The Portuguese are a very humane race, and are extraordinarily kind to animals. They are also devoted to bull-fights. These two tendencies seem irreconcilable, till the fact is grasped that a Portuguese bull-fight is absolutely bloodless. Neither bulls nor horses are killed; the whole spectacle resolves itself into an exhibition of horsemanship and skill.
The bulls' horns are padded and covered with leather thongs. The picador rides a really good and highly-trained horse. Should he allow the bull even to touch his horse with his padded horns, the unfortunate picador will get mercilessly hissed. These picadores do not wear the showy Spanish dresses, but Louis Quinze costumes of purple velvet with large white wigs. The espada is armed with a wooden sword only, which he plants innocuously on the neck of the bull, and woe betide him should those tens of thousands of eager eyes watching him detect a deviation of even one inch from the death-dealing spot. He will be hissed out of the ring. On the other hand, should he succeed in touching the fatal place with his harmless weapon, his skill would be rewarded with thunders of applause, and all the occupants of the upper galleries would shower small change and cigarettes into the ring, and would also hurl their hats into the arena, which always struck me as a peculiarly comical way of expressing their appreciation.
The espada would gaze at the hundreds of shabby battered bowler hats reposing on the sand of the arena with the same expression of simulated rapture that a prima donna assumes as floral tributes are handed to her across the footlights. The espada, his hand on his heart, would bow again and again, as though saying, "Are these lovely hats really for me?" But after a second glance at the dilapidated head-gear, covering the entire floor-space of the arena with little sub-fuse hummocks, he would apparently change his mind. "It is really amazingly good of you, and I do appreciate it, but I think on the whole that I will not deprive you of them," and then an exhibition of real skill occurred. The espada, taking up a hat, would glance at the galleries. Up went a hand, and the hat hurtled aloft to its owner with unfailing accuracy; and this performance was repeated perhaps a hundred times. I always considered the espada's hat-returning act far more extraordinary than his futile manipulation of the inoffensive wooden sword. During the aerial flights of the hats, two small acolytes of the espada, his miniature facsimiles in dress, picked up the small change and cigarettes, and, I trust, duly handed them over intact to their master. The bull meanwhile, after his imaginary slaughter, had trotted home contentedly to his underground quarters, surrounded by some twenty gaily-caparisoned tame bullocks. To my mind Spanish bull-fighting is revolting and horrible to the last degree. I have seen it once, and nothing will induce me to assist a second time at so disgusting a spectacle; but the most squeamish person can view a Portuguese bull-fight with impunity. Even though the bull has his horns bandaged, considerable skill and great acrobatic agility come into play. Few of us would care to stand in the path of a charging polled Angus bull, hornless though he be. The bandarilheros who plant paper-decorated darts in the neck of the charging bull are as nimble as trained acrobats, and vault lightly out of the ring when hard pressed. Conspicuous at a Lisbon bull-fight are a number of sturdy peasants, tricked out in showy clothes of scarlet and orange. These are "the men of strength." Should a bull prove cowardly in the ring, and decline to fight, the public clamour for him to be caught and expelled ignomiously from the ring by "the men of strength." Eight of the stalwart peasants will then hurl themselves on to the bull and literally hustle him out of the arena; no mean feat. Take it all round, a Portuguese bull-fight was picturesque and full of life and colour, though the neighbouring Spaniards affected an immense contempt for them on account of their bloodlessness and make-belief.
A curious Portuguese custom is one which ordains that a youth before proposing formally for a maiden's hand must do "window parade" for two months (in Portuguese "fazer a janella"). Nature has not allotted good looks to the majority of the Portuguese race, and she has been especially niggardly in this respect to the feminine element of the population. The taste for olives and for caviar is usually supposed to be an acquired one, and so may be the taste for Lusitanian loveliness. Somewhat to the surprise of the foreigner, Portuguese maidens seemed to inspire the same sentiments in the breasts of the youthful male as do their more-favoured sisters in other lands, but in bourgeois circles the "window-parade" was an indispensable preliminary to courtship. The youth had to pass backwards and forwards along the street where the dwelling of his innamorata was situated, casting up glances of passionate appeal to a window, where, as he knew, the form of his enchantress would presently appear. The maiden, when she judged that she might at length reveal herself without unduly encouraging her suitor, moved to the open window and stood fanning herself, laboriously unconscious of her ardent swain in the street below. The youth would then express his consuming passion in pantomime, making frantic gestures in testimony of his mad adoration. The senhorita in return might favour him with a coy glance, and in token of dismissal would perhaps drop him a rose, which the young man would press to his lips and then place over his heart, and so the performance came to an end, to be renewed again the next evening. The lovesick swain would almost certainly be wearing spurs. At first I could not make out why the young men of Lisbon, who had probably never been on a horse in their whole lives, should habitually walk about the town with spurs on their heels. It was, I think, a survival of the old Peninsular tradition, and was intended to prove to the world that they were "cavalleiros." In Spain an immense distinction was formerly made between the "caballero" and the "peon"; the mounted man, or gentleman, and the man on foot, or day-labourer. The little box-spurs were the only means these Lisbon youths had of proving their quality to the world. They had no horses, but they had spurs, which was obviously the next best thing.
