CORDOVA.

On arriving at Castillejo I was obliged to wait until midnight for

the Andalusia train. I dined on hard-boiled eggs and oranges, with

a little sprinkling of Val de Peñas, murmured a poem of Espronceda,

chatted a little with a custom-house officer who between parentheses

made me a confession of his political faith--Amadeus, liberty, an

increase of wages to the custom-house officers, etc; finally I heard

the long-desired whistle, entered a railway-carriage crowded full of

women, children, civil guards, boxes, cushions, and wraps, and away

with a speed unusual for the Spanish railways. It was a beautiful

night; my travelling-companions talked of bulls and Carlists; a

beautiful girl, whom more than one devoured with his eyes, pretended

to sleep that she might still further heighten their curiosity; some

were rolling cigarettes, some peeling oranges, others humming songs

from the _Zarzuela_. Nevertheless, I fell asleep in a few minutes. I

believe I had already dreamed of the mosque of Cordova and the Alcazar

of Seville, when I was aroused by a hoarse cry, "Daggers!"

"Daggers? Heavens! for whom?" Before I discovered who had shouted

there flashed before my eyes a long sharp blade, and the unknown voice

asked again,

"Do you like it?"

One must admit that there are pleasanter ways to be awakened. I

looked in the faces of my travelling-companions with an expression of

consternation, which made them all burst into a shout of laughter.

Then they explained that at every railway-station there are vendors of

knives and daggers who offer tourists their wares, just as the boys

offer newspapers and refreshments in our country. Assured that my life

was safe, I bought my scarecrow--five francs; a splendid dagger for a

villain in a tragedy, with an ornamented handle, inscriptions on the

blade, and a sheath of embroidered velvet; and I put it in my pocket,

thinking that I might find it useful in Italy to settle difficulties

with my publishers.

The vendor must have had fifty of those knives in a great red sash

tied around his waist. Other travellers bought them, the civil guards

complimented one of my neighbors on the good selection he had made; the

boys cried, "Buy me one too!" The mammas answered, "We will buy you a

bigger one some other time." "O happy Spain!" I exclaimed, and thought

with horror of our barbarous laws, which forbid the innocent amusement

of a little cold steel.

We crossed La Mancha, the celebrated La Mancha, the immortal

theatre of the adventures of Don Quixote. It is such a place as I

imagined--wide, bare plains, long tracts of sandy soil, here and there

a windmill, a few wretched villages, lonely lanes, and forsaken huts.

On seeing these places I felt that vague sense of melancholy which

steals over me as I read the book of Cervantes, and repeated to myself

what I always say on reading it: "This man cannot make one laugh

without also making one's tears flow as the laughter dies away."

Don Quixote is a sad and sombre figure: his madness is a lament;

his life is the history of the dreams, illusions, awakenings, and

aberrations of each of us; the struggle of reason with imagination, of

truth with falsehood, of the ideal with the real. We all have something

of Don Quixote in our nature; we all mistake windmills for giants; we

are all now and then spurred on by the impulse of enthusiasm, only

to be driven back by the laugh of scorn; we are each a mixture of

the sublime and the ridiculous; we all feel bitterly and profoundly

the eternal conflict between the grandeur of our aspirations and the

impotence of our powers. O beautiful dreams of childhood and youth!

Generous impulses to consecrate our life to the defence of virtue and

justice, fond imaginations of dangers faced, of adventurous struggles,

of magnanimous deeds, and sublime loves, fallen one by one, like the

petals of a flower, in the narrow and uneventful paths of life! To what

new life have they arisen in our soul, and what vague thoughts and

profound inspirations have we derived from thee, O generous and hapless

cavalier of the sad figure!

We arrived at Argamasilla de Alba, where Don Quixote was born and died,

and where poor Cervantes, the tax-gatherer of the great priory of San

Juan, was arrested by angry debtors and imprisoned in a house which is

said to be still in existence, and where he probably conceived the plan

of his romance. We passed near the village of Val de Peñas, which gives

its name to one of the most exquisite wines of Spain--dark, tingling,

exhilarating, the only one, forsooth, which permits the foreigner from

the North to indulge in copious libations at his meals; and finally we

arrived at Santa Cruz de Mudela, a village famous for its manufactories

of _navajas_ (knives and razors), near which the way begins to slope

gently upward toward the mountain.

The sun had risen, the women and children had left the carriage, and a

number of peasants, officers, and _toreros_ had entered on their way

to Seville. One saw in that small space a variety of costume which

would not be seen even in an Italian market-place--the pointed caps of

the peasants of the Sierra Morena, the red trousers of the soldiers,

the great sombreros of the _picadores_, the shawls of the gypsies, the

mantles of the Catalans, Toledo blades hanging from the walls, capes,

belts, and finery of all the colors of a harlequin.

The train entered the rocks of the Sierra Morena, which separate the

valley of the Guadiana from that of the Guadalquivir, famous for the

songs of poets and the deeds of brigands. The railway runs at times

between two walls of rock sheer from the very peaks, so high that to

see the top one must put one's head all the way out of the window

and turn one's face up, as if to look at the roof of the carriage.

Sometimes the rocks are farther away and rise one above the other, the

first like enormous broken stones, the last straight and sharp like

bold towers rising upon measureless bastions; between them a mass of

boulders cut into teeth, steps, crests, and humps, some almost hanging

in the air, others separated by deep caverns and frightful precipices,

presenting a confusion of curious forms, of fantastic suggestions

of houses, gigantic figures and ruins, and offering at every step a

thousand outlines and surprising appearances; and, together with this

infinite variety of form, an infinite variety of color, shadow, dancing

and changing light. For long distances, to the right, to the left, and

overhead, one sees nothing but stone, without a house, a path, or a

patch of ground where a man could set his foot, and, as one advances,

rocks, ravines, and precipices: everything grows larger, deeper, and

higher until one reaches the summit of the Sierra, where the solemn

majesty of the spectacle provokes a cry of wonder.

