Spain, v. 2 (of 2)

by Edmondo De Amicis

The first impression which it made upon me was a feeling of doubt whether it was a city or not. I first laughed, then turned toward my fellow-traveller with the air of one seeking to be assured that he is not deceived. Cadiz is like an island of chalk. It is a great white spot in the midst of the sea, without a cloud, without a black line, without a shadow—a white spot as clear and pure as a hilltop covered with untrodden snow, standing out against a sky of beryl and turquoise in the midst of a vast flooded plain. A long, narrow neck of land unites it to the continent; on all other sides it is surrounded by the sea, like a boat just ready to sail bound to the shore only by a cable. As we approached, the forms of the campaniles, the outlines of the houses, and the openings of the streets became clear, and everything seemed whiter, and, however much I looked through my spyglass, I could not have discovered the smallest spot in that whiteness, either on a building near the harbor or in the farthest suburbs. We entered the port, where there were but a few ships and those a great way apart. I stepped into a boat without even taking my valise with me, for I was obliged to leave for Malaga that same evening, and so eager was I to see the city that when the boat came to the bank, I jumped too soon and fell to the ground like a corpse, although, alas! I still felt the pains of a living body.

Cadiz

Cadiz is the whitest city in the world; and it is of no use to contradict me by saying that I have not seen every other city, for my common sense tells me that a city whiter than this, which is superlatively and perfectly white, cannot exist. Cordova and Seville cannot be compared with Cadiz: they are as white as a sheet, but Cadiz is as white as milk. To give an idea of it, one could not do better than to write the word "white" a thousand times with a white pencil on blue paper, and make a note on the margin: "Impressions of Cadiz." Cadiz is one of the most extravagant and graceful of human caprices: not only the outer walls of the houses are white, but the stairs are white, the courts are white, the shop-walls are white, the stones are white, the pilasters are white, the most secret and darkest corners of the poorest houses and the loneliest streets are white; everything is white from roof to cellar wherever the tip of a brush can enter, even to the holes, cracks, and birds' nests. In every house there is a pile of chalk and lime, and every time the eagle eye of the inmates spies the least spot the brush is seized and the spot covered. Servants are not taken into families unless they know how to whitewash. A pencil-scratch on a wall is a scandalous thing, an outrage upon the public peace, an act of vandalism: you might walk through the entire city, look behind all the doors, and poke your nose into the very holes, and you would find white, only and always and eternally.

But, for all this, Cadiz does not in the least resemble the other Andalusian cities. Its streets are long and straight, and the houses are high, and lack the patios of Cordova and Seville. But, although the appearance is different, the city does not appear less interesting and pleasant to the eye of the stranger. The streets are straight, but narrow, and, moreover, they are very long, and many of them cross the entire city, and so one can see at the end, as through the crack in a door, a slender strip of sky, which makes it seem as if the city was built on the summit of a mountain cut on all sides in regular channels: moreover, the houses have a great many windows, and, as at Burgos, every window is provided with a sort of glass balcony which rises in tiers from story to story, so that in many streets the houses are completely covered with glass, and one sees scarcely any traces of the walls. It seems like walking through a passage in an immense museum. Here and there, between one house and the next, rise the graceful fronds of a palm; in every square there is a luxuriant mass of verdure, and at all the windows bunches of grass and bouquets of flowers.

Really, I had been far from imagining that Cadiz could be so gay and smiling—that terrible, ill-fated Cadiz, burned by the English in the sixteenth century, bombarded at the end of the eighteenth, devastated by the pestilence, hostess of the fleets of Trafalgar, the seat of the revolutionary council during the War of Independence, the theatre of the horrible butchery of the Revolution of 1820, the target of the French bombs in 1823, the standard-bearer of the Revolution which hurled the Bourbons from the throne,—Cadiz always restless and turbulent and first of all to raise the battle-cry. But of such calamities and such struggles there remain only some cannon-balls half buried in the walls, for over all the traces of destruction has passed the inexorable brush, covering every dishonor with a white veil. And as it is with the latest wars, so too there remains not a trace of the Phœnicians who founded the city, nor of the Carthaginians and Romans who enlarged and beautified it, unless one wishes to consider as a trace the tradition which says, "Here rose a temple to Hercules," "There rose a temple to Saturn." But time has done a worse thing than to deprive Cadiz of her ancient monuments: it has stolen away her commerce and her riches since Spain lost her possessions in America, and now Cadiz lies there inert on her solitary rock, waiting in vain for the thousand ships which once came with flags and festoons to offer her the tribute of the New World.

