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.