SPANISH SOCIETY
There is something specially charming about Spanish society, its freedom
from formality, the genuine pleasure and hospitality with which each
guest is received, and the extreme simplicity of the entertainment. In
speaking, however, of society in Madrid and other modern towns, it must
be remembered that the old manners and customs are to a great extent
being modified and assimilated with those of the other Continental
cities. A great number of the Spanish nobility spend the season in Paris
or in London as regularly as any of the fashionable people in France or
England. There is no country life in Spain, as we understand the word;
those of the upper ten thousand who have castles or great houses in the
provinces rarely visit them, and still more rarely entertain there. A
hunting or a shooting party at one of these is quite an event; so when
the great people leave Madrid, it is generally to enter into London or
Paris society, and, naturally, when they are at home they to a great
extent retain cosmopolitan customs. At the foreign legations or
ministries also, society loses much of its specially Spanish character.
The word _tertulia_ simply means a circle or group in society; but it
has come to signify a species of "At Home" much more informal than
anything we have in the way of evening entertainment. The _tertulia_ of
a particular lady means the group of friends who are in the habit of
frequenting her drawing-room. The Salon del Prado is the general
meeting-place of all who feel more inclined for _al fresco_
entertainment than for close rooms, and the different groups of friends
meeting there draw their chairs together in small circles, and thus hold
their _tertulia_. The old Countess of Montijo was so much given to
open-handed hospitality, and it was so easy for any English person to
obtain an introduction to her _tertulia_, that her daughter, the Empress
Eugénie, used to call it the _Prado cubierto_--"only the Prado with a
roof on." It is not customary for anything but the very lightest of
refreshments to be offered at the ordinary _tertulia_, and this is one
of its great charms, for little or no expense is incurred, and those who
are not rich can still welcome their friends as often as they like
without any of the terrific preparations for the entertainment which
make it a burden and a bore, and without a rueful glance at the weekly
bill afterwards. Occasionally, chocolate is handed round, and any amount
of tumblers of cold water. The chocolate is served in small coffee-cups,
and is of the consistency of oatmeal porridge; but it is delicious all
the same, very light and well frothed up. It is "eaten" by dipping
little finger-rusks or sponge-chips into the mixture, and you are
extremely glad of the glass of cold water after it. This is, however,
rather an exception; lemonade, _azucarillas_ and water, or tea served in
a separate room about twelve o'clock, is more usual. The _azucarilla_ is
a confection not unlike "Edinburgh rock," but more porous and of the
nature of a meringue. You stir the water with it, when it instantly
dissolves, flavouring the water with vanilla, lemon, or orange, as well
as sugar. Sometimes you are offered meringues, which you eat first, and
then drink the water.
I have a very perfect recollection of my first _tertulia_ in Madrid,
when I was a very young girl. We had been asked to go quite early, as we
were the strangers of the evening. Between seventy and eighty guests
dropped in, the ladies chiefly in morning dress, as we understand the
word. A Spanish lady never rises to receive a gentleman; but when any
ladies entered the large drawing-room where we were all seated, every
one rose and stood while the new arrivals made the circuit of the room,
shaking hands with their friends or kissing them on both cheeks, and
giving a somewhat undignified little nod to those whom they did not
know. The first time every one rose I thought we were going to sing a
hymn, or take part in some ceremony; but as it had to be repeated each
time a lady entered the room, I began to wish they would all come at
once. As soon as the dancing began, however, this ceremony was
discontinued. When you are introduced to a partner, the first thing he
does is to inquire your Christian name; from that time forth he
addresses you by it, as if he had known you from infancy, and in
speaking to him you are expected to use his surname alone. If there be
more than one brother, you address the younger one as "Arturo," "Ramon,"
or whatever his Christian name may be. The diminutives are, however,
almost always used--Pacquita, Juanito, etc., in place of Francisca or
Juan. Even the middle-aged and old ladies are always spoken to by their
Christian names, and it is quite common to hear a child of six
addressing a lady who is probably a grandmother as "Luisa" or
"Mariquita."
