Madrid has grown out of all knowledge in the last thirty years. No one who had not seen it since the time of Isabel II. would recognise it now, and even then much had been done since Ferdinand VII. had come back from his fawning and despicable captivity in France—where he had gloried in calling himself a "French prince"—to act the despot in his own country. The Liberal Ministers who, for short periods, had some semblance of power during the regency of Cristina had done a little to restore the civilisation and light established by Charles III., and wholly quenched in the time of his unworthy and contemptible successors. But even in 1865, the Alcalá Gate, standing where the Plaza de la Independencia is now, formed one boundary of Madrid, the Gate of Atocha was still standing at the end of the paseo of that name, and the Gate of Sta. Barbara formed another of the limits of the city. The Museo was unfinished and only to be entered by a side door, encumbered with builders' rubbish and half-hewn blocks of stone. The Paseo of la Fuente Castellana ended the Prado, and not a house was to be seen beyond the Mint, or outside the Gate of Alcalá.
All the town outside these barriers has arisen since; the magnificent viaduct across the Calle de Segovia, the Markets, the Parque de Madrid, the Hippodrome, the present Plaza de Toros, all are new. The old Bull Ring stood just outside the Alcalá Gate, and all beyond it was open country; no casas palacias along the Fuente Castellana, no Barrio Salamanca. Madrid has, however, always been a cheerful, noisy, stirring city, full of life and the expression of animal spirits. In days not so very long past the streets were filled with picturesque costumes of the provinces, with gaily decorated mules and donkeys carrying immense loads of hay or straw, or huge nets filled with melons or pumpkins, almost hiding everything but the head and the feet of the animal; or a smart-looking "Jacket" man from the country districts would go whistling by, Asturians, Murcians, Gallegos, gypsies, toreros in their brilliant traje Andaluz—always to be recognised by their tiny pigtails of hair, and by their splendidly lithe and graceful carriage—all these jostling, singing, chaffing each other, while the jingling bells on innumerable horses, mules, donkeys, rang through the sunlit air, and made the Puerta de Sol and the streets branching from it a constant scene of life and gaiety. Now and then would come the deep clang of the huge bell of the draught oxen, drawing their Old-World carts, often with solid discs of wood for wheels, while the women of the lower class sported their brilliantly embroidered Manila shawls, chattered, and fluttered their gaily-coloured fans just like the other señoritas. Mantillas, even then, were only to be seen on old ladies; but the smart little velo coquettishly fastened with a natural flower adorned all the young girls—French millinery, which never suits a Spanish face, being kept for the evening paseo. It is a pity these national costumes have gone out of fashion. A Spanish girl with velo and fan is something quite superior to the same fascinating young person dressed after the style of Paris—with a difference; for there is always a difference.
OUTSIDE THE PLAZA DE TOROS, MADRID
Madrid, in fact, is becoming cosmopolitan, and is little to be distinguished from other capitals, except in the barrios bajos on the national fiestas, and wherever the country people, as distinguished from the Madrid work-people, congregate. These last are rapidly losing all picturesqueness, dressing just as the workers in any other capital dress. They are, perhaps, still no less gatos (cats), those of them at least who have had the honour of being born in La Corte, this being the name given them by their fellow country-people.
If it be meant as a term of reproach, the Madrileño has an excellent answer in giving the history of its origin. In the reign of Alfonso VI., during one of the many war-like operations of this King, he wished to take an important and difficult fortress, and had collected all his forces to attack it—the Madrileños alone were late; it was, in fact, only the day before the assault was to take place that they arrived upon the scene. The King was furious, and when their leader approached his Majesty to know where the troops were to bivouac for the night, he replied that there was no room in his camp for laggards; pointing to the enemy's fortress, he added: "There will be found plenty of lodging for those who come too late for any other." Saluting his Majesty very courteously, the soldier withdrew, understanding thoroughly the indirect sneer at the valour of his troops; he went back to his regiment, summoned his officers and men, and repeated to them the King's word. One and all agreed that they would, in fact, seek their night's lodging just where the King had indicated. Impossible as the feat appeared, they instantly rushed to the attack of the formidable fortress with such irresistible dash that they succeeded in scaling the walls and entering it, pikes in rest. The King, who had run forward as soon as he heard of the attack, watched with delight his loyal Madrileños climbing up the face of the masonry with extraordinary skill, and not a little loss.
"Look, look!" he cried to those near him. "See how they climb! They are cats!"
The other forces at once came to their assistance, the fortress fell into the King's hands before nightfall, and those who had been in "no hurry" to join the army found their lodgings within it, as his Majesty had contemptuously recommended them to do. His anger was forgotten in admiration and praise; and, from that time, all those born in Madrid have the right to call themselves gatos.
It is curious how the observation of those who know Spain intimately differs—one must suppose according to temperament. Thus Antonio Gallenga, the well-known correspondent of the Times, who really knew Spain well, has left it on record that the people are not musical, and that he never remembers to have heard any of them singing in the streets, or at their work. I do not know how this could have happened, unless our old friend did not recognise the singing he did hear as music, for which he might, perhaps, be forgiven. My own experience is that the people are always singing, more or less, if you agree to call it so. As the houses are almost all built in flats, many of the windows open into patios, or court-yards, large or small, as the case may be. You may reckon on always having two or three servants, male or female, at work in the patio, the women washing or scrubbing, the men probably cleaning their horses, carriages, or harness; but whatever else they may be doing, you may be quite certain they will all be singing, though it is equally certain that, by the greatest exercise of amiability, you could scarcely call the result a song; the words seem to be improvised as the performer goes on. There was a light-hearted groom in one of the patios of our flat, in the Calle Lope de Vega, who would continue almost without a break the whole day. An old friend who used to amuse himself by listening to this remarkable performer declared that if he started his song in the early morning with a stick that was thick enough, he would go on till midnight telling the world in general all the people he had killed with it, and the other wonders of Hercules it had performed.
The ditty always begins on a high note, and goes quavering irregularly downwards, with infinite twirls, shakes, and prolonged notes, these being sung to the exclamation "Ay!" Minor keys enter a good deal into this kind of performance, and the most remarkable part of it is that the singer, once having reached the bottom of the scale—for there is no end—is able to begin again on the same high note, and hit upon, more or less, the same variations a second time. If you have nothing better to do than to listen to some of these improvisatores, you will get a long, and more or less connected, history of some event; but it takes a long time—and, perhaps, is not often worth the expenditure. The songs which you hear to the accompaniment of the guitar are different from these, though the introduction of the "Ay!" and the frequent shakes and twirls are always there.