THE CENTURY MAGAZINE VOL. LXXVI OCTOBER, 1908 No. 6 "MID PLEASURES AND PALACES" IN BARCELONA BY ELLEN MAURY SLAYDEN WITH PICTURES BY F. LUIS MORA THE HE reach of Spanish hospitality is measured in my mind by six weeks of time, and the distance between Barcelona and Gibraltar. When our steamer anchored in the harbor at the latter place, the sun blazing down on her, and the Rock radiating like a furnace, the decks, which had been so pleasant, suddenly became very disagreeable. A tired, warm, fretful crowd waited amid the ropes and baggage, and wondered impatiently why they were not permitted to land. Then the American consul came bustling on board, accompanied by a squad of policemen, and the captain announced that no one could leave the ship until they had searched for a defaulter supposed to have come across with us. There were murmurs of annoyance, but each one looked furtively at his neighbor to see if he was "a blond young man, lacking one finger," as the defaulter was described. Presently the gangway opened again for a gentleman who walked as one having I never heard my title clear with such a shock before. We were not blond young men, and we had the usual number of fingers, but what did the king's magistrate want with us? We had to confess our identity or jump overboard, and it was a distinct relief when he advanced smiling, and explained that his friend Don Enrique of Barcelona had asked him to meet us. He regretted the tiresome delay we had had, but his launch was waiting, and we would leave at once. The purely gratuitous "Honorable" had done its perfect work in fixing the attention of the company upon us, but we did not care whether they thought us disguised royalties or escaping defaulters as the clean little launch took us skimming Copyright, 1908, by THE CENTURY CO. All rights reserved. LXXVI-81 803 across the glassy harbor, away from the sweltering ship to a cool hotel where we found ourselves expected and every arrangement made for our comfort. This was the first of many unexpected attentions from the Don. It was then early in April, and we were not due in Barcelona till late in May; but wherever we rested on our leisurely progress through Spain, he had been before us. It had many advantages, but such surveillance destroyed our sense of free agency, and we grew to feel as if we were traveling on ticket-of-leave. At Madrid we took a "tren de luxe," advertised to run at the furious rate of twenty miles an hour, and carrying dining and sleeping-cars. The dining-car was all that could be desired, but at night I could not get into the dressing-room because the porter, in a uniform fit for a field marshal, was lying asleep across the door; and in the morning, when I went to make my toilet, the same dazzling creature was inside, performing his own ablutions, and, waving a soapy hand to me, suggested that I try the men's room, which was perhaps unoccupied. the city we found our destined "palacio" one of many white, blank-visaged houses staring at one another across a wide street and two rows of dusty sycamore-trees. The marble vestibule we entered was as cool and dim as a tomb, and perfectly bare except for the brown old porter, who seemed to have been carved to match his antique chair. Still attended by our numerous cavaliers, we climbed three flights of polished marble stairs, and paused breathless before the Don's gilded door-plate. The door was opened by a smiling little maid, and the Don, stepping inside, made the most elaborate bow we had yet seen, and with his hand on his heart assured us that the house and all it contained was ours then and forever. manner was profoundly and sweetly sincere, and from that moment we felt genuinely at home. His Old brocade chairs and marquetry tables, alternating with gay jardinières, stood stiffly around the hall, and the cool, gray walls were hung with placks and tiles in all the exquisite blues and bronzes of Hispano-Moresque pottery. The large drawing-room beyond was cheerful, if somewhat formal, and books, good pictures, flowers, and comfortable seats gave promise of a place where one might spend profitably idle hours. Our hostess appeared, and the unexpected began to happen. Feeling rather badly groomed, and still vaguely hoping that Providence would interfere to prevent my visiting a family not a member of which I had ever seen, I stepped to the platform at Barcelona almost into the arms of a Napoleonic little gentleman, who seized both my hands, exclaiming fervently, "Gracias a Dios!" His eyes were rolled up in his head, and it was some moments before his white mustache and imperial met over his glittering, capricious Carmen, of the accepted tering teeth in jaws rigid with nervous excitement. What I had most dreaded in the visit was the enforced companionship of a loftily beautiful and dull houri, or a chat Spanish types; but here, instead, was a gentle matron, with frank, intelligent brown eyes, and a