The train stopped a few minutes, and all the travellers put their heads

out of the window.

"Here," said one in a loud voice,--"here Cardenio jumped from rock to

rock to do penance for his sins" (Cardenio, one of the most remarkable

characters in _Don Quixote_, who jumped about among the rocks of the

Sierra in his shirt to do penance for his sins). "I wish," continued

the traveller, "that Sagasta might have to do the same."

They all laughed, and began to find, each one on his own account,

some political enemy upon whom in imagination he might inflict this

punishment: one proposed Serrano, another Topete, and a third another,

and so on, until in a few minutes, if their desires had been realized,

one might have seen the entire Sierra filled with ministers, generals,

and deputies in their shirts skipping from crag to crag like the famous

rock of Alessandro Manzoni.

The train started, the rocks disappeared, and the delightful valley

of the Guadalquivir, the garden of Spain, the Eden of the Arabs, the

paradise of painters and of poets, blessed Andalusia, revealed herself

to my eyes. I can still feel the thrill of childish joy with which I

hurried to the window, saying to myself, "Let me enjoy it."

For a long distance the country does not offer any new appearance to

the ardent curiosity of the traveller. At Vilches there is a vast

plain, and beyond it the level country of Tolosa, where Alfonso VIII.,

king of Castile, won the celebrated victory of _de las Navas_ over the

Mussulman army. The sky was as clear as air--in the distance rose the

mountains of the Sierra de Segura. Suddenly I made one of those quick

motions which seemed to correspond to an unuttered cry of astonishment:

the first aloes with their broad heavy leaves, the unexpected

harbingers of the tropical vegetation, rise beside the road. Beyond

them the fields sprinkled with flowers begin to appear. The first

fields sprinkled, those which follow almost covered, then vast tracts

of country wholly clothed, with wild poppies, daisies, iris, mushrooms,

cowslips, and buttercups, so that the country appears like a succession

of vast carpets of purple and gold and snowy white, and far away, among

the trees, innumerable streaks of blue, white, and yellow until the eye

is lost; and hard by, on the edge of the ditches, the mounds, and the

banks, even to the very track, flowers in beds, groups, and clusters,

one above the other, fashioned like great bouquets, trembling on their

stems, which one can almost touch with the hand. Then waving fields

of grain with great heavy bearded heads, bordered by long gardens of

roses; then orange-orchards and vast olive-groves; hillocks varied

by a hundred shades of green, surmounted by ancient Moorish towers,

dotted with many-colored cottages, with here and there white, graceful

bridges, which span rivulets hidden by the trees. On the horizon rise

the snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada, and below this white line other

blue undulating lines of the nearer mountains. The country grows ever

more various and blooming: Arjonilla, embowered in an orange-grove

whose limits are lost in the distance; Pedro Abad, in the midst of a

plain covered with vineyards and orchards; Ventas de Alcolea, on the

hills of the Sierra Morena, crowned with villas and gardens. We are

drawing near to Cordova: the train flies; one sees little stations half

hidden among trees and flowers; the wind blows the rose-leaves into

the cars, great butterflies sail past the windows, a delicious perfume

fills the air, the travellers are singing, we pass through an enchanted

garden, the aloes, oranges, palms, and villas become more frequent; one

hears a cry: "Here is Cordova!"

How many beautiful images and how many memories are recalled by that

name!

Cordova, the ancient pearl of the Occident, as the Moorish poets called

her, the city of cities, Cordova of the thirty burgs and the three

thousand mosques, which contained within her walls the greatest temple

of Islam! Her fame spread through the Orient and obscured the glory

of ancient Damascus,--from the remotest regions of Asia the faithful

journeyed toward the banks of the Guadalquivir to prostrate themselves

in the marvellous mihrab of her mosque, in the blaze of a thousand

brazen lamps cast from the bells of the Spanish cathedrals. From every

part of the Mohammedan world artists, scholars, and poets crowded to

her flourishing schools, her vast libraries, and the magnificent courts

of her caliphs. Hither flowed wealth and beauty, drawn by the fame of

her splendor.

And from here they separated, eager for knowledge, along the coasts of

Africa, among the schools of Tunis, Cairo, Bagdad, and Cufa, as far as

India and China, in search of books, inspiration, and memories; and the

poems sung on the slopes of the Sierra Morena flew from harp to harp

even to the valleys of the Caucasus, to make the hearts of pilgrims

burn within them. The beautiful, the mighty, the wise Cordova, crowned

with three thousand villages, proudly reared her white minarets among

her orange-groves and spread through the divine valley a voluptuous air

of gladness and glory.

I descend from the train, cross a garden, and look around: I am

alone; the travellers who came with me have disappeared in different

directions; I still hear the rumble of the receding carriages; then all

is silent.

It is mid-day: the sky is very clear, the air burning. I see two white

cottages; it is the opening of a street; I enter and go forward. The

street is narrow, the houses small as the little villas built on the

hillocks of artificial gardens; nearly all of them are one story in

height, with windows a little way from the ground, roofs so low that

one can almost touch them with a cane, and very white walls. The street

makes a turn; I look down it; no one is in sight; I do not hear a

step nor a voice. "It must be an abandoned street," I say, and turn

in another direction: white cottages, closed windows, solitude, and

silence. "Where am I?" I ask myself.

I walk on: the street is so narrow and crooked that a carriage could

not pass through it; to the right and left one sees other deserted

streets, other white houses, and other closed windows; my step echoes

as in a corridor; the white of the walls is so bright that the

reflection almost blinds me, and I am obliged to walk with my eyes

closed; I seem to be passing through snow. I reach a little square:

everything is closed, there is no one about. Then a feeling of vague

melancholy begins to steal into my heart, such as I have never felt

before, a mingling of enjoyment and sorrow like that which children

experience when after a long run they find themselves in a beautiful

country-place and enjoy it, but with a tremor of fear at being so

far away from home. Above the many roofs rise the palms of the inner

gardens. O fantastic legends of odalisques and caliphs!