I had a letter of introduction to the Italian consul, and after receiving it he courteously took me to the top of a tower from which I was able to get a bird's-eye view of the city. It was a novel sight and a very lively surprise: seen from above, Cadiz is white, entirely and perfectly white, just as it appears from the sea; there is not a roof in all the city; every house is covered on top by a terrace surrounded by a low whitewashed wall; on almost every terrace rises a little white tower, which is surmounted, in its turn, by another smaller terrace or by a little cupola or sort of sentry-box: everything is white; all these little cupolas, these pinnacles, and these towers, which give the city a very odd and uneven appearance, gleam and stand out white against the vivid blue of the sea. One's view extends over the entire length of the isthmus which connects Cadiz to the main land, embraces a far-off strip of distant coast whitened by the cities of Puerto Real and Puerto Santa Maria, dotted with villages, churches, and villas, and includes also the port and the clear and a very beautiful sky which vies with the sea in transparency and light. I could not look enough at that strange city. On closing my eyes it appeared as if covered by an immense sheet. Every house seemed to have been built for an astronomical observatory. The entire population, in case the sea should inundate the city, as in ancient times, might gather on the terraces and remain there in perfect ease, saving the fright.

I was told that a few years ago, on the occasion of some eclipse of the sun, this very spectacle was witnessed: the seventy thousand inhabitants of Cadiz all ascended to the terraces to watch the phenomenon. The city changed its perfect whiteness for a thousand colors; every terrace was thick with heads; one saw at a single glance, quarter after quarter, and finally the entire population: a low murmur rose to heaven like the roar of the sea, and a great movement of arms, fans, and spy-glasses, pointing upward, made it seem as if the people were awaiting the descent of some angel from the solar sphere. At a certain moment there was a profound silence: when the phenomenon was over the entire population gave a shout, which sounded like a clap of thunder, and a few moments later the city was white again.

I descended from the tower and went to see the cathedral, a vast marble edifice of the sixteenth century, not to be compared to the cathedrals of Burgos and Toledo, but nevertheless dignified and bold in architecture and enriched by every sort of treasure, like all the other Spanish churches. I went to see the convent where Murillo was painting a picture over a high altar when he fell from the scaffold and received the wound which caused his death. I passed through the picture-gallery, which contains some fine paintings of Zurbaran; entered the bull-ring, built entirely of wood, which was created in a few days to provide a spectacle for Queen Isabella. Toward evening I took a turn in the delightful promenade along the sea-shore, in the midst of orange trees and palms, where the most beautiful and elegant ladies of the city were pointed out to me, one by one. Whatever may be the judgment of the Spaniards, to me the feminine type of Cadiz did not seem at all inferior to the celebrated type of Seville. The women are a little taller, a little heavier, and are somewhat darker. Some observer has ventured to say that they closely resemble the Grecian type, but I do not know in what respect. I saw no difference from the Andalusian type except in stature, and that was enough to make me heave sighs which might have propelled a ship, and constrained me to return as soon as possible to the vessel as a place of refuge and peace.

When I arrived on board it was night; the sky was all twinkling with stars, and the breeze bore faintly to my ears the music of a band playing on the promenade of Cadiz. The singers were asleep; I was alone, and the sight of the city lights and the recollection of the lovely faces filled me with melancholy. I did not know what to do with myself, so I went down to the cabin, took out my note-book, and commenced the description of Cadiz. But I only succeeded in writing ten times the words, "White, blue, snow, brightness, colors," after which I made a little sketch of a woman and then closed my eyes and dreamed of Italy.