiegas_ from Santander, in their national costume.
These _pasiegas_ are accounted the best wet-nurses in Spain, and
their affection for their little charges is as proverbial as is
the honesty of the natives of Auvergne in France. They wear a red
cloth petticoat with large pleats, and a broad silver-lace border,
a velvet bodice trimmed with gold, and a variegated bright-coloured
silk handkerchief as a headdress, the whole being accompanied with
silver trinkets and other barbarous ornaments. These women are
extremely handsome, and have a very striking expression of strength
and grandeur. Their custom of carrying the child upon their arms
causes them to throw their body rather back; this shows off the
development of their busts to great advantage. It is looked upon as
a kind of luxury to keep a pasiega in full costume, just as it is
to have a Klepht standing behind your carriage.
I have said nothing about the dress of the men. Look at the plates
of the fashions, six months old, in the shop of some tailor, or
in some reading-room, and you will have a correct idea of it.
Paris is the object which absorbs the thoughts of every one, and I
recollect having once seen written over the shed of a shoe-black,
"Boots cleaned here after the Parisian fashion (_al estilo de
Paris_)." The modest aim of the modern hidalgos is to embody the
delicious designs of Gavarni; they are not aware that there are
but a few of the most elegant Parisians who can succeed in the
attempt. We must, however, do them the justice to say, that they
are much better dressed than the women; their patent-leather boots
are as brilliant, and their gloves as white as it is possible for
boots or gloves to be. Their coats are correct, and their trousers
very praiseworthy; but the cravat cannot boast of the same purity
of taste, and the waistcoat, the only portion of modern costume
which offers any scope for the exercise of the fancy, is not always
irreproachable.
There is a trade at Madrid of which no one in Paris has an idea.
I allude to the retailing of water. The stock in trade of the
water-seller consists of a _cantaro_ of white clay, a small reed or
tin basket, containing two or three glasses, a few _azucarillos_
(sticks of porous caramel sugar), and sometimes a couple of
oranges or limes. There is one class of water-sellers, who have
little casks twined round with green branches, which they carry
on their back. Some of them even go so far--along the Prado, for
instance--as to exhibit painted counters, surmounted by little
brass figures of Fame, and small flags, not a whit inferior in
magnificence to the displays made by the _marchands de coco_ in
Paris. These same water-sellers are generally young _muchachos_
from Gallicia, and are clad in a snuff-coloured cloth jacket,
breeches, black gaiters, and a peaked hat. There are also some who
are natives of Valencia, with their white linen drawers, their
piece of stuff thrown over their shoulder, their legs bronzed by
the sun, and their _alpargatas_ bordered with blue. There are also
a few women and little girls, whose costumes present nothing worthy
of notice, that sell water. They are called, according to their
sex, _aguadores_ or _aguadoras_. In all quarters of the city do you
hear their shrill cries, pitched in all sorts of keys, and varied
in a hundred thousand manners: _Agua, agua, quien quiere agua?
Agua helada, fresquita como la nieve!_ This lasts from five in the
morning till ten in the evening, and has inspired Breton de los
Herreros, a favourite author of Madrid, with the idea of a song,
entitled _l'Aguadora_, which has been very popular all through
Spain. This thirst of the population of Madrid is certainly a most
extraordinary thing; all the water in the fountains, and all the
snow of the mountains of Guadarrama, are insufficient to allay it.
People have joked a great deal about the poor Manzanares, and its
Naïad with her dry urn, but I should just like to see what sort
of a figure any other river would cut in a town parched up by the
same thirst. The Manzanares is drunk up at its very source; the
aguadores anxiously lie in wait for the least drop of water, the
slightest appearance of humidity which oozes forth between its
dry banks, and carry it off in their _cantaros_ and casks; the
laundresses wash the linen with sand, and, in the very middle of
the bed of the river, a Mahommedan would not find sufficient water
to enable him to perform his ablutions. The reader may, perhaps,
recollect a delicious _feuilleton_, in which Méry describes the
thirst of Marseilles. Exaggerate this six times, and you will have
but a slight idea of the thirst of Madrid. The price of a glass
of water is a _cuarto_ (about a farthing). What Madrid most stands
in need of, after water, is fire, wherewith to light its cigars;
consequently, the cry, _Fuego, fuego_, is heard in every direction,
mingled incessantly with that of _agua, agua_. There is a desperate
struggle between the two elements, each of which appears to be
striving which can make the most noise. The fire, which is more
inextinguishable than that of Vesta, is carried about by young
rascals in little vases filled with coal and fine ashes, with a
handle, to prevent the bearers from burning their fingers.
[Illustration: FOUNTAIN AT MADRID.]
It is now half-past nine o'clock. The crowd on the Prado begins
to thin, and the promenaders direct their steps towards the
coffee-houses and botillerias which line the Calle d'Alcala and the
neighbouring streets.
To us who are accustomed to the dazzling and fairy-like splendour
of the Parisian cafés, the coffee-houses of Madrid appear to be
nothing more than mere low, twenty-fifth-rate public-houses. The
manner in which they are decorated recalls most successfully
to your recollection the wretched sheds in which bearded women
and living sirens are shown to the public. But this want of
splendour is amply compensated by the excellence and variety of
the refreshments. I must frankly own that Paris, so superior
in everything else, is behindhand in this respect: the art of
the _limonadier_ is with us in its infancy. The most celebrated
coffee-houses are those of the _Bolsa_, at the corner of the
_Calle de Carretas_; the _Café Nuevo_, which is the rendezvous of
the _exaltados_; the _Café de_ ---- (I have forgotten the name),
where those who belong to the moderate party, and who are called
_cangrejos_, that is to say, "crabs," meet; and the _Café del
Levante_, just by the Puerta del Sol. I do not mean to assert that
the others are not good, but simply that those I have mentioned are
the most popular. I must not forget the _Café del Principe_, next
the theatre of the same name, and which is the customary resort of
the actors and authors.
With your leave, we will enter the Café de la Bolsa, which is
ornamented with little mirrors, hollowed out behind, so as to
form different designs, such as are to be seen in certain German
glasses. Here is the list of the _bebidas heladas_, of the
_sorbetes_, and of the _quesitos_. The _bebida helada_ (iced drink)
is contained in glasses distinguished by the name of _grandes_ or
_chicos_ (large or small), and offers a great variety; there is
the _bebida de naranja_ (orange), _de limon_ (lemon), _de fresa_
(strawberry), and _de guindas_ (cherries), which are as superior
to those frightful bottles of sour currant juice and citric acid,
which the proprietors of the most splendid Parisian cafés are
not ashamed to serve up to their customers, as real sherry is
to authentic _vin de Brie_: the _bebida helada_ is a kind of
liquid ice, a sort of most delicious _purée de neige_, of the most
exquisite flavour. The _bebida de almendra blanca_ (white almonds)
is a delightful beverage, which is unknown in France, where we
gulp down a something which is dignified by the name of _orgeat_,
and compounded of a number of horrible medicinal materials of some
kind or other. You can also procure iced milk, half strawberry,
half cherry, which, while your body is boiling in the torrid
zone, causes your throat to revel in all the frosts and snows of
Greenland. During the daytime, when the ices are not yet ready,
you have the _agraz_, a kind of beverage made of green grapes, and
contained in bottles with extraordinarily long necks; the taste of
this _agraz_ is slightly acid and exceedingly pleasant. You can
also indulge in a bottle of _Cerveza de Santa Barbara con limon_;
but this requires some little preparation. First of all, a bowl and
a large spoon are brought, like that with which punch is stirred
round. A waiter then advances, carrying a bottle fastened at the
top with wire. He undoes this with a vast amount of care, the cork
pops out, and the beer is poured into the bowl, into which a small
decanter of lemonade has previously been emptied. The whole is then
stirred round with the spoon; you fill your glass, and swallow
the contents. If this mixture does not please you, you have only
to enter one of the _orchaterias de chufas_, which are generally
kept by natives of Valencia. The chufa is a little berry, of the
almond species, which grows in the environs of Valencia, and which,
when roasted and beaten in a mortar, forms an exquisite beverage,
especially when mixed with snow. Prepared in this manner it is
extremely refreshing.
