Familiar Spanish Travels, By W. D. Howells

























































































 -  He meets young
men and matches Italian verses with their Spanish; spends whole nights
sitting in their cafes or walking - Page 110
Familiar Spanish Travels, By W. D. Howells - Page 110 of 197 - First - Home

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He Meets Young Men And Matches Italian Verses With Their Spanish; Spends Whole Nights Sitting In Their Cafes Or Walking Their Plazas, And Comes Away With His Mouth Full Of The Rapturous Verses Of An Arab Poet:

"Adieu, Cordova! Would that my life were as long as Noah's, that I might live forever within thy walls!

Would that I had the treasures of Pharaoh, to spend them upon wine and the beautiful women of Cordova, with tho gentle eyes that invite kisses!" He allows that the lines may be "a little too tropical for the taste of a European," and it seems to me that there may be a golden mean between scolding and flattering which would give the truth about Cordova. I do not promise to strike it; our hotel still rankles in my heart; but I promise to try for it, though I have to say that the very moment we started for the famous mosque it began to rain, and rained throughout the forenoon, while we weltered from wonder to wonder through the town. We were indeed weltering in a closed carriage, which found its way not so badly through the alleys where two mules could not pass abreast. The lime-wash of the walls did not emit the white heat in which tho other tourists have basked or baked; the houses looked wet and chill, and if they had those flowered and fountained _patios_ which people talk of they had taken them in out of the rain.

VI

At the mosque the _patio_ was not taken in only because it was so large, but I find by our records that it was much molested by a beggar who followed us when we dismounted at the gate of the Court of Oranges, and all but took our minds off the famous Moorish fountain in the midst. It was not a fountain of the plashing or gushing sort, but a noble great pool in a marble basin. The women who clustered about it were not laughing and chattering, or singing, or even dancing, in the right Andalusian fashion, but stood silent in statuesque poses from which they seemed in no haste to stir for filling their water jars and jugs. The Moorish tradition of irrigation confronting one in all the travels and histories as a supreme agricultural advantage which the Arabs took back to Africa with them, leaving Spain to thirst and fry, lingers here in the circles sunk round the orange trees and fed by little channels. The trees grew about as the fancy took them, and did not mind the incongruous palms towering as irregularly above them. While we wandered toward the mosque a woman robed in white cotton, with a lavender scarf crossing her breast, came in as irrelevantly as the orange trees and stood as stably as the palms; in her night-black hair she alone in Cordova redeemed the pledge of beauty made for all Andalusian women by the reckless poets and romancers, whether in ballads or books of travel.

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