Spain, v. 2 (of 2)

by Edmondo De Amicis

The women replied in one voice, "God save him!"

"But from what?"

"Don't risk yourself, sir."

"What is your reason?"

"A thousand reasons."

"Tell me one of them?"

"You would be murdered."

One reason was enough for me, as any one can imagine, and I did not go to the port.

For the rest, at Valencia as elsewhere, in whatever intercourse I had with the people I met only with courtesy as a foreigner and as an Italian—a friendly welcome even among those who would not hear foreign kings discussed in general, and princes of the house of Savoy in particular, and such men were numerous, but they were courteous enough to say at once, "Let us not harp on that string." To a foreigner who, when asked whence he comes, replies, "I am a Frenchman," they respond with an agreeable smile, as if to say, "We recognize each other." To one who answers, "I am a German or an Englishman," they make a slight inclination of the head, which implies, "I bow to you;" but when one replies, "I am an Italian," they eagerly extend the hand as if to say, "We are friends;" and they look at one with an air of curiosity, as you look for the first time at a person who is said to resemble you, and they smile pleasantly on hearing the Italian tongue, as you would smile on hearing some one, though in no mocking spirit, imitate your voice and accents. In no country in the world does an Italian feel nearer home than in Spain. The sky, the speech, the faces, and the dress remind him of his fatherland; the veneration with which the Spanish pronounce the names of our great poets and our great painters, that vague and pleasing sense of curiosity with which they speak of our famous cities, the enthusiasm with which they cultivate our music, the impulsiveness of their affections, the fire of their language, the rhythms of their poetry, the eyes of their women, the air and the sun,—oh! an Italian must be without a spark of love for his fatherland who does not feel an emotion of sympathy for this country, who does not feel inclined to excuse its errors, who does not sincerely deplore its misfortunes, who does not desire for it a happy future. O beautiful hills of Valencia, smiling banks of the Guadalquivir, charmed gardens of Granada, little white cottages of Seville, proud towers of Toledo, roaring streets of Madrid, and venerable walls of Saragossa! and you, kindly hosts and courteous companions of my travels—you who have spoken to me of Italy as of a second fatherland, who with your festal gayety have scattered my restless melancholy!—I shall always carry deep down in my heart a feeling of gratitude and love for you, and I shall cherish your images in my memory, as one of the dearest recollections of my youth, and shall always think of you as one of the loveliest dreams of my life.

I repeated these words to myself at midnight as I looked over brightly-lighted Valencia, leaning against the rail of the good ship Xenil, which was on the point of sailing. Some young Spaniards had come on board with me. They were going to Marseilles to take ship from that port to the Antilles, where they expected to remain for some years. One of them stood alone weeping; suddenly he raised his head and looked toward the shore between two anchored vessels, and exclaimed in a tone of desolation, "Oh, my God! I hoped she would not come!"