Castilian Days | Page 4

and amiable as it is possible to be in a fallen world. The
foreigner never forgets those piquant, mutines faces of Andalusia and
those dreamy eyes of Malaga,--the black masses of Moorish hair and
the blond glory of those graceful heads that trace their descent from
Gothic demigods. They were not very learned nor very witty, but they
were knowing enough to trouble the soundest sleep. Their voices could

interpret the sublimest ideas of Mendelssohn. They knew sufficiently of
lines and colors to dress themselves charmingly at small cost, and their
little feet were well enough educated to bear them over the polished
floor of a ball-room as lightly as swallows' wings. The flirting of their
intelligent fans, the flashing of those quick smiles where eyes, teeth,
and lips all did their dazzling duty, and the satin twinkling of those neat
boots in the waltz, are harder to forget than things better worth
remembering.
Since the beginning of the Revolutionary regime there have been
serious schisms and heart-burnings in the gay world. The people of the
old situation assumed that the people of the new were rebels and
traitors, and stopped breaking bread with them. But in spite of this the
palace and the ministry of war were gay enough,--for Madrid is a city
of office-holders, and the White House is always easy to fill, even if
two thirds of the Senate is uncongenial. The principal fortress of the
post was the palace of the spirituelle and hospitable lady whose society
name is Duchess of Penaranda, but who is better known as the mother
of the Empress of the French. Her salon was the weekly rendezvous of
the irreconcilable adherents of the House of Bourbon, and the
aristocratic beauty that gathered there was too powerful a seduction
even for the young and hopeful partisans of the powers that be. There
was nothing exclusive about this elegant hospitality. Beauty and good
manners have always been a passport there. I have seen a proconsul of
Prim talking with a Carlist leader, and a fiery young democrat dancing
with a countess of Castile.
But there is another phase of society in Madrid which is altogether
pleasing,--far from the domain of politics or public affairs, where there
is no pretension or luxury or conspiracy,--the old-fashioned Tertulias of
Spain. There is nowhere a kindlier and more unaffected sociableness.
The leading families of each little circle have one evening a week on
which they remain at home. Nearly all their friends come in on that
evening. There is conversation and music and dancing. The young girls
gather together in little groups,--not confined under the jealous guard of
their mothers or chaperons,--and chatter of the momentous events of
the week--their dresses, their beaux, and their books. Around these
compact formations of loveliness skirmish light bodies of the male
enemy, but rarely effect a lodgment. A word or a smile is momently

thrown out to meet the advance; but the long, desperate battle of
flirtation, which so often takes place in America in discreet corners and
outlying boudoirs, is never seen in this well-organized society. The
mothers in Israel are ranged for the evening around the walls in
comfortable chairs, which they never leave; and the colonels and
generals and chiefs of administration, who form the bulk of all Madrid
gatherings, are gravely smoking in the library or playing interminable
games of tresillon, seasoned with temperate denunciations of the follies
of the time.
Nothing can be more engaging than the tone of perfect ease and cordial
courtesy which pervades these family festivals. It is here that the
Spanish character is seen in its most attractive light. Nearly everybody
knows French, but it is never spoken. The exquisite Castilian, softened
by its graceful diminutives into a rival of the Italian in tender melody,
is the only medium of conversation; it is rare that a stranger' is seen, but
if he is, he must learn Spanish or be a wet blanket forever.
You will often meet, in persons of wealth and distinction, an easy
degenerate accent in Spanish, strangely at variance with their elegance
and culture. These are Creoles of the Antilles, and they form one of the
most valued and popular elements of society in the capital. There is a
gallantry and dash about the men, and an intelligence and independence
about the women, that distinguish them from their cousins of the
Peninsula. The American element has recently grown very prominent
in the political and social world. Admiral Topete is a Mexican. His wife
is one of the distinguished Cuban family of Arrieta. General Prim
married a Mexican heiress. The magnificent Duchess de la Torre, wife
of the Regent Serrano, is a Cuban born and bred.
In one particular Madrid is unique among capitals,--it has no suburbs. It
lies in a