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TLbc llmmaculate Conception, bp /IDurillo. 
 
SPAIN 
 
 AND THE 
 
 SPAN I ARDS 
 
 BY 
 
 EDMONDO DE AMICIS, 
 
 Author of " Holi-and," "Constantinople," etc. 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE TENTH EDITION OF THE ITALIAN BY 
 
 STANLEY RHOADS YARNALL, M. A. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 I 
 
 Vol. I. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 HENRY T. COAXES & CO. 
 
 1895 
 
Copyright, 1895, by 
 HENRY T. COATES & CO. 
 
OONTEI^TS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Barcelona 7 
 
 Saeaqossa 43 
 
 Burgos 89 
 
 Valladolid 127 
 
 Madrid 151 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTEATI0N8. 
 
 VOLUME I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Immaculate Conception, by Murillo. Frontispiece. 
 
 Priest and Sleeping Gypsy-GiRL 9 
 
 Barcelona 22 
 
 Andalhsian Peasant-girls 36 
 
 Street in Saraqossa 58 
 
 Cathedral of Our Lady op the Pillar, Saragossa . 60 
 
 Water-carrier 92 
 
 Burgos Cathedral 104 
 
 Street in Valladolid 130 
 
 Royal Palace, Madrid 154 
 
 Fountain of Cybele, Alcala, Madrid 166 
 
 Koyal Picture-gallery, Madrid 180 
 
 Duke d'Olivares, by Velasquez 188 
 
 Virgin of the Napkin, by Murillo 190 
 
 Velasquez's Forge of Vulcan 194 
 
 Implanting the Bandillera 214 
 
 The Charge 214 
 
 The Processional Entrance 220 
 
 Boll Attacking a Picador 220 
 
 Matadors, Madrid 240 
 
 The Bscurial 258 
 
 Tomb of Charles V., Escurial 266 
 
 Chamber of Deputies and Statue of Cervantes, 
 
 Madrid 274 
 
 5 
 
BARCELONA. 
 
priest ant) Sleeping <5spss <Birl. 
 
BAKCELONA. 
 
 It was a rainy morning in February, and lacked 
 an hour of sunrise. My mother accompanied me 
 to the hall, anxiously repeating all the counsels she 
 had been giving me for a month: then she threw 
 her arms about my neck, burst into tears, and dis- 
 appeared. I stood a moment stricken to the heart, 
 looking at the door, on the point of calling out, 
 " Let me in ! I am not going ! I will stay with 
 thee ! " Then I ran down the stairs like an escap- 
 ing thief. When I was in the street it seemed that 
 the waves of the sea and the peaks of the Pyrenees 
 were already lying between me and my home. But, 
 although I had for a long time looked forward to 
 that day with feverish impatience, I was not at all 
 cheerful. At a turn of the street I met my friend 
 the doctor on his way to the hospital. He had not 
 seen me for a month, and naturally asked : 
 
 " Where are you going I " 
 
 " To Spain," I replied. 
 
 But he would not believe me, so far was my 
 frowning, melancholy face from promising a pleas- 
 ure-trip. Through the entire journey from Turin 
 
10 BAECELONA. 
 
 to Genoa I thought only of my mother, of my 
 room, now empty, of my little library, of all the 
 pleasant habits of my domestic life, all of which I 
 was leaving for many months. 
 
 But, arrived at Genoa, the sight of the sea, the 
 gardens of the Acquasola, and the company of Anton 
 Giulio Barili restored me to serenity and cheerful- 
 ness. I recollect that as I was about to step into 
 the boat that was to take me to the ship a porter 
 handed me a letter which contained only these 
 words : " Sad news from Spain. The condition of 
 an Italian at Madrid in time of insurrection against 
 the king would be perilous. Do you persist in 
 going ? Consider ! " I leaped into the boat and was 
 off. Shortly before the ship sailed two officers came 
 to bid me good-bye. I can still see them standing 
 in the middle of the boat as the ship began to move. 
 
 " Bring me a Toledo blade ! " they cried. 
 
 " Bring me a bottle of Xeres ! " 
 
 " Bring me a guitar ! an Andalusian hat ! a 
 stiletto ! " 
 
 A little while, and I could see only their white hand- 
 kerchiefs and hear their last cry : I tried to answer, 
 but my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth ; 
 I began to laugh, but brushed my hand across my 
 eyes. Soon I retired to my little hole of a state- 
 room, where, lulled into a delicious sleep, I dreamed 
 of my mother, my purse, France, and Andalusia. 
 At dawn I awoke, and was soon on deck. We were 
 
BARCELONA. 11 
 
 not far from the coast, the French coast — my first 
 view of a foreign coast. Strange ! I could not look 
 at it enough, and a thousand fugitive thoughts 
 passed through my head, and I said, " Is it France, 
 in very truth ? And is it I who am here I " I 
 began to doubt my own identity. 
 
 At mid-day Marseilles came into view. The first 
 sight of a great maritime city fills one with an 
 amazement which destroys the pleasure of the 
 marvel. I see, as through a mist, a vast forest of 
 ships ; a waterman who stretches out his hand and 
 addresses me in an incomprehensible jargon ; a 
 customs ofiicial who, in accordance with some law, 
 makes me pay deux sous pour les Prussiens ; then a 
 dark room in a hotel ; then the longest streets, 
 endless squares, a throng of people and of carriages ; 
 troops of Zouaves, unknown regimentals, a mingling 
 of lights and of voices, and finally come weariness 
 and profound sadness, which end in uneasy sleep. 
 
 By daybreak on the following morning I was in 
 a railway-carriage on my way from Marseilles to 
 Perpignan, in the midst of a group of ten Zouave 
 ofiicers arrived from Africa the previous day, some 
 with crutches, some with canes, some with bandaged 
 arms ; but all as happy and boisterous as so many 
 school-boys. It was a long journey, consequently 
 conversation was necessary. However, from all I 
 had heard of the bitterness with which the French 
 regarded us, I did not venture to open my mouth. 
 
12 BAECELONA. 
 
 But how foolish ! One of them spoke the word and 
 the conversation was started : " An Italian ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 It was as good as a holiday. All but one had 
 fought ill Italy ; one had been wounded at Magenta. 
 They began to tell anecdotes of Genoa, of Turin, 
 of Milan, to ask a thousand questions, to describe 
 tlieir life, in Africa. 
 
 One, began to discuss the Pope. " Oh ! " said I 
 to myself Why ? He talked even stronger than I 
 should have done : he said that we ought to have 
 cut the knot of the question, and to have gone to 
 the root of the matter without considering the 
 peasantry. 
 
 Meantime, as we were approaching the Pyrenees, 
 I amused myself by observing the increasing differ- 
 ence in the pronunciation of the passengers who 
 entered the carriage ; by remarking how the French 
 language died, so to speak, into the .Spanish ; by 
 feeling how near Spain was growing until Perpignan 
 was reached ; and as I hurried into a diligence 
 I heard the first Buenos dias and Huen viaje, so 
 pure and sonorous that the words gave me infinite 
 pleasure. Nevertheless, they do not speak Spanish 
 at Perpignan, but they use; a dialect formed by a 
 mingling of French, Marseillaise, and Catalan, 
 unpleasant to the ear. I alighted from the dili- 
 gence at the hotel in the midst of a crowd of 
 officers, gentlemen, Englishmen, and trunks. A 
 
BARCELONA. 13 
 
 waiter compelled me to sit down at a table already 
 spread : I ate until I almost strangled, and was 
 hui-ried into another diligence and away. 
 
 Ah me ! I had so long cherished the thought of 
 crossing the Pyrenees, and I now was forced to 
 make the journey by night. Before we arrived at 
 the foothills it was dark. Through the long, long 
 hours, between sleeping and waking, I saw only a 
 bit of the road lit up by the lights of the lantern of 
 the diligence, the black outline of some mountain, 
 the projecting rocks, which seemed to be within 
 arms' reach of the window, and I heard only the 
 regular tramping of the horses and the whistling of 
 an accursed wind which blew without a moment's 
 intermission. 
 
 Beside me sat an American from the United 
 States, a young man, the most original fellow in the 
 world, who slept I know not how many hours with 
 his head on my shoulder. Now and then he roused 
 himself to exclaim in a lamentable voice, " Ah what 
 a night ! what a horrible night ! " without per- 
 ceiving that with his head he gave me an additional 
 reason for making the same lament. 
 
 At the first stopping-place we both alighted and 
 entered a little hostelry to get a glass of liquor ; my 
 fellow-traveller asked me if I was travelling on 
 business. " No, sir," I replied ; " I am travelling for 
 pleasure; and you, if I may ask?" — "I am travel- 
 ling for love," he replied with perfect gravity. — 
 
14 BAECELONA. 
 
 " For love ! — " And then, unasked, he told me a 
 long story of an unhappy love-affair, of a deferred 
 marriage, of abductions and duels, and I know not 
 what else ; and finally he said he was travelling for 
 a change of scene to help him forget the lady of his 
 affections. And, in fact, he sought distraction to 
 the top of his bent, for at every inn where we 
 stopped, from the beginning of our journey until we 
 arrived at Gerona, he did nothing but tease the 
 maids — always with the utmost gravity, it is true, 
 but nevertheless with an audacity which even his 
 desire for distraction failed to justify. 
 
 Three hours after midnight we arrived at the 
 frontier. '' Estamos en Espana ! " ("We are in 
 Spain !) cried a voice. The diligence came to a 
 stop. The American and I leaped again to the 
 ground, and with great curiosity entered a little inn 
 to see the first sons of Spain within the walls of a 
 Spanish house, 
 
 We found a half-dozen customs officials, the host, 
 his wife, and children sitting around a brasier. 
 They greeted us at once. I asked a number of 
 questions, and they answered in an open, spirited 
 manner, which I had not expected to find among the 
 Catalans, who are described in the gazetteers as a 
 rude people of few words. I asked if they had 
 anything to eat, and they brought in the famous 
 Spanish chorizo, a sort of sausage, which is over- 
 
BARCELONA. 15 
 
 seasoned with pepper and burns the stomach, a 
 bottle of sweet wine, and some hard bread. 
 
 " Well ; what is your king doing ? " I asked of 
 an oiEcial after I had spit out the first mouthful. 
 The man to whom I spoke seemed embai'rassed, 
 looked first at me, then at the others, and finally 
 made this very strange answer : " Esta reinando" (He 
 is reigning). They all commenced to laugh, and 
 while I was preparing a closer question, I became 
 conscious of a whisper in my ear : " Es un republi- 
 cano " (He is a republican). I turned and saw mine 
 host looking into the air. " I understand," said I, 
 and changed the subject. When we had climbed 
 again into the diligence my companion and I had a 
 good laugh over the warning of the host, and we 
 both expressed our surprise that a person of his 
 class should have taken the political opinions of the 
 officials so seriously ; but at the inns where we 
 afterward stopped we learned better. In every one 
 of them we found the host or some adventurer read- 
 ing the paper to a group of attentive peasants. 
 Now and then the reading would be interrupted by 
 a political discussion, which I could not understand, 
 because they used the Catalan dialect, but I could 
 get the drift of what they were saying by the aid 
 of the paper which I had heard them reading. 
 Well, I must say, among aU of those groups there 
 circulated a current of republican thought which 
 would have made the stoutest royalist tremble. One 
 
16 BAKCELONA. 
 
 of them, a man with a fierce scowl and a deep 
 voice, after he had spoken a short time to a group 
 of silent auditors, turned to me, whom by my 
 impure Castilian accent he supposed to be a French- 
 man, and said with great solemnity, "Let me tell 
 you something, caballero!" — "What is it?" — "I 
 tell you," he replied, "that Spain is in a worse 
 plight than France ; " and after that remark he 
 began walking up and down the room with bowed 
 head and with his arms crossed upon his breast. 
 Others spoke confusedly of the Cortes, of the min- 
 istry, of political ambitions, breaches of faith, and 
 other dreadful things. One person only, a girl at a 
 restaurant in Figueras, noticing that I was an 
 Italian, said to me with a smile, " Now we have an 
 Italian king." And a little while later, as we were 
 going out, she added with graceful simplicity, "I 
 like him." 
 
 When we arrived at Gerona it was still night. 
 There King Amadeus, after a joyful welcome, placed 
 a stone in the house where General Alvarez lodged 
 during the famous siege of 1809. 
 
 We passed through the city, which seemed to us 
 of great proportions, sleepy as we were and impa- 
 tient to tumble into our corners of the railroad 
 carriage. Finally we reached the station, and by 
 dawn were on our way to Barcelona. 
 
 Sleep ! It was the first time I had seen the sun 
 
BARCELONA. 17 
 
 rise in Spain. How could I have slept ? I put my 
 face close to the window, and did not turn my head 
 until we came to Barcelona. Ah ! there is no 
 greater pleasure than that one feels upon entering 
 an unfamiliar country, with one's imagination pre- 
 pared for the sight of new and wonderful objects, 
 with a thousand memories of the fanciful descrip- 
 tions of books in one's head, free from anxiety and 
 free from care. 
 
 To press forward into that land, to bend one's 
 glance eagerly in every direction in search of some- 
 thing which will convince one, if he is not already 
 sure of the fact, that he is really there — to grow 
 conscious of it little by Httle, now by the dress of a 
 peasant, now by a tree, again by a house ; to notice 
 as one advances the growing frequency of those 
 signs, those colors, those forms, and to compare all 
 those things with the mental pictm-e one had pre- 
 viously formed ; to find a field for curiosity in 
 everything upon which the eye rests or which 
 strikes the ear, — the appearance of the people, their 
 gestures, their accent, their . conversation, — the 
 exclamations of surprise at every step. To feel 
 one's mind expanding and growing clear ; so long to 
 arrive at once and yet never to arrive ; to ask a 
 thousand questions of one's companions ; to make a 
 sketch of a village or of a group of peasants ; to 
 say ten times an hour, " I am here ! " and to think 
 of telling all about it some day, — this is truly the 
 
 Vol. I.— 2 
 
18 BARCELONA. 
 
 liveliest and most varied of human pleasures. The 
 American v^as snoring. 
 
 The part of Catalonia through which one passes 
 from Gerona to Barcelona is a varied, fertile, and 
 highly-cultivated country. It is a succession of little 
 valleys flanked by gently sloping hills, with tracts of 
 heavy woodland, roaring streams, gorges, and ancient 
 castles ; clothed with a vegetation luxuriant and hardy 
 and of a varied green, which reminds one of the 
 severe aspect of the Alpine valleys. The landscape 
 is enlivened by the picturesque dress of the peasants, 
 which corresponds admirably to the fierceness of the 
 Catalan character. The first peasants I saw were 
 dressed from top to toe in black velvet, and wore 
 about their necks a sort of shawl with red and white 
 stripes, and on their heads little Zouave caps of 
 bright red falling to the shoulder. Some wore a sort 
 of buskin of skins laced to the knee, others a pair 
 of canvas shoes shaped like slippers, with corded 
 soles, open in front, and tied about the foot with in- 
 terlacing black ribbons — a habit, in fine, easy and 
 elegant, and at the same time severe. The weather 
 was not very cold, but they were all bundled up in 
 their shawls, so that only the tip of the nose or the 
 end of the cigarette was to be seen. They had the air 
 of gentlemen coming from the theatre. This eifect is 
 produced not merely by the shawls, but by the manner 
 in which they are worn — falling at the side, so that the 
 arrangement appears accidental, with those plaits and 
 
BARCELOJfA. 19 
 
 foldings which add the grace of a mantilla and dig- 
 nity of a cloak. At every railway-station there was 
 a group of men, each wearing a shawl of different 
 color, and not a few dressed in iine new cloth : almost 
 all were very clean, and all had a dignity of bearing 
 which heightened the effect of their picturesque cos- 
 tume. There were a few dark faces, but most of 
 them were fair, with lively black eyes, lacking, how- 
 ever, the fire and vivacity of the Andalusian glances. 
 Gradually as one advances the villages, houses, 
 bridges, and aqueducts become most frequent, with 
 all those things which announce the proximity of a 
 rich and populous commercial city. Granallers, 
 Sant' Andrea de Palomar, and Clot are surrounded 
 by factories, villas, parks, and gardens. All along 
 the way one sees long rows of carts, troops of peas- 
 ants, and herds of cattle ; the stations are crowded 
 with passengers. If one did not know where he was, 
 he might think he was crossing a part of England 
 rather than a province of Spain. Once past the station 
 of Clot, the last stop before the arrival at Barcelona, one 
 sees on every side huge brick buildings, long walls, 
 heaps of building material, smoking chimneys, stacks 
 of workshops, and many laboring-men, and hears, or 
 imagines he hears, a muffled roar, growing in extent 
 and volume, which seems like the labored breathing 
 of a great city at its work. At last one can see all 
 Barcelona — at a glance the harbor, the sea, a coronet 
 of hills — and it all appears and disappears in a mo- 
 
20 BARCELONA. 
 
 ment, and you are sitting in the station with tingling 
 nerves and a confused brain. 
 
 A diligence as large as a railway-carriage took me 
 to a neighboring hotel, when, as soon as I entered, I 
 heard the Italian speech. I confess that this was as 
 great a pleasure as if I had been an interminable dis- 
 tance from Italy and a year absent from home. But 
 it was a pleasure of short duration. A porter, the 
 same one whom I had heard speaking, showed me to 
 my room, and, doubtless assured by my smile that I 
 was a fellow-countryman, asked politely, 
 
 " Have you made an end of arriving !" 
 
 " Made an end of arriving ?" I asked in my turn, 
 elevating my eyebrows. 
 
 I must here note that in Spanish the word acabor 
 (to make an end of doing a thing) corresponds to the 
 French expression venir de la /aire. Consequently I 
 did not at once understand what he said. 
 
 " Yes," the porter replied, " I ask the cavaliere 
 if he has alighted the selfsame hour from the way 
 of iron f ' 
 
 " Selfsame hour ? Way of iron ? What sort of 
 Italian is this, my friend?" 
 
 He was a little disconcerted. 
 
 However, I afterward discovered that there is in 
 Barcleona a large number of hotel-porters, of waiters 
 in the restaurants, cooks, and servants of all kinds — 
 Piedmontese for the most part from the province of 
 Navarre — who have lived in Spain from boyhood and 
 
BARCELONA. 21 
 
 speak this dreadful jai'gon composed of French, 
 Italian, Castiii;ui, Catalan, and Piodniontose. How- 
 ever, they do not use this dialect in addressing the 
 8pai\ish people, for they all know Spanish, but only 
 to Italian travellers in a playful spirit, to let them 
 see that they have not forgotten the speech of their 
 fatherland. 
 
 This explains the fact that I have heard many 
 Oatalonians say, "Oh! there is very little ditference 
 between your language ;uid ours." I should think 
 so ! I ought also to repeat the words Avhich a Oas- 
 tilian singer addressed to me in a tone»of lofty benev- 
 olence as we were conversing on the boat Avhich bore 
 me to Marseilles five weeks later: "The Italian 
 langTiage is the most bcautifiU of the dialects formed 
 from ours." 
 
 As soon as I removed the traces which the horrihle 
 nlifht of the crossing of the Pyrenees had left upon 
 me I Sidlied forth from the hotel and began to wander 
 about tlic streets. 
 
 Barcelona is, in appearance, the least Spanish of 
 the cities of Spain. Great buildings — very few of 
 which are old — ^long streets, regular squares, shops, 
 theatres, large and splendid restaurants, a continuous 
 moving throng of people, carri.nges, and carts from 
 the water front to tlie centre of tlie city, and tluMice 
 to the outskirts, just as at ticnoa, Naples, and Mar- 
 seilles. A very wide, straight street called the 
 
22 BARCELONA. 
 
 Eambla, shaded by two rows of trees, divides the 
 city from the harbor to the hills. A fine promenade, 
 flanked by new houses, stretches along the seashore 
 above a high dyke of masonry built like a terrace, 
 against which the waves beat. A suburb of vast 
 proportions, almost another city, extends toward the 
 north, and on every side new houses break the old 
 enclosure, spread over the fields, even to the foot of 
 the hills, range themselves in endless rows until they 
 reach the neighboring villages, and on all the cir- 
 cling hills rise villas and palaces and factories, which 
 dispute the land and crowd each other as they rise 
 even higher and higher, forming a noble coronet 
 about the brow of the city. Everywhere they are 
 creating, transforming, renewing ; the people work 
 and prosper, and Barcelona flourishes. 
 
 I saw the last days of the Carnival. Through the 
 streets passed long processions of giants, devils, 
 princes, clowns, warriors, and crowds of certain 
 figures whom I always have the misfortune to en- 
 counter the world over. They were dressed in yel- 
 low and carried long staves, at the ends of which 
 purses were bound : these they stick under every 
 one's nose, into the shops and windows, even to the 
 second stories of the houses, begging alms — in whose 
 name I know not, but which were most likely spent 
 in some classic orgy at the close of the Carnival. 
 
 The most curious sight which I saw was the mas- 
 
JSarcelona* 
 
BAECELONA. 23 
 
 querade of the children. It is the custom to dress 
 the boys under the age of eight years like men, after 
 the French fashion, in complete ball-dress, with white 
 gloves, great moustaches, and long flowing hair : some 
 are dressed like the Spanish grandees, bedecked with 
 ribbons and bangles ; others like Catalan peasants, 
 with the jaunty cap and the mantle. The little girls 
 appear as court-ladies, Amazons, and poetesses with 
 lyres and laurel crowns ; and boys and girls in the 
 costumes of the different provinces of the kingdom — 
 one as a flower-girl of Valencia, another as an Anda- 
 lusian gypsy or a Basque mountainer — in the gayest 
 and most picturesque costumes imaginable. Their 
 parents lead them by the hand in the procession, and 
 it is a tournament of good taste, of fantasy, and dis- 
 play in which the people share with great delight. 
 
 While I was trying to find my way to the cathedral 
 I met a company of Spanish soldiers. I stopped to 
 look at them, recollecting the picture which Baretti 
 draws when he tells how they assailed him in a 
 hotel, one taking the salad from his plate, while 
 another snatched the leg of a fowl from his mouth. 
 At first sight they resemble the French soldiers, who 
 also wear the red breeches and gray coat reaching to 
 the knee. The only noticeable difference is in the 
 covering of the head. The Spanish wear a parti- 
 colored cap, flat behind and curved in front, and 
 fitted with a visor which turns down over the fore- 
 head. The caps, which are made of gray cloth, are 
 
24 BARCELONA. 
 
 light, durable, and pleasing to the eye, and are known 
 by the name of their inventor, Ros de Olano, general 
 and poet, who patterned them after his hunting-cap. 
 The greater part of the soldiers whom I saw — they 
 were all in the infantry — were young men, short of 
 stature, swarthy, alert, and clean, as one would im- 
 agine the soldiers of an army which at one time had 
 the lightest and most effective infantry in Europe. 
 Indeed, the Spanish infantry has the reputation of 
 containing the best walkers and swiftest runners. 
 The men are temperate, spirited, and full of a na- 
 tional pride, of which it is difficult to get an adequate 
 idea without studying them closely. The officers 
 wear a short black coat like that of the Italian offi- 
 cers. When off duty they are in the habit of wear- 
 ing the coat open, thereby revealing a waistcoat but- 
 toned to the chin. In the hours of leisure they do 
 not wear their swords ; on the march, like the rank 
 and file, they wear a sort of gaiter of black cloth 
 reaching almost to the knee. A regiment of foot- 
 soldiers completely equipped for action presents an 
 appearance at once pleasing and martial. 
 
 The cathedral of Barcelona, in the Gothic style, 
 surmounted by noble towers, is worthy of standing 
 beside the most beautiful edifices in Spain. The 
 interior is formed of three vast naves, separated by 
 two rows of very high pillars slender and graceful 
 in form. The choir, situated in the middle of the ' 
 church, is profusely decorated with bas-reliefs, 
 
BARCELONA. 25 
 
 filigree-work, and small images. Beneath the sanc- 
 tuary lies a small subterranean chapel which is 
 always lighted, and in its centre is the tomb of 
 Eulalia, which one may see by looking through one 
 of the little windows opening from the sanctuary. 
 There is a tradition that the murderers of the saint, 
 who was very beautiful, wished before putting her 
 to death to look upon her body, but while they were 
 taking off her last covering a thick cloud enveloped 
 her and hid her from their sight. Her body still 
 remains as fresh and beautiful as when she was 
 alive, and no human eye may endure to look upon 
 it. Once an incautious bishop (after the lapse of a 
 century) wished to open the tomb just to see the 
 sacred remains, but even as he looked he was 
 smitten with blindness. 
 
 In a little chapel to the right of the great altar, 
 lighted by many candles, one sees a crucifix of 
 colored wood, with the Christ's figure inclined to one 
 side. It is said that this image was carried on a 
 Spanish ship at the battle of Lepanto, and that it so 
 bent itself to avoid a cannon-ball which it saw 
 coming straight for its heart. From the arched 
 roof of the same chapel hangs a little galley with 
 all its oars — modelled after the boat in which Don 
 John of Austria fought against the Turks. Below 
 the organ, of Gothic construction and covered with 
 great pictorial tapestries, hangs a huge Saracen's 
 head with a gaping mouth, from which, in the olden 
 
26 BARCELONA. 
 
 times, candies poured forth for the children. In 
 another chapel one may see a beautiful marble 
 tomb, and also some valuable paintings by Villa- 
 domat, a Barcelonian painter of the seventeenth 
 century. 
 
 The church is dark and mysterious. Beside it 
 rises a cloister, supported by grand pilasters, formed 
 of delicate columns and surmounted by richly-carved 
 capitals depicting scenes from Bible history. In 
 the cloisters, in the church, in the square lying 
 before it, in the narrow streets running on either 
 side, there broods a spirit of contemplative peace 
 which allures and at the same time saddens one like 
 the gardens of a cemetery. A group of horrid 
 bearded old women guard the door. 
 
 After one has visited the cathedral there are no 
 other great monuments to be seen in the city. In 
 the Square of the Constitution are two palaces, 
 called the House of the Deputation and the Consis- 
 torial, the first built in the sixteenth, the other in 
 the fourteenth, century. These buildings still 
 retain some old, noteworthy features — the one a 
 door, the other a court. 
 
 On one side of the House of the Deputation is the 
 rich Gothic facade of the Chapel of Saint George. 
 Here is a palace of the Inquisition, with a narrow 
 court, windows with heavy iron bars, and secret 
 passages, but it has been almost entirely remodelled 
 on the old plans. There are some enormous Roman 
 
BARCELONA. 27 
 
 colunins in the Street of Paradise, lost in the midst 
 of modern buildings, surrounded by tortuous stair- 
 cases and gloomy chambers. 
 
 There is nothing else worth the attention of an 
 artist. However, in compensation there are foun- 
 tains with rostral columns, pyramids, statues, 
 avenues lined with villas and gardens, and ca,i6s and 
 inns ; a circus for bull-fights that has a capacity of 
 seating ten thousand spectators ; a town which 
 cov(^rs a strip of land enclosing the harbor, laid out 
 with the symmetry of a chequer-board, and peopled 
 by ten thousand seamen ; a number of libraries, a 
 very rich museum of natural history, and a reposi- 
 tory of archives which contains a vast collection of 
 historical documents dating from the ninth century 
 to our times, which is to say from the first Courts 
 of Catalonia to the War of Independence. 
 
 Of the objects outside of the city, the most 
 remarkable is the cemetery, about a half-hour's ride 
 distant from the gates, in the midst of an extended 
 plain. Seen from a point just outside of the 
 entrance, it looks like a garden, and one quickens 
 one's pace with a feeling of pleased curiosity. But, 
 once past the gate, one is confronted by a novel 
 spectacle, indescribable, and wholly diff'erent from 
 one's expectation. One is in the midst of a silent 
 city, traversed by long, deserted streets, bordered 
 by straight walls of equal height, which are bounded 
 in the distance by other walls. Advancing, one 
 
28 BARCELONA. 
 
 comes to an intersection, and from that point sees 
 other streets with other walls at the end and other 
 crossways. It is like being in Pompeii. The dead 
 are placed in the walls lengthwise, disposed in 
 various orders, like the books in a library. For 
 every coffin there is a corresponding niche, in which 
 is inscribed the name of the dead. Where no one 
 has been interred there is the word propriedad, 
 which indicates that the position has been engaged. 
 Most of the niches are enclosed in glass, some with 
 iron gratings, others, again, with very iine nettings 
 of woven iron. They contain a great variety of 
 offerings placed there by the families in memory of 
 their dead ; as, for instance, photographs, little 
 altars, pictures, embroidery, artificial flowers, and 
 the little nothings that were dear to them in life ; 
 ribbons, necklaces, toys of children, books, 
 brooches, miniatures — a thousand things which 
 recall the home and the family, and indicate the 
 profession of those to whom they belonged ; and it 
 is impossible to look upon them without compassion. 
 Here and there one sees a niche open and black 
 within, a sign that a casket will be placed there dur- 
 ing the day. The family of the dead are obliged to 
 pay an annual sum for the space ; when they fail to 
 pay the casket is taken from the place where it lies 
 and is borne to the common trench of the burial- 
 place of the poor, which is reached by one of the 
 streets. There was an interment while I was there. 
 
BAECELONA. 29 
 
 From a distance I saw them place the ladder and 
 raise the casket, and I passed on. One night a 
 madman hid himself in one of the empty holes : a 
 watchman passed with a lantern ; the madman gave 
 a terrible cry, and the poor watchman fell to the 
 ground as though he had been struck by lightning, 
 and it is said he never recovered from the shock. 
 In one niche I saw a beautiful tress of golden hair, 
 the hair of a girl who had been drowned in her 
 fifteenth year, and to it was fastened a card bearing 
 the word Querida (Beloved). At every step one 
 sees something which affects the mind and the heart. 
 All those offerings have the effect of a confused 
 murmur, a blending of the voices of mothers, hus- 
 bands, children, and aged men, who whisper as one 
 passes, " Look ! I am here ! " At every crossway 
 rise statues, mausoleums, shafts bearing inscriptions 
 in honor of the citizens of Barcelona who per- 
 formed deeds of charity during the scourge of yellow 
 fever in 1821 and 1870. This part of the cemetery, 
 planned, as has been said, like a city, belongs to the 
 middle class of the people, and is bounded by two 
 vast enclosures — the one for the poor, bare and 
 dotted with great black crosses ; the other, of an 
 equal size, for the rich, cultivated like a garden, 
 surrounded by chapels various, rich, and mag- 
 nificent. 
 
 In the midst of a forest of weeping willows and 
 cypresses tower columns, obelisks, and grand tombs 
 
30 BARCELONA. 
 
 on every side ; marble chapels richly adorned with 
 sculpture, surmounted by bold statues of archangels 
 raising their arms toward heaven ; pyramids, groups 
 of statues, monuments as large as houses, overtop- 
 ping the highest trees ; and between the monuments 
 grass-plots, railings, and flower-beds. 
 
 At the entrance, between this and the other ceme- 
 tery, stands a stupendous marble church, surroimded 
 by pillars and partly hidden by trees — a sight which 
 amply prepares the mind for the magnificent spec- 
 tacle of the interior. On leaving this garden one 
 again passes through the lonely streets of this city 
 of the dead, which seems even more silent and sad 
 than when one first entered it. On recrossing the 
 threshold one turns with pleasure to the many-colored 
 houses of the suburbs of Barcelona as they lie scat- 
 tered over the plain, like the advance-guard sent to 
 announce that a populous city is expanding and 
 advancing. 
 
 From the cemetery to the caf^ is a great leap, but 
 in travelling one makes even greater ones. The caf^s 
 of Barcelona, like nearly all the caffis in Spain, con- 
 sists of one vast saloon, adorned with large mirrors, 
 and with as many tables as it is possible to crowd 
 into the space. The tables seldom remain vacant, 
 even for half an hour, throughout the entire day. 
 In the evening they are all full to overflowing, so 
 that one is many times obliged to wait a good while 
 even to find a seat by the door. Around every table 
 
BARCELONA. 31 
 
 is a group of five or six caballeros wearing over their 
 shoulders the capa, a mantle of dark cloth, provided 
 with a generous palmer's hood and worn instead of 
 our capeless cloak. In every group they kre playing 
 dominoes. This is the most popular game among the 
 Spaniards. In the caf^s from twilight to midnight 
 one hears a loud, continuous, discordant sound, like 
 the rattling of hailstones, from the turning and re- 
 turning of thousands of dominoes by hundreds of 
 hands, so that one is obliged to raise one's voice to 
 be heard by one's next neighbor. The commonest 
 beverage is the exquisite chocolate of Spain, which 
 is generally served in little cups, and is about as 
 thick as preserved juniper-berries and hot enough to 
 scald one's throat. One of these cups, with a drop 
 of milk and a peculiar cake of very delicate flavor 
 which they call bollo, makes a luncheon fit for Lucul- 
 lus. Between one bollo and the next I made my 
 studies of the Catalan character, conversing with all 
 the Don Fulanos (a name as common in Spain as 
 Tisio is with us) who had the good grace not to sus- 
 pect me of being a spy despatched from Madrid to 
 snifi^ the air of Catalonia. 
 
 Their minds were greatly stirred by politics in 
 those days, and it often happened that as I was very 
 innocently speaking of a newspaper article, a prominent 
 man, or of anything whatsoever, whether at the caf^ 
 or in a shop or at the theatre, it happened, I say, 
 that I felt the touch of a toe and heard a whisper at 
 
32 BARCELONA. 
 
 my ear, "Take care! That gentleman on your 
 right is a Carlist." — " Hush ! This man is a Repub- 
 lican." — " That one over there, a Sagastino." — " The 
 man beside you is a Radical." — " Yonder is a Cim- 
 brian." 
 
 Everybody was talking politics. I encountered a 
 rabid Carlist in the person of a barber, who, learning 
 by my pronunciation that I was a compatriot of the 
 king, tried his best to drag me into a discussion. I 
 did not say a word, for he was shaving me, and the 
 resentment of my wounded patriotism might have led 
 to the drawing of the first blood in the civil war. 
 But the barber persisted, and, as he did not know 
 how else to come to the point, he finally said in suave 
 tones, 
 
 " You understand, caballero, if a war were to break 
 out between Italy and Spain, Spain would not be 
 afraid." 
 
 " I am fully persuaded of the fact," I replied, 
 with my eye on the razor. 
 
 He then assured me that France would declare 
 war against Italy as soon as she had paid Germany 
 off: " There is no escape." 
 
 I did not reply. He stood a moment in thought, 
 and then said maliciously, 
 
 " There wUl be great doings in a little while." 
 
 Nevertheless, it gratified the Barcelonians that the 
 king made his appearance among them with an air 
 of confidence and tranquillity, and the mass of the 
 
BARCELONA. 33 
 
 people recall his entrance into the city with admi- 
 ration, 
 
 I found sympathizers with the king even among 
 some who hissed through their closed teeth, " He is 
 not a Spaniard," or, as one of them put it, " How 
 would they like a Castilian king at Rome or Paris?" 
 A question to which one replies, " I don't know much 
 about politics," and the conversation is ended. 
 
 But the Carlists are the truly implacable party. 
 They say scurrilous things about our revolution in 
 the best of good faith, the greater part of them 
 being convinced that the Pope is the true king of 
 Italy — that Italy wants him, and has submitted to 
 the sword of Victor Emanuel because she could not 
 do otherwise, but that she is only watching for a 
 proper occasion to strike for liberty, as the Bourbons 
 and others have done. 
 
 And I am able to offer in evidence of this the fol- 
 lowing anecdote, which I repeat as I heard it nar- 
 rated, without the least shadow of an intention to 
 wound the person who played the principal part of 
 it : Upon one occasion a young Italian, whom I 
 know intimately, was presented to one of the most 
 talented women of the city, who received him with 
 marked courtesy. A number of Italians were pres- 
 ent during the conversation. The lady spoke very 
 sympathetically of Italy, thanked the young man for 
 the enthusiasm which he had expressed for Spain, 
 sustained, in a word, an animated and pleasing con- 
 VOL. I.— 3 
 
34 BARCELONA. 
 
 versation with her responsive guest almost all of the 
 evening. Suddenly she asked : 
 
 " In which city will you reside upon your return 
 to Italy 1 " 
 
 " In Rome," replied the young man. 
 
 "To defend the Pope?" asked the lady with 
 perfect sincerity. 
 
 The young man looked at her and answered with 
 an ingenuous smile, 
 
 "No, indeed!" 
 
 That no provoked a tempest. The lady, forget- 
 ting that the young man was an Italian and her 
 guest, broke out into such a fury of invective 
 against King Victor, the Piedmontese government, 
 and Italy from the time the army entered Rome to 
 the War of the Marches and Umbria that the ill- 
 fated stranger turned as white as a sheet with her 
 scolding. But he controlled himself and did not say 
 a word, allowing the other Italians, who were friends 
 of long standing, to defend the honor of their 
 country. The discussion was continued to soine 
 length, and finally brought to a close. The lady 
 found that she had allowed herself to be carried too 
 far, and showed that she regretted her action; but 
 it was very evident from her words that she, and 
 doubtless a great many others, were convinced that 
 the unification of Italy had been accomplished against 
 the will of the Italian people by Piedmont, the king, 
 the greed of power, and the hatred of religion. 
 
BARCELONA. 35 
 
 The common people, however, are republican, 
 and, as they have the reputation of being quicker 
 of action than those who talk more, they are feared. 
 
 In Spain, whenever they wish to circulate a report 
 of an approaching revolution, they always begin by 
 saying that it will break out in Barcelona, or that it 
 is on the point of breaking out, or has broken out. 
 
 The Catalans do not wish to be thought of as on 
 a common footing with the Spaniards of the other 
 provinces. " We are Spaniards," they say, " but, 
 be it understood, of Catalonia — a people, to be brief, 
 that labor and think ; a people to whose ears the 
 din of machinery is more pleasant than the music 
 of the guitar. We do not envy Andalusia her 
 romance, the praises of her poets, nor the paintings 
 of her artists ; we are content to be the most serious 
 and industrious people of Spain." In fact, they 
 speak of their brothers of the South as at one time, 
 though seldom now, the Piedmontese used to speak 
 of the Neapolitans and the Tuscans : " Yes, they 
 have genius, imagination, sweet speech, and amuse- 
 ment ; but we, on the contrary, have greater force 
 of will, greater aptitude for science, better popular 
 education, . . . and moreover, . . . character. . . ." 
 I met a Catalonian, a gentleman distinguished for his 
 ability and learning, who lamented that the War 
 of Independence had too closely affiliated the differ- 
 ent provinces of Spain, whence it resulted that the 
 Catalonians had contracted some of the bad habits 
 
36 BARCELONA. 
 
 of the Southerners, while the latter had acquired 
 none of the good qualities of the Catalans. " We 
 have become mas ligeros de casco" (lighter of head), 
 he said, and he would not be comforted. 
 
 A merchant of whom I asked what he thought of 
 the Castilian character answered brusquely that in 
 his opinion it would be a fortunate thing for Cata- 
 lonia if there were no railroad betweeli Barcelona 
 and Madrid, because commerce with that race 
 corrupted the character and the customs of the 
 Catalan people. When they speak of a long-winded 
 deputy, they say, '' Oh yes, he is an Andalusian." 
 
 They ridicule the poetic language of the Anda- 
 lusians, their soft pronunciation, their childish 
 gaiety, their vanity and effeminacy. 
 
 The Andalusians, on the contrary, speak of the 
 Catalans much as an aesthetic young lady of literary 
 and artistic tastes would speak of one of those 
 domestic girls who prefer the cook-book to the 
 romances of George Sand. 
 
 " They are a rude people," they say, " who have 
 a capacity only for arithmetic and mechanics; 
 barbarians who would convert a statue of Montaigne 
 into an olive-press, and one of Murillo's canvases 
 into a tarpaulin — the veritable Boeotians of Spain, 
 insupportable with their jargon, their surliness, and 
 their pedantic gravity." 
 
 In reality, Catalonia is probably the province of 
 least importance in the history of the fine arts. 
 
Hn&aluslan peasant (Sirls. 
 
BARCELONA. 37 
 
 The only poet who was born in Barcelona — and he 
 was not great, but only illustrious — was Juan 
 Boscan, who flourished at the beginning of the six- 
 teenth century, and introduced into Spanish letters 
 the hendecasyllabic verse, the ballad, the sonnet, 
 and all the forms of Italian lyric poetry, for which 
 he had a passionate admiration. Whence arose this 
 great transformation, as it afterward became, in the 
 entire literature of a people ? From the fact that 
 Boscan took up his residence at Granada at the time 
 when the court of Charles V. was held there, and 
 that he there met an ambassador from the republic 
 of Venice, Andrea Navagero, who knew the poems 
 of Petrarch by heart, and recited them to Boscan, 
 and said to him, "It seems to jne that you too 
 could write such verses ; try it !" 
 
 Boscan tried : all the literature of Spain cried out 
 against him. Italian poetry was not sonorous ; 
 Petrarch's poems were insipid and effeminate ; and 
 Spain did not need to harness her Pegasus in the 
 traces of any other land. But Boscan was unyield- 
 ing. Garcilasso de la Vega, the chivalrous cavalier, 
 his friend — he who received the glorious title of 
 Malherbe of Spain — followed his example. The 
 band of reformers grew little by little, until it became 
 an army and conquered and dominated all literature. 
 The consummation of the movement was reached in 
 Garcilasso, but to Boscan remains the merit of 
 giving it the first impulse, and hence to Barcelona 
 
38 BARCELONA. 
 
 belongs the honor of having given to Spain the 
 genius who transformed her literature. 
 
 During the few days I remained at Barcelona I 
 was accustomed to spend the evening in company 
 with some young Catalans, walking on the sea-shore 
 in the moonlight until late at night. They all knew 
 a little Italian, and were very fond of our poetry, so 
 from hour to hour we did nothing but repeat verses 
 — ^they from Zorilla, Espronceda, and Lope de Vega ; 
 I from Foscolo, Berchet, and Manzoni — alternating 
 in a sort of rivalry to see who could repeat the most 
 beautiful selection. 
 
 It is a novel sensation, that of repeating the verses 
 of one's native poets in a foreign country. 
 
 When I saw my Spanish friends all intent on the 
 story of the battle of Maclodio, and then little by 
 little becoming excited, and finally so inflamed that 
 they grasped me by the arm and exclaimed, with a 
 Castilian accent which rendered their words doubly 
 grateful, " Beautiful ! sublime !" then I felt my 
 blood surge through my veins ; I trembled, and if it 
 had been light I believe they would have seen me 
 turn as white as a sheet. They repeated to me 
 verses in the Catalan language. I use the word 
 " language " because it has a history and a literature 
 of its own, and was not relegated to the condition of 
 a dialect until the political predominance was as- 
 sumed by Castile, who imposed her idiom as authori- 
 tative upon the rest of the provinces. And although 
 
BARCELONA. 39 
 
 it is a harsh language, made up of short words, and 
 unpleasant at first even to one who has not a delicate 
 ear, it has none the less some conspicuous advan- 
 tages, and of these the popular poets have availed 
 themselves with admirable skill, particularly in ex- 
 pressing the sense by the sound. A poem which 
 they recited, the first lines of which imitated the 
 rumbling of a railway-train, drew from me an excla- 
 mation of wonder. But, even though ojie may know 
 the Spanish language, Catalan is not intelligible 
 without explanation. The people talk rapidly, with 
 closed teeth, without supplementing their speech by 
 gestures, so that it is difficult to get the sense of the 
 simplest sentence, and it is a great thing to catch a 
 few occasional words. However, the common people 
 can speak Castilian when it is convenient, but they 
 do so utterly without grace, although much better 
 than the common people of the northern Italian prov- 
 inces speak Italian. Even the cultivated classes of 
 Catalonia are not proficient in the national speech. 
 
 The Castilian first recognizes the Catalan by his 
 pronunciation, to say nothing of his voice, but par- 
 ticularly by his uncouth expressions. Hence a for- 
 eigner who comes to Spain with an illusion that he 
 can speak the language may easily be able to cher- 
 ish the illusion so long as he remains in Catalonia, 
 but as soon as he enters Castile and hears for the 
 first time that crossfire of epigrams, that profusion 
 of proverbs, the apt expressions, the clear and happy 
 
40 BARCELONA. 
 
 idioms, he stands aghast like Alfieri in the presence 
 of Dame Vocabulary when they were discussing 
 hosiery ; and then farewell illusion ! 
 
 On my last night I visited the Lyceum Theatre, 
 which is said to be the most beautiful in Europe, and 
 probably the largest. It was crowded with people 
 from the pit to the highest gallery, and could not 
 have accommodated a hundred more persons. From 
 the box in which I sat the ladies on the opposite side 
 looked no larger than children, and on half closing 
 one's eyes they appeared like so many white lines, 
 one for each row of boxes, tremulous and sparkling 
 like an immense garland of camellias impearled with 
 dew and swayed by the breeze. 
 
 The vast boxes are divided by partitions which 
 slope down from the wall to the front of the box, so 
 enabling one to have a good view of the persons 
 seated on the front row; consequently, the theatre 
 looks like a great gallery, and so acquires an air of 
 lightness which makes it very beautiful to look upon. 
 All is in relief; all is open to the view; the light 
 strikes every part ; every one sees every one else ; 
 the aisles are wide, and one may come and go, turn 
 with ease in any direction, look at a lady from a 
 thousand points of view, pass from the gallery to 
 the boxes and from the boxes to the gallery, — one 
 may walk about, talk, and wander here and there all 
 the evening without striking elbows with a living 
 soul. The other parts of the building are in pro- 
 
BAECELONA. 41 
 
 portion to the principal room — corridors, staircases, 
 lobbies, vestibules like those of a great palace. 
 Then there is an immense, splendid ball-room in 
 which one could place another theatre. Yet even here, 
 where the good Barcelonians, after the fatigue of the 
 day, should think of nothing but recreation or the 
 contemplation of their beautiful, superb women, — 
 even here the good Barcelonians buy and sell, bargain 
 and chaffer, like souls condemned to torment. 
 
 In this corridor there is a continual passing of 
 bank-runners, office-clerks, and messenger-boys, and 
 the constant hum of the market-place. Barbarians ! 
 How many beautiful faces, how many noble eyes, 
 how many splendid heads of dark hair in that crowd 
 of ladies ! In ancient times the young Catalan 
 lovers, to win the heart of their ladies, bound them- 
 selves to fraternities of flagellants and beat them- 
 selves with whips of iron beneath the windows of 
 their loves until the blood burst from the skin ; and 
 the ladies cheered them on, crying, " Lash thyself 
 still harder, so ; now I love thee, I am thine !" How 
 many times did I exclaim that night, " Gentlemen, 
 for pity's sake give me a tyhip of Iron !" 
 
