Spanish Life in Town and Country Part 3

The _aire tan sutil_ will kill me, and that will be the end of the matter." So far from killing him, the fine champagne-like air of Madrid went as near curing him as was possible for a man with only one lung. He took no precautions, never wrapped up, went out at night as well as by day, and when he died, fourteen years later, it was not of consumption.

He used to come to Madrid for the winter to escape the damp of England, and revelled in the warmth and freshness of that sun-steeped air.

The climate of Madrid has sensibly altered since I have known it, and will continue to do so as vegetation increases and trees spring up and grow to perfection within and around it. In the old times, before the splendid service of water of the Lozoya Ca.n.a.l was in common use, the air was so dry as to make one's skin uncomfortable, and one's hair to break off into pieces like tinder under the brush; there was also a constant thickening in the throat, causing slight discomfort, and a penetrating, impalpable dust which nothing ever laid, and which formed a veritable cloud reaching far above the heads of the promenaders in the Salon del Prado. A very short time changed all this. Twice a day the streets were watered with far-reaching hose, a constant stream ran about the stems of the trees in the Prado, gardens were planted and constantly watered, and while the hitherto barren, dust-laden places began to blossom as the rose, the air itself became softer, less trying, and, perhaps, there is rather more uncertainty about the weather, or at any rate a greater rainfall. At one time there were but two rainy seasons--spring and autumn--and never a cloud in between. For about three days clouds would be gathering gradually in the sky, beginning with one literally "no bigger than a man's hand." Whenever there was a cloud, you might be certain of rain, past or to come. Then one day, when there was no longer any blue to be seen, the heavens opened and the rain came down. There could be no mistake about it. When it rains or thunders in Madrid, it tries to get it all over as quickly as possible. There is nothing like doing a thing well when you are about it, and Madrid thoroughly understands this matter of rain. It never ceases, never tempts people to go out and then drowns them. No, if you go out, it is with a thorough understanding of what you are undertaking; and if you are disposed to be critical about anything in the munic.i.p.al management of La Corte now, try to imagine what it was when the water from the roofs was carried out in wide pipes a few feet from the edge, and allowed to pour on the heads of the defenceless foot-pa.s.sengers, or almost to break in the roof of carriage or cab which had to pa.s.s under them. This is the time to learn why the bridges over the Manzanares are so wide and so strong; not one whit too much of either, if they are to withstand the mighty on-rush. We used to go off to the Casa de Campo the moment the rain was over, for the sake of seeing Madrid as one never sees it at other times--its magnificent Palace crowning the steep bluff, round which a mighty river is rushing to the sea.

The rain lasts a week, a fortnight, or even more, and then the sky takes at least three days to clear, during which it resembles our English white-flecked blue, or its hurrying grey ma.s.ses, and the cloud-shadows fly over the wide landscape, now all suddenly changed to verdure, and lie on the distant _sierra_, giving an unwonted charm to the scene. The Casa de Campo, the Florida, and all green spots become carpeted with wild flowers; the trees seem to have put on new leaf.a.ge, so fresh are they and free from the over-loading of dust. And then, gradually, the Manzanares repents him of his anger and haste; no more foam is dashing against the piers of the bridges, no more crested waves are hurrying before the wind; he sinks gently and slowly back to his accustomed lounging pace, "taking the sun" with lazy ease once more; and the washerwomen come down and resume their labours under the plane trees; and there is no more thought of rain for many a week, perhaps month, to come; and that strangely deep, impenetrable vault of a blue unknown elsewhere spreads its canopy over a clean, rain-washed city.

The Parque de Madrid, which lies high above the Prado, affords a striking view of the country on all sides. An Englishman of wide Continental experience, describing this prospect, says he was "more than recompensed by the sudden apparition, through an opening between the houses, of the exquisite _campagna_ that surrounds Madrid.... Compared with that of Rome, it seemed to me clearer, and more extensive, while the hue of the atmosphere that overspread it was of a rich purple." I have quoted these remarks because it is so rare for English visitors, accustomed to the lush green of our own meadows and woods, to find anything to admire in what is too often called the "mangy," or at best the "arid," surroundings of the capital of Spain. This, however, was written in September, and there had been heavy rains; after the crops are gathered and before the autumn rains come on, the prospect is scarcely so much to be admired. That the view is extensive, no one can deny; there is unbroken horizon, except where the rugged peaks of the Guadarramas pierce the sky, and the atmospheric effects are often marvellously beautiful, especially when the swift shadows of clouds pa.s.s over the wide landscape, or lie upon the "everlasting hills."

