Spain, v. 2 (of 2)

by Edmondo De Amicis

"Is the lady married?"

They all began to laugh.

"Yes," replied the prima donna; "but why do you ask me that?"

"Because ... 'not even a god can steal you from me' is what your husband ought to say, if he has two good eyes in his head, every morning when he rises and every night when he goes to bed."

The others laughed, but to the prima donna this imaginary presumption on the part of her husband in affirming that he was secure even against a god seemed too extravagant, possibly because she knew that she had not always been sufficiently wary in her regard for men; and so she scarcely deigned by so much as a smile to show that she had understood my compliment. She at once asked the meaning of another verse, and after her the baritone, and after the baritone the tenor, and after the tenor the second lady, and so on, until for a little while I did nothing but translate poor Italian verses into worse Spanish prose, to the great satisfaction of some of them, who for the first time were able to repeat intelligently a little of what they had so often sung with an air of perfect knowledge. When every one had learned as much as he wished to know, the conversation came to a close, and I stood talking a little while with the baritone, who hummed me an air from the Zarzuela; then I attached myself to one of the chorus, who told me that the tenor was making love to the prima donna; then I went off with the tenor, who told me about the baritone's wife; then I talked with the prima donna, who said disagreeable things about the whole company; but they were all good friends, and when they met, as they walked about the boat and gathered under the awning, the men pulled each other's beards and the women kissed each other, and one and all exchanged glances and smiles which revealed secret understandings. Some ran through the gamut here, some hummed yonder, others practised trills in a corner, and others again tried a guttural do that ended in a wheezing sound in the throat; and meanwhile they all talked at once about a thousand trifles.

Finally, the bell sounded and we rushed headlong to the table, like so many officials invited to a spread at the unveiling of a monument. At this dinner, amid the cries and songs of all those people, I drank for the first time an unmixed glass of that terrible wine of Xeres whose wonders are sung in the four corners of the earth. I had scarcely swallowed it before I seemed to feel a spark run through all my veins, and my head burned as if it was full of sulphur. All the others drank, and all were filled with unrestrained mirth and became irresistibly loquacious; the prima donna began to talk in Italian, the tenor in French, the baritone in Portuguese, the others in dialect, and I in every tongue; and there were toasts and snatches of song, shouts, arch glances, clasping of hands above table and the kicking of feet below, and declarations of good fellowship exchanged on all sides, like the personalities in Parliament when the opposing factions join battle. After dinner we all went on deck, flushed and in great spirits, breathless and enveloped in a cloud of smoke from our cigarettes, and then, in the light of the moon, whose silvery rays gleamed on the wide river and covered the hillsides and the groves with limpid light, we began again a noisy conversation, and after the conversation there was singing, not only the trifling airs of Zarzuela, but passages from operas, with solos, duets, trios, and choruses, with appropriate gestures and stage strides, diversified with declamations from the poets, stories, and anecdotes, hearty laughter, and tumultuous applause; finally, tired and breathless, we were all silent, and some fell asleep with upturned faces, others went to lie down under cover, and the prima donna seated herself in a corner to look at the moon. The tenor was snoring. I profited by the occasion to go and have an aria from the Zarzuela—El Sargento Federico—sung to me in a low voice. The courteous Andalusian did not wait to be pressed: she sang, but suddenly she was silent and hid her face. I looked at her: she was weeping. I asked her the cause of her distress, and she answered, sadly, "I am thinking of a perjury." Then she broke into a laugh and began to sing again. She had a melodious, flexible voice, and sang with a feeling of gentle sadness. The sky was all studded with stars, and the boat glided so smoothly through the water that it scarcely seemed to be moving; and I thought of the gardens of Seville, of the near African shore, and of the dear one waiting for me in Italy, and my eyes too were wet, and when the lady stopped singing, I said, "Sing on, for—

'Mortal tongue cannot express

That which I felt within my breast....'"

At dawn the boat was just entering the ocean; the river was very wide. The right bank, scarcely visible in the distance, stretched along like a tongue of land, beyond which shone the waters of the sea. A moment later the sun rose above the horizon, and the vessel left the river. Then there unfolded before my eyes a sight that could not be described if it were possible to join poetry, painting, and music in one supreme art—a spectacle whose magnificence and enchantment I believe not even Dante could describe with his grandest images, nor Titian with his most brilliant colors, nor Rossini with his most perfect harmonies, nor even all three of them together. The sky was a miracle of sapphire light unflecked by a cloud, and the sea was so beautiful that it seemed like an immense carpet of shimmering silk; the sun was shining on the crests of the little ripples caused by a light breeze, and it seemed as if they were tipped with amethyst. The sea was full of reflections and luminous bands of light, and in the distance were streaks of silver, with here and there great white sails, like the trailing wings of gigantic fallen angels. I have never seen such brilliancy of color, such splendor of light, such freshness, such transparency, such limpid water and sky. It seemed like a daybreak of creation, which the fancy of poets had pictured so pure and effulgent that our dawns are only pale reflections in comparison. It was more than Nature's awakening and the recurring stir of life: it was a hallelujah, a triumph, a new birth of creation, growing into the infinite by a second inspiration of God.

I went below deck to get my spyglass, and when I returned Cadiz was in sight.