Between the dances the pauses were unusually long, but they were never
spent by the ladies sitting in rows round the walls, while the men
blocked up the doorways and looked bored. There were no "flirting
corners," and sitting out on the stairs _à deux_ would have been a
_compromiso_. The whole company broke up into little knots and circles,
the chairs, which had been pushed into corners or an ante-room, were
fetched out, and the men, without any sort of shyness, generally seated
themselves in front of the ladies, and kept up a perfectly wild hubbub
of conversation until the music for the next dance struck up. Dowagers
and _dueñas_ were few; they sat in the same spot all the evening, and
asked each other what rent they paid, how many _chimeneas_ (fireplaces)
they had, whether they burned wood or coal, and lamented over the price
of both. They reminded one irresistibly of the "two crumbly old women"
in _Kavanagh_ "who talked about moths, and cheap furniture, and the best
cure for rheumatism."
The dances were the same as ours, with some small differences: the
_rigodon_ is a variation of the quadrille, and the lancers are slightly
curtailed. There was a decided fancy for the polka and a species of
mazurka, which I remembered having learned from a dancing-master in the
dawn of life, under some strange and forgotten name. Spaniards dance
divinely--nothing less. They waltz as few other men do, a very poetry of
motion, an abandonment of enjoyment, as if their soul were in it,
especially if the music be somewhat languid. This is especially the case
with the artillery officers, who are great favourites in society, and
belong exclusively to the upper ranks.
I have described this _tertulia_ at length because it was a typical one
of many. The cotillon was a great favourite, and generally closed the
evening. I always had an idea that one cause of its popularity was the
extended opportunities it gave for a couple who found each other's
company pleasant to enjoy it without much interference. It rather made
up for the loss of the staircase and the window-seats, or balconies,
dear to English dancers. The rooms are generally kept in a stifling
state of heat, a thick curtain always hanging over the door, and never
an open window or any kind of ventilation; this, however, does not
inconvenience the Spaniard in the least. It is usual to smoke during the
intervals of the dances--cigarettes as a rule; but I have often known a
man to lay his cigar on the edge of a table, and give it a whiff between
the rounds of a _valse_ to keep it going.
This, however, is the Spanish _tertulia_. You are "offered the house"
once and for always, and told the evenings on which your hostess
"receives," generally once, sometimes many more times in the week; then
you drop in, without further invitation, whenever you feel inclined;
after the opera, or on the days when there is no opera, or on your way
from the theatre, or at any hour. This sort of visiting puts an end to
what we, by courtesy, call "morning calls." There is always conversation
to any amount, generally cards, music, and, when there are sufficient
young people, a dance.
There is no exclusiveness and no caste about Spanish society; all the
houses are open, and the guests are always welcome. There are, of
course, the houses of the nobility, and there are many grades in this
_Grandeza_, some being of very recent creation, others of the
uncontaminated _sangre azul_; but there is no hard-and-fast line. The
successful politician or the popular writer has the entrée anywhere,
and there is no difficulty about going into the very best of the Court
society, if one has friends in that _tertulia_. One guest asks
permission to present his or her friend, the permission is courteously
granted, and the thing is done. Poets and dramatists are in great
request in Madrid society. It is the custom to ask them to recite their
own compositions, and as almost every Spaniard is a poet, whatever else
he may be, there is no lack of entertainment. All the popular
authors--Campoamor, Nuñez de Arce, Pelayo, Valera, and many others--may
thus be heard; but the paid performer (so common in London
drawing-rooms) of music, light drama, or poetical recitation, is
probably absolutely unknown in Madrid society.
During the season balls are given occasionally at the Palace, and at the
houses of the great nobility, the Fernan-Nuñez, the Romana, the
Medinaceli, and others, whose names are as well known in Paris and
London as in Madrid. Dinner-parties are also becoming much more common
in private houses than they were before the Restoration, and as for
public dinners, they are so frequent that they bid fair to become of the
same importance as the like institution in England. Costume balls,
dances, dinners, and evening entertainments among the _corps
diplomatique_ abound. Everyone in Madrid has a box or stall at the
Teatro Real, or opera-house, and many ladies make a practice of
"receiving" in their _palcos_; and in the entrance-hall, after the
performance is over, an hour may be spent, while ostensibly waiting for
carriages, in conversation, gossip, mild flirtation, and generally
making one's self agreeable among the groups all engaged in the same
amusement. Almost everyone, also, whatever his means may be, has an
_abono_ at one or other of the numerous theatres, sometimes at more than
one; and if it be a box, the subscribers take friends with them, or
receive visits there. It is a common thing, either in the opera-house or
in the theatres, for a couple of friends to join in the _abono_; in this
case it is arranged on which nights the whole box or the two or three
stalls shall be the property of each in turn. Besides paying for the
seats, there is always a separate charge each night made for the
_entrada_--in the Teatro Real it is a peseta and a half, in the others
one peseta. By this arrangement anyone can enter the theatre by paying
the _entrada_, and take chance of finding friends there, frequently
spending an hour or so going from one box to another. All this gives the
theatre more the air of being an immense "At Home" than what we are
accustomed to in England. The intervals between the acts are very long,
and, as all the men smoke, somewhat trying.