For myself, this vast expanse, with the sense of immensity which we generally are only able to a.s.sociate with the sea, has always had an extraordinary charm. I have seen it at all times of the year, early in the morning, and at, or just before, sundown--nay, even once or twice by moonlight, or with the marvellous blue vault overhead, that seems so much higher and greater there than elsewhere, studded with planet and star, luminous beyond all that we know in our little island, where the blue is so pale by comparison, and the atmosphere laden with moisture when we think it most clear. I do not remember elsewhere in Spain, or in any other country, such a depth of sky or such brilliancy of moon and star light as in Madrid, where it is as easy to read by night as by day on some occasions.

Given plenty of water, and Madrid is an ideal place for flowers. Such carnations as those which are grown in the nursery gardens there are never seen elsewhere--they are a revelation in horticulture; nor are the roses any less wonderful. The bouquet with which a Spaniard, whether _hidalgo_ or one of your servants, greets your birthday is generally a pyramid almost as tall as yourself. It needs to be placed in a large earthenware jar on the floor, and if you should be happy enough to have a good many friends, there is scarcely room for anything else in your _gabinete_. The flowers one can raise in a balcony in Madrid merely by using plenty of water, syringing the dust off the leaves, and shading them occasionally from the worst heat, are more than equal to anything a hothouse in England can produce. An idea may be formed of the really marvellous fertility of the soil and climate by the rapidity with which seeds develop. I remember one summer, when some of the new gardens were being laid out in the Buen Retiro, a grand concert and evening _fete_ was to be given as the opening function. On the evening before this entertainment was to take place we happened to be near, and strolled in to see how the preparations were going on. The gravel walks were all there, the stands for the bands, the Chinese lanterns hanging from the trees, but where was the gra.s.s? Alas! wherever it ought to have been were to be seen brown, sad-looking patches of bare earth, not a blade springing anywhere; what was worse, an army of gardeners were, at that moment only, sowing the seed in some patches, while others were being rolled, and watered with hose. _Cosa de Espana!_ of course. It had been put off to _manana_, until now there might be _fete_, but no gardens.

The following evening, when in company with all Madrid we went to the concert, behold a transformation! Soft, green, velvety sward--not to be walked on, it is true, but lovely to behold--covered the patches so absolutely bald twenty-four hours ago. The seed we had seen sown had sprung up as thickly as finest cut velvet. _Cosa de Espana_, indeed! It is not always in Spain--the land of the unexpected--that _Manana veremos_ is foolishness.

Until after Christmas the winter in Madrid is charming, even if it be cold; the glorious sunshine from dawn to sunset, the fine exhilarating air, raise one's spirits unconsciously; but very often the old year is dead before any real cold comes on. I have sat out in the Buen Retiro many a day in December with book or work, and scarcely any more wrap than one wears in summer in England. After that there is generally a cold, and perhaps disagreeable, spell, when the wind comes howling across the plains straight from the snow and ice, and the Madrileno thinks it terrible; as a matter of fact, so long as the sky remains clear, there is always one side of the street where one can be warm.

Sometimes, but not often, the cold weather or the bitter winds last pretty far into the spring, and it has certainly happened in the depth of the frost that one of the sentries on duty at the Palace, on the side facing the mountains, was found frozen to death when the relief came.

After that the watch was made shorter, and the change of guard more frequent in winter. I have seen the Estanque Grande in the Retiro covered with ice several inches thick; but as all Madrid turned out to see the wonder and watch the foreigners skate, a thing that appeared never to have been seen before, it could not have been a very common occurrence.

Riding early in the morning in winter outside Madrid, even with the sun shining brightly and a cloudless sky, the cold was often intense, especially in the dells and hollows. We have often had to put our hands under the saddle to keep them from freezing, so as to be able to feel the reins, and if I were riding with the sun on the off-side, my feet would become perfectly dead to feeling. But what an air it was!

Something to be remembered, and long before we reached home we were in a delicious glow. The horses, English thoroughbreds, enjoyed it immensely, and went like the wind. I have been in Madrid in every part of the year, and never found it unbearably hot, though one does not generally wait for July or August; but here again the lightness and dryness of the air seem to make heat much easier to bear. Numbers of Madrid people think nothing of remaining there all the summer through.