To conclude my account of the coffee-houses, I will remark that
the _sorbetes_ differ from those in France by being more solid;
that the _quesitos_ are little ices, very hard, and shaped like
small cheeses; there are some of all sorts, apricot, pine-apple,
orange, and so on, as in Paris; but there are likewise some made
up with butter (_manteca_) and eggs not yet formed, and taken from
the hens which have been opened on purpose. This custom is peculiar
to Spain, for I never heard of this singular piece of refinement
anywhere else but at Madrid. They give you also _spumas_ of coffee,
chocolate, and other materials. These _spumas_ are a kind of
iced whipt cream, as light as a feather, and sometimes powdered
with cinnamon grated very fine. All these various compounds are
accompanied by _barquilos_, a kind of cake or wafer rolled up in
a long cylindrical shape, through which you drink your _bebida_,
as you would with a syphon, by sucking slowly one of the ends.
This is a little piece of refinement which allows you to enjoy
the coolness of the beverage longer than you otherwise could do.
Coffee is not served up in cups, but in glasses; it is, however,
very rarely taken. All these details will perhaps strike the reader
as highly fastidious; but if he were exposed, as I am, to a heat of
from 30 to 35 degrees, he would consider them deeply interesting.
The papers most frequently met with in the coffee-houses are the
_Eco del Comercio_, the _Nacional_, and the _Diario_, which gives
a list of the various festivals every day, the hour at which mass
is performed and sermons preached in the various churches, the
degree of heat, lost dogs, young countrywomen who want situations
as wet-nurses, criadas who want places, &c. &c.--But it is striking
eleven. It is time to return home; the only persons in the _Calle
d'Alcala_ are a few promenaders who have stopped beyond the usual
hour. There is no one in the streets but the _serenos_, with their
lantern suspended at the end of a pole, their cloak, which is of
the same colour as the walls around them, and their measured cry:
all that you hear besides this is a chorus of crickets singing,
in their little cages decorated with small glass ornaments,
their dissyllabic lament. The people of Madrid have a taste for
crickets; each house has one hung up at the window in a miniature
cage made of wood or wire. They have also a strange affection for
quails, which they keep in open osier coops, and which vary, in
a very agreeable manner, by their everlasting _pue-pue-pue_, the
_crick-crick_ of the crickets. As Bilboquet remarks, those who are
fond of this particular note must be highly delighted.
The _Puerta del Sol_ is not a gate, as any one would suppose, but
the _façade_ of a church, painted rose-colour, and decorated with
a clock, which is illuminated at night, and also with a large sun
with golden rays. It is from the latter that it derives its name
of _Puerta del Sol_. Before the church is a place, or square,
traversed, in its greatest length, by the _Calle d'Alcala_, and
crossed by the _Calles de Carretas_ and _de la Montera_. The
Post-office, a large regular building, occupies the corner of the
_Calle de Carretas_, with its _façade_ looking upon the square.
The _Puerta del Sol_ is the rendezvous of the idlers of the town,
who, it appears, are rather numerous, for from eight o'clock in
the morning there is always a dense crowd on the spot. All these
grave personages stand about the place, enveloped in their cloaks,
although the heat is overpowering, under the frivolous pretence
that what protects you from the cold protects you from the heat,
too. From time to time an index and forefinger, as yellow as a
guinea, are seen to issue from beneath the straight motionless
folds of a cloak, and roll up a paper containing a few pieces
of chopped cigar, while, shortly afterwards, there rises from
the mouth of the grave personage who wears the cloak a cloud of
smoke; proving that he is endowed with the power of respiration,
a fact which his perfectly motionless appearance might lead any
one to doubt. With regard to the _papel Español para cigaritas_,
I may as well take this opportunity of remarking that, as yet, I
have not seen a single packet of it. The natives of the country
employ ordinary letter-paper, cut into small pieces; the packets,
tinted with liquorice-juice, variegated with grotesque designs,
and covered with _letrillas_, or comic songs, are sent to France,
for the use of the amateurs of local colouring. Politics form
the principal subject of conversation; the seat of war is a
favourite topic, and there is more strategy at the _Puerta del
Sol_ than on all the battle-fields of all the campaigns in the
world. Balmaseda, Cabrera, Palillos, and other adventurers of more
or less importance, at the head of different bands, are, every
moment, being brought upon the _tapis_, when things are related
of them which make you shudder--atrocities that have gone out
of fashion, and long been looked upon as displaying bad taste,
even by the Caribbees and Cherokees. Balmaseda, during his last
expedition, advanced to within some twenty miles of Madrid, and,
having surprised a village near Aranda, amused himself by breaking
the teeth of the _ayuntamiento_ and the alcade, and terminated
the pastime by nailing horseshoes on the feet and hands of a
constitutional curé. When I expressed some astonishment at the
perfect indifference with which this piece of intelligence was
received, I received for answer that the affair had taken place
in Old Castile, and that, consequently, it concerned nobody. This
reply sums up the whole history of Spain at the present moment, and
furnishes us with a key to very many things which to us in France
appear incomprehensible. The fact is, that an inhabitant of New
Castile cares no more for anything that happens in Old Castile,
than for what occurs in the moon. As forming one great whole, Spain
does not yet exist; it is still the kingdoms of Spain, Castile and
Leon, Aragon and Navarre, Granada and Murcia, &c.; it is composed
of a number of different races, speaking different dialects, and
hating one another most cordially. Being a simple-minded foreigner,
I spoke warmly against such a refinement of cruelty, but my
attention was called to the fact that the curé was a constitutional
curé, which considerably extenuated the matter. Espartero's
victories, which appear to us, who have been accustomed to the
colossal victories under the Empire, rather mediocre, frequently
serve as a text for the politicians of the _Puerta del Sol_. After
one of these triumphs, in which two men have been killed, three
made prisoners, and a mule seized carrying one sabre and a dozen
cartridges, the town is illuminated, and a distribution of oranges
and cigars made to the army, producing a degree of enthusiasm
easily described. Formerly, and even at present, the nobles used to
go into the shops near the _Puerta del Sol_, and, ordering a chair
to be brought, stop there for a good part of the day, conversing
with the customers, to the great annoyance of the shopkeeper, who
was afflicted with such a proof of familiarity.
