“Good afternoon, gentleman. The gentleman is surely the most handsome,

the most kind-hearted, the best-dressed, and most polite of all the

world. If the gentleman could part with a peseta--nine-pence--to a

brother in deepest woe, God would reward him. God would give him still

more elegant health and more ravishing children. If he has no children,

God would certainly send him some--for only half a peseta, oh, gracious

gentleman. To a brother whose afflictions could not be recited from

now till the end of the world, so multiple, so heartrending are they.

I am an old man of seventy, oh, most beautiful gentleman--old as the

gentleman’s illustrious father, may Mary and the angels grant him long

life! Only twenty centimos, my gentleman--God will give you a million.

Ten centimos--five!... _Caramba!_ a curse on your hideous face and

loping gait. There is no uglier toad this side of hell!”

One thing beggars _can_ choose with proficiency: their language. In

Madrid they would be less disgusting were it not for their loathsome

diseases and deformities. The government is far too poor to isolate

them in asylums, so they continue to possess the streets and the

already overcrowded Gate of the Sun.

From this plaza the principal thoroughfares of the city branch off in a

sort of wheel, and mules, goats and donkeys laden with every imaginable

sort of burden pass to and fro at all hours of day and night. Shops

there are, of course, of various kinds; and cafés crowded round the

square; but the waiters carry the trays on their heads, and the whole

atmosphere is that of a mediæval interior town rather than a modern

cosmopolitan city.

To be sure, in Alcalà, the principal street off the Puerta del Sol,

there are clubs and up-to-date restaurants; but only men are supposed

to go to the restaurants, and in the clubs they look ill at ease and

incongruous. The life of the Spaniard is inalienably the life in the

streets, where you will find him at all hours, strolling along in his

clothes of fantastic cut and colour or sitting at a café, drinking

_horchatas_--the favourite beverage, made from a little nut. His

constant expression is a steady stare; varying from the dreamily

absent-minded to the crudely vulgar and licentious.

The widely diversified ancestry of the Spanish people is keenly

interesting to follow out in the features of the men and women of

today; among no race is there greater variety of type, though it is

four hundred years since the Moors and Jews were driven out, and new

blood has been practically excluded from Spain. Yet one sees the

Moorish and Jewish casts as distinct today as ever they were; to say

nothing of the aquiline Roman or the ruddy Gothic types from the far

more ancient period.

In names, too, history is eloquent: we find Edwigis, Gertrudis, and

Clotilde of the Gothic days; Zenaida and Agueda of the Moorish;

Raquel, Ester of the Jewish. I think that in no language is there

such variety or beauty in women’s names. Take, for example, Consuelo,

Amparo (Succour), Luz--pronounced Luth and meaning Light--or Felicitas,

Rosario, Pílar, Soledad, and a wealth of others as liquid and as

significant.

It is hard to attach them to the rather mediocre women one sees in

the streets on their way to mass: dressed in cheap tailored frocks, a

flimsy width of black net over their heads. The mantilla is no longer

current in Madrid, except for _fiestas_ and as the caprice of the

wealthy; but this shoddy offspring of the mantilla--the inferior black

veil--is everywhere seen on all classes of women. The _Madrileña_ who

wears a hat announces herself rich beyond recounting, and is charged

accordingly in the shops. Needless to say, there is no such thing as a

fixed price in any but the places of foreign origin.

I have often wondered whether Spanish women are stupid because they are

kept in such seclusion or whether they are secluded because they are

stupid. It is hard to separate the cause from the effect. But certainly

the Spanish beauty of song and story is rarer than rubies today; while

the animation that gives charm even to an ugly French or American

woman is utterly lacking in the _Española’s_ heavy, rather sensual

features. I am inclined to think, from the fact that it is saliently

a man’s country, she is as he has made her, or allowed her to become.

And when you remember that her highest enjoyment is to drive through

the rough-paved streets, hour after hour, that she may see and be seen;

when you consider that the rest of her day is spent in a cheerless

house without a book or a magazine, or any occupation but menial

household drudgery, you pity rather than condemn the profound ignorance

of the average Spanish woman.

Married at sixteen, the mother of four or five children by the time she

is twenty-five, she grows old before her time even as a Latin woman.

While by men she is disregarded and treated with a rudeness and lack of

respect revolting to the Anglo-Saxon. Her husband precedes her into and

out of the room, leaves her the less comfortable seat, blows smoke in

her face, and expectorates in her presence; all as a matter of course,

which she accepts in the same spirit. Her _raison d’être_ is as a

female; nothing more. What wonder that the brain she has is expended in

gossip and intrigue and that her husband openly admits he cannot trust

her out of his sight?

Like the Eastern women she resembles, she is superstitiously devout;

as, indeed, the men are, too, when they remember to be. All the

morning, weekdays as well as Sunday, the churches are full; one mass

succeeds another. It is a favourite habit of the younger men to wait

outside the fashionable churches until the girls and their duenas come

out, and then to remark quite audibly on the charms of the former.

The compliments are of the most bare-faced variety, but are affably

received; even sometimes returned by a discreet retort _sotto voce_.

The blades call the custom “throwing flowers”; and the bolder of the

maidens are apt to fling back over their shoulder, “thanks for the

flower!”

One can always see this little comedy outside the well-known church

of San Isidro--patron saint of Madrid--which, with the more important

clubs and public buildings, is in the Street of the Alcalà. The Alcalà

connects the Puerta del Sol with the famous promenades of the Prado and

the Castellana, which are joined together by an imposing plaza with a

fountain, and extend as far as the park of the Retiro.

Spaniards are firmly convinced that the Castellana is finer than the

Champs Elysées; but it is, in reality, a rather stupid avenue--broad,

and with plenty of trees in pots of water, yet quite flat, and lacking

the quaint _guignols_ and smart restaurants that give color to the

French promenade. Galician nursemaids, with their enormous earrings,

congregate round the ice-cream booths, while their overdressed charges

play “bullfight” or “circus” in the allées nearby.

But the Castellana is an empty stretch of sand, for the most part,

until half-past six in the evening, when it becomes for an hour or two

the liveliest quarter of the city. The mansions on either side of the

street open their gates, carriages roll forth, _señoras_ in costumes

of French cut but startling hue are bowled into the central driveway,

_señors_ in equally impressive garments appear on horseback, and the

“_paseo_”--the event of the day--has begun.

Strangers who have not been asked to dine with their Spanish friends

because the latter cannot afford a cook will be repeatedly taken to

drive in a luxurious equipage with two men on the box and a pair of

high-stepping bays. For a Spanish family will scrimp and save, and

sometimes actually half starve, in order to maintain its place in the

daily procession on the Castellana. This is true of all classes, from

the impoverished aristocracy to the struggling bourgeoisie; and is so

much a racial characteristic that the same holds in Manila, Havana, and

many of the South American cities. What his house is to the Englishman,

his trip to Europe to the American, his carriage is to the Spaniard.

With this hallmark of social solvency he can hold up his head with the

proudest; without it he is an outcast.

The Madrileños tell among themselves of certain ladies who afford the

essential victoria by dressing fashionably from the waist up only. A

carriage rug covers the other and well-worn part of their apparel.

This is consistent with stories of economy carried into the smallest

item of the household expenses--such as cooking without salt or

pepper, and foregoing a tablecloth--in order that the family name may

appear among the box-holders at the opera. Spanish people look upon

these sacrifices, when they know them, as altogether admirable; from

peasant to grandee, they are forever aiding and abetting each other at

that most pitiful of all games: keeping up appearances. But, however

petty the apparent motive, there is a certain tragic courage behind

it; the desperate, final courage of the _grand artiste_, refusing to

admit that his day is dead. And under all his burdens, all his bitter

poverty, silent, uncomplaining.

Seen in this light, that stately queue of carriages on the Castellana

takes on something more than its mere superficial significance--which

is to show oneself, and further to show one’s daughters. Officers and

civilians walk up and down, on either side of the driveway, or canter

along near the carriages, with one object: to stare at the young girls.

Far from being snubbed, their interest is welcomed with complaisance,

and many and many a marriage is arranged from one of these encounters

on the Castellana.

The young man notices the same girl for two or three days, then asks

to be presented to her; the heads of the two families confer, finances

are frankly discussed, and, if everything is found satisfactory, the

courtship is allowed to proceed. Parents are generally easy to satisfy,

too, being in frantic haste to marry off their daughters. The old maid

and the bachelor girl are unknown quantities in Spain, and an officer

with a salary of five pounds a month is eagerly snapped up as an

excellent catch.

This gives some idea of the absolute pittance whole families are

used to live on, and to consider ample. The bare necessities of life

are gratefully counted by Spaniards as luxuries; while luxuries, in

the modern sense of the word, are practically unheard of. Private

motor cars, for example, are so rare as to be noticed when they

pass through the streets; while, on the other hand, a sleek pair of

mules is considered almost as emphatic a sign of prosperity as a

pair of horses. It is an everyday sight to see the gold cockades of

royalty, or the silver of nobility, on the box behind two mules. And a

Spaniard realizes nothing curious about this. If it is a habit of his

countrymen, it is right, and proper, and elegant, and to be emulated by

all who can afford it.

If you tell him, moreover, of the conveniences of other countries--not

in comparison with his own, but quite casually--he looks at you with

an indulgent smile, and believes not a word of it. He himself is far

too poor to travel, so that naturally he is skeptical of what he calls

“traveller’s tales.” I once showed a Marqués whom I was entertaining

in Madrid a picture of the Metropolitan Tower in New York. He laughed,

like an amused child. “Those Americans! They are always boasting,” he

said, “but one must confess they are clever to construct a photograph

like that.” Nor was I able to convince him during the remainder of the

evening that such a building and many others as tall actually did exist.

The old actor sits with his eyes glued to his own pictures, mesmerizing

himself into the belief that they are now as ever they were:

representative of the greatest star of all the stage. He cares not

to study the methods of the new generation, for he loftily ignores

its existence. Tradition is the poison that infests his bones, and is

surely eating them away.

He has a son who would save him if the dotard would permit: a tall

young man, with a splendid carriage and an ugly, magnetic face--alert

to every detail of modern régime. But the young man is a king, and

kings, as everyone knows, have the least power of anybody. Alfonso

XIII, with all his indefatigable energy, can leaven but a very small

lump of the blind self-sufficiency of Spain. He plays a hopeless part

bravely and is harder-working than most of his peasants.

His palace stands at the edge of old Madrid, on the high land above

the river, where the old Moorish Alcazar once stood: a magnificent

situation. The façade fronts and dominates the city; the rear looks

out on the river Mazanares and beyond, on the royal park of the Casa

del Campo. Here one can often see the King shooting pigeons in the

afternoon or taking tea with the Queen and the Queen Mother. The people

are not permitted in this park, but foreigners may apply for a card

of admission and go there at any time, provided their coachman is in

livery.

[Illustration:

_Franzen_

THE QUEEN OF SPAIN AND THE PRINCE OF THE ASTURIAS]

One Sunday I saw the royal children, with their nurses, building

a bonfire in a corner of the park. They were shouting and running

about most lustily, and it was a relief to see royalty--though at

the age of three and four--having a good time. The little Prince of

the Asturias was in uniform, Prince Jaimé in sailor’s togs, and the

two small Infantas in white frocks with blue sashes. They all looked

simply and comfortably dressed, and a credit to the good sense of their

father and mother. The nurses, who are Englishwomen--pink-cheeked

and cheerful--wore plain blue cotton frocks and shady straw hats,

like anyone else’s nurses. It was a satisfying picture, after the

elaborateness and false show that surround the average Spanish child.

Of all the royal children, Jaimé is the beloved of the people. He has a

singularly sweet and at the same time animated face, and, the Spaniards

proudly declare, is the true Spanish type. Doubtless, too, his sad

infirmity--he was born a deaf mute--and his patience and cleverness in

coping with it have endeared this little prince to everybody.

The reigning Spanish family are the last of the powerful Bourbons, and

their court is conducted with all the Bourbon etiquette of Louis XIV.

It is a less brilliant court than the Austrian, being very much poorer,

but the shining white grandeur of the palace itself makes up for

elegance foregone by the courtiers. For once, Spain’s overweening pride

is justified: she boasts the loveliest royal residence of any nation.