CHAPTER V

MODERN MADRID

Madrid has grown out of all knowledge in the last thirty years. No one who had not seen it since the time of Isabel II. would recognise it now, and even then much had been done since Ferdinand VII. had come back from his fawning and despicable captivity in France--where he had gloried in calling himself a "French prince"--to act the despot in his own country.

The Liberal Ministers who, for short periods, had some semblance of power during the regency of Cristina had done a little to restore the civilisation and light established by Charles III., and wholly quenched in the time of his unworthy and contemptible successors. But even in 1865, the Alcala Gate, standing where the Plaza de la Independencia is now, formed one boundary of Madrid, the Gate of Atocha was still standing at the end of the _paseo_ of that name, and the Gate of Sta.

Barbara formed another of the limits of the city. The Museo was unfinished and only to be entered by a side door, enc.u.mbered with builders' rubbish and half-hewn blocks of stone. The Paseo of la Fuente Castellana ended the Prado, and not a house was to be seen beyond the Mint, or outside the Gate of Alcala.

All the town outside these barriers has arisen since; the magnificent viaduct across the Calle de Segovia, the Markets, the Parque de Madrid, the Hippodrome, the present Plaza de Toros, all are new. The old Bull Ring stood just outside the Alcala Gate, and all beyond it was open country; no _casas palacias_ along the Fuente Castellana, no Barrio Salamanca. Madrid has, however, always been a cheerful, noisy, stirring city, full of life and the expression of animal spirits. In days not so very long past the streets were filled with picturesque costumes of the provinces, with gaily decorated mules and donkeys carrying immense loads of hay or straw, or huge nets filled with melons or pumpkins, almost hiding everything but the head and the feet of the animal; or a smart-looking "Jacket" man from the country districts would go whistling by, Asturians, Murcians, Gallegos, gypsies, _toreros_ in their brilliant _traje_ Andaluz--always to be recognised by their tiny pigtails of hair, and by their splendidly lithe and graceful carriage--all these jostling, singing, chaffing each other, while the jingling bells on innumerable horses, mules, donkeys, rang through the sunlit air, and made the Puerta de Sol and the streets branching from it a constant scene of life and gaiety. Now and then would come the deep clang of the huge bell of the draught oxen, drawing their Old-World carts, often with solid discs of wood for wheels, while the women of the lower cla.s.s sported their brilliantly embroidered Manila shawls, chattered, and fluttered their gaily-coloured fans just like the other senoritas. Mantillas, even then, were only to be seen on old ladies; but the smart little _velo_ coquettishly fastened with a natural flower adorned all the young girls--French millinery, which never suits a Spanish face, being kept for the evening _paseo_. It is a pity these national costumes have gone out of fashion. A Spanish girl with _velo_ and fan is something quite superior to the same fascinating young person dressed after the style of Paris--with a difference; for there is always a difference.

[Ill.u.s.tration: OUTSIDE THE PLAZA DE TOROS, MADRID]

Madrid, in fact, is becoming cosmopolitan, and is little to be distinguished from other capitals, except in the _barrios bajos_ on the national _fiestas_, and wherever the country people, as distinguished from the Madrid work-people, congregate. These last are rapidly losing all picturesqueness, dressing just as the workers in any other capital dress. They are, perhaps, still no less _gatos_ (cats), those of them at least who have had the honour of being born in La Corte, this being the name given them by their fellow country-people.

If it be meant as a term of reproach, the Madrileno has an excellent answer in giving the history of its origin. In the reign of Alfonso VI., during one of the many war-like operations of this King, he wished to take an important and difficult fortress, and had collected all his forces to attack it--the Madrilenos alone were late; it was, in fact, only the day before the a.s.sault was to take place that they arrived upon the scene. The King was furious, and when their leader approached his Majesty to know where the troops were to bivouac for the night, he replied that there was no room in his camp for laggards; pointing to the enemy's fortress, he added: "_There_ will be found plenty of lodging for those who come too late for any other." Saluting his Majesty very courteously, the soldier withdrew, understanding thoroughly the indirect sneer at the valour of his troops; he went back to his regiment, summoned his officers and men, and repeated to them the King's word. One and all agreed that they would, in fact, seek their night's lodging just where the King had indicated. Impossible as the feat appeared, they instantly rushed to the attack of the formidable fortress with such irresistible dash that they succeeded in scaling the walls and entering it, pikes in rest. The King, who had run forward as soon as he heard of the attack, watched with delight his loyal Madrilenos climbing up the face of the masonry with extraordinary skill, and not a little loss.