On from street to street and square to square; I meet a few persons,

but they all pass and disappear like phantoms. The streets are all

alike, the houses have only two or four windows; and there is not a

stain, not a scratch, not a crack in the walls, which are as smooth

and white as a sheet of paper. Now and then I hear a whisper behind a

venetian blind, and almost at the same moment see a dark head with a

flower in the hair peep out and disappear. I approach a door.

A _patio_! How shall I describe a _patio_? It is not a courtyard, it

is not a garden, it is not a room; it is the three in one. Between the

_patio_ and the street there is a vestibule. On the four sides of the

_patio_ rise graceful columns which support a sort of balcony enclosed

in glass at the height of the second story; over the balcony extends a

canvas which shades the court. The vestibule is flagged with marble,

the doorway supported by columns surmounted by bas-reliefs and closed

by a delicate iron lattice of very beautiful design. At the back of

the _patio_, opposite the doorway, stands a statue, in the centre a

fountain, and all around chairs, work-tables, paintings, and vases of

flowers. I run to another door. Another _patio_, its walls covered with

ivy, and a line of niches containing statuettes and urns. I hurry to

a third door. A _patio_ with its walls adorned with mosaic, a palm in

the centre, and all around a mass of flowers. A fourth door. Behind

the _patio_ another vestibule, and then a second _patio_, in which one

sees other statues, columns, and fountains. And all these rooms and

gardens are clean and tidy, so that you could pass your hands over the

walls and along the floor without leaving a mark; and they are fresh

and fragrant, lighted with a dim light which heightens their beauty and

mystery.

Still forward, from street to street, at random. Gradually, as I walk

on, my curiosity increases and I hasten my steps. It seems impossible

that the whole city can be like this: I am afraid of coming upon a

house or finding a street which will remind me of other cities and

rouse me from my pleasant dream.

But, no: the dream is unbroken. Everything is small, graceful,

mysterious. Every hundred paces a deserted little square, in which I

stop breathless; now and then a crossway, and not a living soul; and

everything always white--closed windows and silence. At every door

there is a new spectacle: arches, columns, flowers, fountains, palms;

a marvellous variety of design, color, light, perfume, here of roses,

there of oranges, yonder of violets; and with the perfume a breath of

fresh air, and borne on the air the subdued sound of women's voices,

the rustling of leaves, and the singing of birds--a sweet and various

harmony, which, without disturbing the silence of the street, soothes

the ear like the echo of distant music. Ah! it is not a dream! Madrid,

Italy, Europe, surely they are far, far away. Here one lives another

life, here one breathes the air of another world; I am in the Orient.

I remember that at a certain point I stopped in the middle of the

street and suddenly discovered, I know not how, that I was sad

and restless, and that in my heart there was a void which neither

admiration nor enjoyment could fill. I felt an irrepressible necessity

of entering those houses and those gardens, of tearing asunder, so to

speak, the mysterious veil which concealed the life of the unknown

people within; of sharing in that life; of grasping some hand and

gazing into two pitying eyes, and saying, "I am a stranger, I am alone;

I too want to be happy; let me linger among your flowers, let me enjoy

all the secrets of your paradise, teach me who you are and how you

live; smile on me and calm me, for my head is burning!"

And this sadness grew upon me until I said to myself, "I cannot stay in

this city; I am suffering here; I will leave it!"

And I believe I should have left if at a happy moment I had not

remembered that I carried in my pocket a letter of introduction to

two young men of Cordova, brothers of a friend of mine in Florence. I

dismissed the idea of leaving, and started at once to find them.

How they laughed when I told them of the impression Cordova had made

upon me! They proposed that we go at once to see the cathedral; so we

turned down a narrow white street and were off.

The mosque of Cordova, which was converted into a cathedral after the

overthrow of the Moors, but which must always remain a mosque, was

built on the ruins of the original cathedral, a little way back from

the bank of the Guadalquivir. Abdurrahman commenced its construction

in the year 785 or 786 A. D. "Let us rear a mosque," said he, "which

shall surpass that of Bagdad, of Damascus, and of Jerusalem--a mosque

which shall be the greatest temple of Islam, one which shall become the

Mecca of the West." They undertook the work with great ardor. Christian

slaves carried the stone for its foundations from their ruined

churches; Abdurrahman himself worked an hour every day; in a few years

the mosque was built, the caliphs who succeeded Abdurrahman embellished

it, and after a century of almost continuous labor it was finished.

"Here we are!" said one of my friends, stopping suddenly in front of a

vast edifice.

I thought it was a fortress, but it was the wall which surrounds the

mosque--an old embattled wall in which there were at one time twenty

great bronze doors ornamented with the most beautiful arabesques, and

arched windows supported by graceful columns, now covered by a triple

coat of plaster. A turn around this wall is a nice little walk to

take after dinner: one may judge, therefore, of the vast size of the

building.

[Illustration: _Court of Oranges, Mosque of Cordova_]

The principal door of the enclosure is north of the point where rises

the minaret of Abdurrahman, from whose summit floated the Mohammedan

standard. We entered: I expected to see at once the interior of the

mosque, but found myself in a garden full of orange trees, cypresses,

and palms, surrounded on three sides by a very beautiful portico and

closed on the fourth side by the façade of the mosque. In the midst

of this garden there was, in the time of the Moors, the fountain for

their ablutions, and in the shade of these trees the faithful refreshed

themselves before entering the sanctuary.

I stood for some moments looking around and breathing in the fresh

odorous air with the liveliest sense of pleasure, and my heart leaped

at the thought of the famous mosque standing there before me, and I

felt myself impelled toward the door by a boundless curiosity, and

at the same time restrained by I know not what feeling of childish

hesitation.

"Let us enter," said my companions. "One moment more," I replied: "let

me thoroughly enjoy the delight of anticipation." Finally I moved

forward and entered, without so much as looking at the marvellous

doorway which my companions pointed out.