An interesting time to visit it is at Guard Mount in the morning. Then

the beautiful inner court is filled with Lancers in plumed helmets and

brilliant blue uniforms, riding splendidly matched roans. Two companies

of infantry, in their darker blue and red, line the hollow square; and

in the centre are the officers, magnificently mounted and aglitter

with gold braid and orders. They advance into the court to the slow

and stately measure of the Royal March, and sometimes the King appears

on the balcony above--to the delight of the people, who are allowed to

circulate freely in the passages of the pillared _patio_.

Peasants are there by the score, in their shabby earth-brown

corduroys, and soft-eyed girls with stout duenas, swaying fans

between the threadbare fingers of their cheap cotton gloves. Students

with faded capes swung from their shoulders; swarms of children and

shuffling old men in worn sombreros; priests, bullfighters, beggars,

and vendors of everything from sweetmeats to bootlaces, wander in and

out the arcades while the band plays.

In spite of the modern uniforms of the soldiers, it is a scene out of

another age: a sleepy, sunny age, when all the simple people demanded

was a heel of bread and the occasional spectacle of the pomp of their

masters. Yet it is the Spain of today; in the foreground its brave show

of traditional splendour; peering out from behind, its penury and rags.

The old actor sees none of this. In his forgotten corner he has wound

himself within his gorgeous tattered cloak of long ago; and crouches

into it, eyes closed upon a vision in which he never ceases to play the

part of Cæsar.

II

HIS ARTS AND AMUSEMENTS

_Pan y toros!_ The old “Bread and the circus” of the Romans, the

mediæval and modern “Bread and the bulls!” of Spain. One feels that the

dance should have been worked in, really to make this cry of the people

complete. For in the bullfight and the ancient national dances we have

the very soul of Spain.

Progressive Spaniards like to think the _corrida de toros_ is gradually

dying out; many, many people in Madrid, they tell you, would not think

of attending one. This is true, though generally the motive behind it

is financial rather than humane. And the great mass of the people,

aristocracy as well as _bourgeoisie_, put the bulls first, and go

hungry for the bread if necessary. Every small boy, be he royal or

beggar, plays “bullfight” from the time he can creep; every small girl

looks on admiringly, and claps her hands. And when the small boy is

grown, and dazzles the Bull Ring with his daring _toreo_, the girl

in her brilliant dancer’s dress still applauds and flings him her

carnations. Throughout Spain the two are wedded in actual personal

passion, as in symbolic truth.

It is said that the bullfight was founded by the Moors in Spain in the

twelfth century, though bulls were probably fought with before that

in the Roman amphitheatres. The principle on which the play depends

is courage, coolness, and dexterity--the three-in-one characteristics

of the Arabs of the desert. In early days gentlemen, armed only with

a short spear, fought with the bulls, and proved their skill and

horsemanship. But with the coming of the Bourbons as the reigning house

of Spain the sport changed from a fashionable into a national one, and

professional bullfighters took the place of the courtly players of

before.

It is by no means true, however--as so many foreigners imagine--that

the _toreros_ are invariably men of mean birth and vulgar education.

On the contrary, they are frequently of excellent parentage and great

mental as well as physical capability; while always their keen science

and daring make them an aristocracy of themselves which the older

aristocracy delights to worship. They are the friends and favourites of

society, the idols of the populace; you never see one of them in the

streets without an admiring train of hangers-on, and the newspapers

record the slightest item in connection with each fighter of the hour.

Whole pages are filled with photographs of the various feats and

characteristic poses of distinguished _toreros_; and so well known do

these become that an audience in the theatre recognizes at once an

“imitation” of Bombita, or Gallito, or Machaquito--and shouts applause.

Even the average bullfighter is a rich man and known for his generosity

as well. Directly there is a disaster--railway accident, explosion or

flood--a _corrida_ is arranged for the sufferers; and the whole band

of fighters give their earnings to the cause. The usual profits of a

skilled _torero_ are seven thousand pesetas--two hundred and eighty

pounds--a performance. Out of this he must pay his assistants about

three thousand pesetas, and the rest he has for himself. When not the

lover of some famous dancer, he is often a married man, and they say,

aside from his dangerous profession, makes an excellent husband and

father. One and all, the bullfighters are religious; the last thing

they do before entering the arena is to confess and receive absolution

in the little chapel at the Bull Ring, and a priest remains with

extreme unction always in readiness in case of serious accident.

The great part of the bullfighters come from Andalucia--there is

an academy at Seville to teach the science--but some are from the

North and from Mexico and South America, and all are impatient to

fight at Madrid, since successful _toreo_ in this city constitutes

the bullfighter’s diploma. At the first--and so of course the most

exciting--fight I saw the _matadors_ were Bombita and Gallito,

from Seville, and Gaona, from Mexico. The latter was even more

cordially received by the Spaniards than their own countrymen after

they saw his splendid play; but Bombita is acknowledged the best

_matador_--killer--in Spain, and Gallito, a mere boy of eighteen,

is adored by the people. Each of the three killed two bulls on the

afternoon I attended my first _corrida_.

It is impossible to describe the change that comes over the whole

aspect and atmosphere of Madrid on the day of a bullfight. The old

actor in his corner rubs his eyes, shakes himself and looks alive.

Crowds are in the streets, buckboards packed with country people dash

through the Puerta del Sol and towards the Plaza de Toros; the languid

_madrileño_ in the cafés is roused to rapid talk and excited betting

with his neighbour, and in the clubs, where the _toreros_ are gathered

in their gorgeous costumes, the betting runs higher. Ticket booths are

surrounded by a mob of eager enthusiasts, while behind her grating the

señora is shaking out her mantilla, fixing the great red and white

carnations in her hair, draping the lace above them and her monstrous

comb. A carriage drives swiftly down the street to her door, her

husband hurries in, calling impetuously to make haste. The slumbrous

eyes of the lady catch fire with a thousand sparks; she clicks her fan,

flashes a last triumphant smile into her mirror, and is swept away to

the Bull Ring.

[Illustration: FAIR ENTHUSIASTS AT THE BULL FIGHT]

Here all is seething anticipation: the immense coliseum black with

people moving to their seats or standing up to watch the crowd in the

arena below; Royalty just arrived, Doña Isabel and her ladies lining

the velvet-hung box with their picturesque mantillas; the President of

the Bull Ring taking his place of honour; ladies unfurling fans and

gossiping, _aficionados_ waving to one another across the ring and

calling final excited bets; small boys shouting cushions, cigarettes,

postcards, or beer and _horchatas_. Suddenly a bugle sounds. People

scuttle to their seats, the arena is cleared as by magic, and, to a

burst of music and thunderous applause from ten thousand pairs of

hands, the splendid _entrada_ takes place.

_Matadors_ in their bright suits heavy with gold, _banderilleros_ in

their silver, _picadors_ on their sorry horses, march proudly round the

ring; while the band plays and the crowd shouts itself hoarse--just for

a starter. Then the _picadors_ go out, the _torero_ who is to kill the

first bull asks the President for the keys to the ring; the President

throws them into the arena, and--the first bull is loosed!

From this point on there is no wit in regarding the spectacle from

a humane or sentimental standpoint. He who is inclined to do so had

better never have left home. If he has eyes for the prodigal bloodshed,

the torture of the bull with the piercing darts, the sufferings of

the horses, he will be acutely wretched from beginning to end. But if

he can fix his attention solely on the beauty of the _torero’s_ body

in constant action, on the utter fearlessness and superb audacity of

the man in his taunting the beast; if, in short, he can concentrate

on the science and skill of the thing, he will have something worth

remembering all his life.

I shall never forget Bombita, with his grave, curiously _detached_

expression, his dark face almost indifferent as he came forward to

kill the first bull. This is by far the most interesting part of the

fight--after the horses have been disposed of and the stupid _picadors_

have made their exit--when the _matador_ advances with his sword

sheathed in the red _muleta_. He has made his speech to the President,

he has ordered his assistants to retire to the background, and he and

the bull face one another alone in the centre of the arena.

Then comes the lightning move of every moment in the encounter between

man and beast. The spot between the shoulders where the bull is

killed covers only about three inches, and must be struck absolutely

true--or the crowd is furious. At best it is exceedingly capricious,

hissing, whistling and shouting on the slightest provocation, but

going literally mad over each incident of the matador’s daring;

and finally, if he makes a “neat kill,” throwing their hats and

coats--anything--into the arena while the air reverberates with

“Bravos!”

[Illustration:

_L. R. Marin_

THE SUPREME MOMENT: MAN AND BEAST JUGGLE FOR LIFE]

Meantime, however, the _matador_ plays with death every second. He

darts towards the bull, taunting the now maddened beast with the

fiery muleta, mocking him, talking to him, even turning his back to

him--only to leap round and beside him in the wink of an eye when the

bull would have gored him to death. Young Gallito strokes his second

bull from head to mouth several times; Gaona lays his hat on the

animal’s horns, and carelessly removes it again; while Bombita, who is

veritable quicksilver, has his magnificent clothes torn to pieces but

remains himself unscratched in his breath-taking manœuvres with the

beast. Finally, with a swift gesture, he raises his arm, casts aside

the muleta, drives his sword straight and true between the shoulders of

his adversary. A shout goes up--wild as that of the Coliseum of old:

“Bombita! Bombita! _El matador--Bombita!_” And we know that the bull is

dead, but that Bombita, who has been teasing death, scoffing at it, for

the last twenty minutes, lives--triumphant.

And what is it all about? Atrocious cruelty, a bit of bravado, and

ecco! A hero! Exactly. Just as in the prize ring, the football field,

or an exhibition of jiu-jitsu. We pay to be shocked, terrified, and

finally thrilled; by that which we have neither the skill nor the

courage to attempt ourselves. But, you say, these other things are fair

sport--man to man; we Anglo-Saxons do not torture defenceless animals.

What about fox hunting? There is not even the dignity of danger in

the English sport; if the hunter risks his life, it is only as a bad

rider that he does so. And certainly the wretched foxes, fostered and

cared for solely for the purpose of being harried to death, are treated

to far more exquisite cruelty than the worn-out cab horses of the

bullfight--whose sufferings are a matter of a few minutes.

I am not defending the brutality of the bullfight; I merely maintain

that Anglo-Saxons have very little room to attack it from the

superiority of their own humaneness. And also that Spaniards themselves

are far from gloating over the sickening details of their sport as they

are often said to do. In every bullfight I have attended the crowd has

been impatient, even exasperated, if the horses were not killed at once

and the _picadors_ put out of the ring. We need not greater tolerance

of cruelty, but greater knowledge of fact, in the study and criticism

of things foreign to us.

I doubt, for instance, if any person who has not lived in Madrid

knows that every man who buys a ticket to the bullfight is paying

the hospital bill of some unfortunate; for the President of the Bull

Ring is taxed ten thousand pounds a year for his privilege, and the

government uses this money for the upkeep of charity hospitals.

One cannot say as much for the proceeds of the stupid sport of cock

fighting--nor anything in its favour at all. Patrons of the cockpit are

for the most part low-browed ruffians with coarse faces, and given to

loud clothes and tawdry jewellery. They stand up in their seats and

scream bets at one another during the entire performance, each trying

to find “takers” without missing a single incident of the contest. The

bedlam this creates can only be compared with the wheat pit in Chicago;

while to one’s own mind there is small sport in the banal encounter of

one feathered thing with another, however gallant the two may be.

More to the Anglo-Saxon taste is the Spanish game of _pelota_: a kind

of racquets, played in a three-sided oblong court about four times the

length of a racquet court. The fourth side of the court is open, with

seats and boxes arranged for spectators, and bookmakers walk along in

front, offering and taking wagers. At certain periods of the game there

is much excitement.

It is played two on a side--sometimes more--the lighter men about

halfway up the court, the stronger near the end. The ball used is

similar to a racquet ball and is played the long way of the court; but,

instead of a bat, the player has a basketwork scoop which fits tight on

his hand and forearm. The object of the game is for one side to serve

the ball against the opposite wall, and for the other side to return

it; so that the ball remains in play until a miss is scored by one of

the two sides. Should the side serving fail to return, the service

passes to the opponents. A miss scores one for the opponents, and the

game usually consists of fifty points. There are the usual rules about

fouls, false strokes, etc., but the fundamental principle consists in

receiving the ball in the scoop and whacking it against the opposite

wall. It sounds very simple, but the players show a marvellous agility

and great endurance, the play being so rapid that from the spectator’s

point of view it is keenly entertaining.

Of course the upper classes in Madrid play the usual tennis, croquet

and occasionally polo, but the Spaniard is not by instinct a sportsman.

