f the regional, the last stronghold of Castilian
arrogance, refers not to the empty shell of traditional observances but
to the very core and gesture of them. Ultimately _lo castizo_ means all
that is salty, savourous of the red and yellow hills and the bare
plains and the deep _arroyos_ and the dust-colored towns full of
palaces and belfries, and the beggars in snuff-colored cloaks and the
mule-drivers with blankets over their shoulders, and the discursive
lean-faced gentlemen grouped about tables at cafes and casinos, and the
stout dowagers with mantillas over their gleaming black hair walking to
church in the morning with missals clasped in fat hands, all that is
acutely indigenous, Iberian, in the life of Castile.

In the flood of industrialism that for the last twenty years has
swelled to obliterate landmarks, to bring all the world to the same
level of nickel-plated dullness, the theatre in Madrid has been the
refuge of _lo castizo_. It has been a theatre of manners and local
types and customs, of observation and natural history, where a rather
specialized well-trained audience accustomed to satire as the tone of
daily conversation was tickled by any portrayal of its quips and
cranks. A tradition of character-acting grew up nearer that of the
Yiddish theatre than of any other stage we know in America. Benavente
and the brothers Quintero have been the playwrights who most typified
the school that has been in vogue since the going out of the _drame
passionel_ style of Echegaray. At present Benavente as director of the
_Teatro Nacional_ is unquestionably the leading figure. Therefore it is
very fitting that Benavente should be in life and works of all
_madrilenos_ the most _castizo_.

Later, as we sat drinking milk in la Granja after a couple of hours of
a shabby third-generation Viennese musical show at the Apollo, my
friend discoursed to me of the manner of life of the _madrileno_ in
general and of Don Jacinto Benavente in particular. Round eleven or
twelve one got up, took a cup of thick chocolate, strolled on the
Castellana under the chestnut trees or looked in at one's office in the
theatre. At two one lunched. At three or so one sat a while drinking
coffee or anis in the Gato Negro, where the waiters have the air of
cabinet ministers and listen to every word of the rather languid
discussions on art and letters that while away the afternoon hours.
Then as it got towards five one drifted to a matinee, if there c