What I did or said on entering I do not know, but some strange

exclamation must surely have escaped me or I must have made an odd

gesture, for some persons who were just then coming toward me began to

laugh and turned again to look around, as if to discover the reason of

the profound emotion which I had manifested.

Imagine a forest and suppose yourself in the thickest part, where

you see only the trunks of trees. So in the mosque wherever you turn

your gaze is lost among the columns. It is a forest of marble whose

boundaries one cannot discover. One follows with the eye, one by one,

those lengthening rows of columns crossed at every step by innumerable

other rows, and perceives a dimly-lighted background in which one

seems to see the gleaming of still other columns. There are nineteen

naves which extend in the direction in which you enter, crossed by

thirty-three other naves, and supported, in all, by more than nine

hundred columns of porphyry, jasper, onyx, and marble of every color.

Each column is surmounted by a pilaster, and between one column and

the next bends an arch, and a second arch above the first extends from

pilaster to pilaster, both of them in the form of a horseshoe; and so,

imagining the columns to be the trunks of so many trees and the arches

to represent the branches, the resemblance of the mosque to a forest is

complete.

The central nave, much larger than the others, leads to the Maksura,

the most sacred part of the temple, where they worshipped the Koran.

Here from the vaulted windows steals a faint ray of light which glides

along a row of columns; there a dark place, and yonder another ray

pierces the gloom of another nave. It is impossible to express the

feeling of mystical wonder which fills one's mind at this spectacle.

It is like the sudden revelation of a religion, a nature, and a life

unknown, leading the fancy captive among the delights of that paradise

of love and pleasure where the blessed, sitting in the shade of leafy

plane trees and of thornless roses, drink from crystal beakers wine

gleaming like pearls, mixed by immortal children, and repose in the

embrace of lovely virgins with great dark eyes! All the images of

that external pleasure, eager, warm, and glowing, which the Koran

promises to the faithful, crowd upon the mind at the first sight of the

mosque, and give one a delicious moment of intoxication which leaves

in the heart an indescribable feeling of gentle melancholy. A brief

tumult in the mind and a rapid thrill which goes tingling through the

veins,--such is one's first sensation on entering the cathedral of

Cordova.

We began to wander from passage to passage, examining everything

minutely. What a variety in that edifice which at first sight appears

so uniform! The proportions of the columns, the design of the capitals,

the form of the arches change, one may say, at every step. The greater

part of the columns are old and were taken by the Moors from Northern

Spain, Gaul, and Roman Africa, and one is said to have belonged

to a temple of Janus, upon whose ruins stood the church which the

Arabians destroyed to build the mosque. On several of the capitals

one may still see the traces of the crosses carved upon them, which

the Arabians broke off with their hammers. In some of the columns

iron rings are fastened to which it is said the Arabians bound the

Christians, and among the others there is one pointed out to which the

popular tradition narrates a Christian was bound for many years, and

in that time, by continually scratching with his nails, he succeeded

in engraving a cross on the stone, which the guides show with profound

veneration.

We entered the Maksura, which is the most perfect and marvellous work

of Moorish art of the twelfth century. At the entrance there are three

continuous chapels, with vaulted roofs formed by indented arches, and

walls covered with magnificent mosaics which represent wreaths and

flowers and passages from the Koran. At the back of the middle chapel

is the principal _mihrab_, the holy place, where dwelt the Spirit of

God. It is a niche with an octagonal base enclosed above by a colossal

marble shell. In the _mihrab_ was kept the Koran written by the hands

of the caliph Othman, covered with gold, adorned with pearls, suspended

above a seat of aloe-wood; and here came thousands of the faithful to

make the circuit of it seven times on their knees. On approaching the

wall I felt the pavement slipping from under me: the marble had been

worn hollow!

On leaving the niche I stood a long time contemplating the vault and

the walls of the principal chapel, the only part of the mosque which

has been preserved almost intact. It is a dazzling flash of crystals

of a thousand colors, an interweaving of arabesques which confuse the

mind, a mingling of bas-reliefs, gilding, ornaments, and minute details

of design and coloring of a delicacy, grace, and perfection which would

prove the despair of the most patient artist. It is impossible to

retain in one's mind any part of that prodigious work: you might return

a hundred times to look at it, but in reality it would only remain

before your eyes as a tantalizing blur of blue, red, green, golden,

and luminous shades of colors, or a very intricate piece of embroidery

continually and rapidly changing in color and design. Only from the

ardent and tireless imagination of the Moors could such a miracle of

art have issued.

We began to wander through the mosque again, observing here and there

on the walls the arabesques of the ancient doorways which are now

and then discovered under the detestable plaster of the Christians.

My companions looked at me, laughed, and whispered something to each

other. "Have you not seen it yet?" one of them asked me.

"What do you mean?"

They looked at me again and smiled.

"You think you have seen all the mosque, do you?" continued my

companion.

"Yes, indeed," I replied, looking around.

"Well," said the first, "you have not seen it all, and what remains to

be seen is nothing less than a church."

"A church?" I exclaimed stupefied, "but where is it?"

"Look!" answered my other companion, pointing; "it is in the very

centre of the mosque."

"By the powers!" And I had not seen it!

From this one may judge of the vastness of the mosque.

We went to see the church. It is beautiful and very rich, with a

magnificent high altar and a choir worthy to stand beside those in the

cathedrals of Burgos and Toledo, but, like everything out of place,

it moves one to anger rather than admiration. Without this church

the appearance of the mosque would be much improved. Charles V., who

himself gave the chapter permission to build it, repented when he saw

the Mohammedan temple for the first time. Besides the church there is a

sort of Moorish chapel in a good state of preservation, rich in mosaics

not less varied and splendid than those of the Maksura, and where it is

said the ministers of the faith used to assemble to discuss the book of

the Prophet.