Rather he is a gambler, which accounts for the increasing vogue for

horse racing in Madrid. The course, compared with Longchamps and Epsom,

is rather primitive and the sport to be had is as yet inferior to the

fashion and beauty to be seen. Intermissions are interminable--else

how could the ladies see each other’s frocks, or the gallants manage

their flirting? On the whole, the races in Spain are affairs of society

rather than of sport.

Riding is very seldom indulged in by ladies, and the men who canter up

and down the Castellana in the evening have atrocious seats and look

thoroughly incongruous with their handsome mounts. There is practically

no country life throughout Spain, the few families who own out-of-town

houses rarely visit them, and still more rarely entertain there. When

the upper class leaves Madrid it is for Biarritz or San Sebastian or

Pau--some resort where they may satisfy the Spaniard’s eternal craving:

to see and be seen. This explains why the Madrileño is maladroit at

those outdoor sports he sometimes likes to affect as part of his

Anglo-mania, but which he never really enjoys.

On the other hand, he adores what the French call the “_vie

d’intérieure_.” Nothing interests him, or his señora, more than their

day at home, which in Spanish resolves into a _tertulia_. No matter

what time of day this informal reception takes place, ladies appear

in morning dress--as the Anglo-Saxon understands the word--and visits

are paid by entire families, so that sometimes the onslaught is rather

formidable. Chocolate is served, about the consistency of oatmeal

porridge, but deliciously light and frothy nevertheless. It is eaten

instead of drunk, by means of little bits of toast, dipped into the

cup. Sometimes in the evening meringues are served, but always the

refreshments are of the simplest, the feast being one of chatter and

familiar gossip rather than of stodgy cakes and salads.

When there is dancing, no sitting out or staircase flirtations are

allowed; but, on the other hand, there is not the depressing row

of chaperones round the walls nor the bored young men blocking the

doorways during intermissions. Everyone gathers in little groups

and circles, the men keeping the stifling rooms in a constant haze

of smoke, and a wild hubbub of conversation goes on until the next

dance. The foreigner is disappointed in Spanish dancing. Having

in his mind the wonderful grace and litheness of the professional

_bailarina_, he is shocked by the hop-skip-and-jump waltzing he meets

with in drawing-rooms. The fact is that only in their own national or

characteristic local dances are the Spanish graceful; when they attempt

the modern steps of other countries, as when they attempt the clothes

and sports of other countries, they become ridiculous.

But, happily for the young people, they do not know it; and during

the ungainly waltz they make up in ardent flirtation for the loss of

the balconies, window seats and other corners _à deux_ beloved by

less formally trained youth. What goes on in the dance, _dueñas_ wink

at. After all, the chief business of Spanish life is to marry off the

children, and when the latter are inclined to help matters along so

much the better.

In passing, it may be of interest to add that, while the New Woman is

an unknown quantity in Spain, the Spanish woman is the only one who

retains her maiden name after marriage. Thus Señorita Fernandez becomes

Señora Fernandez de Blank, and her children go by the name of Blank _y

Fernandez_. Also, if she is a lady of rank, her husband immediately

assumes her title; and this last descends through the female line,

if there are no sons. Such a law forms an interesting vagary of the

country where woman’s position on the whole reflects the Oriental. In

Toledo there is a convent for the education of penniless daughters

of noblemen. Each of the young ladies is given a dowry of a thousand

dollars, and is eagerly sought in marriage as a person of importance.

All this in accordance with the Spanish tradition that there is no such

thing as an old maid.

Naturally, in a land thoroughly orthodox in both religion and social

conventions, divorce is _tabu_; the solution of the unhappy marriage

being intrigue--which is overlooked, or, at the worst, separation--in

which case the woman has rather a hard time of it. At best, she is

completely under the thumb of her husband, and would lose her head

altogether were she suddenly accorded the liberty of the American

woman, for example. I have often thought what a treasure one of these

unaggressive Españolas would make for the brow-beaten American man;

who, if he had a fancy to follow in the footsteps of his ambitious

sisters, might buy a wife and a title, and--by purchase of property

with a rental of ten thousand dollars--a life seat in the senate, all

at the same time!

And never, never again would he be seen with his hang-dog effacement,

shuffling into a restaurant as a sort of ambulant peg for the wraps of

a procession of ladies. Once a real Spaniard, he would stalk in first

at cafés, and find his own cronies, leaving madame to find hers in the

separate “section for señoras.” When he was ready to depart, she--no

matter what her fever to finish the gossip of the moment--would depart

without a murmur. Outrageous! cries the American, who pads his own

leading-strings with the pretty word of “chivalry.”

I think I have said that Spanish ladies do not attend restaurants,

except those of the larger hotels; but they are devoted to cafés,

where they eat chocolate and _tostas fritas_, or drink a curious--and

singularly good--mixture of lemon ice and beer, while shredding

the affairs of their neighbours. Owing to the segregation of the

masculine and feminine contingents, the Madrid café presents a quite

different picture from the _rendez-vous intime_ of the Parisian, or

the _gemütlich_ coffee house of Vienna. There is no surreptitious

holding of hands under the table, no laying of heads together over the

illustrated papers, no miniature orchestra playing a sensuous waltz.

The amusement of the _Madrileño_ in his favourite café is to look out

of it onto the street; of the _Madrileña_, ditto--each keeping up a

running fire of chatter the while.

The manners of both ladies and gentlemen are somewhat startling

at times. Toothpicks are constantly in evidence, some of the more

exclusive carrying their own little instruments of silver or gold, and

producing them from pocket or handbag whenever the occasion offers. It

is not uncommon, either, for ladies as well as gentlemen to expectorate

in public; in cafés, or even from carriages on the Castellana, one

sees this done with perfect _sang froid_. On the other hand, there is

an absolute simplicity and freedom from affectation. With all their

interest in the appearance and affairs of their neighbours, Spanish

men and women are without knowledge of the word “snob.” So thoroughly

grounded in that unconscious assurance newer civilization lacks, they

would not know how to set about “impressing” anyone. They are what they

are, and there’s an end to it.

When they stare, as the foreigner complains they do constantly, it is

the frankly direct stare of a child. And few ladies use pince-nez--for

which they have the excellent word, “_impertinentes_.” Some of these

Spanish words are delightfully descriptive: there is “_sabio-mucho_”

for the little donkeys that trot ahead of the mules in harness, and in

their careful picking of the way prove their title of “know-it-all.”

And there is _serreno_ for the night watchman, who prowls his district

every hour, to assure the inhabitants that “it is three o’clock and the

night serene!”

To the English night-owl, the custom of leaving one’s latchkey with the

_serreno_ appeals as rather precarious, in several ways. But Spaniards

are notoriously temperate; also discreet; and, as Spanish keys are apt

to weigh a pound or two, it is the easiest thing for the señor when he

reaches his own door to clap his hands twice--and the _serreno_ comes

running. It seems a quaint custom to have a night watchman in a city

like Madrid, where life goes on all night, and the Puerta del Sol is as

full and as noisy at half-past three in the morning as at the same hour

of the afternoon.

All the best amusements begin very late, following the rule of

the nine-o’clock dinner; and as theatre tickets are purchased in

sections--_i. e._, for each separate act or piece--it is generally

arranged so that the finest part of a performance begins at half

after ten, or even eleven o’clock. Of course, the Teatro Real, or

opera-house, is the first theatre of Madrid, and we have already spoken

of the sacrifices endured for the privilege of owning a box for the

season.

Ladies of society--and some who are not--delight to receive in their

_palcos_; and the long entr’actes lend themselves to actual visits,

instead of the casual “looking in” of friends. Anyone, by paying the

nominal entrance fee, can enter the opera house--or any theatre--on the

chance of finding acquaintances in the boxes, and so spend an hour or

two going from one group to another. This gives the house the look of a

vast reception, which it is, far more than a place where people come to

hear good music.

It has not, however, the brilliancy or fascination of the Metropolitan

audience in New York, nor of Covent Garden. The Teatro Real is a

mediocre building, in the first place; and neither the toilettes and

jewels of the women nor the distinction of the men can compare with the

splendid _ensemble_ of an English or American opera audience. While

the music, after Vienna, is execrable, and merits the indifference

the _Madrileños_ show it. About the most interesting episode of the

evening comes after the performance is over--when, on the pretext of

waiting for carriages, society lingers in the entrance hall, chatting,

laughing, engaged in more or less mild flirtation--for the better

part of an hour. Here one sees the _Madrileña_ at her best; eyes

flashing, jewels sparkling, fan swaying back and forth to show or

again to conceal her brave “best gown”; above all, smiling her slow

Eastern woman’s smile with a grace that makes one echo her adorers’

exclamation: “At your feet, señora!”

She is seen to less advantage at the ordinary theatre, which is usually

in itself a dingy affair, and where evening dress is conspicuous by its

absence. Even the orchestra is apt to come garbed in faded shades of

the popular green or brown, and always with hats on--until the curtain

rises.

We have spoken already of the prevalence of the one-act play in Spanish

theatres. The people pay an average charge of two _reales_--ten

cents--for each small piece, and the audience changes several times

during an evening. At the better theatres, orchestra seats are

seventy-five cents--a price to be paid only by the very wealthy!--and

the plays are generally unadulterated melodrama. The always capricious

audience cheers or hisses in true old melodramatic fashion, so that

at the most touching moment of a piece one cannot hear a word of it,

for the piercing _Bravos_--or again catch the drift of the popular

displeasure which shows itself in groans and whistling. The complete

_naïveté_ of the Spanish character is nowhere better displayed than at

the theatre; but I think it must keep the actors in a constant fever of

suspense.

The latter are rather primitive in method and appearance according

to modern notions, but play their particular _genre_ with no small

cleverness. They use little or no make-up, so that the effect at

first is rather ghastly; however, one gets used to it, and even comes

to prefer it to the over-rouged cheeks and exaggerated eyes of the

Anglo-Saxon artist. It is interesting, too, that, even in the world of

make-believe, the Spaniard is as little make-believe as possible. There

is nothing artificial in his composition, and even when professionally

“pretending” he pretends along the line of his own strong loves and

hates, with no attempt at subtilizing, either.

One is apt to think there is no subtlety at all in this people--until

one sees its national dancers. After the banal “Boston” and one-step

of the ultra-moderns, the old ever-beloved Spanish dances come as

a revelation; while the professional _bailarina_ herself is as far

removed from her kind in other lands as poetry from doggerel.

Tall, swayingly slender, delicately sensuous in every move, she glides

into vision in her ankle-long full skirts, like a flower rising from

its calyx. There is about her none of the self-consciousness of the

familiar lady of tarletans and tights; but a little air of dignity

on guard that is very alluring. She does not smirk, she does not

pirouette; she sways, and bends, and rises to stamp her foot in the

typical _bozneo_, with a litheness and grace indescribable. And her

castanets! Long before she actually appears, you hear their quick

_toc-toc_: first a low murmur, then louder and ever louder, till with

her proud entrance they beat a tempestuous allegro--only to grow

fainter and fainter and die away again with the slow measures of the

dance.

Her long princess frock sheathes the slim figure closely, to swell out,

however, at the ankles in a swirl of foamy flounces. Brilliant with

sequins or the multi-coloured broidery of the _mantón_, the costume

curls about her in a gorgeous haze of orange, azure, mauve, and scarlet

while she dances. Her fine long feet are arched and curved into a

thousand different poses; her body the mere casing for a spirit of

flame and mystery; her face the shadow curtain of infinite expression,

infinite light.

And while her castanets are sounding every shade of rhythm and

seduction, and her white long arms are swaying to and fro--in the

ancient _Jota_, or the _Olé Andaluz_, or perhaps in the _Sevillana_, or

the _Malagueña_--the dance of her particular city; while men’s throats

grow hoarse with shouting _bravos_ and women’s eyes dim with staring

at such grace, there lives before one not La Goya, La Argentina,

Pastora Impéria--not the idol favourite of the hour, but something more

wonderful and less substantial: the ghost of old Spain. It flits before

one there, in its proud glory; its beauty, its passion, and its power;

baring the soul of half of it--the woman soul, that is.

And when one looks beyond her fire and lovely dignity, over her

shoulder peers the cool, dark face of a _torero_.

[Illustration: A TYPICAL POSTURE OF THE SPANISH DANCE]

III

ONE OF HIS “BIG SCENES”

Twenty-eight years ago Alfonso XII died, leaving a consort whom the

Spanish people regarded with suspicion, if not with actual dislike. She

was Maria Christina of Austria, the second wife of the king; and six

months after his death her son, Alfonso XIII, was born.