Let us enter, if you please, the Post-office, to see whether there
are no letters from France. This hankering after letters is an
actual disease. You may be sure that the first public building a
traveller visits when he arrives in any city, is the Post-office.
At Madrid, every letter addressed _poste restante_ is numbered,
and the number and name of the person to whom the letter is sent
are posted upon a certain pillar. There is a pillar for January,
another for February, and so on. You look for your name, observe
the number, and go and ask for your letter at the office, where
it is delivered up to you without any further formality. At the
expiration of a year, if the letters are not fetched away, they
are burnt. Under the galleries surrounding the courtyard of the
Post-office, and shaded by large spartum blinds, are established
all kinds of reading-rooms, like those under the galleries of
the Odéon, at Paris, where you go to see the Spanish and foreign
papers. The postage is not dear, and, despite the innumerable
dangers to which the couriers are exposed on the road, which is
almost invariably infested by insurgents and bandits, the service
is conducted as regularly as possible. It is on these pillars, too,
that poor students post notices to the effect that they are willing
to black the boots of some rich cavalier, in order to procure the
means of attending their lectures of rhetoric or philosophy.
Let us now go about the town as chance may lead us, for chance is
the best guide, especially as Madrid is not rich in architectural
beauties, and as one street is as remarkable as another. The
first thing that you perceive on the angle of a house or street
directly you raise your nose in the air, is a small porcelain
plate with the following inscription--_Manzana. vicitac. gener._
These plates formerly served to number entire blocks or heaps of
houses. At present each house is numbered separately, as in Paris.
The quantity of plates that decorate the fronts of the houses and
inform you that they are insured against fire, would excite your
astonishment, especially in a country where there are no fireplaces
and no fires. Everything is insured, including even the public
monuments and churches. The civil war, it is said, is the cause of
this great alacrity in insuring. As no one is certain of not being
more or less fried alive by some Balmaseda or other, he endeavours
to save at least his house.
The houses of Madrid are built of lath and plaster, and bricks,
save the jambs, the belting courses, and the straps, which are
sometimes of grey or blue granite. The whole is rough-cast,
and painted fantastically enough, sea-green, bluish ash-colour,
fawn-colour, canary, and other hues more or less Anacreontic. The
windows are surrounded by imitations of architectural ornaments
of every description, with an infinite profusion of volutes,
scroll-work, little loves and flower-pots. They have likewise large
Venetian blinds with broad blue and white stripes, or spartum
matting, which is sprinkled with water in order that it may render
the wind cool and humid as it passes through. The modern houses
are merely whitewashed, or coloured cream-colour like those in
Paris. The balconies and _miradores_ jutting out from the walls,
somewhat relieve the monotony of so many straight lines with their
regular well-defined shadow, and diversify the naturally flat
aspect of all these buildings, in which the portions that should
be raised in relief are merely painted, as they would be on a
scene in a theatre. Fancy all this lighted up with a blazing sun;
at certain distances along these streets bathed in light, place
a few long-veiled señoras spreading their fans out like parasols
and holding them against their cheeks; a few bronzed and wrinkled
beggars, clothed in scraps of cloth and rags as rotten as tinder;
some few Valencians, half-naked and looking like Bedouins; imagine
that you behold rising up between the housetops the small dwarf
cupolas, and little bulging bell-turrets, terminated by leaden
balls, and belonging to some church or convent, and the result will
be rather a strange kind of scene, which will at least prove that
you are no longer in the Rue Lafitte, and that you have decidedly
left the Parisian asphalte for the time being, even if your feet,
which are cut about by the pointed flint-stones of the pavement,
had not already convinced you of the fact.
One circumstance struck me as really most astonishing; I allude
to the frequency of the following inscription: _Juego de Villar_,
which is repeated every twenty steps. For fear you should imagine
that some mystery lies concealed beneath these three sacramental
words, I will instantly translate them. They only signify, _Game
of Billiards_. I cannot possibly conceive what can be the use of
having so many billiard-rooms; there are enough for the whole
universe. After the _Juego de Villar_, the most common inscription
is, _Despacho de Bino_ (wine stores). In these places you can buy
Val-de-Peñas, as well as wines of a better quality. The counters
are painted in the most gaudy colours, and ornamented with drapery
and foliage. The _confiterias_ and _pastelerias_ are likewise very
numerous, and ornamented in a very natty manner. Spanish preserves
deserve to be particularly mentioned; there is one sort, known
by the name of angel's hair (_cabello de angel_), which is truly
exquisite. The pastry is as good as it can be in a country where
there is no butter, or where, at least, butter is so dear and so
bad that it can hardly be used. The Spanish pastry rather resembles
what we call in France _petit four_. All these various signs are
written in abbreviated characters, with the letters entwined in one
another; which renders it at first a difficult task for foreigners
to understand them; and if ever there were any persons famous for
reading signboards, foreigners are most decidedly those persons.
The houses are vast and convenient inside; the rooms are lofty, and
the architects have evidently not been cramped for space. In Paris
a whole house would be built in the well of certain staircases I
have seen here. You traverse a long succession of rooms before
reaching that part of the house which is really inhabited, for
the furniture of all these said rooms consists only of a little
whitewash, or a dull yellow or blue tint, relieved by a fillet
of colour and sham panelling. Smoky, black-looking pictures,
representing some martyr or other in the act of being beheaded
or ripped open, favourite subjects with Spanish painters, are
suspended against the walls, most of them having no frames, and
hanging in folds on the wood-work. Board flooring is a thing that
is not known in Spain--at least, I never saw any there. Every
room is paved with bricks; but as these bricks are, during the
winter, covered with matting made of grass, and during the summer
with matting made of rushes, they are much less disagreeable than
they otherwise would be. This matting is made with great taste;
it could not be better even if manufactured by savages of the
Philippine or Sandwich Islands. There are three things which, in
my eyes, determine with the precision of thermometers the state of
a people's civilization: these are--its pottery-ware, the degree
of skill it possesses in plaiting osiers or straw, and its manner
of caparisoning its beasts of burden. If the pottery is handsome,
pure in form, as correct as the antique, and with the natural
colour of the white or red clay; if the baskets and the matting
are fine, wonderfully entwined, and enhanced by arabesques of the
most admirably-selected colours; and if the harness is embroidered,
stitched, and decorated with bells, tufts of wool, and elegant
designs, you may be sure that the people is in a primitive state,
still very near that of nature: civilized nations can make neither
a pot, a mat, nor a set of harness. At the moment I am writing
these lines, there is hanging before me, attached to a column by a
small string, the _jarra_, in which the water I drink is cooling.