Such is the mosque to-day. But what must it have been in the time of

the Arabs! It was not entirely enclosed by a wall, but open, so that

one could see the garden from every side, and from the garden one

could look to the very end of the long naves, and the fragrance of

orange-blossoms and flowers was wafted even to the vaulted roofs of the

Maksura. The columns, which now number less than a thousand, were then

fourteen hundred in number; the ceiling was of cedar-wood and larch,

carved and enamelled with exquisite workmanship; the walls were lined

with marble; the light of eight hundred lamps filled with fragrant oil

made the crystals in the mosaic-work flash like pearls, and produced on

the pavement, the arches, and the walls a marvellous play of color and

reflection. "A sea of splendors," sang a poet, filled the mysterious

enclosure, and the warm air was laden with perfume and harmony, and the

thoughts of the faithful wandered and were lost in the labyrinth of

columns gleaming like lances in the sun.

Frederick Schrack, the author of a good work on the _Poetry and Art

of the Moors in Spain and Sicily_, gives a description of the mosque

on a day of solemn festival, which forms a very lively image of the

Mohammedan religion and completes the picture of the monument.

On both sides of the almimbar, or pulpit, wave two banners, to signify

that Islam has triumphed over Judaism and Christianity and that the

Koran has conquered both the Old and the New Testament. The _almnedani_

ascend to the gallery of the high minaret and intone the salam, or

salutation, to the Prophet. Then the aisles of the mosque are filled

with believers, who with white vestments and in festal attire come

together to worship. In a few moments, throughout the length and

breadth of the edifice, one sees only kneeling people. The caliph

enters by the secret way which leads from the Alcazar to the temple,

and seats himself in his elevated station. A reader of the Koran reads

a _sura_ from the low desk of the pulpit.

The voice of the muezzin sounds again, calling men to mid-day prayer.

All the faithful rise and murmur their prayers, bowing as they do so.

An attendant of the mosque opens the doors of the pulpit and seizes a

sword, and, holding it, he turns toward Mecca, admonishing the people

to worship Mohammed, while the _mubaliges_ are chanting his praises

from the gallery. Then the preacher mounts the pulpit, taking from

the hand of the servant the sword, which calls to mind and symbolizes

the subjection of Spain to the power of Islam. It is the day when

the _Djihad_, or the holy war, must be proclaimed, the call for all

able-bodied men to go to war and descend into the battlefield against

the Christians. The multitude listens with silent devotion to the

sermon, woven from texts of the Koran, which begins in this wise:

"Praise be to Allah, who has increased the glory of Islam, thanks to

the sword of the champion of the faith, who in his holy book has

promised succor and victory to the believer.

"Allah scatters his benefits over the world.

"If he did not put it in the hearts of men to take up arms against

their fellows, the world would be lost.

"Allah has ordained to fight against the people until they know that

there is but one God.

"The torch of war will not be extinguished until the end of the world.

"The blessing of God will fall upon the mane of the war-horse to the

day of judgment.

"Armed from head to foot or but lightly clad, it matters not--up and

away!

"O believers! what shall be done to you if, when called to the battle,

you remain with face turned to the earth?

"Do you prefer the life of this world to the life to come?

"Believe me, the gates of paradise stand in the shadow of the sword.

"He who dies in battle for the cause of God shall wash away with his

blood all the defilement of his sins.

"His body shall not be wasted like the other bodies of the dead, for on

the day of judgment his wounds shall yield a fragrance like musk.

"When the warriors present themselves at the gates of paradise, a voice

within shall ask, 'What have you done in your life?'

"And they shall answer, 'We have brandished the sword in the struggle

for the cause of God.'

"Then the eternal doors will swing open, and the warriors will enter

forty years before the rest.

"Up, then, ye faithful; leave your women, your children, your kindred,

and your goods, and go out to the holy war!

"And thou, God, Lord of this present world and of that which is to

come, fight for the armies of those who recognize thy unity! Cast down

the unbelievers, the idolaters, and the enemies of thy holy faith!

Overwhelm their standards, and give them, with whatever they possess,

as a prey to the Mussulman!"

The preacher as he ends his discourse turns toward the congregation and

exclaims, "Ask of God!" and begins to pray in silence.

All the faithful, with heads bowed to the ground, follow his example.

The _mubaliges_ chant, "Amen! Amen, O Lord of all being!" Burning like

the heat which precedes the oncoming tempest, the enthusiasm of the

multitude, restrained at first in awful silence, now breaks out into

deep murmurs, which rise like the waves and swell through all parts of

the temple, until finally the naves, the chapels, and the vaulted roofs

resound to the echo of a thousand voices united in a single cry: "There

is no God but Allah!"

The mosque of Cordova is even to-day, by universal consent, the most

beautiful temple of Islam and one of the most marvellous monuments in

the world.

When we left the mosque it was already long past the hour of the

siesta, which everybody takes in the cities of Southern Spain, and

which is a necessity by reason of the insupportable heat of the noon

hours. The streets began to fill with people. "Alas!" said I to my

companions, "how badly the silk hat looks in the streets of Cordova!

How have you the heart to introduce the fashion-plates in this

beautiful Oriental picture? Why do you not adopt the dress of the

Moors?" Coxcombs pass, workmen, and girls: I looked at them all with

great curiosity, hoping to find one of those fantastic figures which

Doré has represented as examples of the Andalusian type, with that

dark-brown complexion, those thick lips, and large eyes, but I saw

none. Walking toward the centre of the city, I saw the first Andalusian

women--ladies, girls and women of the middle classes--almost all small,

graceful, and well-formed, some of them beautiful, many attractive in

appearance, but the greater part neither one thing nor the other, as is

the case in all countries. In their dress, with the exception of the

so-called mantilla, they do not differ at all from the French women nor

from those of our country--great masses of false hair in plaits, knots,

and long curls, short petticoats, long plaited over-skirts, and boots

with heels as sharp as daggers. The ancient Andalusian costume has

disappeared from the city.

