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!”