On Sunday, Madrid presents the same aspect as on other days, with this difference, that the shops and the streets are more crowded; and that the lower classes, and the bourgeoises, are better attired. On Sunday evening, the houses are deserted; the whole population of Madrid pours down the Calle de Alcala, to the Prado. Every Sunday afternoon, from four o’clock until six or seven, this street, nearly a mile in length, and, at least, twice as broad as Portland Place, is crowded from end to end, and from wall to wall, so that a carriage finds some difficulty in making its way. Among this crowd, I have often looked in vain, to find an ill-dressed person; but this exterior is no real index to the condition of those who throng the Prado. I have reason to know, that hundreds, who by their dress might pass for courtiers, have dined upon bread and a bunch of grapes, and go from the Paseo to hide themselves in a garret; and females have been pointed out to me, whose mantilla, comb, and fan could not have cost less than 10l., who were starving upon a pension of 2,500 reals (25l.).
As I have mentioned the Calle de Alcala, let me speak of this street as it deserves to be spoken of. I know of no finer entry to any city; I might perhaps say, no one so fine, as that to Madrid by the Calle de Alcala. Standing at the foot of this street, you have on the right and left the long, wide Prado, with its quadruple row of trees stretching in fine perspective to the gates that terminate it; behind is the magnificent gate of Alcala, a fine model of architectural beauty; and before lies the Calle de Alcala, reaching into the heart of the city,—long, of superb width, and flanked by a splendid range of unequal buildings,—among others the hotels of many of the ambassadors; the two fine convents of Las Calatravas, and Las Ballecas, and the Custom-house. But the Calle de Alcala is the only really fine street in Madrid; many of the other streets are good, and very many respectable, of tolerable width, and the houses lofty and well built; but there is no magnificent street, excepting the Calle de Alcala. Like all the other cities in Spain, the streets, abstracted from the population, have a sombre aspect, owing to the number of convents, whose long reach of wall, grated windows, and lack of doors, throw a chill over the mind of the passer by. There are no fewer than sixty-two convents for men and women in Madrid; and it frequently happens that one side of a whole street is occupied by a convent: in the Calle de Atocha there are no fewer than eight convents; and some of the streets on the outskirts, contain scarcely any houses, but those dedicated to religion.
Walking one day in company with a priest,—a very intelligent and learned man, of whose society I was always glad,—I chanced to observe the inscription upon the corner of one of the streets, and read Calle de la Inquisicion; my curiosity was immediately awakened; I had intended before leaving Madrid, to have sought out the spot memorable from the atrocities with which it is connected; and this accidental rencontre saved me the trouble of a search. I immediately expressed my anxiety to see the building, and to enter it if possible; and requested my companion to have the goodness to be my Cicerone; but I found that the terrors of the Inquisition had outlived its power; my companion assured me there was nothing to see; the building he believed was shut up, and no one could enter; indeed he doubted if he perfectly knew where the building was situated. I saw the difficulty of the priest; there might be danger in guiding a heretic to the precincts of the holy office; and so, requesting him to wait for me, I went in search of the building. I had no difficulty in finding it, but there was little to reward my search; it was the building in which prisoners were confined, but not that in which they were judged and tortured. This was in an immediately adjoining street, formerly called the street of the Grand Inquisitor, whose house, including all the offices of the court, fills almost one side of the street. It seems at first sight surprising, that the Inquisition, like the Bastile, was not torn down during the time of the Constitution; but the prime movers, and even the instruments in that revolution, were of the upper ranks; and it is a certain fact, that many among the Pueblo Bajo look even now without any horror, some with veneration, upon the building once dedicated to the maintenance of the Roman Catholic faith. The building used as the prison of the Inquisition, was constructed above immense vaults, originally formed by the Moors; and afterwards converted into dungeons. I requested permission to visit them, but I was told that the air in the dungeons was such as to render a visit to them unsafe.
From the prisons I went to the other branch of the Inquisition in the adjoining street. A part of the house of the Grand Inquisitor is in a dilapidated state, but other parts are inhabited by private individuals. The porter, notwithstanding a liberal bribe, made much difficulty in allowing me to enter, but I at last prevailed with him, and he conducted me to the room formerly used as the hall of justice, or rather of judgment; and although I saw nothing but a long gloomy room without one article of furniture, it required but little exercise of imagination to see, in fancy, the Inquisitors and their satellites, the trembling accused, and the instruments of torture. It appears incredible, that any others than those to whom its existence would bring power or wealth, should desire the re-establishment of the Inquisition; and yet, I feel myself justified in believing, that many would look upon its restoration with complacency; and that the great majority of the lower orders would behold this with perfect indifference. If so, they deserve to be cursed with it.