I thought that in the evening the streets would be crowded, but I saw

only a few people, and only in the streets of the principal quarters;

the others remain as empty as at the hour of the siesta. And one must

pass through those deserted streets at night to enjoy Cordova. One sees

the light streaming from the _patios_; one sees in the dark corners

fond lovers in close colloquy, the girls usually at the windows, with

a hand resting lightly on the iron grating, and the young men close to

the wall in poetic attitudes, with watchful eyes, but not so watchful,

however, as to make them take their lips from those hands before

they discover that some one is passing; and one hears the sound of

guitars, the murmur of fountains, sighs, the laughter of children, and

mysterious rustlings.

The following morning, still stirred by the Oriental dreams of the

night, I again began my wandering through the city. To describe all

that is remarkable there one would require a volume: it is a very

museum of Roman and Arabian antiquities, and one finds a profusion of

martial columns and inscriptions in honor of the emperors; the remains

of statues and bas-reliefs; six ancient gates; a great bridge over the

Guadalquivir dating from the time of Octavius Augustus and restored

by the Arabians; ruins of towers and walls; houses which belonged to

the caliphs, and which still contain the columns and the subterranean

arches of the bathing apartments; and everywhere there are doors,

vestibules, and stairways that would delight a legion of archæologists.

Toward noon, as I was passing through a lonely little street, I saw

a sign on the wall of a house beside a Roman inscription, _Casa de

huespedes. Almuerzos y comidas_, and as I read I felt the gnawing, as

Giusti says, of such a desperate hunger that I determined to give it a

quietus in this little shop upon which I had stumbled. I passed through

a little vestibule, and found myself in a _patio_. It was a poor little

_patio_, without marble floor and without fountains, but white as snow

and fresh as a garden. As I saw neither tables nor chairs, I feared I

had mistaken the door and started to go out. A little old woman bustled

out from I know not where and stopped me.

"Have you anything to eat?" I demanded.

"Yes, sir," she answered.

"What have you?"

"Eggs, sausages, chops, peaches, oranges, and wine of Malaga."

"Very good: you may bring everything you have."

She commenced by bringing me a table and a chair, and I sat down and

waited. Suddenly I heard a door open behind me and turned.... Angels

of heaven! what a sight I saw!--the most beautiful of all the most

beautiful Andalusians, not only of those whom I saw at Cordova, but

of all those whom I afterward saw at Seville, Cadiz, and Granada: if

I may be allowed to use the word, a superb girl, who would make one

flee or commit some deviltry; one of those faces which make you cry,

"O poor me!" like Giuseppe Baretti when he was travelling in Spain.

For some moments she stood motionless with her eyes fixed on mine as

if to say, "Admire me;" then she turned toward the kitchen and cried,

"_Tia, despachate!_" ("Hurry up, aunty!") This gave me an opportunity

of thanking her with a stammering tongue, and gave her a pretence for

approaching me and replying, "It is nothing," with a voice so gentle

that I was obliged to offer her a chair, whereupon she sat down. She

was a girl about twenty years old, tall, straight as a palm, and dark,

with two great eyes full of sweetness, lustrous and humid as though she

had just been in tears: she wore a mass of wavy jet-black hair with a

rose among her locks. She seemed like one of the Arabian virgins of the

tribe of the Usras for whom men died of love.

She herself opened the conversation:

"You are a foreigner, I should think, sir?"

"Yes."

"French?"

"Italian."

"Italian? A fellow-countryman of the king?"

"Yes."

"Do you know him, sir?"

"By sight!"

"They say he is a handsome young fellow."

I did not answer, and she began to laugh, and asked me, "What are you

looking at, sir?" and, still laughing, she hid her foot, which on

taking her seat she thrust well forward that I might see it. Ah! there

is not a woman in that country who does not know that the feet of the

Andalusians are famous throughout the world.

I seized the opportunity of turning the conversation upon the fame of

the Andalusian women, and expressed my admiration in the most fervent

words of my vocabulary. She allowed me to talk on, looking with great

attention at the crack in the table, then raising her face, she asked

me, "And in Italy, how are the women there?"

"Oh, there are beautiful women in Italy too."

"But ... they are cold?"

"Oh no, not at all," I hastened to respond; "but, you know, ... in

every country the women have an _I-know-not-what_ which distinguishes

them from the women of all other countries; and among them all the

_I-know-not-what_ of the Andalusians is probably the most dangerous for

a poor traveller whose hairs have not turned gray. There is a word to

express what I mean: if I could remember it, I would say it to you; I

would say, "_Señorita_, you are the most ..."

"_Salada_," exclaimed the girl, covering her face with her hands.

"_Salada!_ ... the most _salada_ Andalusian in Cordova."

_Salada_ is the word commonly used in Andalusia to describe a woman

beautiful, charming, affectionate, languid, ardent, what you will--a

woman with two lips which say, "Drink me," and two eyes which make one

close one's teeth.

The aunt brought me the eggs, chops, sausage, and oranges, and the girl

continued the conversation: "Sir, you are an Italian: have you seen the

Pope?"

"No, I am sorry to say."

"Is it possible? An Italian who has not seen the Pope! And tell me,

sir: why do the Italians make him suffer so much?"

"Suffer in what way?"

"Yes. They say that they have shut him up in his house and thrown

stones at the windows."

"Oh no! Don't believe it! There is not a particle of truth in it,"

etc., etc.

"Have you seen Venice, sir?"

"Venice? oh yes."

"Is it true that it is a city which floats on the sea?"

And here she made a thousand requests that I would describe Venice,

and that I would tell her what the people were like in that strange

city, and what they do all the day long, and how they dress. And while

I was talking besides the pains I took to express myself with a little

grace, and to eat meanwhile the badly-cooked eggs and stale sausage--I

was obliged to see her draw nearer and nearer to me, that she might

hear me better perhaps, without being conscious of the act. She came

so close that I could smell the fragrance of the rose in her hair and

feel her warm breath; I was obliged, I may say, to make three efforts

at once--one with my head, another with my stomach, and a third with

both--especially when, now and then, she would say, "How beautiful!"--a

compliment which applied to the Grand Canal, but which had upon me the

effect a bag full of napoleons might have upon a beggar if swung under

his nose by an insolent banker.