 The next morning before sunrise I was on my way 
 to Saragossa, and, to tell the truth, not without a 
 feeling of sadness at leaving Barcelona, although I 
 had been there only a few days. This city, although 
 it is anything but the flower of the beautiful cities 
 of the world, as Cervantes called it, — this city of 
 
42 BARCELONA. 
 
 commerce and warehouses, spurned by poets and 
 artists — pleased me, and its hurried, busy people 
 inspired me with respect. And then it is always 
 sad to depart from a city, however unfamiliar, with 
 the certainty of never seeing it again. It is like say- 
 ing good-bye for ever to a travelling companion with 
 whom one has passed twenty-four happy hours : he 
 is not a friend, but one seems to love him as a friend, 
 and will remember him all one's life with a feeling of 
 affection more real than that one holds toward many 
 who are called by the name of friends. 
 
 As I turned to look once again at the city from the 
 window of the railway-carriage, the words of Alvaro 
 Tarfe in Don Quixote came to my lips : " Adieu, 
 Barcelona, the home of courtesy, the haven of wan- 
 derers, the fatherland of the brave ! Adieu !" 
 And I continued sadly : " Lo, the first leaf is torn 
 from the rosy book of travel ! So all things pass. 
 Another city, then another, then another, and then — 
 I shall return, and the journey will seem like a 
 dream, and it will seem as though I had not even 
 stirred from home ; and then another journey — new 
 cities and other sad partings, and again a memory 
 vague as a dream ; and then ?" Alas for that travel- 
 ler who harbors thoughts like these ! Look at the 
 sky and at the fields, repeat poetry, and — smoke. 
 Adios, Barcelona, archivio de la cortesia ! 
 
SARAGOSSA. 
 
SARAGOSSA, 
 
 A FEW miles from Barcelona one comes in sight 
 of the serrated crags of the famous Montserrat, a 
 peculiar mountain which at first sight raises a sus- 
 picion of an optical illusion, so hard is it to believe 
 that Nature could ever have yielded to so strange a 
 paprice. Imagine a succession of little triangles con- 
 nected with each other, like those which children use 
 to represent a chain of mountains, or a «rown with a 
 pointed circlet, stretched out like the teeth of a saw 
 or a great many sugar-loaves ranged in a row, and 
 you have an idea of the distant appearance of Mont- 
 serrat. It is a group of immense cones which rise 
 side by side one behind another, or rather one great 
 mountain formed of a hundred mountains, cleft from 
 the summit to a distance almost one-third of its 
 height in such a manner that it presents two grand 
 peaks, around which cluster the lesser ones. The 
 highest altitudes arid and inaccessible ; the lower 
 slopes mantled with pine, oak, arbutus, and juniper, 
 broken here and there by measureless caverns and 
 fearful precipices, and dotted by white hermitages, 
 which stand out in bold relief against the aerial crags 
 
 u 
 
46 SAKAGOSSA. 
 
 and the deep gorges. In the cleft of the mountain, 
 between the two principal peaks, rises the ancient 
 monastery of the Benedictines, where Ignatius Loyola 
 meditated in his youth. Fifty thousand pilgrims and 
 sight-seers annually visit the monastery and the 
 caves, and on the eighth of September a festival is 
 held which brings together an innumerable throng 
 from every part of Catalonia. 
 
 Shortly before we arrived at the station where 
 one gets off of the train to ascend the mountain, a 
 group of school-boys from an academy of some un- 
 known village rushed into the railway-carriage. 
 They were making an excursion to the monastery 
 of Montserrat, and a priest accompanied them. They 
 were Catalans — with fair, ruddy faces and large eyes ; 
 each one carried a basket containing bread and fruit ; 
 one had a scrap-book, another a field-glass. They 
 all laughed and talked at once, rollicked about on the 
 seats, and filled the car with infinite merriment. But, 
 although I strained my ears and racked my brain, I 
 could not understand a word of the miserable jargon 
 in which they were chattering. I entered into con- 
 versation with the priest. 
 
 "Look, sir," said he after the preliminary sen- 
 tences, as he pointed out one of the boys : "he knows 
 all the Odes of Horace by heart ; the way in which 
 that other boy can solve problems in arithmetic would 
 astonish you ; this one here is a born philosopher ;" 
 and so he described to me the gifts of each. 
 
SARAGOSSA. 47 
 
 Suddenly he interrupted himself to shout " Bere- 
 tina /" (Caps). The boys all drew their red Cata- 
 lonian caps from their pockets, and with cries of de- 
 light proceeded to put them on, some slipping them 
 back so that they feU over their necks, the others 
 pulling them fotward until they dangled in front of 
 their noses. The priest made a gesture of disap- 
 proval, and at once those who had their caps pushed 
 back pulled them over their noses, and those who 
 had them pulled forward pushed them back over 
 their necks, with laughter and shouts and clapping 
 of the hands. 
 
 I approached one of the most roguish of the boys, 
 and, merely for the fun of it, knowing that I might 
 as well have talked to a wall, I asked in Italian, 
 " Is this the first time you have made the journey 
 to Montserrat?" 
 
 The boy thought for a moment, and then answered 
 very slowly, "I — have — been — there — before — at 
 — other — times." 
 
 " Ah ! my dear boy ! " I cried with a feeling of 
 satisfaction hard to imagine, " and where have you 
 learned Italian?'' 
 
 The priest here put in a word to say that the 
 boy's father had lived several years at Naples. 
 Just as I was turning toward my little Catalan to 
 continue the conversation my words were cut short 
 by a miserable whistle, and then the wretched cry 
 of " Oksa !" the village at the foot of the mountain. 
 
48 SAKAGOSSA. 
 
 The priest bade me good-bye, the boys tumbled out 
 of the car, the train was off again. 
 
 I put my head out of the window and shouted 
 to my little friend, " Buona passeggiata ! " (A 
 pleasant walk), and he shouted back, emphasizing 
 each syllable, "A-di-o!" Some may laugh at the 
 thought of mentioning these trifles ; nevertheless, 
 they are the liveliest pleasures of the traveller's 
 experience. 
 
 The towns and villages which one sees in crossing 
 Catalonia toward Arragon are almost all populous 
 and flourishing, surrounded by workshops, factories, 
 and buildings in course of construction, from which 
 in every direction one sees thick columns of smoke 
 rising here and there among the trees, and at every 
 station there is great running hither and thither of 
 peasants and merchants. The country is a pleasing 
 succession of cultivated fields, gentle hills, and 
 picturesque valleys until one comes to the village of 
 Cervera. 
 
 Here one begins to see great stretches of arid 
 land with a few scattered houses, which announce 
 the proximity of Arragon. But then, unexpectedly, 
 one enters a smiling valley clothed with olive- 
 groves, vineyards, mulberry trees, orchards, and 
 dotted with towns and villas. One sees on the one 
 side the lofty summits of the Pyrenees, on the other 
 the mountains of Arragon — Lerida, the glorious city 
 of ten sieges, along the bank of the Segre, on the 
 
SAEAGOSSA. 49 
 
 slope of a beautiful hill ; and all about a luxuriance 
 of vegetation, a variety of scenery — a glorious feast 
 to the eye. It is the last view of Catalonia ; in a 
 few minutes one enters Arragon. 
 
 Arragon ! What vague memories of wars, of 
 bandits, queens, poets, heroes, and storied lovers 
 dwell in the echo of that sonorous name ! And 
 what a profound feeling of sympathy and respect ! 
 The old, noble, haughty Arragon, from whose brow 
 flash the splendid rays of the glory of Spain ! upon 
 whose ancestral shields is written in characters of 
 blood, " Liberty and valor ! " When the world bent 
 beneath the yoke of the tyrants the people of 
 Arragon said to their king, through the mouth of 
 their chief-justice, " We, who are as great as thou, 
 and more potent, have chosen thee for our lord and 
 king on thy agreement to obey our commands and 
 conserve our liberties ; and not otherwise." 
 
 And the king knelt before the might of the 
 magistrate of the people and took his oath on this 
 sacred formula. 
 
 In the midst of the barbarity of the Middle Ages 
 the fiery race of Arragon recked not of torture ; the 
 secret trial was banished from their code ; all their 
 institutions protected the liberty of the citizen and 
 law held absolute sway. Discontented with their 
 narrow mountain-home, they descended from So- 
 brarbe to Huesca, from Huesca to Saragossa, and as 
 conquerors entered the Mediterranean. Joining 
 
 Vol. I.— 4 
 
50 SAEAGOSSA. 
 
 with brave Catalonia, they redeemed the Balearic 
 Isles and Valencia from Moorish dominion ; fought 
 at Murat for their outraged rights and violated con- 
 sciences ; tamed the adventurers of the house of 
 Anjou and spoiled them of their Italian lands ; broke 
 the chains of the port of Marseilles, which still hang 
 on the walls of their temples ; with the ships of 
 Roger di Lauria ruled the seas from the Gulf of 
 Taranto to the mouth of the Guadalquivir ; subdued 
 the Bosphorus with the ships of Roger de Flor; 
 swept the Mediterranean from Rosas to Catania on 
 the wings of victory ; and, as though the West was 
 too narrow for their ambition, they dared to carve 
 upon the brow of Olympus, the stones of the Piraeus, 
 and the proud mountains which form the gates of 
 Asia the immortal name of their fatherland. 
 
 These were my thoughts on entering Arragon, 
 although I did not express them in these very words, 
 for I did not then have before me a certain little 
 book by Emilio Castelar. The first sight upon 
 which my eyes rested was the little village of 
 Monzon lying along the stream of Cinca, noted for 
 the famous assemblies of the courts and for the 
 alternate attacks and defences of Spanish and 
 French — the common fate of almost all the villages 
 of the province during the War of Independence. 
 Monzon lies outstretched at the foot of a formidable 
 mountain upon whose side rises a castle as black, 
 sinister, and appalling as the grimmest of the feudal 
 
SAEAGOSSA. 51 
 
 lords could have planned to condemn the most 
 detested of villages to a life of fear. Even the 
 guide pauses before this monstrous edifice and 
 breaks forth in a timid exclamation of astonishment. 
 There is not, I believe, in Spain another village, 
 another mountain, another castle which better 
 represents the fearful submission of an oppressed 
 people and the perpetual menace of a cruel ruler. 
 A giant pressing his knee on the breast of a mere 
 child whom he has thrown to the ground, — this is 
 but a poor simile to give an idea of it ; and such 
 was the impression it made upon me that, although 
 I do not know how to hold the pencil in my hand, I 
 tried to sketch the landscape as best I could, so that 
 it might not fade from my memory. And while I 
 was making scratches I composed the first stanza of 
 a gloomy ballad. 
 
 After Monzon the country of Arragon is merely a 
 vast plain, bounded in the distance by long chains of 
 reddish hills, with a few wretched villages, and some 
 solitary eminences upon which rise the blackened 
 ruins of ancient castles. Arragon, so flourishing 
 under her kings, is now one of the poorest provinces 
 of Spain. Only on the banks of the Ebro and along 
 the famous canal which extends for forty miles from 
 Tudela as far as Saragossa, serving at the same time 
 to irrigate the fields and to transport merchandise, — 
 only here does commerce thrive. Elsewhere it lan- 
 guishes or is dead. 
 
52 SARAGOSSA. 
 
 The railway-stations are deserted ; when the train 
 stops one hears no other sound save the voice of 
 some old troubadour who strums his guitar and 
 chants a monotonous ditty, which one hears again at 
 all the other stations, and afterward in the cities of 
 Arragon : the words varied, but eternally the same 
 tune. As there was nothing to be seen out of the 
 window, I turned to my travelling companions. 
 
 The car was well filled : we were about forty in 
 number, counting men and women, and as the second- 
 class carriages in Spain do not have compartments, 
 we could all see each other — priests, nuns, boys, 
 servants, and other persons who might have been 
 business-men or officials or secret emmisaries of Don 
 Carlos. The priests smoked their cigarettes, as the 
 custom is in Spain, amicably offering their tobacco- 
 pouches and rolling paper to those beside them. The 
 others ate with all their might, passing from one to 
 another a sort of bladder, which when pressed 
 with both hands sent out a spurt of wine. Others 
 were reading the newspaper, wrinkling their brows 
 now and then with an air of profound medita- 
 tion. 
 
 A Spaniard will not put a piece of orange, a bit of 
 cheese, or a mouthful of bread into his mouth in the 
 presence of others before he has asked every one to 
 eat with him ; and so I saw fruit, bread sardines, and 
 cups of wine pass under my nose, everything accom- 
 panied with a polite " Gusta usted comer, commigo V 
 
SAEAGOSSA. 53 
 
 (Will you eat with me, sir!) To which I re- 
 plied, " Gracias" (No, thank you), though it went 
 against the grain to do so, for I was as hungry as 
 Ugolino. Opposite to me, with her feet almost touch- 
 ing mine, sat a young nun, if one were to judge of 
 her age by her chin, which was all of her face visible 
 below her veil, and by her hand, which lay carelessly 
 on her knee. I looked at her closely for more than 
 an hour, hoping that she would raise her face, but 
 she remained motionless as a statue, although from 
 her attitude it was easy to see that she was obliged 
 to resist the natural curiosity to look around her; 
 and for this reason she finally won my admiration. 
 What constancy ! I thought ; what strength of will ! 
 What a power of sacrifice even in these trifling mat- 
 ters ! What a noble contempt for human vanity ! 
 As I was engaged with these thoughts I happened to 
 glance at her hand ; it was a small, white hand, and 
 it seemed to me to be moving. I watched it more 
 intently, and saw it escape very slowly out of the 
 sleeve, extend the fingers, and rest on the knee, so 
 that for a moment it hung gracefully down ; then it 
 turned a little to one side, was drawn back, and 
 again extended. Oh, ye gods ! anything but con- 
 tempt of human vanity ! 
 
 I could not have been mistaken ; she had gone to 
 all that trouble merely to display her little hand, yet 
 she did not once raise her head all the time she re- 
 mained in the car, nor did she even allow her face to 
 
54 SAEAGOSSA. 
 
 be seen when she got out. Oh, the inscrutable depths 
 of the feminine mind ! 
 
 It was ordained that I should make no other friends 
 than priests during the journey. An old father with 
 a benevolent expression spoke to me, and we com- 
 menced a conversation which lasted almost to Sara- 
 gossa. At first, when I said I was an Italian, he be- 
 came a little suspicious, thinking perhaps that I had 
 been one of those who had broken the bolts of the Qui- 
 rinal, but when I told him that I did not busy myself 
 about politics he was reassured and talked with per- 
 fect freedom. We chanced upon literature. I re- 
 peated to him the whole of Manzoni's Pentecoste, 
 which delighted him, and he recited for me a poem 
 of the celebrated Luis de Leon, a sacred poet of the 
 sixteenth century, and we were friends. When we 
 came to Zuera, the last station before arriving at 
 Saragossa, he arose, bade me good-bye, and with his 
 foot on the step he turned quickly and whispered in 
 my ear, " Beware of the women ; they bring evil 
 consequences in Spain." When he alighted he stood 
 to watch the train start, and, raising his hand with a 
 gesture of fatherly admonition, he said a second 
 time, " Beware !" 
 
 It was late at night when I reached Saragossa, and 
 as I left the train my ear suddenly became aware of 
 the peculiar cadence with which the hackmen, the 
 porters, and the boys were speaking as they quar- 
 relled over my baggage. In Arragon even the most 
 
SARAGOSSA. 55 
 
 insignificant people can speak Castilian, although with 
 some mutilation and harshness ; but your pure Cas- 
 tilian can recognize the Arragonese before he has 
 spoken half a word; and, in fact, the Andalusians 
 can imitate their accent, and do so occasionally in 
 derision of its roughness and monotony, as the Tus- 
 cans used sometimes to mock the speech of Lucca. 
 
 I entered the city with a certain feeling of rever- 
 ent fear. The terrible fame of Saragossa oppressed 
 me ; my conscience almost upbraided me for having 
 so often profaned its name in the school of rhetoric, 
 when I hurled it as a challenge in the face of tyrants. 
 The streets were dark ; I saw only the black outline 
 of the roofs and steeples against the starlight sky : 
 I heard only the rumble of the coaches as they rolled 
 away. At certain turns I seemed to see daggers and 
 gun-barrels gleaming at the windows and to hear far 
 off the cries of the wounded. I do not know what I 
 should have given if I could have hastened the day- 
 break, and so have gratified that eager curiosity 
 which was stirring within me to visit one by one 
 those streets, those squares, those houses, famous for 
 desperate conflicts and horrible slaughter, painted by 
 so many artists, sung by so many poets, and so often 
 in my dreams before I departed from Italy, that I 
 used to murmur with delight, " I shall one day see 
 them." Arrived finally at my hotel, I looked at the 
 porter who conducted me to my room with an 
 amiable smile, as though I would have said, " Spare 
 
56 SAKAGOSSA. 
 
 me ! I am not an invader !" And with a glance at a 
 large painting of Amadeus hanging at an angle of 
 the corridor — a great reassurance to Italian travellers 
 — ^I went to bed as sleepy as any of my readers. 
 
 At daybreak I hurried from the hotel. Neither 
 shops, doors, nor windows were yet open, but hardly 
 had I taken a step in the street before an exclama- 
 tion of surprise escaped me, for there passed me a 
 party of men so strangely dressed that at first sight 
 I believed them to be masqueraders. Then I 
 thought, " No, they are the silent characters of some 
 theatre ;" and then, again, " No, they are madmen, 
 beyond a doubt." 
 
 Imagine them : for a cap they wore a red hand- 
 kerchief bound about the head like a padded ring, 
 from which their dishevelled hair stuck out above 
 and below ; a blanket, striped blue and white, worn 
 like a mantle, and falling almost to the ground in 
 ample folds, like the Roman toga ; a wide blue sash 
 around the waist ; short breeches of black corduroy 
 gathered in tight at the knee ; white stockings ; a 
 sort of sandal laced over the instep with black 
 ribbons ; and yet bearing with all this picturesque 
 variety of vesture the evident impress of poverty, 
 but with this evident poverty a manner not only 
 theatrical, but proud and majestic, as shown in their 
 carriage and gestures — the air of ruined grandees 
 of Spain ; so that one was in doubt, on seeing them, 
 whether to laugh or to pity, whether to put one's 
 
SARAGOSSA. 57 
 
 hand in one's pocket and give them an alms or to 
 raise one's hat as a mark of respect. But they were 
 simply peasants from the country around Saragossa, 
 and this which I have described was only one of a 
 thousand varieties of the same manner of dress. As 
 I passed along at every step I saw a new costume. 
 Some were dressed in ancient, others in modern, 
 style ; some with elegance, others simply ; some in 
 holiday attire, others with extreme plainness ; but 
 every one wore the scarf, the handkerchief about 
 the head, the white stockings, the cravat and parti- 
 colored waistcoat. 
 
 The women wore crinolines with short skirts, 
 which showed their ankles and made their hips seem 
 ridicidously high. Even the boys wore the flow- 
 ing mantle and the handkerchief around the head, 
 and posed in dramatic attitudes like the men. 
 
 The first square I entered was full of these 
 people, who were sitting in groups on the doorsteps 
 or lying about in the angles formed by the houses, 
 some playing the guitar, others singing, many going 
 about begging in patched and tattered garments, but 
 with a high head and fiery eye. They seemed like 
 people who had just come from a tableau in which 
 together they had represented a savage tribe from 
 some unknown country. 
 
 Grradually the shops and houses were opened and 
 the people of Saragossa began to fill the streets. 
 The citizens do not appear different from us in dress, 
 
58 SAEAGOSSA. 
 
 but there is something peculiar in their faces. 
 They unite the serious expression of the Catalans 
 with the alert air of the Castilians, and then add a 
 fierceness of expression which belongs entirely to 
 the blood of Arragon. 
 
 The streets of Saragossa are severe, almost 
 depressing, in appearance, as I had imagined they 
 would be before I saw them. Excepting the Coso, a 
 wide street which runs through a large part of the 
 city, describing a grand semicircular curve — ^the 
 Corso famous in ancient times for the chariot-races, 
 jousts, and tourneys which were celebrated in it at 
 the times of the public feasts, — excepting this 
 beautiful and cheerful street and a few streets which 
 have recently been rebuilt like those of a French 
 city, the rest are tortuous and narrow, flanked by 
 taU houses, dark in color and with few windows, 
 reminding one of ancient fortresses. These are 
 the streets which bear an impress and which have a 
 character, or, as another has said, a physiognomy, 
 of their own — streets which once seen can never be 
 forgotten. Throughout one's life at the mention of 
 Saragossa one will see those walls, those doors, those 
 windows as one saw them before. At this moment 
 I see the court of the New Tower, and could draw 
 it house by house, and paint each one with its own 
 color; and so vividly does the picture live in my 
 imagination that I seem to breathe that air again, and 
 to repeat the words which I then spoke : " This 
 
street in Saragossa. 
 
SAEAG0S8A. 59 
 
 square is tremendous ! " Why ? I do not know : it 
 may have been an illusion of mine. It is with cities 
 as with faces — each one reads them in his own 
 way. 
 
 The streets and squares of Saragossa impressed me 
 thus, and at every turn I said, " This place seems to 
 have been made for a combat," and I looked around 
 as though something was needed to complete the scene 
 — a barricade, the loopholes, and the guns. I felt 
 again all the profound emotions which the account 
 of that horrible siege had produced upon me : I saw 
 the Saragossa of 1809, and hurried from street to 
 street with increasing curiosity to iind the traces of 
 that gigantic struggle at which the world trembled. 
 Here, I thought, indicating to myself the place, 
 passed the division of Grandjean, there perhaps 
 Musnier's command sallied forth ; at this point the 
 troops of Morlot rushed into the fight ; at that angle 
 before me the light infantry of the Vistula made 
 their charge ; still farther round occurred the attack 
 of the Polish infantry ; yonder three hundred 
 Spaniards were cut down ; at this spot burst the 
 great mine which blew a company of the Valencian 
 regiment to atoms ; in this corner fell Greneral 
 Lacoste, his forehead pierced by a bullet. 
 
 There lie the famous streets of Santa Engracia, 
 Santa Monica, and San Augustine, through which the 
 French advanced toward the Coso from house to 
 house with a blasting of mines and counter-mines. 
 
60 SAEAGOSSA. 
 
 through crumbling walls and smoking beams, under 
 a tempest of bullets, grape-shot, and rocks. 
 
 There are the narrow ways, the little courts, the 
 dark alleys, where they fought those horrid battles, 
 hand to hand, with bayonet and dagger, with scythes 
 and their very teeth ; their houses barricaded and 
 defended room by room, in the midst of fire and 
 ruin, the narrow stairways which ran with blood, the 
 gloomy halls which echoed to cries of pain and de- 
 spair, which were covered with mutilated corpses, 
 which saw all the horrors of pestilence, famine, and 
 death. 
 
 As I was walking from street to street I came out 
 in front of the cathedral of Our Lady of the Pillar, 
 the terrible Madonna to whom came the squalid rout 
 of soldiers, citizens, and women to plead for protec- 
 tion and courage before they went to die on the ram- 
 parts. The people of Saragossa still persevere in 
 their ancient fanaticism in regard to it, and venerate 
 it with a peculiar sentiment of love and fear, which 
 still lives in the minds of persons who are strangers 
 to all other religious feelings. Nevertheless, from 
 the moment you enter the court and raise your eyes 
 toward the church to the moment you turn on leav- 
 ing it to take a farewell look, be careful not to 
 smile or make any careless gesture which might pos- 
 sibly seem irreverent ; for there are those who see 
 you, who watch you, and who will on occasion fol- 
 low you, and if faith is dead within you, prepare 
 
Catbe&ral of El pilar, SaraQossa. 
 
L ^ J? — :'^^T:BP 
 
SAEAGOSSA. 61 
 
 your mind, before you cross the sacred threshold, 
 for a confused reawakening of those childish terrors 
 which few churches in the world have such power 
 to revive even in the coldest and most callous of 
 hearts. 
 
 The first stone of Our Lady of the Pillar was laid 
 in the year 1686, in a place where stood a chapel 
 erected by St. James to receive the miraculous image 
 of the Virgin, which still remains. It is an immense 
 edifice, with a rectangular base, surmounted by 
 eleven domes painted in different colors, giving the 
 whole a pleasing Moorish effect. The walls are un- 
 adorned and dark in color. Let us enter. It is a 
 vast cathedral, dark, bare, and cold, divided into 
 three naves, encircled by modest chapels. One's 
 eye turns quickly to the sanctuary which rises in the 
 middle : there stands the statue of the Virgin. It is 
 a temple within a temple, and might stand alone in 
 the middle of the square if the building which sur- 
 rounds it were torn away. A circle of beautiful 
 marble columns, arranged in the form of an ellipse, 
 bear up a dome richly adorned with sculpture, open 
 at the top, and ornamented within the opening by 
 aspiring figures of angels and saints. In the centre 
 stands the great altar ; on its right the statue of St. 
 James ; on the left, far back under a silver canopy 
 which gleams against a background of a richly- 
 draped velvet curtain sown with stars, amid the 
 flashing of thousands of costly offerings, in the glare 
 
62 SARAGOSSA. 
 
 of innumerable lights, the famous statue of the Vir- 
 gin, where St. James placed it nineteen centuries 
 ago, carved in wood, black with age, all enveloped 
 in a bishop's gown, excepting its head and the head 
 of the Christ child. In front of it, between the 
 columns grouped around the sanctuary and in the far 
 recesses of the naves, in every place from which one 
 can see the venerated image, kneel faithful worship- 
 pers, prostrate, their heads almost touching the pave- 
 ment, their hands clasping the crucifix — poor women, 
 laboring-men, ladies, soldiers, boys, and girls — and 
 through the different doorways of the cathedral 
 passes a continuous stream of people, walking slowly 
 on tiptoe, with solemn faces ; and in that deep silence 
 not a murmur, not a rustle, not a sigh ; the very life 
 of the crowd seems suspended : it seems as though they 
 were all expecting a divine apparition, a mysterious 
 voice, some awful revelation from the dim sanctuary ; 
 and even one who does not have their faith, and who 
 does not pray, is forced to gaze himself at that point 
 where all eyes are turned, and the current of his 
 thoughts is interrupted by a sort of restless expec- 
 tation. 
 
 " Oh, would that some voice would speak !" I 
 thought. " Woidd that the apparition would ap- 
 pear ! Would that there might be a word or a sigh 
 which would turn my hair white with fear and make 
 me utter a cry the like of which was never heard on 
 earth, if so I might for ever be delivered from that 
 
SARAGOSSA. 63 
 
 horrible doubt which saps my brain and saddens my 
 life ! " 
 
 I tried to enter the sanctuary, but I could not have 
 done so without passing over the shoulders of a hun- 
 dred worshippers, some of whom had already be- 
 gun to look surly because I was going around with a 
 note-book and pencil in my hand. I attempted to go 
 down into the subterranean crypt where are the 
 tombs of the archbishops and the urn which holds 
 the heart of John II. of Austria, the natural son of 
 Philip IV., but this I was not allowed to do. I asked 
 to see the vestments, the gold, the jewels, which had 
 been poured out at the feet of the Virgin by the 
 lords, the rulers, and the monarchs of every age and 
 every land, but I was told that it was not the proper 
 time, and not even by showing a shiny peseta was I 
 able to corrupt the honest sacristan. But I was not 
 refused some information concerning the worship of 
 the Virgin after I had told him, to win favor in his 
 eyes, that I was born in Rome in the Borgo Pio, and 
 that from the little terrace in front of my home I 
 could see the windows of the Pope's apartments. 
 
 "It is a fact," said he, "almost a miracle — and 
 one would not believe it if it were not attested by 
 tradition — that at the very early time when the 
 statue of the Virgin was placed on its pedestal, even 
 down to the days in which we are living, except in 
 the night when the cathedral is closed, the sanctuary 
 has never been empty a moment — not even a 
 
64 SAEAGOSSA. 
 
 moment, in the full sense of the word. Our Lady 
 of the Pillar has never been alone. In the pedestal 
 there has been a hollow worn by kisses in which I 
 could put my head. Not even the Moors dared to 
 forbid the worship of Our Lady ; the chapel of 
 St. James was always respected. The cathedral has 
 been struck by lightning many times, and the 
 sanctuary too, even on the inside, right in the midst 
 of a crowd of people. Well ! the souls of the . lost 
 may deny the protection of the Virgin, but no — one 
 — has — ever — ^been — struck ! And the bombs of 
 the French! They have burned and ruined other 
 buildings, but when they fell on the cathedral of Our 
 Lady it was as though they had fallen on the rocks 
 of the Sierra Morena. And the French, who 
 pillaged on every hand, did they have the heart 
 to touch the treasures of Our Lady? One general 
 only allowed himself to take some trifling thing to 
 give to his wife, offering a rich gift to the Virgin in 
 compensation, but do you know what followed I In 
 the next battle a cannon-ball carried away one of his 
 legs. There is not a trace of a general or a king 
 who has imposed on Our Lady, and moreover it is 
 written up above that this church will stand to the 
 end of the world." And he ran on in this vein until 
 a priest made a mysterious sign from a dark corner 
 of the sacristy, and he at once bowed and dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 As I came out of the cathedral, with my mind 
 
SARAGOSSA. 65 
 
 occupied with a picture of the solemn sanctuary, I 
 met a long procession of Carnival chariots, led by a 
 band of music, accompanied by a crowd, followed 
 by a great number of carriages, on their way to the 
 Coso. I do not ever remember to have seen faces 
 so grotesque, ridiculous, and preposterous as those 
 worn by the maskers, and, although I was alone and 
 not at all disposed to merriment, I could no more 
 have kept from laughing than I could have done at 
 the close of one of Fucini's sonnets. The crowd, on 
 the other hand, was decorous and silent and the 
 maskers were as grave as possible. One would 
 have said that both parties were more impressed by 
 the melancholy presentiment of Lent than by the 
 short-lived gaiety of the Carnival. I saw some 
 pretty little faces at the windows, but as yet no type 
 of that proverbial Spanish beauty, of the rich dark 
 complexion, and the_^er^ black eyes which Martinez 
 de la Rosa, an exile in London, remembered with 
 such passionate sighs among the beauties of the 
 North. I passed between two carriages, pushed my 
 way out of the crowd, thereby drawing down some 
 curses which I promptly entered in my note-book, 
 and turned at random down two or three narrow 
 little streets. I came out at the square of San 
 Salvador in front of the cathedral of the same name, 
 which is also called the Seo — a richer and more 
 splendid edifice than that of Our Lady of the 
 Pillar. 
 
 Vol. I.— 5 
 
66 SARAGOSSA. 
 
 Neither the Grseco-Eoman fagade, although 
 majestic in its proportions, nor the high, light tower, 
 is a preparation for the grand spectacle of the 
 interior. On entering I found myself surrounded 
 by gloomy shadows. For an instant my eyes could 
 not discover the outlines of the building. I saw 
 only a shimmer of broken light resting here and there 
 on column and arch. Then slowly I distinguished 
 five naves, divided by four orders of Gothic 
 pilasters, the walls far in the distance, and the long 
 series of lateral chapels, and I was overwhelmed by 
 the sight. It was the first interior which corre- 
 sponded with the image I had formed of the Spanish 
 cathedrals, so varied, magnificent, and rich. The 
 principal chapel, surrounded by a great Gothic 
 dome in the form of a tiara, alone contains the 
 riches of a great church. The large altar is of 
 alabaster covered with rosettes, scrolls, and arab- 
 esques ; the vaulted roof is adorned with statues ; on 
 the right and left are tombs and urns of princes ; 
 in an angle stands the chair in which the kings of 
 Arragon sat at their coronation. The choir rising 
 in the middle of the great nave is a mountain of 
 treasures. Its exterior, broken by some passages 
 leading to little chapels, presents an incredible 
 variety of statuettes, little columns, bas-reliefs, 
 friezes, and mosaics, and one would have to look all 
 day to see it thoroughly. The pilasters of the two 
 outer naves and the arches which span the chapels 
 
SARAGOSSA. 67 
 
 are richly adorned from the base to the capital with 
 statues — some so enormous that they seem to be 
 raising the edifice on their shoulders — with pictures, 
 sculpture, and ornament of every style and of every 
 size. In the chapels there is a wealth of statues, 
 rich altars, royal tombs, busts, and paintings, which 
 are so shrouded by the deep gloom that they appear 
 only as a confused mass of colors, reflections, arid 
 shadowy forms, among which the eye loses itself and 
 the imagination faints. After much running hither 
 and thither, with my note-book open and pencil in 
 hand, noting this and sketching that, with my brain 
 in a whirl, I tore out the chequered leaves, and, 
 promising myself that I would not write another 
 word, I left the cathedral and began to walk through 
 the city, seeing for at least an hour only long dim 
 aisles and statues gleaming in the deep recesses of 
 mysterious chapels. 
 
 There come moments to the gayest and most enam- 
 ored traveller, as he walks the streets of a strange 
 city, in which he is suddenly overwhelmed by such 
 a strong feeling of utter weariness that if he were 
 able by a word to fly back to his home and his dear 
 ones with the rapidity of the genii of the " Arabian 
 Nights," he would pronounce that word with a cry 
 of joy. I was seized by such a feeling just as I 
 turned into a narrow street far from the centre of 
 the city, and it almost terrified me. I anxiously 
 rehearsed all the images I had formed of Madrid, 
 
68 SARAGOSSA. 
 
 Seville, and Granada, hoping in this way to arouse 
 and rekindle my curiosity and enthusiasm; but 
 those images now seemed dull and lifeless. My 
 thoughts carried me back to my home, when on the 
 day before my departure in my feverish impatience 
 I could hardly wait for the hour of starting ; but 
 even that did not remove my sadness. The idea of 
 having to see so many more new cities, of having to 
 pass so many nights in hotels, of having to find my- 
 self for so long a time in the midst of a strange 
 people, disheartened me. I asked myself how I could 
 have resolved to leave home. It seemed as if I 
 were suddenly separated from my country by a 
 measureless distance — that I was in a wilderness 
 alone, forgotten by all. I looked around ; the street 
 was empty, my heart turned cold, tears gathered in 
 my eyes. "I cannot stay here," I said to myself; 
 '' I shall die of melancholy. I will return to Italy." 
 
 I had not made an end of speaking these words 
 before I almost burst into hysterical laughter. In an 
 instant everything regained life and splendor in my 
 eyes. I thought of Castile and of Andalusia with a 
 sort of frantic joy, and, shaking my head with an air 
 of pity for my recent dejection, I lighted a cigar and 
 walked on, happier than I had been at first. 
 
 It was the last day of the Carnival : in the. even- 
 ing on the principal streets I saw a procession of 
 maskers, carriages, bands of young men, large family 
 parties with children and nurses and budding girls, 
 
SARAGOSSA. 69 
 
 walking two by two. But there was no disagreeable 
 shouting, no coarse songs of drunken men, no 
 troublesome crowding and pushing. Now and then 
 one felt a light rub on the elbow, but light enough to 
 seem like the greeting of a friend who would say, 
 " It is I," rather than the jostling of some thought- 
 less fellow ; and together with the touch at the 
 elbow there were voices, much gentler than of old 
 when the Saragossa women used to scream from the 
 windows of their tottering houses, and mtich more 
 ardent than the boiling oil which they poured down 
 on the invaders. Oh ! those were certainly not the 
 times of which I heard recently at Turin, when an 
 old priest of Saragossa assured me that in seven years 
 he had not received the confession of a mortal sin. 
 
 That night I found at the hotel a madcap of a 
 Frenchman whose equal I believe does not exist 
 under the sim. He was a man of forty, with one of 
 those putty-like faces which say " Here I am ; come 
 and cheat me " — a wealthy merchant, as it appeared, 
 who had just arrived from Barcelona and expected 
 to leave the next day for St. Sebastian. I found 
 him in the dining-room telling his story to a group 
 of tourists, who were bursting with laughter. I too 
 joined the circle and listened to his story. 
 
 The fellow was a native of Bordeaux, and had 
 lived for years at Barcelona. He had left France 
 because his wife had run away from him, without 
 saying good-bye, with the ugliest man in the town, 
 
70 SARAGOSSA. 
 
 leaving four children on his hands. He had never 
 heard of her since the day of her flight. Some told 
 him she h^d gone to America, others that she was 
 in Africa or Asia, but those were mere groundless 
 conjectures. For four years he had believed her to 
 be dead. One fine day at Barcelona, as he was 
 dining with a friend from Marseilles, his guest said 
 to him (but you ought to have seen with what comi- 
 cal dignity he described the circumstance) : 
 
 " My friend, I am going to make a trip to St. Se- 
 bastian one of these days." 
 
 " What for f 
 
 " Just a little diversion." 
 
 " A love-affair, eh V 
 
 " Yes, at least — I will tell you. It is not exactly 
 a love-affair, because, as for me, I do not care to 
 come in at the tail end of a love-affair. It is a ca- 
 price. A pretty little woman, however. Why, only 
 the day before yesterday I received a letter. I did 
 not want to go, but there were so many comes and I 
 expect yous and my friends and dear friends, that I 
 allowed myself to be tempted." So saying, he drew 
 out the letter with a grimace of lordly pride. 
 
 The merchant takes it, opens it, and reads. 
 
 " By the gods ! my wife ! " and without another 
 word he leaves his friend, runs home, packs his 
 valise, and hurries to the station. 
 
 When I entered the room the man had just shown 
 the letter to everybody present, and had spread on 
 
SARAGOSSA. 71 
 
 the table, so that every one could see them, his 
 certificate of baptism, his marriage articles, and 
 other papers which he had brought along in case his 
 wife might not wish to recognize him. 
 
 " What are you going to do ! " we all asked 
 with one voice. 
 
 " I shall not do her any harm. I Jiave made up 
 my mind : there will be no bloodshed, but there will 
 be a punishment even more terrible." 
 
 " But what will that be ! " demanded one of his 
 auditors. 
 
 " I have made up my mind," replied the French- 
 man with profoundest gravity, and, taking from his 
 pocket a pair of enormous scissors, he added 
 solemnly, '' I am going to cut off her hair and her 
 eyebrows ! " 
 
 We all burst into a shout of laughter. 
 
 " Messieurs ! " cried the abused husband, " I have 
 said it, and I will keep my word. If I have the 
 pleasure of meeting you here again, I will see that 
 you are presented with her wig." 
 
 Here ensued a pandemonium of laughter and 
 shouts of applause, but the Frenchman did not for a 
 moment relax his tragic scowl. 
 
 " But if you find a Spaniard in the house ? " some 
 one asked. 
 
 " I shall then throw him out of the window," he 
 responded. 
 
 " But if there are a number there 1 " 
 
72 SAEAGOSSA. 
 
 " All the world out of the window." 
 
 " But you will make a scandal ; the neighbors 
 will run in, the police, and the people." 
 
 " And I," cried the terrible man, striking his hand 
 on his chest, " I will throw the neighbors, the police, 
 the people, and the whole city out of the window if 
 it is necessary." 
 
 And he went on in this vein, swaggering about 
 and gesticulating with the letter in one hand and the 
 scissors in the other, in the midst of the convulsive 
 laughter of the tourists. 
 
 Vivir para ver (Live and see), says the Spanish 
 proverb ; and it ought rather to say viager (travel), 
 for it seems that only in hotels and on the train does 
 one fall in with such originals. Who knows how it 
 all came out in the end? 
 
 On entering my room I asked the waiter what 
 those two things on the wall were which I had been 
 seeing since the evening of my arrival, and which 
 seemed to have some claims to pass as paintings. 
 
 " Sir," he replied, " they are nothing less than the 
 brothers Argensola, Arragonese, natives of Barbastro, 
 most celebrated poets of Spain." 
 
 And truly such were the two brothers Argensola, 
 two veritable literary twins, who had the same tem- 
 perament, studied the same subjects, wrote in the 
 same style, pure, dignified, and refined, striving 
 with all their powers to raise a barrier against the 
 torrent of depraved taste which in their time, the 
 
SAEAGOSSA. 73 
 
 end of the sixteenth century, had begun to invade 
 the literature of Spain. One of them died in 
 Naples, the secretary of the viceroy, and the other 
 died at Tarragona, a priest. The two left a name 
 illustrious and beloved, upon which Cervantes and 
 Lope de Vega have placed the noble seal of their 
 praise. The sonnets of the Argensola brothers are 
 recognized as the most beautiful in Spanish litera- 
 ture for their clearness of thought and dignity of 
 form, an<d there is one of them in particular, to 
 Lupercio Leonardo, which the legislators repeat in 
 answer to the grandiloquent philippics of the orators 
 on the left, emphasizing the last lines. I quote it with 
 the hope that it may supply some of my readers 
 with an answer to their friends who reprove them 
 for being enamored, as was the poet, of a lady with 
 a weakness for rouge : 
 
 " Yo OS quiero confesar, don Juan, primero 
 Que aquel bianco y carmin de dona Elvira 
 No tiene de ella mas, si bien se mira, 
 Que el haberle costado su dinero : 
 
 "Pero tambien que me confieses quiero 
 Que es tanto la beldad de su mentira, 
 Que en vano a competir eon ella aspira 
 Belleza igual de rostro verdadero. 
 
 ' ' Mas que mucho que yo perdido ande 
 Por un engano tal, pues que sabemos 
 Que nos engafia asi naturaleza ? 
 
74 SAKAGOSSA. 
 
 "Porque ese cielo azul que todos vemos 
 No 63 cielo, ni es azul ; lastima grande 
 Que no sea verdad tanta belleza 1 ' ' 
 
 {First, Don Juan, I wish to confess that the comely 
 white and red of Lady Elvira are no more hers than 
 the money with which she bought them. But in thy 
 turn I wish thee to confess that no like beauty of an 
 honest cheek may dare compete with the beauty of her 
 feigning. But why should I be vexed by such decep- 
 tion if it be known that Nature so deceives us f And, 
 in fact, that the azure sky which we all see is truly 
 neither sky nor is it azure ? Alas, that so much beauty 
 is not true !) 
 
 The following morning I wished to try a pleasure 
 similar to that which Rousseau indulged in following 
 the flight of flies — the pleasure of wandering 
 through the streets of the city at random, stopping 
 to look at the most insignificant things, as one would 
 do in the streets at home if one were obliged to wait 
 for a friend. I visited some public buildings, among 
 them the palace of the Bourse, containing a mag- 
 nificent hall in which are twenty-four columns, each 
 ornamented with four shields placed above the four 
 faces of the capital and bearing the arms of Sara- 
 gossa. I visited the old church of Santiago and the 
 beautiful palace of the archbishop ; stood in the cen- 
 tre of the vast, cheerful Square of the Constitution, 
 which divides the Coso, and into which run the two 
 
SARAGOSSA. 75 
 
 Other principal streets of the city ; and from that 
 point I set out and wandered about until noon, to my 
 infinite delight. Now I stopped to watch a boy 
 playing nocino ; now I poked my curious head into 
 a little cafe frequented by scholars ; now I slackened 
 my pace to overhear servants joking with each other 
 at a street-corner ; now I flattened my nose against 
 the window of a bookshop ; now I almost pestered 
 a tobacconist to death by asking for cigars in 
 German ; now I stopped to chat with a peddler of 
 matches ; here I bought a diary, then asked a 
 soldier for a light, again asked a girl to show me the 
 way, and, pondering the lines of Argensola, I com- 
 menced facetious sonnets, hummed the hymn of 
 Riego, thought of Florence, the wine of Malaga, the 
 counsels of my mother, of King Amadous, my purse, 
 a thousand things and nothing ; and I would not 
 have changed places with a grandee of Spain. 
 
 Toward evening I started to see the New Tower, 
 one of the most curious monuments in Spain. It is 
 eighty-four metres high, or four metres higher than 
 Giotto's tower, and without a crack leans about two 
 and a half metres from the perpendicular, like the 
 Tower of Pisa. It was erected in 1304. Some af- 
 firm that it was built just as it now stands, others 
 that it settled afterward ; there are difi'erent opinions. 
 It is octagonal in form, and is built entirely of bricks, 
 but presents a marvellous variety of design and or- 
 namentation — a different appearance at every point. 
 
76 SABAGOSSA. 
 
 a graceful blending of Gothic and Moorish architec- 
 ture. To gain admittance I was obliged to ask per- 
 mission of some municipal official who lived hard by, 
 who, after he had eyed me carefully from the tips of 
 my boots to the hairs of my head, gave the key to 
 the keeper and said to me, " You may go, sir." 
 
 The keeper was a vigorous old man, who climbed 
 up the interminable steps much more rapidly than I 
 could follow. 
 
 " You will have a magnificent view, sir," said he. 
 
 I told him that we Italians also had a leaning 
 tower like that of Saragossa. He turned so that he 
 could look at me and said sternly, " Ours is the only 
 one in the world." — " Oh, nonsense ! I say that we 
 have one too, and I have seen it with my eyes, at 
 Pisa, but then, if you don't want to believe me, 
 you may read it here. See, the guide-book tells 
 about it." 
 
 He gave me a look and muttered, " Perhaps so." 
 
 Perhaps so ! the stubborn old numbskull ! I could 
 have thrown the book at his head. 
 
 Finally we reached the top. It is a wonderful 
 sight. One sees Saragossa at a glance^ — ^the great 
 Coso, the avenue of Santa Engracia, the suburbs ; 
 and then below, where it seems one can almost touch 
 them, the richly-colored domes of Our Lady of the 
 Pillar ; just beyond, the bold tower of the Seo ; yon- 
 der the famous Ebro sweeping around the city with 
 a majestic curve, and the wide valley, enamored, in 
 
SARAGOSSA. 77 
 
 the words of Cervantes, with the beauty of her 
 waters and the dignity of their flow ; and the Huerba 
 and the bridges and the hills, which could tell of so 
 many bloody repulses and desperate assaults. 
 
 The keeper read in my face the thoughts which 
 were passing through my mind, and, as though he 
 ■vfas continuing a conversation which I had com- 
 ibenced, he began to point out the places at which 
 the French forced their entrance, and wherei the citi- 
 zens made the most* stubborn resistance. " It was 
 liot the bombs of the French," said he, " which made 
 us surrender. We ourselves burned the houses and 
 blew them up with mines. It was the plague. 
 During the last days there were in the hospitals 
 piore than fifteen thousand of the forty thousand 
 men who defended the city. There was not time to 
 bring in the wounded or to bury the dead. The 
 ruins of the houses were covered with putrefying 
 corpses, which poisoned the air. One-third of the 
 buildings of the city were destroyed, yet no one 
 said surrender, and if any one had done so, he would 
 have been strung up on one of the gallows which 
 had been erected in every square. 
 
