1936 On the Continent

hear the phrase “All the winners!” so often that he becomes curious and finds out. And from the interpretation of this cry of news-vendors he will easily conclude that the English are not indifferent to horse racing. The word you will hear very frequently in Spain is
corrida
or the name of a
toreador
or a
toreadorette
, if I may be permitted to use the word. For there are now several lady toreadors in Madrid, which represents the thin end of the wedge in the emancipation of women in Spain.
Burying the Sardine
    We now ought to go to the bull-ring, but before we do so let us go over the more normal amusements that are available in Madrid. First of all, you must know that the Spanish year consists of so many holidays and a number of working days designed to afford a change for the people of the Peninsula. There is, of course, general merry-making on holidays, in addition to
fiestas
every other day in the summer. Throughout the week before Lent—carnival week—there is riotous, but always picturesque and charming, merry-making on the Paseos. On Ash Wednesday a boisterous ceremony accompanies the “Burial of the Sardine” beyond the Puente de Toledo on the southwestern edge of the city.
    On working days—or shall we say non-holidays?—you sleep half through the day, then, having eaten the regulation number of meals, you go to a café or to a cabaret. I have already described the Spanish cabarets elsewhere, but in Madrid they are naturally smarter than in the smaller cities. The
locale
is more gorgeous, the ladies prettier and far better dressed—or better undressed—and, of course, far, far more expensive.
    But lest you should think that women of easy virtue are common in Spain, let me inform you that what I saidabout the reasonableness of chaperones in connection with towns in Northern Spain does not apply to Madrid. Here respectable girls are always strictly chaperoned and a girl of the upper middle class may not go out alone even during the day.
    By the way, dowries are not part of the marriage customs in Spain. A girl is supposed to receive her share of the family fortune when her parents die, so that if a young
caballero
falls in love with her he must marry her without a
dot
and risk it whether his parents-in-law are long-lived or not. None the less, romance still flourishes in Spain, and you may be kept awake all night by the guitar of a young man serenading his sweetheart near by And you would not have the heart to protest, would you?
The Bull-fight
    Madrid has the largest bull-ring in Spain, with seating accommodation for more than 50,000 people. The average Englishman would refuse to attend a bull-fight, and rightly so. Why should he watch cruelty of a different kind from what he is used to? But we, you and I, are in this dilemma, that unless we attend such a degrading show at least once we shall be unable to tell exactly how degrading it is, or to reflect afterwards on ways and means of converting the Spanish people to our own point of view. Therefore we must join the crowds of people who are streaming towards the bull-ring from all parts of the city.
    You will have received gratuitous advice from your waiter, the page-boy, the man who sat next to you in the café, the barber who patronises you, and from several other people whom you have never met before, what particular bull-fight to attend, what seats to book, and so do. Or, if you are able to read Spanish, you will have read the bull-fighting column of the
Heraldo de Madrid
or one of the special bull-fight rags. You also know that
matadors
are heroes, who differ from butchers in that they kill the bull in a fair fight, and are therefore rewarded with huge sums. Perhaps you have been fortunate enough to see one of these heroes with your own eyes, as they whizzed past you in their huge and luxurious Hispano-Suizas.
    Now, on a hot Sunday afternoon, you are sitting on oneside, the shady side, of the vast amphitheatre, with the golden sand of the arena below you and serried rows of the poorer class of Madrileños opposite you, on the sunny side, with faces bathed in perspiration. To the right and left of you there are crowds of well-to-do Spaniards, the men in wide-brimmed
sombreros
, the ladies in white
mantillas
. Everyone is talking at the top of their voices, yet they are out-shouted by the
aguadores
, or water-sellers, who with great jars and jingling glasses push their way through the throng. Then there are the people who sell oranges,