"Christmas Eve! Christmas Eve!
This is surely no night for sleep!"
Where shall I spend the evening? Fortunately I can choose; let me see.
This is the 24th of December, 1855. We are in Madrid. We know the
waiters of all the cafés by name. We are hand in glove with the most
applauded poets of the day, the demi-gods of provincial amateurs.
We frequent theatres and see plays from the inside, as it were.
The great actors and singers shake our hand behind the scenes. We
penetrate into the editor's rooms and are initiated in the alchemy
which produces newspapers. We have seen the type-setter's fingers
stained with the lead of words, and the fingers of the author stained
with the ink of thoughts. We have free access to one of the tribunes
of Congress, credit at the hotels; there are social gatherings that
appreciate us, and tailors that endure us.
We are happy! Our youthful ambition is satisfied. We can enjoy
this night. We have conquered the world. Madrid is ours. Madrid is
our home. A cheer for Madrid! And you, provincial youths, who at
nightfall on an autumn day, sad and lonely, unearth and air your
impotent longing for the capital,--you who feel yourselves to be
poets, musicians, painters, orators, who despise your village, who
will not speak to your parents, who weep with ambition and dream of
suicide,--burst with envy, all of you, as we are now bursting with
pleasure.