 " We would have died behind the barricades, in 
 the fire, beneath the rubbish of our walls, rather than 
 have bowed the head. But when Palafox found him- 
 self at the point of death, when it was known that 
 the French were victorious in other places, and that 
 there was no longer any hope, then we were obliged 
 
78 SAKAGOSSA. 
 
 to lay down our arms. But the defenders of Sara- 
 gossa surrendered themselves with all the honors of 
 war, and when that crowd of soldiers, peasants, 
 monks, and boys — haggard, ragged, blood-stained, 
 and battle-scarred — filed out before the French army, 
 the victors trembled with awe and had not the heart 
 to rejoice over their victory. The lowest of our 
 peasants could carry his head as high as the first of 
 their marshals. Saragossa" — and, speaking these 
 worda, the old man was magaificent — " Saragossa 
 lias spit in the face of Napoleon ! " 
 
 I thought at that moment of Thiers' history, and 
 the remembrance of his account of the fall of Sara- 
 gossa raised within me a feeling of disdain. Not one 
 generous word for the sublime sacrifice of that de- 
 voted people ! To him their valor was but the rag- 
 ing of fanatics or a senseless mania for war on the 
 part of the peasants weary of their monotonous life 
 in the fields, and of monks surfeited with the solitude 
 of the cell ; their unyielding heroism was only obsti- 
 nacy ; their love of country, foolish pride. They 
 did not die pour cet ideal de grandeur which animated 
 the courage of the imperial troops. As if liberty, 
 justice, and the honor of a people were not nobler 
 than the ambition of an emperor seeking to triumph 
 by treachery and wishing to rule with violence ! 
 
 The sun was setting, the towers and minarets of 
 Saragossa were gilded by the last rays, the sky was 
 liquid. Again I looked around to impress clearly 
 
SARAGOSSA. 79 
 
 upon my memory the picture of the city and the 
 country, and before I descended I said to the keeper, 
 who regarded me with an air of benevolent curi- 
 osity : '' Tell the strangers who in after-time may 
 come to visit this tower that one day a young Italian 
 a few hours before he started for Castile, in bidding a 
 last farewell to the capital of Arragon from this bal- 
 cony, bared his head with a sentiment of the deepest 
 reverence, thus, and, as he was not able to kiss, one 
 by one, the brows of all the descendants of the heroes 
 of 1809, he gave a kiss to the keeper ; " and so I 
 kissed him and he me, and I went away content, and 
 he too ; and you may laugh who will. 
 
 After this it seemed to me that I could say I had 
 seen Saragossa, and I turned toward the hotel, sum- 
 ming up my impressions. I was still very desirous 
 of having a conversation with some good Saragossan, 
 and after dinner I entered a caf^, where I quickly 
 found an architect and a shopkeeper, who between 
 sips of chocolate explained to me the political situa- 
 tion of Spain and the most effectual means of 
 "bringing her safely through her troubles." They 
 thought very differently. The shopkeeper, a little 
 man with a flat nose and a great furrow between his 
 eyes, wanted a federal republic right off hand, that 
 very night, before he went to bed, and he provided, 
 as a sine-qud-non condition for the prosperity of the 
 new government, the execution of Serrano, Sagasta, 
 
80 SAEAGOSSA. 
 
 and Zorilla, to conyince them, once for all, that 
 "they cannot trifle with the Spanish people." 
 " And to that king of yours," he concluded, looking 
 me in the eyes — "to your king, whom you have 
 sent us — pardon me, my dear Italian, for the frank- 
 ness with which I say it — to your king I would give 
 a first-class ticket to return to his native Italy, 
 where the air is better for kings. We are Spanish, 
 my dear Italian," said he, laying his hand on my 
 knee,^"we are Spanish, and we do not want 
 foreigners, either cooked or raw." 
 
 " I think I have caught your meaning ; and you V 
 I asked, turning to the architect, " how do you 
 believe Spain can be saved 1 " 
 
 " There is but one way," he answered solemnly ; 
 " there is but one way — a federal republic ; in this 
 I am of the same mind as my friend, but with Don 
 Amadous for president." (The friend shrugged his 
 shoulders.) "I repeat it — with Don Amadous as 
 president ! He is the only man who could direct 
 the republic. This is not my opinion alone ; it is 
 the opinion of a great many. Let Don Amadens 
 make it plain to his father that a monarchy will 
 never please us here ; let him call Castelar, 
 Figueras, and Pi y Margal to the government ; let 
 him proclaim a republic and have himself elected 
 president, and cry to Spain, ' Sirs, I am now in com- 
 mand, and if any one raises his horns, let him beware 
 of the rod ! ' And then we shall have true liberty." 
 
SAEAGOSSA. 81 
 
 The shopkeeper, who did not believe that true 
 liberty consisted in being beaten .over the horns, 
 protested, the other replied, and the discussion 
 lasted some time. Then they began to speak of the 
 queen, and the architect declared that, although he 
 was a republican, he had profound respect and warm 
 admiration for Donna Victoria. " She has a great 
 deal in here," said he, touching his forehead with 
 his finger. "Is it true that she knows Greek?" 
 
 " Oh yes," I replied. 
 
 " Did you hear that, eh ?" he asked the other. 
 
 "Yes," replied the shopkeeper in a low voice, 
 "but you don't govern Spain with Greek." He 
 admitted, however, that, since one must have a 
 queen, it was desirable to have one who was learned 
 and intelligent, and worthy of sitting on the throne 
 of Isabella the Catholic — who, as every one knows, 
 knew as much Latin as a well-read professor — rather 
 than to have one of those hare-brained queens who 
 have no head for anything but festivities and 
 favorites. In a word, he did not wish to see the 
 house of Savoy in Spain. But if anything could 
 plead a little in its favor, it would be the Greek 
 of the queen. 
 
 What a gallant republican ! 
 
 There is, however, in this race a generosity of 
 heart and a vigor of mind which justify their 
 honorable fame. The Arragonese are respected in 
 Spain. The people of Madrid, who pick flaws in 
 
 Vol. I.— 6 
 
82 SARAGOSSA. 
 
 the Spaniards of all the provinces — who call the 
 Catalans rough, the Andalusians vain, the Valencians 
 fierce, the Gralicians miserable, the Basques ignor- 
 ant — even they speak with a little more reserve of 
 the haughty sons of Arragon, who in the nineteenth 
 century have written in their own blood the most 
 glorious page in the history of Spain. The name 
 of Saragossa sounds to the people like a cry of 
 liberty, and to the army it is a battle-cry. But, 
 since there is no rose without a thorn, this noble 
 province is also a seed-bed of restless demagogues, 
 of guerilla chieftains, of magistrates, of a people 
 with the hot head and steady hand, who give all the 
 government departments a great deal to do. The 
 government is obliged to caress Arragon like a 
 morose, passionate son who lays his plans to blow up 
 the house if his will is crossed in the least thing. 
 
 The entrance of King Amadeus into Saragossa and 
 the short stop he made there in 1871 offered an 
 occasion for some deeds which are worthy of being 
 retold, not only because they refer to the prince, but 
 because they are an eloquent expression of the 
 character of the people ; and before everything else 
 should come the speech of the mayor, which made 
 such a stir in and out of Spain, and will probably 
 remain among the traditions of Saragossa as a classic 
 example of republican audacity. Toward evening 
 the king arrived at the railroad-station, where, 
 accompanied by an immense crowd, the delegates of 
 
SARAGOSSA. 83 
 
 the many municipalities, the societies, and the civil 
 and military corps of the various cities of Arragon 
 had gathered to meet him. After the customary 
 cheers and applause had subsided the alcayde of 
 Saragossa presented himself before the king, and 
 read the following address in an emphatic manner : 
 " Sir ! It is not my own humble self, and it is not 
 the man of deep republican convictions, but in truth 
 the alcayde of Saragossa, invested with the sacred 
 universal suffrage, who, through a sense of una- 
 voidable duty, presents himself here before you and 
 submits himself to your commands. You are about 
 to enter the precincts of a city which, sated at length 
 with glory, bears the title of enduring heroism — a 
 city which, when danger threatened the integrity of 
 the nation, became a new Numantia — a city which 
 humbled the armies of Napoleon in their very tri- 
 umphs. Saragossa was the advance-guard of liberty ; 
 to her no government has ever seemed too liberal. 
 Treason has never found shelter in the breast of any 
 of her sons. Enter, then, within the precincts of 
 Saragossa. If you lack courage, you have no need 
 of it, for the sons of their ever-heroic mother are 
 brave in open field and are incapable of treachery. 
 There is at this moment no shield nor any army 
 more ready to defend your person than the loyalty 
 of the descendants of Palafox, for their very enemies 
 find an inviolate asylum beneath their roofs. Think 
 and consider that if you walk steadfastly in the path 
 
84 SAKAGOSSA. 
 
 of justice ; if you further the observance of the laws 
 of the strictest morality ; if you protect the pro- 
 ducer, who hitherto has given so much and received 
 so little ; if you maintain the integrity of the ballot ; 
 if Saragossa and Spain shall one day owe to you the 
 achievement of the sacred aspiration of the majority 
 of this great people whom you have learned to know, 
 — then perhaps you may be honored by a more 
 glorious title than that of king. You may then be 
 the first citizen of the nation, and the most dSarly 
 loved in Saragossa, and the Spanish republic will 
 owe to you her complete felicity." 
 
 To this address, which signified, after all, "We 
 do not recognize you as king, but, however, you 
 may come in, and we will not murder you, because 
 heroes do not murder by treachery ; and if you will 
 be brave and will treat us as you ought to do, we 
 will possibly consent to support you as president of 
 the republic," — to this the king replied with a bitter- 
 sweet smile which seemed to say, " Too great a con- 
 descension," and pressed the hand of the alcayde, to 
 the great surprise of all present. He then mounted 
 his horse and entered Saragossa. The people, from 
 all accounts, received him with delight, and from the 
 windows many ladies threw poems, garlands, and doves 
 down upon him. At some points General Cordova 
 and General Rosell, who accompanied him, were 
 obliged to clear the street with their horses. When 
 he entered the Coso a woman of the people rushed 
 
SARAGOSSA. 85 
 
 out to present him with some memorial. The king, 
 who had ridden past without noticing her, turned 
 back and took it. Soon after a charcoal-man pre- 
 sented himself and stretched out his sooty hand, 
 which the king grasped. In the square of Santa 
 Engracia he was received by a pompous masquerade 
 of dwarfs and giants, who welcomed him with some 
 traditional dances, amid the discordant cheers of the 
 multitude. So he passed through the entire city. 
 The next day he visited the church of Our Lady of 
 the Pillar, the hospitals, the prisons, and the circus 
 of the bull-fights, and everywhere his presence was 
 hailed almost with the enthusiasm due a monarch, not 
 altogether without the secret chagrin of the alcayde, 
 who accompanied him, and who would have been 
 better pleased had the people of Saragossa contented 
 themselves with the observance of the sixth com- 
 mandment, " Thou shalt not kill," without entering 
 further upon his modest promises. 
 
 However, the king had a joyous welcome on the 
 way from Saragossa to Logrono. 
 
 At Logrono, in the midst of an innumerable crowd 
 of peasants, national guardsmen, women, and boys, 
 he saw for the first time the venerable General 
 Espartero. As soon as they saw each other they ran 
 together ; the general sought the hand of the king, 
 the king opened his arms, and the crowd gave a 
 shout of joy. " Your Majesty !" said the illustrious 
 soldier in a husky voice, " the people welcome you 
 
86 SARAGOSSA. 
 
 with patriotic enthusiasm, because they see in their 
 young monarch the firmest support of the liberty and 
 independence of their country, and are sure that if 
 by any misfortune our enemies were to cause trouble, 
 Your Majesty, at the head of the army and the citi- 
 zen militia, would overwhelm and rout them. My 
 broken health did not suffer me to go to Madrid to 
 felicitate Your Majesty and your august consort upon 
 your establishment on the throne of Ferdinand. To- 
 day I do so, and I repeat, once again, that I will 
 serve faithfully the person of Your Majesty as king 
 of Spain, chosen by the will of the nation. Your 
 Majesty, I have in the city a modest home, and I 
 offer it to you, and ask of you to honor it with your 
 presence." In these simple words the new king was 
 greeted by the oldest, the best-beloved, and the most 
 renowned of his subjects. A happy augury, though 
 sadly at variance with the final outcome ! 
 
 Toward midnight I went to a masquerade in a 
 theatre of moderate size on the Coso, a short dis- 
 tance from the Square of the Constitution. The. 
 maskers were few and very shabby, but there was 
 a compensation for this in a dense crowd of people, 
 fully a third of whom were dancing furiously. Ex- 
 cept for the language, I should not have known that 
 I was at a masked ball in a theatre in Spain rather 
 than in Italy. I seemed to see precisely the same 
 faces. There was the same familiarity, the same 
 
SAEAGOSSA. 87 
 
 freedom of speech and movement, the usual degen- 
 eracy of the ball into noisy and unbridled brawl. 
 
 Of the hundred couples of dancers who waltzed 
 past me, only one pair remains impressed upon my 
 memory — a youth of twenty years, tall, lithe, and 
 fair, with great black eyes, and a girl of the same 
 age, brown as an Andalusian — ^both beautiful and no- 
 ble in their bearing, dressed in the ancient costumes 
 of Arragon, clasped in each other's arms, face to face, 
 as though the one wished to breathe the other's 
 breath, rosy as two flowers, and radiant with joy. 
 They paused in the middle of the crowd, glancing 
 about with an air of disdain, and a thousand eyes 
 followed them with a low murmur of admiration and 
 envy. 
 
 On leaving the theatre I stood a moment at the 
 door to see them pass again, and then I turned toward 
 the hotel melancholy and alone. The next morning 
 before dawn I was on my way to the Castiles. 
 
BURGOS. 
 
BURGOS. 
 
 To go from Saragossa to Burgos, the capital city 
 of Old Castile, one travels the whole length of the 
 great valley of the Ebro, crosses a part of Arragon 
 and a part of Navarre, as far as the city of Miranda, 
 situated on the branch road which passes through St. 
 Sebastian and Bayonne. 
 
 The country is full of historic memories, of ruins, 
 monuments, and famous names ; every village re- 
 calls a battle, every province a war. At Tudela, 
 the French defeated General Castaiios ; at Calahorra, 
 Sertorius withstood Pompey ; at Navarrete, Henry 
 de Transtimare was conquered by Peter the Cruel. 
 One sees the remains of the city of Egon ad Agon- 
 cilia ; the ruins of the Roman aqueduct at Alcanadre ; 
 and the remains of the Moorish bridge at Logrono. 
 The mind grows tired of recalling the memories of 
 so many centuries and of so many peoples, and the 
 eye grows weary with the mind. 
 
 The appearance of the country changes every mo- 
 ment. Near Saragossa there are green fields dotted 
 with houses, while here and there one sees groups 
 of peasants wrapped in their many-colored shawls, 
 
 91 
 
92 BURGOS. 
 
 and occasionally donkeys and carts. Farther on 
 there are only vast undulating plains, bare and arid, 
 without a tree, or a house, or a road, where for miles 
 and miles one sees only a herd of cattle, a cowherd, 
 and a hut, or some little village of mud-colored, 
 thatched cottages, so low that one can scarcely dis- 
 tinguish them from the ground — groups of huts 
 rather than villages, true pictures of poverty and 
 squalor. 
 
 The Ebro winds beside the railroad in great 
 curves, now so close that the train seems on the 
 point of plunging into it, now looking in the distance 
 like a silver line appearing and disappearing between 
 the hillocks and through the underbrush along its 
 banks. In the distance one sees a purple chain of 
 mountains, and beyond them the snowy peaks of the 
 Pyrenees. Near Tudela one sees a canal, and after 
 Custejon the country becomes green again ; as one 
 advances the arid plains alternate with olive-groves, 
 and here and there lines of varid green break the 
 yellow expanse of the deserted land. On the distant 
 hilltops one sees the ruins of enormous castles, sur- 
 mounted by towers broken, gaping, and fallen to de- 
 cay, like the great trunks of giants, prostrate, but 
 threatening. 
 
 At every station I bought a paper ; before I had 
 travelled half the distance I had a mountain, the 
 journals of Madrid and Arragon, big and little, black 
 and red, but, unfortunately, not one friendly to 
 
Mater Carrter. 
 
^^ f^jL"! 
 
 
BURGOS. 93 
 
 Amadeus. And I say " unfortunately," because to 
 read those papers was to fall into the temptation to 
 turn my back on Madrid and start for home. From 
 the first column to the last there was a passionate 
 outburst of insults, imprecations, and threats directed 
 against Italy, scandals about our king, bui-lesques of 
 our ministers, the wrath of God implored to descend 
 upon our army, — the whole founded upon the report, 
 then current, of a coming war in which the allied 
 powers of Italy and Germany would suddenly attack 
 France and Spain for the purpose of destroying 
 Catholicism, the eternal enemy of them both, of 
 establishing the duke of Genoa upon the throne of 
 St. Louis, and of securing the throne of Philip II. for 
 the duke of Aosta. There were threats in the lead- 
 ing articles, threats in the clippings, threats in the 
 notices, threats in prose and in verse, displayed with 
 sketches, capital letters, and long rows of exclama- 
 tion points ; dialogues between father and son, the 
 one at Rome, the other in Madrid, one of whom 
 would ask, " What shall I do ? " Whereupon the 
 other would reply, "Shoot!" or, again, "Let them 
 come ; we are ready : we are ever the Spain of 1808. 
 The conquerors of the armies of Napoleon have no 
 fear of the ugly mugs of King William's Uhlans or 
 of the yells of Victor Emanuel's sharpshooters." 
 And then King Amadeus would be called "poor 
 child'" the Italian army described as a crowd of 
 ballet-dancers and opera-singers ; the Italians in 
 
94 BUBGOS. 
 
 Spain requested to take their departure by the gentle 
 hint, " Italians to the train." In short, ask what you 
 would, and there was something to meet your wish. 
 I must confess that for a short time I was a little dis- 
 turbed. I imagined that, at Madrid, Italians could 
 hardly fail to be hooted in the streets ; I remem- 
 bered the letter which I had received at Genoa, re- 
 peated to myself, " Italians to the train " as advice 
 worthy of serious consideration ; I glanced with sus- 
 picion at the travellers who entered the carriage, 
 and at the railroad-employees, and expected that on 
 first spying me they would say, " Look at that Italian 
 emissary ! Let us send him to keep company with 
 General Prim." 
 
 On Hearing Miranda the railroad enters a moun- 
 tainous region, varied and picturesque, where on 
 every side, wherever one looks, one sees only dark 
 gray rocks which suggest to the imagination a sea 
 turned into stone at the time of a storm, stretching 
 away as far as the eye can reach. It is a country 
 full of savage beauty, lonely as a desert, silent as a 
 glacier, which represents to the fancy, as it were, a 
 vision of an uninhabited planet, and impresses one 
 with a mingled feeling of sadness and fear. The 
 train passed between two walls of rock, sharp- 
 pointed, hollowed, and crested, serrated in every 
 manner and form, so that it seemed as though a 
 crowd of stonecutters had spent their entire lives in 
 cutting furiously on every side, working blindly to 
 
BUEGOS. 95 
 
 see who could make the most erratic marks. The 
 railroad then comes out into a vast plain thickly 
 wooded with poplar, among which rises Miranda. 
 
 The station is a long way from the city, and I 
 was obliged to wait in the caf^ until nightfall for 
 the train to Madrid. For three hours I had no other 
 company than that of the two custom-officers, called 
 in Spain carablneros, dressed in a severe uniform, 
 with a dagger and pistols and a carbine slung across 
 their shoulders. 
 
 There were two or three of them at every station. 
 The first few times I saw the barrels of their car- 
 bines opposite the window I thought they had come 
 there to arrest some one, and perhaps • • • ; and 
 without thinking I put my hand on my passport. 
 
 They are handsome young fellows, brave and 
 courteous, and the traveller who is obliged to wait 
 can be pleasantly entertained by talking with them 
 about Carlists and contrabands, as I did, with great 
 advantage to my Spanish vocabulary. Toward 
 evening a Mirandese came in : he was a man of 
 about fifty, a politician, bright and talkative, and 
 so I left the caraUneros to join him. He was the 
 first Spaniard who fully explained the political situ- 
 ation to me. I asked him to unravel a little this 
 precious tangle of parties, of which I had not suc- 
 ceeded in finding the thread, and he was well pleased 
 to do so, and went into the subject very thoroughly. 
 
 "It is described in two words," he began. "See 
 
96 BURGOS. 
 
 how matters stand! There are five principal 
 parties — the Absolutist, the Moderate, the Conserva- 
 tive, the Radical, and the Republican. The Abso- 
 lutist is divided into two other parties, the out-and- 
 out Carlists and the dissenting Carlists. The 
 Moderate party has separated into two, one of which 
 favors Isabella, the other Alphonso. The Conserva- 
 tive party is made up of four — get them clearly 
 fixed in your mind : the Canovists, led by Canovas 
 del Castillo ; the ex-Montpensierists, led by Rios y 
 Rosas ; the Fronterizos, led by General Serrano ; and 
 the Historical Progressionists, led by Sagasta. The 
 Radical party is divided into four — the Democratic 
 Progressionists, headed by Zorilla; the Cimbrios, 
 headed by Martos ; the Democrats, by Ribero ; and 
 the Economists, headed by Rodriguez. The Repub- 
 lican party is composed of three elements — the 
 Unionists, led by Garcia Ruiz ; the Federalists, 
 headed by Figueras ; and the Socialists, by Garrido. 
 The Socialists are again divided into two parties — 
 the International Socialists, and the Socialists with- 
 out international sympathies. In all there are six- 
 teen parties, and these sixteen are still further sub- 
 divided. Martos is trying to constitute a party of 
 his own, Candan to form a second party, and Moret 
 a third. Rios y Rosas, Pi y Margal, and Castelar 
 are each forming their own party. There are 
 accordingly twenty-two parties already formed or 
 in process of formation. Add to these the partisans 
 
BUKGOS. 97 
 
 of the republic, with Amadeus for president ; the 
 partisans of the queen, who would gladly trip up the 
 heels of Amadeus ; the partisans of the Montpensier 
 monarchy ; those who are republicans on the condition 
 that Cuba be retained ; those who are republicans 
 on the condition that Cuba be given up ; those who 
 have not yet renounced the prince of HohenzoUern ; 
 those who long for a union with Portugal ; and you 
 will have thirty parties. 
 
 "If one wished to be still more accurate, one 
 might subdivide still further, but it is better to get a 
 clear idea of matters as they stand. Sagasta 
 inclines toward the Unionists, Zorilla toward the 
 Republicans ; Serrano is disposed to support the 
 Moderates ; the Moderates, if they had an oppor- 
 tunity, would join hands with the Absolutists, who, 
 in thqir turn, would join with the Republicans, who 
 would unite with a part of the Radicals to blow the 
 minister Sagasta skyhigh, as he is too conservative 
 for the Democratic Progressionists and too liberal 
 for the Unionists, who are afraid of the Federalists, 
 while they, the Federalists, on their part, do not 
 place much confidence in the Radicals, who are 
 always vacillating between the Democrats and the 
 followers of Sagasta. 
 
 " Have I given you a clear idea of the situation ?" 
 " As clear as amber," I answered with a shudder. 
 
 I recall the journey from Miranda to Burgos as I 
 
 Vol. I.— 7 
 
98 BUKGOS. 
 
 would the page of a book read in bed when the 
 eyes begin to close and the flame of the candle 
 droops, for I was dead with sleep. From time to 
 time one of my fellow-travellers shook me to make 
 me look out. The night was calm and glorious, 
 with clear moonlight. Whenever I looked out of 
 the window I saw on both sides of the track huge 
 rocks of fantastic form, so close that they seemed 
 about to fall upon the train. They were white as 
 marble, and shone so brightly that one could have 
 counted all the points, the hollows and the boulders, 
 as easily as in broad daylight. 
 
 " We are at Pancorbo," said my neighbor. " Look 
 at that height ! Up there stood a terrible castle which 
 the French destroyed in 1813. This is Briviesca. 
 Look ! here John I. of Castile summoned the States 
 Greneral, who granted the title of prince of Asturia 
 to the heir to the throne. Look ! there is the 
 mountain of Brujola, which touches the stars." 
 
 He was one of those indefatigable cicerones who 
 would talk even to an umbrella, and while he was 
 eternally saying " Look !" he kept punching me in 
 the side near my pocket. At last we arrived at 
 Burgos ; my neighbor disappeared, without saying 
 good-bye. I took a cab to a hotel, and just as I was 
 about to pay the driver I discovered that the little 
 purse in which I carried change, and which I was in 
 the habit of carrying in my overcoat pocket, was 
 missing. I thought of the States General of 
 
BURGOS. 99 
 
 Briviesca, and ended the matter with a philosophic 
 " I deserved it," without making an outcry, as many 
 do on similar occasions, ''By the gods! where can 
 we be ! what a terrible country !" as though there 
 are not in their own lands light-fingered people, 
 who would carry off a purse without even having 
 the courtesy to tell one of the history or geography 
 of the country. 
 
 The hotel where I stopped was served by girls, as 
 are all the hotels in Castile. There were six or 
 seven of them, like great overgrown children, 
 plump and muscular, who came and went with their 
 arms full of mattresses and linen, bending back in 
 athletic attitudes, rosy, panting, and laughing, so 
 that it rnade one happy to see them. A hotel with 
 women-servants is an entirely different thing from 
 an ordinary hotel. The traveller seems to feel less 
 strange and goes to rest with a quieter heart. The 
 women impart a certain home-like air to the house 
 which almost makes one forget one's loneliness 
 wheresoever one may be. They are more attentive 
 than men ; knowing that the traveller is inclined to 
 be melancholy, they try to change his thoughts. 
 They laugh and talk in a familiar way in an effort 
 to make one feel like a member of the family and 
 in safe hands. There is an air of housewifery about 
 them, and they serve one, not because it is their 
 business, but because they like to make themselves 
 useful. They sew on buttons with an air of protec- 
 
100 BURGOS. 
 
 tion ; they take the clothes-brush out of one's haad 
 with a gesture of impatience, as much as to say, 
 "Let me have it, you good-for-nothing thing!" 
 They pick the hairs oiF of your clothes when you 
 are going out, and when you come back, all 
 bespattered with mud, they say, " Oh ! poor fellow!" 
 They advise you not to sleep with your head too 
 low when they bid you good-night ; they bring your 
 coifee to you in bed, telling you benevolently to 
 " Lie still ; don't get up !" One of them was named 
 Beatrice, another Carmelita, and a third Amparo 
 (protection), and they all three possessed that ponder- 
 ous highland beauty which makes one exclaim in a 
 deep voice, " What splendid creatures !" When they 
 ran along the corridors they shook the whole house. 
 
 At sunrise next morning Amparo called in my 
 ear, " Caballero !" A quarter of an hour later I 
 was in the street. 
 
 Burgos, built at the foot of a mountain on the 
 right bank of the Arlanzon, is an irregular city, 
 with narrow, winding streets, with few noteworthy 
 buildings, and the larger part of its houses not older 
 than the seventeenth century. But it possesses one 
 particular characteristic which gives it a curious and 
 genial appearance. It is painted in many colors, 
 like one of those scenes in a puppet-show by which 
 the painters are expected to draw cries of admira- 
 tion from the servants in the pit. It seems like a 
 city colored on purpose for a Carnival celebration, 
 
BUEGOS. 101 
 
 with the intention of having it whitewashed after- 
 ward. The houses are red, yellow, blue, gray, and 
 orange, with ornaments and trimmings of a thousand 
 other colors ; and everything is painted — the door- 
 frames, the railings of the landings, the gratings, 
 cornices, corbels, reliefs, balconies, and window-sills. 
 All the streets seem to have been prepared for a 
 festival. At every turn a new eifect strikes the eye ; 
 in every direction there is, as it were, a rivalry in 
 displaying the most conspicuous colors. It almost 
 makes one laugh : they are such colors as have 
 never before been seen on walls — green, flesh-color, 
 purple, colors of rare flowers, of sauces, sweets, and 
 stufi"s for ball-dresses. If there were at Burgos an 
 asylum for mad painters, one would say that the 
 city had been painted one day when its doors had 
 been broken open. 
 
 To make the appearance of the houses more 
 pleasing, a great many windows have in front of 
 them a sort of covered balcony enclosed with an 
 abundance of glass like a case in a museum. There 
 is, as a rule, one of these on every floor, the one 
 above resting on the one below, and the lowest of all 
 on the show-window of a shop, in such a way that 
 from the ground to the roof they look altogether 
 like the single window of an immense store. 
 Through the windows on every floor one sees, as 
 though they were on exhibition, visions of girls and 
 children, flowers, landscapes, and cardboard figures 
 
102 BURGOS. 
 
 from France, embroidered curtains, lace, and Moorish 
 ornaments. If I had not known differently, it 
 would not have occurred to me that such a city could 
 be the capital of Old Castile — of a people who have 
 a reputation for gravity and anxiety ; I should have 
 believed it to be a city of Andalusia, where the 
 people are gayest. I had expected to see a decorous 
 nation where I found a coquettish masker. 
 
 After two or three turns I came out into a vast 
 square called the Plaza Mayor, or the Square of the 
 Constitution. It was entirely surrounded by ochre 
 liouses with porticoes, and in the middle stood a 
 bronze statue of Charles III. I had not yet looked 
 around when a boy ran toward me, enveloped in a 
 long cape torn off at the bottom, and dragging 
 behind him two old shoes and waving a paper in 
 the air : 
 
 " Want the Imparcial, caballero ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Want a Madrid lottery-ticket ?" 
 
 "No indeed!" 
 
 " Want some contraband cigars ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Want — ?" 
 
 " WeU ?" 
 
 My friend scratched his chin : " Want to see the 
 remains of the Cid?" 
 
 Gracious ! what a leap ! But no matter ; let us 
 go and see the remains of the Cid. 
 
BUEGOS. 103 
 
 We went to the municipal palace, and there an 
 old janitress made us cross three or four narrow 
 passages until she stopped us where all of them 
 converged. " Behold the remains !" said the woman, 
 pointing to a sort of coffin resting upon a pedestal in 
 the centre of the room. I approached and raised 
 the cover and looked in. There were two compart- 
 ments, at the bottom of which one could see some 
 bones heaped together like fragments of broken 
 furniture. " These," said the old woman, " are the 
 bones of the Cid, and these others the bones of 
 Ximenes his wife." 
 
 I took in my hand the shin-bone of one and a rib 
 of the other, looked at them, felt them, and turned 
 them over, but, as I was unable by their aid to 
 resurrect the features of husband and wife, I 
 replaced them. The woman showed me a wooden 
 seat, almost in pieces, propped against the wall, and 
 bearing an inscription which said that it was the seat 
 upon which sat the first judges of Castile, Nunnius 
 Rasura and Calvo Lainus, the great-great-grand- 
 fathers of the Cid ; which is the same thing as say- 
 ing that this precious piece of furniture has stood in 
 the very same place for the goodly period of nine 
 hundred years. I have it before my eyes at this 
 moment, sketched in my note-book in serpentine 
 lines, and I seem to hear the good woman asking, 
 " Are you a painter V as I stood leaning my chin on 
 my pencil to admire my masterpiece. In the next 
 
104 BUKGOS. 
 
 room she showed me a brazier of the same antiquity 
 as the old seat, and two paintings — one of the Cid 
 and the other of Ferdinand Gonzales, the first count 
 of Castile, both of which are so dark and faded that 
 they do not suggest the image of those personages 
 any better than did the shin-bone and the ribs of the 
 illustrious consorts. 
 
 From the municipal palace I was conducted along 
 the bank of the Arlanzon to an extensive square, with 
 gardens, fountains, and statues, surrounded by hand- 
 some new buildings. Across the river lies the suburb 
 of Bega, and behind it rise the barren hills which 
 tower above the city. At one end of the square 
 stands the monumental gate of Santa Maria, erected 
 in honor of Charles V., and ornamented with statues 
 of the Cid, Ferdinand Gonzales, and the emperor, 
 while beyond the gate rise the majestic spires of 
 the cathedral. 
 
 It was raining ; I was alone in the middle of the 
 square, without an umbrella. I raised my eyes to a 
 window and saw a woman, who appeared to be a 
 servant, looking at me and laughing, as if to say, 
 " Who is that crazy man f ' This was so unexpected 
 that I was a little disconcerted, but I tried my best 
 to appear indifferent, and started toward the cathe- 
 dral by the shortest cut. 
 
 The cathedral of Burgos is one of the largest, 
 
 most beautiful, and richest monuments of Chris- 
 
 iMinom. T^iimes I wrote these words at the top 
 
IBurgos CatbeSral. 
 
BURGOS. 105 
 
 of the page, and ten times I lacked the courage to 
 continue, so feeble and inadequate are the powers of 
 my mind for the task of describing it. 
 
 The facade runs along a little square from which 
 one is able to see only a part of the immense struc- 
 ture ; on the other sides run crooked, narrow streets 
 which shut off the view. From all parts of the vast 
 roof spring graceful spires, rising above the highest 
 buildings of the city, and richly adorned with 
 ornaments of the color of dark limestone. In front, 
 to the right and left of the facade, rise two tapering 
 belfries covered with sculpture from base to summit, 
 ornamented with open-work carving and stone 
 embroidery of charming grace and delicacy. 
 Farther on, from a point near the centre of the 
 church, rises a tower equally rich with bas-reliefs 
 and carvings. On the facade, at the angles of the 
 belfries and along the different elevations, beneath 
 the arches and on all the walls, stand an innumerable 
 multitude of statues — angels, martyrs, warriors, and 
 princes — so close, so various in pose, and brought 
 out in such strong relief by the light background 
 of the edifice, that they almost present to the view 
 an appearance of life, like a celestial legion stationed 
 to guard the monument. 
 
 On raising the eyes beyond the facade to the 
 pinnacles of the farthest spires, comprehending at a 
 glance all that delicate harmony of line and color, 
 one experiences a feeling of exquisite pleasure, as 
 
106 BUEGOS. 
 
 when one listens to a strain of music which sweeps 
 gradually upward from the expression of solemn 
 prayer to an ecstasy of sublime inspiration. 
 
 Before one enters the church one's imagination is 
 far beyond the things of earth. You enter. The 
 first emotion of which you are conscious is a sudden 
 strengthening of faith if you have it, and a yearning 
 of the soul toward faith if you have it not. It does 
 not seem possible that this measureless mass of stone 
 can be a vain work of man's superstition. It seems 
 to affirm, to prove, to command something. It is 
 like a superhuman voice crying to the earth, " I am !" 
 It exalts and abases, like a promise and a threat, 
 like a dazzling burst of sunlight followed by a 
 thunder-clap. Before you have looked about you 
 feel the need of rekindling in your heart the dying 
 embers of divine love ; you feel unfamiliar and 
 humiliated before that miracle of aspiration, genius, 
 and labor. The timid no which whispers in the 
 depths of your soul dies with a groan beneath the 
 dreadful yes which reverberates in your brain. 
 First you look vaguely round, trying to discover 
 the limits of the edifice, which are concealed by 
 the choir and the enormous pilasters. Then you run 
 your eyes along the columns and the highest arches, 
 your glance rising and falling, darting rapidly along 
 the endless lines, which follow each other, inter- 
 weave, correspond, and are lost, like rockets cross- 
 ing in space ; up and through the great vaults, and 
 
BURGOS. 107 
 
 your heart is lost in boundless admiration, as though 
 all those lines issued from your own brain, inspired 
 by the act of following them with your eyes. Then 
 suddenly you are assailed, as it were, by dismay, a 
 feeling of sadness that you have not time in which 
 to see it all, the genius to comprehend it, nor the 
 memory to retain the innumerable miracles which 
 you have but dimly seen on every side, crowded 
 about you, towering above you, stupefying you — 
 miracles which come, you would say, not by the 
 hands of men, but by a second creation from the 
 hand of God. 
 
 The church belongs to the order of architecture 
 known as Gothic of the Renaissance period. It is 
 divided into three very long naves, crossed in the 
 middle by a fourth, which separates the choir from 
 the great altar. Over the space between the altar 
 and the choir rises a dome formed, by the tower 
 which one sees from the square. You turn your 
 eyes upward and stand a quarter of an hour gazing 
 with open mouth. You are enraptured by a vision 
 of bas-reliefs, statues, columns, little windows, 
 arabesques, flying arches, and airy carvings, all 
 harmonizing in a design at once grand arid delicate, 
 which at the first sight makes you tremble and smile 
 like the sudden bursting and flashing of an immense 
 display of fireworks. A thousand vague images of 
 paradise, which hovered round our childish slum- 
 bers, spring together from the ecstatic mind and 
 
108 BURGOS. 
 
 soar upward like a cloud of butterflies alighting on 
 the thousand reliefs of the highest vault, flying about 
 and intermingling, and your eyes follow them as 
 though you really saw them, and your heart beats 
 faster and a sigh escapes you. 
 
 If you turn from the dome and look around, an 
 even grander spectacle awaits you. The chapels 
 are like so many other churches in size, variety, and 
 richness. In each of them lies entombed a prince, 
 a bishop, or a grandee. The tomb is placed in the 
 centre, and upon it rests a memorial statue of the 
 dead, the head lying on a pillow and the hands 
 clasped on the breast ; the bishops clothed in their 
 most gorgeous robes, the princes in their armor, and 
 the women in their gala attire. Each of the tombs 
 is covered by an ample pall, which falls over the 
 sides and takes the form of the raised portions of 
 the statue, so that it really makes them look like the 
 rigid limbs of a human corpse. Whichever way one 
 turns, one sees in the distance, between the measure- 
 less pilasters, behind the rich gratings, in the 
 uncertain shimmer of light descending from the 
 high windows, the mausoleums, the funereal hang- 
 ings, and the rigid outlines of the dead. On 
 approaching the chapels one is amazed by the lav- 
 ish use of sculpture, marbles, and gold in the orna- 
 mentation of the walls, ceilings, and altars. Each 
 chapel contains a host of angels and saints carved in 
 marble or wood, colored, gilded, and draped. 
 
BURGOS. 109 
 
 On whatever part of the pavement one's glance 
 may fall it is at once led upward from bas-relief to 
 bas-relief, from niche to niche, from arabesque to 
 arabesque, from painting to painting, to the very 
 roof, and then by another chain of carvings and 
 frescoes it is led down from the roof to the 
 pavement. 
 
 On whatever side you turn your eyes you see eyes 
 gazing back into your own, beckoning hands, the 
 heads of cherubs peeping at you, draperies which 
 seem instinct with life, floating clouds, crystal 
 spheres tremulous with light — an infinite variety of 
 forms, colors, and reflections which dazzle the eyes 
 and confuse the brain. 
 
 A volume would not be sufficient for a description 
 of all the masterpieces of sculpture and painting 
 which are scattered through this vast cathedral. In 
 the vestry of the chapel of the constables of Castile 
 hangs a very beautiful Magdalene, attributed to 
 Leonardo da Vinci ; in the chapel of the Presenta- 
 tion, a Virgin attributed to Michelangelo ; and in 
 another chapel, a Holy Family attributed to Andrea 
 del Sarto. It is not certainly known who the paint- 
 ers of these pictures were, but when I saw the cur- 
 tains which concealed them withdrawn and heard 
 those names reverently spoken, I shivered from 
 head to foot. Then, for the first time, I experienced 
 in its fulness that sense of gratitude which we owe 
 to the great artists who have made the name of 
 
1 10 BUKGOS. 
 
 Italy honored and precious the world over. I 
 learned for the first time that they are not only the 
 illustrators, but also the benefactors, of their 
 country — benefactors not only of those who have 
 the ability to appreciate and admire them, but of 
 those also who are blind to their works, and even 
 of those who are careless and ignorant of them. 
 For he who lacks the sense of beauty does not lack 
 national pride, or, if he lacks even this, he still has 
 personal pride, and feels his heart deeply stirred 
 when he hears some one, even though it be only a 
 sacristan, say, " He was born in Italy," and the 
 careless man smiles and is happy. But for his smiles 
 and his enjoyment he is a debtor to those great 
 names, which inspired no feeling of admiration in 
 him before he passed the confines of his country. 
 Wherever one goes these great names accompany 
 and protect one like invisible friends ; they make 
 one seem less foreign among foreigners ; they cast 
 upon one's face the lustre of their own glory. How 
 many smiles, how many hand-clasps, how many 
 courteous words from unknown people do we 
 Italians not owe to Eaphael, Michelangelo, Ariosto, 
 and Rossini ! 
 
 If one wishes to see this cathedral in a day, one 
 must run past the masterpieces. The carved door 
 which opens into the cloister is said to be the most 
 beautiful in the world after the doors of the Baptistery 
 of Florence. Behind the great altar stands a stu- 
 
BUEGOS. Ill 
 
 pendous bas-relief by Philip of Borgogna, represent- 
 ing the Passion of Christ — a marvellous composition, 
 for the execution of which one man's lifetime does 
 not seem sufficient. The choir is a veritable museum 
 of sculpture of incredible richness. The cloister is 
 full of tombs surmounted by recumbent statues, and 
 about them runs a profusion of bas-reliefs. In the 
 chapels, around the choir, in the passages of the 
 sacristy, everywhere^ are paintings by the greatest 
 Spanish masters, statuettes, columns, and ornaments. 
 The great altar, the organs, the doors, the staircases, 
 the gratings, everything, is grand and magnificent, 
 and at the same time arouses and rebukes one's ad- 
 miration. But why add word to word ? Could the 
 most minute description give a living image of it all ? 
 And even if I were to write a page for every paint- 
 ing, for every statue, for every bas-relief, could I 
 produce in another's heart, even for a moment, the 
 emotions which I felt myself? 
 
 A sacristan came up to me and whispered in my 
 ear, as though he was telling me a secret. 
 
 " Do you wish to see the Christ V 
 
 " What Christ f ' 
 
 " Why," he answered, " the famous one, as every 
 one knows." 
 
 The famous Christ of the cathedral of Burgos, 
 which bleeds every Friday, is worthy of particular 
 attention. The sacristan leads the way into a mys- 
 terious chapel, closes the window-shutters, lights the 
 
112 BURGOS. 
 
 candles on the altar, pulls a cord ; the curtain falls 
 back, and — there is the Christ ! If you do not take 
 to your heels at the first sight, you are brave indeed. 
 A real corpse hanging on a cross could not be more 
 horrible. It is not a painted wooden statue like other 
 images : it is a stuffed skin, and they say the skin is 
 that of a man. It has real hair, real eyebrows and 
 eyelashes, and a real beard. The hair is matted 
 with blood, and there are streaks of blood on the 
 breast, the legs, and the hands. The woimds which 
 seem like real wounds, the color of the skin, the con- 
 traction of the face, the attitude, the expression, — 
 each thing is terribly real. If you touched the body, 
 you would expect to feel the tremor of the limbs and 
 the warmth of the blood. The lips seem to be mov- 
 ing and to be opened in a cry of lamentation. You 
 cannot long endure the sight, and in spite of your- 
 self you avert your face and say to the sacristan, "I 
 have seen it." 
 
 After the Christ one ought to see the celebrated 
 coifer of the Cid. It is a battered, worm-eaten 
 coffer, suspended from the wall of one of the rooms 
 in the sacristy. The story runs that the Cid took 
 this coffer with him in his wars against the Moors, 
 and that the priests used it for an altar in the cele- 
 bration of mass. One day the doughty warrior, 
 finding his money-bags empty, filled the coffer with 
 stones and scraps of iron, and had it carried to a 
 Hebrew money-lender, to whom he said, " The Cid 
 
BURGOS. 113 
 
 has need of money. He might sell his treasures, but 
 he does not wish to do so. Give him the money 
 which he stands in need of, and he will speedily re- 
 turn it with usury of ninety-nine per cent., and he 
 leaves in your hands as a pledge this precious cof- 
 fer which contains his fortune. But upon one con- 
 dition — that you swear to him not to open it until he 
 has restored what he owes you. It is a secret that 
 must be known only to God and me. Make your 
 decision." Either money-lenders of that day re- 
 posed greater faith in army officers, or else they had 
 an ounce less of shrewdness, than they now have ; 
 at any rate, it is a fact that the usurer accepted the 
 proposal of the Cid, took the oath, and gave him the 
 money. Whether or not the Cid lived up to his 
 promise I do not know, nor can I tell if the Jew 
 brought suit. But the fact remains that the coffer is 
 still in existence, and that the sacristan tells the story 
 with great gusto, without the shadow of a suspicion 
 that the transaction was the act of a hardened villain 
 rather than an ingenious caprice of a facetious man 
 of honor. 
 
 Before leaving the cathedral you should get the 
 sacristan to tell you the famous legend of Papa- 
 Moscas. Papa-Moscas is an automaton of life-size 
 placed on the case of a clock above the door inside 
 of the church. Once upon a time, like the cele- 
 brated automatons of the clock of Venice, he would 
 come forth from his hiding-place at the stroke of the 
 
 Vol. I.— 8 
 
114 BUEGOS. 
 
 hour, and at every stroke he would utter a cry and 
 make an odd gesture, whereupon the faithful were 
 filled with the greatest delight, the boys laughed, and 
 the religious services were disturbed. To end this 
 scandalous behavior, a stern bishop had some of 
 Papa-Moscas' sinews cut, and from that day he 
 has stood there motionless and silent. But, never- 
 theless, they do not stop telling of his deeds in Bur- 
 gos and throughout all Spain, and even beyond 
 Spain. Papa-Moscas was a creature of Henry III., 
 and hence arose his great importance. 
 
 The story is exceedingly curious. Henry III., 
 the king of gallant adventures, who once sold his 
 cloak to buy something to eat, was accustomed to go 
 to the cathedral every day incognito to pray. One 
 morning his eyes met those of a young woman who 
 was praying before the tomb of Ferdinand Gonzales : 
 their glances were bound together, as Th^ophile 
 Gautier would say. The young woman arose ; the 
 king followed as she left the church, and walked 
 behind her to her home. For many days, at the 
 same place and hour, they again saw each other, 
 looked into each other's eyes, and told their love and 
 sympathy by their glances and their smiles. The 
 king always followed the lady as far as her home, 
 without speaking a word and without her giving a 
 sign that she desired him to speak. One morning, 
 on leaving the church, the beautiful unknown dropped 
 her handkerchief; the king picked it up, hid it in his 
 
BUEGOS. 115 
 
 bosom, and offered her his own. The lady took it 
 with many blushes, and, drying her tears, she disap- 
 peared. From that day Henry saw her no more. A 
 year later, while hunting in a wood, the king was 
 attacked by six ravenous wolves. After a long 
 struggle he killed three of them with his sword, but 
 his strength was already failing and he was on the 
 point of being devoured by the others. At that mo- 
 ment he heard the report of a gun and a strange 
 cry, at which the remaining wolves took to flight. 
 He turned and saw a mysterious woman staring at him 
 with fixed eyes, without the power to utter a word. 
 The muscles of her face were horribly distorted, and 
 a shrill cry of lamentation burst from her breast. 
 Recovering from his first surprise, the king recog- 
 nized in the woman the lady whom he had loved in 
 the cathedral. With a cry of joy he rushed to em- 
 brace her, but the lady stopped him by exclaiming 
 with a heavenly smile, " I have loved the memory 
 of the Cid and of Ferdinand Gonzales because my 
 heart loves all that is noble and generous ; therefore 
 I loved thee also, but my duty restrains me from ful- 
 filling this love, which would have been the happi- 
 ness of my life. Accept the sacrifice." As she spoke 
 these words she fell to the ground and died without 
 finishing the sentence, pressing the king's handker- 
 chief to her heart. A year afterward Papa-Moscas 
 stepped out on the case of the clock to announce the 
 hour for the first time. King Henry had him made 
 
116 BURGOS. 
 
 to honor the memory of the woman whom he loved. 
 Papa-Moscas' cry reminded the king of the cry with 
 which his deliverer had frightened oflf the three 
 wolves in the forest. The story runs that King 
 Henry wanted to hear Papa-Moscas repeat also the 
 words of love which the woman spoke. But the 
 Moorish artist who constructed the automaton de- 
 clared, after many vain efforts, that it was impossible 
 to satisfy this desire of the tender-hearted monarch. 
 
