The frankness and graciousness of the young lady were spontaneously attractive. I felt as much at ease with her as if I had known her for years. She invited me to seat myself on the sofa, seating herself there also, speaking low that her mother might rest, for the doctor had said that she had better not talk.
I asked for the details of her mother's condition, and was told that she had suffered a slight contusion on the shoulder, which the doctor had said was of little account. She had also overcome the ill effects of the chill. The only thing to be feared was the nervous shock. Her mamma was very nervous; her heart troubled her, and nobody could say what might be the consequences of that terrible shock. I did my best to assuage her fears. Then to make conversation, I asked her if they were Asturians, although knowing that they were not, both from what the doctor had said, and because of their accent.
"No, señor, we are Valencianas."
"Really? Valencianas?" I exclaimed. "Then we are almost compatriots! I was born in Alicante."
So we continued the talk in Valencian, with pleasure unspeakable on my part, and I think also on her part. She told me that they had been in Gijon only nine days, having come to visit a nun who was her mother's sister. They had had this intention for years, and had never carried it into effect before, on account of the length and discomfort of the journey. At last they had undertaken it, but unfortunately, it seemed, for it had nearly cost her mother her life. They were pleased with the country, although it seemed rather dull in comparison with their own.
"O Valencia!" I exclaimed with ardor, "I who have visited the most remote regions of the earth and have been on so many diverse shores, have never found anything comparable to that land. There the sun does not rise in blood, as it does in the North, nor scorch as in Andalusia; its light is gently diffused in balmy and tranquil air. The sea does not terrify as it does here; it is bluer and its foam is whiter and lighter. There the birds sing with notes more dulcet and varied; there the breeze caresses at night as by day; there the delicious fruits, that in other parts are in season only in the heat of summer, are enjoyed the year around; there not only the flowers and the herbs have scent, the earth itself exhales a delicate aroma. There life is not sad and weary. Everything is gentle, everything serene and harmonious. And the tranquillity of Nature seems to be reflected in the profound gaze of the Valencian women."
That of Doña Cristina, which was the most gentle and profound I had ever seen, sparkled with a certain mischievous delight.
"Who would think, hearing you talk, that you were a sea-wolf! You speak like a poet. I am almost tempted to believe that you have contributed verses to the periodicals."
"Oh, no!" I exclaimed, laughing. "I am an inoffensive poet. I never write either verses or prose; but you will pardon me for saying that those eyes of yours revived in my memory various beautiful things, all Valencian, and the poetry went to my head."
Doña Cristina appeared to remain in suspense for a moment; she regarded me with more curiosity than gratification, and changing the conversation she asked graciously: