To see how the city appeared in the evening I took a walk under the porticoes, where they were beginning to light up the shops, and there was a continual passing of soldiers, students, and girls, who disappeared through the little passages, darted between the columns, and glided here and there to escape the eager hands of their pursuers, who were enveloped in their flowing capes; a troop of boys were romping about the square, filling the air with their sonorous cries: and everywhere there were groups of caballeros, among whom one occasionally heard the names Serrano, Sagasta, and Amadeus alternating with the words justicia, libertad, traición, honra de España, and the like. I entered a very large café which was full of students, and there satisfied the natural talent of eating and drinking, as a refined writer would say. Then, as I had a great desire to talk, I noticed two students who were sipping their coffee and milk at a neighboring table, and without any introduction I addressed one of them—a very natural thing to do in Spain, where one is always sure of receiving a courteous response. The two students came over, and, as every one may imagine, we discussed the absorbing subjects of Italy, Amadeus, the university, Cervantes, the Andalusian women, balls, Dante, travels; in short, it was a course in the geography, the literary history, and the customs of the two countries; then a glass of Malaga and a friendly hand-clasp.
O caballeros of happy memory, comrades in every café, companions at all the hotel tables, near neighbors in every theatre, fellow-travellers on all the railway-trains in Spain! who so often, moved by gentle pity for an unknown stranger, scanning with sad eyes the railway-guide or the Correspondencia Española, thinking of his family, his friends, his distant country,—who with generous impulse have offered him the cigarette and drawn him into conversation; who have broken the course of his gloomy thoughts and have calmed and cheered him,—I thank you, caballeros of happy memory, whoever you may be, Carlists or Alphonsists or Amadeists or Liberals—from the bottom of my heart I thank you in the name of all Italians who are travelling or who will travel in your dear country; and I swear on the eternal volume of Miguel Cervantes that whenever I hear your highly-civilized European brothers condemning your fierce nature and savage manners, I will rise in your defence with the fire of an Andalusian and the constancy of a Catalan so long as I have the strength to cry, “Long live hospitality!”
A few hours later I found myself in the carriage of a train bound for Madrid; the starting whistle was still sounding when I clapped my hand to my forehead. Alas! it was too late! I had been to Valladolid and had forgotten to visit the room where Christopher Columbus died!
MADRID.
IT was day when one of my companions shouted “Caballero!” in my ear.—“Are we at Madrid?” I asked as I awoke.—“Not yet,” was the answer, “but look!” I turned toward the country and saw, half a mile away on the side of a high mountain, the convent of the Escurial illuminated by the first rays of the sun. “The grandest of the grand things on the earth”—as it has been called by an illustrious traveller—did not seem to me at first sight that immense edifice which the Spaniards consider “the eighth wonder of the world.” However, I uttered my “Oh!” like the other travellers who then saw it for the first time, reserving all my admiration for the day when I should see it near at hand. From the Escurial to Madrid the railroad crosses a barren plain which reminds one of the country around Rome.
“Have you never seen Madrid?” asked my neighbor. I replied that I had not.
“Impossible!” exclaimed the good Spaniard, turning to look at me with a air of curiosity, as though he was saying to himself, “Let us see what sort of a creature a man is who never saw Madrid.” Then he began to enumerate the grand things that I should see: “What walks! what cafés! what theatres! what women! If one has a hundred thousand dollars to spend, there is nothing better than Madrid; it is a great monster that lives on fortunes. If I were in your place, I should take pleasure in thrusting my fortune also down its throat.”
I felt for my flabby pocket-book and murmured, “Poor monster!”