The Land of The Blessed Virgin; Sketches and Impressions in Andalusia   By: W. Somerset Maugham (1874-1965)

SKETCHES AND IMPRESSIONS IN ANDALUSIA

BY

WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM

(WITH FRONTISPIECE)

LONDON WILLIAM HEINEMANN

MCMV

All rights reserved

[Illustration]

TO

VIOLET HUNT

Contents

I. The Spirit of Andalusia

II. The Churches of Ronda

III. Ronda

IV. The Swineherd

V. Medinat Az Zahra

VI. The Mosque

VII. The Court of Oranges

VIII. Cordova

IX. The Bridge of Calahorra

X. Puerta del Puente

XI. Seville

XII. The Alcazar

XIII. Calle de las Sierpes

XIV. Characteristics

XV. Don Juan Tenorio

XVI. Women of Andalusia

XVII. The Dance

XVIII. A Feast Day

XIX. The Giralda

XX. The Cathedral of Seville

XXI. The Hospital of Charity

XXII. Gaol

XXIII. Before the Bull Fight

XXIV. Corrida de Toros I.

XXV. Corrida de Toros II

XXVI. On Horseback

XXVII. By the Road I.

XXVIII. By the Road II.

XXIX. Ecija

XXX. Wind and Storm

XXXI. Two Villages

XXXII. Granada

XXXIII. The Alhambra

XXXIV. Boabdil the Unlucky

XXXV. Los Pobres

XXXVI. The Song

XXXVII. Jerez

XXXVIII. Cadiz

XXXIX. El Genero Chico

XL. Adios

I

[Sidenote: The Spirit of Andalusia]

After one has left a country it is interesting to collect together the emotions it has given in an effort to define its particular character. And with Andalusia the attempt is especially fascinating, for it is a land of contrasts in which work upon one another, diversely, a hundred influences.

In London now, as I write, the rain of an English April pours down; the sky is leaden and cold, the houses in front of me are almost terrible in their monotonous greyness, the slate roofs are shining with the wet. Now and again people pass: a woman of the slums in a dirty apron, her head wrapped in a grey shawl; two girls in waterproofs, trim and alert notwithstanding the inclement weather, one with a music case under her arm. A train arrives at an underground station and a score of city folk cross my window, sheltered behind their umbrellas; and two or three groups of workmen, silently, smoking short pipes: they walk with a dull, heavy tramp, with the gait of strong men who are very tired. Still the rain pours down unceasing.

And I think of Andalusia. My mind is suddenly ablaze with its sunshine, with its opulent colour, luminous and soft; I think of the cities, the white cities bathed in light; of the desolate wastes of sand, with their dwarf palms, the broom in flower. And in my ears I hear the twang of the guitar, the rhythmical clapping of hands and the castanets, as two girls dance in the sunlight on a holiday. I see the crowds going to the bull fight, intensely living, many coloured. And a thousand scents are wafted across my memory; I remember the cloudless nights, the silence of sleeping towns, and the silence of desert country; I remember old whitewashed taverns, and the perfumed wines of Malaga, of Jerez, and of Manzanilla. (The rain pours down without stay in oblique long lines, the light is quickly failing, the street is sad and very cheerless.) I feel on my shoulder the touch of dainty hands, of little hands with tapering fingers, and on my mouth the kisses of red lips, and I hear a joyous laugh. I remember the voice that bade me farewell that last night in Seville, and the gleam of dark eyes and dark hair at the foot of the stairs, as I looked back from the gate. ' Feliz viage, mi Inglesito. '

It was not love I felt for you, Rosarito; I wish it had been; but now far away, in the rain, I fancy, (oh no, not that I am at last in love,) but perhaps that I am just faintly enamoured of your recollection.