Chapter VIII: Prologue (6)

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!”

_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_.

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.

_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.

_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.”