Among the excellences of Madrid must be counted her Museums. The Armeria with its fine collection of arms and weapons, the Museo Naval, and the Museo Arqueologico, furnish effective mementoes of the entire tragedy of Spain’s history. Of her art galleries who can say praise enough? It is only in Madrid that it is possible to realize, to the full extent of their gifts and limitations, the artists of Spain. The Academia de Bellas Artes and the Museo de Arte Moderno are rich in pictures. And it is to see the Museo del Prado that the stranger visits Madrid; no picture-gallery in the world contains a more wonderful collection of masterpieces.
It is a splendid art inheritance that is enshrined in the Prado. Spain in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries was closely connected with the countries that were then the centres of art. The Catholic Sovereigns had a fine taste for pictures, and to them we owe largely the collection of the great works which, after the pictures of Velazquez, are the glory of the Prado.
The building, of pale brick and white stone, placed in a tree-shaded park, is well designed, and on the whole well lighted. Externally it is a model of what a picture-gallery should be. A bronze statue of Velazquez stands before the entrance. This is fitting. The Prado is in a very special way the home of Velazquez. No other nation has been so supremely fortunate in preserving almost intact the work of her greatest painter. No picture is wanting to the complete understanding of his exquisite art.
In the Prado there are masterpieces by the world’s great painters—by Titian, by Rubens, by Raphael, by Albrecht Dürer, by Holbein, and how many others? But even in the presence of these masters we seek Velazquez. Here, too, Goya astonishes us with his vigorous and wonderful art; there are admirable paintings by El Greco, by Ribera, by Murillo; but we can see nothing but Velazquez. And the emotion of first seeing these pictures is one of awe. We are not in the presence of an Old Master, but of a painter who in his perfect art forestalled every modern movement in painting. This is why Velazquez stands alone among artists. And the lover of art journeys to the Prado that he may study his pictures, as the pilgrim journeys to the shrine of his saint.
CHAPTER V—COUNTRY LIFE IN SPAIN
Life in a Spanish Posada—Spanish Peasants—The Toilers of the Field and other Workers—The Cigarreras of Seville—The Kermesse in the Esclava Gardens—The Love of Festivals—Easter Day in a Spanish Village—Third-class Travelling—Wild Life in Spain—Fishing in the Country Districts.
To know Spain it is not enough to visit the towns. It is when the stranger leaves the beaten tracks of travel, and goes to the country districts, where the outcome of modern progress is still unknown, that he sees the life of ancient Spain almost unchanged. I know of no experience more necessary to the understanding of the country and its people than a lengthened stay in a village posada. The life, indeed, will be hard in many ways, and it will be wise for the stranger to cultivate the stoicism and indifference to personal comfort that characterize the Spaniards themselves; but the experience is excellent, and the people you meet are charming in their kindness and perfect courtesy.
The posada is the casa huéspedes, or house of hospitality for the neighbourhood. The title is no misnomer, but stands for what the village posada truly is. To stay there is to find a new meaning in the word “hospitality”; it is to know willing service, restrained by the fine Spanish courtesy from offensive attention.
It is more than probable that the first sight of the posada may disturb the stranger. It is built with a spacious vestibule. On one side of the stone staircase, which gives entrance to the upstairs living-rooms, is a dark wineshop, where the men of the village foregather to talk and drink the black native wine; while the other side serves as the stable, in which the mules, donkeys, oxen, and other animals belonging to the house, have their home. Many odours cling about the dark staircase; the scent of closely packed animals mingles with that of garlic, while the air reeks with the fumes of rancid aceite, or oil—the never-to-be-forgotten smell that belongs to every posada. The noise in the vestibule is deafening and incessant; the men talk in loud voices which are piercingly vibrant and metallic. Cackling hens, with maybe a fat black pig or little woolly lamb, block the way as one climbs the staircase to the living-room.