"Look, look!" he cried to those near him. "See how they climb! They are cats!"

The other forces at once came to their a.s.sistance, the fortress fell into the King's hands before nightfall, and those who had been in "no hurry" to join the army found their lodgings within it, as his Majesty had contemptuously recommended them to do. His anger was forgotten in admiration and praise; and, from that time, all those born in Madrid have the right to call themselves _gatos_.

It is curious how the observation of those who know Spain intimately differs--one must suppose according to temperament. Thus Antonio Gallenga, the well-known correspondent of the _Times_, who really knew Spain well, has left it on record that the people are not musical, and that he never remembers to have heard any of them singing in the streets, or at their work. I do not know how this could have happened, unless our old friend did not recognise the singing he did hear as music, for which he might, perhaps, be forgiven. My own experience is that the people are always singing, more or less, if you agree to call it so. As the houses are almost all built in flats, many of the windows open into _patios_, or court-yards, large or small, as the case may be.

You may reckon on always having two or three servants, male or female, at work in the _patio_, the women washing or scrubbing, the men probably cleaning their horses, carriages, or harness; but whatever else they may be doing, you may be quite certain they will all be singing, though it is equally certain that, by the greatest exercise of amiability, you could scarcely call the result a song; the words seem to be improvised as the performer goes on. There was a light-hearted groom in one of the _patios_ of our flat, in the Calle Lope de Vega, who would continue almost without a break the whole day. An old friend who used to amuse himself by listening to this remarkable performer declared that if he started his song in the early morning with a stick that was thick enough, he would go on till midnight telling the world in general all the people he had killed with it, and the other wonders of Hercules it had performed.

The ditty always begins on a high note, and goes quavering irregularly downwards, with infinite twirls, shakes, and prolonged notes, these being sung to the exclamation "Ay!" Minor keys enter a good deal into this kind of performance, and the most remarkable part of it is that the singer, once having reached the bottom of the scale--for there is no end--is able to begin again on the same high note, and hit upon, more or less, the same variations a second time. If you have nothing better to do than to listen to some of these improvisatores, you will get a long, and more or less connected, history of some event; but it takes a long time--and, perhaps, is not often worth the expenditure. The songs which you hear to the accompaniment of the guitar are different from these, though the introduction of the "Ay!" and the frequent shakes and twirls are always there.

The working Madrileno's ideal of happiness is to go a little way along one of the dusty _caminos reales_ (highways) to some little _venta_, or tavern, or to take refreshments out in baskets. They will sit quite contentedly in the dust by the side of the road, or in a field of stubble or burnt-up gra.s.s, to eat and drink, and then the guitar comes into play, and the dancing begins. It is always the _jota aragonesa_, which is not so much dancing as twirling about slowly, and, it would almost seem, sadly; but there is always a circle of admiring lookers-on, who beat time with stamping of feet and clapping of hands, and watch the performance as eagerly as if there were something quite fresh and new about it. Occasionally, these parties go out by omnibus or tram, as far as they can, and then start their picnic repast, to be followed by the inevitable dance and song, just wherever they happen to be.

One of the most curious sights of Madrid is the great wash-tub of the Manzanares. As you descend the steep bluff on which the city stands, towards the river, you find the banks covered with laundresses, kneeling at short distances from one another, each scrubbing the clothes on one board, which slopes down into the water, while another board, fixed so as to stand out into the stream, or a little embankment made of sand, dams up the scanty supply of water she can obtain. As the Manzanares in summer is divided into a great number of small streams, this scene is repeated on the edge of each one, while the expanse of sand which occupies the centre of what ought to be the river-bed is one forest of clothes-props, with all the wash of Madrid hanging on the lines. On the banks the children, in the intervals of school, are playing bull-fights, or some of their innumerable dancing and singing games; the women are one and all performing the gradual descent of the gamut with variations called singing; and above all is the glorious sun, transfiguring all things, and throwing deep, purple shadows from the high plane-trees along the banks.

