Spain, v. 2 (of 2)

by Edmondo De Amicis

SEVILLE.

The journey from Cordova to Seville does not awaken a sense of astonishment, as does that from Toledo to Cordova, but it is even more beautiful: there are continuous orange-orchards, boundless olive-groves, hills clothed with vineyards, and meadows carpeted with flowers. A few miles from Cordova one sees the ruined towers of the frowning castle of Almodovar standing on a very high rock-platform, which overlooks a vast extent of the surrounding country; at Hornachuelos another old castle on the summit of a hill, in the midst of a lonely, melancholy landscape; and then, beyond, the white city of Palma, hidden in a dense orange-grove, which is surrounded in its turn by a circle of truck-farms and flower-gardens. As the train runs on one is carried through the midst of golden fields of grain, bordered by long hedges of Indian fig trees and rows of dwarf palms, and dotted with groves of pine and frequent orchards of fruit-bearing trees; and at short intervals there are hills and castles, roaring streams, the slender village belfries hidden among the trees, and the purple peaks of distant mountains.

Most beautiful of all are the little country-houses scattered along the road. I do not remember to have seen a single one of them that was not as white as snow. The house was white, the neighboring well-curb was white, the little wall around the kitchen-garden was white, as were also the two posts of the garden-gate: everything seemed as if it had been whitewashed the day before. Some of these houses have one or two mullioned windows of Moorish design; others have arabesques over the door; and still others roofs covered with variegated tiles like Arabian houses. Here and there through the fields one sees the red-and-white capes of the peasants, velvet hats against the green grass, and sashes of all colors. The peasants whom one sees in the furrows and those who run to see the train pass are dressed in the costumes of forty years ago as they are represented in paintings: they wear velvet hats with very broad brims which roll slightly back, with little crowns like a sugar-loaf; short jackets, open waistcoats, breeches gathered in at the knee like those of the priests, gaiters which almost meet the breeches, and sashes around the waist. This style of dress, picturesque but inconvenient, is exceedingly becoming to the slender figures of these men, who prefer discomfort, if it be attended by beauty, to comfort without it, and who spend half an hour every morning adorning themselves, besides the time required to get into a pair of tight breeches which will display a shapely thigh and a well-turned leg. They have nothing in common with our Northern peasant of the hard face and dull eye. Their great black eyes meet your own with a smile, as if they would say, "Don't you remember me?" They cast daring glances at the ladies who put their heads out of the windows, run to fetch a match before you have so much as asked for it, sometimes answer your questions in rhyme, and are even capable of laughing to show their white teeth.

At Rinconado the campanile of the cathedral of Seville comes into view in a line with the railroad, and to the right, beyond the Guadalquivir, one sees the beautiful low hills, covered with olive-groves, at the foot of which lie the ruins of Italica. The train rolled on, and I said to myself, under my breath, speaking faster and faster as the houses became thicker, with that suspense, full of longing and delight, which one feels on approaching the doorway of one's love, "Seville! this is Seville! The queen of Andalusia is at hand, the Athens of Spain, the mother of Murillo, the city of poets and lovers, the storied Seville, whose name I have pronounced from a child with a sentiment of loving sympathy! What should I have given a few years since to have seen it? No, it is not a dream! Those are really the houses of Seville; those peasants yonder are Sevillians; that campanile which I see is the Giralda! I am at Seville! How strange! It makes me laugh! What is my mother doing at this moment? Would that she were here! Would that this friend and that were here! It is a sin to be alone! See the white houses, the gardens, the streets.... We are in the city.... It is time to get out.... Ah! how beautiful is life!"

I went to a hotel, threw down my valise in the patio, and began to stroll about the city. It seemed like seeing Cordova over again, on a large scale, embellished and enriched; the streets are wider, the houses higher, the patios more spacious, but the general appearance of the city is the same: there is the same spotless white, the same intricate network of streets, everywhere the fragrance of orange-blossoms, that subtile air of mystery, that Oriental atmosphere, filling one's heart with a delicious sense of amorous melancholy, and calling to mind a thousand fancies, desires, and visions of a distant world, a new life, an unknown people, and an earthly paradise of love, pleasure, and content. In those streets one reads the history of the city: every balcony, every fragment of sculpture, every lonely crossway, recalls some nocturnal adventure of a king, the inspiration of a poet, the romance of a beauty, an amour, a duel, an abduction, a story, or a festival. Here a memento of Maria de Padilla, there one of Don Pedro; yonder of Cervantes, Columbus, Saint Theresa, Velasquez, or Murillo. A column tells of the Roman dominion; a tower, the splendor of Charles V.'s monarchy; and an alcazar, the magnificence of the Arabian court. Beside the modest white cottages rise sumptuous marble palaces; the little tortuous streets open into vast squares full of orange trees; from silent, deserted corners one enters with a short turn a street filled with a noisy crowd: and wherever one passes one sees on the opposite side the graceful lattices of the patios, flowers, statues, fountains, flights of stairs, walls covered with arabesques, small Moorish windows, and slender columns of costly marble; and at every window and in every garden little women clothed in white, half hidden, like timid nymphs, among the leaves of grapevines and rosebushes.

Passing from street to street, I came at length to the bank of the Guadalquivir, close to the avenues of the Christina promenade, which is to Seville what the Lung d'arno is to Florence. Here one enjoys a charming spectacle.

I first approached the famous Torre del Oro. This famous tower was called the Golden, either because it received the gold which the Spanish ships brought from America or because King Don Pedro hid his treasures there. It is an octagonal structure of three stories, growing smaller as they ascend, crowned with battlements and washed by the river. The story runs that this tower was built in Roman times, and that for a long period the king's most beautiful favorite dwelt there after it had been joined to the Alcazar by an edifice which was torn away to make room for the Christina promenade.

This promenade extends from the ducal palace of Montpensier to the Torre del Oro. It is entirely shaded with Oriental plane trees, oaks, cypresses, willows, poplars, and other trees of northern latitudes, which the Andalusians admire, as we admire the palms and aloes of the plains of Piedmont and Lombardy. A great bridge spans the river and leads to the suburb of Triana, from which one sees the first houses on the opposite bank. A long line of ships, coasting vessels, and barges extends along the river, and from the Torre del Oro to the ducal palace there is a coming and going of rowboats. The sun was setting. A crowd of ladies filled the avenues, groups of workmen were crossing the bridge, the workmen on the ships labored more busily, a band of music was playing among the trees, the river was rose-colored, the air was fragrant with the perfume of flowers, the sky seemed all on fire.

I returned to the city and enjoyed the marvellous spectacle of Seville by night. All the patios were illuminated—those of the humble houses with a half light, which gave them an air of mysterious beauty, those of the palaces, full of little flames which were reflected in the mirrors and flashed like jets of quicksilver in the spray of the fountains, and shone with a thousand colors on the marbles of the vestibules, the mosaics of the walls, the glass of the doors, and the crystal of the candlesticks. Inside one saw a crowd of ladies, everywhere one heard the sound of laughter, low voices, and music; one seemed to be passing through so many ball-rooms; from every door flowed a stream of light, fragrance, and harmony; the streets were crowded; among the trees of the squares, in the avenues, at the end of the narrow streets, and on the balconies,—everywhere were seen white skirts fluttering, vanishing, and reappearing in the darkness, and little heads ornamented with flowers peeped coquettishly from the windows; groups of young men broke through the crowd with merry shouts; people called to each other and talked from window to street, and everywhere were rapid motion, shouting, laughter, and festal gaiety. Seville was simply an immense garden in which revelled a people intoxicated with youth and love.