manner quietly cordial and dignified. She was simply dressed, without flowers or jewelry, and the only strictly national feature was a brilliant fan fluttering incessantly. She greeted us in well-chosen English phrases, but soon lapsed into sonorous Spanish; and even the clipped, harsh Catalan was sweet and musical when she used it in addressing a servant. She took me off to change my dress, expressing. deep regret that their simple manner of living enabled her to give us only five rooms, and while assuring her that five would be quite enough, I wondered how my limited impedimenta could be distrib uted so as to give an air of easy occupation to even one. Most of them were uninteresting, bemirrored, and upholstered, but the bedroom stood for all the pride and glory of historic Spain. Sculptured saints and paintings of martyrs looked down upon a lofty pavilion, an enormous four-poster, hung with green and gold brocade, stiff and gorgeous enough to have made a canopy for the "Catholic Kings." The mattresses rose to the level of my eyes, and were covered with a crimson silk pall, with gold fringe falling to the floor. In the dressing-room, copied from the Arabian Nights, my too modern figure was a crude, false note as it passed in ghostly procession through mirrors on every side. One picturesque high window let in a dreamy light, but no air. There were soft divans and cushions and rugs, and tables loaded with porcelain trifles, and large decanters of perfume. Flowers were in vases and bowls, and on festive little gilt brackets between the mirrors. They were renewed daily, and the odor was stifling. There were boxes and bottles of oils and cosmetics, things for my hair and things for my teeth, but the Dresden china bowl was stationary, and there were literally no other lavatory facilities. I think most Americans go to foreign countries too well prepared for what they are to see and to do. Their first impressions lack zest and freshness, and they waste time and enjoyment in trying to identify types and adjusting the facts as they see them to the latest book they have read. We had been unconsciously seeing the Spain of De Amicis and Washington Irving, who both blur one's vision by spreading over the whole country a haze of poetry and romance. In Andalusia the glamour lingered quite satisfactorily, but in restless, commercial Barcelona it faded into the light of common day, and we felt the compelling spirit of the twentieth century. In the houses we knew in Andalusia the men obliterated themselves all day, the ladies went to mass in the morning and spent the rest of the time sitting in flower-decked balconies, fanning softly and talking to canaries and cockatoos. After weeks of travel, the prospect of rest in such an environment was not unattractive, and I contemplated adapting myself to the ways of the household and the balcony with much pleasure. With some good novels bought in Madrid, Fate could not harm me for a few days, at any rate. But while dressing in my cushioned and scented boudoir, it was borne in upon me that the atmosphere of this palacio was not so serenely dull as the houses of Andalusia. The smart freshness of the house was too obvious, and certainly the Doña did not look like a woman who found canaries intellectually satisfying. Waiting for us in the drawing-room with the Don and the Doña was a young man introduced simply as "Mariano,' the nephew of somebody; nor do I know to this day what was Mariano's other name. That was a trivial detail, but his ancestors were very serious. He represented one of the old Moorish families who for reasons of love or money had remained in Spain after the fall of Granada, and his solemn eyes and blue-black hair and beard made him a rare example of the persistence of race type. "Paquita," a pretty young girl, was a semidetached member of the family, the Doña's goddaughter, living on another floor of the palacio, who had come in "to see us eat breakfast.' On the Don's arm I went the length of the house to the dining-room, where the table was prettily laid with a few flowers, picturesque wine-bottles, and primly arranged fruit-baskets. It was appalling to find ourselves placed at the head and foot of it, but they proved to be literally seats of honor, with no duties attached. Everything was served by two little maids as pretty as their names, Serafina and Lijandra, in peasant costume, and the Doña wore throughout the meal a look of restful unconcern. We were hardly seated before visitors began to arrive. Each shook hands with every one present, including a superannuated housekeeper on a divan in a far corner, then joined us at the table, taking cigarettes and sherry. Nothing else was offered them, while we enjoyed course after course. At first we rose when introduced, but they always protested vehemently, and seeing that the family remained seated, we did likewise, and found it the only reasonable plan, as during the |