CHAPTER IV—TOWN LIFE IN SPAIN (continued)
Madrid: its Situation—The Old Town—The Rastro—The New Town—The Puerta del Sol—Cafés—The Aguadores—The Prado Park—The Theatre—Spanish Children—The Museums—The Picture-galleries.
The contrast is great from Seville to Madrid, which is less distinctly Spanish than any city in the Peninsula. The royal capital, established by the decree of Philip II., has the appearance of an accidental growth on the harsh Castilian slopes. The climate is the worst of any town in Spain. Madrid suffers all the oppressions of the sky—baked by fierce summer suns, and chilled by the ice of treacherous winds. In point of distance it is only some twenty leagues, in one direction, from Toledo, and in the other from beautiful Avila; but in its life it is separated by centuries from the old Spanish cities. It is the strangest transformation to come from them into the eager, bustling life of the modern capital. There are no antiquities here, no great memories, no romance, nothing but what the people and the natural brightness in the air give to it.
To stay in Madrid is to undergo the most absorbing fatigue. The Madrileño lives with a speed that in Spain startles. The city never sleeps, never stays its chatter; its inhabitants are apparently so full of business that they turn day into night, yet no one seems to work. It thus comes about that the lover of Spain, who has become used to the untroubled content of happy Seville or the sleeping peace of Cordova and Toledo, can with difficulty find himself at home in Madrid.
Madrid is a city of contrasts. Treasures of art abound in its museum, yet of all cities it is surely the least influenced by the spirit of beauty and design. Its splendid bridge which gives entrance to the city has been ridiculed with the question, “Where is the river?” It misses all charm of environment; the city has no suburbs, and the country around is barren and without trees and verdure. Yet the Madrileños cannot be persuaded that any other city is its equal. It is a capital in transition of a country in transition, and as such it must be regarded.
The old part of the town, such as the Rastro and surrounding narrow streets, where on each Sunday is held the market, the largest rag-fair in the world, still bring one a sensation of living in the Middle Ages. The wares are laid out in most primitive fashion in the narrow streets in great piles; all kinds of antiquities are sold, as well as clothes and wonderful peasant jewellery. The low stalls are piled up with flowers, fruits, and vegetables, of all colours, in confused abundance. Women and girls stand in groups of twos or threes, or sit beside their wares, bundled in bright-coloured shawls, and all with kerchiefed heads. They talk incessantly; they do not seem to care whether their goods are sold or not, but they chaffer noisily over every sale. Some of the women have perfectly-shaped faces with magnetic eyes that recall the East. It was here once that I saw a manola, beautifully attired with a white mantilla, silk shoes, gaily coloured dress and jewellery. She reminded me of Goya’s pictures.
Fine savage old men in tattered cloaks wander on the outskirts of the market asking alms, and beautiful, bewitching children play their games unchecked.
But the Rastro is not the real Madrid. The modern town, with its aspect of a city still in the making, so that one thinks not so much of what it is as of what it may become, has grown up in the image of Paris, with boulevards, wide streets, tall characterless houses and modish shops. It is to be feared that this new Madrid will overgrow all that is left of the old city.