MALAGA.

The next day, at sunset, the vessel was passing through the Straits of

Gibraltar.

Now, as I look at that point on the map, it seems so near home that

when I am in the humor and my domestic finances permit I ought not to

hesitate a moment to pack my valise and run down to Genoa on my way

to enjoy a second time the most beautiful sight of two continents.

But then it seemed to be so far away that when I had written a letter

to my mother on the rail of the ship, intending to give it to one of

the passengers for Gibraltar to post, as I was writing the address I

laughed at my confidence, as if it were impossible for a letter to

travel all the way to Turin. "From here!" I thought--"from the Pillars

of Hercules!" and I pronounced the Pillars of Hercules as if I had said

the Cape of Good Hope or Japan.

"... I am on the ship Guadaira: behind me is the ocean, and in front

the Mediterranean, on the left Europe and on the right Africa. On this

side I see the cape of Tarifa, and on that the mountains of the African

coast, which look indistinct like a gray cloud; I see Ceuta, and a

little beyond it Tangiers like a white spot, and in a direct line with

the ship rises the Rock of Gibraltar. The sea is as placid as a lake,

and the sky is red and gold; all is serene, beautiful, and magnificent,

and I feel in my mind an inexpressible and delightful stirring of great

thoughts, which, if I could put them into words, would become a joyful

prayer beginning and ending with thy name...."

The vessel stopped in the Gulf of Algeciras: the entire company of

singers got into a large boat from Gibraltar, and went off, waving fans

and handkerchiefs as a parting salute. It was growing dark when the

boat started again. Then I was able to measure the enormous mass of the

Rock of Gibraltar at every turn. At first I thought we should leave

it behind in a few moments, but the moments became hours. Gradually,

as we approached, it towered above us, and presented a new appearance

every instant--now the silhouette of some measureless monster, now the

image of an immense staircase, now the outline of a fantastic castle,

now a shapeless mass like a monstrous aërolite fallen from a world

shivered in a battle of the spheres. Then, on nearer view, behind a

high rock like an Egyptian pyramid, there came into sight a great

projection as large as a mountain, with fissures and broken boulders

and vast curves which lost themselves in the plain. It was night; the

rock stood outlined against the moonlit sky as clear and sharp as a

sheet of black paper on a pane of glass. One saw the lighted windows

of the English barracks, the sentry-boxes on the summit of the dizzy

crags, and a dim outline of trees which seemed little larger than a

tuft of grass among the nearest rocks. For a long time the boat seemed

motionless or else the rock was receding, so close and threatening did

it always appear; then, little by little, it began to diminish, but our

eyes were weary of gazing before the rock grew weary of threatening us

with its fantastic transformations. At midnight I gave a final salute

to that formidable, lifeless sentinel of Europe, and went to wrap

myself up in my little corner.

At break of day I awoke a few miles from the port of Malaga.

The city of Malaga, seen from the port, presents a pleasing appearance

not wholly without grandeur. On the right is a high rocky mountain,

upon the top of which and down one side, even to the plain, are the

enormous blackened ruins of the castle of Gibralfaro, and on the

lower slopes stands the cathedral towering majestically above all the

surrounding buildings, lifting toward heaven, as an inspired poet might

say, two beautiful towers and a very high belfry. Between the castle

and the church and on the face and sides of the mountain there is a

mass--a _canaille_, as Victor Hugo would say--of smoky little houses,

placed confusedly one above the other, as if they had been thrown down

from above like stones. To the left of the cathedral, along the shore,

is a row of houses, gray, violet, or pale yellow in color, with white

window-and door-frames, that suggest the villages along the Ligurian

Riviera. Beyond rises a circle of green and reddish hills enclosing the

city like the walls of an amphitheatre, and to the right and left along

the sea-shore extend other mountains, hills, and rocks as far as the

eye can see. The port was almost deserted, the shore silent, and the

sky very blue.

Before landing I took my leave of the captain, who was going on to

Marseilles, said good-bye to the boatswain and passengers, telling them

all that I should arrive at Valencia a day ahead of the boat, and I

should certainly join them again and go on to Barcelona and Marseilles,

and the captain replied, "We shall look for you," and the steward

promised that my place should be saved for me. How often since then

have I remembered the last words of those poor people!

[Illustration: _Malaga_]

I stopped at Malaga with the intention of leaving that same evening

for Granada. The city itself offers nothing worthy of note, excepting

the new part, which occupies a tract of land formerly covered by

the sea. This is built up in the modern style, with wide, straight

streets and large, bare houses. The rest of the city is a labyrinth

of narrow, winding streets and a mass of houses without color,

without _patios_, and without grace. There are some spacious squares

with gardens and fountains; columns and arches of Moorish buildings, no

modern monuments; a great deal of dirt, and not a great many people.

