Wanderings in Spain. Theophile Gautier
place where Philip II. used to sit to see how the works of the Escurial were advancing. Either the tradition is apocryphal, or Philip II. must have possessed most astoundingly good eyes.
The coach, which had been toiling up the precipitous steeps, at last rejoined us once more. The oxen were unyoked, and we descended the declivity in a gallop. We stopped to dine at Guadarrama, a little village crouched at the foot of the mountain. The only ornament of which it can boast is a granite fountain, erected by Philip II. At this place, by a strange reversion of the natural order of dinners, goats' milk soup was served up as dessert.
Madrid, like Rome, is surrounded by a desert; it is impossible to convey an idea of its aridity and desolation. There is not a tree, a drop of water, a green plant, or the least appearance of humidity; nothing but yellow sand and iron-grey rocks; and when you leave the mountain, you do not find even rocks, but large stones. From time to time you perceive a dusty venta, a cork-coloured spire, just showing its nose on the horizon, large melancholy-looking oxen dragging along one of the cars we have already described; a countryman on horseback, or on a mule, with a fierce expression of face, a carbine at his saddle-bow, and a sombrero slouched over his eyes, or long strings of whity-brown asses, carrying chopped straw, which is corded up with a network of small ropes, and that is all. The ass which walks first, the coronel, has always a small feather or rosette, indicating his superiority in the hierarchy of the long-eared tribe.
At the expiration of a few hours, which our impatience to reach our destination caused to appear still longer than they really were, we at last perceived Madrid with tolerable distinctness. A few minutes afterwards we entered the Spanish capital by the Puerta de Hierro, and drove along an avenue planted with dwarf pollards and bordered by small brick towers which serve to raise water. Talking of water, although the transition is not very well timed, I forgot to mention that we crossed the Manzanares by means of a bridge that was worthy of a river of a more serious description; we then passed by the Queen's Palace, one of those edifices which people are pleased to designate as tasty. The immense terraces on which it is raised give it rather a grand appearance.
After having undergone the visit of the custom-house officials, we proceeded to take up our quarters in the immediate vicinity of the Calle d'Alcala and of the Prado; the name of our street was the Calle del Caballero de Gracia, and our hotel was called La Fonda de la Amistad, where Madame Espartero, Duchess de la Vittoria, happened at that time to be staying. The first thing we did was to despatch Manuel, our temporary servant, a most ardent aficionado and tauromachist, to procure us tickets for the next bull-fight.
CHAPTER VI.
MADRID.
Bull-fights—The Arena—Calesins—Espadas, Chulos, Banderilleros, and Picadores Sevilla the Picador—La Estocada a Vuela Pies.
We were obliged to wait two days. Never did two days appear so long to me, and in order to overcome my impatience, I read over more than ten times the bills posted up at the corners of the principal streets. These bills promised wonders; they announced eight bulls from the most famous pasturages; the picadores, Sevilla and Antonio Rodriguez; and the espadas, Juan Pastor, also called El Barbero, and Guillen; they wound up by prohibiting the public from throwing into the arena orange-peel or any other projectile capable of injuring the combatants.
The word matador is scarcely ever employed in Spain to designate the person who kills the bull; he is entitled espada (sword), which is more noble and more characteristic. Neither is the word toreador used, but torero. I just mention this as a piece of useful information for those authors who are accustomed to introduce a little local colouring into their ballads and comic operas. The fight is called media corrida, half-course or fight, because formerly there used to be two every Monday, one in the morning and one at five in the afternoon, the two together making up the day's amusement. At present only the fight in the afternoon is preserved.
It has been asserted and reasserted on all sides, that the Spaniards are losing their taste for bull-fights, and that civilization will soon cause the amusement to be discontinued altogether. If civilization does effect this, all I can say is that it will be all the worse for civilization, as a bull-fight is one of the grandest sights that the imagination of man can conceive; but, at any rate, the time for their abolition has not yet arrived, and those sensitive writers who affirm the contrary have only to transport themselves some Monday, between the hours of four and five, to the Puerta d'Alcala, in order to be convinced that the taste for this ferocious pastime is, as yet, very far from extinct.
Monday, which is the bull-day, dia de toros, is a holiday. No one does any work, and the whole town is in commotion. Those persons who have not previously bought their tickets, hasten off towards the Calle de Carretas, where the ticket-office is situated, in the hope of finding some place still vacant, for the enormous amphitheatre is all numbered and portioned into stalls, a plan which cannot be praised too highly, and which might be imitated with advantage in the French theatres. The Calle d'Alcala, the artery into which all the populous streets of the city flow, is filled with foot-passengers, horse-men, and vehicles. To grace this solemnity, the most strange and extravagant calesins and cars emerge from their dusty retreats, while the most fantastic horses, and the most phenomenal mules come forth into the light of day. The calesins reminded me of the Neapolitan corricoli. They have large red wheels and no springs, the body being decorated with paintings more or less allegorical, and lined with old damask silk or faded serge with long silk fringe. Altogether, they produce a most absurd rococo effect. The driver sits upon the shaft; this enables him to harangue and belabour his mule just as he thinks fit, and also makes one place more for his customers. The mule is tricked out with as many feathers, rosettes, tufts, bells, and as much fringe as it is possible to fasten to the harness of any quadruped in existence. A calesin generally contains a manola, and a female friend as well as her manolo, not to mention a bunch of muchachos hanging on behind. All this flies along with the speed of lightning in the midst of a whirlwind of cries and dust. There are also carriages with four or five mules. Nothing equal to them can be found now-a-days, anywhere save in the pictures of Van der Meulen, which represent the conquests and hunting exploits of Louis XIV.
Every vehicle in the town is laid under contribution, for it is accounted the height of fashion by the manolas, who are the grisettes of Madrid, to proceed in a calesin to the Plaza de Toros: they pawn even their mattresses to obtain money on the day of a bull-fight, and without being exactly virtuous the rest of the week, they are most decidedly much less so on Sunday and Monday. You also see country people who have come to town on horseback, with their carbine suspended at the bow of their saddle; others, again, either alone or with their wives, are mounted on asses. Besides all these persons, there are the carriages of the fashionable world, and a whole host of honest citizens and señoras in mantles on foot, who quicken their pace on perceiving the mounted National Guard, headed by their trumpeters, advancing to clear the arena. For nothing in the world would any one miss seeing the clearing of the arena, and the precipitate flight of the alguazil after he has thrown to the helper the key of the toril, where the horned gladiators are confined. The toril is situated opposite the matadero, in which place they flay the animals that have been killed. The bulls are driven, the night before the fight, to a meadow called el arroyo, near Madrid. This meadow is a favourite walk with the aficionados; but it is one, by the way, not wholly free from danger, for the bulls are at liberty, and their drivers find it rather a difficult task to keep them in order. Lastly, the bulls are conducted into the encierro (stable attached to the circus) by the aid of old bulls used to the office, and scattered among the herd of their wild brethren.
The Plaza de Toros is situated on the left-hand side of the road, beyond the Puerta d'Alcala (which, I may mention in a parenthesis, is a fine structure, resembling a triumphal arch, with trophies and other heroic ornaments);