Spain

Spain Incipit BARCELONA. IT was a rainy morning in February, and lacked an hour of sunrise. My mother accompanied me to the hall, anxiously repeating all the counsels she had been giving me for a month: then she threw her arms about my neck, burst into tears, and disappeared. I stood a moment stricken to the heart, looking at the door, on the point of calling out, "Let me in! I am not going! I will stay with thee!" Then I ran down the stairs like an escaping thief. When I was in the street it seemed that the waves of the sea and the peaks of the Pyrenees were already lying between me and my home. But, although I had for a long time looked forward to that day with feverish impatience, I was not at all cheerful. At a turn of the street I met my friend the doctor on his way to the hospital. He had not seen me for a month, and naturally asked: "Where are you going?" "To Spain," I replied.