Spanish women are great dressers, and the costumes seen at the
race-meetings at the Hippodrome, and in the Parque, are elaborately
French, and sometimes startling. The upper middle class go to Santander,
Biarritz, or one of the other fashionable watering-places, and it is
said of the ladies that they only stop as many days as they can sport
new costumes. If they go for a fortnight they must have fifteen
absolutely new dresses, as they would never think of putting one on a
second time. They take with them immense trunks, such as we generally
associate with American travellers; these are called _mundos_
(worlds)--a name which one feels certain was given by the suffering man
who is expected to look after them.
There are many little details in Spanish life, even of the upper
classes, which strike one as odd. One, for instance, is the perfect
_sangfroid_ with which they pick their teeth in public; but so little is
this considered, as with us, a breach of good manners, that the
dinner-tables are supplied with dainty little ornaments filled with
tooth-picks, and these are handed round to the guests by the waiters
towards the close of the meal. Nor is it an unknown thing for a Spanish
lady to spit. I have seen it done out of a carriage window in the
fashionable drive without any hesitation. At the same time, as one of
the great charms of a Spanish woman is the total absence in her of
anything savouring of affectation, one would far sooner overlook customs
that are unknown in polite society with us than have them lose their own
characteristics in an attempt to imitate the social peculiarities of
other nations that have incorporated the ominous word "snob" in their
vocabularies. It has no equivalent in the language of Castile, and it
is to be hoped will never be borrowed. Nevertheless, a recent Spanish
writer laments the fact that in the race for "_el_ high life" his
fellow-countrywomen "are not ashamed to drink whisky!" We have yet to
learn that whisky-drinking among women is an element of good style in
any class of English society. The idea that Spanish ladies were in the
habit of smoking in past times is a mistake. If they do so now it is an
instance of the race for "_el_ high life," of which the writer quoted
above complains.
In imitation of foreign customs, many of the ladies in Madrid and the
more modern cities have established their "day" for afternoon visitors.
After all, this is but the Spanish _tertulia_ at a different hour, but
if it should ever supersede the real evening _tertulia_ it will be a
thousand pities; it would be far more sensible if we were to adopt the
Spanish custom, rather than that they should follow ours. In the
evening, the hour varying, of course, with the time of year, all Madrid
goes to drive, ride, or walk in the Buen Retiro, now called the Parque
de Madrid. It is beautifully laid out, with wide, well-kept roads and
well-cared-for gardens; it has quite superseded the Paseo de la Fuente
Castellano, which used to be the "Ladies' Mile" of Madrid.