The road which runs along the bank of the Manzanares, at the farther side from Madrid, is a revelation to those who only know the plains through which the railway from the north pa.s.ses, and which for the greater part of the year, except when the crops are growing, are quite as arid as we are accustomed to suppose. On the left lies the Casa de Campo, an immense extent of park, containing, on the high ground, some splendid specimens of the Scotch fir, and, in more sheltered spots, groves of beech, avenues of plane, and ma.s.ses of the dark-leaved ilex, which grows to great perfection in this climate. The "Florida," another of the royal properties, lies to the right, and a splendid road shaded by majestic trees, and with wide, gra.s.sy margins, stretches away to the village of El Pardillo, where Longfellow established his quarters, and which he describes in his _Outre Mer_, and from that on to the forest, or whatever you may call it, of El Pardo, where there is a royal residence now but seldom used, you may ride for many hours and still find yourself in this wild park, which many of the inhabitants of Madrid have never seen. Here one can realise a little how the city may have once been a hunting lodge of the Kings, as we are told. The Pardo may be reached through the Casa de Campo, a gate at the extreme end of the princ.i.p.al drive leading into the forest.

Up on the high ground of the Casa de Campo there is a splendid view of Madrid, with the Palace crowning the steep bluff overhanging the Manzanares. It was in the "country house" itself, near the gate, that our "Baby Charles" is said to have climbed the high wall of the courtyard to get a glimpse of the Infanta whom he hoped to make his wife. When I knew the place intimately, on the very highest part of the Park was a large enclosure of the wild forest, railed in with high wooden palisading. Within this lived a flock of ostriches, belonging to the Crown. No one seemed to know anything about them, nor how long they had been there. What puzzled us much was how they were fed, or if they were left to cater for themselves. One thing I can answer for: they were very wild, and very ferocious; the moment they saw our horses coming up the hill they would run from all parts of the enclosure trying their best to get at us, striking with their feet and wings, and uttering gruesome shrieks. It was one of our amus.e.m.e.nts to race them, keeping outside their high fence while they strode over the ground, their necks stretched out, and their absurd wings flapping after the manner of a farmyard gander; but, with the best efforts, the horses were never able to keep up the pace for long; the birds invariably won, and we left them screeching and using language that did not appear to be parliamentary, when they found that the fence was the only thing that did not give in, as they craned their necks and stamped in their baffled rage. The horses, at first rather afraid of the birds, soon learned to enjoy the fun, and raced them for all they were worth. I do not know if this strange colony is still settled there.

A curious feature of Spanish country life to us are the goatherds. Where the large flocks of goats about Madrid pasture, I know not; but I have often seen them coming home in the evening to be milked, or starting out in the morning. The goatherd, clad in his _manta_, and carrying a long wand of office over his shoulder, and I think also a horn, stalks majestically along with all the dignity of a royal marshal of processions, and the goats follow him, with a good deal of lagging behind for play, or nibbling, if they should chance to see anything green. Still, they scamper after their _generalissimo_ in the end, and meanwhile he is much too dignified to look back. Taking advantage of this, I have seen women come out of their cottages on the roadside and milk a goat or two as it pa.s.sed; and from the way the animal made a full stop, and lent itself to the fraud--if such it were--it was evidently a daily occurrence.

In times not long past, if indeed they do not still exist, the dust-heaps outside Madrid were the homes of packs of lean, hungry dogs, great brindled creatures of the breed to be seen in Velasquez pictures; these animals prowled about the streets of Madrid in the early morning, acting as scavengers. When they became too numerous, the civil guards laid poison about at night in the dust-heaps before the houses, and the very early riser might see four or five of these great creatures lying dead on the carts which collect the refuse of Madrid before the world in general is astir. These wild dogs were disagreeable customers to meet when riding outside the city, until we learned to avoid the localities where they spent their days, for they would give chase to the horses if they caught sight of them, and the only thing to be done was to remain perfectly quiet until they tired of barking and returned to the dust-hills to resume their search for food.