This _jarra_ is an earthen pot, worth twelve _cuartos_,--that is
to say, about six or seven French sous: its outline is charming,
and, with the exception of the productions of Etruscan art, I
never saw anything more pure. It spreads out at the top, forming
a sort of trefoil with four leaves, each of which has a slight
indenture down the middle, so that the water can be poured out
in whatever direction the vessel happens to be taken up. The
handles, which are ornamented with a small hollow moulding, are
most elegantly joined on to the neck and sides; the swell of the
latter is delicious. Instead of these charming vases, the wealthy
people prefer abominable big-bellied, podgy, ill-shapen English
pots, covered with a thick coating of varnish, and resembling large
jack-boots polished white. But while talking of boots and pottery
we have strayed rather far from our description of the houses; let
us resume it without further delay.
The small quantity of furniture found in Spanish houses offers a
specimen of the most frightful bad taste, and reminds you of the
_Goût Messidor_ and _Goût Pyramide_. The forms that were popular
under the Empire still flourish in all their integrity, and you
once more meet mahogany pilasters terminated by sphinxes' heads of
green bronze, as well as the brass rods and frame of garlands in
the style of Pompeii; all which objects have long since disappeared
from the face of the civilized world. There is not a single piece
of furniture of carved wood, not a single table inlaid with burgau,
not a single Japan cabinet--in a word, there is nothing. The Spain
of former days has completely passed away; all that remains of it
are a few pieces of Persian carpeting and some damask curtains. On
the other hand, however, there is a most extraordinary profusion of
straw chairs and sofas. The walls are disfigured with false columns
and false cornices, or daubed over with some kind of tint or other
which resembles water-colours. On the tables and the _étagères_ are
arranged little biscuit-china or porcelain figures, representing
troubadours, Mathilda and Malek Adel, and a variety of other
subjects equally ingenious, but long since gone out of fashion:
there are also poodle dogs blown in glass, plated candlesticks with
tapers stuck in them, and a hundred other magnificent things, which
would take me too long to describe; what I have already said will
perhaps be thought sufficient. I have not the courage to dwell on
the atrocious coloured prints, which are hung on the walls under
the absurd pretence that they adorn them. There are perhaps some
exceptions to this state of things, but they are rare. Do not run
away with the notion that the houses of the higher classes are
furnished with more taste and richness. My description is most
scrupulously exact, and holds good of the houses of persons keeping
their carriage, and six or eight servants. The blinds are always
drawn down and the shutters half closed, so that the light which
reigns in the apartments is about a third only of that outside.
A person must become accustomed to this darkness before he can
discern the different objects, especially if he comes from the
street. Those who are in the room see perfectly, but those who
enter it are blind for eight or ten minutes, especially if one of
the rooms they have to traverse is lighted up, which is often the
case.
The heat at Madrid is excessive, and breaks out suddenly without
any spring to prepare people for it. This has given rise to the
saying with regard to the temperature of Madrid: "Three months of
winter, and nine months of ----:" the reader can perhaps supply the
deficiency. It is impossible to protect yourself from this flood
of fire otherwise than by remaining in low rooms, which are almost
buried in complete obscurity, and where the humidity is constantly
kept up by a continual watering. This craving for coolness has
given rise to the fashion of having _bucaros_, a savage and strange
piece of refinement which would certainly possess no charm for our
French ladies, but which appears to the Spanish beauties to be a
most useful and elegant invention.
The _bucaros_ are a sort of pot, formed of red American earth,
rather similar to that of which the bowls of Turkish pipes are
formed; they are of all sizes and of all forms, some being gilt
along the rims, and decorated with coarsely-painted flowers. As
they are no longer manufactured in America, these _bucaros_ are
becoming very scarce, and in a few years will be as fabulous and as
difficult to be met with as old Sèvres china; of course when this
is the case, every one will want to possess some.
The manner of using the _bucaros_ is as follows:--Six or eight of
them are placed upon small marble tables or the projecting ledges
round the room, and filled with water. You then retire to a sofa,
in order to wait until they produce the customary effect and to
enjoy it with the proper degree of calm. The clay soon assumes
a deeper tint, the water penetrates through its pores, and the
_bucaros_ begin to perspire, and emit a kind of perfume which is
very like the odour of wet mortar, or of a damp cellar that has
not been opened for some time. This perspiration of the _bucaros_
is so profuse, that at the expiration of an hour half the water
has evaporated. That which is left has got a nauseous, earthy,
cisterny taste, which is, however, pronounced delicious by the
_aficionados_. Half-a-dozen _bucaros_ are sufficient to charge
the air of a drawing-room with such an amount of humidity that
it immediately chills any one entering the apartment, and may be
considered as a kind of cold vapour-bath. Not content with merely
enjoying the perfume and drinking the water, some persons chew
small pieces of the _bucaros_, which they swallow after having
reduced them to powder.
I went to a few parties, or _tertulias_, but they did not offer
any very peculiar features. The guests dance to the piano as they
do in France, but in a still more modern and lamentable fashion.
I cannot conceive why people who dance so little do not at once
make up their minds not to dance at all. This would be much more
reasonable and quite as amusing. The fear of being exposed to a
charge of indulging in a _bolero_, a _fandango_, or a _cachuca_,
renders the ladies perfectly motionless. Their costume is very
simple compared to that of the men, who invariably resemble the
plates of the fashions. I noticed the same thing at the Palace de
Villa Hermosa on the occasion of a representation for the benefit
of the Foundling Hospital, _Niños de la Cuna_, which was graced
by the presence of the queen-mother, the little queen, and all
the nobility and fashionables of Madrid. Women who could boast of
possessing two titles of duchess and four of marchioness, wore such
toilettes as a Parisian dressmaker going to a party at a milliner's
would despise; Spanish women have forgotten how to dress in the
Spanish fashion, and have not yet learned how to dress in the
French style: if they were not pretty, they would frequently run
the risk of appearing ridiculous. At one ball only did I see a lady
with a rose-coloured short satin petticoat, ornamented with five or
six rows of black blond, like that worn by Fanny Elssler in "The
Devil upon Two Sticks;" but she had been to Paris, and it was there
that she had learnt the mystery of Spanish costume. The _tertulias_
cannot be very expensive. The refreshments are remarkable for
their absence; there is neither tea, ices, nor punch. On a table
in one of the rooms are a dozen glasses of perfectly pure water
and a plate of _azucarillos_; but a man is generally considered
as indiscreet and _sur sa bouche_, as Henri Monnier's Madame
Desjardins would express it, if he pushes his Sardanapalism so far
as to take one of the latter to sweeten the water. This is the case
in the richest houses; it is not the result of avarice, but custom.
Such, however, is the hermit-like sobriety of the Spanish, that
they are perfectly satisfied with this regimen.
As for the morals of the country, it is not in six weeks that a
person can penetrate the character of a people, or the habits of
any one class. Strangers, however, are apt to receive certain
impressions on their first arrival; which wear off after a long
stay. It struck me that, in Spain, women have the upper hand,
and enjoy a greater degree of liberty than they do in France.
The behaviour of the men towards them appeared to be very humble
and submissive; they are most scrupulously exact and punctual in
paying their addresses, and express their passion in verses of all
kinds, rhymed, assonant, _sueltos_, and so on. From the moment they
have laid their hearts at some beauty's feet, they are no longer
allowed to dance with any one save their great-great-grandmothers.