 After hearing this story I took another turn 
 through the cathedral, thinking with sadness that I 
 should never see it again — that in a little while all 
 these marvellous works of art would only linger with 
 me as a memory, and that one day this memory 
 would be obscured or confused with others, and 
 finally be obliterated. A priest was preaching from 
 the pulpit in front of the great altar. His voice was 
 scarcely audible. A crowd of women were kneeling 
 on the pavement with bowed heads and clasped 
 hands, listening to him. The preacher was an old 
 man of venerable appearance ; he spoke in gentle 
 accents of death, eternal life, and angels, making a 
 gesture'with his head at every period, as though he 
 were seeking to lift up some fallen one and saying, 
 " Arise !" I could have given him my hand with 
 the cry, " Raise me I" 
 
 The cathedral of Burgos is not so depressing as 
 all the other cathedrals of Spain. It calmed my 
 spirit and disposed me to quiet religious thought. I 
 
BURGOS. 117 
 
 went out, repeating softly, almost unconsciously, 
 " Raise me !" Turning to look once more at the 
 bold spires and the airy belfries, I started toward 
 the centre of the city, musing on many things. 
 
 Turning a corner, I found myself in front of a 
 shop which made me shudder. There are others 
 like it in Barcelona and Saragossa, and indeed in all 
 other Spanish cities, but somehow I had not seen 
 them. It was a large, clean shop, with show-win- 
 dows to the right and left of the door. On the 
 threshold stood a woman knitting a stocking and 
 smiling, and at the back of the shop a boy was play- 
 ing. Nevertheless, when he saw that shop the most 
 phlegmatic man would feel faint at heart and the 
 gayest would be troubled. I give you a thousand 
 chances to guess what it contained. In the windows, 
 behind the doors, along the walls, and as high as 
 they could be placed one above another, in nice 
 rows like crates of fruit, some covered by a finely 
 embroidered curtain, others figured, gilded, carved, 
 and painted, were cofiins — at the back, coffins for 
 adults; in front, coffins for children. One of the 
 show-windows adjoined the window of a butcher- 
 shop in such a way that the coffins almost touched 
 the eggs and cheese. And one can easily imagine 
 how a flustered citizen, thinking he was going to buy 
 his breakfast, might miss the door and stumble in 
 among the caskets — a mistake not likely to increase 
 his appetite. 
 
118 BURGOS. 
 
 While we are speaking of shops let us enter a to- 
 bacco-shop and notice how it differs from our own. 
 In Spain, with the exception of cigarettes and Ha- 
 vanas — which are sold in special shops — they do not 
 smoke cigars which cost less than tres cuartos, a 
 sum equal to about three cents. These resemble our 
 Roman cigars, although they are not quite so large, 
 and are very good indeed or very bad according to 
 their manufacture, which has become rather careless. 
 Regular customers, who are called in Spanish by the 
 very curious name of parroquianos, can get escogidos 
 (selected cigars) by paying something extra ; the man 
 of fastidious taste, by adding still more to the sum, 
 can secure los escogidos de la escogidos (the choicest 
 of the choice). On the counter stands a little plate 
 with a wet sponge to moisten stamps, without the 
 annoyance of having to lick them, and in a corner 
 is a little box for letters and stamps. The first time 
 one enters one of these shops, especially if there are 
 many in it, it makes one laugh to see the three or 
 four salesmen throwing die money on the counter so 
 hard that it bounces up higher than their heads, and 
 catching it in the air with the ease of dice-throwers. 
 They do this only to ascertain by the sound if the 
 money is good, for there are a great many counter- 
 feits in circulation. The coin in commonest circula- 
 tion is the real, which is equal to about four cents ; 
 four reales make a peseta ; five pesetas, a duro, which 
 is equal to one dollar of blessed memory if you will 
 
BURGOS. 119 
 
 add a few pennies. Five dollars make a doblon de 
 Isabel, a gold-piece. The people calculate by reales. 
 The real is divided into eight cuartos, or seventeen 
 ochavos, or thirty-four maravedis — MoorisTi coins 
 which have lost their original form and resemble 
 worn buttons rather than coins. Portugal also has a 
 monetary unit smaller than ours, the reis, which is 
 not equal to a half cent in value, and everything 
 is counted by the reis. Imagine a poor traveller 
 who has arrived in all his ignorance, eaten a good 
 breakfast, and asked for his bill, when he hears 
 the waiter say with a stem face, not eighty cents, 
 but eight hundred reis ! It makes his hair stand 
 on end. 
 
 Before evening I went to see the birthplace of 
 the Cid. If I had not thought of it myself, the 
 guides would certainly have suggested it to me, for 
 everywhere I went they kept whispering in my ear, 
 "The remains of the Cid!" "Monument of the 
 Cid !" An old man, majestically wrapped in his 
 cloak, said to me with an air of protection, " Venga 
 usted commigo " (Come with me, sir), and he made 
 me climb a hill overlooking the city, on the top of 
 which one can still see the remains of an enormous 
 castle, the ancient dwelling-place of the kings of 
 Castile. Before reaching the monument of the 
 Cid one comes to a triumphal arch in the Doric 
 style, simple and graceful, which was erected by 
 Philip II. in honor of Ferdinand Gonzales on the 
 
120 BUEGOS. 
 
 same spot, it is said, where stood the house in which 
 the famous commander was born. A little farther 
 on one finds the monument of the Cid, erected in 
 1784. It is a stone column, standing on a pedestal 
 of masonry and surrounded by an heraldic shield 
 which bears this inscription : "In this place stood 
 the house where was born, in the year 1026, Rodrigo 
 Diaz de Bivar, known as the Cid Campeador. He 
 died in Valencia in 1099, and his body was borne to 
 the monastery of St. Peter of Cardena near this 
 city." While I was reading these words the 
 cicerone told me a popular legend about the death 
 of the hero. " When the Cid died," said he, very 
 gravely, " there was no one left to guard his corpse. 
 A Jew entered the church, approaching the bier, 
 and said, ' Behold the great Cid, whose beard no one 
 dared to touch so long as he was alive. I will touch 
 it now, and will see what he is able to do.' So say- 
 ing, he stretched out his hand, but as he was just on 
 the point of touching it the corpse grasped the hilt 
 of his sword and drew it a hand's-breadth out of the 
 scabbard. The Jew uttered a cry and fell to the 
 ground half dead. The priests ran in, the Jew was 
 lifted up, and when he came to himself he told the 
 miracle. Then they all looked toward the Cid, and 
 saw that his hand still rested on the hilt of his sword 
 in a threatening attitude. God willed that the body 
 of the great warrior should not be defiled by the 
 hand of an unbeliever." When the guide had said 
 
BURGOS. 121 
 
 this he looked at me, and, perceiving that I made 
 not the least sign of incredulity, he led me under- 
 neath a stone arch, which must have been one of the 
 old gates, a few steps distant from the monument, 
 and, pointing out a horizontal mark which was 
 visible on the wall a few feet above the ground, he 
 said to me, " This is the measure of the Cid's arms 
 when he was young and came here to play with his 
 companions ;" and he stretched his arms along the 
 mark to let me see how much longer it was. Then 
 he wished me to measure also, and I too was too 
 short, whereupon he gave me a look of triumph and 
 started to go back to the city. Coming to a lonely 
 street, he stopped before the door of a church and 
 said to me, "This is the church of Saint Agnes, 
 where the Cid made King Alfonso VI. swear that he 
 had not had any part in the murder of his brother 
 Sancho." I asked him to tell me the whole story, 
 and he continued : 
 
 " The prelates, the knights, and the other dig- 
 nitaries of the state were present. The Cid put the 
 Bible on the altar and made the king place his hand 
 on it, and then the Cid said to him : ' King Alfonso, 
 you must swear to me that you are not stained by 
 the blood of Don Sancho my lord, and, if you swear 
 falsely, may you die by the hand of a traitorous 
 vassal !' and the king said, ' Amen,' but he 
 changed color. And the Cid said again: 'King 
 Alfonso, you must swear that you neither ordered 
 
122 BtJBGOS. 
 
 nor counselled the death of Don Sancho my lord ; 
 and, if you swear falsely, may you die by the hand of 
 a traitorous vassal !' and the king said, ' Amen,' but 
 he changed color a second time. Twelve vassals 
 confirmed the oath of the king. The Cid would 
 have kissed his hand, but the king would not permit 
 him to do so, and hated him from that moment to 
 the end of his life." The old man added, however, 
 that another tradition records the fact that he did 
 not have King Alfonso sworn on the Bible, but on a 
 bolt of the church-door, and that for a long time 
 travellers came from all the countries of the world 
 to see that bolt ; that the people attributed to it I 
 know not what supernatural virtues, and so it was 
 much spoken of in every place ; and that it gave rise 
 to so many and such extravagant fables that the 
 bishop, Don Fray Pascual, was constrained to have 
 it removed, because it created a dangerous rivalry 
 between the door and the high altar. The cicerone 
 told me nothing more, but one could fill several 
 volumes if he wished to collect aU the traditions of 
 the Cid which are current in Spain. Xo legendary 
 warrior was ever dearer to his people than this 
 terrible Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar. Poetry has made 
 him little less than a god; his glory lives in the 
 national spirit of the Spaniards, as though a few 
 lustres, instead of eight centui-ies, had passed since 
 the times in which he lived. The heroic poem 
 which is called by his name, the greatest monument 
 
BURGOS. 123 
 
 of the poetry of Spain, still continues to be the most 
 powerful national work in Spanish literature. 
 
 As evening was drawing on I went to walk 
 beneath the portico of the Plaza Mayor, in the hope 
 of seeing something of the people. But the rain 
 was pouring down and a high wind was blowing, so 
 I found only some groups of boys, workmen, and 
 soldiers, and directly turned back to the hotel. The 
 emperor of Brazil had arrived in the morning, and 
 was leaving for Madrid that night. In the room 
 where I dined, together with some Spaniards — who 
 talked pleasantly with me until the hour of departure 
 arrived — there dined also all the major-domos, the 
 valets, servants, and clerks of His Imperial Majesty, 
 and the dear knows who else, a household which sat 
 around a large table and filled it full. In all my 
 life I have never seen a more motley crowd of 
 human beings. There were white, black, yellow, 
 and copper-colored faces, with some eyes and noses 
 and mouths which could not be equalled in the whole 
 collection of the Pasquino of Teza. Every one was 
 talking in a different and much-abused language ; 
 one spoke English, another Portuguese, another 
 French, another Spanish, while some spoke a mix- 
 ture of all four languages, the like of which was 
 never heard before, adding words, sounds, and 
 accents of some outlandish dialect. However, they 
 understood each other and jabbered all together, 
 
124 BURGOS. 
 
 making such a confusion that it seemed as though 
 they were speaking the horrible secret language of 
 some savage land unknown to the world. 
 
 Before I left Old Castile, the cradle of the Spanish 
 monarchy, I wished to see Soria, the town built on the 
 ruins of ancient Numantia ; Segovia, with its im- 
 mense Roman aqueduct ; Sant Idelfonso, the de- 
 lightful garden of Philip V. ; and Avilo, the native 
 city of Saint Theresa. But when I had hurriedly 
 and in desperation gone through the four elementary 
 operations of arithmetic before buying my ticket to 
 Valladolid, I said to myself that there was nothing 
 great to be seen in those four cities, that the 
 " Guide " exaggerated, that fame has pieced out 
 their little attractions, that it is better to see a few 
 things rather than many, if only those few are well 
 seen and will be remembered. I indulged in these 
 and other sophistries, and they corresponded perfectly 
 with the results of my calculation and the motives 
 of my hypocrisy. 
 
 So I left Burgos without having really seen any- 
 thing but monuments, cicerones, and soldiers, for the 
 fair Castilians, frightened by the rain, had not dared 
 to risk their little feet in the streets, and therefore 
 my recollections of the city are rather sad, in spite 
 of the gorgeousness of its colors and the magnificence 
 of its cathedral. 
 
 From Burgos to Valladolid the country is almost 
 the same as that from Saragossa to Miranda. There 
 
BURGOS. 125 
 
 are the same vast, desolate plains, bounded by dun- 
 colored hills of angular form with bare summits. 
 These silent, solitary wastes, flooded by dazzling 
 light, bear one away in fancy to African deserts, to 
 the hermit's life, to the sky, to the infinite, and raise 
 in the heart an irrepressible feeling of weariness and 
 melancholy. Surrounded by these plains, this soli- 
 tude, this silence, one understands the mystical na- 
 ture of the Castilian people, the ardent faith of their 
 kings, the sacred inspiration of their poets, the di- 
 vine ecstasy of their saints, their churches, their 
 grand cloisters, and their glorious history. 
 
VALLADOLID. 
 
VALLADOLID. 
 
 Valladolid, "the rich," as Quevedo calls it, a 
 famous dispenser of colds, — Valladolid, of all the 
 cities lying north of the Tagus, was the city which 
 I had the liveliest desire to see, although I knew 
 that it contained no grand artistic monuments and 
 no modern buildings of importance. Its name, its 
 history, and its character had a peculiar attraction 
 for me as I had imagined them in my own way from 
 my knowledge of its inhabitants. I expected that it 
 would be a noble, cheerful, and studious city, and I 
 could not picture its streets to my mind without 
 seeing Gongora walking here or Cervantes there or 
 Leonardo de Argensola yonder, and all the other 
 poets, historians, and scholars who dwelt there when 
 it was the seat of the splendid court of the monarch. 
 And as I thought of the court I saw in the vast 
 squares of this city, which had so won my heart, a 
 confused mingling of religious processions, bull- 
 fights, military parades, masquerades, balls — all the 
 mad merriment of the festival in celebration of the 
 birth of Philip IV., from the arrival of the English 
 admiral with his retinue of six hundred to the final 
 
 Vol. I.— 9 12S) 
 
130 VALLADOLID. 
 
 banquet famous for the twelve hundred dishes of 
 meat, to repeat the popular tradition, without count- 
 ing the plates of those who were not served. I 
 arrived in the night and went to the first hotel, 
 when I fell asleep with the delightful thought that I 
 should awake in an unknown city. 
 
 And to awake in an unknown city when one has 
 gone there from choice is indeed a very lively 
 pleasure. The thought that from the moment you 
 step out of the house in the morning until you re- 
 turn to it at night you will do nothing but pass from 
 curiosity to curiosity, from pleasure to pleasure, that 
 everything you see will seem new, and that at every 
 step you will be learning something, and that all will 
 be impressed upon your memory so long as you live ; 
 that through the livelong day you will be as free as 
 air and as gay as a lark, without a thought in the 
 world unless it be to amuse yourself, and that by 
 amusing yourself you are at the same time gaining 
 health of body, mind, and soul ; that, finally, the 
 termination of all these pleasures, instead of bring- 
 ing to you a feeling of melancholy, like the evening 
 of a holiday, will be only the beginning of another 
 company of delights, which will attend you from 
 that city to the next, and from it to a third, and so 
 on as long as your fancy is pleased not to confine 
 them within bounds, — all these thoughts, I say, 
 which present themselves in a crowd as soon as you 
 open your eyes, give you such a joyful surprise that 
 
street in DaUa&oli^. 
 
VALLADOLID. 131 
 
 1 ft 
 erore you know it you find yourself standing in the 
 
 midaie of the room with your hat on and the Guide 
 in your hands. 
 
 Let us go, then, to enjoy Valladolid. 
 
 Alas ! how changed from the time of Philip III. ! 
 The population, which was then above one hundred 
 thousand, has dwindled to less than twenty thousand ; 
 in the principal streets there is a fair showing of 
 university students and tourists on their way to Ma- 
 drid; the other streets are dead. The city makes 
 upon one the impression of a great abandoned pal- 
 ace, where one still sees traces of carving, gilding, 
 and mosaic, and finds in some of the central rooms 
 a few poor families which reflect by their melancholy 
 life the vast solitude of the edifice. 
 
 There are many spacious squares, an old palace, 
 houses in ruins, empty convents, long streets grass- 
 grown and deserted ; in short, all the appearances of 
 a great city fallen into decay. The most beautiful 
 part is the Plaza Mayor, a vast arena, encircled all 
 around by a portico supported by heavy columns of 
 bluish granite, behind which rise houses, all three 
 stories in height. In front of the houses run three 
 orders of terraces of great length, where it is said 
 twenty-four thousand people can be conveniently 
 seated. The portico extends along the two sides of 
 a wide street which opens into the square, and here 
 and in two or three other adjacent streets there is a 
 
 «f Tiponle It was market-day : 
 great concourse ot peopie. 
 
132 VALLADOLID. 
 
 under the porticoes and in the square swarmed a 
 crowd of country-folk, vegetable-sellers, and mar- 
 ket-men, and, as they speak Castilian with admirable 
 purity of expression and pronunciation at Valladolid, 
 I began to stroll about among the baskets of lettuce 
 and the piles of oranges, to catch as I might the bon- 
 mots and the cadences of that most beautiful lan- 
 guage. 
 
 Among other things I remember a curious proverb 
 repeated by a woman who was vexed beyond endur- 
 ance by a young bully. "Babe Usted," she said, 
 planting herself before him, " lo que es que destruye 
 al hombre P' (I stopped and pricked up my ears.) 
 " Tres muchos y trespocos: mucho hablar y poco sa- 
 ber ; mucho gastar y poco tener; mucho presumir y 
 nada valerP (Do you know, sir, what it is that 
 ruins a man? Three muckles and three mickles: 
 much talking and little sense ; much spending and 
 little keeping ; much presumption and no worth.) 
 
 It seemed to me that I could perceive a great dif- 
 ference between the voices of these people and those 
 of the Catalans : here they were more liquid and 
 silvery, and the gestures too were livelier and the 
 expression of the faces more animated ; but there 
 was nothing remarkable about their features and com- 
 plexion, and in their dress they differed very little 
 from the peasants of Northern Italy. 
 
 It was in the square at Valladolid that it occurred 
 to me for the first time that I had not seen a pipe 
 
VALLADOLID. 133 
 
 since I entered Spain. The laboring-men, the peas- 
 ants, the poor, all classes, smoke the cigarette, and 
 it is ridiculous to see great strapping fellows, with 
 long moustaches, going about with that little micro- 
 scopic thing in their mouths, half hidden in their 
 beards. And they are very careful to smoke it up 
 to the very last particle of tobacco, until they have 
 only a bit of smouldering ashes left on their lower 
 lip, and they even cling to this as though it were a 
 drop of liquor, and finally they spit out the ashes 
 with the air of one who is making a sacrifice. 
 
 Something else occurred to me also — a fact which 
 I often observed afterward as long as I remained in 
 Spain ; I never heard any whistling. 
 
 From the Plaza Mayor I passed on to the wide, 
 cheerful Plaza of San Pablo, where is the ancient 
 royal palace. The facade is not remarkable either 
 for grandeur or beauty. I entered the doorway, and 
 before I could feel a sense of admiration for the mag- 
 nificence of the hall I felt only sadness at the sepul- 
 chral silence which reigned in it. Nothing else pro- 
 duces the impression made upon one by a cemetery 
 so closely as does an abandoned castle, for there es- 
 pecially, to a greater extent than in other places, 
 the contrast is very strong and sharp between the re- 
 membrance of what has been and the actual condi- 
 tion in which one finds it. Alas for the supurb reti- 
 nue of plumed cavaliers ! Alas for the splendid 
 feasts, the fervid enjoyment of a prosperity which 
 
1 34 VALLADOLID. 
 
 seemed eternal ! It is a novel pleasure — that of 
 coughing a little in front of those hollow sepulchres, 
 as invalids sometimes cough to test their strength, 
 and of hearing the echo of your lusty voice, which 
 assures you that you are young and hearty. On the 
 inside of the palace there is a court of generous size 
 surrounded by busts of the Roman emperors in demi- 
 relief, a beautiful staircase, and wide galleries on 
 the upper stories. I coughed and the echo answered, 
 " What health !" and I went out comforted. 
 
 A drowsy porter showed me another palace in the 
 same square which I had overlooked, and told me 
 that in it was born the great king Philip II., from 
 whom Valladolid had received the title of a city. 
 " You know, sir, Philip II., son of Charles V., father 
 of" — "I know, I know," I hastened to reply to 
 save the narration, and, casting a gloomy glance at 
 the gloomy palace, I passed on. 
 
 Opposite to the royal palace is the Dominican 
 convent of San Pablo, with a facade of the Gothic 
 order so richly and extravagantly ornamented with 
 statuettes, bas-reliefs, and traceries of every sort 
 that one half of them would amply adorn an immense 
 palace. At that moment the sun was shining on it, 
 and the effect was magnificent. While I stood con- 
 templating at my ease that labyrinth of sculpture, 
 from which it seems one's eye will never turn when 
 once it has become fixed upon it, a little rogue, six 
 or eight years old, who had been sitting in a distant 
 
VALLADOLID. 135 
 
 corner of the square, rushed from his place as though 
 he had been thrown from a sling, and ran toward me, 
 crying in an affectionate, plaintive tone, " Senorito ! 
 Senorito ! I like you so much !" 
 
 This is something new, I thought, for the rag- 
 amuffins to make declarations of love. He came 
 and stood in front of me, and I asked, " Why do 
 you love me V 
 
 " Because," he answered frankly, ''you will give 
 me alms." 
 
 " And why should I give you alms ?" 
 
 " Because," he replied, hesitating, and then reso- 
 lutely, in the tones of one who has found a good 
 reason — '' because, sir, you have a book." 
 
 The Guide which I held under my arm ! But, you 
 see, one must travel to learn these new things. I 
 carried a Guide, foreigners carry Guides ; foreigners 
 give alms ; therefore I ought to give him alms ; all 
 this reasoning instead of saying, " I am hungry !" 
 
 I was pleased by the plausibility of this dis- 
 covery, and dropped into the hands of this profound 
 boy the few cuartos which I found in my pockets. 
 
 Turning into a street near by, I saw the facade 
 of the Dominican college of San Gregorio, 
 Gothic in its architecture, and more dignified and 
 richer than the convent of San Pablo. Then I went 
 from street to street until I came to the square of 
 the cathedral. At the point where the street widens 
 into the sauare I met a very graceful little Spanish 
 
136 VALLA DOLID. 
 
 lady, to whom I might have applied those two verses 
 of Espronceda: 
 
 " Y que yo la he de querer 
 Por su paso de andadura," 
 
 or that line of ours, " She walks not like a mortal 
 thing," for in their gait lies the supreme grace of 
 the Spanish women. She had in her walk those 
 thousand fugitive little friskings and easy undulating 
 motions which the eye cannot follow one by one, nor 
 the memory retain, nor words express, but which, 
 taken altogether, form the most feminine of woman's 
 charms. Here I found myself in an embarrassing 
 position. I saw the great mass of the cathedral 
 looming up at the end of the square, and curiosity 
 prompted me to look at it ; but a few feet in front 
 of me I saw this little person, and a curiosity not 
 less lively constrained me to look at her ; and so, as 
 I did not wish to lose the first glimpse of the church 
 nor the fleeting sight of the woman, my glances 
 ran from her face to the dome and from the dome 
 to her face with such breathless rapidity that the 
 fair unkno-mi must have certainly thought that I had 
 discovered a correspondence of line or some mysteri- 
 ous bond of sympathy between the building and her- 
 self, for she also turned and looked at the church, 
 and smiled as she passed me. 
 
 The cathedral of Valladolid, although it is 
 unfinished, is one of the largest cathedrals in Spain. 
 
VALLADOLID. 137 
 
 It is an imposing mass of granite, and produces 
 upon the mind of the incredulous an effect similar to 
 that produced by the church of the Pillar at Sara- 
 gossa. On first entering one flies in thought to the 
 Basilica of St. Peter's. Architectually, it is dig- 
 nified and simple, and receives a sombre reflection 
 from the dark color of the stone. The walls are 
 bare, the chapels dark, the arched columns, the 
 doors, and everything gigantic and severe. It is 
 one of those cathedrals which make one stammer 
 out his prayers with a sense of secret dread. I had 
 not yet seen the Escurial, but I thought of it. It 
 was, in fact, designed by the same architect. The 
 church was left unfinished, so that the work of 
 building tlie convent might be carried on, g,nd on 
 visiting the convent one is reminded of the church. 
 
 In a little chapel to the right of the great altar 
 rises the tomb of Pedro Ansurez, a gentleman and 
 benefactor of Valladolid, whose sword has been 
 placed above his monument. I was alone in the 
 church and heard the echoing of my footsteps. 
 Suddenly a keen sense of fear seized me and an 
 indescribable feeling of childish fright : I turned 
 my back upon the tomb and went out. 
 
 As I was going out I met a priest and asked 
 where the house of Cervantes was. He answered 
 that it was in the street of Cervantes, and pointed 
 out the way I ought to take. I thanked him, and 
 he asked me if I was a stranger; I said I was. 
 
138 VALLADOLID. 
 
 " From Italy f ' 
 
 " Yes, from Italy." 
 
 He scanned me from head to foot, raised his hat, 
 and Went on his way down the street. I too started 
 off, in the opposite direction, and the thought came 
 to me : " I'll wager that he has stopped to see how 
 one of the Pope's prison-keepers is made." I looked 
 back, and there he was, sure enough, standing stock 
 still in the middle of the square, staring at me with 
 all his eyes. I could not keep from laughing, so I 
 excused my amusement with the salutation, "Beso 
 a usted la mano .'" (I give you my hand), and 
 he called back, " Buenos dias !" (Good-day), and 
 was off. But he ought to have added, not with- 
 out surprise, that for an Italian I had not such a 
 villainous face, after all. I crossed two or three 
 quiet, narrow streets, and entered the street of 
 Cervantes, a long, straight, dirty thoroughfare lined 
 with wretched houses. I walked along it for some 
 distance without meeting anybody but some sol- 
 diers and servants-girls and an occasional mule, my 
 eyes busily scanning the walls for the inscription, 
 "A qui vivio Cervantes," etc. ("Here lived Cer- 
 vantes," etc.). But I found nothing. On reaching 
 the end of the street I found myself in the open 
 country. There was not a soul in sight. I stood 
 a while to look around, and then I retraced my steps. 
 I happened to meet a muleteer and asked him, 
 "Where is the house in which Cervantes lived?" 
 
VALLADOLID. 139 
 
 The only answer he gave me was a blow for the 
 mule as he went on his way. I questioned a soldier : 
 he sent me to a shop. In the shop I questioned an 
 old woman. She did not understand, and, believing 
 that I wished to buy a copy of Don Quixote, sent me 
 to a book-store. The bookseller, who wanted to play 
 the wiseacre and could not bring his mind to confess 
 that he knew nothing about the house of Cervantes, 
 began to beat about the bush, talking of the life and 
 works of that " marvellously great writer ;" so that, 
 to cap the climax, I went off about iny own affairs, 
 without seeing anything. However, the memory of 
 this house must be preserved (and no doubt if I had 
 searched more diligently I should have been success- 
 ful), not only because Cervantes lived in it, but be- 
 cause an act was committed there which all of his 
 biographers mention. One night, a short time after 
 the birth of Philip II., a cavalier of the court hap- 
 pened to meet an unknown man, and for some un- 
 known reason high words were passed between 
 them : both drew their swords and fell to fighting, 
 and the cavalier was mortally wounded. The other 
 disappeared. The wounded man, all drenched with 
 blood, ran to a neighboring house to find succor. In 
 the house lived Cervantes with his family, together 
 with a widow of a famous chronicler and her two 
 sons. One of them ran and lifted the wounded man 
 from the ground and called Cervantes, who was 
 already in bed. Cervantes got up and helped his 
 
140 VALLA DOLID. 
 
 friend carry the cavalier into the widow's house, 
 where he died two days later. Justice took a hand 
 in the case and sought to ferret out the cause of the 
 duel. It was believed that the combatants were 
 both paying court to the daughter or niece of Cer- 
 vantes. The entire family were cast into prison. 
 Shortly afterward they were set at liberty, and noth- 
 ing more was heard of it. But even this had to 
 befall the poor author of Don Quixote, so that be 
 might truly say that he had experienced every 
 misfortune. 
 
 In this same street of Cervantes it was my good 
 fortune to witness a scene which repaid me a thou- 
 sand times for not finding the house. As I passed a 
 door I spied a Uttle Castilian girl of twelve or thir- 
 teen years, as beautiful as an angel, standing at the 
 foot of the stairs with a baby in her arms. I cannot 
 find words sufficiently delicate and refined to describe 
 what she was doing. A childish curiosity to know 
 the delight of mother-love had softly tempted her. 
 The buttons of her little bodice had been slowly 
 slipped through the button-holes one by one under 
 the pressure of a trembling finger. She was alone ; 
 there was not a sound in the street ; she had hidden 
 her hand in her bosom ; then perhaps she stood a 
 moment in doubt, but, glancing at the baby and feel- 
 ing her courage renewed, and making a final eifort 
 with the hidden hand, she uncovered her breast as 
 well as she could, and, opening the chubby lips of 
 
VALLADOLID. 141 
 
 the baby with her thumb and finger, she said ten- 
 derly, " Hela aqui" (Here it is), her face glowing 
 and a sweet smile in her eyes. Hearing my step, 
 she gave a cry and disappeared. 
 
 Instead of the house of Cervantes I found, a little 
 farther along, the house in which was born Jos^ Zor- 
 rilla, one of the most gifted of the Spanish poets of 
 our time, who is still living, but must not be mis- 
 taken, as many in Italy do mistake him, for Zorilla 
 the radical leader, although he too has some poetry 
 in his head and scatters it with a liberal hand through 
 his political speeches, supplementing it with bursts 
 of eloquence and furious gestures. In my opinion 
 Jos^ Zorrilla is to Spanish letters a little more than 
 Prati is to our Italian literature, and the two have 
 many points of similarity — religious feeling passion, 
 productiveness, spontaneity, and a certain indefinable 
 quality, vague and daring, which fires the youthful 
 fancy. Zorrilla has a way of reading in resonant, 
 solemn tones, it is said, somewhat monotonous, and 
 yet many Spaniards rave over it. In form I should 
 say the Spanish poet is more correct ; they are both 
 prolix, and in each there is the germ of a great poet. 
 Admirable above every other work of Zorrilla are 
 his " Songs of the Troubadour," narrative poems and 
 legends, full of the tenderest love-lyrics and descrip- 
 tions of incomparable beauty. He has written also 
 for the stage. His Bon Juan Tenario, an ideal 
 drama, in eight-line rhymed stanzas, is one of the 
 
Missing Page 
 
Missing Page 
 
144 VALLA DOLID. 
 
 torted by death, faces of the dyiug. of demoniacs, 
 of executioners, and on every side blood, blood, 
 bloixl! until yon seem to see blood spurting from 
 the walls and feel as though you were wading in it. 
 like Father Bresciani's Babette in the prisons of 
 Naples. It is a collection of woes and horrors enough 
 to till to overdowing all the hospitals in the country. 
 
 At lirst one feels a sense of sadness, then a 
 shudder of abhorrence, and finally far more than 
 abhorrence — indignation against the butcher-artists 
 who have so shamelessly debased the art of Baphael 
 and MuriUo. 
 
 The most noticeable painting which I saw. among 
 the many bad ones, although it too was a cruel 
 Spanish realism, was a picture i-eprcsentiug the 
 circumcision of Jesus, with all the most minute 
 details of the instruments and the operation, and a 
 circle of spectators standing motionless with bowed 
 heads, like the students of a surgical clinic aroimd 
 their chief. 
 
 " Let us go ! let us go !" I said to tl>e courteous 
 portress; "if I stay here h;\lf an hour longer I 
 shall be burned, flayed, or quartered. Have you 
 nothing more cheerful to show me ?"' 
 
 She took me to see Rubens' "Assumption," a 
 grand, effective painting which woidd look well 
 above a great altar — a majestic, radiant Virgin, 
 ascending to heaven, and around her, above and 
 below, a host of angelic faces, wreaths of flowers. 
 
VALLADOLID. ^ 145 
 
 golden hair, white wing^s, waTing pinions, and dan- 
 cing sunbeams. It is all tremulous, and pierces the 
 air and soars upward like a flock of doves, so that 
 it seems from moment to moment that the whole 
 scene ought to rise and disappear. 
 
 But it was not ordered that I should leave the 
 museum with a pleasant picture before my eyes. 
 The portress opened a door and with a laugh bade 
 me enter. I entered, and turned back in flight. 
 It seemed to me that I had fallen upon a madhouse 
 of giants. The vast room was full of colossal 
 statues of painted wood which represented the 
 drama of the Passion — soldiers, jailers, and spec- 
 tators, each in the attitude befitting his oflSce, some 
 in the act of scourging, others binding the crimi- 
 nals, others smiting, and wagging their heads — 
 horrid faces borribly distorted, a few kneeling 
 women, Jesus nailed to an enormous cross, the 
 thieves, the ladder, the instruments of torture, — in 
 short, everything one could think of to represent 
 the Passion as it was once portrayed in the square, 
 with a group of these huge statues which must have 
 required as much room as a house. And here too 
 were wounds, heads dripping with blood, and gashes 
 enough to sicken you. 
 
 '■See that Judas there?" said the woman as she 
 pointed out one of the statues — & gallows face which 
 I shall dream of sometimes. '■ When they arranged 
 the groups outside, they had to take it down, it was 
 
 Vol. L— 10 
 
146 VALLADOLID. 
 
 so ugly and sad. The people hated it like death, 
 and wanted to break it to pieces, and as there was 
 always such a great to-do to guard it and to keep 
 their threats from becoming deeds, it was decided 
 to form the groups without it." The most beautiful 
 statue, to my eyes, was a Madonna, the work of 
 Berruguete, Juan de Juni, or Hernandez — I do not 
 know which, for they all three have statues there. 
 She was kneeling with her hands clasped, and her 
 eyes turned toward heaven with an expression of 
 such passionate sorrow that one is moved to pity as 
 though the statue were a living person ; and, in 
 fact, a few steps distant it seems to be alive, so that 
 on seeing it suddenly one cannot check an exclama- 
 tion of surprise. 
 
 "The English," said the portress (for the 
 cicerones repeat the opinions of the English as a 
 confirmation of their own, and sometimes attribute 
 to them the most tiresome extravagances), — " the 
 English say that only words are lacking." 
 
 I joyfully assented to the opinion of the English, 
 gave the portress the customary reales, and, taking 
 my departure with a head full of sanguinary images, 
 hailed the cheerful sky with an unwonted feeling of 
 pleasure, like a young student leaving the dissecting- 
 room where he has been assisting at his first autopsy. 
 
 I visited the beautiful palace of the University, 
 La Plaza Campo Grande, where the Holy Inquisition 
 kindled its fagots — a wide, cheerful square, sur- 
 
VALLADOLID. 147 
 
 rounded by fifteen convents. I went to see a church 
 adorned with famous paintings, and then my brain 
 began to confuse the images of the things I had seen. 
 I slipped the guide-book into my pocket and took 
 my way toward the great square. I did the same 
 thing in all the other cities, for when the mind 
 becomes tired it may be a good sign of constancy to 
 force one's attention in deference to that mistaken 
 idea of following the guide-book, but it is a danger- 
 ous practice for one who is travelling with the inten- 
 tion of afterward telling the impressions of what he 
 had seen. For one cannot remember everything, 
 and it is better not to confuse the vivid remembrances 
 of the principal objects with a crowd of vague recol- 
 lections of things of less account. Moreover, one 
 never has pleasant recollections of a city where he 
 has used his head for a storehouse. 
 
 To see how the city appeared in the evening I 
 took a walk under the porticoes, where they were 
 beginning to light up the shops, and there was a con- 
 tinual passing of soldiers, students, and girls, who 
 disappeared through the little passages, darted be- 
 tween the columns, and glided here and there to 
 escape the eager hands of their pursuers, who were 
 enveloped in their flowing capes ; a troop of boys 
 were romping about the square, filling the air with 
 their sonorous cries : and everywhere there were 
 groups of caballeros, among whom one occasionally 
 heard the names Serrano, Sagasta, and Amadous 
 
148 VALLADOLID. 
 
 alternating with the words justicia, libertad, traicion, 
 honra de Espana, and the like. I entered a very 
 large cafd which was full of students, and there sat- 
 isfied the natural talent of eating and drinking, as a 
 refined writer would say. Then, as I had a great 
 desire to talk, I noticed two students who were sip- 
 ping their coflFee and milk at a neighboring table, and 
 without any introduction I addressed one of them — 
 a very natural thing to do in Spain, where one is 
 always sure of receiving a courteous response. The 
 two students came over, and, as every one may im- 
 agine, we discussed the absorbing subjects of Italy, 
 Amadeus, the university, Cervantes, the Andalusian 
 women, balls, Dante, travels ; in short, it was a 
 course in the geography, the literary history, and the 
 customs of the two countries ; then a glass of Malaga 
 and a friendly hand-clasp. 
 
 caballeros of happy memory, comrades in every 
 caf^, companions at all the hotel tables, near neigh- 
 bors in every theatre, fellow-travellers on all the 
 railway-trains in Spain ! who so often, moved by 
 gentle pity for an unknown stranger, scanning with 
 sad eyes the railway-guide or the Correspondencia 
 Espanola, thinking of his family, his friends, his dis- 
 tant country, — who with generous impulse have 
 offered him the cigarette and drawn him into conver- 
 sation ; who have broken the course of his gloomy 
 thoughts and have calmed and cheered him, — I 
 thank you, caballeros of happy memory, whoever 
 
VALLADOLID. 149 
 
 you may be, Carlists or Alphonsists or Amadeists or 
 Liberals — from the bottom of my heart I thank you 
 in the name of all Italians who are travelling or who 
 will travel in your dear country ; and I swear on 
 the eternal volume of Miguel Cervantes that when- 
 ever I hear your highly-civilized European brothers 
 condemning your fierce nature and savage manners, 
 I will rise in your defence with the fire of an Anda- 
 lusian and the constancy of a Catalan so long as I 
 have the strength to cry, " Long live hospitality !" 
 A few hours later I found myself in the carriage 
 of a train bound for Madrid ; the starting whistle 
 was still sounding when I clapped my hand to my 
 forehead. Alas ! it was too late ! I had been to Val- 
 ladolid and had forgotten to visit the room where 
 Christopher Columbus died ! 
 
MADRID. 
 
MADRID. 
 
 It was day when one of my companions shouted 
 " Caballero !" in my ear. — " Are we at Madrid !" I 
 asked as I awoke. — " Not yet," was the answer, " but 
 look !" I turned toward the country and saw, half a 
 mile away on the side of a high mountain, the con- 
 vent of the Escurial illuminated by the first rays of 
 the sun. " The grandest of the grand things on the 
 earth " — as it has been called by an illustrious trav- 
 eller — did not seem to me at first sight that immense 
 edifice which the Spaniards consider " the eighth 
 wonder of the world." However, I uttered my 
 '' Oh !" like the other travellers who then saw it for 
 the first time, reserving all my admiration for the 
 day when I should see it near at hand. From the 
 Escurial to Madrid the railroad crosses a barren 
 plain which reminds one of the country around 
 Rome. 
 
 " Have you never seen Madrid V asked my neigh- 
 bor. I replied that I had not. 
 
 " Impossible !" exclaimed the good Spaniard, turn- 
 ing to look at me with a air of curiosity, as though 
 he was saying to himself, " Let us see what sort of 
 
 153 
 
154 MADBID. 
 
 a creature a man is who never saw Madrid." Then 
 he began to enumerate the grand things that I should 
 see : " What walks ! what caf^s ! what theatres ! 
 what women ! If one has a hundred thousand dol- 
 lars to spend, there is nothing better than Madrid ; 
 it is a great monster that lives on fortunes. If I 
 were in your place, I should take pleasure in thrust- 
 ing my fortune also down its throat." 
 
 I felt for my flabby pocket-book and murmured, 
 " Poor monster !" 
 
 '' Here we are !" cried the Spaniard. " Look !" 
 
 I put my head out of the window. 
 
 " That is the royal palace." 
 
 I saw an immense pile on an eminence, but shut 
 my eyes quickly, for the sun was shining in my face. 
 Everybody got out, and then commenced the cus- 
 tomary bustling 
 
 " Of cloaks and shawls and other rags" 
 
 which almost always shuts out the first view of the 
 city. The train stopped, and I alighted to find my- 
 self in a square full of coupes surrounded by a clam- 
 orous crowd. A hundred hands are extended for my 
 valise, a hundred mouths shout in my ear ; it is a 
 devilish pack of porters, cabbies, cicerones, hotel- 
 clerks, guards, and boys. I elbow my way through 
 them, jump on an omnibus full of people, and am off. 
 We go down an avenue, cross a great square, turn 
 
1Roi?al palace, /IDa&rit>. 
 
MADRID. 155 
 
 into a long straight street, and arrive at the Puerta 
 del Sol. 
 
 J-t IS a stupendous sight ! A semicircular square 
 01 vast extent, surrounded by high buildings, at the 
 mouth of ten great streets like so many torrents, 
 from every one of which pours a continuous roaring 
 flood of people and of vehicles. Everything one 
 sees is in proportion to the immensity of the place : 
 sidewalks as wide as streets, caf^s as wide as squares, 
 a fountain the size of a lake — on every side a dense, 
 rapidly-shifting crowd, a discordant roar, a subtle 
 air of cheerfulness and gaiety in the faces, the ges- 
 tures, and the colors, which makes one feel that 
 neither the people nor the city is entirely strange, 
 and gives one an insane desire to join in the uproar, 
 to salute everybody, to run here and there, as if one 
 were revisiting those sights and people rather than 
 seeing them for the first time. I enter a hotel, and 
 leave it immediately, and begin to wander at random 
 through the city. There are no grand palaces, no 
 ancient monuments of art, but wde, clean, cheerful 
 streets, flanked by houses painted in lively colors, 
 and interrupted by open squares of a thousand dif- 
 ferent forms, as though they have been dropped here 
 and there by chance, and in every square there is a 
 warden a fountain, and a statuette. Some streets 
 hill in such a manner that on turning into 
 them one sees the sky at the end, and one imagines 
 that they open into the country, but when one has 
 
15G MADRID. 
 
 reached the top another long street stretches off as 
 far as one can see. 
 
 Every little while there are crossways where five, 
 six, and even eight streets meet, and here there is a 
 continuous stream of carriages and people passing 
 each other. The walls are covered for long spaces 
 with show-bills and placards ; in the shops there is 
 an incessant coming and going ; the caf^s are 
 crowded ; everywhere there is the rush of a great 
 city. Alcala (Castle) Street, so wide that it loots 
 like a rectangular square, cuts Madrid in half from 
 the Puerta del Sol eastward, and ends in a vast park 
 which extends all along one side of the city and 
 contains gardens, promenades, open squares, theatres, 
 bull-rings, triumphal arches, museums, palaces, and 
 fountains. 
 
 I jumped into a carriage, saying to the driver, 
 " Where you will." Past the statue of Murillo, up 
 Alcala Street, down the Street of the Turk, where 
 Greneral Prim was assassinated; across the square 
 of the Cortes, wheve stands the statue of Miguel 
 Cervantes ; through the Plaza Mayor, where blazed 
 the fires lighted by the Inquisition ; and then back 
 again, past the house of Lope de Vega, out into the 
 vast Plaza del Oriente, which stretches in front of 
 the royal palace, where towers the equestrian statue 
 of Philip IV. in the midst of an oval garden sur- 
 rounded by forty colossal statues — climbing up 
 toward the centre of the city, across other wide 
 
MADRID. 157 
 
 streets and cheerful squares, and crossways thronged 
 with people, until finally I return to the hotel, 
 declaring that Madrid is rich, grand, gay, populous, 
 and attractive, and that I am going to see it all, and 
 stay and enjoy it so long as my account-book and 
 the mildness of the season will permit. 
 
 In the course of a few days a good friend found 
 me a casa de huespedes, a guest-house, and I in- 
 stalled myself there. These guest-houses are noth- 
 ing else than the homes of families who give board 
 and lodging to students, artists, and foreigners at 
 prices which vary, understand, according to the 
 manner in which you choose to eat and sleep, but 
 which are always lower than the hotel rates, with 
 the inestimable advantage of breathing the air of 
 home-life, forming friendships, and being treated as 
 a member of the family rather than as a boarder. 
 The mistress of the house was a pleasant lady on the 
 hither side of fifty, the widow of a painter who had 
 studied at Rome, Florence, and Naples, and who 
 had all his life cherished a grateful and afi'ectionate 
 remembrance of Italy. She too, as was natural, 
 displayed a very lively sympathy toward our 
 country, and manifested it by joining me every day 
 at dinner, when she would recount the life, death, 
 and miraculous doings of all her relatives and friends, 
 as though I was the only confidant she had in 
 IVIadrid. I met few Spaniards who spoke so rapidly, 
 so frankly, and with such an easy flow of phrases, 
 
158 MADRID. 
 
 bon-mots, similes, proverbs, and expressions. At 
 first this disconcerted me, for I understood little and 
 was every moment obliged to ask her to repeat ; nor 
 was I always able to make myself understood. In 
 a word, it was impressed upon me that in studying 
 the language of the books I had wasted a great deal 
 of time in storing my memory wjth words and 
 phrases which are seldom used in ordinary conver- 
 sation, while, on the other hand, I had neglected 
 very many other forms of speech which are indis- 
 pensable. I was obliged, therefore, to begin again, 
 to rally my forces, to make notes, and, above all, 
 to keep my ear always on the qui vive, so that I 
 might profit as much as possible by the speech of 
 the people. And I was convinced of this fact : 
 that one may live for ten, thirty, or forty years in 
 a foreign city, but unless one makes an effort at 
 once, unless one devotes considerable time to study, 
 unless one is always standing, as Giusti said, " with 
 one's eyes wide open," one will either never learn to 
 speak the language or will speak it incorrectly. At 
 Madrid I was acquainted with some old Italians who 
 had lived in Spain from their earliest youth, and yet 
 they spoke wretched Spanish. Indeed, it is not an 
 easy language, even for us Italians, or, to speak 
 more clearly, it presents the great difficulty of easy 
 languages, for it is not allowable to speak them 
 poorly, and yet by so doing one can make one's self 
 understood. The Italian who wishes to speak 
 
MADRID. 159 
 
 Spanish in conversation with cultured people, where 
 every one would understand him if he spoke French, 
 must justify his audacity by speaking with facility 
 and grace. 
 