The description of peasant life in Madrid would be incomplete if we left unmentioned the daily siesta in the sun of the Gallegos and lower-cla.s.s working-men. On the benches in the Prado, on the pavement, in the full blaze of the sun, these men will stretch themselves and sleep for an hour or two after their midday meal. I have seen the Gallego porters make themselves a hammock with the rope they always carry with them--_mozos de cuerda_ they are called--literally slinging themselves to the _reja_ or iron bars of the window of some private house, and sleep soundly in a position that would surely kill any other human being. "Taking the sun" (_tomando el sol_) is, however, the custom of every Spaniard of whatever degree.

The casual visitor to Madrid is always struck with the number of carriages to be seen in the _paseo_; but the fact is that everyone keeps a carriage, if it be at all possible, and it is no uncommon thing for two or three _pollos_ to join together in the expense of this luxury, and a sight almost unknown to us is common enough in Madrid--young men, the "curled darlings" of society, lazily lounging in a Victoria or Berlina in what is known as the "Ladies' Mile." The Madrid _pollo_ is not the most favourable specimen of a Spaniard; the word literally means a "chicken," but applied to a young man it is scarcely a complimentary expression, and has its counterpart with us in the slang terms which from time to time indicate the idle exquisite who thinks as much of his dress and his style as any woman does or more. The Madrid _pollo_ often is, or ought to be, a schoolboy, and the younger he is, naturally, the more conceited and impertinent he is. It is curious that with the feminine termination, this word (_polla_) loses all sense of banter or contempt; it simply means a young girl in the first charm of her spring-time.

Riding in the Row has always been a favourite pastime in Madrid, but to English ideas the _pollo_ is more objectionable there than elsewhere, since his idea of riding is to show off the antics of a horse specially taught and made to prance about and curvet while he sits it, his legs sticking out in the position of the Colossus of Rhodes, his heels, armed with spurs, threatening catastrophe to the other riders. An old English master of foxhounds, who was a frequent visitor in Madrid, used to compare the Paseo of the Fuente Castellana at the fashionable hour to a "_chevaux de frise_ on horseback." These gentlemen must not, however, be supposed to represent Spanish horsemanship. Ladies ride a good deal in the Paseo, but one cannot call them good horsewomen. To get into the saddle from a chair, or a pair of stable steps, and let their steed walk up and down for an hour or so in the Row, is not exactly what we call riding. If you hire a carriage in Madrid you are so smart that your best friends would not recognise you. A grand barouche and pair dashes up to your door, probably with a ducal coronet on the panels. The coachman and footman wear c.o.c.kades, and the moment you appear they both take off their hats and hold them in their hands until you are seated in the carriage. This ceremony is repeated every time you alight, the coachman reverently uncovering as you leave the carriage or return to it, as well as the footman who is opening the door for you.

It is most comforting; royalty, I feel sure, is nothing to it! We will not look critically at the lining of the n.o.ble barouche, nor at the varnish on its panels, still less make disagreeable remarks about the liveries, which do not always fit their wearers--it is economical to have liveries made a good medium size, so that if the servants are changed the clothes are not;--one can always feel grateful for the polite and agreeable attendants. How oddly it must strike the Spaniards in England to notice the stolid indifference of "Jeames de la Plush,"

and the curt tap of his first finger on the brim of his hat as his lady enters her carriage or gives her directions!

All the mules, and most of the horses, ponies, or donkeys ridden by the "Jacket" men or country people are trained to pace instead of to trot; it is said to be less fatiguing on a long journey. The motion as you ride is, to our notions, very unpleasant, being a kind of roll, which at first, at any rate, gives one the feeling of sea-sickness. The animal uses the fore and hind feet together alternately, as he literally runs over the ground. It does not appear to be a natural pace, but is carefully taught, and, once acquired, it is very difficult to break the animal of it; his idea of trotting has become quite lost; nor is it a pretty action, nor one suited to show off good qualities--it has always something of a shuffle about it. If it has its advantages, except that stirrups may be dispensed with, they are not very apparent to those accustomed to the usual paces of an English horse. Personally, I disliked it particularly.

There have been many efforts to introduce racing, with its contingent improvement in the breed of horses, perhaps the earliest during the regency of Espartero; but these ended, as most things did in the old days when Spain was only beginning her long struggle for freedom, in failure and loss to the enterprising gentlemen--of whom the then Duque de Osuna was one--who spent large sums of money in the effort. The old race-course of that time lay somewhere in the low ground outside Madrid on the course of the Manzanares; many a good gallop I have had on it, though it was abandoned and forgotten long ago by the Madrilenos. At the present time horse-racing may be said to have become naturalised in Spain under the _Sociedad del Fomento de la Cria Caballar_ (Society for the Encouragement of Horse-breeding), and all that concerns horsemanship is naturally improved and improving.

