Madrid: its Situation—The Old Town—The Rastro—The New Town—The Puerta del Sol—CafÉs—The Aguadores—The Prado Park—The Theatre—Spanish Children—The Museums—The Picture-galleries.

The contrast is great from Seville to Madrid, which is less distinctly Spanish than any city in the Peninsula. The royal capital, established by the decree of Philip II., has the appearance of an accidental growth on the harsh Castilian slopes. The climate is the worst of any town in Spain. Madrid suffers all the oppressions of the sky—baked by fierce summer suns, and chilled by the ice of treacherous winds. In point of distance it is only some twenty leagues, in one direction, from Toledo, and in the other from beautiful Avila; but in its life it is separated by centuries from the old Spanish cities. It is the strangest transformation to come from them into the eager, bustling life of the modern capital. There are no antiquities here, no great memories, no romance, nothing but what the people and the natural brightness in the air give to it.

The Throne-Room, Royal Palace, Madrid

To stay in Madrid is to undergo the most absorbing fatigue. The MadrileÑo lives with a speed that in Spain startles. The city never sleeps, never stays its chatter; its inhabitants are apparently so full of business that they turn day into night, yet no one seems to work. It thus comes about that the lover of Spain, who has become used to the untroubled content of happy Seville or the sleeping peace of Cordova and Toledo, can with difficulty find himself at home in Madrid.

Madrid is a city of contrasts. Treasures of art abound in its museum, yet of all cities it is surely the least influenced by the spirit of beauty and design. Its splendid bridge which gives entrance to the city has been ridiculed with the question, “Where is the river?” It misses all charm of environment; the city has no suburbs, and the country around is barren and without trees and verdure. Yet the MadrileÑos cannot be persuaded that any other city is its equal. It is a capital in transition of a country in transition, and as such it must be regarded.

The Rastro Market, Madrid

The old part of the town, such as the Rastro and surrounding narrow streets, where on each Sunday is held the market, the largest rag-fair in the world, still bring one a sensation of living in the Middle Ages. The wares are laid out in most primitive fashion in the narrow streets in great piles; all kinds of antiquities are sold, as well as clothes and wonderful peasant jewellery. The low stalls are piled up with flowers, fruits, and vegetables, of all colours, in confused abundance. Women and girls stand in groups of twos or threes, or sit beside their wares, bundled in bright-coloured shawls, and all with kerchiefed heads. They talk incessantly; they do not seem to care whether their goods are sold or not, but they chaffer noisily over every sale. Some of the women have perfectly-shaped faces with magnetic eyes that recall the East. It was here once that I saw a manola, beautifully attired with a white mantilla, silk shoes, gaily coloured dress and jewellery. She reminded me of Goya’s pictures.

Fine savage old men in tattered cloaks wander on the outskirts of the market asking alms, and beautiful, bewitching children play their games unchecked.

But the Rastro is not the real Madrid. The modern town, with its aspect of a city still in the making, so that one thinks not so much of what it is as of what it may become, has grown up in the image of Paris, with boulevards, wide streets, tall characterless houses and modish shops. It is to be feared that this new Madrid will overgrow all that is left of the old city.

The MadrileÑos spend their lives in the streets and squares, almost all of which are wide, clean, and well paved. The houses are ornamented with balconies, the first of which, supported by pillars, forms in many parts of the city a piazza where the inhabitants may walk under cover. The Puerta del Sol, the largest and most animated plaza, and the centre of Madrid, is the rendezvous of the idlers of the city. From eight o’clock in the morning, and far into the night, it is thronged with groups of men wrapped in their cloaks, which they wear to protect them from the treacherous winds that sweep the city even in summer. Furnished with several dozen cigarettes and coppers for azÚcar and water, they pass the hours in endless talking. Politics form the chief subject of conversation, and the progressive element in Spanish society discusses here.