 Now, the Spanish language, precisely because it 
 is more closely allied to the Italian than to the 
 French, is also more difficult to speak rapidly, and, 
 for the same reason, more difficult to speak by ear, 
 without making awkward mistakes, because, for ex- 
 ample, it is much easier to say propre, mortuaire, 
 delice (the French words) without danger of letting 
 slip the Italian propria, mortuairo, delisia, than it is 
 to say the Spanish propio, mortuorio, delicia. One 
 falls back into Italian unconsciously — inverts the 
 syntax every moment, and always has one's own lan- 
 guage in one's ear or on one's tongue, so that one 
 keeps stammering, confusing words, and betraying 
 one's self. 
 
 Neither is the pronimciation of Spanish less dif- 
 ficult than that of French. The Moorish, although 
 easy to pronounce, is very difficult when two fs oc- 
 cur in a word or several of them in a clause. The 
 y, which is pronounced as stutterers pronounce s, 
 can only be acquired by patient effort, for it is a 
 sound which at first proves very unpleasant, and 
 many who are familiar with the sound do not like to 
 hear it. But if there is a city in Europe where one 
 is able to acquire the language of a country 
 thoroughly, that city is Madrid, and the same thing 
 
160 MADRID. 
 
 may be said of Toledo, Valladolid, and Burgos. The 
 people speak as the scholars write : the differences 
 in the pronunciation of the cultured classes and the 
 people of the town are very slight. 
 
 And, even leaving these four cities out of the 
 question, the Spanish language is much more used 
 and much more common, and consequently much 
 more vigorous and forcible, in the daily press, on the 
 stage, and in the popular literature than is the case 
 with the Italian language. There are in Spain the 
 Valencian, the Catalan, the Galician, and the Mur- 
 cian dialects and the very ancient language of the 
 Basque provinces. But Spanish is spoken in the 
 two Castiles, in Arragon, in Estremadura, and in 
 Andalusia ; that is, in the five great provinces. The 
 squib enjoyed at Saragossa is enjoyed at Seville also f 
 the popular phrase which makes a hit in the theatres 
 of Salamanca produces the same effect in the theatres 
 of Granada. They say that the Spanish of to-day 
 is not at all the language of Cervantes, Quevedo, 
 and Lope de Vega ; that the French have corrupted 
 it ; that if Charles V. should come to life again, he 
 would no longer call it " the language to speak with 
 God ;" and that Sancho Panza would not be under- 
 stood and enjoyed. Alas ! he who has frequented 
 the little cook-shops and the low-rates theatre of the 
 suburbs unwillingly acquiesces in this sentence. 
 
 To pass from the tongue to the palate, one needs 
 a little good-will to accustom one's self to certain 
 
MADRID. 161 
 
 and poor soups of the Spanish 
 cuisine, but I accustomed myself to them. The 
 French, who are as fussy in the matter of eating as 
 spoiled children, invoke the wrath of Heaven upon 
 it. Dumas says that in Spain he has suffered from 
 hunger. In a book on Spain which was lately before 
 my eyes it was stated that the Spanish live only on 
 honey, fungi, eggs, and snails. But this is all stuff 
 and nonsense. The same might be said of our cook- 
 ing. I have known many Spaniards whose stomachs 
 were turned by the sight of maccaroni and gravy. 
 They make most too many potpies, they do not know 
 how to use fat, and they season a little too highly, 
 but hardly enough to take away Dumas's appetite, 
 and, among other things, they are master-hands at 
 sweets. 
 
 Then their puchcro, the national dish, eaten every 
 day by everybody in every place — I speak the 
 truth, I ate it like an out-and-out glutten, — thepiichero 
 is to the culinary art wliat the anthology is to litera- 
 ture, a little of the best of everything. A good piece 
 of boiled beef forms the nucleus of the dish, and 
 around this a wing of a fowl, a slice of chorizo (sau- 
 sage), lard, herbs, and bacon, and, above and below 
 and in all the interstices, garlanzos. Epicures pro- 
 nounce the name of garhanzos with reverence. They 
 are a sort of chick-pea, very large, very tender, and 
 very succulent — peas, an extravagant man might 
 sav, that have fallen down from some world where a 
 
 Vol. I.— 11 
 
162 MADRID. 
 
 vegetation equal to ours is made fruitful by a stronger 
 Sim. Such is the ordinary puchero. But every fam- 
 ily modifies it according to its purse. The poor 
 are content with meat and garhanzos. The rich add 
 a hundred exquisite tidbits. After all, it is a dinner 
 rather than a dish, and very many eat nothing else. 
 
 A good puchero and a bottle of Val de Penas are 
 enough to satisfy any one. I say nothing of the 
 oranges, the Malaga grapes, asparagus, artichokes, 
 and every sort of vegetable and fruit, which, as every 
 one knows, are very fine and good in Spain. Never- 
 theless, the Spanish are small eaters, and because the 
 pepper and highly-seasoned sauces and salt meats 
 predominate in their cuisine, because they eat chorizos 
 (sausages), which, as they say, levantan las piedras, 
 or rather burn their intestines, they drink very little 
 wine. After the fruit, instead of beginning to sip a 
 good bottle, they usually take a cup of coffee and milk, 
 and they rarely drink wine in the morning. At the 
 table d'hote in the hotels I have never seen a Span- 
 iard empty a bottle, while I, who emptied mine, was 
 stared at in astonishment, as though I was a scandal- 
 ous beast. One rarely meets a drunken man in a 
 Spanish city, even on a holiday, and on this account, 
 when one considers their hot blood and the very free 
 use they make of knives and daggers, there occur 
 fewer fights which lead to death or bloodshed than 
 is genei-ally believed outside of Spain. 
 
 As I had found board and lodging, there remained 
 
MADRID. 163 
 
 nothing else for me to do but wander through the 
 city with the Guidebook in my pocket and a tres- 
 cuartos cigar in my mouth — " an occupation easy 
 and straightforward." 
 
 During the first days I could not keep away frotn 
 the plaza of the Puerta del Sol. I would stay there 
 hour after hour, and was so amused by it that I could 
 willingly have spent days there. The square is 
 worthy of its fame, not so much for its size and 
 beauty as for the people, the life, the variety of 
 scene which it presents at every hour of the day. 
 It is not a square like other squares : it is at once 
 a great reception-hall, a promenade, a theatre, an 
 academy, a garden, a parade-ground, and a bazaar. 
 From the peep of day until after midnight it con- 
 tains one stationary crowd, and another crowd that 
 comes and goes through the ten great streets which 
 meet there, and all the while a procession and inter- 
 mingling of carriages which make one's head whirl. 
 Business-men congregate there ; there gather the 
 demagogues who have nothing to do, unemployed 
 clerks, old pensioners, and young dandies ; there 
 they talk business and politics, make love, prom- 
 enade, read the papers, dun their debtors, search 
 for their friends, hatch plots against the ministry, 
 coin the false reports which make the round of 
 Spain, and weave the scandalous chronicle of the 
 city. 
 
 On the sidewalks, which are wide enough to hold 
 
164 MADRID. 
 
 four carriages abreast, one is obliged to force one's 
 way. In a space no larger than a flagstone you see 
 a civil guard, a matchseller, a broker, a beggar, and 
 a soldier, all in a bunch. Troops of scholars pass — 
 servants, generals, ministers, peasants, toreros, ahd 
 gentlemen. Ruined spendthrifts ask for alms in a 
 whisper, so as not to be discovered ; lewd wretches 
 look at you with questioning eyes ; women lightly 
 nudge you on the elbow ; on every side there are 
 hats in the air, smiles, shaking of hands, cheery 
 greetings, cries of " Largo !" from the laden por- 
 ters and from the hawkers with their wares hanging 
 about their necks ; the shouts of newsboys, the shrill 
 cry of the water-carrier, the tooting of the coach- 
 horns, the cracking of whips, the clank of swords, 
 the tinkling of guitars, and the songs of blind beg- 
 gars. There regiments pass with bands of music; 
 the king passes ; the square is sprinkled with great 
 jets of water, which cross in the air ; men go by 
 carrying placards to advertise the shows ; swarms 
 of gamins with their arms full of extra editions ; then 
 an army of government clerks ; the bands of music 
 pass again ; lights appear in the shops ; the crowd 
 grows denser ; the blows on the elbow become more 
 frequent ; the voices grow louder ; the uproar and 
 commotion increase. It is not the activity of a busy 
 people : it is the vivacity of a high-spirited race ; it 
 is a Carnival gaiety, an idleness that cannot rest 
 and overflows in a feverish desire for pleasure, which 
 
MADRID. 165 
 
 seizes one and holds him fast or drives him around 
 like a reel and forbids him to leave the square — a 
 curiosity which never wearies, a happy desire to be 
 amused, to think of nothing, to talk small talk, to 
 stroll about and laugh. Such is the famous plaza of 
 the Puerta del Sol. 
 
 An hour spent there is enough to make one famil- 
 iar with the people of Madiid in their various as- 
 pects. The common people dress like those of our 
 great cities ; the upper classes, when they lay aside 
 the cloak which is worn in winter, are attired in the 
 Parisian mode ; and from the duke to the clerk, 
 from the stripling to the tottering old man, they are 
 all neat and tastefully dressed, bepowdered and per- 
 fumed, as though they had just stepped out of a 
 toilet-room. In this respect they resemble the Nea- 
 politans with their fine heads of black hair, their 
 carefully-trimmed beards, and their feminine hands 
 and feet. One rarely sees a low hat : they all wear 
 high hats. Then there are canes, chains, ornaments, 
 pins and ribbons in their buttonholes by the thou- 
 sand. 
 
 Except on certain holidays the ladies also dress 
 like the f'rench. The women of the middle classes 
 still wear the mantilla, but the ancient satin shoes 
 the peineta, the bright colors — the national costume 
 in a word — have disappeared. They are, however 
 the same little women, so praised for their large eyes 
 their tiny hands, and small feet, with jet-black hair. 
 
166 MADRID. 
 
 a skin that is rather fair than dark, well formed, of 
 good carriage, active, and vivacious. 
 
 In order to view the fair sex of Madrid one should 
 go to the promenade of the Prado, which is to Ma- 
 drid what the Cascine are to Florence. 
 
 The Prado, to be precise, is a very wide avenue, 
 of no great length, flanked by smaller avenues which 
 run toward the eastern part of the city. It lies be- 
 side the famous gardens of Buen Betiro, and is closed 
 at both ends by two enormous stone vases, the one 
 surmounted by a colossal Cybele sitting on a shell 
 fvnd drawn by sea-horses ; the other, by a Neptune 
 of equal size, both of them crowned with copious 
 fountains, whose waters interlace and fall gracefully 
 with a pleasant murmur. 
 
 This great avenue, lined along the sides with thou- 
 sands of chairs and hundreds of benches, where men 
 sell water and oranges, is the most frequented part 
 of the Prado, and is called the Salon del Prado. But 
 the walk extends beyond the fountain of Neptune : 
 there are other avenues, other fountains, and other 
 statues, and one may walk among the trees and 
 fountains as far as Our Lady of Atocha, the famous 
 church loaded with gifts by Isabella II. after the out- 
 rage of February 2, 1852, and where King Amadeus 
 went to visit the body of General Prim. From that 
 point there is an extended view of a vast tract of the 
 desert plain around Madrid and of the snowy sum- 
 mits of the Guadarrama. But the Prado is the most 
 
^fountain of Cybele, /iDa&r(&. 
 
MADRID. 167 
 
 famous, not the most beautiful nor the largest, prom- 
 enade in the city. Beyond the Salon, toward the 
 fountain of Cybele, the promenade of Becoletos ex- 
 tends for almost two miles, flanked on the right by 
 the large, cheerful town of Salamanca, the home of 
 the rich, of the deputies, and the poets, and on the 
 left by a long chain of small palaces, villas, theatres, 
 and new buildings painted in vivid colors. It is not 
 a single promenade : there are ten avenues, one be- 
 side another, and each more beautiful than the last — 
 streets for driving, streets for riding, walks for per- 
 sons who like a crowd, and walks for those who pre- 
 fer to be alone, divided from each other by endless 
 hedges of myrtle, bordered and broken by gardens 
 and groves, in which appear statues and fountains, 
 and little footpaths which cross each other. On fiSte- 
 days one may there enjoy a charming spectacle. 
 From one end of the avenues to the other pass two 
 processions of people, carriages, and horsemen, 
 going in opposite directions. 
 
 In the Prado one can scarcely walk. The gardens 
 are crowded by thousands of boys ; the theatres are 
 full of music ; every one hears the murmur of foun- 
 tains the swish of skirts, the shouting of children, 
 and the cantering of horses. It is not only the 
 movement and the gaiety of a promenade : it is the 
 pomp the uproar, the confusion, the feverish delight 
 
 f a f§te. The city is deserted during those hours. 
 
 At dusk the whole of that immense crowd turns back 
 
168 MADRID. 
 
 into the great Alcala Street, and tlien from the foun- 
 tain of Cybele, as far as the Puerta del Sol, one 
 sees only a sea of heads, furrowed by a line of car- 
 riages as far as the eyes can reach. 
 
 For promenades — and, in fact, for theatres and 
 spectacular exhibitions — Madrid is, without doubt, 
 one of the first cities of the world. Besides the 
 great opera-house, which is very large and rich, 
 besides the theatre for comedy, the theatre of the 
 Zarzuela, the Madrid circus — all of which are first 
 class in point of size, appointments, and attendance 
 — there is a circle of smaller theatres for dramatic 
 companies, for equestrian exhibitions, musical organ- 
 izations, and vaudevilles — parlor theatres, theatres 
 with boxes and galleries, theatres, big and little, 
 for high and lo-vy, to suit all purses and all tastes, 
 and for all hours of the night ; and there is not one 
 among so many that is not crowded at every per- 
 formance. 
 
 Then there are the cock-pits, the bull-rings, the 
 popular balls, and the games. Some days there are 
 as many as twenty different entertainments, com- 
 mencing at noon and continuing almost to dawn. 
 The opera, of which the Spanish are passionately 
 fond, is always magnificent, not only at the time of 
 the Carnival, but at all seasons. While I was at 
 Madrid, Fricci sang at the Zarzuela and Stagno at 
 the circus ; both were supported by very able 
 
MADRID. 169 
 
 artists, with excellent orchestra and splendid stage- 
 setting. 
 
 The most celebrated singers in the world make an 
 effort to sing in the capital of Spain, for artists are 
 there sought after and feted. The passion for 
 music is the only one which is able to hold its own 
 against the passion for buU-fights. Comedy is in 
 great vogue also. L'Hatzembuch, Breton de los 
 Herreros, Tamayo, Ventura, D'Ayala, Gutierrez, 
 and a great many other dramatic writers, some 
 living and some dead, who are known even beyond 
 Spain, have enriched the modern stage by a large 
 number of comedies, which, although they do not 
 bear that strong national stamp which has immor- 
 talized the dramatic works of the great century of 
 Spanish literature, are nevertheless full of life, wit, 
 and cleverness, without the unwholesome tendency 
 of the French comedy. But, although they per- 
 form modern comedies, they are not unmindful of 
 the old. On the anniversaries of Lope de Vega, 
 Calderon, Morito, Tirso de Molina, Alarcon, Fran- 
 cesco de Rojas, and the other great lights of the 
 Spanish theatre their masterpieces are performed 
 with solemn pomp. The actors, however, do not 
 seem able to satisfy the authors, and show the defects 
 of our own actors — too much action, ranting, and ex- 
 cessive sobbing. Many even prefer our actors, because 
 they find in them a greater variety of cadence and 
 inflection. Besides tragedy and comedy, they per- 
 
170 MADRID. 
 
 form a dramatic composition that is thoroughly- 
 Spanish — the zainete, of which Ramon de la Cruz 
 was the master. It is a sort of farce which in great 
 part consists of tableaux of Andalusian costumes, 
 with national and popular characters, and actors who 
 imitate the dress, speech, and customs of the period 
 in an admirable manner. The comedies are all 
 published, and are eagerly read even by the lowest 
 classes, and the names of the authors are very 
 popular. Dramatic literature, in a word, remains 
 to-day, as it was in former times, the richest and 
 most general. 
 
 There is also a great passion for the sarsuela, 
 which is usually represented in the theatre to which 
 it has given the name, and is a composition midway 
 between comedy and melodrama, between opera and 
 vaudeville, with an easy interchange of prose and 
 verse, of recitation and singing, of the serious and 
 burlesque — a composition exclusively Spanish and 
 very delightful. In some theatres they perform 
 political comedies, a mixture of song and prose after 
 the style of Scalvini's " reviews ;" satirical farces to 
 take off the questions of the day ; a sort of sacred 
 tableaux, with scenes from the Passion of Our 
 Lord, during Holy Week ; and balls and dances and 
 pantomimes of every sort. 
 
 In the small theatres they give three or four per- 
 formances a night, one after the other, and new 
 spectators come in for each performance. At the 
 
MADRID. 171 
 
 famous Capellanes Theatre every night in the year 
 they dance a can-can, scandalous beyond the wildest 
 imagination, and there crowd the dissolute young 
 men, the fast women, and the old libertines with 
 wrinkled noses, armed with monocles, spectacles, 
 opera-glasses, and every sort of optical instrument 
 which helps to bring nearer the forms advertised 
 on the stage, as Aleardi says. 
 
 After the theatres are closed one finds all the 
 cafes crowded, the city illuminated, the streets filled 
 with countless carriages, just as in the early evening. 
 One feels a little sad on coming out of a theatre in 
 a foreign country, there are so many beautiful 
 creatures, and not one of them deigns to bestow so 
 much as a glance upon one. But an Italian finds 
 one comfort in Madrid. The actors almost always 
 sing Italian operas, and they sing in Italian, and so, 
 as you return to your lodging, you hear them hum- 
 ming in the words of your own language the airs 
 which you have known from infancy. You hear a 
 palpito here, a Jiero genitor there, a tremenda vendetta 
 yonder ; and these words are like the greetings of a 
 friendly people. But to reach your house what a 
 thick hedge of petticoats you must climb over ! 
 The palm is given to Paris, and doubtless she 
 deserves it, but Madrid is not to be laughed at. 
 What boldness ! what words of fire ! what imperious 
 provocations ! Finally, you arrive before your house 
 to find that you have no door-key. 
 
172 MADRID. 
 
 " Do not be disturbed," says the first citizen you 
 meet. " Do you see that lantern at the foot of the 
 street ? The man who carries it is a sereno, and the 
 serenos have keys for all the houses." Then you cry 
 " Sereno !" at the top of your voice, and the lantern 
 approaches, and a man with an enormous bunch of 
 keys in his hands gives you a searching glance, 
 opens the door, lights you to the second story, and 
 bids you good-night. So it is every night ; for a 
 franc a month you escape the annoyance of carrying 
 the door-key in your pocket. The sereno is a public 
 officer, and there is one in every street, and each of 
 them has a whistle. If the house takes fire or 
 thieves force your lock, you have only to throw up 
 a window and cry, " Sereno ! help !" The sereno 
 who is in the street sounds his whistle, the serenos 
 of the neighboring streets whistle, and in a few mo- 
 ments all the serenos in the district run to your 
 assistance. At whatever hour of the night you 
 awake you hear the voice of the sereno announcing 
 the time, or if it is fine weather, or if it is raining 
 or going to rain. How many things he knows ! and 
 how many he never tells ! this nocturnal sentinel. 
 How many whispered farewells he hears from the 
 lips of lovers ! How many little letters flutter from 
 the windows before his eyes ! how many little keys 
 fall on the pavement ! and how many hands wave 
 mysteriously in the air ! Muffled lovers glide through 
 narrow doorways, and lighted windows are suddenly 
 
MADEID. 173 
 
 darkened, and black shadows vanish along the walls 
 at the first streaks of dawn. 
 
 I have Spoken onlj of the theatres ; at Madrid 
 there is a concert, one may safely say, every day. 
 There are concerts in the theatres, concerts in the 
 academy halls, concerts in the streets, and then a 
 company of strolling musicians who deafen you at 
 all hours of the day. After all this one has a right 
 to ask why it is that a people so infatuated with mu- 
 sic that it seems as necessary, so to speak, as the air 
 they breathe, have never produced any great master 
 of the art. The Spanish will not be comforted. 
 
 One could cover many pages if he were to de- 
 scribe the fine suburbs of Madrid, the gates, the 
 parks beyond the city, the squares, the historic 
 streets ; and, if nothing were wUlingly to be omitted, 
 the splendid cafes, the "Imperial" in the square of 
 the Puerto del Sol and the Fornos in Alcala Street, 
 two vast saloons, in which, if the tables were re- 
 moved, a company of dragoons could be drilled, and 
 the innumerable other caf^s which one finds at every 
 step, where two hundred dancers could be easily ac- 
 commodated ; the magnificent shops which occupy 
 the entire ground-floor of vast buildings, and among 
 them the great Havana tobacco warehouse (a meet- 
 ing-place for gentlemen), filled with cigars, little and 
 big, round, flat, pointed, and twisted, winding like 
 snakes, bent like bows, hook-shaped, of every shape, 
 for every taste, and at every price, enough to con- 
 
174 MADRID. 
 
 tent the maddest fancy of a smoker and to stupefy 
 the entire population of a city ; spacious markets ; 
 the grand royal palace, in which the Quirinal and 
 the Pitti Palace might hide without fear of dis- 
 covery ; the great street Atocha, which crosses the 
 city ; the immense garden of Buen Retire, with its 
 great lake, with its hills crowned with Moorish 
 domes, and its thousands of rare birds. . . . But, 
 worthy of attention above everything else, the mu- 
 seums of armor and painting, and the Naval Museum, 
 to each of which one might easily dedicate a volume. 
 The armory of Madrid is one of the most beauti- 
 ful in the world. As you enter the vast hall your 
 heart gives a leap, your blood tingles, and you stand 
 still on the threshold like one demented. A com- 
 plete army of cavalry in full armor, with drawn 
 swords and lances in rest, gleaming and terrible, 
 rushes toward you like a legion of spectres. It is 
 an army of emperors, kings, and dukes, clad in the 
 most splendid armor that has ever left the hands of 
 man, upon which pours a flood of light from eighteen 
 enormous windows, producing a marvellous play and 
 flashing of light, dancing sunbeams, and dazzling 
 colors. The walls are covered with cuirasses, swords, 
 halberds, jousting-spears, huge blunderbusses, and 
 enormous lances which reach from the floor to the 
 ceiling. Banners of all the armies of the world 
 hang from the ceiling — trophies of Lepanto, of San 
 Quintino, of the War of Independence, of the wars 
 
MADRID. 175 
 
 of Africa, Cuba, and Mexico. On every side there 
 is a profusion of glorious standards, of illustrious 
 arms, of marvellous works of art, of eiEgies, em- 
 blems, and immortal names. 
 
 One does not know what first to admire. One 
 runs first here, then there, looking at everything 
 and seeing nothing, and becomes tired before one 
 has really begun. In the middle of the hall is the 
 equestrian armor, the cavaliers and their horses, 
 drawn up in line by threes and by twos, and all 
 wheeling just like a squadron on the march. Among 
 the arms one at first sight discovers those of Philip 
 II., of Charles V., Philibert Emmanuel, and Chris- 
 topher Columbus. Here and there, on pedestals, one 
 sees helmets, casques, morions, gorgets, and shields 
 which belonged to kings of Arragon, Castile, and 
 Navarre, adorned with very fine reliefs in silver 
 representing battles, mythological subjects, symbolic 
 figures, trophies, grotesques, and garlands : some of 
 these are works of the greatest power, the workman- 
 ship of the most famous artists of Europe ; others 
 are uncouth in form, with excessive ornament, with 
 crests, visors, and colossal top-pieces. Then there 
 are the little helmets and cuirasses of princes, 
 swords and shields the gifts of popes and monarchs. 
 In the midst of the knightly armor one sees statues 
 dressed in the fantastic costumes of the American 
 Indians, of Africans, and of Chinese, with feathers 
 and bells, bows and quivers ; then, too, horrible war- 
 
1 76 MADKID. 
 
 masks and the dresses of mandarins of gold woven 
 with silk. Along the walls is other armor — the 
 arms of the marquis de Pescara, of the poet Gar- 
 cilasso de la Vega, of the marquis de Santa Cruz, the 
 gigantic armor of John Frederick, the magnanimous 
 duke of Saxony, and scattered here and there are 
 Arabian, Persian, and Moorish banners falling to> 
 decay. 
 
 In the glass cases there is a collection of swords 
 which make your blood run cold when you hear the 
 names of those who wielded them — the sword of the 
 prince de Conde, the sword of Isabella the Catholic, 
 the sword of Philip II., the sword of Hernando 
 Cortez, of the count-duke d'Olivares, of John of 
 Austria, of Gonzalez of Cordova, of Pizarro ; the 
 sword of the Cid, and, a little farther along, the 
 helmet of King Boabdil of Granada, the shield of 
 Francis I., and the camp-chair of Charles V. In a 
 corner of the hall are arranged the trophies of the 
 Ottoman armies — helmets studded with gems, spurs, 
 gilded stirrups, the collars of slaves, daggers, 
 scimitars in velvet sheaths, with rings of gold, 
 embroidered and inlaid with pearl ; the spoils of 
 Ali Pacha, who was slain on the flag-ship at the 
 battle of Lepanto, his caftan brocaded with gold and 
 silver, his girdle, sandals, and shields, the spoils of 
 his sons, and the banners stripped from the galleys. 
 On another side are votive crowns, crosses, and the 
 necklaces of Gothic princes. In another room 
 
MADRID. 177 
 
 are articles taken from the Indians of Mariveles, 
 the Moors of Cagyan and Mindanao, and the 
 savages of the most remote islands of Oceanica ; 
 collars of snail-shells, stone pipes, wooden idols, reed 
 flutes ; ornaments made of the claws of insects ; 
 slaves' garments made of palm-leaves with characters 
 scribbled on them to serve as fetiches ; poisoned 
 arrows and axes of the executioners. And then, 
 wherever one turns, there are royal saddles, coats of 
 mail, culverins, historic drums, shoulder-belts, in- 
 scriptions, memorials and images of every time and 
 every land, fi-om the fall of the Goths to the battle 
 of Tetuan, from Mexico to China — a storehouse of 
 treasures and of masterpieces from which one goes 
 out amazed and exhausted, to return to consciousness 
 as if it were a dream, with one's memory weary and 
 confused. 
 
 If a great Italian poet shall one day wish to sing 
 the discovery of the New World, nowhere will he 
 be able to find so powerful an inspiration as in the 
 Naval Museum of Madrid, because in no other place 
 will he feel so profoundly the original air of the 
 American wilderness and the subtle presence of 
 Columbus. There is a room called the " Cabinet of 
 Discoveries :" the poet on entering this room, if he 
 really has the soul of a poet, will reverently uncover 
 his head. Wherever one's glance falls in the room 
 one sees an image which stirs his blood. One is no 
 longer in Europe nor in the century ; one is in the 
 
 Vol. I.— 12 
 
178 MADKID. 
 
 America of the fifteenth century ; one breathes that 
 air, one sees those places, and lives that life. In the 
 middle is a high trophy of the arms taken from 
 the Indians of the newly-discovered land — shields 
 covered with the skins of wild beasts, arrows of 
 cane with feathered notches, wooden swords with 
 sheaths woven of twigs, with hilts ornamented with 
 horsehair, and scalp-locks falling in long streamers ; 
 clubs, spears, enormous axes, great swords with 
 teeth like those of a saw, shapeless sceptres, gigan- 
 tic quivers, garments of monkey-skin, dirks of kings 
 and executioners, arms of the savages from Cuba, 
 Mexico, New Caledonia, the Carolinas, and the most 
 distant islands of the Pacific — black, uncouth, and 
 horrible, suggesting to the imagination confused 
 visions of terrible struggles in the mysterious 
 shadows of the virgin forest, in an endless labyrinth 
 of unknown trees. Among the spoils of the savage 
 world are pictures and memorials of the Conquerors : 
 here the portrait of Columbus, there that of Pizarro, 
 farther on that of Hernando Cortez ; on one of the 
 walls the map of America by Juan de la Cosa, 
 drawn during the second voyage of the Genoese 
 upon an ample canvas dotted with figures, colors, 
 and signs which were intended to direct expeditions 
 into the intei'ior of the country. Near the map is 
 a bit of the tree under which the conqueror of 
 Mexico lay on that famous " night of sorrow " after 
 he had opened a passage through the immense army 
 
MADEID. 179 
 
 that awaited his coming in the valley of Otumba ; 
 also a vase turned from the trunk of the tree near 
 which the celebrated Captain Cook died ; models of 
 the canoes, boats, and rafts used by the natives ; a 
 circle of portraits of illustrious navigators, in the 
 middle of which is a large painting of the three 
 ships of Christopher Columbus, the Nina, the Pinta, 
 and the Santa Maria, at the moment when America 
 was discovered, with all the sailors standing on the 
 decks waving their arms and cheering lustily, greet- 
 ing the new land and giving thanks to God. There 
 is no word which expresses the emotion which one 
 feels at the sight of that spectacle, no tear worth 
 that which then trembles on the eyelash, no soul 
 that does not at that moment feel itself ennobled. 
 The other rooms, of which there are ten, are also 
 full of precious objects. In the room next to the 
 Cabinet of Discoveries there are collected the relics 
 of the battle of Trafalgar — the painting of the 
 Holy Trinity which was in the cabin of the " Royal 
 Trinidad," and which was rescued by the English a 
 few minutes before the ship went to the bottom ; the 
 hat and sword of Frederick de Gravina, the admiral 
 of the Spanish fleet, who was killed that day ; a 
 large model of the Santa Anna, one of the few ships 
 that escaped from the battle ; banners and portraits 
 of admirals, and paintings which depict episodes of 
 that tremendous struggle. And besides the reliCs 
 of Trafalgar there are many other things which 
 
180 MADRID. 
 
 affect the mind no less powerfully, as a chalice of 
 wood from the tree called ceiha, in whose shade was 
 celebrated the first mass at Havana, on the 19th of 
 March, 1519; Captain Cook's cane; idols of the 
 savages; flint chisels with which the Indians of 
 Porto Eico fashioned their idols before the discovery 
 of the island. And beyond this there is another 
 great room where, on entering, one finds one's self 
 in the midst of a fleet of galleys, caravels, feluccas, 
 brigantines, sloops, and frigates — ships of all seas 
 and of all ages, armed, gayly decked, and pro- 
 visioned, so that they need only a wind to put to sea 
 and scatter to all parts of the world. In the other 
 rooms there is an exhibition of machinery, ordnance, 
 and naval armor ; paintings which represent all the 
 maritime exploits of the Spanish people ; more 
 portraits of admirals, navigators, and mariners; 
 trophies from Asia, America, Africa, and Oceanica, 
 crowded and piled one above another, so that one 
 must pass them on the run to see everything before 
 nightfall. On coming out of the Naval Museum it 
 seems as if you are just returning from a voyage 
 around the world, so much have you lived in those 
 few hours. 
 
 There is also at Madrid a large museum of 
 artillery, an immense museum of the industrial arts, 
 a fine archeological museum, a remarkable museum 
 of natural history, as well as a thousand other things 
 that are worth seeing ; but it is necessary, however, 
 
IRo^l picture (Ballet^, /IBaDri&. 
 
182 MADEID. 
 
 from head to foot. In the first room there are only- 
 some large paintings of Luca Giordano. I passed 
 them by. In the second I was no longer myself, 
 and, instead of staying to look at paintings one by 
 one, I postponed that examination and made the 
 circuit of the gallery almost on the run. In the 
 second room there are some paintings of Goya, the 
 last great Spanish painter ; in the third, which is as 
 large as a square, are masterpieces of the great 
 masters. On entering you see on one side the 
 Madonnas of Murillo, on the other the saints of Ei- 
 bera ; a little farther on, the portraits of Velasquez ; 
 in the middle of the hall, paintings of Eaphael, 
 Michelangelo, Andrea del Sarto, and at the end 
 those of Titian, Tintoretto, Paul Veronese, Correggio, 
 Domenichino, and Guido Reni. You turn back and 
 enter a great room to the right. There you see at 
 the end other paintings of Eaphael ; on the right 
 and left, more of Velasquez, Titian, and Eibera; 
 opposite the entrance, Eubens, Van Dyck, Fra 
 Angelico, and Murillo. Another is devoted to the 
 French school — Poussin, Daguet, Lorraine. In two 
 other rooms of vast size the walls are covered with 
 paintings of Breughel, Teniers, Jordaens, Eubens, 
 Durer, Schoen, Mongs, Eembrandt, and Bosch. In 
 the other rooms, of equal size, there is a medley 
 of the works of Joanes, Carbajal, Herrera, Luca 
 Giordano, Carducci, Salvator Eosa, Menendez, Cano, 
 and Eibera. 
 
MADRID. 183 
 
 You walk for an hour and have seen nothing. 
 For the first hour a war is waging : the masterpieces 
 struggle for the possession of your soul. The 
 Conception of Murillo blots out Ribera's Martyrdom 
 of Saint Bartholomew with a flood of light ; Ribera's 
 Saint James obliterates Joanes' Saint Stephen; 
 Titian's Charles V. dooms the Count-Buke de 
 Olivares of Velasquez ; Raphael's Pasmo de Sicilia 
 casts all the paintings around it in the shade ; the 
 DrunJcards of Velasquez, with their reflection of 
 bacchanalian joy, somewhat disconcert the faces of 
 the neighboring saints and princes ; Rubens over- 
 throws Van Dyck ; Paolo Veronese triumphs over 
 Tiepolo, and Goya kills Madrazo. 
 
 The conquered turn against those still weaker 
 than themselves, or in their turn win lesser victo- 
 ries over their conquerors. It is a struggle of the 
 miracles of art, in the midst of which one's restless 
 soul trembles like a flame fanned by a thousand 
 gusts of wind, and one's heart expands with a sense 
 of pride in the power of the genius of man. 
 
 When the first enthusiasm has subsided one 
 begins to admire. In the midst of an army of such 
 artists, each of whom would require a volume for 
 himself, I restrict myself to the Spaniards, and 
 among these to the painters who aroused within me 
 the most profound admiration and whose canvases I 
 remember most distinctly. The most recent of these 
 is Goya, who was born toward the end of the last 
 
184 MADRID. 
 
 century. As a painter he is the most Spanish of 
 the Spaniards, the painter of toreros, of the people, 
 of contrabandists, hags, and robbers, of the War 
 of Independence, and of that old Spanish life which 
 melted away before his very eyes. He was a fiery 
 son of Arragon, of iron temper, passionately devoted 
 to bull-fights, so that even in the closing years of 
 his life, when he was living at Bordeaux, he was 
 accustomed to come once a week to Madrid with no 
 other reason than to witness those spectacles ; and 
 he would go back like an arrow, not even so much 
 as saluting his friends. A genius rigorous, cynical, 
 imperious, awe-inspiring — who in the heat of his 
 violent inspirations would in a few moments cover 
 a wall or a canvas with figures, giving the finish- 
 ing touches with whatever came to hand — sponges, 
 brooms, or sticks ; who in sketching the face of a 
 person whom he hated would insult it ; who painted 
 a picture as he would have fought a battle ; very 
 bold in composition, an original strong colorist, the 
 creator of an inimitable style, with frightful shadows, 
 hidden lights, and resemblances distorted and yet 
 true to life. He was a great master in the expres- 
 sion of all terrible effects of anger, hate, desperation, 
 and the thirst for blood ; an athletic, turbulent, 
 indefatigable painter ; a naturalist like Velasquez, 
 fantastical like Hogarth, vigorous like Rembrandt, 
 the last ruddy spark of Spanish genius. There are 
 several of his paintings in the museum of Madrid, 
 
MADRID. 185 
 
 and among them is a very large canvas representing 
 the entire family of Charles IV. But the two 
 paintings into which he put his whole soul are the 
 French soldiers shooting the Spaniards on the second 
 of May, and the fight of the people of Madrid with 
 the Mamelukes of Napoleon, in which the figures 
 are life-size. These are paintings which make one 
 shudder. One cannot imagine anything more 
 terrible, nor is it possible to give overbearing power 
 a form more execrable, to desperation a more fear- 
 ful appearance, or to the fury of a battle an expres- 
 sion of greater ferocity. In the first of these paint- 
 ings there is a murky sky, the light of a lantern, a 
 pool of blood, a confused mass of corpses, a crowd 
 of men condemned to death, a row of French 
 soldiers in the act of firing : in the other, bleeding 
 horses, cavaliers dragged from their saddles, stabbed, 
 trampled down, and mangled. What faces ! what 
 attitudes ! One seems to hear the cries and see the 
 blood run ; the actual scene could not have been 
 more horrible. Goya must have painted these 
 pictures with flashing eyes and foaming mouth, with 
 all the fury of a demoniac. It is the final point 
 which painting can reach before it is transferred into 
 action ; beyond this point the brush is flung aside 
 and the battle begins. Anything more terrible than 
 these paintings must be slaughter ; after these colors 
 comes blood. 
 
 Of Ribera — whom we know also by the name of 
 
186 MADRID. 
 
 Spagnoletto — there are enough paintings to form a 
 museum. They consist in great part of life-size 
 figures of saints; a martyrdom of Saint Bar- 
 tholomew, full of figures ; a colossal Prometheus 
 chained to a rock. Other paintings of his are found 
 in other museums, at the Escurial, and in the 
 churches, for he was very productive and industrious, 
 like almost all the Spanish artists. After seeing a 
 painting of his, one recognizes all the others at a 
 glance, nor is it necessary to look at them with the 
 eye of a critic to do this. There are old emaciated 
 saints with shaved heads and naked, so that one can 
 count their veins ; with hollow eyes, fleshless cheeks, 
 furrowed brows, and sunken chests, through which 
 one can see their ribs ; arms and hands which are 
 only skin and bones ; bodies worn out and exhausted, 
 clothed in rags — yellow with the deathly pallor of 
 corpses, full of sores, and covered with flood ; car- 
 cases which seem to have been just dragged from 
 the tomb, bearing on their faces the impress of all 
 the spasms of pain, torture, famine, and sleeplessness ; 
 figures from the anatomist's table, from which you 
 might study all the secrets of the human organism. 
 Admirable f Yes, for boldness of design, for strength 
 of color, and for the thousand other merits which 
 won for Ribera the fame of a most powerful painter. 
 But true and great art — ah, it is not that ! In those 
 faces there is none of that celestial light, that 
 immortal ray of the soul, which reveals with sublime 
 
MADEID. 187 
 
 pathos, noble aspirations, those " subtle flashes " and 
 " limitless desires " — that light which draws the eye 
 from the sores and calls down the thought of heaven. 
 There is only the crude suifering which causes 
 repulsion and fear ; there are only weariness of life 
 and the presentiment of death ; only that fleeting 
 mortal life without a suggestion of the immortality 
 drawing near. There is not one of those saints 
 whose image one recalls with affection : one looks 
 and is chilled at heart, but the heart beats none the 
 quicker. Ribera never loved. Yet as I hurried 
 through the halls of the museum, in spite of that 
 strong repugnance which many of these paintings 
 inspired in me, I was obliged to look at them and 
 could not withdraw my eyes, so great' is the attrac- 
 tive force of truth, even if it be despicable. And 
 how true are the paintings of Ribera ! I recognized 
 those faces : I had seen them in the hospitals, in the 
 morgues, behind the doors of churches — the faces 
 of beggars, of the dying, of those condemned to 
 death, which haunt me at night even now when I 
 hurry along a deserted street, pass by a graveyard, 
 or climb a mysterious staircase. There are some of 
 them which I could not look at — a naked hermit, 
 stretched on the ground, who seemed like a skeleton 
 covered with skin ; an old saint whose shrunken skin 
 gave the appearance of a flayed body ; the Prome- 
 theus with his entrails bursting from his breast. 
 Ribera delighted in blood, mangled limbs, and 
 
188 MADRID. 
 
 butchery ; it was his delight to represent suffering ; 
 he must have believed in an Inferno more horrible 
 than that of Dante and in a God more terrible than 
 that of Philip II. In the museum of Madrid he 
 represents religious dread, old age, torture, and 
 death. 
 
 More cheerful, more various, and more splendid is 
 the great Velasquez. Almost all his masterpieces 
 are there. They form a world: everything is 
 pictured in them — war, the court, the street, the 
 tavern. Paradise. It is a gallery of dwarfs, idiots, 
 beggars, buffoons, revellers, comedians, kings, 
 warriors, martyrs, and gods, all alive and speak- 
 ing, in bold and novel attitudes, with serene brow 
 and smiling lip, full of animation and vigor; the 
 great painting of Count-Duke de Olivares on 
 horseback, the celebrated paintings of the Beggars, 
 of the Weavers, of the Revellers, the Forge of 
 Vulcan, and of the surrender of Breda — large 
 canvases full of figures which seem to be stepping 
 out of the frame, which on once seeing you re- 
 member distinctly by some trifling characteristic, a 
 gesture or a shadow on the face, as though they 
 were real persons whom you have just met ; people 
 with whom you seem to have talked, and of whom 
 you think long afterward as of acquaintances of a 
 forgotten time ; people who might inspire cheerful- 
 ness and provoke a smile of admiration, causing you to 
 regret that it is possible only to enjoy them with the 
 
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MADRID. 189 
 
 eyes and not to mingle with them and share a little 
 of their exuberant life. This is not the effect of a 
 preconceived opinion which the name of the great 
 artist has given, nor need one be a connoisseur of 
 art to experience it. The poor ignorant woman and 
 the boy stop before those pictures, clap their hands, 
 and laugh. It is Nature painted with a fidelity 
 higher than any imagination. One forgets the 
 painter, does not think of the art, nor try to discover 
 its meaning, but says, " This is true ! This is the 
 very thing ! It is the picture I had in my mind !" 
 One would say that Velasquez has not put anything 
 of himself in it, but that his hand has only drawn 
 the lines and put the colors on the canvas from a 
 likeness which reproduced the very persons whom 
 he was painting. There are more than sixty of his 
 paintings in the museum of Madrid, and if one saw 
 them only once, and hurriedly at that, not one of 
 them would be forgotten. It is with the paintings 
 of Velasquez as with the romances of Alessandro 
 Manzoni — when one has read them for the tenth 
 time they become so interwoven and confused with 
 one's personal memories that one seems to have 
 lived them. So the persons in Velasquez's paint- 
 ings melt into the crowd of friends and acquaint- 
 ances ; the neighbors and strangers of our whole 
 life present themselves and entertain us without 
 our even remembering that we have seen them on 
 the canvas. 
 
190 MADRID. 
 
 Now let us speak of Murillo in our gentlest tones. 
 Velasquez is in art an eagle ; Murillo is an angel. 
 One admires Velasquez and adores Murillo. By his 
 canvases we know liim as if he had lived among us. 
 He was handsome, good, and virtuous. Envy knew 
 not where to attack him ; around his crown of glory 
 he bore a halo of love. He was born to paint the 
 sky. Fortune gave him a mild and serene genius, 
 which bore him to God on the wings of a tranquil 
 inspiration, and yet his most admirable paintings 
 breathe an air of gentle sweetness which inspires 
 sympathy and affection even before admiration. 
 A simple nobility and elegance of outline, an 
 expression full of sprightliness and grace, an inex- 
 pressible harmony of colors, — these are the qualities 
 that impress one at first sight ; but the more one 
 looks at the paintings, the more one discovers, and 
 surprise is transformed little by little into a delicious 
 sense of pleasure. His saints have a benign aspect, 
 cheering and consoling ; his angels, whom he groups 
 with marvellous ability, make one's lips tremble 
 with a desire to kiss them ; his Virgins, clothed in 
 white, with long flowing draperies of azure, with 
 their great black eyes, their clasped hands, delicate, 
 graceful, and ethereal, make one's heart tremble 
 with their beauty and one's eyes fill with tears. 
 He combines the truth of Velasquez, the vigor of 
 Ribera, the harmonious transparency of Titian, and 
 the brilliant vivacity of Rubens. Spain has given 
 
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MADBID. 191 
 
 him the name of the ''Painter of Conceptions" 
 because he is unsurpassed in the art of representing 
 that divine idea. There are four grand Conceptions 
 in the museum of Madrid. I have stood for hours 
 in front of those four paintings, motionless and 
 entranced. I was enraptured, above all, by that 
 incomplete one, with the arms folded over the 
 Virgin's breast and a half moon across her waist. 
 Many prefer the others ; I trembled on hearing this, 
 for I was filled with an inexpressible love for that 
 face. More than once as I looked at it I felt the 
 tears coursing down my cheeks. As I stood before 
 that painting my heart was softened and my mind 
 was lifted to a plane of thought higher than any I 
 had ever before reached. It was not the enthusiasm 
 of faith ; it was a longing, a boundless aspiration 
 toward faith, a hope which gave me visions of a life 
 nobler, richer, and more beautiful than that which 
 I had yet known — a new feeling of prayer, a desire 
 to love, to do good, to suffer for others, to make 
 atonement, to elevate my mind and heart. I have 
 never been so full of faith as in those moments. 
 I have never felt so good and affectionate, and I 
 believe that my soul has never shone more clearly 
 in my face. The Lady of Sorrows, Saint Anna 
 Teaching the Virgin to Bead, Christ Crucified, The 
 Annunciation, The Adoration of the Shepherds, The 
 Holy Family, Tlie Virgin of the Bosary, and The 
 Child Jesus are all admirable and beautiful paintings 
 
192 MADRID. 
 
 of a soft and serene light which appeal to the soul. 
 One should see on a Sunday the children, the girls, 
 and the poor women before those pictures — see how 
 their faces light up and hear the sweet words upon 
 their lips. Murillo is a saint to them, and they 
 speak his name with a smile, as if to say, " He 
 is ours !" and in so saying they look as though they 
 were performing an act of reverence. The artists 
 do not all regard him in the same manner, but they 
 love him above all others, and they are not able to 
 divorce their admiration from their love. 
 
