We Strolled Away From The University Through The Still Lanes And Squares
To The Calle Mayor, The Only Thoroughfare Of The Town That Yet Retains
Some Vestige Of Traffic.
It is a fine, long street bordered by stone
arcades, within which are the shops, and without which in the pleasant
afternoon are the rosy and contemplative shopkeepers.
It would seem a
pity to disturb their dreamy repose by offering to trade; and in justice
to Castilian taste and feeling I must say that nobody does it. Halfway
down the street a side alley runs to the right, called Calle de
Cervantes, and into this we turned to find the birthplace of the
romancer. On one side was a line of squalid, quaint, gabled houses, on
the other a long garden wall. We walked under the shadow of the latter
and stared at the house-fronts, looking for an inscription we had heard
of. We saw in sunny doorways mothers oiling into obedience the stiff
horse-tail hair of their daughters. By the grated windows we caught
glimpses of the black eyes and nut-brown cheeks of maidens at their
needles. But we saw nothing to show which of these mansions had been
honored by tradition as the residence of Roderick Cervantes.
A brisk and practical-looking man went past us.
I asked him where was the house of the poet. He smiled in a superior
sort of way, and pointed to the wall above my head: "There is no such
house.
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