Among the celebrated journalists are Cavia, Kasabal, Azorin, Claudio Frollo, Luis Morote, Troyano, and “Zeda” (Sr. Fernandez Villegas).
The Madrileños appreciate the drama--in small doses--and support fourteen theatres, of which the most frequented are the Teatro Real, belonging to the State, the Español, belonging to the Municipality, the Princesa, Comedia, Lara, Apolo, and Zarzuela. As elsewhere in Spain, each performance consists of three or more short pieces or sketches--zarzuelas and saynetes--almost always dealing with aspects of popular life. To foreigners this persistent harping on the amours of the policeman and flower-girl and the vicissitudes of a chairmender’s career is a little surprising. The legitimate drama has been almost driven from the boards in Spain, despite the efforts of Señora Guerrero--the Spanish Bernhardt--to revive it, some years ago. This lady’s husband is the Marquis de Mendoza, who follows the same profession, to do which he required the special authorisation of the Council of State. Spain does not want for good actors and actresses, despite the loss of Vico, Calvo, and the ever-popular Emilio Mario. Maria Tubau is an able interpreter of Ibsen and Sudermann (when the opportunity presents itself), and the names of Thuillier, Pinelo, and Carmen Cobeña deserve mention. Naturalism has by no means asserted its sway over the Spanish theatre, and the entertainments, as the old play-bills used to say, are still largely frequented by ladies and children. Every one smokes during the performances, and talks frantically during the entr’actes. The theatres are comfortable and well upholstered. English visitors will be struck by the absence of programmes, the place of which is often taken by some such sheet as _Blanco y Negro_.
Emilia Pardo de Bazan deplores the decay of the literary circles and salons for which the city was once renowned; “of literary gatherings at private houses or in splendid palaces we might say there are none.” Circles there are, it is true, she adds, but few of them of greater circumference than a tea-table. Yet young writers still seek Madrid, bringing with them plays or novels, which, in most cases, are never given to the public. “There are in Madrid,” continues this authoress, “more producers than, in proportion, consumers, and the proletariat of the pen suffers the bitter consequences of this painful position.”