They may only converse with women of fifty years of age, whose
ugliness is beyond the shadow of a doubt. They may no longer visit
a house in which there is a young woman. A most assiduous visitor
will suddenly disappear, and not return for six months or a year,
because his mistress had prohibited him from frequenting the
house. He is as welcome as if he had only left the evening before;
no one takes the least offence. As far as any one can judge at
first sight, I should say that the Spanish women are not fickle
in love: the attachments they form frequently last for years.
After a few evenings passed in any house, the various couples are
easily made out and are visible to the naked eye. If the host
wishes to see Madame ----, he must invite Mr. ----, and _vice
versâ_. The husbands are admirably civilized, and equal the most
good-natured Parisian husbands; they display none of that antique
Spanish jealousy which has formed the subject of so many dramas
and melodramas. But what completely does away with all illusion
on the subject is that every one speaks French perfectly, and,
thanks to some few _élégants_ who pass the winter in Paris, and go
behind the scenes at the Opera, the most wretched ballet-girl and
the most humble beauty are well known at Madrid. I found there,
for instance, something that does not exist, perhaps, in any other
place in the world: a passionate admirer of Mademoiselle Louise
Fitzjames, whose name conducts us, by a natural transition, from
the tertulia to the stage.
The internal arrangements of the _Teatro del Principe_ are very
comfortable. The performances consist of dramas, comedies,
_saynetes_, and interludes. I saw a piece by Don Antonio Gil y
Zarate, entitled "Don Carlos el Heschizado," and constructed
entirely after the Shakspearian model. Don Carlos was very like the
Louis XIII. of Marion de Lorme, and the scene of the monk in the
prison is imitated from the scene of the visit which Claude Frollo
makes Esmeralda in the dungeon where she is awaiting her death. The
character of Carlos was sustained by Julian Romea, a most talented
actor, who has no rival that I know, except Frederick Lemaître, in
a totally opposite style: it is impossible for any one to carry
the power of illusion further, or remain more true to nature.
Mathilda Diez, also, is a first-rate actress; she marks all the
various shades of a character with exquisite delicacy, and with an
astonishing degree of nice appreciation. I have only one fault to
find with her, and that is, the extreme rapidity of her utterance,
which, however, is no fault in the opinion of Spaniards. Don
Antonio Guzman, the _gracioso_, would not be out of place on any
stage. He reminded me very much of Legrand, and, at certain times,
of Arnal. Fairy pieces, also, with dances and divertissements,
are sometimes played at the _Teatro del Principe_; I saw one of
this description, entitled "La Pata de Cabra:" it was an imitation
of "Pied de Mouton," that used to be played at the Théâtre de la
Gaieté. The choreographic portions were remarkably poor; their
first-rate _danseuses_ are not even as good as the ordinary
_doubles_ at the Opera; but, on the other hand, the supernumeraries
display a great amount of intelligence, and the "Pas des Cyclopes"
was executed with uncommon neatness and precision. As for the
_baile national_, such a thing does not exist. At Vittoria, Burgos,
and Valladolid, we had been told that the good _danseuses_ were at
Madrid; in Madrid we are informed the true dancers of the cachuca
exist only in Andalusia, at Seville. We shall see; but I am very
much afraid that in the matter of Spanish dancers, we must depend
upon Fanny Elssler, and the two sisters Noblet. Dolores Serral,
who produced such a lively sensation in Paris, where I was one of
the first to call attention to the bold passion, the voluptuous
suppleness, and the petulant grace, which characterized her style
of dancing, appeared several times at Madrid, without making the
least impression, so incapable are the Spaniards now-a-days of
understanding and enjoying the old national dances. Whenever the
_jota aragonesa_ or the _bolero_ is danced, all the fashionable
portion of the audience rise and leave the house; the only
spectators left are foreigners, and persons of the lower classes,
in whom it is always a more difficult task to extinguish the poetic
instinct. The French author most in repute at Madrid is Frederick
Soulié; almost all the dramas translated from the French are
attributed to him. He appears to have succeeded to the popularity
which Monsieur Scribe formerly enjoyed.
As we are now pretty well acquainted with theatrical matters, let
us proceed to view the public buildings; they will not detain us
long. The Queen's Palace is a square solid building of fine stones
strongly put together, with a great profusion of windows, and a
corresponding number of doors, Ionic columns, Doric pilasters,
and all the other elements of what is termed architectural good
taste. The immense terraces which support it, and the snow-covered
mountains of the Guadarrama rising behind, relieve any tendency to
sameness or vulgarity which its outline might otherwise present. In
the interior, Velasquez, Maella, Bayen, and Tiepolo, have painted
some of the ceilings in a more or less allegorical style. The
grand staircase is very fine, and was considered by Napoleon to be
superior to that at the Tuileries.
The building in which the Cortes meet is interspersed with
Pæstumian columns, and lions in long perukes, exhibiting the most
abominable want of taste; I doubt very much whether good laws can
be made in an edifice of this description. Opposite the chamber
of the Cortes, in the middle of the square, is a bronze statue of
Miguel Cervantes. It is, doubtless, a very praiseworthy action to
erect a statue to the immortal author of "Don Quixote," but I think
they should have erected a better one.
The monument raised to the memory of the victims of the _Dos de
Mayo_ is situated on the Prado, not far from the picture-gallery.
On perceiving it, I thought for a moment that I was suddenly
transported to the Place de la Concorde, at Paris, and beheld,
as if in some fantastic mirage, the venerable obelisk of Luxor,
which, up to that time, I had never suspected of any taste for
vagabondism. The monument is composed of a kind of grey granite
_cippus_, surmounted by an obelisk of reddish granite, the tone
of which is very similar to that of the Obelisk at Paris. It is a
pity that the Spanish obelisk is not made of a single block. The
names of the victims are engraved in golden letters on the sides of
the pedestal. The _Dos de Mayo_ is an heroic and glorious episode,
which the Spaniards have a slight tendency to make the most of;
you perceive engravings and pictures of it wherever you go. You
will have no difficulty in believing that we Frenchmen are not
represented in them as being very handsome; we look as frightful as
the Prussians of the Cirque Olympique.
The Armeria does not come up to the ideas generally entertained
of it. The Museum of Artillery at Paris is, beyond comparison,
far richer and more complete. In the Armeria at Madrid there are
very few entire suits, with the various portions of which they
are composed belonging to one another; helmets of one period
being stuck upon breastplates of another as well as of quite a
different style. The reason given for this confusion is, that at
the time of the French invasion all these curious relics were
hidden away in lofts and other places, where they were so mixed
up and jumbled together that it was subsequently impossible to
reunite the different parts with any certainty. No degree of credit
can therefore be placed in the description of the guides. We were
shown a carriage of admirably-carved wood-work, said to be that
of Joanna of Aragon, mother of Charles V., but it evidently could
not be more ancient than the reign of Louis XIV. The chariot of
Charles V., with its leather cushions and curtains, struck us as
far more authentic. There are very few Moorish weapons: two or
three shields, and a few yatagans form the whole collection. The
greatest curiosities are the embroidered saddles, studded with gold
and silver stars, and covered with steel scales; these are very
numerous and of all kinds of strange shapes, but it is impossible
to say to what period or to whom they belonged. The English admire
very much a kind of triumphal hackney-coach made of wrought iron,
and presented to Ferdinand somewhere about the year 1823 or 1824.
