The procession turned into the Prado and proceeded toward the monument. The avenues, the lawns, and the gardens were full of people. Ladies were standing in their carriages, on chairs, and on the stone seats, holding their children in their arms; there were people in the trees and on the roofs; at every step there were banners, funeral inscriptions, lists of the victims of the second of May; poems pinned to the trunks of trees, newspapers with borders of black, prints representing episodes of the massacre, wreaths, crucifixes, little tables with urns for alms, lighted candles, pictures, statuettes, and toys for children, with a model of the monument—everywhere memorials of 1808, emblems and signs of sorrow, festivity, and war. The men were almost all dressed in black; the women in gay holiday attire, with long funeral trains and veils; there were groups of peasants from all the surrounding villages dressed in lively colors, and through all the crowd one heard the discordant cries of water-carriers, guards, and officers.
The monument of the second of May, which stands at that point where the greater number of Spaniards were shot, though it does not possess an artistic value equal to its fame, is—to use a much-abused though significant word—imposing. It is simple and bold, and to many appears heavy and ungraceful; but it arrests one’s glance and one’s thought, even if one does not know what it is; for on first seeing it one perceives that some event of importance must have transpired in that place. Above an octagonal base of four steps rises a great square sarcophagus adorned with inscriptions and arms and a bas-relief representing the two Spanish officers who were killed on the second of May in the defence of the Artillery Park. On the sarcophagus rises a pedestal in the Doric style, on which stand four statues, symbolic of Patriotism, Bravery, Constancy, and Virtue. In the midst of the statues rises a high obelisk which bears in characters of gold the words, Dos de Mayo. Around the monument there extends a circular garden intersected by eight avenues which converge toward a common centre; all of the avenues are shaded by rows of cypresses, and the garden is enclosed by an iron railing, which in its turn is encircled by marble steps. This grove of cypresses, this solitary enclosed garden in the midst of the gayest promenade of Madrid, is like a vision of death mingling with the joys of life; one cannot pass without turning to look at it, and one cannot look at it without thinking: at night, as it lies in the moonlight, it seems like a fantastic apparition and breathes an air of solemn mystery.
The king arrived, mass was celebrated, all the regiments marched past, and the ceremony was ended. So to the present time they celebrate the anniversary of the second of May, 1808, with a dignity, an affection, and a veneration which do honor not alone to the Spanish people, but to the human heart. It is the true national festival of Spain, the only day in the year when party strife sleeps and all hearts are united in a common sentiment. And in this sentiment, as one can readily believe, there is no bitterness against France. Spain has thrown all the blame of the war and the massacres which it occasioned upon Napoleon and Murat; the French are welcomed amicably, like all other foreigners; the ill-fated days of May are mentioned only to celebrate the honor of the dead and of their country; everything in this ceremony is noble and grand, and before that sacred monument Spain has only words of pardon and peace.
Another thing to be seen at Madrid is the cock-fighting.
I read one day in the Correspondencia the following notice: “En la funcion que se celebrarà mañana en el circo de Gallos de Recoletos, hubrà, entre otras dos peleas, en las que figurarán gallos de los conocidos aficionados Francisco Calderón y Don Josè Diez, por lo que se espera serà muy animada la diversion.”
The spectacle commenced at noon: I was there. I was impressed by the originality and grace of the theatre. It looks like a mosque standing on a little hill in a garden, but yet is large enough to hold at least a thousand persons. In form it is a perfect cylinder. In the middle rises a sort of a circular stage about three hands high, covered with green carpet and surrounded by a railing about as high as the platform; this is the battle-ground of the cocks. Between the iron uprights of the railing is stretched a very fine wire netting which keeps the combatants from making their escape. Around this cage, which is about as large as a dining-table, runs a circle of arm-chairs, and behind them a second higher circle, and both of them are upholstered in red cloth. Several of the chairs on the first row bear inscriptions written in big letters, Presidente, Secretario, and other titles of the persons who compose the tribunal of the spectacle. Beyond the arm-chairs rise tiers of benches running back to the walls, and above them extends a gallery supported by ten slender columns. The light comes from above. The lively red of the arm-chairs, the flowers painted on the walls, the columns, the light, and, in a word, the atmosphere of the theatre, have about them something novel and picturesque which pleases and exhilarates. At first sight it seems like a place where one ought to listen to joyous and refined music rather than witness a fight between animals.
When I entered there were already a hundred persons present. “What sort of people are these?” I asked myself, and truly the frequenters of the cock-fights do not resemble those of any other theatre: it is a mixture sui generis, such as one sees only in Madrid. There are no women, no boys, no soldiers, and no working-men, for it is a work-day and at an inconvenient hour. But, nevertheless, one sees here a greater variety of feature, dress, and attitude than at any other popular gathering. The spectators are all persons who have nothing to do the livelong day—comedians with long hair and others with bald heads; toreros—Calderón, the famous picador, was there—with red sashes around their waists; students bearing on their faces the trace of nights spent at the gaming-table; dealers in cocks; young dandies; old amateur fanciers dressed in black with black gloves and cravats. These sit around the cage. Behind them are the rari nantes, some Englishmen, some blockheads, of the class one sees everywhere; the servants of the circus, a courtesan, and a policeman. With the exception of the foreigners and the guard, the others—gentlemen, toreros, dealers, and actors—all know each other, and talk among themselves, in one voice, of the quality of the cocks announced in the programme, of the exhibition, the bets made the previous day, the chances of the struggle, the talons, feathers, spurs, wings, beaks, and wounds, displaying the very rich terminology of the sport and citing rules, examples, the cocks of former days, fights, and famous winnings and losses.
The spectacle began at the appointed hour. A man presented himself in the middle of the circus with a paper in his hand and commenced to read; they all became silent. He read a series of figures which indicated the weight of the different pairs of cocks that were to fight, because, pair by pair, the one cock must not weigh more than the other, in accordance with the rules laid down for cock-fighting. The conversation began again, and then was suddenly hushed. Another man came in with two small cages under his arm, opened a gate in the railing, stepped up on the platform, and fastened the cages to the arms of a pair of balances suspended from the ceiling. Two witnesses assured themselves that the weights on the two ends were almost equal; everybody sat down; the president took his position; the secretary cried Silencio! the weigher and another attendant each took one of the cages, and, going to opposite doors in the railing, opened them simultaneously. The cocks stepped out, the gates were closed, and for some moments the spectators observed a profound silence.
They were two Andalusian cocks of English breed, to repeat a curious definition given me by one of the spectators. They were tall, thin, and straight as arrows, with long necks, very flexible and totally bare of feathers along the back and from the breast up; they were without crests, and had small heads and eyes which betokened their warlike nature. The spectators looked at them closely without saying a word. The fanciers in a few moments judge by the color, the form, and the movements of the two animals which will probably be the victor; then they offer their bets. It is a very uncertain judgment, as any one may understand, but it is the uncertainty which gives zest to the sport. Suddenly the silence is broken by an outburst of cries: “A crown on the right one!”—“A crown on the left!”—“Done!”—“Three crowns on the black!”—“Four crowns on the gray!”—“Eighty francs on the small one!”—“Done!”—“I take the bet on the gray!”