The journey from Granada to Valencia, made all de un tiron (at one breath), as they say in Spain, is one of those recreations in which a rational man indulges only once in his life. From Granada to Menjibar, a village on the left bank of the Guadalquivir, between Jaen and Andujar, is a night's ride by diligence; from Menjibar to the Alcazar de San Juan is a half-day's journey by railway in an uncurtained carriage, through a plain as bare as the palm of one's hand, under a blazing sun; and from the Alcazar de San Juan to Valencia, taking account of an entire evening spent in the station of the Alcazar, makes another night and another morning before one reaches the longed-for city at noon, where Nature, as Emile Praga would say, is horrified at the dreadful idea that there are still four months of summer.

But it must be said that the country through which one passes is so beautiful from beginning to the end that if one were capable of appreciation when one is dead with sleep and finds one's self turning into water by reason of the heat, one would go into ecstasies a thousand times. It is a journey of unexpected landscapes, sudden vistas, remarkable contrasts, theatrical effects of Nature, so to speak—marvellous and fantastic transformations, which leave in the mind an indescribable, vague illusion of having passed not through a part of Spain, but along an entire meridian of the earth across the most dissimilar countries. From the vega of Granada, which you cross in the moonlight, almost opening a way among the groves and gardens, in the midst of a luxuriant vegetation that seems to crowd around you like a tossing sea, ready to overflow and engulf you with its billows of verdure,—from this you emerge into the midst of ragged and precipitous mountains, where not a trace of human habitation is to be seen; you graze the edge of precipices, wind along the banks of mountain-torrents, run along at the bottom of the ravines, and seem to be lost in a rocky labyrinth. Then you come out a second time among the green hills and flowery fields of upper Andalusia, and then, all suddenly, the fields and hills disappear and you find yourself in the midst of the rocky mountains of the Sierra Morena, that hang over your head from every direction and close the horizon all around like the walls of an immense abyss. You leave the Sierra Morena, and the desert plains of La Mancha stretch before you; you leave La Mancha and advance through the flowery plain of Almansa, varied by every sort of cultivation, presenting the appearance of a vast carpet of checkered pattern colored in all the shades of green that can be found upon the pallet of a landscape-painter. And, finally, the plain of Almansa opens into a delightful oasis, a land blest of God, a true earthly paradise, the kingdom of Valencia, from whose boundaries, even to the city itself, you pass through gardens, vineyards, fragrant orange-groves, white villas encircled by terraces, cheerful, brightly-colored villages, clusters, avenues, and groves of palms, pomegranates, aloes, and sugar-canes, interminable hedges of Indian fig, long chains of low hills, and conical mounds cultivated as kitchen-gardens and flower-beds, laid out with minute care from top to bottom, and variegated like great bunches of grass and flowers; and everywhere a vigorous vegetation which hides every bare spot, covers every height, clothes every projection, climbs, falls, trails along, marches forward, overflows, intertwines, shuts off the view, impedes the road, dazzles with its verdure, wearies with its beauty, confounds with its caprices and its frolics, and produces an effect as of a sudden parting of the earth raised to fever heat by the fires of a secret volcano.

The first building which meets the eye on entering Valencia is an immense bull-ring situated to the right of the railway. The building consists of four orders of superimposed arches rising on stout pilasters, all of brick, and in the distance resembling the Colosseum. It is the bull-ring where on the fourth of September, 1871, King Amadeus, in the presence of thousands of spectators, shook hands with Tato, the celebrated one-legged torero, who as director of the spectacle had asked permission to render his homage in the royal box. Valencia is full of mementos of the duke d'Aosta. The sacristan of the cathedral has in his possession a gold chronometer bearing the duke's initials in diamonds, with a chain of pearls, which was presented by him when he went to pray in the chapel of Our Lady of the Desolate. In the hospice of the same name the poor remember that one day they received their daily bread from his hand. In the mosaic workshop of one Nolla they preserve two bricks, upon one of which he cut his own name with his sword, and upon the other the name of the queen. In the Plaza di Tetuan the people point out the house of Count di Cervellon, where he was entertained; it is the same house in which Ferdinand VII. signed the decrees annulling the constitution in 1814, in which Queen Christina abdicated the throne in 1840, in which Queen Isabella spent some days in 1858. In short, there is not a corner of the city of which it cannot be said, Here he shook hands with a working-man, here he visited a factory, there he passed on foot far from his suite, surrounded by a crowd, trustful, serene, and smiling.

