Spain, v. 2 (of 2)

by Edmondo De Amicis

The train started, the rocks disappeared, and the delightful valley of the Guadalquivir, the garden of Spain, the Eden of the Arabs, the paradise of painters and of poets, blessed Andalusia, revealed herself to my eyes. I can still feel the thrill of childish joy with which I hurried to the window, saying to myself, "Let me enjoy it."

For a long distance the country does not offer any new appearance to the ardent curiosity of the traveller. At Vilches there is a vast plain, and beyond it the level country of Tolosa, where Alfonso VIII., king of Castile, won the celebrated victory of de las Navas over the Mussulman army. The sky was as clear as air—in the distance rose the mountains of the Sierra de Segura. Suddenly I made one of those quick motions which seemed to correspond to an unuttered cry of astonishment: the first aloes with their broad heavy leaves, the unexpected harbingers of the tropical vegetation, rise beside the road. Beyond them the fields sprinkled with flowers begin to appear. The first fields sprinkled, those which follow almost covered, then vast tracts of country wholly clothed, with wild poppies, daisies, iris, mushrooms, cowslips, and buttercups, so that the country appears like a succession of vast carpets of purple and gold and snowy white, and far away, among the trees, innumerable streaks of blue, white, and yellow until the eye is lost; and hard by, on the edge of the ditches, the mounds, and the banks, even to the very track, flowers in beds, groups, and clusters, one above the other, fashioned like great bouquets, trembling on their stems, which one can almost touch with the hand. Then waving fields of grain with great heavy bearded heads, bordered by long gardens of roses; then orange-orchards and vast olive-groves; hillocks varied by a hundred shades of green, surmounted by ancient Moorish towers, dotted with many-colored cottages, with here and there white, graceful bridges, which span rivulets hidden by the trees. On the horizon rise the snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada, and below this white line other blue undulating lines of the nearer mountains. The country grows ever more various and blooming: Arjonilla, embowered in an orange-grove whose limits are lost in the distance; Pedro Abad, in the midst of a plain covered with vineyards and orchards; Ventas de Alcolea, on the hills of the Sierra Morena, crowned with villas and gardens. We are drawing near to Cordova: the train flies; one sees little stations half hidden among trees and flowers; the wind blows the rose-leaves into the cars, great butterflies sail past the windows, a delicious perfume fills the air, the travellers are singing, we pass through an enchanted garden, the aloes, oranges, palms, and villas become more frequent; one hears a cry: "Here is Cordova!"

How many beautiful images and how many memories are recalled by that name!

Cordova, the ancient pearl of the Occident, as the Moorish poets called her, the city of cities, Cordova of the thirty burgs and the three thousand mosques, which contained within her walls the greatest temple of Islam! Her fame spread through the Orient and obscured the glory of ancient Damascus,—from the remotest regions of Asia the faithful journeyed toward the banks of the Guadalquivir to prostrate themselves in the marvellous mihrab of her mosque, in the blaze of a thousand brazen lamps cast from the bells of the Spanish cathedrals. From every part of the Mohammedan world artists, scholars, and poets crowded to her flourishing schools, her vast libraries, and the magnificent courts of her caliphs. Hither flowed wealth and beauty, drawn by the fame of her splendor.

And from here they separated, eager for knowledge, along the coasts of Africa, among the schools of Tunis, Cairo, Bagdad, and Cufa, as far as India and China, in search of books, inspiration, and memories; and the poems sung on the slopes of the Sierra Morena flew from harp to harp even to the valleys of the Caucasus, to make the hearts of pilgrims burn within them. The beautiful, the mighty, the wise Cordova, crowned with three thousand villages, proudly reared her white minarets among her orange-groves and spread through the divine valley a voluptuous air of gladness and glory.

I descend from the train, cross a garden, and look around: I am alone; the travellers who came with me have disappeared in different directions; I still hear the rumble of the receding carriages; then all is silent.

It is mid-day: the sky is very clear, the air burning. I see two white cottages; it is the opening of a street; I enter and go forward. The street is narrow, the houses small as the little villas built on the hillocks of artificial gardens; nearly all of them are one story in height, with windows a little way from the ground, roofs so low that one can almost touch them with a cane, and very white walls. The street makes a turn; I look down it; no one is in sight; I do not hear a step nor a voice. "It must be an abandoned street," I say, and turn in another direction: white cottages, closed windows, solitude, and silence. "Where am I?" I ask myself.

I walk on: the street is so narrow and crooked that a carriage could not pass through it; to the right and left one sees other deserted streets, other white houses, and other closed windows; my step echoes as in a corridor; the white of the walls is so bright that the reflection almost blinds me, and I am obliged to walk with my eyes closed; I seem to be passing through snow. I reach a little square: everything is closed, there is no one about. Then a feeling of vague melancholy begins to steal into my heart, such as I have never felt before, a mingling of enjoyment and sorrow like that which children experience when after a long run they find themselves in a beautiful country-place and enjoy it, but with a tremor of fear at being so far away from home. Above the many roofs rise the palms of the inner gardens. O fantastic legends of odalisques and caliphs!

On from street to street and square to square; I meet a few persons, but they all pass and disappear like phantoms. The streets are all alike, the houses have only two or four windows; and there is not a stain, not a scratch, not a crack in the walls, which are as smooth and white as a sheet of paper. Now and then I hear a whisper behind a venetian blind, and almost at the same moment see a dark head with a flower in the hair peep out and disappear. I approach a door.

A patio! How shall I describe a patio? It is not a courtyard, it is not a garden, it is not a room; it is the three in one. Between the patio and the street there is a vestibule. On the four sides of the patio rise graceful columns which support a sort of balcony enclosed in glass at the height of the second story; over the balcony extends a canvas which shades the court. The vestibule is flagged with marble, the doorway supported by columns surmounted by bas-reliefs and closed by a delicate iron lattice of very beautiful design. At the back of the patio, opposite the doorway, stands a statue, in the centre a fountain, and all around chairs, work-tables, paintings, and vases of flowers. I run to another door. Another patio, its walls covered with ivy, and a line of niches containing statuettes and urns. I hurry to a third door. A patio with its walls adorned with mosaic, a palm in the centre, and all around a mass of flowers. A fourth door. Behind the patio another vestibule, and then a second patio, in which one sees other statues, columns, and fountains. And all these rooms and gardens are clean and tidy, so that you could pass your hands over the walls and along the floor without leaving a mark; and they are fresh and fragrant, lighted with a dim light which heightens their beauty and mystery.