 Murillo is not merely a great painter ; he is a great 
 soul. He has won more than glory : he has won the 
 love of Spain. He is more than a sovereign master 
 of the beautiful ; he is a benefactor, an inspiration to 
 noble deeds, for a lovely image, when once seen on 
 his canvas, is carried in the heart throughout life 
 with a feeling of gratitude and religious devotion. 
 He is one of those men whom some secret prompt- 
 ing tells us we must see again, and that the meeting 
 will be a reward : such men cannot have disappeared 
 for ever; in some place they still live where their 
 life is as a lamp of constant flame, which must one 
 day appear to the eyes of mortals in all its splendor. 
 " The empty dreams of fancy," one may say, but, 
 ah, what pleasant dreams ! 
 
 After the works of these four great masters there 
 are the paintings of Joanes to admire — an artist im- 
 bued with the Italian feeling, whose correct drawing 
 
MADRID. 193 
 
 and nobility of character have won for him the title, 
 although it must be spoken in an undertone, of the 
 Spanish Raphael. He resembles Fra Angelico in his 
 life, not in his art, for his studio was an oratory 
 where he fasted and did penance. Before beginning 
 his work he used to take the communion. 
 
 Then there are the paintings of Alonzo Cano ; the 
 paintings of Pacheco, the master of MuriUo ; the 
 paintings of Pareja, Velasquez's slave ; of Navar- 
 rete the mute ; of Menendez, a great painter of 
 flowers ; of Herrera, Coello, Carbajal, Collantes, and 
 Rizi, and there are a few works of Zui-baran, one of 
 the greatest Spanish ai'tists, worthy to stand beside 
 the three first. The corridors, the antechambers, 
 and the halls are full of the works of other artists, 
 of less importance than those mentioned, but never- 
 theless admirable for particular points. 
 
 But this is not the only art gallery in Madrid ; there 
 are hundreds of pictures in the Academy of San Fer- 
 nando. In the chambers of Fomento and in other pri- 
 vate galleries one would have to spend month after 
 month to see everything well, and to describe it would 
 take an equal time, even if one had sufficient ability 
 to do so. One of the ablest French writers, a great 
 lover of art and a master of description, when it came 
 to the point was frightened and knew nothing better 
 to do than to avoid the dilemma by saying that it 
 would take too long to describe it all ; and if he 
 thought well to keep silent, it must appear that I 
 
 Vol. I.— 13 
 
194 MADRID. 
 
 have said too much already. It is one of the saddest 
 consequences of a pleasant journey to discover that 
 one has in one's mind a crowd of lovely images and 
 in one's heart a tumult of grand emotions, and to be 
 able to express only so small a part of them. 
 
 With what profound contempt could I destroy 
 these pages when I think of those paintings ! 
 Murillo ! O Velasquez ! O my poor pen ! 
 
 A few days after my arrival at Madrid, as I was 
 coming from the street Alcala into the square of the 
 Puerta del Sol, I saw King Amadeus for the first 
 time. I felt it to be as great a pleasure as if I had 
 met my most intimate friend. It is strange to find 
 one's self in a country where the only person one 
 knows is the king. One could wish to run after 
 him saying, " Your Majesty, it is I ; I have ar- 
 rived." 
 
 Amadeus pursued his father's course at Madrid. 
 He rose at dawn and walked in the gardens of Moro, 
 which lie between the royal palace and the Manza- 
 nares, or else he visited the museums, walking 
 through the city on foot with only one attendant. 
 The maids, running home in breathless haste with 
 their weU-fiUed baskets, told their sleepy mistresses 
 how they had met the king, how they had passed 
 him so near that he could have touched them ; and 
 the Republican matrons would say, " And so he 
 ought to !" And the Carlists would make a grimace 
 and mutter, " What sort of a king is that ?" Or as 
 
Delasques's iforge of Dulcan. 
 
MADRID. 195 
 
 I heard one say, " He seems determined to get shot 
 at any cost." On returning to the palace he re- 
 ceived the captain-general and the governor of Ma- 
 di'id, who, in accordance with the ancient custom, 
 are obliged to present themselves every day to the 
 king to ask if he has any orders to give to the army 
 or the police. Next came the ministers. Besides 
 seeing them altogether in council once a week, 
 Amadeus received one of them every day. On the 
 departure of the minister the audience began. 
 
 Amadeus gave an audience every day of at least 
 one hour's duration, and many times prolonged it to 
 two hours. The demands were innumerable, and 
 the ends sought may be easily imagined — subsidies, 
 pensions, positions, favors, and decorations. The 
 king heard them all. The queen also received — not 
 every day, however, on account of her variable 
 health. To her lot fell all the deeds of charity. 
 She received all sorts of people in the presence of 
 the major-domo and a lady of honor at the hour of 
 the king's audience — ladies, laboring-men, peasant- 
 women, hearing with pity their long recitals of pov- 
 erty and suffering ; moreover, she distributed in 
 works of charity a hundred thousand francs a 
 month, without counting her liberal donations to 
 hospitals, asylums, and other benevolent institutions, 
 some of which she herself founded. 
 
 On the bank of the Manzanares, in sight of the 
 royal palace, in an open smiling place, one sees a 
 
196 MADRID. 
 
 brightly-colored cottage surrounded by a garden, 
 when as one passes one hears the laughter, the 
 crowing, and the crying of babies. The queen had 
 this house bmlt to shelter the little children of 
 washerwomen, who, while their mothers were at 
 work, used to remain in the streets exposed to a 
 thousand dangers. There are teachers, nurses, and 
 servants who provide for all the needs of the babies : 
 it is at the same time a refuge and a school. The 
 funds for the construction and maintenance of the 
 house were appropriated from the twenty-five thou- 
 sand francs a month which the state had granted to 
 the duke of Puglia. The queen also instituted a 
 foundling hospital, a home or sort of college for 
 the children of the tobacco-workers, and kitchens 
 where soup, meat, and bread are distributed to all 
 the poor of the city. She herself went unexpect- 
 edly sometimes to assist at the distribution, to 
 assure herself that no abuse was made of it, and, 
 discovering that some trickery was practised, she pro- 
 vided against its repetition. Besides these acts, the 
 Sisters of Charity received every month thirty thou- 
 sand francs with which to succor those families that 
 by reason of their social position were not able to 
 come to the distribution of soup. These private 
 deeds of benevolence which the queen performed 
 were very dilEcxdt to discover, because she was ac- 
 customed to do them without speaking to any one. 
 Little is known of her habits, because she did every- 
 
MADRID. 197 
 
 thing unostentatiously and with a reserve which 
 would be considered excessive even for a private 
 lady. 
 
 None of the court ladies knew that she went to 
 hear the sermon at San Luis de Francis ; a lady 
 saw her there for the first time, by chance, among 
 the other worshippers. In her dress there was noth- 
 ing distinctive of royalty, not even on the days of 
 the court dinners. Queen Isabella wore a great red 
 mantle with the arms of Castile, a diadem, orna- 
 ments, and insignia ; not so Donna Victoria. She 
 usually dressed in the colors of the Spanish flag, 
 with a simplicity which proclaimed her royalty much 
 better than splendor and magnificence would have 
 done. It was not Spanish gold which had to do 
 with this simplicity : all the expenses which were 
 incurred for herself, her children, and her servants 
 were paid from her privy purse. 
 
 When the Bourbons were on the throne the whole 
 of the royal palace was occupied. The king resided 
 in the left wing toward the plaza of the armory ; 
 Montpensier lived in the part opposite to that of the 
 queen ; the princes had each an apartment looking 
 toward the garden of Moro. When King Amadeus 
 resided there a great part of the immense edifice re- 
 mained empty : he occupied only three small rooms 
 — a study, a bed-chamber, and a dressing-room. 
 His chamber opened into a long corridor which 
 led to the two little rooms of the princes, opposite 
 
198 MADKID. 
 
 to which was the queen's apartments, for she would 
 never be separated from her children. 
 
 Then there was a reception-room. All that part 
 of the palace which served for the entire royal fam- 
 ily was formerly occupied by Queen Isabella alone. 
 When she learned that Amadeus and Victoria were 
 content with such small quarters, she is said to have 
 exclaimed with astonishment, " Poor young things ! 
 they won't have room to turn around." 
 
 The king and queen used to dine with a major- 
 domo and one of the court ladies. After dinner the 
 king smoked a Virginia cigar (if the detractors of 
 this prince of cigars care to know it) and entered his 
 cabinet to attend to the aifairs of state. He was ac- 
 customed to take a great many notes and frequently 
 consulted with the queen, especially when he was 
 trying to reconcile the ministers or to conciliate the 
 heads of departments. He read a great many mag- 
 azines of every bias ; anonymous letters which threat- 
 ened him with death and those which gave him ad- 
 vice : satirical poems, schemes of social revolution, — 
 everything, indeed, that was sent to him. About 
 three o'clock he left the palace on horseback ; the 
 guards blew their trumpets and a squire in red liv- 
 ery followed him at a distance of fifty paces. To see 
 him one would have said that he did not know he 
 was the king : he looked at the children as they 
 passed him, at the signs of the shops, the soldiers, 
 the coaches, and the fountains with an expression 
 
MADEID. 199 
 
 of almost childish curiosity. He rode the whole 
 length of the street Alcala slowly, like an ordinary 
 citizen thinking of his own affairs, and would turn 
 into the Prado to enjoy his part of the air and the 
 sunshine. 
 
 The ministers clamored against it ; the Bourbons, 
 accustomed to the imposing equipage of Isabella, 
 said that he was trailing the majesty of the throne 
 of San Fernando through the streets ; even the 
 squire who followed him looked around with a 
 shamefaced air, as if to say, " See what folly !" 
 But whatever they might say, the king gave no sign 
 of fear. And the Spaniards, it must be said, did 
 him justice, and, whatever may have been their 
 opinion of his administration and government, they 
 never failed to add, " So far as courage goes, there 
 is nothing to say." 
 
 Every Sunday there was a court dinner. Invi- 
 tations were extended to deputies, professors, 
 academicians, and illustrious men of letters and 
 scientists. The queen talked with them all on 
 every subject with a confidence and grace which, 
 for aU they had previously heard of her genius and 
 culture, quite exceeded their expectations. The 
 people naturally exaggerated in speaking of her at- 
 tainments, and talked of Greek, Arabic, Sanskrit, 
 astronomy, and • mathematics. But true it is that 
 she talked intelligently on subjects far removed from 
 the ordinary course of feminine studies, and not in 
 
200 MADRID. 
 
 the evasive and superficial manner of those who 
 know only the names and titles. She had made a 
 careful study of the Spanish language, and finally 
 spoke it as though it were her own; the history, 
 literature, and customs of her adopted country were 
 alike familiar to her, and she lacked only the desire 
 to remain in Spain to have made her a thorough 
 Spaniard. The Liberals murmured, the Bourbons 
 said, " She is not our queen," but they all regarded 
 her with profound respect. The bitterest joui'nals 
 went no farther than to call her the wife of Amadeus 
 instead of the queen. The most violent of the Ee- 
 publican deputies in alluding to her in a speech at 
 the Cortes could do no less than pronounce her illus- 
 trious and virtuous. She was the only person of the 
 royal household against whom no one would permit 
 a slur either by tongue or pen. She was like a 
 white figure left in the centre of a group of spiteful 
 caricatures. 
 
 As for the king, it seemed as though the Spanish 
 press enjoyed an unrestrained liberty, and under the 
 safeguard of the titles the Savoyard, the foreigner, 
 and the young courtier the journals which were 
 opposed to his rule could say in substance whatever 
 they chose ; and didn't they say charming things ? 
 One took it to heart that the king was homely in 
 face and figure, another was displeased because he 
 walked so stiffly, a third tried to ridicule his manner 
 of returning a salute, and other trifling matters 
 
MADEID. 201 
 
 which are almost incredible. Nevertheless, the 
 people of Madrid had for him, if not the enthusiasm 
 of the Azenzia Stefani, at least a very real 
 sympathy. 
 
 The simplicity of his habits and his kindhearted- 
 ness were proverbial even among the children. It 
 was known that he bore no malice toward any, not 
 even toward those who had treated him badly ; that 
 he had never given an affront to any one ; that no 
 bitter word against his enemies had ever escaped 
 him. If one spoke of the personal dangers which 
 he incurred, every good citizen answered indignantly 
 that the Spanish people respect those who trust 
 them ; his bitterest enemies spoke of him with 
 anger, but not with odium ; the very men who 
 would not raise their hats on meeting him in the 
 street felt their blood boil when others followed 
 their example, and could not conceal a feeling of 
 sadness at the occurrence. There are images of 
 fallen kings over which one casts a dark covering; 
 others are concealed by a white veil which makes 
 them appear more beautiful and venerable : over 
 this one Spain has cast the white veil. And who 
 knows but that one day the sight of this image will 
 call from the breast of every honest Spaniard a 
 secret sigh, like the memory of a beloved one who 
 has been offended, or like a gentle and benign voice 
 which says in sad tones of reproach, " Neverthe- 
 less, thou hast wronged me " f 
 
202 MADEID. 
 
 One Sunday the king held a review of the 
 Volunteers of Liberty, a sort of national guard like 
 that of Italy, with this diiference — that the Italians 
 do good service voluntarily, while the Spaniards will 
 do nothing even by force. 
 
 The Voluntarios were drawn up along the avenue 
 of the Prado, where an immense crowd had collected. 
 When I arrived there were already three or four 
 battalions of them. The first was the battalion of 
 veterans, all men above fifty, and not a few very old, 
 dressed in black and wearing the cap a la Ros, with 
 gold and silver lace and crosses upon crosses, as 
 spruce and tidy as the students of a military 
 academy, and from the proud and dignified rolling 
 of their eyes they might have been confounded with 
 the grenadiers of the Old Guard. After them came 
 another battalion in a different uniform — gray 
 breeches, a coat open and turned back over the 
 breast, with large lapels of scarlet cloth ; instead 
 of the caps h la Ros, hats with blue plumes — and 
 carrying guns with fixed bayonets. Another battalion 
 and another uniform — the Ros caps again instead of 
 the hats, and green cloth instead of the red, breeches 
 of another color, and daggers instead of bayonets. 
 A fourth battalion and arms all different. Other 
 battalions come up, in various array. Some wear 
 Prussian helmets, others helmets without points ; 
 some carry bayonets, some straight daggers, some 
 curved and others spiral daggers ; here there are 
 
MADEID. 203 
 
 soldiers with corded coats, there those without cords, 
 and again those with cords ; belts, epaulets, cravats, 
 plumes ; everything changes every moment. 
 
 All the divisions are gay and pompous, with a 
 hundred colors and a hundred banners which wave, 
 flash, and float in the air. Every battalion has a 
 different banner covered with embroidery, ribbons, 
 and fringe. Among the others one sees soldiers 
 dressed like peasants with any sort of a stripe sewed 
 loosely down a pair of ragged trousers ; some with- 
 out cravats, some with black cravats, open jackets, 
 and embroidered tunics ; boys frojn twelve to 
 fifteen, armed at all points, walking in the ranks ; 
 vivandieres, with short skirts and red breeches, 
 carrying baskets full of cigars and oranges. At the 
 head of the battalions there is a continual hurrying 
 of mounted officials. Every major wears on his 
 head or on his breast or on his saddle some ornament 
 of his own device ; at every moment a courier of 
 some unknown corps passes ; one sees lace of liver, 
 gold, and wool on the arms, on the shoulders, and 
 around the neck ; medallions and crosses so thick 
 that they conceal half the breast, fastened one above 
 the other, both above and below the belt ; gloves of 
 all the colors of the rainbow ; sabres, swords little 
 and big, pistols and revolvers — a mixture, in short, 
 of all the uniforms and arms of every army ; a 
 variety that would appall ten ministerial commis- 
 sioners for the modification of dress ; a confusion 
 
204 MADKID. 
 
 that turns one's head. I do not remember whether 
 there were twelve or fourteen battalions ; as each 
 one of them selected its own uniform, there was 
 necessarily the greatest possible diversity among 
 them. They were commanded by the mayor, who 
 also wore a fantastic uniform. There were about 
 eight thousand men. 
 
 At the hour assigned a sudden scurrying of staff- 
 officers and a loud blast of trumpets announced tlie 
 arrival of the king. Amadeus had, in fact, arrived 
 on horseback by the street Alcala in the uniform 
 of commander-in-chief, with cavalry boots, white 
 breeches, and swallow-tail coat, and behind him a 
 closely-formed group of generals, aides-de-camp, 
 servants in scarlet livery, lancers, cuirassiers, and 
 guards. After he had reviewed the entire front of 
 the army from the Prado as far as the church of 
 Atocha, surrounded by a dense, silent crowd, he re- 
 turned toward the street Alcala. Here there was a 
 vast multitude which surged and murmured like the 
 sea. The king and his staff took their stand in 
 front of the church of San Jos^, with their backs 
 toward the fagade, and the cavalry with great trouble 
 succeeded in opening a narrow space through which 
 the battalions might march. 
 
 They marched in platoons. As they passed, at a 
 signal from the commander, they cried, " Viva el 
 Rey ! Viva Don Amadeo primero !" It was an un- 
 fortunate idea for the first officer to give the cry. 
 
MADRID. 205 
 
 The spontaneous cheer of the first became a duty to 
 all the others, and this resulted in the public taking 
 the greater and the less vigor and harmony of the 
 voices as a sign of political demonstration. Some 
 of the platoons gave such a weak, short cheer that 
 it seemed like the cry of a group of sick men call- 
 ing for aid; then the crowd burst out laughing. 
 Other platoons gave a deafening shout, and that was 
 interpreted as a demonstration hostile to the govern- 
 ment. There were several reports passing among 
 the people crowded about me. One said, " There 
 comes such a battalion : they are republicans ; you 
 will see they will not cheer." The battalion passed 
 without cheering. The people coughed. Another 
 said, " It is an outrage, a fault of education ; I don't 
 like' Araadeus much myself, but I keep quiet and re- 
 spect him." There was some disturbance. A young 
 fellow shouted Viva in a falsetto voice, and a cahallero 
 told him he was impertinent ; he resented this, and 
 they both raised their hands, whereupon a third sep- 
 arated them. 
 
 Between the different battalions marched citizens 
 on horseback ; some did not raise their hats or even 
 look toward the king, and then one might hear differ- 
 ent expressions through the crowd, as " Well done !" 
 and " What bad manners !" Others, whose will was 
 good enough to salute him, were afraid to do so, and 
 passed with bowed head and blushing face. Others, 
 on the contrary, disgusted by the spectacle, made a 
 
206 MADRID. 
 
 courageous demonstration for Amadeus in the face 
 of them all, marching past, hat in hand, and looking 
 first respectfully toward the king and then fiercely 
 toward the crowd for the distance of ten paces. The 
 king sat imtil the end of the procession motionless, 
 with an unchanged expression of serene haughtiness. 
 So ended the review. 
 
 This national militia, although it is not so dis- 
 orga/nized and exhausted as ours, is nothing more 
 than the ghost of an army : the ridiculous has 
 gnawed at its very roots ; but as an amusement on a 
 holiday, although the number of volunteers is much 
 reduced (they numbered thirty thousand at one 
 time), it is always a spectacle which far surpasses 
 all ihe flag-poles and red rags of Signor Ottino. 
 
 THE BULL-FIGHTS. 
 
 The thirty-first of March inaugurates the spectacle 
 of the bull-fights. Let us discuss them at leisure, for 
 they form a worthy subject. 
 
 He who has read Baretti's description may con- 
 sider that he has read nothing. Baretti saw only the 
 bull-fights of Lisbon, which are mere child's play 
 beside those of Madrid. Madrid is the home of the 
 art : here are the great artists, here the stupendous 
 spectacles, here the skilled spectators, here the 
 judges who distribute the honors. The circus of 
 Madrid is the Theatre della Scala of the art of bull- 
 fighting. 
 
MADRID. 207 
 
 The inauguration of the bull-fights at Madrid is 
 even more important than a change of the ministry. 
 A month beforehand the news spreads throughout all 
 Spain ; from Cadiz to Barcelona, from Bilbao to Al- 
 meria, in the palaces of the grandees and the cabins 
 of the poor, they talk only of the artists and the breed 
 of bulls ; they arrange fights for pleasure between 
 the provinces and the capital ; he who is short of 
 money begins to save so as to get a good place in 
 the circus on that great day ; fathers and mothers 
 promise their children to take them if they will 
 study well ; lovers make similar promises to their 
 sweethearts ; the papers assure you that it will be a 
 good season ; the famous toreros, who already begin 
 to appear in Madrid, are pointed out with the finger ; 
 rumors are afloat that the bulls have arrived, and 
 some have seen them or have arranged to do so. 
 
 There are bulls from the pastures of the duke of 
 Veragua, the marquis de Merced, and of Her Ex- 
 cellency the dowager of Villaseca, prodigious and 
 terrible. The office is opened to receive subscrip- 
 tions ; the dilettanti crowd around, together with 
 the servants of the noble families, the brokers, and 
 friends commissioned by the absent. The first day 
 the manager has received fifty thousand francs, on 
 the second thirty thousand, and a hundred thousand 
 in a week. Frascuelo, the famous matador, has ar- 
 rived ; Cuco has arrived ; Calderon has arrived, and 
 all the others three days before the time. Thousands 
 
208 MADKID. 
 
 of people can talk of nothing else ; ladies dream of 
 the circus ; ministers have no thought for other 
 affairs ; old dilettanti can hardly contain themselves ; 
 soon laboring-men stop buying their cigarettes to 
 have a few pennies on the day of the spectacle. 
 Finally, on Saturday morning, before dawn, they 
 commence to sell tickets in a room on the street 
 Alcala. A crowd collects before the doors are 
 opened, yelling, pushing, and knocking each other 
 about ; twenty policemen with revolvers in their 
 belts are scarcely able to keep decent order; 
 there is a continuous stream of people until 
 night. 
 
 The long-expected day has arrived. The spec- 
 tacle commences at three o'clock ; at noon the people 
 start from all directions toward the circus, which 
 stands at the edge of the suburb of Salamanca, 
 beyond the Prado, outside of the gate of Alcala; 
 all the streets which lead there are crowded with a 
 procession of people. The circus looks like a great 
 anthill ; troops of soldiers and Volunteers of Liberty 
 arrive, headed by bands of music ; a crowd of 
 water-carriers and orange-sellers fill the air with 
 their cries ; ticket-sellers run here and there, hailed 
 by a thousand voices. Woe for him who has not 
 yet bought his ticket ! He will pay double, treble, 
 quardruple ! But what cares he if a ticket costs 
 even fifty or eighty francs ? They are looking for 
 the king ; they say the queen is coming too. The 
 
MADRID. 209 
 
 chariots of the great guns begin to arrive ; the 
 duke Ferdinando Nunes, the duke d'Abrantes, the 
 marquis de la Vega de Armijo, a crowd of the 
 grandees of Spain, the goddesses of the aristocracy, 
 the ministers, generals, and ambassadors — all that is 
 beautiful, splendid, and powei-ful in the great city. 
 One may enter the circus by many doors, but before 
 entering one is deafened by the noise. 
 
 I entered. The circus is immense. The outside 
 is in no way remarkable ; it is a low circular yellow 
 building without windows, but on entering one feels 
 the liveliest surprise. It is a circus for a people, 
 where ten thousand spectators can be seated and in 
 which a regiment of cavalry might drill. The arena 
 is circular, and so vast that it could hold ten of our 
 equestrian circuses. It is encircled by a wooden 
 barrier about even with a man's shoulders, provided 
 on the inside with a narrow ledge a little way from 
 the ground, on which the toreros place their feet to 
 jump over when the bull chases them. Beyond this 
 barrier there is another higher one, for the bull often 
 leaps over the first ; between the two a narrow 
 course, a little more than a metre in width, runs all 
 the way round the arena ; here the toreros stroll 
 before the combat, and here stand the attendants of 
 the circus — the carpenters ready to repair the gaps 
 which the bull has made, the guards, the orange- 
 venders, the dilettanti who enjoy the friendship of 
 the manager, and the great guns who are allowed to 
 
 Vol. I.— 14 
 
210 MADRID. 
 
 transgress the rules. Beyond the second barrier 
 rises a tier of stone seats, and beyond this are the 
 boxes ; below the boxes runs a gallery containing 
 three rows of seats. The boxes are each large 
 enough to hold three or four families ; the king's 
 box is a great drawing-room ; next to it is that of 
 the city officials, in which sits the mayor or whoever 
 presides at the spectacle. Then there is the box 
 for the ministers, for the governors, and for the 
 ambassadors ; every noble family has one ; the 
 young ion tons, as Giusti would say, have a box to 
 themselves ; then there are boxes to let which cost 
 a fortune. 
 
 Every seat in the tiers is numbered, every person 
 has a ticket ; so the entrance is made without the 
 least disorder. The circus is divided into two parts 
 — one in the shade, the other in the sunshine ; in 
 the first one pays more ; in the second sit the 
 common people. The arena has four doors at equal 
 distances from each other — the door through which 
 the toreros enter, the door for the bulls, another for 
 the horses, and a fourth, under the king's box, for 
 the heralds of the spectacle. Over the door through 
 which the bulls enter rises a sort of sloping platform 
 which is called the toril, and well for him who can 
 find a place there ! Upon this platform, in a little 
 box, stand the men who at a sign from the mayor's 
 box sound the trumpet and drum to announce the 
 entrance of the bull. Facing the toril on the oppo- 
 
MADRID. 211 
 
 site side of the arena along the stone balcony is the 
 band of music. The whole balcony is divided into 
 compartments, each of which has its own door. 
 
 Before the show begins the people are allowed to 
 enter the arena and to walk through all the passages 
 of the building. They go to see the horses enclosed 
 in a courtyard, and most of them destined to be 
 killed, more's the pity ! They go to see the dark 
 chambers where are confined the bulls, which are 
 driven from one enclosure to another until they 
 reach a corridor and dash into the arena ; they go to 
 see the infirmary where the wounded toreros are 
 borne : once there was a chapel to visit in which 
 mass was celebrated during the combat, and there 
 the toreros went to pray before confronting the an- 
 gry brutes ; then they go to the principal entrance, 
 where are exhibited the banderillas that are to be 
 inserted in the bulls' necks, and where one sees a 
 group of old toreros — one lame, another without an 
 arm, a third on crutches — and the young toreros who 
 have not yet been admitted to the honors of the 
 circus of Madrid. One buys a copy of the Bulletin 
 of the Bulls, which promises miracles for the doings 
 of the day. Then one gets from the guard the 
 programme of the spectacle and a printed leaflet 
 divided into columns for noting the strokes of the 
 spear, the thrusts, the falls, and the wounds. One 
 climbs along endless corridors and interminable 
 stairways in the midst of a crowd which comes and 
 
212 MADRID. 
 
 goes, ascends and descends, crying and shouting, so 
 that the whole building trembles, and finally one 
 returns to one's seat. 
 
 The circus is crowded full, and presents a spectacle 
 of which it is impossible to form an idea unless one 
 has seen it : it is a sea of heads, hats, fans, and 
 hands waving in the air ; on the side where sit the 
 better classes in the shade all is dark ; on the other 
 side, in the sun, where the common people sit, a 
 thousand brilliant colors of vesture, parasols, and 
 paper fans — an immense masquerade. 
 
 There is not room enough for another child ; the 
 crowd is as compact as a phalanx ; no one can go 
 out, and it is difficult even to move one's arms. It 
 is not a buzzing like the noise of other theatres ; it 
 is different : it is an agitation, a life altogether pecu- 
 liar to the circus ; everybody is shouting, gesticula- 
 ting, and saluting each other with frantic joy ; the 
 women and children scream ; the gravest men frolic 
 like boys ; the young men, in groups of twenty and 
 thirty, shout in chorus and beat with their canes 
 against the stone balustrade as a sign to the mayor 
 that the hour has arrived. In the boxes there is an 
 overflow of spirits, like that in the galleries of the 
 regular theatres ; the discordant cries of the crowd 
 are augmented by the howls of a hundred hawkers, 
 who are throwing oranges in every direction ; the 
 band plays, the bulls bellow, the crowd outside 
 roars ; it is a spectacle which makes one dizzy, and 
 
MADRID. 213 
 
 before the struggle commences one is exhausted, 
 intoxicated, and stupefied. 
 
 Suddenly there is a cry, " The king !" The king 
 has arrived ; he is come in a chariot drawn by white 
 horses, with mounted grooms in picturesque Anda- 
 lusian costumes ; the glass doors of the royal box 
 swing back, and the king enters with a stately crowd 
 of ministers, generals, and major-domos. The queen 
 is not there : one foresaw that ; every one knows 
 that she has a horror of this spectacle. Oh ! but the 
 king would not miss it ; he has always come. They 
 say he is mad over it. The hour has come, the spec- 
 tacle begins. I shall remember to my dying day the 
 chill which passed over me at that moment. 
 
 A blare of trumpets ; four guards of the circus on 
 horseback, with cap and plume a la Henri IV., with 
 black mantles, tight-fitting jackets, jack-boots, and 
 swords, enter by the gate under the king's box and 
 slowly make the circuit of the arena. The people 
 separate ; every one goes to his seat ; the arena is 
 deserted. The four cavaliers take their places, two 
 by two, in front of the door opposite the royal box, 
 which is still closed. 
 
 Ten thousand spectators fix their eyes on that 
 spot ; there is a universal silence. For through it will 
 come the cuadrilla, with all the toreros in gala dress 
 to present themselves to the king and the people. 
 The band plays, the door springs open, there is a 
 burst of applause ; the toreros advance. First come 
 
214 MADRID. 
 
 the three espadas, Frascuelo, Lagartijo, and Caye- 
 tano, the three famous ones, dressed in the costume 
 of Figaro in the Sarher of Seville, in satin, silk, and 
 velvet, orange, scarlet, and blue, covered with em- 
 broidery, fringe, lace, filigree, tinsel, spangles of 
 gold and silver, which almost conceal their dress ; 
 enveloped in full capes of yellow and red, with white 
 stockings, silken girdles, a bunch of tassels on the 
 neck, and a fur cap. Next come the handerilleros 
 and the capeadores, a troop covered like the others 
 with gold and silver ; then the picadores, on horse- 
 back, two by two, each with a great battle-lance, a 
 low-crowned gray hat, an embroidered jacket, 
 breeches of yellow buffalo skin, padded and lined 
 inside with strips of iron ; then the chulos, or ser- 
 vants, dressed in their holiday best ; and altogether 
 they walk majestically across the arena toward the 
 box of the king. One cannot imagine anything 
 more picturesque than this spectacle : there are all 
 the colors of a garden, all the splendors of a royal 
 court, all the gayety of a rout of maskers, all the 
 grandeur of a band of warriors ; on closing one's 
 eyes one sees only a gleaming of gold and silver. 
 They are very handsome men — the picadores tall, 
 stout of limb like athletes ; the others slight and 
 nimble, with chiselled forms, swarthy faces, and great 
 fierce eyes — figures like the ancient gladiators, 
 clothed with the magnificence of Asiatic princes. 
 The entire cuadrilla stops in front of the royal 
 
Ilmplanting tbe BanMllera. 
 
 Zbc Cbarge, 
 
MADRID. 215 
 
 box and salutes ; the mayor makes a sign that they 
 may begin ; the key of the toril, where the bulls are 
 confined, is tossed from the box into the arena ; a 
 guard of the circus picks it up and gives it to the 
 custodian, who places himself before the door ready 
 to open it. The band of toreros separates, the es- 
 padas leap over the barrier, the capeadores scatter 
 through the arena, waving their red and yellow 
 capas ,- the picadores retire to await their turn ; the 
 rest spur their horses and take their positions to the 
 left of the toril at a distance of twenty paces apart, 
 with their backs to the barrier and their lances in 
 rest. 
 
 It is a moment of keen excitement, of unexpres- 
 sible anxiety : all eyes are fixed on the door by 
 which the bull will enter ; all hearts are beating 
 high ; a profound silence broods over the whole 
 circus ; one hears only the bellowing of the bull as 
 he advances from cell to cell in the darkness of his 
 vast prison ; one can almost hear him crying, 
 " Blood ! blood !" The horses tremble, the picadores 
 grow pale : another instant a blare of trumpets, the 
 door is thrown wide open, and the terrible bull 
 dashes into the arena saluted by a terrific shout, 
 which bursts at that moment from ten thousand 
 throats. The butchery has begun. 
 
 Ah ! it is a good thing to have strong nerves : at 
 that moment one turns as white as a corpse. 
 
 I can only remember confusedly what followed in 
 
216 MADEID. 
 
 the first instance : I do not know where I could 
 have been. The bull rushed against the first 
 picador, retreated, continued his course, and rushed 
 upon the second ; if there was a struggle, I do not 
 remember it ; then a moment later he rushed against 
 the third, ran to the centre of the arena, stood and 
 looked about him : I too looked about and covered 
 my face with my hands. All that part of the arena 
 where the bull had passed was streaked with blood ; 
 the first horse lay dead on the ground with his belly 
 ripped open and his entrails scattered about ; the 
 second, with his breast torn by a deep gash from 
 which blood was streaming, staggered about here 
 and there ; the third was thrown to the ground and 
 tried in vain to rise ; the chulos hurried in, raised 
 the picadores from the ground, took the saddle and 
 bridle from the dead horse, and tried to help the 
 wounded one to his feet : an infernal yell resounded 
 from every part of the circus ; thus the spectacle 
 usually begins. The first to receive the onslaught 
 of the bull are the picadores ,• they sit firmly await- 
 ing him and plant the lance between the head and 
 shoulders of the bull as he is in the act of fastening 
 his horns in the horse. The lance, be it noted, has 
 only a small point, which cannot make a deep wound, 
 and the picadores are obliged by sheer force of arm 
 to ward off the bull and save their steeds. To do 
 this one must have a sure eye, an arm of bronze, 
 and a dauntless heart ; they do not always succeed ; 
 
MADRID. 217 
 
 indeed, they usually fail, and the bull plants his 
 horns in the horse's belly and the picador is thrown 
 to the ground. Then the capeadores run forward, and 
 while the bull is shaking his horns free from the 
 entrails of his victim they wave their capas be- 
 fore his eyes, turn his attention, make him follow 
 them and leave the fallen horseman in safety ; 
 whereupon the chulos come to his aid, and help him 
 again into the saddle if the horse can still stand, or 
 carry him off to the infirmary if he has broken his 
 head. 
 
 The bull stood panting in the middle of the arena 
 with bloody horns, looking around as if to say, 
 " Have you had enough I" A band of capeadores 
 ran toward him, surrounded him, and commenced to 
 tease and badger him, making him rush here and 
 there, waving their capas before his eyes, passing 
 them over his head, leading him on, and escaping 
 with the nimblest turns, to return to tease him again, 
 and again flee from him. And the bull turns on 
 them one after another, and chases them as far as 
 the barrier, where he butts his horns against the 
 boards, stamps, cuts capers, bellows, buries his 
 horns in the bodies of the dead horses as he passes, 
 tries to jump into the course, and rushes around the 
 arena in every direction. Meanwhile the other 
 picadores come in to take the places of the two 
 whose horses had been killed, and take their po- 
 sitions at some distance from each other, over beside 
 
218 MADRID. 
 
 the toril with lances in rest, ready for the attack of 
 the bull. The capeadores dextrously draw him in 
 that direction, and, seeing the first horse, he made a 
 plunge toward him with lowered head. But this time 
 his blow was parried : the lance of the picador was 
 fixed in his shoulder and checked him. 
 
 The bull was stubborn ; he strained and lunged 
 forward with all his weight ; but in vain : the 
 picador held firm, the bull retreated, the horse was 
 saved, and a thunderous burst of applause greeted 
 the man. The other picador was less fortunate : 
 the bull attacked ; he did not succeed in planting 
 his lance firmly ; the terrible horns penetrated the 
 horse's belly as quickly as a sword might have done, 
 were violently twisted in the wound, and withdrawn ; 
 the intestines of the poor animal fell through and 
 remained dangling, like a great bag, almost down to 
 the ground ; the picador remained in the saddle. 
 There a horrible sight was witnessed. Instead of 
 dismounting, the ^icat^or, perceiving that the wound 
 was not mortal, put the spurs to the horse and rode 
 to another place to await a second attack : the horse 
 crossed the arena with his entrails hanging from his 
 belly, striking against his legs, and impeding his 
 steps. The bull followed for a moment and stopped. 
 At that point there was blast on the trumpets : it 
 was the signal for the picadores to withdraw. A 
 gate was opened, and they galloped out one after 
 another ; the two dead horses were left, and here and 
 
MADEID. 219 
 
 there were pools and streaks of blood which two 
 chulos covered with earth. 
 
 After the picadores come the banderilleros. And 
 to the uninitiated this part of the performance is the 
 most entertaining, for the reason that it is the least 
 cruel. The banderillas are little arrows ahout two 
 spans in length, ornamented with colored paper and 
 provided with a metal tip so formed that when it 
 once penetrates the skin it cannot be withdrawn, 
 and the bull with his running and shaking only 
 drives it farther in. The handcrillero takes two of 
 these arrows, one in each hand, and assumes a posi- 
 tion about fifteen paces distant from the bull, and 
 then, by waving his hands and shouting, provokes 
 an attack. The bull rushes toward him : the ian- 
 derillero in his turn runs toward the bull, and just as 
 the bull's head is lowered to plunge his horns into 
 the man's body the banderillero plants the arrows in 
 his neck, one on this side, the other on that, and 
 saves himself by a quick turn. If he stops, if his 
 foot slips, if he hesitates an instant, he will be 
 spitted like a frog. The bull bellows, snorts, tosses 
 himself, and turns with dreadful fury to follow the 
 capeadores. In a minute they have all jumped into 
 the course ; the arena is cleared, and the brute, with 
 foaming mouth, bloodshot eyes, and neck streaked 
 with blood, stamps the ground, shakes himself, runs 
 at the barrier, demands vengeance, thirsts for blood 
 and slaughter : no one appears to confront him ; the 
 
220 MADRID. 
 
 spectators fill the air with the cry, "Forward! 
 courage !" " The next handerillero /" The next 
 banderillero advances and plants his arrows, then a 
 third, and then the first again. On that day there 
 were eight arrows inserted. The poor beast, when 
 he felt the last two, gave a long bellow, distressing 
 and horrible, and, dashing after one of his enemies, 
 followed him to the barrier, took the leap, and fell 
 with him into the course. The ten thousand 
 spectators were all on their feet in an instant, cry- 
 ing, " He has killed him !" But the banderillero 
 had escaped. The bull ran backward and forwarded 
 between the two barriers under a rain of blows and 
 thrusts, until he was driven to an open gate and 
 returned to the arena as the gate closed after him. 
 Then all the ianderiUeros and all the capeadores 
 rushed toward him again : one passed behind and 
 gave his tail a jerk, and disappeared like a flash of 
 lightning ; another as he flew past wound a capa 
 around his horns ; a third actually had the audacity 
 to snatch off with one hand a little silk bow which 
 was tied to his tail ; a fourth, the most rash of them 
 all, planted a pole in the ground as the bull wap 
 running, took a flying leap, and passed entirely over 
 him and landed on the other side, throwing the 
 stick between the legs of the astonished animal ; 
 and they did all this with the quickness of jugglers 
 and the grace of dancers, as though they were play- 
 ing with a lamb. Meanwhile, the immense crowd 
 
^be processional Entrance. 
 
 Bull Httacfting a plcaOor. 
 
MADRID. 221 
 
 made the circus resound with their laughter and 
 applause and cries of delight, admiration, and 
 terror. 
 
 Another blast of the trumpet ; the banderilleros are 
 done. Now for the espada. It is a solemn moment, 
 the crisis of the drama. The crowd is still, the 
 ladies lean forward in their boxes, the king rises to 
 his feet. The famous Frascuelo, holding in one hand 
 the sword and in the other the muleta, a piece of red 
 stuiF fastened to a stick, enters the arena, presents 
 himself before the royal box, raises his cap, and in 
 a poetic phrase consecrates to the king the bull that 
 he is about to kill ; then, tossing his cap in the air, 
 as if to say, " Victory or death !" followed by a 
 splendid train of capeadores, he advances resolutely 
 toward the bull. Here follows a veritable hand- 
 to-hand struggle worthy of Homer's song. On one 
 side is the brute with his terrible horns, with his 
 enormous strength, his thirst for blood, maddened by 
 pain, blinded by rage, fierce, bloody, terrible ; on 
 the other, a young man of twenty, dressed like a 
 dancer, on foot, alone and defenceless but for the 
 short, slender sword in his hand. But the gaze of 
 twenty thousand eyes is bent upon him. The king 
 has a gift at hand ; his sweetheart is above there in 
 a box, with her eyes fixed upon him ; a thousand 
 ladies are trembling for his life. The bull pauses 
 and looks at him ; he looks at the bull and waves 
 the red cloth before him. The bull dashes under it ; 
 
222 MADRID. 
 
 the csiHiifd sprinj;s iisido ; tliat tiM-rihlo horn gnizcs 
 his hip, strikes the rod ck)tli, iiiul I'lrnvi's the empty 
 air. A shout of applaiiso bursts i'roui the eutiro 
 balcony, i'roui all the boxtvs and f;all('ries. The 
 ladies raise their opera-glasses and ery, " lie has not 
 paled !" 
 
 All is silciiee again ; there is not a sound ; not a 
 whisper. The bold torero Hutters the muletn before 
 the eyes of the infuriatinl animal, passes it overhead 
 between his horns and around his \wvk, makes him 
 reeede, advanee, turn, jump ; invites an attack ti^n 
 times, and ten times by tiie slightest motion esi'apcs 
 death ; lets his nndeta fall, and pii'ks it up under 
 the t'yes of the bull ; laughs in his face, taunts him, 
 insults him, and makes sport of him : all at once ho 
 stops, puts himself on guard, raises his sword, and 
 takes aim ; the bull looks at him ; anotlier instant 
 and they will rush toward each other. One ol' them 
 must die ; ten thousand glances r>ui with lightning 
 rapidity from the point of tln^ sword to the tips of 
 the horns ; ten thousand hearts beat fast with anx- 
 iety and terror ; the faet^s arc all t(aise with (excite- 
 ment ; one docs not hear a breath ; tlii! vast crowd 
 seems petrified. Another instant — the time has 
 come ! The bull dashes forward ; the man bran- 
 dishes his sword ; a single loud cry, and then a tem- 
 pestuous burst of applause breaks forth on every 
 side ; t\\r. sword has been buritul to its liilt in the 
 bull's neck ; the bull reels and with a stream of 
 
MADKID. 223 
 
 blood flowing from his mouth falls as though he had 
 been struck by lightning. 
 
 The man has conquered ! Then follows an inde- 
 scribable tumult ; the multitude seems to grow mad ; 
 all leap to their feet, wave their arms, and cry 
 at the top of their voices ; the ladies wave their 
 handkerchiefs, clap their hands, and shake their 
 fans ; the band strikes up ; the victorious espada ap- 
 proaches the barrier and makes the circuit of the 
 arena. As he passes, from the galleries, the boxes, 
 and the balconies the spectators, carried away by 
 their enthusiasm, shower upon him packages of ci- 
 gars, purses, canes, hats, anything which they can 
 lay their hands on ; in a few moments the fortunate 
 torero has his arms full of trophies, calls the capea- 
 dores to his assistance, throws back the hats to his 
 admirers, thanks them, and responds as well as he 
 can to the salutes, the praises, and the glorious titles 
 with which he is hailed upon every side, and finally 
 comes to the royal box. 
 
 Then all eyes are riveted on the king. The king 
 puts his hand in his pocket, takes out a cigar-case 
 full of bank-notes, and tosses it down ; the torero 
 catches it iii the air, and the multitude bursts into 
 applause. Meanwhile the band is playing a dirge 
 for the bull ; a gate opens, four enormous mules gal- 
 lop in, ornamented with plumes, tassels, and ribbons 
 of yellow and red, driven by a band of chulos, who 
 shout and crack their whips ; the dead horses are 
 
224 MADRID. 
 
 drawn out one after another, and finally the bull is 
 removed, whereupon he is at once carried to a little 
 square near the circus, where a crowd of gamins is 
 waiting to dip their fingers in his blood, after which 
 he is flayed, butchered, and sold. 
 
 The arena is again free ; the trumpet sounds, the 
 drum beats : another bull dashes from his prison, 
 attacks the picadores, rips up the bellies of horses, 
 off'ers his neck to the handerilleros, and is killed by 
 an espada ; and so, without any intermission, six 
 bulls are presented in the arena one after the 
 other. 
 
 How many shocks, how many tremors, how many 
 chills at the heart and rushes of blood to the head 
 does one feel during that spectacle ! how many sud- 
 den pallors ! But you, stranger, you alone are pale ; 
 the boy beside you is laughing, the girl in front of 
 you is wild with delight, the lady whom you see in 
 the next box says she has never enjoyed herself so 
 much. What shouting ! what exclamations ! That 
 is the place to learn the language ! As the bull ap- 
 pears he is judged by a thousand voices : " What a 
 fine head ! what eyes ! he will draw blood ! he is 
 worth a fortune !" They break out into words of 
 love. He has killed a horse. " Bucno ! see how 
 much has fallen from the belly!" A. picador misses 
 his stroke and wounds the bull badly or is afraid to 
 confront him ; then there is a deluge of insulting 
 names: "Poltroon! imposter ! assasin ! go hide 
 
MADRID. 225 
 
 yourself! go and be hanged!" They all rise, point 
 with their fingers, shake their fists, throw orange- 
 peel and cigar-stumps in his face, and threaten him 
 with their canes. When the espada kills the bull 
 with one stroke, then follow the delirious words of 
 lovers and extravagant gestures : "Come here, angel! 
 God bless thee, Frascuelo !" They throw him kisses, 
 call to him, and stretch out their hands as if to em- 
 brace him. What a profusion of epithets, witti- 
 cisms, and proverbs ! What fire ! what life ! 
 
