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.
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.