"Ah, señorita!" I said at last, beginning to lose patience, "what

matters it, after all, whether cities are beautiful or not? Those who

are born in them think nothing of it, and the traveller still less. I

arrived at Cordova yesterday: it is a beautiful city, without doubt.

Well--will you believe it?--I have already forgotten all that I have

seen; I no longer wish to see anything; I do not even know what city I

am in. Palaces, mosques, they make me laugh. When you have a consuming

fire in your heart, do you go to the mosque to quench it?--Excuse me,

will you move back a little?--When you feel such a madness that you

could grind up a plate with your teeth, do you go to look at palaces?

Believe me, the traveller's life is a sad one. It is a penance of the

hardest sort. It is torture. It is...." A prudent blow with her fan

closed my mouth, which was going too far both in words and action. I

attacked the chop.

"Poor fellow!" murmured the Andalusian with a laugh after she had given

a glance around. "Are all the Italians as ardent as you?"

"How should I know? Are all the Andalusians as beautiful as you?"

The girl laid her hand on the table.

"Take that hand away," I said.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because I want to eat in peace."

"Eat with one hand."

"Ah!"

I seemed to be pressing the little hand of a girl of six; my knife fell

to the ground; a dark veil settled upon the chop.

Suddenly my hand was empty: I opened my eyes, saw the girl all

disturbed, and looked behind me. Gracious Heavens! There was a handsome

young fellow, with a stylish little jacket, tight breeches, and a

velvet cap. Oh terrors! a _torero_! I gave a start as if I had felt two

_banderillas de fuego_ planted in my neck.

"I see it at a glance," said I to myself, like the man at the comedy;

and one could not fail to understand. The girl, slightly embarrassed,

made the introduction: "An Italian passing through Cordova," and she

hastened to add, "who wants to know when the train leaves for Seville."

The _torero_, who had frowned at first sight of me, was reassured,

told me the hour of departure, sat down, and entered into a friendly

conversation. I asked for the news of the last bull-fight at Cordova:

he was a _banderillero_, and he gave me a minute description of the

day's sport. The girl in the mean time was gathering flowers from the

vases in the _patio_. I finished my meal, offered a glass of Malaga to

the _torero_, drank to the fortunate planting of all his _banderillas_,

paid my bill (three _pesetas_, which included the beautiful eyes,

you understand), and then, putting on a bold front, so as to dispel

the least shadow of suspicion from the mind of my formidable rival,

I said to the girl, "_Señorita!_ one can refuse nothing to those who

are taking leave. To you I am like a dying man; you will never see

me again; you will never hear my name spoken: then let me take some

memento; give me that bunch of flowers."

"Take it," said the girl; "I picked it for you."

She glanced at the _torero_, who gave a nod of approval.

"I thank you with all my heart," I replied as I turned to leave. They

both accompanied me to the door.

"Have you bull-fights in Italy?" asked the young man.

"Oh heavens! no, not yet!"

"Too bad! Try to make them popular in Italy also, and I will come to

_banderillar_ at Rome."

"I will do all in my power.--_Señorita_, have the goodness to tell me

your name, so that I may bid you good-bye."

"Consuelo."

"God be with you, Consuelo!"

"God be with you, _Señor Italiano_!"

And I went out into the lonely little street.

There are no remarkable Arabian monuments to be seen in the

neighborhood of Cordova, although at one time the whole valley was

covered with magnificent buildings. Three miles to the south of the

city, on the side of the mountain, rose the Medina Az-Zahra, the

city of flowers, one of the most marvellous architectural works of

the caliph Abdurrahman, begun by the caliph himself in honor of his

favorite Az-Zahra. The foundations were laid in the year 936, and ten

thousand workmen labored on the edifice for twenty-five years. The

Arabian poets celebrated Medina Az-Zahra as the most splendid of royal

palaces and the most delightfullyl garden in the world. It was not an

edifice, but a vast chain of palaces, gardens, courts, colonnades,

and towers. There were rare plants from Syria--the fantastic playing

of lofty fountains, streams of water flowing in the shade of palm

trees, and great basins overflowing with quicksilver, which reflected

the rays of the sun like lakes of fire; doors of ebony and ivory

studded with gems; thousands of columns of the most precious marbles;

great airy balconies; and between the innumerable multitudes of

statues twelve images of animals of massy gold, gleaming with pearls,

sprinkling sweetened water from their mouths and noses. In this vast

palace swarmed thousands of servants, slaves, and women, and hither

from every part of the world came poets and musicians. And yet this

same Abdurrahman III., who lived among all these delights, who reigned

for fifty years, who was powerful, glorious, and fortunate in every

circumstance and enterprise, wrote before his death that during his

long reign he had been happy only fourteen days, and his fabulous city

of flowers seventy-four years after the laying of its first stone was

invaded, sacked, and burned by a barbarian horde, and to-day there

remain only a few stones which hardly recall its name.

Of another splendid city, called Zahira, which rose to the east of

Cordova, built by the powerful Almansur, governor of the kingdom, not

even the ruins remain: a handful of rebels laid it in ashes a little

while after the death of its founder.

"All returns to the great ancient mother."

Instead of taking a drive around Cordova, I simply wandered here and

there, weaving fancies from the names of the streets, which to me is

one of the greatest pleasures in which a traveller may indulge in a

foreign city. Cordova, _alma ingeniorum parens_, could write at every

street-corner the name of an artist or an illustrious author born

within her walls; to give her due honor, she has remembered them all

with maternal gratitude. You find the little square of Seneca and the

house where he may have been born; the street of Ambrosio Morales,

the historian of Charles V., who continued the _Chronicle General of

Spain_ commenced by Florian d'Ocampo; the street of Pablo de Cespedes,

painter, architect, sculptor, antiquary, and the author of a didactic

poem, "The Art of Painting," unfortunately not finished, though adorned

with splendid passages. He was an ardent enthusiast of Michelangelo,

whose works he had admired in Italy, and in his poem he addressed a

hymn of praise to him which is one of the most beautiful passages in

Spanish poetry, and, in spite of myself, the last verses have slipped

from my pen, which every Italian, even if he does not know the sister

language, can appreciate and understand. He believes, he tells the

reader, that one cannot find the perfection of painting anywhere except

"Que en aquela escelente obra espantosa

Mayor de cuantas se han jamas pintado,

Que hizo el Buonarrota de su mano

Divina, en el etrusco Vaticano!