I may here mention some fountains of a very corrupt _rococo_ style,
but very amusing; the bridge of Toledo, a specimen of bad taste,
very rich and highly ornamented with ovalos and chicory leaves,
and a few strangely-variegated churches surmounted by Muscovite
turrets. We will now direct our steps towards the Buen Retiro, a
royal residence situated at the distance of a few paces from the
Prado. We Frenchmen, who possess Versailles and Saint Cloud, and
could formerly boast of Marly, are difficult to please in the
matter of royal residences. The Buen Retiro strikes us as being
the realization of the dreams of some well-to-do tallowchandler.
It is a garden filled with the most ordinary but glaring flowers,
and little basins ornamented with vermicular rustic rock-work, and
small fountains like those we see in certain fishmongers' shops.
It also contains pieces of green water, on which swim wooden swans
painted white and varnished, besides an infinity of other marvels
of a very ordinary description. The natives fall into ecstasies
before a certain rustic pavilion built of small round blocks, the
interior of which has rather strong claims to being considered
Hindoo in style. The first _Jardin Turc_ at Paris, the primitive
and patriarchal _Jardin Turc_, with its kiosks and windows filled
with small coloured panes, through which you saw a blue, green, or
red landscape, was far superior both in taste and magnificence.
There is also a certain Swiss cottage, which is the most ridiculous
and absurd affair it is possible to imagine. At the side of this
cottage is a stable, furnished with a goat and a kid both stuffed,
and also with a sow of grey stone, suckling a litter of young
pigs of the same material. A few paces from the cottage the guide
suddenly leaves you, and opens the door in a mysterious manner.
When, at last, he calls you and gives you leave to enter, you hear
low rumbling of wheels and balance-weights, and find yourself in
the presence of a number of frightful automatons, who are churning,
spinning, or rocking, with their wooden feet, children equally
wooden, and sleeping in carved cradles: in the next room is the
grandfather ill in bed, while his medicine is standing on a table
beside him. Such is a very accurate summary of the principal
wonders of the Buen Retiro. A fine equestrian statue in bronze of
Philip V., the pose of which resembles that of the statue of Louis
XIV. in the Place des Victoires at Paris, makes up in some degree
for all these absurdities.
[Illustration: MADRID.]
The description of the Museum at Madrid would require a whole
volume. It is rich in the extreme, and contains a very large number
of the works of Titian, Raphael, Paolo Veronese, Rubens, Velasquez,
Ribeira, and Murillo. The pictures are hung in an excellent light,
and the architectural style of the building is tolerably good,
especially in the interior. The Façade looks on the Prado, and is
a specimen of bad taste, but taken altogether the building does
honour to the architect, Villa Nueva, who drew the plans. After
the Museum, the next place to be visited is the Cabinet of Natural
History, containing the mastodon, or _dinotherium giganteum_, a
marvellous specimen of the fossil world, with bones like bars of
iron. It must at least be the behemoth mentioned in the Bible. The
collection also contains a lump of virgin gold weighing sixteen
pounds, a number of Chinese gongs, the sound of which, in spite of
what people say, very much resembles that which is produced if you
kick a copper, and a succession of pictures representing all the
possible varieties which can be produced by crossing white, black,
and copper-coloured races. I must not forget in the academy three
admirable pictures by Murillo,--namely, the Foundation of Santa
Maria Mayora (two pictures), and Saint Elizabeth washing the heads
of persons afflicted with scurvy; two or three admirable Ribeiras;
a Burial, by _El Greco_, some portions of which are worthy of
Titian; a fantastic sketch by the same artist, representing monks
performing different acts of penance, and surpassing the most
mysterious and gloomy creations of Lewis or Anne Radcliffe; and a
charming woman in Spanish costume, lying on a divan, by the good
old Goya, that pre-eminently national painter, who seems to have
come into the world expressly to collect the last vestiges of the
ancient manners and customs of his country, which were about to
disappear for ever.
Francisco Goya y Lucientes, was the last who could be recognised
as a descendant of Velasquez. After him come Aparicio, Lopez, and
others of the same stamp. The decadence of art is complete: the
cyclus is closed! Who shall ever recommence it? Goya is, indeed,
a strange painter--a most singular genius! Never was originality
more decided--never was a Spanish painter more local. One of Goya's
sketches, consisting of four touches of his graver in a cloud of
aquatint, tells you more about the manners of the country than
the longest description. From his adventurous kind of life, his
impetuosity, and his manifold talents, Goya seems to belong to the
best period of the art; and yet he was in some sort a contemporary,
having died at Bordeaux in 1828.
Before attempting to judge his works, let us give a summary sketch
of his biography. Don Francisco Goya y Lucientes was born in
Aragon. His parents were not affluent, but their circumstances were
sufficiently easy to offer no obstacle to his natural talents. His
taste for drawing and painting was developed at an early age. He
travelled, studied for some time at Rome, and returned to Spain,
where he very soon made a fortune at the court of Charles IV.,
who conferred on him the title of Painter to the King. He was
received at the Queen's, the Prince of Benavente's, and the Duchess
d'Alba's; and lived in the same grand style as Rubens, Van Dyck,
and Velasquez--a mode of existence so highly favourable to the
development of picturesque genius. He had, in the neighbourhood of
Madrid, a delicious _casa de campo_, where he used to give _fêtes_,
and where he had his studio.
Goya was very prolific; he painted sacred subjects, frescoes,
portraits, and sketches of manners, besides producing etchings,
aquatints, and lithographic drawings. In everything he did, even
in the slightest sketches, he gave proof of the most vigorous
talent; the hand of the lion is evident in his most careless works.
Although his talent was perfectly original, it is a strange mixture
of Velasquez, Rembrandt, and Reynolds; reminding you in turns, or
at the same time, of all these masters, but as the son reminds you
of his ancestors, without any servile imitation,--or rather, more
by a certain congeniality of taste than by any formal wish.
His pictures in the Museum at Madrid consist of the portraits of
Charles IV. and his Queen on horseback: the heads are admirably
painted, and are full of life, delicacy, and intelligence; a
Picador, and the "Massacre of the Second of May," a scene from the
French Invasion. The Duke d'Ossuna possesses several of Goya's
works, and there is hardly a family of consequence that has not
some portrait or sketch of his. The interior of the church of San
Antonio de la Florida, where there is a _fête_ which is pretty
numerously attended, at the distance of half a league from Madrid,
is painted in fresco by Goya, with that boldness and effect which
characterize him. At Toledo, in one of the capitular rooms, we saw
a painting of his, representing Jesus betrayed by Judas. The effect
of night is such as Rembrandt would not have disowned; indeed, I
should have attributed the picture to him, had not a canon pointed
out to me the signature of the famous painter of Charles IV. In
the sacristy of the cathedral at Seville there is also a picture
of great merit by Goya, representing Saint Justine and Saint
Ruffine, virgins and martyrs, who were both daughters of a potter,
a circumstance that is indicated by the _alcarazas_ and _cantaros_
grouped at their feet.