A good idea of Spanish horses may be gained by a visit to the Royal Mews in Madrid. There are the cream-coloured horses from the royal stud at Aranjuez, _jacuitas_ from Andalucia, as well as the mountain ponies of Galicia. Those who have never seen the Spanish mule have no idea what the animal is--powerful, active, graceful, and almost impossible to injure. They are used in the royal stables and in those of the n.o.bility, for night work, since they are so hardy as not to be injured by long waiting in the cold or wet. They are the correct thing in the carriages of the Papal Nuncio and all ecclesiastics, and are generally preferred to horses for long or difficult journeys. They are a great feature in the army; kept in splendid condition and of great size, they not only drag the heavy guns, but in the celebrated mountain artillery each mule carries a small gun on his back. A brigade of this arm would have been invaluable to the British in South Africa, having no doubt had its initiation in the guerilla warfare of Spain's frequent civil wars.

The clipping of mules and donkeys, which are also very superior animals to anything we know by that name, is in the hands of the gypsies, who have a perfect genius for decorating their own animals and any others committed to their manipulation. Only the upper part is shaved, or clipped to the skin, the long winter coat being left on the legs and half-way up the body. Generally, on the shoulders and haunches a pattern is made by leaving some of the hair a little longer; the figure of the cross with rays is not uncommon, but it is wonderful how elaborate and beautiful some of these patterns are, looking as if embossed in velvet on the skin. One day, pa.s.sing a _venta_ in a street in Madrid, we were attracted by a gaily-decked donkey standing outside. He had the words, _Viva mi Amo_ (Long live my Master!), finished with a beautiful and artistic scroll pattern, in rich velvet across his haunches. While we stood admiring this work of art, the master within laughingly warned us that the a.s.s kicked if anyone came near him. Perhaps the elaborate decoration was a practical joke!

The mules and donkeys which come in from the country are generally very picturesque, with a network of crimson silk ta.s.sels over their heads, and a bright-coloured _manta_ thrown across their sleek, glossy backs.

These _mantas_ serve many purposes; they are made of two breadths of brightly striped and ornamented material of wool and silk, sewn up at one end, or sometimes for some distance at each end, like a purse; sometimes they are thrown across the mule to serve as saddle-bags, sometimes one end is used as a hood and is drawn over the master's head, while the remainder is thrown across his chest and mouth and over the left shoulder. The best of these _mantas_ are elaborately trimmed at both ends with a deep interlacing fringe, ending in a close row of b.a.l.l.s, and have a thick ornamental cord sewn over the joining. These, which are intended for human wraps and not as saddle-bags, are only sewn up at one end, so as to form something very like the old monkish hood.

All the horses, mules, donkeys, and oxen wear bells: the oxen have generally only one large bronze bell, which hangs under the head; the others have rows of small jingling silver or bra.s.s bells round their collars or bridles.

These draught oxen are beautiful animals, mostly a deep cream in colour, with dark points, magnificent eyes, and a sphinx-like look of patience, as if biding their time for something much better to come. Their harness is not apparently irksome to them, and is not so heavy as one sees on the Portuguese oxen, for instance. They are coupled by a wooden bar across the head, and their driver, if such he can be called--rather, perhaps, the guide--walks in front with a long stick, possibly a wand of office, over his shoulder to show them the way. The dress of this functionary is picturesque: a wide-brimmed hat (_sombrero_), a shirt, short trousers to the knees, with gaiters of woven gra.s.s (_esparto_), a _faja_ round his waist, and _manta_ thrown over his shoulder if cold. He stalks majestically along, followed by his equally majestic _bueyes_, and one wonders of what all three are thinking as they trudge along the sun-smitten roads, regardless of dust or of anything else. The cars are rude enough, and the wheels sometimes solid discs of wood. Occasionally, a hood of bent pieces of wood covered with linen is fixed. Tame oxen, or _cabestros_, as they are called, play a very important part in the _ganaderos_ and the bull-rings. They appear to be held in some sort of superst.i.tious reverence, or strange affection, by the poor beasts who only live to make sport for men. In driving the bulls from one pasture to another, or bringing them into the towns, the _cabestros_ are followed with unwavering faith by these otherwise dangerous animals; where the _cabestro_ goes, clanging his great bell, the bull follows, and while under the charge of his domesticated friend he is quite harmless.

