CADIZ.

That was the most delightful evening of all my journey.

A little while after the ship had commenced to move there sprang up one

of those gentle breezes which played with one as an infant plays with

one's cravat or a lock of one's hair, and from stem to stern there was

a sound of the voices of women and children, like that which one hears

among a group of friends at the first crack of the whip announcing

their departure for a merry outing. All the passengers gathered at the

stern in the shade of a gayly-colored awning like a Chinese pavilion:

some were sitting on coils of rope, others were stretched at full

length on the benches, others were leaning against the rail--every one

looked back in the direction of the Torre del Oro to enjoy the famous

and enchanting spectacle of Seville as it faded away in the distance.

Some of the women had not yet dried the tears of parting, and some of

the children were still a little frightened by the sound of the engine.

And some ladies were still quarrelling with the porters for abusing

their baggage; but in a few moments all was serene again, and the

passengers began to peel oranges, light cigars, pass little flasks of

liquor, converse with their unknown neighbors, sing and laugh, and in a

quarter of an hour we were all friends.

The boat glided along as smoothly as a gondola over the still, limpid

waters, which reflected the white dresses of the ladies like a mirror,

and the breeze brought the delightful fragrance from the orange-groves

of the villas scattered along the shore. Seville was hidden behind

her circle of gardens, and we saw only an immense mass of trees of

vivid green, and above them the black pile of the cathedral and the

rose-colored Giralda surmounted by its statue flaming like a tongue

of fire. As the distance widened the cathedral appeared grander and

more majestic, as if it were following the vessel and gaining upon

her: now, although still following, it seemed to retire a great way

from the shore; now it would seem to be spanning the river; one

moment it would appear suddenly to return to its place; a moment

later it looked so close that we suspected the boat had turned back.

The Guadalquivir wound along in short curves, and as the boat turned

this way and that Seville appeared and disappeared, now peeping out

in one place as if it had stolen beyond its boundaries, now raising

its head suddenly behind a wood, gleaming like a snowclad mountain,

now revealing some white streaks here and there amid the verdure, and

suddenly disappearing from view and performing all sorts of fantastic

wiles, like a coquettish woman. Finally it disappeared and we saw it

no more: the cathedral alone remained. Then every one turned to look

at the shore. We seemed to be sailing on the lake of a garden. Here

was a hillside clothed with cypresses, here a hilltop all covered

with flowers, yonder a village extending along the shore, and under

the garden trellises and along the terraces of the villas sat ladies

looking at us with spy-glasses; and here and there were peasants'

families in brightly-colored dresses, sail-boats; and naked boys who

plunged into the water and turned sommersaults, frisked about, shouted,

and waved their hands toward the ladies on the boat, who covered their

faces with their fans. Some miles from Seville we met three steamboats,

one after the other. The first came upon us so suddenly at a turn of

the river that, having had no experience in that sort of navigation,

I was afraid, for a moment, that we should not have time to avoid a

collision; the two boats almost grazed each other in passing, and the

passengers of each saluted each other and threw across oranges and

cigars, and charged each other with messages to be borne to Cadiz or

Seville.

My fellow-voyagers were almost all Andalusians, and so, after an

hour of conversation, I knew them from first to last as well as if

we had all been friends from infancy. Every one instantly told every

one else, whether he wanted to know it or not, who he was, his age,

occupation, and where he was going, and one even went so far as to tell

how many sweethearts he had and how many pesetas were in his purse. I

was taken for a singer; and this is not strange if one considers that

in Spain the people think three-fourths of the Italians are trained to

sing, dance, or declaim. One gentleman, noticing that I had an Italian

book in my hand, asked me, point-blank, "Where did you leave the

company?"

"What company?" I demanded.

"Weren't you singing with Fricci at the Zarzuela?"

"I am sorry, but I have never appeared on the stage."

"Well, I must say, then, that you and the second tenor look as much

alike as two drops of water."

"You don't say so?"

"Pray excuse me."

"It's of no consequence."

"But you are an Italian?"

"Yes."

"Do you sing?"

"I am sorry, but I do not sing."

"How strange! To judge by your throat and breast, I should have said

that you must have a splendid tenor voice."

I put my hand to my chest and neck, and replied, "It may be so; I will

try--one never knows. I have two of the necessary qualifications: I am

an Italian and have the throat of a tenor; the voice ought to follow."

At this point the prima donna of the company, who had overheard the

dialogue, entered the conversation, and after her the entire company:

"Is the gentleman an Italian?"

"At your service, madam."

"I ask the question because I wish him to do me a favor. What is the

meaning of those short verses from _Il Trovatore_ which run--

"Non può nemmeno un Dio

Donna rapirti a me."

(Not even a god can steal my lady from me.)

"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.

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.

[Illustration: _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.