The dirtiness and want of comfort in the Cruz de Malta, would have driven me into private lodgings, even if the charges in the hotel had been supportable; I hastened therefore to deliver my letters, that I might be aided in my search by those to whom I carried recommendations; and by the kind assistance of Sr. Mozo, one of the Conséjeros del Rey, I was soon established in comfortable apartments in the Calle de la Madalena. It may be interesting to some, to know the nature and price of private accommodation in Madrid. My apartments were on the second floor, (in Madrid every floor is a separate house, excepting among the very highest ranks) and consisted of one very large room, 40 feet long, by 22 broad, with two very large windows facing the street; a small bed-room, separated from this large room by a glass door; and another small room, beyond the bed-room, to be employed as an eating room. These rooms were brick-floored, as every room is, in the northern and central parts of Spain; and the walls white-washed. The apartments were furnished with basket-chairs and sofas, a bed, and two or three tables; and for this accommodation, including service and cooking, I paid 20 reals per day, or 1l. 9s. 2d. per week. This was certainly not remarkably cheap; but the situation was good, and the rooms were clean and airy.
Being thus established in lodgings, my first duty was to find the hotel of the British minister, and to present to him my letter of introduction from Lord Aberdeen; and I gladly avail myself of this opportunity to express my obligations to Henry Unwin Addington, Esq.; not only for his uniform kindness and attention while we remained in Madrid, and for the often repeated hospitalities of his house; but for his readiness to assist me in whatever way the representative of the British Government could make his interest available in forwarding my objects. For some lesser favours, I am also Mr. Addington’s debtor; among others, the privilege of perusing the English newspapers, no small privilege in a country where the only journal is the Gaceta de Madrid. Walking one day towards my lodgings, with a file of Couriers in my hand, I noticed that I was followed, and narrowly scrutinized by some persons in authority; but they, no doubt, became informed where I procured this forbidden fruit, and I never suffered any farther interruption.
The day after my arrival in Madrid was Sunday, and having finished my puchero, and drank a reasonable quantity of Val de Peñas, I prepared to join the tide that was slowly rolling towards the Prado.
Every Spaniard is proud of the Prado at Madrid; and but for the Prado, the inhabitants of Madrid would look upon life as a thing of very little value; every body goes every night to the Prado; every body—man, woman, and child—looks forward to the evening promenade with pleasure and impatience; every body asks every body the same question, shall you be on the Paseo to night? how did you like the Paseo last night? every night, at the same hour, the dragoons take their place along the Prado, to regulate the order and line of carriages: and the only difference between Sunday night and any other night on the Prado is, that on Sunday it is frequented by those who can afford to dress only once a week, as well as by those who can dress every day. It was impossible that I could permit the first Sunday to pass away without seeing the Prado; accordingly, accompanied by a colonel in the Spanish service, whose name, for certain reasons, I refrain from mentioning, I took the road to the Prado.
The Prado, divested of its living attraction, is certainly not entitled to the extravagant praises bestowed upon it by the Spaniards: it is a fine spacious paseo, at least two miles long, and from 200 to 300 yards broad, adorned with rows of trees, and with several fountains; the frequented part, however, is not more than half a mile in length, and has scarcely any shade. But the Prado, although in itself not possessing the natural attractions of that of Vienna, or perhaps of some others, is an admirable resort for a stranger who is desirous of seeing the population of Madrid. When I reached it, it seemed already crowded, though a dense stream of population was still pouring into it from the Calle de Alcala. On the part appropriated to carriages, there was already a double row of vehicles, bespeaking, by their slow motion, the stateliness of character said to belong to the Spanish aristocracy. The turn-out of carriages presented a strange melange of elegance and shabbiness; some few were as handsome as can be seen in Hyde Park; some—truly Spanish,—were entirely covered over with gilding and painting; many were like worn-out post chaises; and several like the old family pieces that are yet sometimes to be seen at the church door on Sunday, in some remote parishes in England, I observed the most ludicrous incongruity between the carriages and the servants; many a respectable, and even handsome carriage might be seen with a servant behind, like some street vagabond who, seeing a vacant place, had mounted for the sake of a drive. I actually saw a tolerably neat carriage driven by a coachman without stockings; and another with a rheumatic lacquey behind, whose head was enveloped in flannel. But let me turn to the pedestrians.
