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.
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