Most of the cafÉs are in this quarter, and they are always filled. They are less attractive in their outside appearance than the cafÉs of Seville, but the refreshments served are excellent. The MadrileÑos, like all Spaniards, drink more water than wine. In every street and paseo you see the picturesque aguadore, with his cÁntaro of white or brown clay and reed basket, containing glasses, sticks of azucarillos, and oranges or limes. He has not changed from the day when Velazquez painted him; he still wears a loose jacket of snuff-coloured cloth, breeches, leather gaiters, and a peaked hat.

Perhaps it is the climate which causes the MadrileÑos always to suffer thirst. The bebidas heladas, or iced drinks, flavoured with orange, lemon, strawberry, cherries, or almond, which are sold in every cafÉ, are far superior to any English or American beverages. Spanish preserves also deserve to be mentioned, and there is one variety, known by the name “angel’s hair,” cabello de angel, which is delicious.

Madrid is so much a modern city that at first the stranger hardly realizes how pleasantly its inhabitants live. It is most fortunately rich in well-shaded parks and beautiful green promenades.

The Prado is the evening gathering-place of the fashionable MadrileÑos, and the tree-shaded promenade, from seven o’clock onwards, affords the most animated sight. An astonishing number of people collect here. In the crossways which intersect the carriage-drive, all the families of the city walk to enjoy the cool of the evening. The MadrileÑos are seen at their finest here. The majos, resembling plates of fashion in their tight, faultless clothes, stand about in groups admiring the ladies who roll past in landaus, for carriages are essential to fashionable Madrid. Some of the men ride the splendid Andalusian horses; with manes, long sweeping tails, and gay trappings, like the horses that Velazquez painted. The MadrileÑas have adopted the costumes of Paris, and in fashionable attire Spanish women always look badly dressed. The mantilla is, however, worn by most women, and even a plain face looks beautiful in this fascinating head-dress. Like all Spanish women, each MadrileÑa carries a fan, which is held open as a parasol to give shade from the sun. A woman without a fan is unknown, and there is something truly Spanish in the use these vivid, bewitching women make of them. The MadrileÑa collects fans as an English lady collects jewels; she will often own more than a hundred of various colours and patterns.

Mounting guard in the Plaza De Armas, Royal Palace, Madrid

During summer this outdoor parade in the Prado is in gay career until midnight; and as the night advances the promenades are full of gay noise. There are open-air concerts, and dancing takes place upon the open spaces of grass. Around the stalls of the refresco sellers, families are seated talking gaily together. The greatest animation prevails. The MadrileÑos never seem to be tired. The abandonment to happiness is contagious, and the stranger will gain a sense of the joy of life as he sees the ardent faces of men, women, and children, in whom mirth is never vulgar, but as natural as speech.

In the winter season the MadrileÑos visit the theatre, which every Spaniard adores. Gautier writes that “long before Shakespeare the Spaniards invented the drama.” Spain in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries produced an almost countless number of dramatic works, and a passion for the drama still animates the people. Spanish women, as we should expect, are first-rate actresses; they mark all shades of character with appreciation and fine delicacy. It is interesting to note that it was in Spain that women first played women’s parts, which in England at the same period were entrusted to boys.

The Teatro Real at Madrid is devoted to Italian opera, but at the more popular Teatro EspaÑol, where La Guerrero, the Bernhardt of Spain holds sway, there is an opportunity of witnessing the native dramas of Zorilla, Hartzenbusch, and Tirso de Molina, or the modern society plays of Echegaray and Galdos. The sainete, which takes the place of our “curtain-raiser,” is usually comic, and those that are most popular are adapted from the farces of Cervantes and Lope de Rueda.

Even in the heat of summer the MadrileÑos visit the theatres, but at this season the performances are limited to the popular zarzuelas, operettas, four of which are given in each evening.

Spanish children share the love of the theatre which belongs to their elders. At the afternoon performances, which are given on every Sunday and fiestas, half the house is occupied by child ticket-holders, whose interest in the action of the piece is astonishing. They applaud with cries of “bonito”; they ask questions, and the house is never still for a single instant.

Spanish children are already grown up when quite young, but they are the most fascinating little people, at the same time natural and self-conscious, with a sort of precocious winsomeness. Their bodies are so full of energy that they give an impression of more vivid life than the children of Northern countries.