Sullenly Spain submitted to the long regency of a “foreigner”; and

Maria Christina set about the desperate business of saving her son to

manhood. From the first he was an ailing, sickly child, and his mother

had to fight for him in health as well as in political position every

inch of the way. She was tireless, dauntless, throughout the struggle.

Time after time the little king’s life was despaired of; she never gave

up.

Every morning during his childhood the boy was driven to the bracing

park of La Granja, where he ate his lunch and stayed all day, only

coming back to Madrid to sleep. In this and a hundred other ways it

was as though his mother, with her steel courage, literally forbade

him to die. And today, for her reward, she has not only a king whom

the entire world admires with enthusiasm, but a son whose devotion to

herself amounts almost to a passion.

I like to remember my first glimpse of the king--it was so

characteristic of his personal simplicity in the midst of a court

renowned for its rigid ceremonial. I was one of the crowd that lined

the Palace galleries on a Sunday before Public Chapel; we were herded

between rows of halberdiers, very stiff and hushed, waiting for the

splendid procession soon to come.

Suddenly the cry rose: “_El Rey!_” And, attended only by two gentlemen

and a grey-haired lady in black, the king came down the corridor. He

was in striking blue uniform, and wore the collar of the Golden Fleece,

but what occurred to one first was his buoyant look of youth and his

smile--as the Spaniards say, “very, very _simpatico_.” He saluted to

the right and left, skimming the faces of the crowd with that alertness

that makes every peasant sure to the end of his days that the king

certainly saw _him_. Then he stooped while one of his gentlemen held

open a little door much too low for him, and slipped quickly through to

the other side. “Exactly,” murmured an old woman disappointedly, “like

anyone else.”

That is a large part of the greatness of this king, as it was of that

of Edward VII of England: he is exactly like anyone else. And, like

anyone else, he must submit to a routine and certain obligatory duties

which are utterly irksome to him. When he came back from Chapel later,

in the tedious procession, his face was quite pale and he looked tired

out. With all his mother’s indefatigable care and training, his health

at best is very irregular; and I remember hearing one of his guards say

that he would have died long ago if he could have taken time for it!

But to go back to Royal Chapel: on the days when this is public,

anyone, beginning with the raggedest peasant, may walk into the Palace

and upstairs to the galleries, as though he were a prince of the blood.

True, if he arrives early he must stand in line, to be moved along as

the guards shall direct. But if he comes, as I did, just before the

hour, he walks upstairs and along the thick-carpeted corridors, to take

his place where he chooses. Of course one is literally barricaded by

halberdiers--two of them to every three persons, as a rule--and a very

imposing line they make in their scarlet coats, white knee breeches and

black gaiters, their halberds glittering round the four sides of the

galleries.

These are hung, on one or two gala Sundays a year, with marvellous old

tapestries, so that not an inch of stone wall can be seen. It makes

a beautiful background for the gold lace and rich uniforms of the

grandees as they pass through on their way to the Assembly Chamber. For

half an hour before the procession forms, these gorgeous personages are

arriving, many of them in the handsome court costume of black, finely

worked in gold embroidery, and with the picturesque lace ruff. Others

wear various and splendid uniforms, with--as many as have them--ribbons

of special orders, and, of course, every medal they can produce,

strung across their chests. Some of the older men are particularly

distinguished, while all the officers stalk in, in the grand manner,

shoulders square, swords clanking.

An especially interesting group is the Estada Mayor--six grandees out

of the seven hundred odd who wear a gold key over their right hip, as

a sign that they may enter the palace and confer with the sovereign at

any time. These men have the title of Marqué in addition to any others

they may have inherited, and are supposed to spend one week each in

the palace during the year. They are tall, splendid-looking creatures,

in bright red coats, white trousers with black boots, and helmets with

waving white feathers. And on Public Chapel days they enter last into

the Assembly Chamber, so that their appearance is the signal that the

procession is about to start.

When they have gone in, the chief of the halberdiers cries: “The King!

Do me the favour to uncover your heads!” And the favour is done, while

detectives all about are taking a final sharp survey of the closely

guarded crowd. Then two plainly dressed persons, known by the modest

title of _bandero_ (sweeper) hurry up and down the line to make sure

no presumptuous subject has his feet on the royal carpet; and finally

two ancient major domos in scarlet breeches and much gold lace solemnly

march several yards ahead of the procession, peering searchingly from

right to left. For, as everyone knows, the King of Spain’s life is in

momentary danger from anarchists, and no amount of precaution ever

really satisfies the inquietude of his people when he is in public.

At last the dignified line of grandees appears. Some of them we

recognize as they go by: The Duke of Medina y Cœli, with his

twenty-eight titles, the most of any noble in Spain; the Duke of

Alba, who holds the oldest title, and the head of whose family always

registers a formal protest on the accession of each king--with the

insinuation, of course, that by right of birth the Alba should reign.

Further on come the three royal princes, Don Carlos, Don Fernando,

and Don Alphonso--the King’s cousin. And finally, between his two

_gentilhombres_, the King.

It is not the boyish young man now, slipping inconspicuously from one

room to another, but the sovereign, erect and on duty, facing his

rows of scrutinizing subjects steadily and with a quiet confidence. I

should like more than most things to have a true picture of him at that

moment--walking unself-consciously in the midst of his haughty court. On

all sides of him pomp and stateliness: the lovely old tapestries, the

rich shrines at every corner of the galleries, the brilliant uniforms

of the tall halberdiers, the dazzling garb of the grandees, and the

flashing jewels of their ladies: among all this magnificence the King

walked with truest dignity, yet utterly _sans façon_. He had even,

behind the gravity due the occasion, the hint of a twinkle in his eye,

as though to say, “It’s absurd, isn’t it, that all this is for me? That

a plain man who likes to ride, and to shoot, and to prowl round in the

forest with his dogs should be the centre of this procession as King

of Spain! Really, it’s almost a joke.”

I’m sure he actually was thinking that, for he has a delightful sense

of humour, besides being wholly natural, and he and the Queen are noted

for their simplicity and their readiness to be considered as ordinary

humans. The King, in walking to and from Chapel, passes close enough

to the people for any one of them to reach out and touch him, and his

alert eyes seem to convey, with his frank smile, individual greeting to

each person present. No one can look even once into that ugly, animated

face without feeling both the magnetism and the tremendous courage with

which Alfonso XIII rules Spain.

On this morning that I saw him the Queen was not present; but she

usually walks with him to Chapel, and is extravagantly admired by the

people, who find her blond beauty “_hermosisima_” (the most lovely)

and her French gowns the last word of elegance. Both she and the

Queen-mother reached the Chapel by an inner entrance on the day of

which I speak; so that the Infantas Isabel and Maria Luisa with their

ladies followed the King.

[Illustration:

_L. R. Marin_

THE ROYAL FAMILY OF SPAIN, AFTER A CHAPEL SERVICE

(_Left to right._) 1. Infanta Isabel. 2. The King. 3. Prince of

Asturias. 4. Infanta Maria Luisa. 5. Don Alfonso. 6. Don Carlos. 7. Don

Fernando. 8. The Queen Mother. 9. Princess Henry of Battenberg. (Third

from the right in the front row is the favourite little Prince Jaimé).]

Doña Isabel, with her strong, humorous face, and white hair, is always

an interesting figure. She is constantly seen at the bullfight, and

driving through the Puerta del Sol or in the Castellana; and is

generally wearing the mantilla. This morning she wore a very beautiful

white one, held by magnificent diamond clasps, and falling over a

brocade dress of great richness. Her train, carried by a Marqués of

the household, was of white satin embroidered in iris, and clusters

of the flower were scattered over the stuff itself.

The Infanta Maria Luisa, who is considered one of the most beautiful

of all princesses, was also in white satin and a white mantilla, and

looked exceedingly Spanish and attractive. She had wonderful jewels, a

string of immense pearls being among the most prominent; and a great

emerald cabochon that hung from a slender chain. Each of the Infantas

had her lady-in-waiting, also in court trains and the mantilla; and

one could not help reflecting how much more picturesque and becoming

this latter is than the stiff three feathers prescribed by the English

tradition. On the other hand, it is true that only Spanish ladies know

how to wear the gracious folds of lace which on women of other nations

appear incongruous and even awkward.

After the Infantas and their ladies came the diplomats and various

foreign ambassadors, all in full regalia; and finally the six officers

of the Estada Mayor brought up the rear. I have forgotten to mention

the band of the Palace Guards which preceded the entire procession,

and played the royal march all this while. I think there can be no

music at once so grave and so inspiring as this is; if it thrills the

imagination of the foreigner, what must it mean to the Spaniard with

his memories?

When the court had passed into the Chapel, the crowd was at liberty to

break ranks and walk about the galleries. During this intermission, the

detectives were again in evidence; scouring the place for any signs of

violence. Since the King was fired at, on the day of the swearing-in of

the recruits (April 13, 1913), efforts to protect his life have been

redoubled. This was the third attack since his marriage, including the

terrible episode of his wedding-day itself.

On that occasion, when the bomb that was thrown at him, as he was

leaving the church with the Queen, killed thirty-four people besides

the horses of the royal coach, and caused the Queen’s wedding-dress to

be spattered with blood, the poor bride in her terror was on the point

of collapsing. Through the babel of screams and shouting, the King

spoke to her distinctly: “The Queen of Spain never faints!” said he.

And he placed her in another carriage, and drove off, coolly, as though

nothing had happened.

[Illustration:

_L. R. Marin_

KING ALPHONSO SWEARING IN THE RECRUITS ON THE DAY OF THE ATTEMPT ON HIS

LIFE (APRIL 13, 1913)]

Again, at the time of the attack last April, the King was the first to

see the man rushing towards him, pistol uplifted. Instantly he started

forward, on his horse, to ride down the assassin; and when the shots

rang out, and people realized what was happening, the King was the

first to reach his would-be murderer, and to protect him from the mob.

Then the crowd forgot the criminal, and went mad over the sovereign.

Spaniards themselves say that never has there been such a demonstration

for any monarch in the history of Madrid. One can imagine the tingling

pride of those recruits who, when the confusion was past, had still to

go through the impressive ceremony of kissing the cross made by their

sword against the flag: what it must have meant to swear allegiance

to such a man at such a moment. As I heard a young girl say, at the

time: “There is just one adjective that describes him: he’s _royal_,

through and through.”

He looked more than ever royal when, coming back from Chapel, he

knelt head bared before the shrine at our end of the gallery. All the

procession now carried lighted candles, and their number was increased

by the bishop and richly clad priests who had conducted service. At

each of the four shrines they halted, while prayers were sung; and one

was struck with the opportunity this offered for an attack upon the

King. As he knelt there, head lowered between the two lines of people,

he made an excellent mark for the anarchist’s pistol; but, as usual,

seemed utterly unconscious of his danger.

The court, on its knees, looked very bored; and made no pretence at

devoutness while the beautiful _Aves_ were being sung. But the King

played his part to the end, with a dignity rather touching in such a

frankly boyish man; though, when the ceremony was over, he heaved a

very natural sigh of relief as he rose to his feet again.

Back stalked the “sweepers,” the old major-domos, the haughty grandees;

back came Don Carlos, Don Fernando, Don Alfonso. And then, for the

fourth time that morning so near us, the King; smiling, with his first

finger on his helmet, in the familiar gesture. The Infantas followed

him, then the diplomats; finally the six nobles of Estada Mayor. The

chief of the halberdiers pounded on the floor with his halberd; the

guards broke ranks; the people surged out of line and towards the

stairs--and Royal Chapel was ended.

Yet not quite, for me. Thanks to a friend in the Estada Mayor, I had

still to see one of the finest pictures of the morning: the exit from

the palace, of the famous Palace Guards. Six abreast they came, down

the grand staircase of the beautiful inner court, two hundred strong as

they filed out to their solemn bugle and drum. All of them men between

six and seven feet, in their brilliant red and black and white uniform,

I shall never forget the sight they made, filling the splendid royal

stairs. They seemed the living incarnation of the old Spanish spirit;

the spirit of Isabella’s time, but none the less of that heroic woman

of today who, though not of Spanish blood herself, has given to Spain a

king to glory in and revere.

IV

HIS FOIBLES AND FINENESSES

“The salient trait of the Spanish character,” says Taine, “is a lack

of the sense of the practical.” For want of it, Ferdinand and Isabella

themselves--the greatest rulers Spain ever had--drove the Moors and

the Jews out of the country; and laid the cornerstone of its ruin.

