Wanderings in Spain

by Théophile Gautier

The Prado most certainly offers one of the most animated sights it is possible to behold. The promenade is one of the finest in the world; not for the place itself, which is of the most ordinary description, in spite of all the efforts made by Charles III. to supply its natural defects, but on account of the astonishing concourse of persons that are collected there every evening, from seven o'clock until half-past ten. There are very few bonnets to be seen on the Prado. With the exception of some few bright yellow affairs resembling coal-scuttles, which may have been used to decorate the head of some learned ass, you meet with mantillas only. The Spanish mantilla is therefore a fact. I had previously believed that it existed no longer, save in the ballads of Monsieur Crevel de Charlemagne. It is made of black or white lace, but generally black, and is worn at the back of the head, on the top of the comb; a few flowers placed on each side of the forehead complete the head-dress, which produces the most charming effect imaginable. When a woman wears a mantilla, she must be as ugly as the three theological virtues not to appear pretty; unfortunately, it is the only part of the Spanish costume which has been preserved, all the rest is à la Française. The lower folds of the mantilla float above a shawl, an odious shawl, and the shawl is accompanied by a gown of some stuff or other, which does not bear the remotest resemblance to the basquina formerly worn. I cannot avoid being astonished at such blindness, and I cannot understand how it is that the women, who are generally so clearsighted in all that relates to their beauty, do not perceive that their immense efforts to be elegant only cause them, at most, to look like provincial fashionables, which, after all, is but a poor result. The old costume is so admirably adapted to the peculiar beauty, proportions, and manners of the Spanish women, that it is really the only one that can by any means become them. The fan corrects, to a certain extent, the bad taste of this pretension to Parisianism. A woman without a fan is something that I have not yet seen in this happy land; I have seen some who had satin shoes without stockings, but they always had a fan. The fan accompanies them everywhere, even to church, where you come across groups of them of all ages, kneeling down or squatting on their heels, and praying and fanning themselves most fervently. The proceedings are frequently varied by their making the sign of the cross in the Spanish manner, which is much more complicated than ours; they execute this manœuvre with a degree of rapidity and precision worthy of Prussian soldiers. The management of the fan is an art that is totally unknown in France. The Spanish women excel in it; the fan opens, shuts, and is twirled about in their fingers so rapidly and so lightly, that a conjurer could not do it better. Some ladies who are great amateurs have a most valuable collection of fans. We ourselves saw a collection of this kind which numbered more than a hundred, of various patterns. There were fans of every country and every period; fans made of ivory, tortoiseshell, sandal-wood, adorned with spangles, or painted in water-colours, in the style of Louis XIV. and Louis XV.; fans made of China or Japan rice-paper; in a word, fans of every possible description. Some of them were decorated with rubies, diamonds, and other precious stones. This custom of forming large collections of fans is a piece of tasteful extravagance, a charming mania in a pretty woman. The shutting and opening of the fans produce a little hissing sound, which, being repeated more than a thousand times a minute, pierces the confused hum which floats above the crowd, and has something very strange about it for a French ear. When a woman meets one of her acquaintance, she makes a little sign with her fan, and pronounces the word agur as she passes him. At present let us say something about Spanish beauty.

What we Frenchmen believe to constitute the Spanish type does not exist in Spain; at least, I have not met with it as yet. We generally picture to ourselves, whenever a señora or a mantilla is mentioned, a long, pale, oval face, large black eyes with velvet eyebrows, a sharp nose, slightly arched, a pair of bright red lips, and, to complete the whole, a warm, gold-like tint, bearing out the line in the song, Elle est jaune comme une orange (She is as yellow as an orange). This is the Arabic or Moorish, and not the Spanish type. The women of Madrid are charming creatures, in the fullest acceptation of the word; out of every four, there are three who are pretty; but they do not correspond in the least with the notion we have formed of them. They are short, delicate, and well-shaped; their foot is small, their figure graceful, and their bust full and voluptuous; but their skin is very white, their features fine and irregular, and their mouth formed like a heart, resembling exactly some of our beauties in the time of the Regent.[6] Many have light chestnut hair, and you cannot take two turns upon the Prado without meeting seven or eight women with fair hair of every possible shade, from the light blond to the most vivid red, like the beard of Charles V. It is an error to suppose that there are no fair-complexioned women in Spain. Blue eyes are very common, but they are not so highly esteemed as black ones.

During the first few days, we had some difficulty in accustoming ourselves to the sight of women with their shoulders exposed as if they were going to a ball, their arms bare, their feet encased in satin shoes, and their fan in their hand, walking about alone in a public thoroughfare, for it is not the custom to offer your arm to a lady unless you are her husband or some near relation; you content yourself with merely walking by her side, at least as long as it is light, for after nightfall, this practice is not so rigorously observed, especially with foreigners who are not used to it.