 But I have spoken only of the doings of one bull ; 
 in the entire corrida a thousand accidents occur. 
 In that same day a bull thrust his head under a 
 horse's belly, raised the horse and horseman, and, 
 carrying them in triumph across the arena, threw 
 them both to the ground like a bundle of rags. 
 Another bull killed four horses in a few minutes ; a 
 third attacked a picador so violently that he fell, 
 struck his head against the barrier, fainted, and was 
 carried out. But not for this nor for a graver 
 wound, nor even for the death of a torero, is the 
 spectacle • interrupted — it is so stated in the pro- 
 gramme ; if one is killed, another is ready. The 
 bull does not always attack ; there are some 
 cowardly ones which run toward the picador, stop, 
 and after a moment of hesitation run away ; others, 
 naturally gentle and placid, do not in the least 
 respond to provocations ; they allow the picador to 
 approach them to plant his lance in their neck, back 
 
 Vol. I.— 15 
 
226 MADRID. 
 
 off, shake their heads as if to say, " No, thank you !" 
 run away, and then turn suddenly to look with 
 astonishment at the band of capeadores who follow 
 them, as though they would ask, " What do you 
 want of us ■? What have we done ! Why do you 
 wish to kill us ?" Then the crowd bursts forth in 
 imprecations against the cowardly bulls, against the 
 managers, and against the toreros ; and first one of 
 the dilettanti over the toril, then the spectators on 
 the sunny side, then the gentlemen on the shady 
 side, then the ladies, then all the spectators in the 
 circus, cry with one voice, " Banderillas de fuego /" 
 The cry is directed toward the mayor. The bande- 
 rillas of fire serve to infuriate the bull ; they are ban- 
 derillas provided with a fire-cracker, which goes off 
 at the moment the point penetrates the flesh and 
 burns the wound, causing extreme pain ; the animal 
 is tortured and enraged to the point of changing 
 from a coward to a daredevil, from quietness to fury. 
 The permission of the mayor is required to use 
 the banderillas de fuego : if he hesitates to give it, 
 all the spectators leap to their feet, and there follows 
 a wonderful sight : one sees ten thousand handker- 
 chiefs waving like the ensigns of ten regiments of 
 lancers, from the boxes to the arena, all the way 
 around, forming a fluttering band of white which 
 almost conceals the crowd, and ten thousand voices 
 cry, " Fuego ! fuego ! fuego !" Then the mayor 
 may yield, but if he is obstinate in his refusal, the 
 
MADRID. 227 
 
 handkerchiefs disappear, fists and canes take their 
 places, and curses burst foi'th : " Don't make a fool 
 of yourself! don't spoil the fun! The handeriUas 
 for the mayor ! fire for the mayor !" 
 
 The agony of the bull is terrible. Sometimes the 
 torero does not strike where he should, and the 
 swdrd is buried to the hilt, but not in the direction 
 of the heart. Then the bull commences to run 
 about the arena with the sword sticking in his body, 
 sprinkling the ground with blood, bellowing deeply, 
 writhing and twisting in a thousand ways to free 
 himself from that torture ; and in his impetuous 
 course sometimes the sword flies out, sometimes it is 
 driven deeper in and causes death. 
 
 The espada is frequently obliged to give the bull 
 a second thrust, and not rarely a third or a fourth ; 
 the blood flows in torrents ; all the capas of the 
 capeadores are sprinkled ; the espada is besmeared 
 and the barrier bespattered ; everything is covered 
 with blood ; the indignant spectators load the torero 
 with abuse. Sometimes the bull falls to the ground 
 badly wounded, but does not die, and lies there 
 motionless with his head high and threatening, as if 
 he would say, " Come on, assassins, if you have the 
 courage !'' Then the struggle is ended, the agony 
 must be shortened : a mysterious man climbs the 
 barrier, approaches with stealthy steps, places him- 
 self behind the bull, and, watching his chance, gives 
 him a blow on the head with a dagger which pene- 
 
228 MADRID. 
 
 trates to the brain and kills him. Often this blow 
 does not succeed, either ; the mysterious man must 
 strike twice, thrice, or even four times ; then the 
 indignation of the people bursts forth like a tempest. 
 They call him an executioner, a coward, an infamous 
 wretch, wish he were dead, and if they had him in 
 their hands would strangle him like a dog. Some- 
 times the bull, mortally wounded, staggers a little 
 way before he falls, and, reeling with slow step from 
 the place where he was stricken, goes to die in peace 
 in a quiet corner ; all the toreros follow him slowly 
 at a short distance, like a funeral train ; the crowd 
 watches all his movements, counts his steps, measures 
 the progress of his agony ; profound silence attends 
 his last moments ; his death has in it something 
 majestic and solemn. There are some indomitable 
 bulls that will not bow the head even in drawing the 
 last breath — bulls that, while the blood runs in 
 streams from their mouths, still threaten ; bulls 
 pierced by ten sword-thrusts, stabbed, and bleeding 
 to death, that still raise their heads with a superb 
 motion which makes the crowd of their persecutors 
 recede halfway across the arena ; bulls whose death- 
 agony is more terrible than their first fury ; bulls 
 that tear dead horses, break through the barrier, 
 furiously trample the capas scattered through the 
 arena, jump into the course, and run around with a 
 high head, looking at the spectators with an air of 
 defiance, fall, rise again, and die bellowing. 
 
MADEID. 229 
 
 The agony of the horses, though not so prolonged, 
 is more dreadful. Some have a leg broken by the 
 bull, others the neck pierced through and through ; 
 others are killed at one blow with a thrust of the 
 horn in the breast, without shedding a drop of blood ; 
 others, overcome with fear, take to flight, and, run- 
 ning straight ahead, come in violent collision with 
 the barrier and fall down dead ; others welter a long 
 time in a pool of blood before they die ; others, 
 wounded, bleeding, disembowelled, and mutilated, 
 still gallop about with desperate fury, run against 
 the bull, are felled to the ground, rise and fight 
 again until they are carried away, ruined but alive, 
 and then the intestines are replaced, the belly sewed 
 up, and they serve again ; others, terrified at the 
 approach of the beast, tremble violently, paw the 
 ground, recoil, neigh, and do not wish to die ; and 
 these most excite one's pity. Sometimes a single 
 bull kills five horses ; sometimes in a corrida twenty 
 are killed ; all the picadores are drenched with 
 blood ; smoking entrails are scattered through the 
 arena, and the bulls grow tired of slaughter. 
 
 The toreros also have their ugly moments. The 
 picadores now and then, instead of falling under the 
 horse, fall between the horse and the bull ; then the 
 bull plunges forward to kill them ; the crowd gives a 
 cry, but a brave capeador throws his capa over the 
 bull's eyes and at the risk of his own life saves that 
 of his comrade. Often, instead of rushing at the 
 
230 MADEID. 
 
 muleta, the bull turns and rushes toward the espada, 
 grazes him, attacks and follows him, and obliges him 
 to throw away his weapon and save himself, pale and 
 trembling, on the other side of the barrier. Some- 
 times he strikes him with his head and throws him 
 down ; the espada disappears in a cloud of dust ; the 
 crowd cries, " He is dead !" but the bull passes, the 
 espada is saved. Sometimes the bull rushes unex- 
 pectedly, raises him with his head, and tosses him to 
 one side. Not infrequently the bull does not allow 
 him to take aim with the sword ; the matador does 
 not succeed in striking in the breast, and, as he is 
 compelled by the laws to strike in a given place, and 
 in that place only, he makes futile attempts for a 
 long time, grows confused, and runs a thousand 
 chances of losing his life ; meanwhile, the crowd 
 howls, hisses, and insults him, until finally the poor 
 man in desperation resolves to kill or to be killed, 
 and strikes at random ; and he either succeeds and is 
 lauded to the skies, or fails and is despised, derided, 
 and pelted with orange-peels, even though he may 
 be the most intrepid, bravest, and renowned torero 
 in Spain. 
 
 In the crowd, too, a thousand incidents occur 
 during the spectacle. Suddenly two spectators fall 
 to fighting. The people are so closely packed that 
 some one of the neighbors receives a blow from a 
 cane ; then they seize their canes and join the fray. 
 
MADRID. 231 
 
 The circle of the combatants grows wider ; the row 
 extends through entire compartments in the gallery ; 
 in a few moments there are hats flying through the 
 air, torn cravats, bloody faces, a din which rises to 
 heaven ; all the spectators are on their feet ; the guards 
 run about ; the toreros cease to be actors and become 
 spectators. At other times a group of lively young 
 fellows turn in one direction and shout all together, 
 " There he is !" " Who 1" No one, but meanwhile 
 the persons next to them get up, and those at a dis- 
 tance stand on the seats ; the ladies lean from the 
 boxes, and in a moment the whole circus is topsy- 
 turvy. Then the group of young men give a loud 
 laugh ; their neighbors, so as not to appear ridicu- 
 lous, do the same ; the laugh spreads to the boxes 
 and through the galleries till ten thousand people are 
 laughing. At other times it is a foreigner, seeing 
 his first bull-fight, who faints ; the news spreads in a 
 trice ; they all get up, stare, shout, and make a pan- 
 demonium that bafiles description. Again, it is a 
 good-humored man who hails his friend away on the 
 other side of the theatre in a voice which sounds like 
 a clap of thunder. That great crowd is stirred in a 
 few moments with a thousand contrary emotions, 
 passes with incessant change from terror to enthu- 
 siasm, from enthusiasm to pity, from pity to anger, 
 from anger to delight, admiration, and unbridled 
 enjoyment. 
 
 The final impression which this spectacle makes 
 
232 MADRTD. 
 
 upon the mind is indescribable : it is a mingling of 
 sensations, among which it is impossible to recollect 
 anything clearly or to know one's thoughts. At one 
 moment you turn in horror to flee from the circus, and 
 swear you will never come back ; a moment later, 
 astonished, enraptured, and almost intoxicated, you 
 hope the spectacle will never end ; now you are almost 
 sickened ; now you, too, like your neighbors, shout, 
 laugh, and applaud ; the blood makes you shudder, 
 but the marvellous courage of the men exalts you ; 
 the danger clutches at your heart, but you are reas- 
 sured by the victory ; little by little the fever which 
 works in the crowd steals into your veins ; you do 
 not know yourself, you are another person ; you too 
 are stirred by anger, ferocity, and enthusiasm ; you 
 feel bold and valiant ; the struggle fires your blood ; 
 the gleaming of the sword enrages you ; and then 
 the thousands of faces, the clamor, the music, the 
 bellowing, the blood, the profound silences and tu- 
 multuous bursts of applause, the vastness, the light, 
 the colors, the indescribable grandeur, courage, 
 cruelty, and magnificence, dazzle, amaze, and be- 
 wilder you. 
 
 It is a fine sight to see the people go out ; there 
 are ten torrents which pour from ten gates and flood 
 in a few moments the suburb of Salamanca, the 
 Prado, the avenues of the Recoletos, and the street 
 Alcala ; a thousand carriages wait at the exits of 
 
MADRID. 233 
 
 the circus ; for an hour, wherever one turns, one 
 sees only a swarm of human ants as far as the eye 
 can reach ; and all is silent : their passions have 
 exhausted them all ; one hears only the roar of pass- 
 ing feet ; it seems as if the crowd wishes to steal 
 away secretly ; a sort of sadness succeeds their 
 clamorous joy. I, for my part, as I came from the 
 circus for the first time, had scarcely strength to stand 
 on my feet ; my head was spinning like a top ; my ears 
 buzzed, and everywhere I saw the horns of bulls, eyes 
 swimming in blood, dead horses, and flashing swords. 
 I took the shortest way home, and as soon as I 
 arrived there tumbled into bed and fell into a heavy 
 sleep. 
 
 On the following morning the landlady came in 
 great haste to ask me, " Well, how did it strike 
 you ? Did it amuse you I Are you going again ? 
 What do you say ?" 
 
 '^ I do not know," I replied ; " it seems like 
 a dream. I will tell you later ; I must think it 
 over." 
 
 Saturday came, the day before the second bull- 
 fight. " Are you going ?" asked the landlady. 
 "No," I replied, thinking of something else. I 
 went out, turned into the street Alcala, and found 
 myself accidentally in front of the shop where 
 tickets are sold ; there was a crowd of people. 
 "Shall I go?" I asked myself "Yes or no?" 
 
 " Do you want a ticket ?" a boy demanded : " a 
 
234 MADRID. 
 
 shady seat, No. 6, near the barrier — fifteen reales ?" 
 " Done !" I replied. 
 
 But to clearly comprehend the nature of this 
 spectacle it is necessary to know its history. No 
 one knows certainly when the first bull-fight took 
 place : the tradition tells that the Cid Campeador 
 was the first cavalier to descend with his spear into 
 the arena and on horseback kill the terrible animal. 
 Later, the young nobles devoted themselves with 
 great ardor to this sport; bull-fights were held at 
 all the solemn feasts, and only to the nobility was 
 granted the honor of taking part in them ; even the 
 kings entered the arena. All through the Middle 
 Ages this was the favorite spectacle of the court — 
 the chosen exercise of warriors, not only among the 
 Spaniards, but among the Moors as well ; and they 
 both waged war in the circus as well as on the 
 battlefield. Isabella the Catholic wished to prohibit 
 the bull-fights, because she had been horrified on 
 once seeing them, but the numerous and powerful 
 patrons of the spectacle dissuaded her from putting 
 her purpose into effect. After Isabella the circus 
 received great encouragement. Charles V. with his 
 own hand killed a bull in the great square of Valla- 
 dolid ; Ferdinand Pizarro, the celebrated conqueror 
 of Peru, was a valiant torero ; King Sebastian of 
 Portugal won many laurels in the arena ; Philip III. 
 adorned the circus of Madrid ; Philip IV. fought in 
 
MADRID. 235 
 
 it ; Charles II. fostered the art ; in the reign of 
 Philip V. a number of circuses were built by order 
 of the government, but the honor of fighting 
 belonged exclusively to the nobility ; they fought 
 only on horseback, splendidly mounted, and yet the 
 only blood shed was that of the bull. 
 
 It was not until the middle of the last century 
 that the art became popular, and toreros, properly 
 called artists of the profession, who fought on foot 
 and on horseback, came into existence. The famous 
 Francisco Romero Deronda perfected the art of 
 fighting on foot, introduced the custom of killing 
 the bull face to face with the sword and muleta, and 
 established the practice. Thereupon ' the spectacle 
 became national and the people welcomed it with 
 enthusiasm. Charles III. forbade it, but his pro- 
 hibition only served to increase the popular en- 
 thusiasm into a complete epidemic, as a Spanish 
 chronicler puts it. King Ferdinand VII., who was 
 passionately fond of bulls, instituted a school of bull- 
 fighting at Seville. Isabella II. was more enthusias- 
 tic than Ferdinand VII. ; Amadeus I., it is said, was 
 not a whit behind Isabella II. And now bull-fight- 
 ing flourishes more than ever before in Spain ; there 
 are more than a hundred great proprietors who raise 
 bulls for the spectacles ; Madrid, Seville, Barcelona, 
 Cadiz, Valencia, Jerez, and Puerto de Santa Maria 
 have circuses of the first order ; there are no less 
 than fifty small circuses, with a capacity of from 
 
236 MADRID. 
 
 three to nine thousand spectators ; in all the villages 
 where there is no circus they hold the corridas in the 
 square. At Madrid they are held every Sunday, 
 and in the other cities whenever it is possible, and 
 they are always attended by a vast concourse of 
 people from the neighboring cities, villages, country- 
 side, mountains, islands, and even from foreign 
 countries. 
 
 It is true that all the Spaniards are not mad over 
 this spectacle ; many never attend ; not a few dis- 
 approve, condemn, and would be glad to see it 
 driven out of Spain ; some joui'nalists now and then 
 raise a cry of protest ; a deputy the day after a 
 torero is killed talks of petitioning the government ; 
 but its enemies are all timid and feeble. 
 
 On the othqr hand, apologies are written in 
 defence of the bull-fights, new circuses are built, old 
 ones are renewed, and the foreigners who cry out 
 against Spanish barbarity are laughed to scorn. 
 
 The corridas held in the summer are not the only 
 ones, nor is the spectacle always equally good. In 
 the circus there is an exhibition every Sunday 
 through the winter, but there are not those noble 
 and fiery bulls of the summer season, neither are 
 there the great artists whom Spain admires ; there 
 are bulls of smaller size and less courage, and toreros 
 not yet proficient in the art ; but there is a spectacle, 
 at all events, and, although the king does not attend 
 or the flower of the citizens as in the summer-time, 
 
MADEID. 237 
 
 the circus is always well filled. Little blood is shed, 
 only two bulls are killed, and the spectacle concludes 
 with fireworks ; it is an amusement fit for servants 
 and children, as the passionate lovers of the art say 
 in deprecation. 
 
 But there is one episode in the winter spectacles 
 which is especially amusing. When the toreros have 
 killed the toros de niuerte, the arena is placed at the 
 disposal of the dilettanti ; from every part the 
 people jump down, and in a moment there are a 
 hundred workmen, scholars, and street arabs, some 
 with cloaks in their hands, others with shawls, 
 others with any sort of a rag, who crowd to right 
 and left of the toril ready to receive the bull. The 
 door opens ; a bull with swathed horns rushes into 
 the arena, and there follows an indescribable tumult ; 
 the crowd surrounds, follows, and drags the bull here 
 and there, hitting him with their mantles and shawls, 
 plaguing and tormenting him in a thousand ways, 
 until the poor animal, entirely exhausted, is driven 
 from the arena and another takes his place. It is 
 incredible with what audacity those boys dart under 
 him, twist his tail, and jump on his back ; incredible 
 too is the agility with which they dodge the blows. 
 Sometimes the bull with a sudden turn strikes some 
 one, knocks him down, tosses him in the air, or lifts 
 him high on his horns ; again he upsets at one blow 
 a half dozen, and bull and men disappear in a cloud 
 of dust, while the spectator fears for an instant that 
 
238 MADRID. 
 
 some one has been killed. Nothing of the kind! 
 The intrepid capeadores jump up with bruised limbs 
 and dusty faces, shrug their shoulders, and face 
 him again. But this is by no means the best episode 
 of the winter spectacles. Sometimes the bulls are 
 confronted by toreras instead of toreros: these are 
 women dressed like tightrope-walkers, with faces be- 
 fore which not the angels, but even Lucifer, would 
 
 " Make with his wings a cover for his eyes." 
 
 The picadoras ride on mules ; the espada — the one 
 I saw was an old woman of sixty, Martina by name, 
 an Asturian, known in all the circuses in Spain, — 
 the espada fights on foot with the rapier, and the 
 niideta like the most intrepid matador of the 
 stronger sex. The entire cuadrilla is accompanied 
 by a train of chulos with great wings and humps on 
 their backs. These unfortunate women risk their 
 lives for forty francs ! A bull on the day when I 
 witnessed the spectacle broke the arm of one bande- 
 rillera and tore the petticoat of another, so that she 
 was left in the middle of the circus with scarcely 
 enough clothes on her back to cover her nakedness. 
 After the women, the wild beasts. At various 
 times they made the bull fight with lions and with 
 tigers ; it is only a few years since one of these com- 
 bats was held in the circus of Madrid. It was that 
 celebrated event which the count-duke de Olivares 
 commanded in honor of the birthday, if my memory 
 
MADRID. 239 
 
 does not fail me, of Don Baltasar Carlos of Asturia, 
 prince of the Asturias. The bull fought with a lion, 
 a tiger, and a leopard, and succeeded in conquering 
 them all. Also in a combat a few years ago the tiger 
 and the lion got the worst of it ; they both jumped 
 impetuously upon the back of the bull, but before 
 they were able to fasten their teeth in his neck they 
 fell to the ground in a pool of blood, pierced by the 
 terrible horns. Only the elephant — a huge elephant 
 which still lives in the gardens of Buen Retiro — car- 
 ried the day ; the bull attacked him, and he simply 
 placed his head on the bull's back and pressed, and 
 the pressure was so delicate that his reckless assail- 
 ant was crushed as flat as a pancake. 
 
 But it is not easy to imagine Avhat skill, what 
 courage, and what imperturbable tranquillity of 
 mind must be possessed by a man who with his 
 sword faces an animal that kills lions, attacks ele- 
 phants, and tears in pieces, crushes, and covers with 
 blood everything that he touches. And there are 
 men who face thorn every day. 
 
 The toreros are by no means artists, as one would 
 suppose, to be placed in the same category with 
 mountebanks and those for whom the people feel no 
 other sentiment than that of admiration. The torero 
 is respected even outside of the circus ; he enjoys 
 the protection of the young aristocrats, has his box 
 in the theatre, frequents the best caf^s in Madrid, 
 and is saluted in the street with a low bow by pei-- 
 
240 MADRID. 
 
 sons of refinement. Famous espadas like Frascuelo, 
 Lagartijo, and Cayetano receive the nice little sum 
 of about ten thousand francs a year ; they own 
 houses and villas, live in sumptuous apartments, 
 dress with elegance, spend heaps of money on their 
 costumes embroidered with gold and silver, travel 
 like nabobs, and smoke Havana cigars. Their dress 
 out of the circus is very curious : an Orsini hat of 
 black velvet ; a jacket fitting closely around the 
 waist, unbuttoned and reaching barely to the trou- 
 sers ; a waistcoat opened almost to the waist, which 
 allows a white shirt of very fine texture to be seen ; 
 no cravat ; a sash of red or blue silk about the loins ; 
 a pair of breeches fitting the limb like the tights of 
 a ballet-dancer ; a pair of low shoes, of morocco 
 leather, ornamented with embroidery ; a little peri- 
 wig falling down the back ; and then gold studs, 
 chains, diamonds, rings, and trinkets ; in short, an 
 entire jewelry-shop on their persons. Many keep 
 their saddle-horse and some their carriages, and 
 when they are not killing bulls they are always 
 walking in the Prado, at the Puerto del Sol, or in 
 the gardens of Recoletos with their wives and their 
 sweethearts, splendidly dressed and proudly affec- 
 tionate. Their names, their faces, and their deeds 
 are even better known to the people than the deeds, 
 faces, and names of their comiBanders and states- 
 man. Toreros in comedies, toreros in song, toreros 
 in pictures, toreros in the windows of the print- 
 
fllSata&ors, /IDabrlb. 
 
MADRID. 241 
 
 shops, statues of toreros, fans painted with toreros, 
 handkerchiefs with figures of toreros, — these one 
 sees again and again, on every occasion and in every 
 place. 
 
 The business of the torero is the most lucrative 
 and the most honorable to which a courageous son 
 of the people may aspire : very many, in fact, 
 devote themselves to it, but very few become pro- 
 ficient ; most of them remain mediocre capeadores, 
 a few become ianderiUeros of note, still fewer 
 famous picadores ,• only the few chosen ones of 
 nature and fortune become brave espadas : it is 
 necessary to come into the world with that bump 
 developed ; one is born an espada as one is born a 
 poet. Those killed by the bulls are very few, and 
 one may count them on one's fingers for a long 
 period of time ; but the crippled, the maimed, those 
 who are rendered unfit for the combat, are innu- 
 merable. One sees them in the city with canes and 
 crutches, some without an arm, others without a leg. 
 The famous Tato, the first of the toreros of modern 
 time, lost a leg ; in the few months which I spent 
 ia Spain a handerillero was half killed at Seville, a 
 picador was seriously wounded at Madrid, Lagartijo 
 was injured, and three amateur capeadores were 
 killed at a village. There is scarcely a torero who 
 has not bled in the arena. 
 
 Before leaving Madrid I wished to talk to the 
 Vol. I.— 16 
 
242 MADKID. 
 
 celebrated Frascuelo, the prince of espadas, the idol 
 of the people of Madrid, the glory of the art. A 
 Genoese captain who knew him took it upon himself 
 to present me : we fixed the day and met at the 
 Imperial Caf^ at the Puerto del Sol. It makes me 
 laugh when I think of my emotions on seeing him 
 in the distance and watching him come toward us. 
 He was very richly dressed, loaded with jewelry, 
 and resplendent as a general in full uniform ; as he 
 crossed the caf^ a thousand heads were turned and a 
 thousand eyes fixed upon him, my companion, and 
 myself: I felt myself growing pale. "This is 
 Signor Salvador Sanchez," said the captain (Fras- 
 cuelo is a surname). And then, presenting me to 
 Frascuelo, " This is Signor So-and-So, his admirer." 
 The illustrious matador bowed, I bowed more pro- 
 foundly ; we sat down and commenced to talk. 
 What a strange man ! To hear him talk one would 
 say that he had not the heart to stick a fly with a 
 pin. He was a young man, about twenty-five years 
 old, of medium stature, quick, dark, and handsome, 
 with a firm glance and the smile of an absent-minded 
 man. I asked him a thousand questions about his 
 art and his life ; he answered in monosyllables ; I 
 was obliged to draw the words from his mouth, one 
 by one, by a storm of questions. He replied to my 
 compliments by looking modestly at the tips of his 
 shoes. I asked him if he had ever been wounded ; 
 he touched his knee, thigh, shoulder, and breast, 
 
MADRID. 243 
 
 and said, " Here, and here, and here, and here too," 
 with the simplicity of a child. He obligingly wrote 
 out the address of his house for me, asked me to 
 come and see him, gave me a cigar, and went away. 
 Three days later, at the bull-fight, I had a seat near 
 the barrier, and as he paused near me to gather up 
 the cigars which the spectators threw him, I tossed 
 him one of those Milan cigars which are covered 
 with straw ; he picked it up, examined it, smiled, 
 and tried to discover who had thrown it : I made a 
 sign, he saw me and exclaimed, " Ah ! the Italian !" 
 I seem to see him yet ; he was dressed in gray 
 embroidered with gold, and one hand was stained 
 with blood. 
 
 But, in conclusion, a final judgment on the bull- 
 fights ! Are they or are they not a barbarous sport, 
 unworthy of a civilized people? Are they or are 
 they not a spectacle which corrupts the heart ? Now 
 for a frank opinion ! A frank opinion ? I do not 
 wish to answer in one way and to draw upon myself 
 a flood of invective, nor to answer otherwise and 
 put my foot in a trap, so I must confess that I went 
 to the circus every Sunday. I have told about it 
 and described it : the reader knows as much as I do ; 
 let him judge for himself and allow me to keep my 
 own counsel. 
 
 I saw at Madrid the famous funereal ceremony 
 which is celebrated every year on the second of May 
 
244 MADRID. 
 
 in honor of the Spaniards who died in battle or were 
 killed by the French soldiery eighty-seven years ago, 
 on that terrible day which filled Europe with horror 
 and led to the outbreak of the War of Independ- 
 ence. 
 
 At dawn there was a booming of cannon, and in 
 all the parish churches of Madrid and before an altar 
 erected near the monument they began to celebrate 
 mass, and continued to do so until nightfall. The 
 ceremony consists of a solemn procession, which 
 usually forms in the vicinity of the royal palace, 
 proceeds to the church of Saint Isadore, where until 
 1840 were interred the bones of the dead, to listen 
 to a sermon, and then to march on to the monument 
 to hear mass. 
 
 In all the streets where the procession is to pass 
 there are drawn up the volunteer battalions, the regi- 
 ments of infantry, squadrons of cuirassiers, the civil 
 foot-guard, the artillery, and cadets ; everywhere 
 bugles and drums are sounding and bands are play- 
 ing ; one sees in the distance, over the heads of the 
 crowd, a continual passing of the hats of generals, 
 the tossing plumes of adjutants, banners, and swords ; 
 all the streets are full of the carriages of members of 
 the Senate and the Cortes, as large as triumphal 
 chariots, gilded even to the wheels, upholstered in 
 velvet and silk, adorned with fringes and tassels, 
 and drawn by superbly plumed horses. The win- 
 dows of all the houses are ornamented with tap- 
 
MADRID. 245 
 
 estry and flowers ; the whole populace of Madrid is 
 astir. 
 
 I saw the procession pass through the street 
 Alcala. First came the huntsmen of the city militia ; 
 then the boys from all the schools, refuges, and hos- 
 pitals of Madrid — thousands of them, two by two ; 
 then the wounded veterans of the army, some on 
 crutches, some with bandaged heads, some supported 
 by their companions, some so feeble that they had to 
 be almost carried — soldiers and generals in their old 
 uniforms, with their breasts covered with medals and 
 lace, with long swords and plumed hats ; then a 
 crowd of the officers of the various corps, shining 
 with gold and silver and dressed in a thousand colors ; 
 then the high officers of state, the provincial depu- 
 ties, the members of Congress, the senators ; then 
 the heralds of the municipality and the chambers, 
 with flowing robes of velvet and maces of silver ; 
 then all the municipal clerks and all the judges of 
 Madrid, dressed in black with medallions at their 
 throats ; finally, the king in a general's uniform, on 
 foot, accompanied by the mayor, the captain-general 
 of the province, the generals, ministers, deputies, offi- 
 cers of ordnance, and aides-de-camp, all with bared 
 heads. The procession was ended by a hundred 
 mounted guards, resplendent as the warriors of the 
 Middle Ages; the royal guard on foot with great 
 shakos, after the fashion of the Napoleonic guard; 
 red swallow-tail coats, white breeches, wide shoulder- 
 
246 MADRID. 
 
 belts crossed over the breast, black gaiters to the 
 knee, swords, epaulets, cordons, buckles, and orna- 
 ments; then the volunteers, soldiers, infantry, artil- 
 lery ; and the people. They all marched with slow 
 step ; all the bands played, the bells tolled ; the 
 people were silent, and altogether, the children of the 
 poor, the priests, magistrates, wounded veterans, and 
 the grandees of Spain, presented an appearance of 
 dignity and magnificence which inspired at the time 
 a feeling of sympathy and reverence. 
 
 The procession turned into the Prado and pro- 
 ceeded toward the monument. The avenues, the 
 lawns, and the gardens were full of people. Ladies 
 were standing in their carriages, on chairs, and on 
 the stone seats, holding their children in their arms ; 
 there were people in the trees and on the roofs ; at 
 every step there were banners, funeral inscriptions, 
 lists of the victims of the second of May ; poems 
 pinned to the trunks of trees, newspapers with bor- 
 ders of black, prints representing episodes of the 
 massacre, wreaths, crucifixes, little tables with urns 
 for alms, lighted candles, pictures, statuettes, and 
 toys for children, with a model of the monument — 
 everywhere memorials of 1808, emblems and signs of 
 sorrow, festivity, and war. The men were almost all 
 dressed in black ; the women in gay holiday attire, 
 with long funeral trains and veils ; there were groups 
 of peasants from all the surrounding villages dressed in 
 lively colors, and through all the crowd one heard the 
 
MADRID. 247 
 
 discordant cries of water-carriers, guards, and 
 officers. 
 
 The monument of the second of May, which stands 
 at that point where the greater number of Spaniards 
 were shot, though it does not possess an artistic value 
 equal to its fame, is — to use a much-abused though 
 significant word — imposing. It is simple and bold, 
 and to many appears heavy and ungraceful ; but it 
 arrests one's glance and one's thought, even if one 
 does not know what it is ; for on first seeing it one 
 perceives that some event of importance must have 
 transpired in that place. Above an octagonal base 
 of four steps rises a great square sarcophagus 
 adorned with inscriptions and arms and a bas-relief 
 representing the two Spanish officers who were killed 
 on the second of May in the defence of the Artillery 
 Park. On the sarcophagus rises a pedestal in the 
 Doric style, on which stand four statues, symbolic 
 of Patriotism, Bravery, Constancy, and Virtue. In 
 the midst of the statues rises a high obelisk which 
 bears in characters of gold the words, Dos de Mayo. 
 Around the monument there extends a circular gar- 
 den intersected by eight avenues which converge 
 toward a common centre ; all of the avenues are 
 shaded by rows of cypresses, and the garden is en- 
 closed by an iron railing, which in its turn is encir- 
 cled by marble steps. This grove of cypresses, this 
 solitary enclosed garden in the midst of the gayest 
 promenade of Madrid, is like a vision of death ming- 
 
248 MADRID. 
 
 ling with the joys of life ; one cannot pass without 
 turning to look at it, and one cannot look at it with- 
 out thinking : at night, as it lies. in the moonlight, it 
 seems like a fantastic apparition and breathes an air 
 of solemn mystery. 
 
 The king arrived, mass was celebrated, all the 
 regiments marched past, and the ceremony was 
 ended. So to the present time they celebrate the 
 anniversary of the second of May, 1808, with a dig- 
 nity, an affection, and a veneration which do honor 
 not alone to the Spanish people, but to the human 
 heart. It is the true national festival of Spain, the 
 only day in the year when party strife sleeps and 
 all hearts are united in a common sentiment. And 
 in this sentiment, as one can readily believe, there is 
 no bitterness against France. Spain has thrown all 
 the blame of the war and the massacres which it oc- 
 casioned upon Napoleon and Murat ; the French are 
 welcomed amicably, like all other foreigners ; the 
 ill-fated days of May are mentioned only to celebrate 
 the honor of the dead and of their country ; every- 
 thing in this ceremony is noble and grand, and 
 before that sacred monument Spain has only words 
 of pardon and peace. 
 
 Another thing to be seen at Madrid is the cock- 
 fighting. 
 
 I read one day in the Correspondencia the follow- 
 
MADRID. 249 
 
 ing notice : " En la funcion que se celebrara manana 
 en el circo de Gallos de Recoletos, hubra, entre otras 
 dos peleas, en las que figurar^n gallos de los cono- 
 cidos aficionados Francisco Calderon y Don Jose 
 Diez, por lo que se espera sera muy animada la 
 diversion." 
 
 The spectacle commenced at noon : I was there. I 
 was impressed by the originality and grace of the 
 theatre. It looks like a mosque standing on a little 
 hill in a garden, but yet is large enough to hold at 
 least a thousand persons. In form it is a perfect 
 cylinder. In the middle rises a sort of a circular 
 stage about three hands high, covered with green 
 carpet and surrounded by a railing about as high as 
 the platform ; this is the battle-ground of the cocks. 
 Between the iron uprights of the railing is stretched 
 a very fine wire netting which keeps the combatants 
 from making their escape. Around this cage, which 
 is about as large as a dining-table, runs a circle of 
 arm-chairs, and behind them a second higher circle, 
 and both of them are upholstered in red cloth. Sev- 
 eral of the chairs on the first row bear inscriptions 
 written in big letters, Presidente, Secretario, and other 
 titles of the persons who compose the tribunal of the 
 spectacle. Beyond the arm-chairs rise tiers of 
 benches running back to the walls, and above them 
 extends a gallery supported by ten slender columns. 
 The light comes from above. The lively red of the 
 arm-chairs, the flowers painted on the walls, the 
 
250 MADRID. 
 
 columns, the light, and, in a word, the atmosphere 
 of the theatre, have about them something novel and 
 picturesque which pleases and exhilarates. At first 
 sight it seems like a place where one ought to listen 
 to joyous and refined music rather than witness a 
 fight between animals. 
 
 When I entered there were already a hundred 
 persons present. "What sort of people are these?" 
 I asked myself, and truly the frequenters of the 
 cock-fights do not resemble those of any other the- 
 atre : it is a mixture sui generis, such as one sees 
 only in Madrid. There are no women, no boys, no 
 soldiers, and no working-men, for it is a work-day 
 and at an inconvenient hour. But, nevertheless, one 
 sees here a greater variety of feature, dress, and 
 attitude than at any other popular gathering. The 
 spectators are all persons who have nothing to do the 
 livelong day — comedians with long hair and others 
 with bald heads ; toreros — Calderon, the famous 
 picador, was there — with red sashes around their 
 waists ; students bearing on their faces the trace of 
 nights spent at the gaming-table ; dealers in cocks ; 
 young dandies ; old amateur fanciers dressed in black 
 with black gloves and cravats. These sit around 
 the cage. Behind them are the rari nantes, some 
 Englishmen, some blockheads, of the class one sees 
 everywhere ; the servants of the circus, a cour- 
 tesan, and a policeman. With the exception of 
 the foreigners and the guard, the others — gentlemen, 
 
MADRID. 251 
 
 toreros, dealers, and actors — all know each other, 
 and talk among themselves, in one voice, of the 
 quality of the cocks announced in the programme, 
 of the exhibition, the bets made the previous day, 
 the chances of the struggle, the talons, feathers, 
 spurs, wings, beaks, and wounds, displaying the 
 very rich terminology of the sport and citing rules, 
 examples, the cocks of former days, fights, and 
 famous winnings and losses. 
 
 The spectacle began at the appointed hour. A 
 man presented himself in the middle of the circus 
 with a paper in his hand and commenced to read ; 
 they all became silent. He read a series of figures 
 which indicated the weight of the different pairs of 
 cocks that were to fight, because, pair by pair, the 
 one cock must not weigh more than the other, in 
 accordance with the rules laid down for cock-fight- 
 ing. The conversation began again, and then was 
 suddenly hushed. Another man came in with two 
 small cages under his arm, opened a gate in the 
 railing, stepped up on the platform, and fastened the 
 cages to the arms of a pair of balances suspended 
 from the ceiling. Two witnesses assured themselves 
 that the weights on the two ends were almost equal ; 
 everybody sat down ; the president took his position ; 
 the secretary cried Silencio ! the weigher and 
 another attendant each took one of the cages, and, 
 going to opposite doors in the railing, opened them 
 simultaneously. The cocks stepped out, the gates 
 
252 MADRID. 
 
 were closed, and for some moments the spectators 
 observed a profound silence. 
 
 They were two Andalusian cocks of English breed, 
 to repeat a curious definition given me by one of the 
 spectators. They were tall, thin, and straight as 
 arrows, with long necks, very flexible and totally 
 bare of feathers along the back and from the breast 
 up ; they were without crests, and had small heads 
 and eyes which betokened their warlike nature. 
 The spectators looked at them closely without say- 
 ing a word. The fanciers in a few moments judge 
 by the color, the form, and the movements of the two 
 animals which will probably be the victor ; then they 
 offer their bets. It is a very uncertain judgment, 
 as any one may understand, but it is the uncertainty 
 which gives zest to the sport. Suddenly the silence 
 is broken by an outburst of cries : " A crown on the 
 right one !" — " A crown on the left !" — " Done !" — 
 " Three crowns on the black !" — " Four crowns on 
 the gray !" — " Eighty francs on the small one !" — 
 " Done !" — " I take the bet on the gray !" 
 
 They all shout and wave their hands, and signal 
 to each other with their canes ; the bets cross in 
 every direction, and in a few moments there are a 
 thousand francs at stake. 
 
 The two cocks do not look at each other at first. 
 One turns in one direction, the other looks the 
 opposite way ; they crow, and crane their necks 
 toward the spectators, as if they are asking, " What 
 
MADRID. 253 
 
 do you want ?" Little by little, without making any 
 sign of having seen each other, they approach ; it 
 seems as though one is trying to take the other by 
 surprise ; suddenly, as quick as a flash, they spring 
 at each other with open wings, strike in the air, and 
 separate in a cloud of feathers. After the first 
 encounter they stop and plant themselves one before 
 the other, with their heads and beaks almost touch- 
 ing, motionless, and looking fixedly, as though they 
 wish to poison each other with their eyes. Then 
 they dash together again with great violence, and 
 after that the attacks follow without interruption. 
 
 They strike with their talons, spurs, and beaks ; 
 clasp each other with their wings, so that they look 
 like one cock with two heads ; they dodge under 
 each other, strike against the wires of the cage, 
 chase each other, fall, slip, and fly. Soon the blows 
 fall faster ; feathers fly from their heads ; their necks 
 turn as red as fire and they begin to bleed. Then 
 they fall to pecking each other on the head, around 
 and in the eyes ; they tear the flesh with the fury 
 of two maniacs afraid of being separated ; they seem 
 to know that one of them must die ; they utter not 
 a sound or a groan ; one hears only the beating of 
 their wings, the sound of breaking feathers and of 
 beaks striking the bones ; there is not a moment's 
 respite ; it is a fury which leads only to death. 
 
 The spectators watch all their motions intently, 
 count the fallen feathers, and number the wounds, 
 
254 MADRID. 
 
 and the shouting becomes all the time more excited 
 and the wagers heavier: "Five crowns on the 
 little one!" — "Eight crowns on the gray!" — 
 "Twenty crowns on the black!" — "Done" — 
 " Done !" 
 
 At a certain point one of the cocks makes a mo- 
 tion that betrays his inferior strength and begins to 
 show signs of weakening. While he still resists his 
 pecks become slower, the strokes of his spurs feebler, 
 and his springs lower. He seems to know that he 
 must die. He fights no longer to kill, but to keep 
 from being killed, retreats, flees, falls, raises himself, 
 returns to fall again, reels as though seized with ver- 
 tigo. Then the spectacle begins to grow horrible. 
 Before the failing enemy the victor grows fiercer; 
 his pecks fall fast and furious, striking the eyes of 
 his victim with the regularity of the needle of a sew- 
 ing-machine ; his neck flies back and forth with the 
 strength of a spring ; his beak seizes the flesh, 
 twists and tears it, then darts into the wound as if 
 seeking for the most secret fibre ; then he pecks the 
 head again and again as though he wishes to crack 
 the skull and tear out the brain. There are no 
 words to express the horror of that pecking, con- 
 tinuous, insatiable, inexorable. The victim defends 
 himself, flees, and runs around the cage, and after 
 him, beside him, hovering over him like a shadow, 
 with his head stretched over that of the fugitive, 
 follows the victor like a confessor, always pecking. 
 
MADEID. 255 
 
 piercing, and tearing. He has about him the air of 
 a jailer and executioner ; he seems to be whispering 
 in the ear of his victim and to accompany every 
 blow with an insult : " There ! take that ! suffer ! 
 die ! No ! live ; take this blow and this, and still 
 another !" A little of the cock's sanguinary fury is 
 instilled into your veins ; that cowardly cruelty in- 
 spires a longing for revenge ; one would strangle the 
 creature with one's hands and crush its head with 
 one's feet. The conquered cock, all bedraggled 
 with blood, featherless, and tottering, still tries now 
 and then to return the attack, gives a few pecks, 
 turns to flee, and dashes against the irons of the 
 railing to find a way of escape. 
 
 The bettors become more excited and shout even 
 louder than before. They can no longer bet on the 
 struggle, and so begin to bet on the agony : " Five 
 crowns that it does not make three attacks !" — " Ten 
 crowns that it does not make five !" — " Four crowns 
 that it does not make two !" — " Done !" — " Done !" 
 
 At this point I heard a remark which made me 
 shudder: " JEs ciego .'" ("It is blind.") 
 
 I approached the netting, looked at the conquered 
 cock, and averted my face in horror. It had no 
 skin, it had no eyes ; its neck was only a bloody 
 bone, its head a skull ; its wings, reduced to three or 
 four feathers, hung down like two rags ; it seemed 
 impossible that wounded as it was it could stiU live 
 and walk ; it no longer had any form. 
 
256 MADRID. 
 
 Nevertheless, that remnant, that monster, that 
 skeleton dripping with blood, still defended itself 
 and fought on in the dark, raising its broken wings 
 like two stumps, stretching out its fleshless neck, 
 shaking its skull at random, here and there, like a 
 new-born puppy. 
 
 It was so disgusting and horrible that I closed my 
 eyes to blur the sight. And the executioner con- 
 tinued to peck at the wounds, to pierce its eyeballs 
 and beat its naked skull ; it was no longer a fight : 
 it was torture ; it seemed as though the cock wished 
 to torment without killing ; sometimes, when its vic- 
 tim remained still for a moment, it bent over and ex- 
 amined it with the scrutiny of an anatomist ; some- 
 times it stepped off and looked down at it with the 
 indifference of a grave-digger ; then, again, it would 
 leap upon it with the greed of a vampire, peck, suck, 
 and tear it as vigorously as at first. Finally, the 
 dying fowl stopped suddenly, bent its head to the 
 ground as though overcome by sleep, and its execu- 
 tioner looked at it attentively and desisted. 
 
 Then the shouting was redoubled ; it was no 
 longer possible to bet on the convulsions of its 
 agony, so they bet on the symptoms of death : 
 " Five crowns that it will never raise its head !" — 
 " Three crowns that it raises it twice !" — " Done !" 
 —"Done!" 
 
 The dying cock slowly raised its head ; the ready 
 executioner leaped upon it with a storm of blows ; 
 
MADRID. 257 
 
 the shouting burst out again ; the victim made 
 another slight movement, received another pecking, 
 shook itself; received another blow; blood rushed 
 from its mouth ; it tottered and fell. The victor, 
 coward that he was, began to crow. An attendant 
 came and carried them both away. 
 
 All the spectators jumped to their feet and a clam- 
 orous conversation followed ; the winners laughed 
 loud and long, the losers swore, and one and all dis- 
 cussed the merits of the cocks and the chances of 
 the struggle : '' A good fight !" — " Good cocks !" — 
 " Poor cocks !" — " They were no good !" — " You 
 don't understand it, sir !"— " Good !"— " Bad !" 
 
 " Be seated, caballeros !" cried the president ; they 
 all sat down, and another fight started. 
 
 I glanced toward the battlefield and went out. 
 Some may not believe it, but that spectacle seemed 
 to me more horrible than my first bull-fight. I had 
 no idea of such ferocious cruelty ; I did not believe 
 until I saw it that one animal, after rendering 
 another powerless, would be able to abuse, torment, 
 and torture it in that manner with the fury of hate 
 and the luxury of revenge ; I had not believed that 
 the rage of a beast could reach the point of present- 
 ing the character of the most extravagant human 
 vice. Even now — and it is a long time since — 
 whenever I remember that spectacle I involuntarily 
 turn my head to one side as if to avoid the horrible 
 sight of that dying cock, and I never chance to place 
 
 Vol. I.— 17 
 
258 MADRID. 
 
 my hand on a railing without casting down my eyes 
 with the expectation of seeing the ground sprinkled 
 with feathers and blood. If you go to Spain, take 
 my advice, gentlefolk, and be content with the 
 bulls. 
 
 THE CONVENT OF THE ESCURIAL. 
 
 Before leaving for Andalusia, I went to see the fa- 
 mous convent of the Escurial, the Leviathan of ar- 
 chitecture, the eighth wonder of the world, the 
 grandest pile of granite on the earth ; and if you 
 wish other high-sounding names, you have only to 
 create them, but you will find none that has not pre- 
 viously been applied to the edifice. I left Madrid 
 early in the morning. 
 
 The village of the Escurial, which gives the con- 
 vent its name, lies about eight leagues from the city, 
 a short distance from the Guadarrama ; the road 
 crosses a desolate, arid plain bounded by a horizon 
 of snow-clad mountains. When I arrived at the 
 station of the Escurial a cold, drizzling rain was 
 falling, which chilled me through. 
 
 From the station to the village there is a climb of 
 half a mile. I entered a diligence, and after a few 
 minutes' ride was set down in a solitary street 
 bordered on the left by the convent, and on the 
 right by the houses of the village, and closed in the 
 distance by the mountains. At the first sight one 
 
Ubc Escurial. 
 
MADRID. 259 
 
 can make out nothing clearly : one expected to see a 
 building, and sees a city ; one does not know whether 
 one is already in the convent or still outside of it ; 
 on every side there are walls ; one goes forward, 
 and finds one's self in a square, looks around, and 
 sees streets, but has scarcely entered these before 
 the convent again closes around, and one has lost 
 one's bearings and does not know which way to turn. 
 The first feeling is one of sadness. The entire 
 building is of dirt-colored stone pointed with white 
 lines ; the roofs are covered with plates of lead. It 
 seems like a building of earth. The walls are very 
 high and bare, and there are a great number of 
 windows, which look like loopholes. One would call 
 it a prison rather than a convent. Everywhere one 
 sees that sombre, dead color ; there is hot a living 
 soul stirring, and the silence of an abandoned for- 
 tress broods over it ; beyond the black roofs rises 
 the black mountain, which seems to hang over the 
 edifice and give it an air of mysteinous solitude. 
 The place, the lines, the colors, everything, seems to 
 have been chosen by the founder for the purpose 
 of off'ering to the eyes of man a sad and solemn 
 spectacle. 
 
