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.