Far from realizing they were expelling by the hundred thousand their

most wealthy and intelligent subjects, the Catholic sovereigns saw

only the immediate religious triumph; the immediate financial gain of

confiscating the estates of the infidels, and refusing to harbour them

within their realm.

Time after time, the blind arrogance of the Spaniard as champion of

orthodoxy throughout the world, has rebounded against him in blows from

which he will never recover. The Inquisition in itself established an

hereditary fear of personal thinking that remains the stumbling-block

in the way of Spanish progress to this day. Too, the natural indolence

of the people inclines them to accept without question the statements

and standards handed down from their directors in Church or State.

Some of these are so absurd as to call for pity rather than

exasperation on the part of outsiders. For example, the conviction of

even educated Spaniards with regard to the recent war with the United

States is that the latter won because they sent out every man they had;

while Spain was too indifferent to the petty issues involved to go to

the expense of mustering troops! Half the nation has no idea what those

issues were, nor of the outcome of the various battles fought over

them; indeed, so distorted were the accounts of the newspapers and the

governmental reports that Admiral Cervera was welcomed home to Spain

with as much enthusiasm, if not as much ceremony, as was Admiral Dewey

to America!

The few insignificant changes in the map, resulting from that war, the

Spaniard tells you seriously, came from foul play on the part of “_los

Yankees_.” That the stubborn ignorance and meagre resources of his own

countrymen had anything to do with it he would scout with utter scorn.

And this, not from a real and intense spirit of patriotism, but because

he is forever looking back over his shoulder at the glories of the

past; until they are actually in his mind the facts of the present.

There is little intelligent patriotism throughout Spain, the local

partisan spirit of old feudalism taking its place. Thus Castilians

look down on Andalucians; Andalucians show a bland pity for Aragonese;

Catalonians hate and are hated by every other tribe in the country;

while the Basques coolly continue to this day to declare that they are

not Spaniards, but a race unto themselves.

The extraordinary oath with which they accept each king, on his

accession, is luminous: “We who are as good as you, and who are more

powerful than you, elect you king, that you may protect our rights

and liberties.” It scarcely expresses a loyalty with which to cement

provinces into a united kingdom! But it must be remembered that

the monarchs of the past have made a scare-crow of loyalty, with

their draining wars for personal aggrandizement, and the terrible

persecutions of their religious bigotry. The people themselves are

far from being to blame for their lack of patriotism, or the mediæval

superstition which with them takes the place of intelligent faith.

Catholics of other countries are revolted by what they see in their

churches in Spain. The shrine of one famous Virgin is hung with

wax models of arms and legs, purchased by devotees praying relief

from suffering in these members. Childless women have added to the

collection small wax dolls; also braids of their own hair, sacrificed

to hang in the gruesome row beside the altar. Looking at these things,

hearing the fantastic stories told (and firmly believed) about them,

one can with difficulty realize that one is in a Christian country of

the twentieth century.

On the other hand, there is a respect shown religion, and the

mysteries of life and death, which is impressive in this callous age

of materialism. Spanish women invariably cross themselves when passing

a church--whether on foot or in a tram or carriage; and every man,

grandee or peasant, uncovers while a funeral procession goes by. I

have noticed this especially on days of the big bull-fights, when the

trams are packed to the doors; not a man, whatever his excitement over

the approaching _corrida_, or his momentary interest in his neighbour,

omits the instinctive gesture of respect when a hearse passes.

Which, alas, it does very often in Madrid; pathetically often, bearing

the small casket of a child. It is said that a Spaniard, once grown to

maturity, lives forever; but the mothers consider themselves fortunate

if they save only half of their many children to manhood or womanhood.

This is so literally true that one woman who had had sixteen said to

me quite triumphantly, “and eight are alive! And my sister, who had

fourteen, now has seven.”

One has not to search far for the cause of this terrible mortality. In

the first place, it is a case of inbreeding; no new blood having come

into the country since the Jews and Moors left it. In the second, the

simplest laws of personal or public hygiene are unheard-of. Even among

the lower middle class, for a mother to nurse her child is a disgrace

not to be endured; and the peasant women to whom this duty is entrusted

are appallingly ignorant, and often of filthy personal habits. From

its birth, a baby is given everything it cries for--or is supposed to

cry for; including cheese, pieces of meat with rice, oranges, fried

potatoes, and sweetmeats of every description.

This applies not only to the poorer classes but to people of supposed

education and enlightenment. When the child is two or three years

old, it comes to the table with the family; though the hours of

Spanish meals are injudicious even for grown persons. The early cup of

chocolate is had generally about ten or eleven; luncheon is at half

after one, dinner between half after eight and nine. When this is

over, the parents take the children to walk in the streets, or to the

stifling air and lurid entertainment of the cinema. They all go to bed

about midnight, or later; and the parents cannot understand why, under

such a régime, the children should have the nerves and waxen whiteness

of little old men and women. Until I went to Spain, I had always

considered the French child the most ill-treated in the world; but I

now look upon his upbringing as positively model, compared with the

ignorance and hygienic outrage visited upon the poor little _español_.

Yet no people love their children more passionately, or sacrifice for

them more heroically, than do the Spaniards. It is simply that in the

laws of health, as in everything, their conception is that of by-gone

centuries. In railway carriages, trams, restaurants and cafés they sit

through the hottest months of summer with every door and window tight

shut. More than once on the train, I have been obliged to stand in

the corridor all day, because my five carriage-companions insisted on

sealing themselves for ten hours or more within an airless compartment

eight feet square. Even in their own carriages on the Castellana, the

Madrileños drive up and down in the months of July and August with the

windows entirely closed.

One does not wonder at their being a pale and listless race, attacked

by all manner of disease.

It must be remembered throughout this discussion that we are dealing

with the general mass of the people; though with the mass drawn from

all classes. There is in Madrid the same ultra-smart set (augmented

largely by wealthy South Americans), the same set of _littérateurs_ and

artists, the same set of charming and distinguished cosmopolitans, that

one finds in every big city. But, in the Spanish capital, these shining

exceptions are so far in the minority as to have very limited power to

leaven the mental stodginess of society as a whole.

The King and Queen, by their open fondness for foreigners, and (quite

naturally) for the English in particular, have set the fashion for

the Anglo-mania that rules a certain portion of the aristocracy. As

in Paris, a number of English words are currently used, but with a

pronunciation apt to make the polite Anglo-Saxon’s lip twitch at times.

The “Boy Scoots,” for example, are a favourite topic of conversation

in progressive drawing-rooms; while the young bloods are wont to

declare themselves, eagerly, keen for good “spor” and “the unt.” In

the English Tea Rooms--always crowded with Spaniards--I have even been

gravely corrected for my pronunciation of “scones.” “The señora means

_thconais_,” says the little waiter, in gentle Castilian.

Many _Madrileños_ affect English tailoring, though the results are

a bit startling as a rule. Brown and green, in their most emphatic

shades, vie with one another for popularity; and checks or stripes seen

on a Spanish Brummel _are_ checks or stripes--no indecision on the part

of the pattern. Women, of course, lean to Paris for their fashions; but

Paris is too subtle for them, and they copy her creations in colours

frankly strident. Orange and cerise, bright blue and royal purple share

the señora’s favour; while, to be really an _élégante_, her hair must

be tinted yellow, her face a somewhat ghastly white.

An interesting variation of conventional feminine standards is this

tendency of the chic _Madrileña_ to appear like a French cocotte; while

the women of the demi-monde themselves are demurely garbed in black,

without make-up, without pretension of any sort. But all women, to be

desirable, must be fat. Not merely plump, as Anglo-Saxons understand

the word, but distinctly on the ample side of _embonpoint_. The only

obesity cures in Spain are for men; women, including actresses,

professional beauties, and even dancers, live to put on flesh.

One explanation of this curious and, to our taste, most unæsthetic

idea of feminine beauty is its being another of those relics of

Orientalism--constantly cropping up in the study of the Spanish

character. I often wonder, when I see a slender Spanish girl, if she

will ever be driven to the extremity of the “Slim Princess” of musical

comedy fame; who, when all else failed, filled her frock with bolsters,

and her cheeks with marshmallows, and then--unfortunately--sneezed.

If you told that story to a Madrileño, he would answer seriously, “Oh,

but no Spanish girl would ever think of such a foolish thing.” I am

sure, on second thoughts, that she would not. That is, in fact, of all

Spanish faults the gravest: they never, never think of foolish things.

Only the King dares laugh at himself, and at the weighty affairs of

his family. Last year, just after the publication of the memoirs of

a certain royal lady of the house, and the high scandal that ensued,

a new little infanta was born. In presenting her to his ministers on

the traditional gold platter, the King said with his dry grin: “I have

already told her she is never to write a book!”

Speaking generally, however, the Spanish sense of humour is not

over-acute. I doubt, for instance, if any other people could solemnly

arrange and carry out a bullfight for the benefit of the S. P. C.

A. Yet this actually occurred in Madrid a few years ago; and, the

Madrileños will tell you with much pride, though the seats were much

dearer than at other bull-fights, _every one_ was filled by some patron

of the noble cause!

Like all people of prodigious dignity, the old actor never sees the

funny side of his own performance. He will go off into gales of

laughter over the mere shape of a foreigner’s hat; but, himself,

says and does the most absurd things without the slightest jolt to

his personal soberness. An English lady in Madrid told me of a case

in point: she was visiting one of the unique foundling-convents of

Spain, where superfluous babies may be placed in an open basket in the

convent wall; the bell that is rung swinging the basket inside at the

same time. My friend was trying to learn more of this highly practical

institution, but the nuns whom she questioned were so overwhelmed with

amusement at her boots, they could only look at her and giggle.

Finally, in despair, she concluded, “Well, at least tell me how many

children are brought to you a year!”

By supreme effort, one of the sisters recovered her gravity. “We

receive about half a baby a day, señora,” she said, sedately, and could

not understand why the lady smiled!

That continual rudeness in the matter of staring and laughing at

strangers was at first a great surprise to me--who had always heard of

the extravagant politeness of the Spaniard. I came to know that he is

polite only along circumscribed lines--until he knows you. After that,

I believe that you could take him at the literal words of his lavish

offers, and burn his house or dismantle it entirely without protest

on his part. Though too poor to invite you to a meal, he will call at

your hotel twice a day to leave flowers from his garden, and declare

himself at your disposition; or to take you to drive in the Castellana.

He will go to any amount of trouble to prepare small surprises for you:

a box of sweets, that he has made especially; a bit of majolica he has

heard you admire; an old fan that is an heirloom of his family: every

day there is something new, some further token of his friendship and

thought.

It is true that, even when able to afford it, he shows an Eastern

exclusiveness about inviting you to his house. I know people who have

lived in Madrid seventeen years without having been once inside the

doors of some of their Spanish friends. But this is racial habit:

the old Oriental tradition of the home being sacred to the family

itself: not personal slight, or snobbishness. There is in it, however,

a certain caution which offends the franker hospitality of the

Anglo-Saxon. To go into petty detail, I for one have never been able to

overcome my resentment of the brass peep-holes (in every Spanish door)

through which the servant peers out at you, before he will let you in.

I realize that my irritation is quite as childish as their precaution;

but I cannot conquer my annoyance at the plain impudence of the thing.

The same is true of their boundless interest in one’s

affairs. Peasants, shop-keepers, well-dressed ladies and

gentlemen--everyone!--will gather round, to hear a simple question

addressed to a policeman in the street. They take it for granted that

no foreigner speaks Spanish, and when the contrary proves the case,

their curiosity and amazement are increased ten-fold.

I was once in the office of a French typewriter company of Madrid,

arranging to rent a machine. During the intervals in which the agent

and I conversed in French he discussed my requirements, appearance, and

probable profession with a postman, a delivery-boy, an officer who

came in to buy pens, and the two young lady stenographers in the next

room. In Spanish, of course, all this; which I, as a foreigner, could

not possibly understand.

This happens over and over again, especially at _pension_ tables,

where one gleans astounding information as to the geography and

customs of one’s country (from various good Spaniards who have never

left their own), until a modest request for the salt--proffered in

Castilian--throws the entire company into horrified confusion. Even

then, they will go on to comment most candidly to one’s face on the

peculiarities and generally inferior character of one’s countrymen.

But if you turn the tables ever so discreetly, they retort in triumph:

“Then why have you come to Spain? If your own country pleases you, why

don’t you stay there?”