It was in Valencia, since I am speaking of the duke d'Aosta,—it was in the city of Valencia that a little girl of five years in reciting some verses touched upon that terrible subject of a foreign king with probably the noblest and most considerate words spoken in Spain for many years previous to that time—words which, if all Spain had remembered and pondered then, would perhaps have spared her many of those calamities which have befallen her, and others which still threaten; words which perhaps one day some Spaniard may repeat with a sigh, and which already at this time draw from events a marvellous light of truth and beauty. And, since these verses are graceful and simple, I transcribe them here. The poem is entitled "God and the King," and runs as follows:

"God, Ruler over all, created mortals one day, and made all equal with His mighty hand. He recognized neither nations nor colors nor divisions, and to behold men happy was His desire. The king, who is His image, ought to imitate His goodness, and the people have no need to ask whether he be German or French. Why, then, with angry frown repulse him if he be good? A king abounding in good deeds holds the world as his country. Charles V., the emperor, came from a foreign nation, and by his valor won a thousand laurels for Spain. And the fortunate reign of Philip the Courageous is a glorious memory even though founded upon war.

"To-day a third king rules you born on a foreign soil, who comes to look upon our sky, a clear spark of God. His love is true and just and loyal to the light of our sun, and this is a good and liberal king Spanish people adore. And around your brows you shall wear the trophy of perpetual glory upon which history shall write, 'Great was King Amadeus.'"

Oh, poor little girl! how many wise things you have said! and how many foolish things others have done!

The city of Valencia, if one enters it with one's mind full of the ballads in which the poets sang of its marvels, does not seem to correspond to the lovely image formed of it; neither, on the other hand, does it offer that sinister appearance for which one is prepared if one considers its just fame as a turbulent, warlike city, the fomenter of civil strife—a city prouder of the smell of its powder than of the fragrance of its orange-groves. It is a city built in the midst of a vast flowery plain on the right bank of the Guadalquivir, which separates it from the suburbs, a little way from the roadstead which serves as a port, and consists all of tortuous streets lined with high, ungainly, many-colored houses, and on this account less pleasing in appearance than the streets of the Andalusian cities, and entirely devoid of that evasive Oriental grace which so strangely stirs one's fancy. Along the left bank of the river extends a magnificent promenade formed of majestic avenues and beautiful gardens. These one reaches by going out of the city through the gate of the Cid, a structure flanked by two great embattled towers named after the hero because he passed through it in 1094 after he had expelled the Moors from Valencia. The cathedral, built upon the spot where stood a temple of Diana in Roman times, then a church of San Salvador in the time of the Goths, then a mosque in Moorish times, afterward converted into a church by the Cid, changed a second time into a mosque by the Moors in 1101, and for the third time into a church by King Don Jayme after the final overthrow of the invaders, is a vast structure, exceedingly rich in ornaments and treasures, but it cannot bear comparison with the greater number of the other Spanish cathedrals. There are a few palaces worth seeing, besides the palace of the Audiencia, a beautiful monument of the sixteenth century in which the Cortes of the kingdom of Valencia assembled; the Casa de Ayuntamiento, built between the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, in which are preserved the sword of Don Jayme, the keys of the city, and the banner of the Moors; and, above all, the Lonja—the Bourse of the merchants—notable for its celebrated hall consisting of three great naves divided by twenty-four spiral columns, above which curve the light arches of the vaulted roof in bold lines, the architecture imparting to the eye a pleasing impression of gayety and harmony. And, finally, there is the art-gallery, which is not one of the least in Spain.