"Cual nuevo Prometeo en alto vuelo

Alzándose, estendiò los alas tanto,

Que puesto encima el estrellado cielo

Una parte alcanzò del fuego santo;

Con que tornando enriquecido al suelo

Con nueva maravilla y nuevo espanto,

Diò vida con eternos resplandores

À marmoles, à bronces, à colores.

¡O mas que mortal hombre! ¿Angel divino

O cual te nomaré? No humano cierto

Es tu ser, que del cerco empireo vino

Al estilo y pincel vida y concierto:

Tu monstraste à los hombres el camino

Por mil edades escondido, incierto

De la reina virtud; a ti se debe

Honra que en cierto dia el sol renueve."

"In that excellent marvellous work, greater than all that has ever been

painted, which Buonarroti made with his divine hand in the Etruscan

Vatican!

"Look how the new Prometheus, rising in lofty flight, extends his

wings so wide that above the starry sky he has obtained a part of

the celestial fire; with it, returning, he enriched the earth with

new marvels and new surprises, giving life, with eternal splendors,

to marble, bronze, and colors. More than mortal man! angel divine!

or what shall I call thee? Surely thou art not human, who from the

empyrean circle came, bringing life and harmony to chisel and brush!

Thou hast shown men the road hidden for a thousand ages, uncertain of

the sovereign virtue; to thee belongs honor which one day the sun will

bestow."

Murmuring these lines, I came out into the street of Juan de Mena,

the Ennius of Spain, as his compatriots call him, the author of a

phantasmagorial poem called "The Labyrinth," an imitation of _The

Divina Commedia_ very famous in its day, and in truth not without

some pages of inspired and noble poetry, but, on the whole, cold and

overloaded with pedantic mysticism. John II., king of Castile, went mad

over this "Labyrinth," kept it beside the missal in his cabinet, and

carried it with him to the hunt; but witness the caprice of a king! The

poem had only three hundred stanzas, and to John II. this number seemed

too small, and do you know the reason? It was this: the year contains

three hundred and sixty-five days, and it seemed to him that there

ought to be as many stanzas in the poem as there are days in the year,

and so he besought the poet to compose sixty-five other stanzas, and

the poet complied with his request--most cheerfully, the flatterer!--to

gain an occasion for flattering still more, although he had already

flattered his sovereign to the extent of asking him to correct the poem.

From the street of Juan de Mena I passed into the street of Gongora,

the Marini of Spain, and no less a genius than he, but perhaps one

who corrupted the literature of his country even more than Marini

corrupted that of Italy, for he spoiled, abused, and corrupted the

language in a thousand ways: for this reason Lope de Vega wittily

makes a poet of the Gongorist school ask one of his hearers, "Do you

understand me?"--"Yes," he replies; and the poet retorts, "You lie! for

I do not even understand myself." But Lope himself is not entirely free

from Gongorism, for he has the courage to write that Tasso was only the

rising of Marini's sun; nor is Calderon entirely free of it, nor some

other great men. But enough of poetry: I must not digress.

After the siesta I hunted up my two companions, who took me through

the suburbs of the city, and here, for the first time, I saw men and

women of the true Andalusian type as I had imagined them, with eyes,

coloring, and attitudes like the Arabians, and here too, for the first

time, I heard the real speech of the Andalusian people, softer and more

musical than in the Castiles, and also gayer and more imaginative,

and accompanied by livelier gestures. I asked my companions whether

that report about Andalusia is true, affirming that with their early

physical development vice is more common, manners more voluptuous, and

passion less restrained. "Too true," they replied, giving explanations,

descriptions, and citing cases which I forbear to repeat. On returning

to the city they took me to a splendid casino, with gardens and

magnificent rooms, in one of which, the largest and richest, adorned

with paintings of all the illustrious men of Cordova, rises a sort of

stage where the poets stand to read their works on evenings appointed

for public contests of genius; and the victors receive a laurel crown

from the hands of the most beautiful and cultured girls in the city,

who, crowned with roses, look on from a semi-circle of seats. That

evening I had the pleasure of meeting several young Cordovese ardently

attached, as they say in Spain, to the cultivation of the Muses--frank,

courteous, and vivacious, with a medley of verses in their heads,

and a smattering of Italian literature; and so imagine how from dusk

to midnight, through those mysterious streets, which from the first

evening had made my head whirl, there was a constant, noisy interchange

of sonnets, hymns, and ballads in the two languages, from Petrarch to

Prati, from Cervantes to Zorilla; and a delightful conversation closed

and sealed by many cordial hand-clasps and eager promises to write, to

send books, to come to Italy, to visit Spain again, etc. etc.--merely

words, as is always the case, but words not less dear on that account.

In the morning I left for Seville. At the station I saw Frascuelo,

Lagartijo, Cuco, and the whole band of _toreros_ from Madrid, who

saluted me with a benevolent look of protection. I hurried into a dusty

carriage, and as the train moved off and my eyes rested on Cordova

for the last time, I bade the city adieu in the lines of the Arabian

poet--a little too tropical, if you will, for the taste of a European,

but, after all, admirable for the occasion:

"Adieu, Cordova! Would that my life were as long as Noah's, that I

might live for ever within thy walls! Would that I had the treasures

of Pharaoh, to spend them upon wine and the beautiful women of Cordova

with the gentle eyes which invite kisses!"