Travel for amusement or education is simply outside their

comprehension--naturally enough, since it is outside the possibilities

of most of them today as it was in the middle ages. We have already

seen their ideas of other countries to be of the most naïve. I have

been seriously congratulated by Madrileños on the privilege of

beholding so fine a thoroughfare as the Castellana, such splendid shops

as the handful scattered along the San Geronimo, such a wonderful

building as the Opera House, which they fondly believe “the most

beautiful in the world.” They are generously delighted for me, that

after the primitive hotels I must have known in other countries I can

enjoy for a while the magnificence of their modern “Palace.”

They, alas, are too poor to enjoy it. I think there is something

almost tragic in this fact that the entire society of Madrid cannot

support the very moderate charges of the one first class hotel in

the city. When one thinks of the dozens of luxurious stopping-places

in London, New York, and Paris--always crowded by a mob of vulgar

people with their purses overflowing, it seems actually cruel that the

_vieille noblesse_ of the Spanish capital have no money for the simple

establishment they admire with child-like extravagance. The old actor

does so delight in pomp--of even the mildest variety; and his youthful

shortsightedness has left him so pitiably unable to secure it, now in

the beggardom of his old age.

Half a dozen years ago, the porter of a friend of mine in Madrid won

a lottery prize of ten thousand dollars. No sooner had he come into

this fabulous wealth, than he and his wife proceeded to rent a house

on the Castellana, a box at the opera, another at the bull-ring; and

of course the indispensable carriage and pair. The señor had his clubs

and racers, the señora her jewels, and frocks from Paris; they amazed

Madrid with their magnificence.

At the end of six months the ten thousand dollars were gone; and the

couple went back to the porter’s lodge, where they have lived happily

ever since. Could one make the last assertion of two people of any

other race in the same circumstances? Certainly not of two Americans!

But, of course, had they been Americans, they would promptly have

invested the ten thousand dollars, and doubled it; in five years they

would probably have been “millionaires from the West.” Not so the

ingenuous Spaniards. With no thought for the morrow, they proceeded to

outdo all competitors in making a gorgeous today; and, when that was

done, retired without bitterness to rest on their laurels.

In all of which the good couple may have been wiser than they seem.

Being true children of their race--that is, without the first instincts

for “making money”--they would naturally have taken what they had won,

and stretched it carefully over the remaining half century of their

lives. So they could have existed in genteel poverty without working.

As it was, they had their fling--such a one as to set Madrid by the

ears; they are still famous for their unparalleled prodigality; and

they jog along in the service to which they were born, utterly content

if at the end of the day they have an hour or two in which to gloat

over their one-time splendour. When I think of the enforced scrimping

and soul-shrivelling calculation of the average Madrileño, I am always

glad to remember two who threw their bonnets over the mill, and had

what Americans call “one grand good time.”

It is impossible to conclude this cursory glance at some of the more

striking of Spanish characteristics without mention of the two finest:

honesty and lack of self-interest. They go hand in hand throughout this

country of rock-rooted impulse, and are forever surprising one used to

the modern rule of look-sharp-or-be-worsted. My first shock was in the

Rastro (the old Thieves’ Market of Madrid), when an old man candidly

informed me that the chain I admired was not of gold. It had every

appearance of gold, and I should have bought it as such; but the shabby

old salesman shook his head, and gave it to me gladly for twenty cents.

As Taine tells us, the Spanish are not practical; which endows them,

among other things, with the unprofitable quality of honour. In Toledo,

just as I was taking the train, I discovered that I had lost my watch.

It occurred to me that I might have dropped it in the cab our party

had had for a long drive that afternoon; but when the hotel proprietor

telephoned to the stables, he found that the cab had not yet returned.

“However,” he told me confidently, “tomorrow the _cosaria_ goes to

Madrid, and if the watch is found she can bring it to you.”

The _cosaria_ (literally the “thing” woman) is an institution peculiar

to Spain; she goes from town to town delivering parcels, produce, and

what not--in short, she is the express company. Of course I never

expected to see my watch again, but before six o’clock of the following

day the _cosaria_ appeared at my door in Madrid with the article lost

in Toledo--seventy miles away. The charge for her services was two

pesetas (forty cents). When I suggested a reward for the coachman, she

replied with amazement that it would be to insult him! I have visions

of an American driver running risk of such “insult.” He would have

been at the pawnshop, and got his ten dollars long since.

An American friend of mine who conducts a school for girls in Madrid

tells of a still rarer experience. One day her butcher came to her in

great distress. He had been going over his books, and he found that the

price his assistant had been charging the school for soup-bones (daily

delivered) was twice what it should have been. This, said he with

abject regret, had been going on unknown to him since the first of the

year; he therefore owed the señora nine hundred pesetas (one hundred

and eighty dollars) for bones, and begged her to accept this sum on the

spot, together with his profoundest apologies.

I call such experiences rare, yet they are of everyday occurrence

in Spain; so that one knows it was not here that Byron said: “I

never trust manners, for I once had my pocket picked by the civilest

gentleman I ever met with!” In Spain, manners and morals have an

original habit of walking out together; and one need not, as in other

countries, fear a preponderance of the former as probable preclusion of

the latter. That lack of the practical sense, which we wise analysts

deplore, has its engaging side when it brings back our watch, or saves

us paying a gold price for brass.

In the matter of servants, too, one is allured by a startling readiness

on their part to do as much as, even more than, they are paid for.

After the surly thanks and sour looks of the New York or London menial

for anything under a quarter, the broad smile of the Spanish for five

cents is quite an episode in one’s life. The breath-taking part of it

is that the smile is still forthcoming when the five cents is not; this

is frightfully disturbing to one’s nicely arranged opinions of the

domestic class.

But it makes living in Madrid very agreeable. Like the rest of

their countrymen, servants before they know you are inclined to be

suspicious, and polite only along circumscribed lines, but once they

have accepted you your position in their eyes is unimpeachable, and the

service they will render has no limits. This standard of judgment of

a very old country: the standard, throughout all classes, of judgment

of the individual for what he proves himself to be, is extremely

interesting as opposed to the instantaneous judgment and unquestioning

acceptance of him as he outwardly appears to be by the very young

country of America. To the American it is a disgrace to serve--or, at

least, to admit that he is serving; to the Spaniard it is a disgrace

not to serve, with his utmost powers and grace, anyone worthy of

recognition whatsoever.

Wherefore Spanish maids and men are the most loyal and devoted the

world over. They will run their feet off for you all day long, and

sit up half the night too if you will let them, finishing some task

in which they are interested. When you are ill, they make the most

thoughtful of nurses, never sparing themselves if it is to give you

even a fractional amount of comfort. And to all your thanks they return

a deprecating “for nothing--for nothing.” They have never heard of “an

eight-hour day”; the Union of Domestic Labour would be to them a title

in Chinese; yet they find life worth living. They are even--breathe

it not among the moderns!--contented; still more strange, they are

considered, and whenever possible spared, by their unmodern masters and

mistresses.

It is the civilization of an unpractical people; a people not in terror

of giving something for nothing, but eager always to give more. They

are, I believe, the one people to whom money--in the human relations

of life--never occurs. And so, of course, they are despised by other

peoples--for their poverty, their lack of “push.” Nowadays we worship

the genius of Up-To-Date: his marvellous invention, his lightning

calculation and keen move; his sweating, struggling, superman’s

performance, day by day--and his final triumph. We disdain the old

actor of mere grandiloquence, content to dream, passive in his corner.

Yet are his childishness and self-sufficiency, even his ignorance, so

much meaner than the greed and sordidness and treachery of the demigod

of today? And is the inexorable activity of the modern “Napoleon of

finance” so surely worth more than the attitude of the shabby old man

who refused to sell brass for gold?

V

IN REVIEW

(London)

[Illustration:

_Underwood & Underwood_

“THE RESTFUL SWEEP OF PARKS”]

I

THE CRITICS

Coming into London from Paris or New York, or even from Madrid, is like

alighting from a brilliant panoramic railway onto solid, unpretentious

mother earth. The massive bulk of bridges, the serene stateliness of

ancient towers and spires, the restful green sweep of park--unbroken

by flower-beds or too many trees; the quiet leisure of the Mall, and

the sedate brown palace overlooking it: all is tranquil, dignified,

soothing. One leans against the cushions of one’s beautifully luxurious

taxi, and sighs profound contentment. Here is order, well-being, peace!

And yonder, typical of it all, as the _midinette_ is typical of Paris

and the _torero_ of Spain, stands the imperturbable London “bobby.”

Already you have met his Southampton or Dover cousin on the pier; where

the latter’s calm, competent orders made the usual flurried transfer

from boat to train a simple matter. Too, you have made acquaintance

with that policeman-in-embryo, the English porter. His brisk, capable

answers: “Yes, sir. This way, please sir. Seven-twenty at Victoria,

right, sir!”: and his deft piloting of you and your luggage into the

haven of an empty carriage--in these days of frenzied democracy,

whence can one derive such exotic comfort as from a servant who

acknowledges himself a servant, and performs his servant’s duties to

perfection?

I used to wonder why travelling in England is so much more agreeable

than travelling in America, with all the conveniences the latter

boasts. I think it is because, where America gives you things to make

you comfortable, England gives you people--a host of them, well trained

and intent only on serving you. The personal contact makes all the

difference, with one’s flattered vanity. The policeman, the porter,

the guard who finds one a seat, the boy who brings one a tea-basket,

finally the chauffeur who drives one to an hotel and the doorman who

grasps one’s bag: each and all tacitly insinuate that they exist to

look out for oneself in particular, for all men in general. What wonder

that Englishmen are snobs? Their universe revolves round them, is made

for as well as by them; and what they want, when they want it, is

always within arm’s reach. They are the inventors and perfectors of the

Groove.

But no one can accuse them of being sybarites. Comfort, luxury, the

elaborate service with which they insist on being surrounded are only

accessory to a root-idea which may even be called a passion: the

producing of great men. To this, as to all great creation, routine

is necessary; and the careful systematizing of life into classes and

sub-classes, each with its special duties. English people actually

love their duties, they are taught from childhood to love them; and

to attend to them before everything. As reward, when work is finished,

they have the manifold pleasures of home. This is odd indeed, to the

American or European--to whom duty is a dreary thing, to be avoided

whenever possible; and home a place to leave, in search of pleasure,

not to come back to. In consequence, the general summary of England is:

“dull.”

English people are called dull--“heavy” is the more popular

word--because they do not gather on street-corners or in cafés, arguing

and gesticulating, but go methodically about their business; leaving

the stranger to do the same. Of course, if the latter has no business,

this is depressing. Here he is in an unknown country, with nothing to

do but sight-see, which bores him infinitely. There is no one with whom

to talk, no pleasant congregating-spot where he could at least look

on at, if not share in, the life of the people. He is thrown dismally

back upon himself for diversion. So what does he do? He goes and sees

the sights, which was his duty from the beginning. Just as he goes

to bed at midnight because every place except bed is closed against

him; and to church on Sundays because every building except church is

shut. England not only expects every man to do his duty, she makes

it practically impossible for him to do anything else; by which she

shrewdly gains his maximum efficiency when and where she needs it.

In return, or rather in preparation, she gives him a remarkably fine

groundwork, both mental and physical, to start with. No foreigner

can fail to be impressed with the minute care and thought bestowed

upon English children, and the sacrifices gladly made to secure

their health and best development. In comparison with French and

American and Spanish parents, the English mother and father may seem

undemonstrative, even cold; they do not gush over their children in

public, nor take them out to restaurants, or permit them to share

their own meals at home. Neither, however, do they give them the least

comfortable rooms in the house, and decree that their wants and needs

shall be second to those of the adult members of the family. The

children have a routine of their own, constructed carefully for them,

and studied to fit their changing requirements. They have their own

rooms--as large and light and sunny as the parents can contrive--their

own meals, of wholesome food served at sensible hours; their fixed time

for exercise and study alike: everything is planned to give them the

best possible start for mind and body.

“But,” the French or American mother objects, when one extols this

system, “it takes so much money; so many rooms, so many servants--two

distinct households, in fact.” It takes a different distribution of

money, that is all. As the children are never on show, their clothes

are simple; the clothes of the parents are apt to be simple too.

Amusement is not sought outside the home in England, as it is in other

countries; both interest and money are centred within the house and

garden that is each man’s castle. This makes possible many comforts

which people of other countries look upon as luxuries, but which to

the Englishman and woman are the first necessities. And primary among

these is a healthful, cheerful place to rear their children.