But, to tell the truth, in those few days that I remained at Valencia waiting for the boat I was more occupied by politics than by art. And I proved the truth of the words I heard an illustrious Italian say before I left Italy—one who knew Spain like his his own home: "The foreigner who lives even for a short time in Spain is drawn little by little, almost insensibly, to heat his blood and muddle his brain over politics, as if Spain were his own country or as if the fortunes of his country were depending upon those of Spain. The passions are so inflamed, the struggle is so furious, and in this struggle there is always so clearly at stake the future, the safety, and the life of the nation, that it is impossible for any one with the least tinge of the Latin blood in his imagination and his system to remain an indifferent spectator. You must needs grow excited, speak at party meetings, take the elections seriously, mingle with the crowd at the political demonstrations, break with your friends, form a clique of those who think as you think—make, in a word, a Spaniard of yourself, even to the whites of your eyes. And gradually, as you become Spanish, you forget Europe, as if it were at the antipodes, and end in seeing nothing beyond Spain, as if you were governing it, and as if all its interests were in your hands."

Such is the case, and this was my experience. In those few days the Conservative ministry was shipwrecked and the Radicals had the wind behind them. Spain was all in a ferment; governors, generals, officials of all grades and of all administrations fell; a crowd of parvenus burst into the offices of the ministry with cries of joy: Zorilla was to inaugurate a new era of prosperity and peace; Don Amadeus had had an inspiration from heaven; liberty had conquered; Spain was saved. And I, as I listened to the band playing in front of the new governor's mansion under a clear starry sky in the midst of a joyous crowd,—I too had a ray of hope that the throne of Don Amadeus might finally extend its roots, and reproached myself for being too prone to predict evil. And that comedy which Zorilla played at his villa when he would by no means accept the presidency of the ministry, and sent back his friends and the members of the deputation, and finally, tired of continually saying no, fell into a swoon on saying yes, this, I say, gave me at the time a high opinion of the firmness of his character and led me to augur happily for the new government. And I said to myself that it was a sin to leave Spain just when the horizon was clearing and the royal palace of Madrid was tinted rose-color. And I had already considered the plan of returning to Madrid that I might have the satisfaction of sending some consoling news to Italy, and so be pardoned for the imprudence of sending unvarnished accounts of the situation up to that time. And I repeated the verses of Prati:

(Oh what a destiny awaits thee, young eagle!) And, save a little bombast in the appellation, it seemed to me that they contained a prophecy, and I imagined meeting the poet in the Piazza Colonna at Rome and running toward him to offer my congratulations and press his hand....

The most beautiful sight in Valencia is the market. The Valencian peasants are the most artistic and bizarre in their dress of all the peasants of Spain. To cut a good figure in a group of maskers at one of our masquerades they need only enter the theatre dressed as they would be on a festival or market-day in the streets of Valencia and along the country roads. On first seeing them dressed in this style, one laughs, and cannot in any way be brought to believe that they are Spanish peasants. They have an indescribable air of Greeks, Bedouins, buffoons, tightrope-walkers, women partly undressed on their way to bed, the silent characters of a play not quite ready to make their appearance, or facetious people who wish to make themselves generally ridiculous. They wear a full white shirt that takes the place of a jacket; a parti-colored velvet waistcoat open at the breast; a pair of zouave linen breeches which do not reach the knee, looking like drawers and standing out like the skirts of a ballet-dancer; a red or blue sash around the waist; a sort of embroidered white woollen stockings that leave the knee bare; a pair of corded sandals like those of the Catalan peasants; and on their heads, which are almost all shaved like those of the Chinese, they wear a handkerchief, red, sky-blue, yellow, or white, bound around like a cornucopia, and knotted at the temples or at the nape of the neck. They sometimes wear small velvet hats similar in shape to those worn in the other provinces of Spain. When they go into the city they nearly all carry around their shoulders or on their arms, now like a shawl, now like a mantle, or again like a little cape, a woollen capa, long and narrow, in brightly-colored stripes in which white and red predominate, adorned with fringe and rosettes. One may easily imagine the appearance presented by a square where there are gathered some hundreds of men dressed after this fashion: it is a Carnival scene, a festival, a tumult of colors, that makes one feel as gay as a band of music; a spectacle at once clownish, pretty, imposing, and ridiculous, to which the haughty faces and the majestic bearing which distinguish the Valencian peasants add an air of gravity which heightens the extraordinary beauty of the scene.