Madrid is a city of which one hears the most contradictory accounts. The
mere traveller not uncommonly pronounces it "disappointing, uninteresting,
less foreign than most Continental capitals,"--"everything to be seen at
best second-rate France," etc., etc. The Museo, of course, must be
admired,--even the most ignorant know that to contemn that is to write
themselves down as Philistines;--but for the rest, they confess themselves
glad to escape, after two or three days spent in La Corte, to what they
fancy will prove more interesting towns, or, at any rate, to something
which they hope will be more characteristic. But those who settle in
Madrid, or know it well, winter and summer, and have friends among its
hospitable people, come to love it, one might almost say, strangely,
because it is not the love that springs from habit or mere familiarity,
but something much warmer and more personal. One charm it has, which is
felt while there and pleasantly remembered in absence--its much-maligned
climate. The position of Madrid at the apex of a high table-land, two
thousand one hundred and sixty feet above the level of the sea, with its
wide expanse of plain on every hand but that on which the Guadarramas
break the horizon with their rugged, often snow-capped, peaks, naturally
exposes it to rapid changes of temperature; that is to say, that if the
snow is still lying on the Sierra, and the wind should chance to blow from
that direction on Madrid, which is steeped in sunshine winter and summer
for far the greater part of the year, there is nothing to break its course,
and naturally, a Madrileño, crossing from the sheltered corner, where
he has been "taking the sun," to the shady side of the street and the
full force of the chilly blast, will be very likely to "catch an air,"
as the Spaniard expresses it. But that _tan sutil aire de Madrid_, which
Ford seems to have discovered, and which every guide-book and slip-shod
itinerary has ever since quoted, might very well now be allowed to find
a place in the limbo of exploded myths; it has done far more than its
duty in terrifying visitors quite needlessly. That _pulmonia fulminante_
(acute pneumonia) is a very common disease among the men of Madrid,
there is no doubt, and in the days when Ford wrote, they were no doubt
immediately bled, and so hastened on their way out of this troublesome
world by the doctors; but one has not very far to seek for the cause of
this scourge when one notices the habits of the Madrileño. In the first
place he hates nothing quite so much as fresh air, and the cafés, clubs,
taverns, and places where he resorts are kept in such a state of heated
stuffiness that it seems scarcely an exaggeration to say that the air
could be cut out in junks, like pieces of cake. If he travel by train,
all windows must be kept closely shut, while he smokes all the time.
When, at last, it is necessary to brave the outer air in order to reach
home, he, carefully and before leaving the vitiated atmosphere he has
been breathing, envelops himself in his cloak, throwing the heavy cape,
generally lined with velvet or plush, across his mouth and nose, barely
leaving his eyes visible; he thus has three or four folds of cloth and
velvet as a respirator. It often happens that at the corner of some
street the long arm of the icy "Guadarrama" reaches him; a sudden gust
of wind plucks off his respirator, and the mischief is done. But should
he reach the safe closeness of his own house, he has certainly done his
level best to charge his lungs with unwholesome and contaminated air.
You have only to see the women on the coldest day in winter with nothing
over their heads but a silk or lace mantilla, or a mere _velo_ of net,
and the working-women with nothing but their magnificent hair, or, at
most, a kerchief, to be certain that it is not the "air" that is to
blame. I have seen the women going about Madrid in winter, both by day
and night, when the men were muffled to the eyes, with thicker dresses,
of course, and perhaps a fur cape, but no sort of wrap about their head
or throat; and _pulmonia_ is comparatively unknown among women. To
English people, accustomed to plenty of fresh air and water, Madrid has
never been an unhealthy place, and it is extremely probable that one of
these days our doctors will be sending their consumptive patients there
for the winter. They might easily do worse.
One of the coldest winters I remember in Madrid, a young Englishman came
out with a letter of introduction from friends. He looked as if he had
not many weeks to live, and in truth he was condemned by his doctors,
and his hours were numbered. He was a Yorkshireman by birth, but had
some years past developed seeds of consumption. He had been sent year
after year to Madeira and other of the old resorts, having been told
that a winter in England would certainly finish him. Finally, he made
his doctors tell him the truth: it was that he had not many months,
perhaps not many weeks, to live.
"Very well, then," he replied, "there is no use worrying any more about
my health. I shall do my best to enjoy the little time I may have left."
He threw all his medicines and remedies out of the window, he looked out
for the most unhealthy place he could find, where he would be most
certain of never meeting another consumptive patient; and in the course
of the search he came across the well-worn chestnut about the air of
Madrid. "That is the place for me," he exclaimed; "only strong and
healthy people can live there. At any rate, so long as I do live, I
shall be amongst sound lungs, and shall see no more fellow-sufferers.
The _aire tan sutil_ will kill me, and that will be the end of the
matter." So far from killing him, the fine champagne-like air of Madrid
went as near curing him as was possible for a man with only one lung. He
took no precautions, never wrapped up, went out at night as well as by
day, and when he died, fourteen years later, it was not of consumption.
He used to come to Madrid for the winter to escape the damp of England,
and revelled in the warmth and freshness of that sun-steeped air.
