IIHIS ARTS AND AMUSEMENTS

Pan y toros!The old “Bread and the circus” of the Romans, the mediæval and modern “Bread and the bulls!” of Spain. One feels that the dance should have been worked in, really to make this cry of the people complete. For in the bullfight and the ancient national dances we have the very soul of Spain.

Progressive Spaniards like to think thecorrida de torosis gradually dying out; many, many people in Madrid, they tell you, would not think of attending one. This is true, though generally the motive behind it is financial rather than humane. And the great mass of the people, aristocracy as well asbourgeoisie, put the bulls first, and go hungry for the bread if necessary. Every small boy, be he royal or beggar, plays “bullfight” from the time he can creep; every small girl looks on admiringly, and claps her hands. And when the small boy is grown, and dazzles the Bull Ring with his daringtoreo, the girl in her brilliant dancer’s dress still applauds and flings him her carnations. Throughout Spain the two are wedded in actual personal passion, as in symbolic truth.

It is said that the bullfight was founded by the Moors in Spain in the twelfth century, though bullswere probably fought with before that in the Roman amphitheatres. The principle on which the play depends is courage, coolness, and dexterity—the three-in-one characteristics of the Arabs of the desert. In early days gentlemen, armed only with a short spear, fought with the bulls, and proved their skill and horsemanship. But with the coming of the Bourbons as the reigning house of Spain the sport changed from a fashionable into a national one, and professional bullfighters took the place of the courtly players of before.

It is by no means true, however—as so many foreigners imagine—that thetorerosare invariably men of mean birth and vulgar education. On the contrary, they are frequently of excellent parentage and great mental as well as physical capability; while always their keen science and daring make them an aristocracy of themselves which the older aristocracy delights to worship. They are the friends and favourites of society, the idols of the populace; you never see one of them in the streets without an admiring train of hangers-on, and the newspapers record the slightest item in connection with each fighter of the hour. Whole pages are filled with photographs of the various feats and characteristic poses of distinguishedtoreros; and so well known do these become that an audience in the theatre recognizes at once an “imitation” of Bombita, or Gallito, or Machaquito—and shouts applause.

Even the average bullfighter is a rich man and known for his generosity as well. Directly there is adisaster—railway accident, explosion or flood—acorridais arranged for the sufferers; and the whole band of fighters give their earnings to the cause. The usual profits of a skilledtoreroare seven thousand pesetas—two hundred and eighty pounds—a performance. Out of this he must pay his assistants about three thousand pesetas, and the rest he has for himself. When not the lover of some famous dancer, he is often a married man, and they say, aside from his dangerous profession, makes an excellent husband and father. One and all, the bullfighters are religious; the last thing they do before entering the arena is to confess and receive absolution in the little chapel at the Bull Ring, and a priest remains with extreme unction always in readiness in case of serious accident.

The great part of the bullfighters come from Andalucia—there is an academy at Seville to teach the science—but some are from the North and from Mexico and South America, and all are impatient to fight at Madrid, since successfultoreoin this city constitutes the bullfighter’s diploma. At the first—and so of course the most exciting—fight I saw thematadorswere Bombita and Gallito, from Seville, and Gaona, from Mexico. The latter was even more cordially received by the Spaniards than their own countrymen after they saw his splendid play; but Bombita is acknowledged the bestmatador—killer—in Spain, and Gallito, a mere boy of eighteen, is adored by the people. Each of the three killed two bulls on the afternoon I attended my firstcorrida.

It is impossible to describe the change that comes over the whole aspect and atmosphere of Madrid on the day of a bullfight. The old actor in his corner rubs his eyes, shakes himself and looks alive. Crowds are in the streets, buckboards packed with country people dash through the Puerta del Sol and towards the Plaza de Toros; the languidmadrileñoin the cafés is roused to rapid talk and excited betting with his neighbour, and in the clubs, where thetorerosare gathered in their gorgeous costumes, the betting runs higher. Ticket booths are surrounded by a mob of eager enthusiasts, while behind her grating the señora is shaking out her mantilla, fixing the great red and white carnations in her hair, draping the lace above them and her monstrous comb. A carriage drives swiftly down the street to her door, her husband hurries in, calling impetuously to make haste. The slumbrous eyes of the lady catch fire with a thousand sparks; she clicks her fan, flashes a last triumphant smile into her mirror, and is swept away to the Bull Ring.