Goya's mode of painting was as eccentric as his talent. He kept
his colours in tubs, and applied them to the canvass by means of
sponges, brooms, rags, and everything that happened to be within
his reach. He put on his tones with a trowel, as it were, exactly
like so much mortar, and painted touches of sentiment with large
daubs of his thumb. From the fact of his working in this offhand
and expeditious manner, he would cover some thirty feet of wall in
a couple of days. This method certainly appears somewhat to exceed
even the licence accorded to the most impetuous and fiery genius;
the most dashing painters are but children compared with him. He
executed, with a spoon for a brush, a painting of the "Dos de
Mayo," where some French troops are shooting a number of Spaniards.
It is a work of incredible vigour and fire; but, curious as it is,
it is dishonourably banished to the antechamber in the museum at
Madrid.
The individuality of this artist is so strong and so determined,
that it is difficult to give even the faintest notion of it.
Goya is not a caricaturist like Hogarth, Bunbury, or Cruikshank;
Hogarth was serious and phlegmatic, as exact and minute as one of
Richardson's novels, always impressing some moral lesson on the
mind of the spectator; Bunbury and Cruikshank, so remarkable for
their sly humour and their comic exaggeration, have nothing in
common with the author of the "Caprichos." Callot might at first
appear to be more like him, for Callot was half Spaniard, half
gipsy; but Callot is distinct, delicate, clear, definite, and true
to nature, despite the mannerism of his forms and the extravagant
and braggart style of his costume; his most singular devilries
are rigorously possible; his etchings are always remarkable for
their strong light, for the minute attention to the various
details in them is fatal to effect and chiaro-oscuro, which can
only be obtained by sacrificing them. The compositions of Goya are
enveloped in the deepest gloom of night, traversed merely by an
unexpected ray of light, which brings out some pale outlines or
strange phantoms.
Goya's works are a mixture of those of Rembrandt, Watteau, and the
comical dreams of Rabelais; a strange union! Add to all this, a
strong Spanish flavour, a strong dose of the _picaresque_ spirit
of Cervantes, when he drew the portraits of the Escalanta and the
Gananciosa in _Rinconete_ and _Cortadillo_, and even then you will
only have an imperfect notion of Goya's talent. We will endeavour
to explain it more exactly, if, indeed, it is possible to do so by
mere words.
Goya's drawings are executed in aquatinta, touched up and picked
out with aquafortis; nothing can be more frank, more free, and
more easy. A single stroke expresses a whole physiognomy, and a
trail of shade serves as a background, or allows the spectator to
catch a glimpse of some landscape only half-sketched in, or some
pass of a _sierra_, fit scenes for a murder, a witches' sabbath,
or a _tertulia_ of gipsies; but this is rare, for the _background_
cannot be said to exist in Goya's works. Like Michael Angelo, he
completely despises external nature, and only takes just sufficient
to enable him to group his figures, and very often he composes
his background of clouds alone. From time to time, there is a
portion of a wall cut off by a large angle of shade, a hedge hardly
indicated, and that is all. For the want of a better word, we
have said that Goya was a caricaturist. But his caricatures are
in the style of Hoffmann, where fancy always goes hand in hand
with criticism, and often rises to the gloomy and the terrible. It
seems as if all these grinning heads had been drawn by the talons
of Smarra, on the wall of some suspicious alcove, lighted by the
flickering of an expiring lamp. You feel transported into some
unheard-of, impossible, but still real world. The trunks of the
trees look like phantoms, the men resemble hyenas, owls, cats,
asses, or hippopotamuses; their nails may be talons, their shoes
covered with bows may conceal cloven feet; that young cavalier may
be some old corpse, and his trunk hose, ornamented with ribbons,
envelop perhaps a fleshless thigh-bone and two shrunk legs; never
did more mysterious and sinister apparitions issue from behind the
stove of Dr. Faustus.
It is said that Goya's caricatures contain certain political
allusions, but they are few in number. They are directed against
Godoy, the old Duchess de Benavente, the favourites of the queen,
and some of the noblemen of the court, whose vices and ignorance
they stigmatize. But you must seek their meaning through the folds
of the thick veil with which they are covered. Goya executed, also,
other drawings for his friend, the Duchess d'Alba; but they have
never been made public, doubtless, on account of the ease with
which they could be applied to the persons caricatured in them.
Some of them ridicule the fanaticism, gluttony, and stupidity of
the monks, while others represent subjects of public manners or
witchcraft.
The portrait of Goya serves as a frontispiece to the collected
edition of his works. He is represented as a man of about fifty,
with a quick oblique glance, a large eyelid and a sly, mocking,
crow's-foot beneath. The chin is curved upwards, the upper lip
is thin, and the lower one prominent and sensual. The face is
surrounded by whiskers of a description peculiar to natives of
southern climates and the head is covered by a hat _à la Bolivar_.
The whole physiognomy is that of a man of strongly-developed
character.
The first plate represents a money match, a poor young girl
sacrificed by her avaricious parents, to a cacochymical and
horrible old man. The bride looks charming with her little black
velvet mask, and her basquina ornamented with deep fringe, for Goya
represents Andalusian and Castilian beauty most marvellously; her
parents are hideous with rapacity and envious misery, resembling in
the most astounding manner sharks and crocodiles. The poor child
is laughing through her tears, like the sun piercing an April
shower. All around is a mere mass of eyes, claws, and teeth: the
intoxicating effects of dress prevent the girl from yet feeling
the whole extent of her misfortune. This is a subject which often
returns to the point of Goya's pencil, and he always succeeds in
producing very striking effects. Further on, we have _el Coco_,
"Bogy," who frightens little children, and who would frighten many
others of more mature age, for, with the exception of the ghost of
Samuel in Salvator Rosa's picture of the "Witch of Endor," I do
not know of anything more horrible than this goblin. Then, again,
we see a number of _majos_ whispering soft things to dapper young
damsels on the Prado--handsome creatures with tightly-fitting silk
stockings, little pointed slippers, which are only kept on the foot
by the tip of the great toe, high-backed tortoiseshell combs, with
open carving, and more lofty than the mural crown of Cybele; black
lace mantillas, worn like a hood, and casting a velvety shadow on
the finest black eyes in the world; short-skirted petticoats loaded
with lead, the better to show off the rich form of the hips; beauty
spots placed most murderously at the corner of the mouth, and near
the temples; heart-breakers sufficient to break all the hearts
in Spain, and large fans spread out like the tail of a peacock.
There are also hidalgos in pumps and prodigious coats, with flat
cocked-hats under their arms, and large bunches of seals and keys
hanging on their stomach making their bows _à trois temps_, leaning
over the backs of the chairs, in order to puff, like the smoke of
their cigars, clouds of light-hearted madrigals into some thick
mass of beautiful black hair, or leading about some divinity of
more or less doubtful character, by the tips of their white kid
gloves. In another page, again, you see a number of complaisant
mothers, giving their too obedient daughters advice worthy of the
Macette of Régnier, washing and greasing them to go to the witches'
sabbath. The type of the "Complaisant Mother" is marvellously
rendered by Goya, who, like all the Spanish painters, possesses
a ready and profound sense of the ignoble. It is impossible to
fancy anything more grotesquely horrible, more viciously deformed.