If there is an insolent, lying proverb, it is that old Spanish one which says, "In Valencia flesh is grass, grass is water, men are women, and the women nothing." Leaving that part about the flesh and the grass, which is a pun, the men, especially those of the lower classes, are tall and robust, and have the bold appearance of the Catalans and Arragonese, with a livelier and more luminous expression of the eye; and the women, by the consent of all the Spaniards and of as many foreigners as have travelled in Spain, are the most classically beautiful in the country. The Valencians, who know that the eastern coast of the Peninsula was originally settled by Greeks and Carthaginians, say, "It is a clear case. The Grecian type of beauty has lingered here." I do not venture to say yes or no to this assertion, for to describe the beauty of the women of a city where one has passed only a few hours would seem to me like a license to be taken only by the compiler of a "Guide." But one can easily discover a decided difference between the Andalusian and Valencian types of beauty. The Valencian is taller, more robust, and fairer, with more regular features, gentler eyes, and a more matronly walk and carriage. She does not possess the bewitching air of the Andalusian, which makes it necessary to bite one's finger as if to subdue the sudden and alarming insurrection of one's capricious desires at sight of her; but the Valencian is a woman whom one regards with a feeling of calmer admiration, and while one looks one says, as La Harpe said of the Apollo Belvidere, "Notre tete se releve, notre maintien s'ennoblit," and instead of imagining a little Andalusian house to hide her from the eyes of the world, one longs for a marble palace to receive the ladies and cavaliers who will come to render her homage.

If one is to believe the rest of the Spaniards, the Valencian people are fierce and cruel beyond all imagination. If one wishes to get rid of an enemy, he finds an obliging man who for a few crowns undertakes the business with as much indifference as he would accept a commission to carry a letter to the post. A Valencian peasant who finds that he has a gun in his hands as he passes an unknown man in a lonely street says to his companion, "See if I can aim straight?" and takes aim and fires. This actually occurred not many years ago: I was assured of its truth. In the cities and villages of Spain the boys and young men of the people are accustomed to play at being bulls, as they call it. One takes the place of the bull and does the butting; another, with a sharp stick under his arm like a lance, climbs on the back of a third, who represents the horse, and repulses the assaults of the first. Once a band of young Valencians thought they would introduce some innovations into this sport, and so make it seem a little more realistic and afford the spectators and the participants a little more amusement than the customary way of playing it; and the innovations were to substitute for the stick a long sharp-pointed knife, one of those formidable navajas that we saw at Seville, and to give the man who took the part of the bull two other shorter knives, which, fastened firmly on either side of his head, answered the purpose of horns. It seems incredible, but it is true. They played with the knives, shed a sea of blood, several were killed, some were mortally wounded, and others badly hurt, without the game becoming a fight, without the rules of the sport being transgressed, and without any one raising his voice to end the slaughter.

I tell these things as they were told to me, although I am far from believing all that is said against the Valencians; but it is certain that at Valencia the public safety, if not a myth, as our papers poetically say in speaking of Romagna and Sicily, is certainly not the first of the good things which one enjoys after the blessing of life. I was persuaded of this fact the first evening of my stay in the city. I did not know the way to the port, but thought I was near it, and asked a shop-woman which way I should take. She uttered a cry of astonishment:

"Do you wish to go to the port, caballero?"