The climate of Madrid has sensibly altered since I have known it, and
will continue to do so as vegetation increases and trees spring up and
grow to perfection within and around it. In the old times, before the
splendid service of water of the Lozoya Canal was in common use, the air
was so dry as to make one's skin uncomfortable, and one's hair to break
off into pieces like tinder under the brush; there was also a constant
thickening in the throat, causing slight discomfort, and a penetrating,
impalpable dust which nothing ever laid, and which formed a veritable
cloud reaching far above the heads of the promenaders in the Salon del
Prado. A very short time changed all this. Twice a day the streets were
watered with far-reaching hose, a constant stream ran about the stems of
the trees in the Prado, gardens were planted and constantly watered, and
while the hitherto barren, dust-laden places began to blossom as the
rose, the air itself became softer, less trying, and, perhaps, there is
rather more uncertainty about the weather, or at any rate a greater
rainfall. At one time there were but two rainy seasons--spring and
autumn--and never a cloud in between. For about three days clouds would
be gathering gradually in the sky, beginning with one literally "no
bigger than a man's hand." Whenever there was a cloud, you might be
certain of rain, past or to come. Then one day, when there was no longer
any blue to be seen, the heavens opened and the rain came down. There
could be no mistake about it. When it rains or thunders in Madrid, it
tries to get it all over as quickly as possible. There is nothing like
doing a thing well when you are about it, and Madrid thoroughly
understands this matter of rain. It never ceases, never tempts people to
go out and then drowns them. No, if you go out, it is with a thorough
understanding of what you are undertaking; and if you are disposed to be
critical about anything in the municipal management of La Corte now, try
to imagine what it was when the water from the roofs was carried out in
wide pipes a few feet from the edge, and allowed to pour on the heads of
the defenceless foot-passengers, or almost to break in the roof of
carriage or cab which had to pass under them. This is the time to learn
why the bridges over the Manzanares are so wide and so strong; not one
whit too much of either, if they are to withstand the mighty on-rush. We
used to go off to the Casa de Campo the moment the rain was over, for
the sake of seeing Madrid as one never sees it at other times--its
magnificent Palace crowning the steep bluff, round which a mighty river
is rushing to the sea.
The rain lasts a week, a fortnight, or even more, and then the sky takes
at least three days to clear, during which it resembles our English
white-flecked blue, or its hurrying grey masses, and the cloud-shadows
fly over the wide landscape, now all suddenly changed to verdure, and
lie on the distant _sierra_, giving an unwonted charm to the scene. The
Casa de Campo, the Florida, and all green spots become carpeted with
wild flowers; the trees seem to have put on new leafage, so fresh are
they and free from the over-loading of dust. And then, gradually, the
Manzanares repents him of his anger and haste; no more foam is dashing
against the piers of the bridges, no more crested waves are hurrying
before the wind; he sinks gently and slowly back to his accustomed
lounging pace, "taking the sun" with lazy ease once more; and the
washerwomen come down and resume their labours under the plane trees;
and there is no more thought of rain for many a week, perhaps month, to
come; and that strangely deep, impenetrable vault of a blue unknown
elsewhere spreads its canopy over a clean, rain-washed city.
The Parque de Madrid, which lies high above the Prado, affords a
striking view of the country on all sides. An Englishman of wide
Continental experience, describing this prospect, says he was "more than
recompensed by the sudden apparition, through an opening between the
houses, of the exquisite _campagna_ that surrounds Madrid.... Compared
with that of Rome, it seemed to me clearer, and more extensive, while
the hue of the atmosphere that overspread it was of a rich purple." I
have quoted these remarks because it is so rare for English visitors,
accustomed to the lush green of our own meadows and woods, to find
anything to admire in what is too often called the "mangy," or at best
the "arid," surroundings of the capital of Spain. This, however, was
written in September, and there had been heavy rains; after the crops
are gathered and before the autumn rains come on, the prospect is
scarcely so much to be admired. That the view is extensive, no one can
deny; there is unbroken horizon, except where the rugged peaks of the
Guadarramas pierce the sky, and the atmospheric effects are often
marvellously beautiful, especially when the swift shadows of clouds pass
over the wide landscape, or lie upon the "everlasting hills."