The environs are very beautiful, and the climate is milder than that of

Seville.

I had a friend at Malaga, and after finding him we passed the day

together. He told me a curious fact: At Malaga there is a literary

academy of more than eight hundred members, where they celebrate the

birthdays of all the great writers, and hold twice a week a public

lecture on some subject connected with literature or science. That same

evening they were to celebrate a solemn function. Some months earlier

the academy had offered a prize of three golden flowers, enamelled

in different colors, to the three poets who should compose the best

ode on "Progress," the best ballad on the "Recovery of Malaga," and

the best satire on one of the most prevalent vices of modern society.

The invitation had been extended to all the poets of Spain; poems had

poured in in abundance; a board of judges had secretly considered them;

and that very evening the choice was to be announced. The ceremony was

to be conducted with great pomp. The bishop, the governor, the admiral,

the most conspicuous personages of the city, with dress-coats, orders,

and shoulder-scarfs, and a great number of ladies in evening dress,

were to be present. The three most beautiful Muses of the city were

to present themselves on a sort of stage adorned with garlands and

flags, each of whom was to open the roll containing the prize poem

and to proclaim three times the name of its author: if the author

were present, he was to be invited to read his verses and receive his

flower; if he were not present, his verses were to be read for him.

Throughout the whole city they talked of nothing but the academy,

guessed the names of the victors, predicted the wonders of the three

poems, and extolled the decorations of the hall. This festival of

poetry, called the _juegos floreales_, had not been celebrated for ten

years. Others may judge whether such contests and displays benefit or

injure poets and poetry. As for me, whatever may be the dubious and

fleeting literary glory which is bestowed by the sentence of the jury

and the homage of a bishop and a governor, I believe that to receive

the gift of a golden flower from the hand of a most beautiful woman

under the eyes of five hundred fair Andalusians, to the sound of soft

music and amid the perfume of jessamine and roses, that would be a

delight even truer and more lively than any which comes from real and

enduring glory. No? Ah! we are sincere.

One of my first thoughts was to taste a little of the genuine Malaga

wine, for no other reason than to repay myself for the many headaches

and stomachaches caused by the miserable concoctions sold in many

Italian cities under the false recommendation of its name. But either

I did not know how to ask or they did not wish to understand: the

fact remains that the wine they gave me at the hotel burned my throat

and made my head spin. I was not able to walk straight even to the

cathedral, or from the cathedral to the castle of Gibralfaro, or to

the other places, nor could I form an idea of the beauties of Malaga

without seeing them double and unsteadily, as some spiteful person

might suppose.

On our walk my friend talked to me about the famous Republican people

of Malaga, who are every moment doing something on their own account.

They are a very fiery people, but fickle and yet tractable, like all

people who feel much and think little; and they act upon the impulse

of passion rather than the strength of conviction. The least trifle

calls together an immense crowd and stirs up a tumult that turns

the city topsy-turvy; but on most occasions a resolute act of a man

in authority, an exhibition of courage, or a burst of eloquence is

sufficient to quiet the tumult and disperse the crowd. The nature of

the people is good on the whole, but superstition and passion have

perverted them. And, above all, superstition is perhaps more firmly

entrenched in Malaga than in any other city of Andalusia, by reason

of the greater popular ignorance. Altogether, Malaga was the least

Andalusian of the cities I had seen: even the very language has been

corrupted, and they speak worse Spanish than at Cadiz, where, forsooth!

they speak badly enough.

I was still at Malaga, but my imagination was far away among the

streets of Granada and in the gardens of the Alhambra and the

Generalife. Shortly after the noon hour I took my leave from the only

city in Spain, to tell the truth, that I left without a sigh of regret.

When the train started, instead of turning for a last look, as I had

done in all of its sister towns, I murmured the verses sung by Giovanni

Prati at Granada when the duke d'Aosta was leaving for Spain:

"Non più Granata è sola

Sulle sur mute pietre;

L'inno in Alhambra vola

Sulle Moresche cetre."

(_No more does Granada stand alone on her silent stones: the hymn flies

to the Alhambra on Moorish lyres._)

* * * * *

And now, as I write them again, it seems to me that the music of the

band of the National Guard of Turin inspires peace and gladness more

even surely than Moorish lyres, and that the pavement of the porticoes

of the Po, although it be ever so silent, is better laid and smoother

than the stones of Granada.