 Before entering you have lost your gaiety ; you 
 no longer smile ; you think. You are arrested at 
 the doors of the Escurial by a sort of trepidation, as 
 at the gates of a desolate city ; it seems that if the 
 terrors of the Inquisition still linger in any corner 
 
260 MADRID. 
 
 of the earth, they must be found within these walls ; 
 you would say that here one might see its last traces 
 and listen to its last echo. 
 
 Every one knows that the basilica and convent of 
 the Escurial were founded by Philip II. after the battle 
 of San Quintino, in fulfilment of a vow to Saint Law- 
 rence made during the siege where the besieging force 
 was obliged to storm a church consecrated to that saint. 
 Don Juan Batista of Toledo began the work, and 
 Herrera finished it ; twenty years were spent in its 
 construction. Philip II. wished the edifice to pre- 
 sent the form of a gridiron, in commemoration of 
 the martyrdom of Saint Lawrence, and such indeed 
 is its form. The foundation is a rectangular par- 
 allelogram. 
 
 At the four corners rise four great square towers 
 with pointed roofs, which represent the four feet of 
 the gridiron ; the church and the royal palace, 
 which rise on one side, are symbolic of the handle, 
 the interior buildings, which connect the two sides 
 lengthwise, answer for the cross-bars. Other 
 smaller buildings rise beyond the parallelogram at a 
 short distance from the convent, and extend along 
 one of the longer sides and one of the courts, form- 
 ing two great squares ; on the other two sides are 
 gardens. The facades, the doorways, the vestibules 
 — everything is in harmony with the grandeur and 
 dignity of the edifice, and it is useless to add de- 
 scription to description. The royal palace is most 
 
MADRID. 261 
 
 > 
 
 splendid, and it is well to see it before entering the 
 convent and the church, so as not to confuse the 
 different impressions. This palace occupies the 
 north-east corner of the structure. Some of the 
 rooms are full of paintings ; others hung from floor 
 to ceiling with tapestries designed by Goya, repre- 
 senting bull-fights, popular balls, sports, festivals, 
 and Spanish costumes ; others royally furnished and 
 adorned ; the pavement, the doors, the windows 
 covered with marvellous workmanship in mosaic and 
 superb gilding. 
 
 But the chamber of Philip II. is the important one 
 among all these rooms — a cell rather than a room, 
 bare and squalid, with an alcove which opens into 
 the royal oratory of the church, so that from the 
 bed, when the doors are closed, one may see the 
 priests saying mass. Philip II. slept in that cell, 
 there he had his last sickness, and there he died. 
 One may still see some chairs which he used, his 
 writing-desk, and two small benches on which he 
 rested his gouty leg. The walls are white, the 
 ceiling is flat and without ornament, and the floor 
 is of brick. 
 
 After seeing the royal palace one leaves the build- 
 ing, crosses the square, and re-enters by the princi- 
 pal doorway. A guide attaches himself to your 
 person ; you are led through a large vestibule and 
 find yourself in the Courtyard of the Kings. 
 
 Then, for the first time, you are able to form an 
 
262 MADEID. 
 
 idea of the vast skeleton of the edifice. The court- 
 yard is entirely surrounded by walls ; on the side 
 opposite the doorway rises the fagade of the church. 
 From the spacious platform rise six enormous Doric 
 columns, each of which supports a great pedestal 
 and every pedestal a statue. There are six colossal 
 statues by Battista Monegro, representing Jehosa- 
 phat, Ezekiel, David, Solomon, Joshua, and Manas- 
 seh. The courtyard is paved with stone sprinkled 
 with bits of mouldy turf; the walls look like rocks 
 cut in vertical lines ; everything is rigid, massive, 
 and heavy, and offers the fantastic appearance of a 
 building carved by Titans out of the solid mountain, 
 ready to defy the shocks of time and the thunder- 
 bolts of heaven. There one begins to understand 
 what the Escurial is. 
 
 One mounts the platform and enters the church. 
 
 The interior of the church is bare and gloomy ; 
 four enormous pilasters of gray granite bear up the 
 vaulted roof painted in fresco by Luca Giordano ; 
 beside the great altar, carved and gilded in the 
 Spanish style, and between the columns of the two 
 royal oratories, one sees two groups of bronze statues, 
 kneeling figures with clasped hands stretched toward 
 the altar — on the right, Charles V., the empress Isa- 
 bella, and several princesses ; on the left, Philip II. 
 with his wives. Over the doorway of the church, 
 thirty feet from the ground, at the end of the great 
 nave, rises the choir, with two rows of seats, in the 
 
MADRID. 263 
 
 Corinthian style and simple in design. In a corner 
 near a secret door is the seat where Philip II. used 
 to sit. Through that door he received letters and 
 important despatches without being seen by the 
 priests chanting in the choir. This church, which, 
 compared with the whole edifice, seems very small, 
 is nevertheless one of the largest churches in Spain, 
 and, although it appears so devoid of ornament, con- 
 tains a vast wealth of marbles, gold, relics, and 
 paintings, which a dim light in part conceals, and 
 from which the attention is diverted by the gloomi- 
 ness of the building. Besides the thousand works 
 of art which one sees in the chapels, in the rooms 
 which open out of the church, and on the staircases 
 which lead to the galleries, there is in a corridor 
 behind the choir a superb white marble crucifix, the 
 work of Benvenuto Cellini, which bears the inscrip- 
 tion, Benvenutus Zalinus, civis Florentinus, facebat 
 1562. In other parts one sees paintings by Navar- 
 rete and Herrera. But all surprise is overwhelmed 
 by a feeling of sadness. The color of the stone, the 
 dim light, the profound silence which encircles you 
 incessantly draw your thoughts to the vastness, the 
 hidden recesses, and the solitude of the edifice, and 
 leave no place for the indulgence of your admiration. 
 The appearance of that church inspires an inexpres- 
 sible sense of restlessness. You would know by in- 
 tuition, if you had not learned it otherwise, that 
 around those walls for a long distance extend only 
 
264 MADRID. 
 
 granite, shadows, and silence ; you feel that measure- 
 less structure without seeing it ; you feel that you 
 are standing in the midst of a forsaken city ; you 
 would hasten your steps to see it at once, to free 
 yourself from the incubus of that mystery, and to 
 seek, if anywhere they might be found, light, noise, 
 and life. 
 
 From the church, through several bare, cold 
 rooms, one passes into the sacristy, a large, vaulted 
 chamber, along one of whose walls runs an unbroken 
 row of wardrobes made of various fine woods. It 
 contains also a series of paintings by Eibera, 
 Giordano, Zurbaran, Tintoretto, and other Spanish 
 and Italian painters ; and at the end stands the fa- 
 mous altar of the Santa forma, with the very cele- 
 brated painting of poor Claude Coello, who died of 
 a broken heart when Luca Giordano was summoned 
 to the Escurial. The effect of this painting is truly 
 above all expectation. It represents with life-size 
 figures the procession which once marched to place 
 the Santa forma in that very spot ; it depicts the 
 sacristy and the altar, the prior kneeling on the 
 steps, with the casket and the sacred Host in his 
 hands ; around him are grouped the deacons on 
 one side, Charles II. on his knees, and beyond the 
 monks, priests, collegians, and the other worship- 
 pers. The figures are so life-like and natural, the 
 perspective so true, the coloring, shading, and light 
 so effective, that on first entering the sacristy one 
 
MADRID. 265 
 
 mistakes the painting for a mirror which reflects a 
 religious ceremony being celebrated at that moment 
 in the next room. Then the illusion vanishes, but 
 one is still deceived as to the background of the pic- 
 ture, and it is actually necessary to approach close 
 enough to touch it before one believes that it is only 
 a painted canvas and not another sacristy. On the 
 festival days the canvas is rolled up, and there ap- 
 pears in the centre of a little chapel a small temple 
 of gilded bronze, within which one sees a magnif- 
 icent casket, which contains the sacred Host, adorned 
 with ten thousand rubies, diamonds, amethysts, and 
 garnets arranged in the form of dazzling rays. 
 
 From the sacristy we went to the Pantheon. A 
 guide led the way with a lighted torch : we de- 
 scended a long granite staircase and came to a sub- 
 terranean door, where not a single ray of light pene- 
 trated. Over this door one reads the following 
 inscription in gilded letters of bronze : 
 " God great and omnipotent ! 
 
 "A place consecrated by the piety of the Aus- 
 trian dynasty to the mortal remains of the Catholic 
 kings, who are looking for that day of their desire, 
 under the great altar sacred to the Eedeemer of 
 the human race. Charles V., the most illustrious of 
 the Caesars, desired this for the last resting-place of 
 himself and his lineage ; Philip 11., the most prudent 
 of kings, planned it ; Philip III., a monarch of sin- 
 cere piety, made a beginning of the work; Philip 
 
266 MADRID. 
 
 IV., great in his clemency, constancy, and devotion, 
 enlarged, adorned, and brought it to completion in 
 the year of our Lord 1654." 
 
 The guide entered: I followed him and found 
 myself surrounded by sepulchres, or rather in a 
 sepulchre, as dark and cold as a grotto in a moun- 
 tain-side. It is a little octagonal chamber built en- 
 tirely of marble, with a small altar on the side oppo- 
 site the door, and in the remaining space from floor 
 to ceiling, one above the other, tombs adorned with 
 bronze ornaments and bas-reliefs ; the ceiling is 
 under the great altar in the church. To the right 
 of the altar are the tombs of Charles V., Philip II., 
 Philip III., Philip IV., Louis I., the three Don Car- 
 los, and Ferdinand VII. ; on the left, the empresses 
 and queens. The guide placed his torch near the 
 tomb of Maria Louisa of Savoy, the spouse of 
 Charles III., and said to me with an air of mystery, 
 " Read." The marble is ruled in different direc- 
 tions ; with a little study I was able to distinguish 
 five letters ; they form the name Luisa, written by 
 the queen herself with the point of her scissors. 
 
 Suddenly the guide extinguished his torch and 
 we were left in the dark ; the blood froze in my 
 veins. " Light it !" I cried. The guide laughed a 
 long, ghostly laugh, which seemed to me like a death- 
 rattle, and replied, " Lool !" I looked : a faint ray of 
 light, entering through a chink near the ceiling, stole 
 along the wall almost to the pavement, shedding light 
 
XTomb of Cbarles D, JEscurial. 
 
MADRID. 267 
 
 enough merely to make visible some tombs of the 
 queens : it seemed like a beam of moonlight, and the 
 bas-reliefs and the bronzes on the tombs gleamed in 
 that uncanny glimmer as though they were dripping 
 with water. At that moment I perceived, for the 
 iirst time, the odor of that sepulchral air, and a 
 tremor of fear seized me : in imagination I entered 
 those tombs and saw all those stiffened corpses ; I 
 soijght an escape through the vaulted roof, and found 
 myself alone in the church. I fled from the church 
 and lost myself in the labyrinth of the convent ; 
 presently I came to myself in the midst of the tombs, 
 and felt that I was truly in the heart of that mon- 
 strous edifice, in its deepest part. I seemed to be a 
 prisoner entombed in that mountain of granite, which 
 was everywhere closing in upon me and pressing me 
 on all sides, and would finally crush me, and I thought, 
 with indescribable sadness, of the sky, the country, 
 and the free air as of another world, " Sir," said 
 the guide solemnly before going out, extending his 
 hand toward the tomb of Charles V., " the emperor 
 is there, just as he was when they placed him there, 
 with his eyes still open, so that he seems alive and 
 speaking : it is a miracle of God performed for pur- 
 poses of his own. He who lives will see." And 
 speaking these last words, he made the sign of the 
 cross, as though he was afraid the emperor might 
 hear, and led the way to the stairs. 
 
 After the church and the sacristy one goes to 
 
268 MADRID. 
 
 visit the picture-gallery, which contains a great 
 number of paintings by artists of every nation, 
 although not the best examples, for they were taken 
 to the Madrid gallery, but, at any rate, paintings of 
 sufficient merit to warrant a visit of a few hours. 
 
 From the picture-gallery one proceeds to the 
 library by the great staircase, over which rises a 
 high vaulted ceiling wholly covered with frescoes by 
 Luca Giordano. The library consists of a hall of 
 great size adorned with large allegorical pictures : it 
 contains more than fifty thousand precious volumes, 
 four thousand of which were presented by Philip II. 
 There is also another room, containing a very rich 
 collection of manuscripts. 
 
 From the library one goes to the convent. Here 
 the imagination of man is lost. If any of my readers 
 has read the Estudiante de Salamanca of Espronceda, 
 he wUl remember how that indefatigable youth, in 
 pursuing a mysterious lady whom he met at night 
 at the foot of the chapel stairs, followed her from 
 street to street, from square to square, from alley to 
 alley, turning and twisting and going in circles, 
 until he reached a point where he saw no longer the 
 houses of Salamanca, but found himself in an un- 
 known city, and how, as he continued to turn cor- 
 ners, cross squares, and hurry through the streets, 
 the city seemed to enlarge as he advanced, and the 
 streets to stretch away, and the alleys to make a 
 thicker network, and how he went on and ever on 
 
MADRID. 269 
 
 without rest, not knowing whether he was asleep or 
 awake, drunken or mad ; and fear began to pene- 
 trate his iron heart and the strangest fancies 
 crowded upon his bewildered mind. So is it with 
 the stranger in the convent of the Escurial. 
 
 You pass through a long subterranean corridor, so 
 narrow that you can touch the walls with your 
 elbows, so low that your head almost strikes the 
 ceiling, and damp as a submarine grotto, until you 
 reach the end, turn around, and find yourself in 
 another corridor. You go forward, come to doors 
 and look through them : other corridors stretch away 
 as far as the eye can reach. At the end of one you 
 may see a ray of light, at the end of another an 
 open door which allows you to peep into a suite of 
 rooms. Now and then you hear the echo of a pass- 
 ing footstep ; you stop and the sound dies away ; 
 then it comes again, but you cannot tell whether it 
 is over your head, to the right or left, behind or in 
 front. You step up to a door and turn back ter- 
 rified. At the end of the interminable corridor along 
 which your glance has run you have seen a man 
 standing motionless as a spectre, looking at you. 
 You hurry on and come out into a narrow courtyard 
 surrounded by very high walls, grass-grown, hollow- 
 sounding, and lighted by a wan light which seems to 
 descend from an unknown sun — places like the 
 courts of the witches of which they told us in our 
 childhood. 
 
70 MADRID. 
 
 You leave the courtyard, mount a flight of stairs, 
 nter an upper gallery, and look around : it is 
 QOther court, silent and deserted. You turn down 
 nother corridor, climb another staircase, and find 
 ourself in a third court ; then, again, corridors and 
 ;airs and suites of empty rooms and narrow court- 
 ards ; and everywhere granite, grass, a sickly light, 
 ad a sepulchral silence. For a little while you 
 link you can retrace your steps ; then the mind 
 Bcomes confused, and you remember nothing ; it 
 sems as though you had walked ten miles — that 
 ou have been a month in this labyrinth and can 
 3ver escape. 
 
 You approach a courtyard and say, "I have seen 
 lis already." No, you are mistaken ; it is another, 
 bu believe that you are in a certain part of the 
 iifice when you are in the opposite part. You ask 
 le guide where the cloister is, and he replies, 
 This is it," and you walk on for half an hour, 
 ou seem to be dreaming : you see a succession of 
 mg walls flitting past, frescoed, hung with paint- 
 igs, crosses, and inscriptions ; you see and forget 
 id ask yourself, " Where am I !" 
 
 You see the light of another world; you have 
 ever seen just such a light : is it the reflection from 
 le stone, or does it come from the moon ? No, it is 
 aylight, but sadder than darkness — unreal, gloomy, 
 nd fantastic. And as you go on from corridor to 
 arridor, from court to court, you look ahead with 
 
MADEID. ' 271 
 
 misgivings, expecting to see suddenly, as you turn a 
 corner, a row of skeleton monks with hoods over 
 their eyes and crosses in their hands ; you think of 
 Philip II., and seem to hear his heavy footsteps 
 slowly retreating through the dark passages ; you 
 remember all that you have read about him, of his 
 terrors and the Inquisition, and everything becomes 
 clear to your mind's eye with a sudden light ; for 
 the first time you understand it all : the Escurial is 
 Philip II. You see it at every step, you feel it at 
 every breath ; he is still there, alive and terrible, 
 with the image of his dreadful God. Then you 
 would rebel and raise your thoughts to the God of 
 your heart and your aspirations, and conquer the 
 mysterious terror which the place inspires, but you 
 cannot : the Escurial surrounds, holds, and crushes 
 you ; the chill of its walls penetrates to your mar- 
 row ; the gloom of its sepulchral labyrinthine pas- 
 sages invades your soul ; if you were with a friend, 
 you would say, " Let us go out ;" if perchance you 
 were with a loved one, you would clasp her to your 
 heart in trepidation ; if you were alone, you would 
 flee. Finally, you climb a staircase, enter a room, 
 approach a window, and with a cry of gratitude 
 hail the mountains, the sun, liberty, and the great 
 and beneficent God who loves and pardons. 
 
 What a long breath you draw at that window ! 
 
 From it you see the gardens, which fill but a small 
 space and are very simple ; but who can tell how 
 
272 MADRID. 
 
 elegant and beautiful they are, and in what perfect 
 harmony with the building 1 You see twelve grace- 
 ful fountains, each surrounded by four plots of 
 myrtle, which represent royal shields, designed with 
 exquisite taste and trimmed with such nicety that as 
 one looks down at them from the windows they look 
 like fabrics of plush and velvet, and form a very 
 grateful contrast to the white sand of the paths. 
 There are no trees, flowers, nor arbors : in all the 
 garden one sees only the fountains, the plots of 
 myrtle, and the two colors, green and white ; and so 
 charming is that dignified simplicity that one cannot 
 bear to leave it, and when one has looked away the 
 memory returns there and rests with a sweet subdued 
 sense of pensive sadness. 
 
 In a room near that from which I looked at the 
 garden the guide made me look at a collection of 
 relics, which I examined in silence, without allowing 
 him to suspect my secret feeling of doubt. There 
 is a piece of the Holy Cross, presented by the Pope 
 to Isabella II. ; a bit of wood stained with the blood 
 of Saint Lawrence, which is still visible; Saint 
 Theresa's inkhorn, and other objects, among them a 
 little portable altar which belonged to Charles V., a 
 crown of thorns, a pair of tweezers used for tortui-e, 
 found I know not where. Thence I was led to the 
 dome of the church, from which one enjoys a 
 splendid view. On one side the view extends over 
 all the mountainous country which lies between the 
 
MADKID. 273 
 
 Escurial and Madrid ; on the other one sees the 
 snowy mountains of Guadarrama ; below one com- 
 prehends at a glance the whole of the measureless 
 edifice, the long lead-colored roofs, the towers, the 
 courtyards, the cloisters, the porticoes, and the 
 galleries ; one may pass in thought through the 
 thousand windings of the corridors and stairways, 
 and say, " An hour ago I was below there — here — 
 up there — down there — over yonder," marvelling 
 that one has made so great a journey, and delighted 
 to have escaped from that labyrinth, those tombs 
 and shadows, and to be able to return to the city and 
 see one's friends again. 
 
 An illustrious traveller has said that after passing 
 a day in the Escurial one ought to be happy through- 
 out the rest of one's life, with the single thought 
 that one might still be within those walls ; and it is 
 almost true : even now, after so long a time, on 
 rainy days, when I am feeling sad, I think of the 
 Escurial, and then look at the walls of my room and 
 congratulate myself; in sleepless nights I see again 
 the courtyards of the Escurial ; when I am sick and 
 my sleep is broken and uneasy, I dream of wander- 
 ing through those corridors alone in the dark, fol- 
 lowed by the ghost of an old friar, crying and pound- 
 ing at all the doors without finding a way of escape, 
 until I rush headlong into the Pantheon, and the 
 door clashes on my heels, and I remain entombed 
 among the sepulchres. With what pleasure did I 
 
 Vol. I.— 18 
 
274 MADRID. 
 
 see again the thousand lights of the Puerta del Sol, 
 the crowded cafgs, and the great noisy street of 
 Alcala! On re-entering the house I made such a 
 racket that the servant, a good simple Galician girl, 
 ran breathless to her mistress and said, " I think the 
 Italian has gone mad !" 
 
 I was more amused by the deputies of the Cortes 
 than by either the cocks or the bulls. I was suc- 
 cessful in obtaining a little corner in the reporters' 
 gallery, and went there every day, staying until the 
 very end with infinite pleasure. The Spanish Par- 
 liament has a more youthful appearance than ours — 
 not because the deputies are younger, but because 
 they are nattier and better dressed. One does not 
 see those dishevelled heads of hair, those unkempt 
 beards, and colorless surtouts which are to be seen 
 on the benches of our Chamber : one sees smooth 
 and shiny beards and hair, embroidered shirts, long 
 black coats, light trousers, tan gloves, silver-headed 
 canes, and button-hole bouquets. The Spanish 
 Parliament follows the fashion-plate. And as is the 
 dress, so is the speech, lively, gay, flowery, and 
 brilliant. We are continually lamenting that our 
 deputies are more careful of form than is becoming 
 to political orators, but the Spanish deputies observe 
 this even more studiously, and, it must be admitted, 
 with even greater grace. Not only do they speak 
 
A: 
 
 rn 
 
 Cbamber of deputies anb Statue ot Cervantes, 
 /lDa&ri&. 
 
MADRID. 275 
 
 with marvellous facility, so that one very rarely 
 hears one of them pause in the middle of a period 
 to find a word, but, moreover, every one tries to 
 speak correctly and to add to his speech a certain 
 poetical lustre, a little classical polish, and a slight 
 impress of the grand oratorical style. The gravest 
 ministers, the most timid deputies, the sternest 
 financiers, even when they use arguments utterly 
 foreign to rhetorical treatment, embellish their 
 speeches with verses from the anthology, with 
 happy anecdotes, and famous quotations, and 
 apostrophes to culture, liberty, and patriotism ; and 
 they talk as rapidly as though they were reciting 
 something committed to memory, with an intonation 
 always measured and euphonious, and a variety of 
 pose and gesture of which one never tires for an 
 instant. And the journals, in criticising the speeches, 
 praise the elevation of their style, praise the purity 
 of their language, los pasgos sublimes (the sublime 
 flashes), which appear admirable if they are writ- 
 ing of their friends, be it understood, or, on the 
 other hand, they say in disparagement that the style 
 is slipshod, the language corrupt, the form — ^that 
 precious form ! — in a word unpolished, base, and 
 unworthy of the splendid traditions of Spanish 
 oratory. 
 
 This cultivation of form, this great facility of 
 speech, degenerates into vanity and bombast, and it 
 is true that one must not search in the Parliament of 
 
76 MADRID. 
 
 Tadrid for examples of genuine political eloquence ; 
 ut it is none the less true, as is universally con- 
 Bded, that this Parliament, among all those of 
 lurope, is richest in oratory in the general accepta- 
 on of that word. One should hear a discussion on 
 )me important political measure which stirs the 
 assions of the deputies. It is a veritable battle ! 
 'here are no longer speeches, but torrents of words 
 hich drive the stenographers mad and confuse the 
 eads of those in the galleries. There are tones, 
 Bstures, violent expressions, bursts of inspired elo- 
 aence, which remind one of the French Assembly 
 I the turbulent days of the Revolution. There one 
 ears Rios Rosas, a most violent orator, who rules 
 le tumult with a roar ; a Martos, an orator of dis- 
 nguished figure, who destroys by ridicule ; a Pi y 
 [argall, a venerable old man, who terrifies by his 
 loomy predictions ; a Colantes, an indefatigable 
 weaker, who crushes the Chamber under an ava- 
 inche of words ; a Rodriguez, who with marvellous 
 exibility of argument and illustration pursues, en- 
 mgles, and strangles his enemies ; and, in the centre 
 F a hundred others, a Castelar, who conquers and 
 Qslaves both friends and enemies by a flood of 
 oetry and harmony. And this Castelar, famous 
 iroughout Europe, is reaUy the most perfect ex- 
 ression of Spanish eloquence. He carries the culti- 
 ation of form almost to idolatry ; his eloquence is 
 Lusic ; his argument a slave to his ear ; he says a 
 
MADEID. 277 
 
 thing or leaves it unsaid, or says it in one sense 
 rather than in another, according as it turns or fails 
 to turn a period ; there is a harmony in his mind 
 which he follows and obeys, and to which he sacri- 
 fices everything that can possibly offend ; with him 
 a period is a strophe, and one must hear him to 
 believe that human speech without the cadence of 
 poetry and the aid of song is able to approach so 
 closely to the harmony of song and poetry. He is 
 more of an artist than a politician, and he has not only 
 the genius, but the heart, of an artist — the heart of 
 a child incapable of anger or resentment. In aU his 
 speeches no one can find a ground of offence ; in the 
 Cortes he has never provoked a serious dispute of a 
 personal nature ; he never has recourse to satire and 
 never uses irony ; in his most violent philippics 
 there is no touch of bitterness ; and this is a proof 
 of these assertions : although he is a Republican, an 
 opponent of all the ministers, an aggressive journal- 
 ist, a continual adversary to every one who exercises 
 any power, and of every one who is not a fanatic on 
 the subject of liberty, he has never had an enemy. 
 Consequently, his speeches are enjoyed and are not 
 feared ; his words are too beautiful to terrify ; his 
 character too ingenuous for him to exercise a politi- 
 cal influence ; he does not know how to fight, to con- 
 spire, and to accomplish his ends through bribery ; 
 it is his function only to please and to shine : his 
 eloquence even at his grandest is tender, his most 
 
278 MADEID. 
 
 beautiful speeches make one weep. To him the 
 Chamber is a theatre. Like an improvisatore, to have 
 a full and serene inspiration he is obliged to speak at 
 a given hour, at a predetermined moment, and with 
 a certain period of time at his disposal. Accordingly, 
 on the day when he wishes to speak he makes his 
 arrangement with the president of the chamber ; the 
 president so disposes the business that his speech 
 may begin when the galleries are crowded and all 
 the deputies are in their seats ; his papers announce 
 his speech on the previous evening in order that the 
 ladies may procure tickets, for he must have popu- 
 lar attention. Before speaking he is restless and 
 cannot be still for an instant ; he enters the Cham- 
 ber, goes out, comes back, turns to go out again, 
 hurries along the corridors, goes to the library to 
 consult a book, rushes into a ca,f6 for a glass of 
 water, seems to be stricken with fever : he imagines 
 that he will not be able to pronounce two words — 
 that he will appear ridiculous and be hissed : not a 
 single idea of his speech remains clear in his mind ; 
 he has confused and forgotten everything. " How 
 is your pulse?" his friends ask him with a smile. 
 The solemn moment arrives ; he rises from his seat 
 with bowed head, trembling and pale, like a man 
 condemned to death, resigned to lose in a single day 
 the glory won in so many years and with so great 
 labor. At that moment his very enemies pity his 
 condition. He raises his head, casts a glance around, 
 
MADEID. 279 
 
 and says, " Sehores !" He is saved ; his courage is 
 renewed ; his mind clears, and his speech takes 
 form again like a forgotten air ; the president, the 
 Cortes, the galleries vanish ; he feels only the irre- 
 sistible flame which burns within him — the mys- 
 terious force which sustains him. It is fine to hear 
 him say these words. "I no longer see the walls of 
 the Chamber," he says; "I see distant lands and 
 people never seen before." He speaks hour after 
 hour, and not a deputy leaves the hall, not a person 
 moves in the galleries, not a voice interrupts, not a 
 motion disturbs him ; not even when he transgresses 
 the rules has the president courage to stop him ; he 
 pictures at his pleasure the image of his republic 
 clothed in white and crowned with roses, and the 
 monarchists do not rise in protest, for when so 
 clothed they too find her beautiful. Castelar is the 
 ruler of the Assembly ; he thunders, lightens, sings, 
 roars, and flashes like fireworks, provokes laughter, 
 calls forth shouts of enthusiasm, ends in a tremen- 
 dous tumult of applause, and disappears with head 
 erect. Such is the famous Castelar, professor of 
 history in the university — a most fertile writer on 
 politics, art, and religion ; a publicist who annually 
 receives fifty thousand francs from the journals of 
 America ; an academician unanimously elected a 
 member of the Academia espanola — pointed out in 
 the streets, hailed with joy by the people, loved by 
 his enemies, noble, vain, generous, and happy. 
 
280 MADRID. 
 
 While we are on the subject of political eloquence 
 let us glance at literature. 
 
 Imagine a hall in the Academy full of noise and 
 confusion. A crowd of poets, novelists, and writers 
 of every sort, nearly all of them having a French 
 air in their expression and manner, although very 
 studious to conceal it. They are reading and de- 
 claiming from their own works, each one trying to 
 drown the voice of the others, to the end that he 
 may make himself heard by the people who crowd 
 the galleries, while they, on their part, put through 
 the time by reading the papers and discussing poli- 
 tics. Now and then a clear, sonorous voice rises 
 above the tumult, and then a hundred voices burst 
 forth together from one corner of the room, crying, 
 " He is a Carlist !" and a flood of hisses drowns 
 the cry ; or, on the other hand, " He is a Republi- 
 can !" and another flood of hisses from the other side 
 drowns the clear, sonorous voice. The academicians 
 crush their papers into balls, throw them at each 
 other, and shout in each other's ears, '' Atheist !" 
 — " Jesuit !"— "Innovator !" — " Weathercock !" — 
 " Traitor !" 
 
 By listening attentively to those who are read- 
 ing one may catch harmonious stanzas, well-turned 
 periods, powerful phrases : the first effect is agree- 
 able ; the prose and poetry are indeed full of fire, 
 life, flashes of light, and happy comparisons, drawn 
 from everything that one hears and sees in the sky, 
 
MADRID. 281 
 
 the earth, and the sea ; and it is all dimly lighted 
 with the colors of the Orient and richly clothed in 
 Italian harmonies. But, alas ! it is literature only 
 for the eyes and the ears ; it is only music and 
 painting ; on rare occasions the Muse drops a gem 
 of thought in the midst of a shower of flowers, and 
 of this bright shower there remains only a lingering 
 perfume in the air and the echo of a dying murmur 
 on the ear. 
 
 Meanwhile one hears in the street the shouts of 
 the people, the firing of guns, and the beating of 
 drums ; at every moment some artist deserts the 
 ranks and goes to wave a banner among the crowd ; 
 they separate in twos and threes and in larger 
 groups and go to swell the crowd of journalists ; 
 the turmoil and the continuous turning of Fortune's 
 wheel dissuade the most industrious from lengthy 
 works ; it is in vain that some solitary figure in the 
 crowd cries, '' In the name of Cervantes, stop !" 
 A few strong voices are raised above this clamor, 
 but they are the voices of men who hold themselves 
 apart, many of whom will soon make that voyage 
 from which there is no return. There is the voice 
 of Hartzenbusch, the prince of the drama ; the voice 
 of Breton de las Herreros, the prince of comedy ; 
 the voice of Zorilla, the prince of poetry ; there is 
 the Orientalist, Gayangos ; the archeologist, Guerra ; 
 a writer of comedies, called Tamayo ; a novelist, 
 Fernand Caballero by name ; Amador de los Rios, 
 
282 MADRID. 
 
 a critic ; Fernandez j Gonzalez, a novelist ; and a 
 host of other able and productive writers. In the 
 midst of these there still lives the memory of 
 Quintana, the great poet of the Revolution; of 
 Espronceda, the Byron of Spain ; of a Nicasio 
 Gallego, a Martinez della Rosa, and a duke di Rivas. 
 But the tumult, the disorder, and the discord burst 
 through like a torrent and engulf everything. 
 
 To leave allegory, Spanish literature finds itself in 
 a condition similar to ours — a group of illustrious 
 writers whose powers are failing, but who have had 
 two grand sources of inspiration, religion and love 
 of country, or both in one — men who have left a 
 distinct and enduring mark in the field of art ; and, 
 on the other hand, a body of young men who are 
 groping their way forward, asking what it is they 
 have to do, rather than actually doing it, wavering 
 between faith and doubt ; either possessing faith 
 without courage or taught by custom to simulate it 
 when they have it not ; not even certain of their 
 own language, and vacillating between the academies, 
 which cry, " Purity !" and the people, who cry, 
 " Truth !" — hesitating between the weight of tradi- 
 tions and the need of the moment ; thrust aside by 
 the thousands who give fame or spurned by the few 
 who seal it ; obliged to think in one way and to 
 write in another — to conceal their inmost self, to let 
 the present escape so as not to break with the past, 
 to steer as best they can between opposing obstacles. 
 
MADRID. 283 
 
 Good fortune may be able for a few years to keep 
 their names afloat amid the torrent of French books 
 which is pouring in upon the country. Hence arises 
 the discouragement, first to their own individual 
 effort, and then to the national genius ; and from 
 this follow imitation which sinks into mediocrity, 
 and the abandonment of the literature of broad 
 scholarship and large hopes for the ease and prof- 
 itable scribbling for the newspapers. 
 
 Alone among so many ruins stands the theatre. 
 The new dramatic literature lacks the marvellous 
 invention, the splendid form, and the pristine 
 impress of the nobility and grandeur of the old, 
 which was the expression of a people who ruled 
 Europe and the New World. Still less does it 
 possess the incredible productiveness and the endless 
 variety ; but, in compensation, it possesses a more 
 wholesome influence, a deeper observation, a finer 
 delicacy, and a greater degree of conformity to the 
 true scope of the theatre, which is to purify manners 
 and to ennoble the heart and mind. 
 
 In all the forms of literature, moreover, as in the 
 drama, in the novels, the popular songs, the poems, 
 and histories, there always lives and rules the senti- 
 ment which informs the literature of Spain more 
 powerfully indeed than any other European litera- 
 ture, from the first rude lyrics of Berseo to the 
 noble martial hymns of Quintana — the sentiment of 
 national pride. 
 
284 MADRID. 
 
 And here it is appropriate to speak of the Spanish 
 character. The national pride of the Spaniards is 
 still so great to-day, after so many misfortunes and 
 so grave a fall, that the stranger who lives among 
 them is doubtful whether they are the Spaniards of 
 three centuries ago or the Spaniards of the nine- 
 teenth century. But it is an inoffensive pride, a 
 pride which runs to harmless rhetoric. They do not 
 depreciate the other nations which seem to rise high- 
 er than themselves. No ; they respect, praise, and 
 admire them, but show a feeling of superiority which 
 draws a clear inference contradictory to their praise. 
 They are benevolent toward other nations, with that 
 benevolence which Leopardi justly remarks is 
 peculiar to men full of self-conceit, who believe 
 that they are admired by all, and love their avowed 
 admirers because they think that a duty attendant 
 upon the superiority with which they imagine fate 
 has blessed them. Surely there has never existed in 
 the world a people with greater enthusiasm for their 
 history than the Spanish. It is incredible. The 
 boy who shines your boots, the porter who carries 
 your valise, the mendicant who begs for alms, raises 
 his head with flashing eyes at the names of Charles 
 v., Philip II., Hernando Cortez, and Don John of 
 Austria, as if they are heroes of his own time, 
 and as if he had witnessed their triumphal entry 
 into the city only the day before. The people pro- 
 nounce the word Espana with an accent like that 
 
MADRID. 285 
 
 with which the Romans of the most glorious times 
 of the Eepublic would have pronounced Eoma. 
 When they speak of Spain modesty is thrown aside, 
 even by men of extremely modest nature, without 
 the least indication in their faces of that exaltation 
 because of which one may sometimes pardon intem- 
 perate speech. They boast in cold blood, from habit, 
 without being conscious of so doing. In the speeches 
 of Parliament, in the newspaper articles, in the writ- 
 ings of the Academy, they speak of the Spanish 
 people without circumlocution as a nation of heroes, 
 the great nation, the wonder of the world, the glory 
 of the ages. It is a rare thing to hear any one 
 speak or read a hundred words before an audience 
 without sooner or later recognizing the burden of 
 the song in Lepanto, the Discovery of America, or 
 the War of Independence, the mention of which 
 always elicits a burst of applause. 
 
 And it is precisely this tradition of the War of 
 Independence that constitutes to the Spanish people 
 a powerful inherent force. One who has never lived 
 in Spain for a long or short period cannot believe 
 that a war, however fortunate and glorious, could 
 leave to the people so steadfast a faith in their 
 national valor. Baylen, Victoria, San Marcial, are 
 throughout Spain even more potent traditions than 
 are Marengo, Jena, and Austerlitz in France. Even 
 the martial glory of the armies of Napoleon, seen 
 through the War of Independence, which shrouds it 
 
6 MADRID. 
 
 :e a veil, appears to the eyes of the Spanish less 
 lendid than to any other people in Europe. The 
 3a of a foreign invasion provokes among the 
 laniards a smile of proud disdain; they do not 
 lieve it possible to be conquered in their own 
 untry ; one should hear the tones in which they 
 eak of Germany when it is rumored that the em- 
 ror William has determined to uphold the throne 
 
 the duke d'Aosta with his arms. And doubtless 
 they were obliged to fight a new war of independ- 
 ce, they would fight, possibly with less fortunate 
 ccess, but with a bravery and constancy equal to 
 3se which they once so marvellously displayed. 
 08 is the '93 of Spain ; it is a date which stands 
 t before the eyes of every Spaniard in letters of 
 e ; they glory in it, from the women and the boys 
 the babies who are just learning to lisp ; it is the 
 ir-cry of the nation. 
 
 And they have a similar pride in their writers and 
 iists. The beggar, instead of saying Espana, says 
 netimes the country of Cervantes. No writer in 
 3 world has ever gained such popularity among his 
 n people as the author of Don Quixote in Spain. 
 )elieve that there is not a peasant or a shepherd 
 im the Pyrenees to the Sierra Nevada, from the 
 a,st of Valencia to the hills of Estremadura, who 
 asked about Cervantes will not reply with a smile 
 
 complacence, " He is the immortal author of Don 
 lixote !" Spain is perhaps the country where the 
 
MADRID. 287 
 
 anniversaries of the great writers are most generally 
 celebrated ; from Juan de Mena to Espronceda, each 
 one has his solemn day, when they offer at his tomb 
 a tribute of song and flowers. In the squares, the 
 caf&, the railway-carriages, wherever you are, you 
 hear lines of the famous poets repeated by all sorts 
 of people ; he who has not read them has heard 
 another read ; he who has not heard them read re- 
 peats the quotation as a proverb learned from others ; 
 and when any one repeats a verse, they all prick up 
 their ears. Any one who knows a little Spanish lit- 
 erature may make a journey in that country with 
 the assurance of always having something to talk 
 about and something with which to inspire sympathy 
 wherever and in whatever company he may happen 
 to be. The national literature is truly national. 
 
 The defect of the Spanish which from the first 
 strikes the stranger is this — that in their estimate of 
 the affairs, the men, and the achivements of their time 
 and their country they over-estimate their measure, if 
 one may so speak. They exaggerate everything, they 
 see everything, as it were, through a lens that mag- 
 nifies to vast proportions. For a long time they have 
 had no immediate part in the common life of Europe, 
 and hence they have lacked opportunity for compar- 
 ing themselves with other states and of judging them- 
 selves by such comparison. On this account their 
 civil wars, the wars in America, Africa, and Cuba, 
 are to them not what the little war of 1860 and '61 
 
288 MADRID. 
 
 against the Papal army, or even the revolution 
 1860, are to us, but what we regard the great Crimean 
 War and the wars of 1859 and of 1866. They speak 
 of the combats— which exalt the Spanish armies in 
 those wars, sanguinary doubtless, but not great as the 
 French speak of Solferino, the Prussians of Sadowa, 
 and the Austrians of Custozza. Prim, Serrano, and 
 O'Donnell are generals who in comparison dwarf the 
 most illustrious commanders of other countries. I 
 remember the to-do made at Madrid over the report 
 of the victory gained by General Merriones over 
 four or five thousand Carlists. The deputies in the 
 lobby of the Cortes exclaimed emphatically, " Ah ! 
 Spanish blood !" Some even said that if an army of 
 three hundred Spaniards had found itself in the po- 
 sition of the French in 1870, it would have marched 
 straight to Berlin. Certain it is, that one cannot 
 doubt the valor of the Spanish, which has been 
 proved on so many occasions, but one may safely 
 assert that there is a great difference between 
 disorganized Carlists and Prussians in battle array 
 — between the soldiers of Europe, to speak more 
 comprehensively, and the soldiers of Africa — ^be- 
 tween great pitched battles, where canister sweeps 
 away its thousands, and the combats of ten thousand 
 soldiers on either side with great disparity in 
 equipment and discipline. And as they speak of war 
 so they speak of everything else ; and this is true 
 not only of the common people, but of the upper 
 
MADRID. 289 
 
 classes as well. They lavish high-sounding praises 
 upon their writers ; they give the title of grande 
 poeta to many whose names are never heard outside 
 of Spain ; adjectives of exalted sublimity and won- 
 der are current coin given and taken without the 
 least doubt of its value as legal tender. One may 
 say that Spain regards and judges everything like 
 an American, rather than a European, people, and 
 that it is separated from Europe by an ocean in- 
 stead of the Pyrenees, and joined to America by an 
 isthmus. 
 
 In other points how similar they are to us ! To 
 hear the people talk of politics, one would think 
 one was in Italy : they do not argue, they express 
 opinions ; they do not censure, they condemn ; a 
 single argument is enough for any judgment, and 
 to form an argument an inference alone is sufficient. 
 As for this minister, he is a rascal ; that one, a 
 traitor ; and this one a hypocrite : they are all a 
 pack of thieves. One has sold the trees in the 
 gardens of Aranguez ; another has robbed the 
 Escurial of its treasures ; a third has drained the 
 coffers of the state ; a fourth has sold his soul for a 
 bag of money. They have lost all faith in the very 
 men who have had a hand in all the political move- 
 ments of the last thirty years ; even among the 
 lowest people there is creeping in a spirit of 
 discouragement which gives rise to the expressions 
 that one hears very often and on every side : 
 
 Vol. I.— 19 
 
290 MADRID. 
 
 "Poor Spain! Unhappy country! Wretched 
 Spaniards !" 
 
 But the violence of the political passions and the 
 fury of the civil struggles have not changed the 
 foundation of the ancient Spanish character. Only 
 that part of society known as the political world, 
 only this is corrupt ; the people, though always 
 inclined toward those blind and at times savage 
 impulses of passion which betray the mingling of 
 the Arabian and Latin blood, are good and loyal and 
 capable of magnanimous action and sublime bursts 
 of enthusiasm. " The honor of Spain " is still a 
 motto which quickens every pulse. And, moreover, 
 their manners are frank and refined; perhaps less 
 polished, but certainly more amiable and ingenuous, 
 than those for which the French are praised. In- 
 stead of smiling at you, they offer you a cigar ; in- 
 stead of paying you a compliment, they press your 
 hand, and a^e more hospitable in actions than in prot- 
 estations. Nevertheless, the forms of address still 
 preserve their ancient courtliness ; the gentleman 
 says to the lady, "I am at your feet ;" the lady to 
 the gentleman, " I kiss your hand." Among them- 
 selves the gentlemen sign their letters Q. B. S. M. — 
 que iesa sus manos (I kiss your hands), like a servant 
 to his master; only friends say Adios ; and the 
 people preserve their affectionate salutation, Vaya 
 listed con Bios ! (God be with you !), which is worth 
 more than all the kissing of the hands. 
 
MADRID. 291 
 
 With the warm, generous nature of this people it 
 is impossible to spend a month in Madrid without 
 making a hundred friends, even though one does 
 not seek them. Think how many one might make 
 if one did seek them ! This was my case. I can- 
 not say that they were real friends, but I was 
 acquainted with so many persons that it did not 
 seem at all like being in a foreign city. Even the 
 illustrious men are very easy to approach, and hence 
 there is no need, as elsewhere, of a pile of letters 
 and messages from friends in order to meet them. 
 I had the honor of knowing Tamayo, Hatzenbusch, 
 Guerra, Saavedra, Valera, Eodriguez, Castelar, and 
 many others, some famous in letters and some in the 
 sciences, and I found them all alike — open, cordial, 
 fiery ; men with silvered hair, but with the eyes 
 and voices of young men of twenty ; passionately 
 devoted to poetry, music, and art ; cheerful and 
 animated, with a fresh, ringing laugh. How many 
 of them did I see, as they read the lines of Quintana 
 or Espronceda, grow pale, weep, and spring to their 
 feet as though touched by an electric spark, reveal- 
 ing their whole soul in a radiant glance ! What 
 youthful spirits ! What ardent hearts ! How 
 delighted I was to see and hear them — to belong to 
 that same poor Latin race of which we now say such 
 hard things ! and how happy I was in the thought 
 that to a greater or less degree we are all formed in 
 the same mould, and that, although we may accustom 
 
292 MADRID. 
 
 ourselves, little by little, to envy the qualities of 
 others, yet we are never wholly successful in oblit- 
 erating our own ! 
 
 After three months and more of sojourning in 
 Madrid I was obliged to take my departure, in order 
 that I might not be caught by the summer in South- 
 ern Spain. I shall always remember that beautiful 
 May morning when I left, perhaps for ever, my 
 dear Madrid. I was going to see Andalusia, " the 
 promised land" of travellers, the ideal Andalusia, 
 whose wonders I had so often heard sung by poets 
 and romancers in Italy and Spain — that Andalusia 
 for whose sake, I may say, I had undertaken the 
 journey ; and yet I was sad. I had passed so many 
 happy days in Madrid ! I was leaving so many dear 
 friends ! On my way to the station to take the noon 
 train I passed along the Alcala, saluted from a 
 distance the gardens of the Eecoletos, passed the 
 Museum of Painting, stopped to take a last look at 
 the statue of Murillo, and reached the station with 
 an aching heart. " Three months ?" I asked myself 
 a few moments before the train started. "Have 
 three months passed already ? Has it not been a 
 dream ? Yes, it seems as if I have been dreaming. 
 Perhaps I shall never again see ray good landlady, 
 nor Senor Saavedra's little daughter, nor the sweet, 
 serene face of Guerra, nor my friends of the Caf^ 
 Fornos, nor any one else. But what is this 1 Shall 
 I not return ? Return ! Oh, no ! I know well that 
 
MADRID. 293 
 
 I shall not return. And so . . . farewell, my 
 friends ! farewell, Madrid ! farewell, my little room 
 in the street of Alduana!" At this moment my 
 heartstrings seem to be breaking and I must hide 
 my face. 
 
 End of Vol. I.