Wanderings in Spain. Gautier Théophile
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around, and melt like an atom in the immensity before me.
The lofty mountain crests glistened and sparkled in the sun, like the skirt of a dancing-girl's robe under its shower of silver spangles; others, again, had their peaks surrounded by clouds, and merged imperceptibly into the sky, for nothing resembles a mountain so much as a cloud. The whole view was composed of one succession of precipices and undulations. It is beyond the power of art, whether of the pen or the pencil, to convey an adequate idea of their different colours and forms. Mountains realize all that the imagination can picture of them, and this is no small praise. The only difference between the reality and the idea we form of it, arises from the fact of our fancying mountains look larger than they do. We are only aware of their enormous size by comparison. On gazing attentively, you perceive that what, at a distance, you took for a blade of grass, is a fir-tree sixty feet high.
At the turn of a bridge, admirably adapted for an ambuscade of brigands, we beheld a small column surmounted by a cross. It was erected to the memory of a poor devil who had ended his days in this narrow pass, in consequence of his having fallen a victim to manoairada (violent death). From time to time we met travelling maragatos, in their costume of the sixteenth century, which consists of a tight-fitting leathern doublet, fastened with a buckle, wide breeches, and a broad-brimmed hat. We also met several Valencianos, with their white linen drawers, like the robes of the Klephts, their handkerchief twisted about their head, their white gaiters bordered with blue, and without feet, after the fashion of the antique Knemis, and their long piece of cloth (capa de muestra), crossed diagonally by bright-coloured stripes, and draped over their shoulders in a very elegant manner. All that we could perceive of their flesh was as tawny as Florentine bronze. Then, again, we saw strings of mules, caparisoned in the most charming fashion, with bells and party-coloured fringe and housings, while their arrieros were armed with carbines. We were enchanted, for we had found an abundant supply of the picturesque of which we were in search.
The higher we ascended, the thicker and broader became the strips of snow; but a single sunbeam made the mountains stream with water, like a woman laughing in the midst of her tears; on every side little brooks, scattered about like the dishevelled tresses of some Naïad, and clearer than crystal, forced their way downwards. By dint of climbing, we reached the summit of the range, and seated ourselves on the plinth of a large granite lion, which is situated on the further side of the mountain, and marks the boundary of Old Castile; beyond this lion the province of New Castile commences.
We took a fancy to cull a delicious red flower, whose botanical name I do not know, and which was growing in the fissures of the mountain. This necessitated our clambering up on a rock, which is said to be the 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
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