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—

"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—

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.