Fortunes in Portugal being small, and strict economy having to be observed amongst all classes, I have heard that these damsels of the window-sill only dressed down to the waist. They would assume a corsage of scarlet or crimson plush, and, their nether garments being invisible from below, would study both economy and comfort by wearing a flannel petticoat below it. It is unnecessary for me to add that I never verified this detail from personal observation.
Some of the old Portuguese families occupied very fine, if sparsely furnished, houses, with enfilades of great, lofty bare rooms. After calling at one of these houses, the master of it would in Continental fashion "reconduct" his visitor towards the front door. At every single doorway the Portuguese code of politeness dictated that the visitor should protest energetically against his host accompanying him one step further. With equal insistence the host expressed his resolve to escort his visitor a little longer. The master of the house had previously settled in his own mind exactly how far he was going towards the entrance, the distance depending on the rank of the visitor, but the accepted code of manners insisted upon these protests and counter-protests at every single doorway.
In Germany "door-politeness" plays a great part. In one of Kotzebue's comedies two provincial notabilities of equal rank are engaged in a duel of "door-politeness." "But I must really insist on your Excellency passing first." "I could not dream of it, your Excellency. I will follow you." "Your Excellency knows that I could never allow that," and so on. The curtain falls on these two ladies each declining to precede the other, and when it rises on the second act the doorway is still there, and the two ladies are still disputing. Quite an effective stage-situation, and one which a modern dramatist might utilise.
In paying visits in Lisbon one was often pressed to remain to dinner, but the invitation was a mere form of politeness, and was not intended to be accepted. You invariably replied that you deeply regretted that you were already engaged. The more you were urged to throw over your engagement, the deeper became your regret that this particular engagement must be fulfilled. The engagement probably consisted in dining alone at the club, but under no circumstances must the invitation be accepted. In view of the straitened circumstances of most Portuguese families, the evening meal would probably consist of one single dish of bacalhao or salt cod, and you would have put your hosts to the greatest inconvenience.
With the exception of the Opera, the Lisbon theatres were most indifferent. When I first arrived there the Lisbon Opera had been fortunate enough to secure the services of a very gifted Polish family, a sister and two brothers, the latter of whom were destined later to become the idols of the London public. They were Mlle. de Reszke and Jean and Edouard de Reszke, all three of them then comparatively unknown. Mlle. de Reszke had the most glorious voice. To hear her singing with her brother Jean in "Faust" was a perfect revelation. Mlle. de Reszke appeared to the best advantage when the stalwart Jean sang with her, for she was immensely tall, and towered over the average portly, stumpy, little operatic tenor. The French say, cruelly enough, "bête comme un ténor." This may or may not be true, but the fact remains that the usual stage tenor is short, bull-necked, and conspicuously inclined to adipose tissue. When her brother Jean was out of the cast, it required an immense effort of the imagination to picture this splendid creature as being really desperately enamoured of the little paunchy, swarthy individual who, reaching to her shoulder only, was hurling his high notes at the public over the footlights.
At afternoon parties these three consummate artists occasionally sang unaccompanied trios. I have never heard anything so perfectly done. I am convinced that had Mlle. de Reszke lived, she would have established as great a European reputation as did her two brothers. The Lisbon musical public were terribly critical. They had one most disconcerting habit. Instead of hissing, should an artist have been unfortunate enough to incur their displeasure, the audience stood up and began banging the movable wooden seats of the stalls and dress circle up and down. This produced a deafening din, effectually drowning the orchestra and singers. The effect on the unhappy artist against whom all this pandemonium was directed may be imagined. On gala nights the Lisbon Opera was decorated in a very simple but effective manner. Most Portuguese families own a number of "colchas," or embroidered bed-quilts. These are of satin, silk, or linen, beautifully worked in colours. On a gala night, hundreds of these "colchas" were hung over the fronts of the boxes and galleries, with a wonderfully decorative effect. In the same way, on Church festivals, when religious processions made their way through the streets, many-lined "colchas" were thrown over the balconies of the houses, giving an extraordinarily festive appearance to the town.