Nowhere are children happier and more loved than in Spain; the niÑos are the idols of their parents, and are universally treated with indulgence. Yet the Spanish child is not spoilt, and the obedient spirit is never lacking. Even the poorest child is taught to practise those courtesies of life which in Spain are never forgotten. Ask a child his name, and after the answer he will always add, “at the service of God and yourself.” No child forgets the “mil gracias” with which a benefit is accepted. I recall a small boy of peasant parentage who acted as my guide upon one occasion, and who, when asked what gift he would like for his service, answered: “I shall like best, seÑora, what pleases you most to give me.” Even in the prayer which Spanish children offer at night you find an expression of this quaint, delicious politeness:

“Jesus, Joseph, Mary,
Your little servant keep,
While, with your kind permission,
I lay me down to sleep.”

Those who have taught Spanish children all praise their intelligence. During the first twelve years of life both girls and boys develop more rapidly than other European children.

Children at play in the park of the Buen Retiro, MadridThis precocious understanding is manifest in their games. Go to the great park of the Buen Retiro, where during each afternoon the young MadrileÑos are busy with their plays of bull-fighting, politics, and flirtations. The children are attended by their nurses, who most frequently are the pasiegas from Santander, who wear the charming national costumes of a pleated red petticoat with silver-lace border, velvet bodice, and brightly coloured handkerchief as head-dress.

Al toro is the favourite game. The niÑos, using a mask for the bull and the capes of red and yellow which are sold on the stalls, go through the whole pantomime of the bull-ring with a vivid and quite grown-up delight in the sharp appeal made to their sensations. Another group play at soldiers, armed with sticks for swords and holding a great flag. Other children, a little older, pass the time in flirtations. The boys pay the extravagant Spanish compliments to little girls, or in the wooded groves they sing the native melodies to the answering songs of the nightingales.I talked with one young singer, who told me he had reached his fifteenth year, and already was betrothed. I asked him if he were not too young. “No, seÑora,” was his answer; “God is good, and my parents have money to maintain us.” Afterwards he took up his song, that had something wild and Oriental in its passionate notes.

Among the excellences of Madrid must be counted her Museums. The Armeria with its fine collection of arms and weapons, the Museo Naval, and the Museo Arqueologico, furnish effective mementoes of the entire tragedy of Spain’s history. Of her art galleries who can say praise enough? It is only in Madrid that it is possible to realize, to the full extent of their gifts and limitations, the artists of Spain. The Academia de Bellas Artes and the Museo de Arte Moderno are rich in pictures. And it is to see the Museo del Prado that the stranger visits Madrid; no picture-gallery in the world contains a more wonderful collection of masterpieces.

It is a splendid art inheritance that is enshrined in the Prado. Spain in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries was closely connected with the countries that were then the centres of art. The Catholic Sovereigns had a fine taste for pictures, and to them we owe largely the collection of the great works which, after the pictures of Velazquez, are the glory of the Prado.

The building, of pale brick and white stone, placed in a tree-shaded park, is well designed, and on the whole well lighted. Externally it is a model of what a picture-gallery should be. A bronze statue of Velazquez stands before the entrance. This is fitting. The Prado is in a very special way the home of Velazquez. No other nation has been so supremely fortunate in preserving almost intact the work of her greatest painter. No picture is wanting to the complete understanding of his exquisite art.

In the Prado there are masterpieces by the world’s great painters—by Titian, by Rubens, by Raphael, by Albrecht DÜrer, by Holbein, and how many others? But even in the presence of these masters we seek Velazquez. Here, too, Goya astonishes us with his vigorous and wonderful art; there are admirable paintings by El Greco, by Ribera, by Murillo; but we can see nothing but Velazquez. And the emotion of first seeing these pictures is one of awe. We are not in the presence of an Old Master, but of a painter who in his perfect art forestalled every modern movement in painting. This is why Velazquez stands alone among artists. And the lover of art journeys to the Prado that he may study his pictures, as the pilgrim journeys to the shrine of his saint.