Not only the wealthy, but people in very modest circumstances insist

upon this; and in houses of but six or seven rooms one finds the

largest and airiest given over to the day and night nurseries for

the children. Fresh chintz and white paint and simple furniture make

these the most attractive as well as most sensible surroundings for

the small people. Nurses, teachers, school-fellows, the whole chain

of influence linking the development of the English child, emphasize

the idea of physical fitness as a first essential. And this idea is so

early instilled, and so constantly and emphatically fostered, that it

becomes the kernel of the grown man’s activity. The stern creed that

only the fit survive rules England almost as it ruled old Sparta: a

creed terrible for the weak, but splendid for the strong; and that has

produced such men as Gordon, Rhodes, Kitchener, Curzon and Roberts--and

hundreds of others, the fruit of this rigorous policy.

First the home, then the public schools teach it. At school, a boy must

establish himself by his proven prowess in one direction or another. To

gain a footing, and then to hold it, he must do something--row, or play

cricket or football; but play, and play hard, he must. The other boys

force him to it, whether he will or no; hardness is their religion, and

those who do not conform to it are practically finished before they

begin. The reputation won at school lays or permanently fails to lay

the foundation of after success. “Hm ... yes, I remember him at Eton,”

has summarized many a man’s chances for promotion or failure. Rarely

does he prove himself to be worth later more than he was worth then.

It is interesting to follow the primitive ideal, of bodily perfection,

throughout this old and perhaps most finely developed civilization of

the present. In the hurry-scurry of modern affairs, when other men pay

little or no heed to preserving their bodily strength, never does this

cease to be the first consideration of the Englishman. He wants money

and position and power quite as keenly as other men want them; but he

has been born and reared in the knowledge that to gain these things,

then to enjoy them, sound nerves are necessary. His impulse is to store

up energy faster than he spends it, and not to waste himself on a

series of trifles someone else can do as well if not better than he.

Hence the carefully ordered routine he follows from childhood; the

systematic exercise, the frequent holidays his strenuous American

cousin scoffs at. All are designed to keep him hard and fit, and ready

for emergencies that may demand surplus strength. Middle-aged men play

the game and follow the hobbies of young men; the elderly vie with the

middle-aged. In England, the fast and fixed lines that divide youth

from maturity are blurred by the hearty good comradeship of sport; in

which all ages and classes share alike. Sport is not a hobby with the

Englishman; it is the backbone of his existence. Therefore, I think,

it is so hard for the foreigner to enter into the real sports spirit

of England: he never quite appreciates the vital motive behind it.

With the Frenchman and the American and the Spaniard--even with the

Austrian--sport is recreation; they take it apart from the business of

life, where the Englishman takes it as essential to life itself. By it

he establishes and maintains his working efficiency, and without it he

would have lost his chief tool, and his perennial remedy for whatever

ills befall him.

Obviously, it is this demand for physical perfection that underlies

and engenders the national worship of race; and that is responsible,

in the last analysis, for the renowned snobbishness of the English.

Someone has said that English Society revolves round the King and the

horse--or, as he might have added, round the supreme symbols of human

and animal development. That towards which everyone is striving--to

breed finer and stronger creatures--is crystallized in these two

superlative types. While from the King down, on the human side, the

scale is divided into the most minute shades of gradation.

As government in England tends to become more and more democratic,

society tends to become more aristocratic--as far as magnifying ancient

names and privileges is concerned. “A title is always a title,” said a

practical American lady, “but an English title is just a bit better.”

It is, because English people think so, and have thought it so long

and so emphatically that they have brought everyone else to that

opinion. The same is true of many English institutions, admirable in

themselves but which actually are admired because the English admire

them. Every nation is more or less egoist, but none is so sincerely and

consistently egoist as the English. They travel the earth, but they

travel to observe and criticize; not to assimilate foreign things.

The American is a chameleon, taking on the habits and ideas of each

place as he lives in it; Latins have not a little of this character

too. But the Briton, wherever he goes, remains the Briton: you

never mistake him, in Palestine or Alaska or the South Sea Islands:

no matter where he is, he has brought his tea and his tub and his

point of view with him. And, though he may be one among thousands

of another nationality, somehow these others become impressed with

his traditions rather than he with theirs. Perhaps because away from

home, he calmly pursues the home routine, adjusting the life of his

temporary habitation to himself, rather than himself to it. If he is

accustomed to dress for dinner, he dresses; though the rest of the

company may appear in corduroys and neckerchiefs. And continues to

dress, imperturbably, no matter how mercilessly he may be ridiculed or

even despised. If he is accustomed to take tea at a certain hour, he

takes it--in Brazil or Thibet, it makes no difference. And the same is

true of his religious observance, his beloved exercise, his hobbies and

his study: of all these things he is too firmly convinced to change

them by one jot. Such an attitude is bound to have its effect on these

persistently confronted with it; resentment, then curiosity, finally

a certain grudging respect is born in the minds of the people on whom

the Englishman serenely forces his superiority. They wonder about his

country--he never sounds its praises or urges them to visit it. He

simply speaks with complete contentment of “going home.”

When the foreigner, often out of very _pique_, follows him thither, he

is met with the same indifference shown him in his own land. Visiting

strangers may come or go: while they are in England, they are treated

with civility; when they choose to depart, they are not pressed to

remain. This tranquil self-sufficiency is galling to the majority,

who go away to sulk, and to denounce the English as a race of “dull

snobs.” Yet they come back again--and again; and continue to hammer at

the door labelled “British Reserve,” and to be snubbed, and to swallow

their pride and begin anew, until finally they pry their way in by

sheer obstinacy--and because no one cares very much, after all, whether

they are in or not. London is so vast and so diverse, in its social

ramifications, it can admit thousands of aliens a year and remain quite

unconscious of them.

Americans in particular are quick to realize this, and, out of their

natural arrogance, bitterly to resent it. At home they explain rather

piteously, they are “someone”; here, their money is accepted, but they

themselves are despised--or, at best, barely tolerated. They who are

used to carry all before them find themselves patronized, smiled at

indulgently--or, worst of all, ignored. In short, the inexperienced

young actors come before an audience of seasoned critics, whom they

cannot persuade to take them seriously. For they soon discover that

there is no “bluffing” these calmly judicial people, but that merit

alone--of one sort or another--succeeds with them.

They are not to be “impressed” by tales of reckless expenditure

or intimate allusions to grand dukes and princesses seen on the

promenades of Continental “cures.” On the contrary, they are won

over in no time by something the American would never think of using

as a wedge--unaffected simplicity. But why should one want to win

them--whether one be American or French, Spanish, German, or any other

self-respecting egoist-on-one’s-own? Why does one always want to win

the critical?

Because they set a standard. The English have set standards since

ever they were at all: wise standards, foolish standards, some broad

and finely tolerant, others absurdly narrow and short-sighted. But

always they live by strict established rule, to which they demand of

themselves exacting conformity. Each class has its individual ten

commandments--as is possible where classes are so definitely graded and

set apart; each man is born to obey the decalogue of his class--or to

be destroyed. Practically limitless personal liberty is his, within the

laws of his particular section of society; but let him once overstep

these, and he soon finds himself in gaol of one kind or another.

Foreigners feel all this, and respond to it; just as they respond to

the French criterion of beauty, the American criterion of wealth.

England for centuries has stood for the _précieux_ of society, in the

large significance of the term; before her unwavering ideal of race,

other people voluntarily come to be judged for distinction, as they

go to Paris to be judged for their artistic quality, to New York for

their powers of accomplishment. Today more than ever, London confers

the social diploma of the world which makes it, of course, the world’s

Mecca and chief meeting-place.

This has completely changed the character of the conservative old city,

from a provincial insular capital into a great cosmopolitan centre.

Necessarily it has leavened the traditional British self-satisfaction,

while that colossus slept, by the introduction of new principles, new

problems, new points of view. The critic remains the critic, but he

must march with the times--or lose his station. And conservatism is a

dotard nowadays. Each new republic, as it comes along, shoves the old

man a foot further towards his grave. Expansion is the battle-cry of

the present, and critics and actors alike must look alive, and modulate

their voices to the chorus.

A bewildering babel of tunes is the natural result in this transition

period, but many of them are fine and all are interesting. England

lifts her voice to announce that she is not an island but an Empire;

and it is the fashion in London now to treat Colonials with civility,

even actually to fête them. _Autre temps, autre mœurs!_ We have heard

Mr. Bernard Shaw’s charwoman ask her famous daughter of the Halls:

“But what’ll his duchess mother be thinkin’ if the dook marries a

ballyrina, with me for a mother-in-law!” And the answer: “Indeed, she

says she’s glad he’ll have somebody to pay his income tax, when it goes

to twenty shillings in the pound!”

The outcry against American peeresses and musical comedy marchionesses

has long since died into a murmur, and a feeble murmur at that. Since

another astute playwright suggested that the race of Vere de Vere might

be distinctly improved by the infusion of some healthy vulgar blood,

and a chin or two amongst them, the aristocratic gates have opened

almost eagerly to receive these alien beauties. In politics, too,

new blood is welcomed; as it is in the Church, in the universities,

and even in that haughtiest of citadels, the county. The egoism of

England is becoming a more practical egoism: she is beginning to see

where she can use the things she has hitherto disdained, and is almost

pathetically anxious to make up for lost time. But, for ballast, she

has always her uncompromising standards, by which both things and

people must be weighed and found good, before being accepted.

In short, while the bugaboo of invasion and the more serious menace

of Socialism have grown up to lead pessimists to predict ruin for the

country, subtler influences have been at work to make her greater than

ever before. The signs of conflict are almost always hopeful signs;

only stagnation spells ruin. And where once the English delighted to

stagnate--or at least to sit within their insular shell and admire

themselves without qualification--now they are looking keenly about,

to acquire useful men and methods from every possible source. Finding,

a bit to their own surprise, that, rather than diminishing their

prestige in the process, they are strengthening it.

The routine is being amplified, made to fit the spirit of the time,

which is a spirit of progress above all things. John Bull has

evolved from a hard-riding, hard-drinking, provincial squire into a

keen-thinking tactician with cosmopolitan tendencies and breadth of

view. From London as his reviewing-stand, he scrutinizes the nations as

they pass; and his judgment--but that is for another chapter.

II

THE JUDGMENT

“Now learn what morals critics ought to show,

“For ’tis but half a judge’s task to know,”

says Pope, who himself was hopelessly immoral in the manufacture

of couplets. And what two men ever agreed on morality, anyhow? The

personal equation is never more prominent than in the expression of

the “individual’s views,” as nowadays ethics are dubbed. One may fancy

oneself the most catholic of judges, yet one constantly betrays the

hereditary prejudices that can be modified but never quite cast off.

I was recently with an Englishman at an outdoor variety theatre in

Madrid. We sat restively through the miserable, third-rate performance,

grumbling at each number as it proved worse than the last, and

finally waxing positively indignant over the ear-splitting trills and

outrageous contortions of the prima donna of the evening. “Still,” said

the Englishman suddenly, “she _has_ had the energy to keep herself fit,

and to come out here and do something. Really, she isn’t so bad, you

know, after all.”

Before she had finished, he was actually approving of her: her

mere physical soundness had conquered him, and her adherence to his

elemental creed of “doing something” and doing it with all one’s might.

The artistic and the sentimental viewpoints, which the Englishman

always wears self-consciously, slip away from him like gossamer when

even the most indirect appeal is made to his fetish of physical

fitness. In respect of this, he is by no means a snob, but a true

democrat.

As a matter of fact, there are many breaks in the haughty traditional

armour. It is in New York, not London, that one hears severe discussion

of A’s charwoman grandmother, B’s lady’s maid mother, C’s father

who deals in tinned beans. What London wants to know is what A, B,

and C do; and how they do it. Snobbism turns its searchlight on

the individual, not on his forbears; though to the individual it

is merciless enough. In consequence, the city has become a sort of

international Athenæum, a clearing-ground for the theories, dreams and

fanaticisms of all men.

I remember being tremendously impressed, at my very first London

tea-party, by the respect and keen interest shown each of the various

enthusiasts gathered there. A Labour leader, a disciple of Buddhism,

the founder of a new kind of dramatic school, a missionary from the

Congo and a Post-Impressionist painter: all were listened to, in turn,

and their several hobbies received with lively attention. The Labour

leader got a good deal of counter-argument, the Post-Impressionist his

share of good-humoured chaffing; but everyone was given the floor, and

a chance to beat his particular drum as hard as he liked, until the

next came on.

