I passed several days at Cordova. I had been told of a certain
manuscript in the library of the Dominican convent, in which I was
likely to find valuable information concerning the Munda of the
ancients. Being very amiably received by the good fathers, I passed
the days in their convent, and walked about the city in the evenings.
There is always a throng of idlers, about sunset, on the quay that
borders the right bank of the Guadalquivir at Cordova. There one
inhales the emanations from a tannery which still maintains the ancient
celebrity of the district for the manufacture of leather; but, on the
other hand, one enjoys a spectacle that has its merits. A few minutes
before the Angelus, a great number of women assemble on the river
bank, below the quay, which is quite high. No man would dare to join
that group. As soon as the Angelus rings, it is supposed to be dark.
At the last stroke of the bell, all those women undress and go into
the water. Thereupon there is tremendous shouting and laughter and an
infernal uproar. From the quay above, the men stare at the bathers,
squinting their eyes, but they see very little. However, those vague
white shapes outlined against the dark blue of the stream set poetic
minds at work; and with a little imagination it is not difficult to
conjure up a vision of Diana and her nymphs in the bath, without
having to fear the fate of Actæon. I had been told that on a certain
day a number of profane scapegraces clubbed together to grease the palm
of the bell-ringer at the cathedral and hire him to ring the Angelus
twenty minutes before the legal hour. Although it was still broad
daylight, the nymphs of the Guadalquivir did not hesitate, but trusting
the Angelus rather than the sun, they fearlessly made their bathing
toilet, which is always of the simplest. I was not there. In my day the
bell-ringer was incorruptible, the twilight far from brilliant, and
only a cat could have distinguished the oldest orange-woman from the
prettiest grisette in Cordova.
One evening, when it was too dark to see anything, I was leaning
against the parapet of the quay, smoking, when a woman ascended the
steps leading to the river and seated herself by my side. She had in
her hair a large bouquet of jasmine, the flowers of which exhale an
intoxicating odour at night. She was simply, perhaps poorly clad, all
in black, like most grisettes in the evening. Women of fashion wear
black only in the morning; in the evening they dress _à la francesca_.
When she reached my side, my bather allowed the mantilla which covered
her head to fall over her shoulders, and I saw, “by the dim light
that falleth from the stars,” that she was young, small, well built,
and that she had very large eyes. I threw my cigar away at once. She
appreciated that distinctively French attention, and made haste to
say that she was very fond of the smell of tobacco; in fact, that she
sometimes smoked herself, when she could obtain a very mild _papelito_.
Luckily, I happened to have some of that description in my case, and
I lost no time in offering them to her. She deigned to take one and
lighted it at a piece of burning string which a child brought us in
consideration of a small coin. Mingling our smoke, we talked so long,
the fair bather and myself, that we were finally left almost alone on
the quay. I thought that I might safely venture to invite her to take
an ice at the _neveria_.[3] After hesitating modestly, she accepted;
but before concluding to do so, she wished to know what time it was. I
caused my repeater to strike, and that striking seemed to surprise her
greatly.
“What wonderful things you foreigners invent! From what country are
you, señor? An Englishman, no doubt?”[4]
“A Frenchman, and your humble servant. And you, señorita, or señora,
are of Cordova, I presume?”
“No.”
“You are an Andalusian, at all events. It seems to me that I can tell
that by your soft speech.”
“If you observe everybody’s speech so closely, you should be able to
guess what I am.”
“I believe that you are from the land of Jesus, within two steps of
paradise.”
(I had learned this metaphor, which designates Andalusia, from my
friend Francisco Sevilla, a well-known picador.)
“Bah! paradise--the people about here say that it wasn’t made for us.”
“In that case you must be a Moor, or----”