FAIR ENTHUSIASTS AT THE BULL FIGHT

Here all is seething anticipation: the immense coliseum black with people moving to their seats or standing up to watch the crowd in the arena below; Royalty just arrived, Doña Isabel and her ladies lining the velvet-hung box with their picturesque mantillas; the President of the Bull Ring taking his place of honour; ladies unfurling fans and gossiping,aficionadoswaving to one another across the ring and calling final excited bets; small boys shouting cushions, cigarettes, postcards, or beer andhorchatas. Suddenlya bugle sounds. People scuttle to their seats, the arena is cleared as by magic, and, to a burst of music and thunderous applause from ten thousand pairs of hands, the splendidentradatakes place.

Matadorsin their bright suits heavy with gold,banderillerosin their silver,picadorson their sorry horses, march proudly round the ring; while the band plays and the crowd shouts itself hoarse—just for a starter. Then thepicadorsgo out, thetorerowho is to kill the first bull asks the President for the keys to the ring; the President throws them into the arena, and—the first bull is loosed!

From this point on there is no wit in regarding the spectacle from a humane or sentimental standpoint. He who is inclined to do so had better never have left home. If he has eyes for the prodigal bloodshed, the torture of the bull with the piercing darts, the sufferings of the horses, he will be acutely wretched from beginning to end. But if he can fix his attention solely on the beauty of thetorero’sbody in constant action, on the utter fearlessness and superb audacity of the man in his taunting the beast; if, in short, he can concentrate on the science and skill of the thing, he will have something worth remembering all his life.

I shall never forget Bombita, with his grave, curiouslydetachedexpression, his dark face almost indifferent as he came forward to kill the first bull. This is by far the most interesting part of the fight—after the horses have been disposed of and the stupidpicadorshave made their exit—when thematadoradvanceswith his sword sheathed in the redmuleta. He has made his speech to the President, he has ordered his assistants to retire to the background, and he and the bull face one another alone in the centre of the arena.

Then comes the lightning move of every moment in the encounter between man and beast. The spot between the shoulders where the bull is killed covers only about three inches, and must be struck absolutely true—or the crowd is furious. At best it is exceedingly capricious, hissing, whistling and shouting on the slightest provocation, but going literally mad over each incident of the matador’s daring; and finally, if he makes a “neat kill,” throwing their hats and coats—anything—into the arena while the air reverberates with “Bravos!”

L. R. MarinTHE SUPREME MOMENT: MAN AND BEAST JUGGLE FOR LIFE

L. R. Marin

THE SUPREME MOMENT: MAN AND BEAST JUGGLE FOR LIFE

Meantime, however, thematadorplays with death every second. He darts towards the bull, taunting the now maddened beast with the fiery muleta, mocking him, talking to him, even turning his back to him—only to leap round and beside him in the wink of an eye when the bull would have gored him to death. Young Gallito strokes his second bull from head to mouth several times; Gaona lays his hat on the animal’s horns, and carelessly removes it again; while Bombita, who is veritable quicksilver, has his magnificent clothes torn to pieces but remains himself unscratched in his breath-taking manœuvres with the beast. Finally, with a swift gesture, he raises his arm, casts aside the muleta, drives his sword straight and true between the shoulders of his adversary. Ashout goes up—wild as that of the Coliseum of old: “Bombita! Bombita!El matador—Bombita!” And we know that the bull is dead, but that Bombita, who has been teasing death, scoffing at it, for the last twenty minutes, lives—triumphant.

And what is it all about? Atrocious cruelty, a bit of bravado, and ecco! A hero! Exactly. Just as in the prize ring, the football field, or an exhibition of jiu-jitsu. We pay to be shocked, terrified, and finally thrilled; by that which we have neither the skill nor the courage to attempt ourselves. But, you say, these other things are fair sport—man to man; we Anglo-Saxons do not torture defenceless animals. What about fox hunting? There is not even the dignity of danger in the English sport; if the hunter risks his life, it is only as a bad rider that he does so. And certainly the wretched foxes, fostered and cared for solely for the purpose of being harried to death, are treated to far more exquisite cruelty than the worn-out cab horses of the bullfight—whose sufferings are a matter of a few minutes.

I am not defending the brutality of the bullfight; I merely maintain that Anglo-Saxons have very little room to attack it from the superiority of their own humaneness. And also that Spaniards themselves are far from gloating over the sickening details of their sport as they are often said to do. In every bullfight I have attended the crowd has been impatient, even exasperated, if the horses were not killed at once and thepicadorsput out of the ring. We need not greater tolerance of cruelty, but greater knowledgeof fact, in the study and criticism of things foreign to us.