The essential thing, in London, is that one shall have a drum to beat;

small talk, and the polite platitudes that sway the social reunions

of New York and Paris, are relegated to the very youthful or the very

dull. Nor is cleverness greeted with the raised eyebrow of dismay;

people are not afraid, or too lazy, to think. One sees that in the

newspapers, the books and plays, as well as in the drawing-room

conversation of the English. The serious, even the so-called heavy,

topics, as well as the subtle, finely ironic, and sharply critical, are

given place and attention; not by a few _précieux_ alone, but by the

mass of the people. And not to be well informed is to be out of the

world, for both men and women.

Of course, there is the usual set of “smart” fashionables who delight

in ignorance and whose languid energies are spent between clothes

and the newest one-step. But these are no more typical of London

society than they are of any other; though in the minds of many

intelligent foreigners they have become so, through having their doings

conspicuously chronicled in foreign newspapers and by undiscriminating

visitors returning from England. On one point, this confusion of

English social sets is easily understood: they share the same moral

leniency that permits all to lend themselves to situations and ideas

which scandalize the foreigner.

It is not that as a people they are more vicious than any other,

but they are franker in their vice; they have no fine shades. An

American woman told me of the shock she received at her first English

house-party, where her hostess--a friend of years, who had several

times visited her in New York--knew scarcely one-half of her own

guests. The rest were “friends,” without whom nothing would induce

certain ladies and gentlemen to come.

“It wasn’t the _fact_ of it,” said the _Américaine_, candidly; “of

course such things exist everywhere, but they aren’t so baldly apparent

and certainly they aren’t discussed. Those people actually quarrelled

about the arrangement of rooms, and changed about with the most

bare-faced openness. My hostess and I were the only ones who didn’t

pair, and we were simply regarded as hypocrites without the courage of

our desires.”

All of which is perfectly true, and an everyday occurrence in English

social life. The higher up the scale, the broader tolerance becomes.

“Depend upon it,” said a lady of the old régime, “God Almighty thinks

twice before he condemns persons of quality!” And, in England, mere

human beings, to be on the safe side, do not condemn them at all. The

middle-class (the sentimentalists of every nation) lead a life of

severe rectitude--and revel in the sins of their betters, which they

invent if the latter have none. But directly a man is a gentlemen, or

a woman a lady, everything is allowable. Personal freedom within the

class laws holds good among morals as among manners; and the result is

rather horrifying to the stranger.

French people, for example, are far more shocked at the English than

the English are at them. With the former, the offense is against good

taste--always a worse crime, in Latin eyes, than any mere breach of

ethics. The Englishman’s unvarnished candour in airing his private

affairs appears to the Latin as crass and unnecessary; while in the

Englishwoman it becomes to him positively repellent. The difference,

throughout, in the two races, is the difference between the masculine

and the feminine points of view. England is ever and always a man’s

country. Even the women look at things through the masculine vision,

and to an extent share the masculine prerogatives. As long as a woman’s

husband accepts what she does, everyone accepts her; which explains how

in the country where women are clamouring most frantically for equal

privileges, a great number of women enjoy privileges unheard of by

their “free” sisters of other lands.

[Illustration:

_Underwood & Underwood_

LONDON, THE EMPIRE CAPITAL]

It is a question of position, not of sex; and harks back--moral

privilege, I mean--to that core of all English institutions: breeding.

There are no bounds to the latitude allowed the great, though it does

not seem to occur to the non-great that such license in itself brings

into question the rights of many who hold old names and ancient titles.

Succession, that all-important factor of the whole social system, is

hedged about with many an interrogation point; which society is pleased

to ignore, nevertheless, on the ground of _noblesse oblige_! Above a

certain stratum, the English calmly dispense with logic, and bestow

divine rights on all men alike; obviously it is the only thing to

do, and besides it confers divine obligations at the same time.

One must say for all Englishmen that rarely if ever, in their personal

liberty, do they lose sight of their obligations. In the midst of

after-dinner hilarity, one will see a club-room empty as if by magic,

and the members hurry away in taxis or their own limousines. One

knows that a division is to be called for, and that it wants perhaps

ten minutes of the hour. The same thing happens at balls or almost

any social function: the men never fail to attend when they can, for

they are distinctly social creatures; but they keep a quiet eye on

the clock, and slip out when duty calls them elsewhere. This serves

two excellent purposes: of preventing brain-fag among the “big” men

of the hour, and leading the zest of their interests and often great

undertakings to society--which in many countries never sees them.

In England politics and society are far more closely allied than in

America or on the Continent. Each takes colour from the other, and

becomes more significant thereby. The fact of a person’s being born

to great wealth and position, instead of turning him into an idle

spendthrift, compels his taking an important part in the affairs of the

country. The average English peer is about as hard-working a man as

can be found, unless it be the King himself; and the average English

hostess, far from being a butterfly of pleasure, has a round of duties

as exacting as those of the Prime Minister. Through all the delightful

superficial intercourse of a London season, there is an undercurrent

of serious purpose, felt and shared by everyone, though by each one

differently.

At luncheons, dinners, garden-parties and receptions the talk veers

sooner or later towards politics and national affairs. All “sets,” the

fashionable, the artistic, the sporting, the adventurous, as well as

the politicians themselves, meet and become absorbed in last night’s

debate or the Bill to come up for its third reading tomorrow. By the

way, for a foreigner to participate in these bouts of keen discussion,

he must become addicted to the national habit: before going anywhere,

he must read the Times.

As regularly as he takes his early cup of tea, every self-respecting

Englishman after breakfast retires into a corner with the Times, and

never emerges until he has masticated the last paragraph. Then and

only then is he ready to go forth for the day, properly equipped

to do battle. And he speedily discovers if you are not similarly

prepared--and beats you. Of all the characteristic English things I

can think of, none is so English as the Times. In it you find, besides

full reports of political proceedings and the usual births, marriages,

and deaths, letters from Englishmen all the way from Halifax to

Singapore. Letters on the incapacity of American servants, the best

method of breeding Angora cats, the water system of the Javanese (have

they any?), how to travel comfortably in Cochin China, the abominable

manners of German policemen, the dangers of eating lettuce in

Palestine, etc., etc. Signals are raised to all Englishmen everywhere,

warning them what to do and what to leave undone, and how they shall

accomplish both. Column upon column of the conservative old newspaper

is devoted to this sort of correspondence club, which has for its motto

that English classic: prevention, to avoid necessity for cure.

The Englishman at home reads it all, carefully, together with the

answers to the correspondents of yesterday, the interminable speech of

Lord X in the Upper House last night, the latest bulletins concerning

the health of the Duchess of Y. It is solid, unsensational mental food,

and he digests it thoroughly; storing it away for practical future use.

But the foreigner, accustomed to the high seasoning of journalistic

epigram and the tang of scandal, finds it very dull. Unfortunately, the

mission of the newspaper in most countries has become the promoting of

a certain group of men, or a certain party, or a certain cause, and

the damning of every other man or party or cause that stands in the

way. The English press has none of this flavour. It is imbued with the

national instinct for fair play, which, while it by no means prohibits

lively discussion of men and measures, remains strictly impersonal in

its attitude of attack.

The critic on the whole is inclined to deserve his title as it was

originally defined; one who judges impartially, according to merit. He

is a critic of men and affairs, however, rather than of art. He lives

too much in the open to give himself extensively to artistic study

or creation. And Englishmen have, generally speaking, distinguished

themselves as fighters, explorers, soldiers of fortune, and as

organizers and statesmen, rather than as musicians, painters, and men

of letters.

Especially in the present day is this true. There are the Scots and

Shackletons, the Kitcheners, Roberts, and Curzons; but where are

the Merediths, Brownings, Turners, and Gainsboroughs? Literature is

rather better off than the other arts--there is an occasional Wells or

Bennett among the host of the merely talented and painstaking; more

than an occasional novelist among the host of fictioneers. But poets

are few and uneventful, playwrights more abundant though tinged with

the charlatanism of the age; while as for the painters, sculptors and

composers, in other countries the protagonists of the peculiar violence

and revolution of today--in England, who are they?

[Illustration:

_Underwood & Underwood_

THE GREAT ISLAND SITE]

We go to exhibitions by the dozen, during the season, and listen

conscientiously to the latest tenor; but seldom do we see art or

hear music. In the past, the great English artists have been those

who painted portraits, landscapes, or animals; reproducing out of

experience the men and women, horses, dogs, and out-of-doors they knew

so well; rather than creating out of imagination dramatic scenes and

pictures of the struggle and splendour of life. Their art has been

a peaceful art, the complement rather than the mirror of the heroic

militancy that always has dominated English activity. Similarly, the

musicians--the few that have existed--have surpassed in compositions

of the sober, stately order, oratorios, chorals, hymns and solemn

marches. Obviously, peace and solemnity are incongruous with the

restless, rushing spirit of today, to which the Englishman is victim

together with all men, but which, with his slower articulation, he is

not able to express on canvas or in chromatics.

Cubism terrifies him; on the other hand he is, for the moment at least,

insanely intrigued by ragtime. The hoary ballad, which “Mr. Percy

Periwell will sing this day at Southsea Pier,” is giving way at last

to syncopated ditties which form a mere accompaniment to the reigning

passion for jigging. No one has time to listen to singing; everyone

must keep moving, as fast and furiously as he can. There is a spice of

tragi-comedy in watching the mad wave hit sedate old London, sweeping

her off her feet and into a maze of frantically risqué contortions.

Court edicts, the indignation of conservative dowagers, the severity of

bishops and the press--nothing can stop her; from Cabinet ministers to

house-maids, from débutantes to duchesses, “everybody’s doing it,” with

vim if not with grace. And such is the craze for dancing, morning, noon

and night, that every other room one enters has the aspect of a _salle

de bal_--chairs and sofas stiff against the walls, a piano at one end,

and, for the rest, shining parquetry.

Looking in at one of these desecrated drawing-rooms, where at the

moment a peer of the realm was teaching a marchioness to turkey-trot,

a lady of the old order wished to know “What, _what_ would Queen

Victoria say?”

“Madam,” replied her escort, also of the epoch of square dances and

the genteel crinoline, “the late Queen was above all things else a

gentlewoman. She had no language with which to describe the present

civilization!”

It is not a pretty civilization, surely; it is even in many ways a

profane one. Yet in its very profanities there is a force, a tremendous

and splendid vitality, that in the essence of it must bring about

unheard-of and glorious things. Our sentimentalism rebels against

motor-buses in Park Lane, honking taxis eliminating the discreet hansom

of more leisurely years; we await with mingled awe and horror the day

just dawning, when the sky itself will be cluttered with whizzing,

whirring vehicles. But give us the chance to go back and be rid of

these things--who would do it?

[Illustration:

_Underwood & Underwood_

LINKING THE NEW ERA AND THE OLD]

As a matter of fact, we have long since crossed from the sentimental

to the practical. We are desperately, fanatically practical in these

days; we want all we can get, and as an afterthought hope that it will

benefit us when we get it. England has caught the spirit less rapidly

than many of the nations, but she has caught it. No longer does she

smile superciliously at her colonies; she wants all that they can give

her. Far from ignoring them, she is using every scheme to get in touch;

witness the Island Site and the colonial offices fast going up on that

great tract of land beyond Kingsway. No longer does she sniff at her

American cousins, but anxiously looks to their support in the slack

summer season, and has everything marked with dollar-signs beforehand!

Since the Entente Cordiale, too, she throws wide her doors to her

neighbours from over the Channel: let everyone come, who in any way can

aid the old island kingdom to realize its new ideal of a great Empire

federation.

Doctor Johnson’s assertion that “all foreigners are mostly fools,”

may have been the opinion of Doctor Johnson’s day; it is out-of-date

in the present. English standards are as exacting, English judgments

as strict, as ever they were; but to those who measure up to them,

whatever their race or previous history, generous appreciation is

given. And I know of no land where the reformer, the scientist, the

philosopher--the man with a message of any kind--is granted fairer

hearing or more just reward; always provided his wares are trade-marked

genuine.

“Nonsense of enthusiasts is very different from nonsense of ninnies,”

was the conclusion of one of the wisest Englishmen who ever lived. And

the critical country has adopted it as a slogan; writing across the

reverse side of her banner: “Freedom and fair play for all men.”

THE END

Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a

predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they

were not changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation

marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left

unbalanced.

Illustrations in this eBook have been positioned between paragraphs

and outside quotations. In versions of this eBook that support

hyperlinks, the page references in the List of Illustrations lead to

the corresponding illustrations.

Page 32: “cabaret in American” was printed that way; perhaps should

be “America”.