The day of my departure arrived unexpectedly. It is strange: I remember scarcely any particulars of my life at Seville; it is remarkable if I can tell where I dined, what I talked about with the consul, how I spent the evenings, and why I chose any given day to take my departure. I was not myself; I lived, if I may use the expression, out of myself; all the while I remained in the city I was a little dazed. Apart from the art-gallery and the patio my friend Segovia must have found that I knew very little; and now, I know not why, I think of those days as of a dream. Of no other city are my recollections so vague as of Seville. Even to-day, while I am certain of having been at Saragossa, Madrid, and Toledo, sometimes when I think of Seville a doubt steals upon me. It seems to me like a city much farther away than the most distant boundaries of Spain, and that to journey there again I must travel months and months, cross unknown continents and wide seas, among people totally different from our own. I think of the streets of Seville, of certain little squares and certain houses, as I would think of the spots on the moon. Sometimes the image of that city passes before my eyes like a white figure, and disappears almost before I can grasp it with my mind—sometimes in a breath of air, at certain hours of the day, at a garden-gate; in humming a song which I heard a boy sing on the steps of the Giralda. I cannot explain this secret to myself; I think of Seville as of a city which I have still to see, and I enjoy looking at the prints and thumbing the books which I bought there, for they are tangible things that convince me of my visit. A month ago I received a letter from Segovia which said, "Come back to us." It gave me untold pleasure, but at the same time I laughed as if he had written, "Make a voyage to Pekin." It is for this very reason that Seville is dearer to me than all the other cities of Spain; I love it as I might love a beautiful unknown woman who, crossing a mysterious wood, might look my way and throw me a flower. How often in the theatre or at the café, when a friend shakes me and asks, "What are you thinking about?" I am obliged to leave the little room of Maria de Padilla to return to him, or a boat that is gliding along in the shade of the Christina plane trees, or Figaro's shop, or the vestibule of a patio full of flowers, fountains, and lights.
I embarked on a boat of the Segovia Company, near the Torre del Oro, at an hour when Seville is wrapped in deep sleep and a burning sun covers it with a flood of light. I remember that a few moments before the boat started a young man came on board in search of me, and gave me a letter from Gonzalo Segovia, containing a sonnet which I still cherish as one of my most precious mementos of Seville. On the boat there was a company of Spanish singers, an English family, some laboring-men, and babies. The captain, being a good Andalusian, had a cheery word for everybody. I soon began a conversation with him. My friend Gonzalo was a son of the proprietor of the line, and we talked of the Segovia family, of Seville, the sea, and a thousand pleasant things. Ah! the poor man was far from thinking that a few days later the unlucky ship would founder in the midst of the sea and bring him to such a terrible end! It was the Guadaira, that was lost a short distance from Marseilles by the bursting of the boiler on the sixteenth day of June, 1872.
At three o'clock the boat started for Cadiz.
CADIZ.
That was the most delightful evening of all my journey.
A little while after the ship had commenced to move there sprang up one of those gentle breezes which played with one as an infant plays with one's cravat or a lock of one's hair, and from stem to stern there was a sound of the voices of women and children, like that which one hears among a group of friends at the first crack of the whip announcing their departure for a merry outing. All the passengers gathered at the stern in the shade of a gayly-colored awning like a Chinese pavilion: some were sitting on coils of rope, others were stretched at full length on the benches, others were leaning against the rail—every one looked back in the direction of the Torre del Oro to enjoy the famous and enchanting spectacle of Seville as it faded away in the distance. Some of the women had not yet dried the tears of parting, and some of the children were still a little frightened by the sound of the engine. And some ladies were still quarrelling with the porters for abusing their baggage; but in a few moments all was serene again, and the passengers began to peel oranges, light cigars, pass little flasks of liquor, converse with their unknown neighbors, sing and laugh, and in a quarter of an hour we were all friends.
The boat glided along as smoothly as a gondola over the still, limpid waters, which reflected the white dresses of the ladies like a mirror, and the breeze brought the delightful fragrance from the orange-groves of the villas scattered along the shore. Seville was hidden behind her circle of gardens, and we saw only an immense mass of trees of vivid green, and above them the black pile of the cathedral and the rose-colored Giralda surmounted by its statue flaming like a tongue of fire. As the distance widened the cathedral appeared grander and more majestic, as if it were following the vessel and gaining upon her: now, although still following, it seemed to retire a great way from the shore; now it would seem to be spanning the river; one moment it would appear suddenly to return to its place; a moment later it looked so close that we suspected the boat had turned back. The Guadalquivir wound along in short curves, and as the boat turned this way and that Seville appeared and disappeared, now peeping out in one place as if it had stolen beyond its boundaries, now raising its head suddenly behind a wood, gleaming like a snowclad mountain, now revealing some white streaks here and there amid the verdure, and suddenly disappearing from view and performing all sorts of fantastic wiles, like a coquettish woman. Finally it disappeared and we saw it no more: the cathedral alone remained. Then every one turned to look at the shore. We seemed to be sailing on the lake of a garden. Here was a hillside clothed with cypresses, here a hilltop all covered with flowers, yonder a village extending along the shore, and under the garden trellises and along the terraces of the villas sat ladies looking at us with spy-glasses; and here and there were peasants' families in brightly-colored dresses, sail-boats; and naked boys who plunged into the water and turned sommersaults, frisked about, shouted, and waved their hands toward the ladies on the boat, who covered their faces with their fans. Some miles from Seville we met three steamboats, one after the other. The first came upon us so suddenly at a turn of the river that, having had no experience in that sort of navigation, I was afraid, for a moment, that we should not have time to avoid a collision; the two boats almost grazed each other in passing, and the passengers of each saluted each other and threw across oranges and cigars, and charged each other with messages to be borne to Cadiz or Seville.
My fellow-voyagers were almost all Andalusians, and so, after an hour of conversation, I knew them from first to last as well as if we had all been friends from infancy. Every one instantly told every one else, whether he wanted to know it or not, who he was, his age, occupation, and where he was going, and one even went so far as to tell how many sweethearts he had and how many pesetas were in his purse. I was taken for a singer; and this is not strange if one considers that in Spain the people think three-fourths of the Italians are trained to sing, dance, or declaim. One gentleman, noticing that I had an Italian book in my hand, asked me, point-blank, "Where did you leave the company?"