Each of these frightful old shrews unites in her own person the
ugliness of the seven capital sins; compared to them, the Prince
of Darkness himself is pretty. Just fancy whole ditches and
counterscarps of wrinkles; eyes like live coals that have been
extinguished in blood; noses like the neck of an alembic, covered
with warts and other excrescences; nostrils like those of the snout
of a hippopotamus rendered formidable by stiff bristles; whiskers
like a tiger's; a mouth like the slit in the top of a money box,
contracted by a horrible and convulsive grin; a something between
the spider and the multiped, which makes you feel the same kind of
disgust as if you had placed your foot upon the belly of a toad.
Such are Goya's works as far as the actual world is concerned, but
it is when he abandons himself to his demonographic inspirations
that he is especially admirable: no one can represent as he can,
floating in the warm atmosphere of a stormy night, dark masses
of clouds loaded with vampires, goblins and demons, or make a
cavalcade of witches stand out with such startling effect from the
sinister background of the horizon.
There is one plate especially which is altogether fantastic, and
realizes the most frightful nightmare that ever any human being
perceived in his dreams. It is entitled "Y aun no se van." It is
frightful; and even Dante himself never reached such a degree of
suffocating terror. Fancy a bare mournful plain, over which a
shapeless cloud, like a crocodile that has been ripped open, creeps
with difficulty along, and a large stone, the top of some tomb or
other, which a shrivelled, thin figure is attempting to raise. The
stone is, however, too heavy for the fleshless arms that support
it, and which you feel are on the point of snapping, and falls
to the ground in spite of all the efforts of the spectre and of
other smaller phantoms, who are simultaneously stiffening their
shadowy arms; many of these smaller phantoms are crushed beneath
the stone, which has been raised for a moment. The expression of
despair depicted on all these cadaverous physiognomies, in all
these eyeless sockets, that see that their labour is useless, is
truly tragic, and presents the most melancholy symbol of powerless
labour, the most sombre piece of poetry and bitter derision ever
produced on the subject of the dead. The plate called "Buen
Viage," representing a flight of demons, pupils of the seminary
of Barahona, who are winging their course with all possible speed
towards some deed without a name, is remarkable for its energy and
vivacity. It seems as if you actually heard all these membranes,
covered with hair and furnished with claws like the wings of a bat,
palpitating in the thick night air. The collection concludes with
these words: "Y es ora" (It is the hour); the cock crows, and the
phantoms disappear; for it is again day.
As to the esthetic and moral meaning of these works, what was it?
We do not know. Goya seems to have given his opinion on the subject
in one of his drawings, which represents a man with his head leant
upon his arms, and a number of owls and storks flying around. The
motto is, _El sueño de la razón produce monstruos_. This is true,
but it is terribly severe.
The _Caprichos_ are the only productions of Goya in the
Bibliothèque Royale at Paris. He has, however, produced other
works,--namely, the "Tauromaquia," a collection of thirty-three
plates; "Scenes of the Invasion," which make twenty plates, and
ought to make more than forty; the etchings after Velasquez and
many others.
The "Tauromaquia" is a collection of scenes representing various
episodes of the bull-fights, from the time of the Moors down to
the present day. Goya was a finished _aficionado_, passing a
considerable portion of his time with the _torreros_, so that he
was the most competent person in the world to treat the matter
thoroughly. Although the attitudes, positions, the defence and
the attack, or, to speak technically, the various _suertes_ and
_cogidas_ are remarkable for their irreproachable exactitude; Goya
has invested the different scenes with his mysterious shadows
and fantastic colouring. What strange and ferocious heads! What
savage and odd dresses! What fury in the action! His Moors, treated
somewhat in the manner of the Turks in the time of the Empire,
as far as costume is concerned, have the most characteristic
physiognomies imaginable--a stroke roughly scratched in, a black
spot, a streak of light, is sufficient to form a personage who
lives, who moves, and whose physiognomy remains for ever impressed
upon your memory. The bulls and horses, although sometimes fabulous
in their proportions, have an expression of life and vigour which
is often wanting in the works of animal painters by profession:
the exploits of Gazul, of the Cid, of Charles V., of Romero, of
the Student of Falces, and of Pepe Illo, who perished miserably in
the arena, are traced with a truthfulness altogether Spanish. Like
the "Caprichos," the plates of the "Tauromaquia" are executed in
aquatinta, touched with aquafortis.
The "Scenes of the Invasion" would afford matter for a curious
comparison with the "Horrors of War," by Callot. They consist of
one long series of persons hanged, heaps of dead being stripped
of all they possess, women being violated, wounded persons being
carried away, prisoners being shot, convents being sacked, a
population in the act of flight, families reduced to beggary, and
patriots being strangled; all represented with such fantastic
accessories and so exorbitant an aspect as would lead any one
to suppose that he was looking at an invasion of Tartars in the
fourteenth century. But what delicacy, what a profound knowledge of
anatomy, is displayed in all these groups, which seem to owe their
existence to mere chance and the whim of the etching-needle! Does
the antique Niobe surpass in depth of desolation and nobleness of
expression that mother kneeling in the midst of her family before
the French bayonets? Among these drawings, which admit of an easy
explanation, there is one fearfully terrible and mysterious, the
meaning of which, that we can dimly understand, fills you with
horror and affright. It is a corpse, half-buried in the earth; it
is supporting itself on its elbow, and, without looking at what
it is writing, traces with its bony hand, on a paper placed near
it, one word--_Nada_ (nothingness)--which is alone worth the most
terrible things Dante ever penned. Around its head, on which there
is just enough flesh left to render it more frightful than a mere
skull, flit, scarcely visible in the darkness of the night, a
number of monstrous spectres, lighted up here and there by flashes
of livid lightning. A fatidical hand holds a pair of scales, which
are in the act of turning upside down. Can you conceive anything
more sinister or more heartrending?
At the very conclusion of his life, which was a long one, for he
was more than eighty when he died at Bordeaux, Goya improvised
upon stone some lithographic sketches, entitled "Dibersion de
España," and representing bull-fights. Even in these plates, traced
by the hand of an old man, who had long been deaf, and who was
almost blind, you can still perceive the vigour and movement of
the _Caprichos_ and the _Tauromaquia_. It is a most curious thing
that these lithographs remind you very much of the style of Eugène
Delacroix, in his illustrations to Faust.
In Goya's tomb is buried ancient Spanish art, all the world, which
has now for ever disappeared, of torreros, majos, manolas, monks,
smugglers, robbers, alguazils, and sorceresses; in a word, all the
local colour of the Peninsula. He came just in time to collect and
perpetuate these various classes. He thought that he was merely
producing so many capricious sketches, when he was in truth drawing
the portrait and writing the history of the Spain of former days,
under the belief that he was serving the ideas and creed of modern
times. His caricatures will soon be looked upon in the light of
historical monuments.