The Paseo was crowded from end to end, and from side to side; so crowded, indeed, that by mixing with the tide, it was impossible to see more than one’s next neighbour; and that I might better observe the elements of the crowd, I contrived, with some difficulty, to extricate myself from the stream, and get into the carriage drive. Before visiting Spain, I had heard much of the beauty of Spanish women,—their graceful figures,—their bewitching eyes,—their fascinating expression,—in short, their personal attractions. Whether owing to the representations of travellers, or the unreal descriptions of poets, or the romance with which, in the minds of many, every thing in Spain is invested,—it is certain, that a belief in the witchery of Spanish women obtains very general credence in England. With curiosity, therefore, considerably excited, I took up a station to decide upon the claims of the ladies of Spain. In my expectations of beauty I was miserably disappointed; beauty of features I saw none. Neither at that time, nor at any subsequent visit to the Prado, did I ever see one strikingly lovely countenance; and the class so well known in England, because so numerous, denominated “pretty girls,” has no existence in Spain. The women were, without exception, dark,—but the darkness of the clear brunette, is darkness of a very different kind from that of the Castilian. I saw no fine skin, no glossy hair: dark expressive eyes I certainly did see, but they were generally too ill supported to produce much effect. But let me do justice to the grace of the Spanish women. No other woman knows how to walk,—the elegant, light, and yet firm step of the small and well attired foot and ancle,—the graceful bearing of the head and neck,—the elegant disposition of the arms, never to be seen hanging downward, but one hand holding the folds of the mantilla, just below the waist; the other inclining upward, wielding, with an effect the most miraculous, that mysterious instrument, the fan,—these are the charms of the Spanish women. As for the fan, its powers are no where seen displayed to such advantage as on the Prado. I believe I shall never be able to look at a fan in the hands of any other than a Spanish woman,—certainly no other woman understands the management of it. In her hands it is never one moment at rest,—she throws it open, fans herself, furls it to the right,—opens it again, again fans herself, and furls it to the left, and all with three fingers of one hand. This is absolutely marvellous to one who has been accustomed to see a fan opened with both hands, and furled only on one side. But that I may at once exhaust the subject of fans, let me add, that in the hands of its true mistress, the fan becomes a substitute for language, and an interpreter of etiquette. If a lady perceives that she is an object of attention to some inquisitive and admiring caballero, she has immediate recourse to her fan, that she may convey to him one most important piece of information. If she be married, she fans herself slowly; if still señorita, rapidly. The caballero, therefore, at once ascertains his chances and his risks. This fact I obtained from a Spanish lady of rank in Madrid, the wife of a gentleman in a high official situation. The motion of the fan too, marks distinctly, and with the utmost nicety, the degree of intimacy that subsists between one lady and another. The shake of the fan is the universal acknowledgment of acquaintance; and according as the fan is open or shut, the intimacy is great or small. These are trifling things, yet they are worth telling. But let me return to the Prado, where, having decided upon the claims of the Castilian ladies, I had leisure to observe its other novelties. Here I saw little of the sombreness I had remarked on the streets, for many of the ladies wore white mantillas; and in the evening, coloured rather than black gowns are the mode. The very great number, too, of officers of the guards, with their high cocked hats, and coats entirely covered with silver lace, gave additional animation to the scene. Other pictures of a different kind the eye occasionally caught,—here and there a portly priest, with his ample gown and great slouched hat, mingling in the throng, and evidently enjoying the scene and its gaiety,—aloof from the crowd, and in the most retired walks, with hurried step and downcast head, a friar, in his grey, brown or white cassock,—now and then a tall Andalusian peasant, with his tapering hat, his velvet and silver embroidered jacket and crimson sash, his unbuttoned gaiters and white stockings,—the Asturian nurse, with her short brown jerkin, petticoat of blue and yellow, trimmed with gold, and bare head. It is always a mark of a woman’s consequence in Madrid to hire an Asturian nurse; they are supposed to be models of health and strength, and certainly if breadth of figure be the criterion of these, the ladies of Madrid make a prudent choice: I never saw such women as the women of the Asturias. In France, where the women are generally mince, one of them might be exhibited as a curiosity.