"Yes."

"Ave Maria purissima! to the port at this hour?"

And she turned toward a group of women who were standing by the door, and said to them in the Valencian dialect, "Women, do you answer for me: this gentleman is asking me the way to the port!"

The women replied in one voice, "God save him!"

"But from what?"

"Don't risk yourself, sir."

"What is your reason?"

"A thousand reasons."

"Tell me one of them?"

"You would be murdered."

One reason was enough for me, as any one can imagine, and I did not go to the port.

For the rest, at Valencia as elsewhere, in whatever intercourse I had with the people I met only with courtesy as a foreigner and as an Italian—a friendly welcome even among those who would not hear foreign kings discussed in general, and princes of the house of Savoy in particular, and such men were numerous, but they were courteous enough to say at once, "Let us not harp on that string." To a foreigner who, when asked whence he comes, replies, "I am a Frenchman," they respond with an agreeable smile, as if to say, "We recognize each other." To one who answers, "I am a German or an Englishman," they make a slight inclination of the head, which implies, "I bow to you;" but when one replies, "I am an Italian," they eagerly extend the hand as if to say, "We are friends;" and they look at one with an air of curiosity, as you look for the first time at a person who is said to resemble you, and they smile pleasantly on hearing the Italian tongue, as you would smile on hearing some one, though in no mocking spirit, imitate your voice and accents. In no country in the world does an Italian feel nearer home than in Spain. The sky, the speech, the faces, and the dress remind him of his fatherland; the veneration with which the Spanish pronounce the names of our great poets and our great painters, that vague and pleasing sense of curiosity with which they speak of our famous cities, the enthusiasm with which they cultivate our music, the impulsiveness of their affections, the fire of their language, the rhythms of their poetry, the eyes of their women, the air and the sun,—oh! an Italian must be without a spark of love for his fatherland who does not feel an emotion of sympathy for this country, who does not feel inclined to excuse its errors, who does not sincerely deplore its misfortunes, who does not desire for it a happy future. O beautiful hills of Valencia, smiling banks of the Guadalquivir, charmed gardens of Granada, little white cottages of Seville, proud towers of Toledo, roaring streets of Madrid, and venerable walls of Saragossa! and you, kindly hosts and courteous companions of my travels—you who have spoken to me of Italy as of a second fatherland, who with your festal gayety have scattered my restless melancholy!—I shall always carry deep down in my heart a feeling of gratitude and love for you, and I shall cherish your images in my memory, as one of the dearest recollections of my youth, and shall always think of you as one of the loveliest dreams of my life.

I repeated these words to myself at midnight as I looked over brightly-lighted Valencia, leaning against the rail of the good ship Xenil, which was on the point of sailing. Some young Spaniards had come on board with me. They were going to Marseilles to take ship from that port to the Antilles, where they expected to remain for some years. One of them stood alone weeping; suddenly he raised his head and looked toward the shore between two anchored vessels, and exclaimed in a tone of desolation, "Oh, my God! I hoped she would not come!"

In a few moments a boat approached the ship; a little white figure, followed by a man enveloped in a cloak, hastily climbed the ladder, and with a deep sob threw herself into the arms of the young man, who had run to meet her.

At that moment the boatswain called, "All off, gentlemen!"

Then there followed a most distressing scene: the two young persons were torn apart, and the young lady was borne almost fainting to the boat, which pushed off a little and remained motionless.

The ship started.

The young man dashed madly forward toward the rail, and, sobbing, cried in a voice that pierced one's heart, "Adieu, darling! adieu! adieu!"

The little white figure stretched out her arms and perhaps responded, but her voice was not heard. The boat was dropped behind and disappeared.

One of the young men said to me in a whisper, "They are betrothed."

It was a lovely night, but sad. Valencia was soon lost to view, and I thought I should never see Spain again, and wept.

End of Vol. II.[Pg 278]
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