this scourge when one notices the habits of the Madrileño. In the first
place he hates nothing quite so much as fresh air, and the cafés, clubs,
taverns, and places where he resorts are kept in such a state of heated
stuffiness that it seems scarcely an exaggeration to say that the air
could be cut out in junks, like pieces of cake. If he travel by train,
all windows must be kept closely shut, while he smokes all the time.
When, at last, it is necessary to brave the outer air in order to reach
home, he, carefully and before leaving the vitiated atmosphere he has
been breathing, envelops himself in his cloak, throwing the heavy cape,
generally lined with velvet or plush, across his mouth and nose, barely
leaving his eyes visible; he thus has three or four folds of cloth and
velvet as a respirator. It often happens that at the corner of some
street the long arm of the icy "Guadarrama" reaches him; a sudden gust
of wind plucks off his respirator, and the mischief is done. But should
he reach the safe closeness of his own house, he has certainly done his
level best to charge his lungs with unwholesome and contaminated air.

You have only to see the women on the coldest day in winter with nothing
over their heads but a silk or lace mantilla, or a mere _velo_ of net,
and the working-women with nothing but their magnificent hair, or, at
most, a kerchief, to be certain that it is not the "air" that is to
blame. I have seen the women going about Madrid in winter, both by day
and night, when the men were muffled to the eyes, with thicker dresses,
of course, and perhaps a fur cape, but no sort of wrap about their head
or throat; and _pulmonia_ is comparatively unknown among women. To
English people, accustomed to plenty of fresh air and water, Madrid has
never been an unhealthy place, and it is extremely probable that one of
these days our doctors will be sending their consumptive patients there
for the winter. They might easily do worse.

One of the coldest winters I remember in Madrid, a young Englishman came
out with a letter of introduction from friends. He looked as if he had
not many weeks to live, and in truth he was condemned by his doctors,
and his hours were numbered. He was a Yorkshireman by birth, but had
some years past developed seeds of consumption. He had been sent year
after year to Madeira and other of the old resorts, having been told
that a winter in England would certainly finish him. Finally, he made
his doctors tell him the truth: it was that he had not many months,
perhaps not many weeks, to live.

"Very well, then," he replied, "there is no use worrying any more about
my health. I shall do my best to enjoy the little time I may have left."
He threw all his medicines and remedies out of the window, he looked out
for the most unhealthy place he could find, where he would be most
certain of never meeting another consumptive patient; and in the course
of the search he came across the well-worn chestnut about the air of
Madrid. "That is the place for me," he exclaimed; "only strong and
healthy people can live there. At any rate, so long as I do live, I
shall be amongst sound lungs, and shall see no more fellow-sufferers.
The _aire tan sutil_ will kill me, and that will be the end of the
matter." So far from killing him, the fine champagne-like air of Madrid
went as near curing him as was possible for a man with only one lung. He
took no precautions, never wrapped up, went out at night as well as by
day, and when he died, fourteen years later, it was not of consumption.
He used to come to Madrid for the winter to escape the damp of England,
and revelled in the warmth and freshness of that sun-steeped air.

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

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

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

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

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

Until after Christmas the winter in Madrid is charming, even if it be
cold; the glorious sunshine from dawn to sunset, the fine exhilarating
air, raise one's spirits unconsciously; but very often the old year is
dead before any real cold comes on. I have sat out in the Buen Retiro
many a day in December with book or work, and scarcely any more wrap
than one wears in summer in England. After that there is generally a
cold, and perhaps disagreeable, spell, when the wind comes howling
across the plains straight from the snow and ice, and the Madrileño
thinks it terrible; as a matter of fact, so long as the sky remains
clear, there is always one side of the street where one can be warm.
Sometimes, but not often, the cold weather or the bitter winds last
pretty far into the spring, and it has certainly happened in the depth
of the frost that one of the sentries on duty at the Palace, on the side
facing the mountains, was found frozen to death when the relief came.
After that the watch was made shorter, and the change of guard more
frequent in winter. I have seen the Estanque Grande in the Retiro
covered with ice several inches thick; but as all Madrid turned out to
see the wonder and watch the foreigners skate, a thing that appeared
never to have been seen before, it could not have been a very common
occurrence.

Riding early in the morning in winter outside Madrid, even with the sun
shining brightly and a cloudless sky, the cold was often intense,
especially in the dells and hollows. We have often had to put our hands
under the saddle to keep them from freezing, so as to be able to feel
the reins, and if I were riding with the sun on the off-side, my feet
would become perfectly dead to feeling. But what an air it was!
Something to be remembered, and long before we reached home we were in a
delicious glow. The horses, English thoroughbreds, enjoyed it immensely,
and went like the wind. I have been in Madrid in every part of the year,
and never found it unbearably hot, though one does not generally wait
for July or August; but here again the lightness and dryness of the air
seem to make heat much easier to bear. Numbers of Madrid people think
nothing of remaining there all the summer through.


CHAPTER V

MODERN MADRID


Madrid has grown out of all knowledge in the last thirty years. No one
who had not seen it since the time of Isabel II. would recognise it now,
and even then much had been done since Ferdinand VII. had come back from
his fawning and despicable captivity in France - where he had gloried in
calling himself a "French prince" - to act the despot in his own country.
The Liberal Ministers who, for short periods, had some semblance of
power during the regency of Cristina had done a little to restore the
civilisation and light established by Charles III., and wholly quenched
in the time of his unworthy and contemptible successors. But even in
1865, the Alcalá Gate, standing where the Plaza de la Independencia is
now, formed one boundary of Madrid, the Gate of Atocha was still
standing at the end of the _paseo_ of that name, and the Gate of Sta.
Barbara formed another of the limits of the city. The Museo was
unfinished and only to be entered by a side door, encumbered with
builders' rubbish and half-hewn blocks of stone. The Paseo of la Fuente
Castellana ended the Prado, and not a house was to be seen beyond the
Mint, or outside the Gate of Alcalá.

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

[Illustration: OUTSIDE THE PLAZA DE TOROS, MADRID]

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

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

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

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

It is curious how the observation of those who know Spain intimately
differs - one must suppose according to temperament. Thus Antonio
Gallenga, the well-known correspondent of the _Times_, who really knew
Spain well, has left it on record that the people are not musical, and
that he never remembers to have heard any of them singing in the
streets, or at their work. I do not know how this could have happened,
unless our old friend did not recognise the singing he did hear as
music, for which he might, perhaps, be forgiven. My own experience is
that the people are always singing, more or less, if you agree to call
it so. As the houses are almost all built in flats, many of the windows
open into _patios_, or court-yards, large or small, as the case may be.
You may reckon on always having two or three servants, male or female,
at work in the _patio_, the women washing or scrubbing, the men probably
cleaning their horses, carriages, or harness; but whatever else they may
be doing, you may be quite certain they will all be singing, though it
is equally certain that, by the greatest exercise of amiability, you
could scarcely call the result a song; the words seem to be improvised
as the performer goes on. There was a light-hearted groom in one of the
_patios_ of our flat, in the Calle Lope de Vega, who would continue
almost without a break the whole day. An old friend who used to amuse
himself by listening to this remarkable performer declared that if he
started his song in the early morning with a stick that was thick
enough, he would go on till midnight telling the world in general all
the people he had killed with it, and the other wonders of Hercules it
had performed.

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

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

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

The road which runs along the bank of the Manzanares, at the farther
side from Madrid, is a revelation to those who only know the plains
through which the railway from the north passes, and which for the
greater part of the year, except when the crops are growing, are quite