[Ill.u.s.tration: BUEYES RESTING]

At one time, the bulls used to be driven to the bull-ring outside Madrid in specially made roads sunk some fifteen feet below the level of the fields, and paved. Along these the _pastor_, or shepherd, and _picadores_, armed with long lances, went with the _cabestros_ and the herd of bulls to be immolated. I have frequently met this procession when riding, either in the early morning or late evening, outside Madrid; but so long as the _cabestros_ are present, there is nothing to fear, for the bulls are perfectly quiet and harmless. Once, however, riding with a friend, I had a disagreeable and exciting adventure. We were quietly walking our horses along the Ronda de Alcala, when we heard an immense amount of shouting, and suddenly became aware that we ourselves were the objects of the excitement, waving of hands, screaming, and gesticulating. Before we had time to do more than realise that we were being warned of some terrific danger in wait for us round the corner of the high wall, some little distance in advance, two _picadores_ on horseback, armed with their long pikes, galloped round the corner, also shouting wildly to us, and pointing across the fields as if telling us to fly, and almost at the same moment the whole drove of bulls, tearing along at a terrific rate, without _cabestros_, appeared, charging straight towards us. We did not need a second hint.

At one side of the road was the old wall of Madrid, at the other a high bank with a wide ditch beyond it. Without a word, we put our horses at the bank,--they had realised the situation as quickly as we had,--jumped the ditch at a flying leap from the top of the bank, and were off across a field of young wheat. Once only I looked behind, and saw a magnificent black bull, with his tail in the air--a signal of attack--on the top of the bank over which I had just leaped, preparing to follow me. Long afterwards, as it seemed, when my horse slackened his pace, I found myself alone in a wide plain, neither bulls nor fellow-rider to be seen.

His horse had bolted in another direction from mine, and we heard afterwards that the _picadores_ had galloped in between me and the sporting bull and turned him back. Eventually, the _cabestros_ appeared on the scene, and the poor misguided bulls were inveigled into the shambles for the _fiesta_ of the morrow. How they had ever managed to break away or gain the public road at all, we were never able to learn.

CHAPTER VI

THE COURT

During the reign of Don Alfonso XII., except during the interval when the melancholy death of his first beloved Queen, Mercedes, plunged King, Court, and people into mourning, Madrid was gayer than perhaps it has ever been. No one loved amus.e.m.e.nt better than the young King, who was only seventeen when the military _p.r.o.nunciamiento_ of Martinez Campo called him to the throne from which his mother had been driven seven years previously. He had taken his people, and indeed all the world, by storm, for from the first moment he had shown all the qualities which make a ruler popular, and Spain has never had a young monarch of so much promise. He had the royal gift of memory, and an extraordinary facility in speaking foreign languages; it was said that the Russian and the Turkish envoys were the only ones with whom he was unable to converse as freely in their languages as in his own. He was an excellent speaker, always knew the right thing to say, the best thing to do to gain the hearts of his people, and to make himself agreeable to all parties and all nationalities alike. He was the first King of Spain to address his people _de usted_ in place of _de tu_, a mark of respect which they were not slow to appreciate; he was a modern, in that he would go out alone, either on foot or riding, allowed applause in his presence at the theatres, unknown before, and himself would salute those he knew from his box. He gave audience to all who asked, was an early riser, devoted to business when it had to be performed, was an enthusiast in all military matters, and, perhaps better than all in the eyes of his people, he was devoted to the bull-ring. Extremely active, resolute, firm, fond of all kinds of active sports, such as hunting and shooting, equally fond of society, picnics, dances, and all kinds of entertainments, he seemed destined to become the idol of his people, and to lead his beloved country back to its place in Europe. His death, when only twenty-seven, changed all this. Queen Maria Cristina has been a model wife, widow, mother, and Regent. She was devoted to her husband, and though it was said at first to be a political marriage, contracted to please the people, it was undoubtedly a happy one. The Queen has scarcely taken more part in public life during her sad widowhood than Queen Victoria did. She has devoted herself to her public duties as Regent and to the education and care of her children.