For myself, this vast expanse, with the sense of immensity which we
generally are only able to associate with the sea, has always had an
extraordinary charm. I have seen it at all times of the year, early in
the morning, and at, or just before, sundown--nay, even once or twice by
moonlight, or with the marvellous blue vault overhead, that seems so
much higher and greater there than elsewhere, studded with planet and
star, luminous beyond all that we know in our little island, where the
blue is so pale by comparison, and the atmosphere laden with moisture
when we think it most clear. I do not remember elsewhere in Spain, or in
any other country, such a depth of sky or such brilliancy of moon and
star light as in Madrid, where it is as easy to read by night as by day
on some occasions.
Given plenty of water, and Madrid is an ideal place for flowers. Such
carnations as those which are grown in the nursery gardens there are
never seen elsewhere--they are a revelation in horticulture; nor are the
roses any less wonderful. The bouquet with which a Spaniard, whether
_hidalgo_ or one of your servants, greets your birthday is generally a
pyramid almost as tall as yourself. It needs to be placed in a large
earthenware jar on the floor, and if you should be happy enough to have
a good many friends, there is scarcely room for anything else in your
_gabinete_. The flowers one can raise in a balcony in Madrid merely by
using plenty of water, syringing the dust off the leaves, and shading
them occasionally from the worst heat, are more than equal to anything a
hothouse in England can produce. An idea may be formed of the really
marvellous fertility of the soil and climate by the rapidity with which
seeds develop. I remember one summer, when some of the new gardens were
being laid out in the Buen Retiro, a grand concert and evening _fête_
was to be given as the opening function. On the evening before this
entertainment was to take place we happened to be near, and strolled in
to see how the preparations were going on. The gravel walks were all
there, the stands for the bands, the Chinese lanterns hanging from the
trees, but where was the grass? Alas! wherever it ought to have been
were to be seen brown, sad-looking patches of bare earth, not a blade
springing anywhere; what was worse, an army of gardeners were, at that
moment only, sowing the seed in some patches, while others were being
rolled, and watered with hose. _Cosa de España!_ of course. It had been
put off to _mañana_, until now there might be _fête_, but no gardens.
The following evening, when in company with all Madrid we went to the
concert, behold a transformation! Soft, green, velvety sward--not to be
walked on, it is true, but lovely to behold--covered the patches so
absolutely bald twenty-four hours ago. The seed we had seen sown had
sprung up as thickly as finest cut velvet. _Cosa de España_, indeed! It
is not always in Spain--the land of the unexpected--that _Mañana
verémos_ is foolishness.
Until after Christmas the winter in Madrid is charming, even if it be
cold; the glorious sunshine from dawn to sunset, the fine exhilarating
air, raise one's spirits unconsciously; but very often the old year is
dead before any real cold comes on. I have sat out in the Buen Retiro
many a day in December with book or work, and scarcely any more wrap
than one wears in summer in England. After that there is generally a
cold, and perhaps disagreeable, spell, when the wind comes howling
across the plains straight from the snow and ice, and the Madrileño
thinks it terrible; as a matter of fact, so long as the sky remains
clear, there is always one side of the street where one can be warm.
Sometimes, but not often, the cold weather or the bitter winds last
pretty far into the spring, and it has certainly happened in the depth
of the frost that one of the sentries on duty at the Palace, on the side
facing the mountains, was found frozen to death when the relief came.
After that the watch was made shorter, and the change of guard more
frequent in winter. I have seen the Estanque Grande in the Retiro
covered with ice several inches thick; but as all Madrid turned out to
see the wonder and watch the foreigners skate, a thing that appeared
never to have been seen before, it could not have been a very common
occurrence.
Riding early in the morning in winter outside Madrid, even with the sun
shining brightly and a cloudless sky, the cold was often intense,
especially in the dells and hollows. We have often had to put our hands
under the saddle to keep them from freezing, so as to be able to feel
the reins, and if I were riding with the sun on the off-side, my feet
would become perfectly dead to feeling. But what an air it was!
Something to be remembered, and long before we reached home we were in a
delicious glow. The horses, English thoroughbreds, enjoyed it immensely,
and went like the wind. I have been in Madrid in every part of the year,
and never found it unbearably hot, though one does not generally wait
for July or August; but here again the lightness and dryness of the air
seem to make heat much easier to bear. Numbers of Madrid people think
nothing of remaining there all the summer through.