Castilian Days | Page 7

of Madrid seems to be fire and water,
bane and antidote. It would be impossible for so many match-venders
to live anywhere else, in a city ten times the size of Madrid. On every
block you will find a wandering merchant dolefully announcing paper
and phosphorus,--the one to construct cigarettes and the other to light
them. The matches are little waxen tapers very neatly made and
enclosed in pasteboard boxes, which are sold for a cent and contain
about a hundred _fosforos._ These boxes are ornamented with portraits
of the popular favorites of the day, and afford a very fair test of the
progress and decline of parties. The queen has disappeared from them
except in caricature, and the chivalrous face of Castelar and the heavy
Bourbon mouth of Don Carlos are oftener seen than any others. A
Madrid smoker of average industry will use a box a day. They smoke
more cigarettes than cigars, and in the ardor of conversation allow their
fire to go out every minute. A young Austrian, who was watching a
senorito light his wisp of paper for the fifth time, and mentally
comparing it with the volcano volume and _kern-deutsch_ integrity of
purpose of the meerschaums of his native land, said to me: "What can
you expect of a people who trifle in that way with the only work of
their lives?"
It is this habit of constant smoking that makes the Madrilenos the

thirstiest people in the world; so that, alternating with the cry of "Fire,
lord-lings! Matches, chevaliers!" you hear continually the drone so
tempting to parched throats, "Water! who wants water? freezing water!
colder than snow!" This is the daily song of the Gallician who marches
along in his irrigating mission, with his brown blouse, his short
breeches, and pointed hat, like that Aladdin wears in the cheap editions;
a little varied by the Valentian in his party-colored mantle and his tow
trousers, showing the bronzed leg from the knee to the blue-bordered
sandals. Numerous as they are, they all seem to have enough to do.
They carry their scriptural-looking water-jars on their backs, and a
smart tray of tin and burnished brass, with meringues and glasses, in
front. The glasses are of enormous but not extravagant proportions.
These dropsical Iberians will drink water as if it were no stronger than
beer. In the winter-time, while the cheerful invitation rings out to the
same effect,--that the beverage is cold as the snow,--the merchant
prudently carries a little pot of hot water over a spirit-lamp to take the
chill off for shivery customers.
Madrid is one of those cities where strangers fear the climate less than
residents. Nothing is too bad for the Castilian to say of his native air.
Before you have been a day in the city some kind soul will warn you
against everything you have been in the habit of doing as leading to
sudden and severe death in this subtle air. You will hear in a dozen
different tones the favorite proverb, which may be translated,--
The air of Madrid is as sharp as a knife,-- It will spare a candle and
blow out your life:--
and another where the truth, as in many Spanish proverbs, is sacrificed
to the rhyme, saying that the climate is _tres meses invierno y nueve
infierno,--_three months winter and nine months Tophet. At the first
coming of the winter frosts the genuine son of Madrid gets out his capa,
the national full round cloak, and never leaves it off till late in the hot
spring days. They have a way of throwing one corner over the left
shoulder, so that a bright strip of gay lining falls outward and
pleasantly relieves the sombre monotony of the streets. In this way the
face is completely covered by the heavy woollen folds, only the eyes
being visible under the sombrero. The true Spaniard breathes no
out-of-doors air all winter except through his cloak, and they stare at
strangers who go about with uncovered faces enjoying the brisk air as if

they were lunatics. But what makes the custom absurdly incongruous is
that the women have no such terror of fresh air. While the hidalgo goes
smothered in his wrappings his wife and daughter wear nothing on their
necks and faces but their pretty complexions, and the gallant breeze,
grateful for this generous confidence, repays them in roses. I have
sometimes fancied that in this land of traditions this difference might
have arisen in those days of adventure when the cavaliers had good
reasons for keeping their faces concealed, while the senoras, we are
bound to believe, have never done anything for which their own beauty
was not the best excuse.
Nearly all there is of interest in Madrid consists in the faces and the life