I doubt, for instance, if any person who has not lived in Madrid knows that every man who buys a ticket to the bullfight is paying the hospital bill of some unfortunate; for the President of the Bull Ring is taxed ten thousand pounds a year for his privilege, and the government uses this money for the upkeep of charity hospitals.

One cannot say as much for the proceeds of the stupid sport of cock fighting—nor anything in its favour at all. Patrons of the cockpit are for the most part low-browed ruffians with coarse faces, and given to loud clothes and tawdry jewellery. They stand up in their seats and scream bets at one another during the entire performance, each trying to find “takers” without missing a single incident of the contest. The bedlam this creates can only be compared with the wheat pit in Chicago; while to one’s own mind there is small sport in the banal encounter of one feathered thing with another, however gallant the two may be.

More to the Anglo-Saxon taste is the Spanish game ofpelota: a kind of racquets, played in a three-sided oblong court about four times the length of a racquet court. The fourth side of the court is open, with seats and boxes arranged for spectators, and bookmakers walk along in front, offering and taking wagers. At certain periods of the game there is much excitement.

It is played two on a side—sometimes more—the lighter men about halfway up the court, the strongernear the end. The ball used is similar to a racquet ball and is played the long way of the court; but, instead of a bat, the player has a basketwork scoop which fits tight on his hand and forearm. The object of the game is for one side to serve the ball against the opposite wall, and for the other side to return it; so that the ball remains in play until a miss is scored by one of the two sides. Should the side serving fail to return, the service passes to the opponents. A miss scores one for the opponents, and the game usually consists of fifty points. There are the usual rules about fouls, false strokes, etc., but the fundamental principle consists in receiving the ball in the scoop and whacking it against the opposite wall. It sounds very simple, but the players show a marvellous agility and great endurance, the play being so rapid that from the spectator’s point of view it is keenly entertaining.

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, andthe 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 atertulia. 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, thereis 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 professionalbailarina, 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 cornersà deuxbeloved by less formally trained youth. What goes on in the dance,dueñaswink 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 Blanky Fernandez. Also, if she is a lady of rank, her husband immediatelyassumes 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 istabu; 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 forseñoras.” 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 andtostas 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 therendez-vous intimeof the Parisian, or thegemütlichcoffee 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 theMadrileñoin his favourite café is to look out of it onto the street; of theMadrileña, 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 perfectsang froid. On theother 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.

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 isserrenofor 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 theserrenoappeals 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 theserrenocomes 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 theirpalcos; 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 splendidensembleof an English or American opera audience. While the music, after Vienna, is execrable, and merits the indifference theMadrileñosshow 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 theMadrileñaat 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 tworeales—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 piercingBravos—or again catch the drift of the popular displeasure which shows itself in groans and whistling. The completenaïvetéof 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 appearanceaccording to modern notions, but play their particulargenrewith 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 professionalbailarinaherself 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 typicalbozneo, with a litheness and grace indescribable. And her castanets! Long before she actually appears, you hear their quicktoc-toc: first a low murmur, then louder and ever louder, till with her proud entrancethey beat a tempestuous allegro—only to grow fainter and fainter and die away again with the slow measures of the dance.

Her long princess frock sheathes the slim figure closely, to swell out, however, at the ankles in a swirl of foamy flounces. Brilliant with sequins or the multi-coloured broidery of themantón, the costume curls about her in a gorgeous haze of orange, azure, mauve, and scarlet while she dances. Her fine long feet are arched and curved into a thousand different poses; her body the mere casing for a spirit of flame and mystery; her face the shadow curtain of infinite expression, infinite light.

And while her castanets are sounding every shade of rhythm and seduction, and her white long arms are swaying to and fro—in the ancientJota, or theOlé Andaluz, or perhaps in theSevillana, or theMalagueña—the dance of her particular city; while men’s throats grow hoarse with shoutingbravosand women’s eyes dim with staring at such grace, there lives before one not La Goya, La Argentina, Pastora Impéria—not the idol favourite of the hour, but something more wonderful and less substantial: the ghost of old Spain. It flits before one there, in its proud glory; its beauty, its passion, and its power; baring the soul of half of it—the woman soul, that is.

And when one looks beyond her fire and lovely dignity, over her shoulder peers the cool, dark face of atorero.

A TYPICAL POSTURE OF THE SPANISH DANCE

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