We had heard people talk a great deal of the manolas of Madrid; the type of the manola has disappeared, like that of the grisette in Paris, and of the transteverini in Rome; it certainly does exist, but it has been stripped of all its primitive characteristics. The manola no longer wears her old costume, which was so spirited and picturesque. The ignoble gown of printed calico has replaced the bright-coloured basquina, embroidered with extravagant patterns; the frightful leather shoe has superseded the satin slipper, and, horrible idea, their gowns are lengthened at least two good inches. In former days, the manolas lent an aspect of variety to the Prado by their lively manner and their singular dress; at present, it is difficult to distinguish them from the wives of the lower class of tradespeople. I looked for the full-blood manola in every corner of Madrid; at the bull-fights, in the Garden de las Delicias, at the Nuevo Recreo, and on the Festival of Saint Anthony, without finding a perfect one. Once, as I was crossing the quarter of the Rastro, the Temple[7] of Madrid, after I had picked my way between an immense number of dirty wretches, who were stretched out asleep, upon the ground, in the midst of the most horrible collection of rags, I found myself in a little deserted lane. There, for the first time, did I behold the manola I was in search of. She was a tall, strapping girl, about four-and-twenty, which is the greatest age that a manola or a grisette can ever attain. She had a dark complexion, a sorrowful but determined look, rather thick lips, and something strangely African in the general formation of her face. An immense roll of hair that was so intensely black as to appear blue, and plaited like so much basket-work, encircled her head and terminated in a large high-backed comb. A bunch of coral hung from each ear, her tawny neck was adorned with a necklace of the same material; a mantilla of black velvet was wound around her head and shoulders, her robe, which was as short as those of the Swiss girls in the Canton of Berne, was formed of embroidered cloth, and exposed to view her well-shaped nervous legs encased in a pair of tightly-fitting black silk stockings; her shoes were of satin according to the old fashion; and to complete the whole, a red fan fluttered about like a cinnabar butterfly between her fingers, which were loaded with silver rings. The last of the manolas turned round the corner of the lane and disappeared from my sight, leaving me in a state of astonishment at having once, at least, seen walking about in the every-day world a costume so admirably adapted for the masquerades at the Opera! On the Prado, too, I saw some pasiegas from Santander, in their national costume. These pasiegas are accounted the best wet-nurses in Spain, and their affection for their little charges is as proverbial as is the honesty of the natives of Auvergne in France. They wear a red cloth petticoat with large pleats, and a broad silver-lace border, a velvet bodice trimmed with gold, and a variegated bright-coloured silk handkerchief as a headdress, the whole being accompanied with silver trinkets and other barbarous ornaments. These women are extremely handsome, and have a very striking expression of strength and grandeur. Their custom of carrying the child upon their arms causes them to throw their body rather back; this shows off the development of their busts to great advantage. It is looked upon as a kind of luxury to keep a pasiega in full costume, just as it is to have a Klepht standing behind your carriage.

I have said nothing about the dress of the men. Look at the plates of the fashions, six months old, in the shop of some tailor, or in some reading-room, and you will have a correct idea of it. Paris is the object which absorbs the thoughts of every one, and I recollect having once seen written over the shed of a shoe-black, "Boots cleaned here after the Parisian fashion (al estilo de Paris)." The modest aim of the modern hidalgos is to embody the delicious designs of Gavarni; they are not aware that there are but a few of the most elegant Parisians who can succeed in the attempt. We must, however, do them the justice to say, that they are much better dressed than the women; their patent-leather boots are as brilliant, and their gloves as white as it is possible for boots or gloves to be. Their coats are correct, and their trousers very praiseworthy; but the cravat cannot boast of the same purity of taste, and the waistcoat, the only portion of modern costume which offers any scope for the exercise of the fancy, is not always irreproachable.

There is a trade at Madrid of which no one in Paris has an idea. I allude to the retailing of water. The stock in trade of the water-seller consists of a cantaro of white clay, a small reed or tin basket, containing two or three glasses, a few azucarillos (sticks of porous caramel sugar), and sometimes a couple of oranges or limes. There is one class of water-sellers, who have little casks twined round with green branches, which they carry on their back. Some of them even go so far—along the Prado, for instance—as to exhibit painted counters, surmounted by little brass figures of Fame, and small flags, not a whit inferior in magnificence to the displays made by the marchands de coco in Paris. These same water-sellers are generally young muchachos from Gallicia, and are clad in a snuff-coloured cloth jacket, breeches, black gaiters, and a peaked hat. There are also some who are natives of Valencia, with their white linen drawers, their piece of stuff thrown over their shoulder, their legs bronzed by the sun, and their alpargatas bordered with blue. There are also a few women and little girls, whose costumes present nothing worthy of notice, that sell water. They are called, according to their sex, aguadores or aguadoras. In all quarters of the city do you hear their shrill cries, pitched in all sorts of keys, and varied in a hundred thousand manners: Agua, agua, quien quiere agua? Agua helada, fresquita como la nieve! This lasts from five in the morning till ten in the evening, and has inspired Breton de los Herreros, a favourite author of Madrid, with the idea of a song, entitled l'Aguadora, which has been very popular all through Spain. This thirst of the population of Madrid is certainly a most extraordinary thing; all the water in the fountains, and all the snow of the mountains of Guadarrama, are insufficient to allay it. People have joked a great deal about the poor Manzanares, and its Naïad with her dry urn, but I should just like to see what sort of a figure any other river would cut in a town parched up by the same thirst. The Manzanares is drunk up at its very source; the aguadores anxiously lie in wait for the least drop of water, the slightest appearance of humidity which oozes forth between its dry banks, and carry it off in their cantaros and casks; the laundresses wash the linen with sand, and, in the very middle of the bed of the river, a Mahommedan would not find sufficient water to enable him to perform his ablutions. The reader may, perhaps, recollect a delicious feuilleton, in which Méry describes the thirst of Marseilles. Exaggerate this six times, and you will have but a slight idea of the thirst of Madrid. The price of a glass of water is a cuarto (about a farthing). What Madrid most stands in need of, after water, is fire, wherewith to light its cigars; consequently, the cry, Fuego, fuego, is heard in every direction, mingled incessantly with that of agua, agua. There is a desperate struggle between the two elements, each of which appears to be striving which can make the most noise. The fire, which is more inextinguishable than that of Vesta, is carried about by young rascals in little vases filled with coal and fine ashes, with a handle, to prevent the bearers from burning their fingers.

FOUNTAIN AT MADRID.