# Creole Sketches/A Visitor

A VISITOR
"Juan Guerrero y Marquez, su servidor de V."
There are voices which surprise by their sonority. The voice of the speaker, as he introduced himself, made us lift our eyes in surprise to his face; — it was a soft roll of thunder, the richest and deepest bass that had ever vibrated in the writers ears. To have heard it without seeing the speaker would have compelled the idea that it came from a chest of prodigious depth, from the torso of a giant. Not so, however. The speaker was a young and rather slender man, firmly knit, but with more grace than apparent strength in his frame; not over tall, but with a bearing as proud as his Spanish name. He spoke with the refined accent of Madrid, and the ​words came from his lips with such a musical depth as when the longest strings of a great harp are touched by strong and skillful fingers. The face was characteristic — a true Latin face, with the strong keenness of the Roman eagle in its profile; eyes large and brilliant as a falcon's; eyebrows thick as mustaches, rising toward the temples, with a slightly sinister elevation; mustaches curling up toward the cheek-bones; and such a short black pointed beard as we see in the portraits of Velasquez. This handsome and daring face belonged, to a beautifully formed head, covered with the blackest curls possible to conceive — the head of an antique Roman soldier set upon a columnar neck. With the clear bronze of his skin, no more striking type of the finest of the Latin races could have been asked for by a painter.
Artista español de los primeros, he had been travelling with a Spanish opera ​company through the West Indies, and enchanting the señoritas of Havana with the magic of his marvelous voice. Now he wished to visit some distant relatives in one of the far South American republics — members of his own Spanish family and bearing his own name, but born under the Southern Cross. He had never seen them; but strangely enough the ancestral family in Spain had maintained relations with its tropical children for a hundred years.
"And there is really a consul of that republic in New Orleans?" we asked in bewilderment; for, alas! we had never heard of him.
"Ciertamente, señor!"
So we went to find the consul. It was necessary, first, to find out who he was, and where he lived. The directory refused to yield up the desired information. Then we went successively to see a Spanish tobacconist and a Spanish wine merchant ​and a Spanish doctor and a Spanish apothecary and a Spanish journalist — who was not at home — and a certain Spanish lady who lives upon a street bearing the name of an ancient Spanish Governor.
It proved easier, however, to find who the consul was than to find where he resided. At one time we began to fancy that he was an illusion or a phantom. Seven different places did we visit in which he had formerly resided, but resided no longer — so that we felt even as wayfarers who vainly pursue after a will-o'-the-wisp.
And a young woman passed by, graceful as a panther, carrying a basket upon her arm. Her eyes were very large and black; her skin the color of gold; and her figure owned those indescribable curves, that cambrure de taille for which there is no expression in the English tongue.
​"Que es bonita!" exclaimed the singer, with a caressing accent in his deep voice. If the woman did not hear the compliment, she had at least heard the Spanish tongue; for she suddenly turned, and, poised in an attitude of supreme grace like a statue of bronze, addressed the artista in a voice clear as a silver bell: — "A quien busca V., señor?" And their black eyes met. It was a tropical look: the man fascinated by the serpent grace of the woman; the woman not seeking to conceal her admiration of the handsome youth before her. Yes: she knew where the consul — Señor Don Alejandro — lived. It was just at the corner. "Mil gracias, señorita!" Not a Spanish girl, no — from some strange town with an Aztec name in the heart of Mexico. "Yo estaba allá!" cried the artist joyfully: "I remember it well — the plaza, and the old house of Señor — on the corner, where I spent some very pleasant ​days when I was traveling through Mexico." And then recalling old memories, they forgot for a moment all about the distant South American republic and the phantom consul. Adios — a clasp of olive-skinned hands; and with the old-fashioned and tender commendation to God, they departed, never to meet again — as seabirds flying over the sea to opposite coasts look into each other's eyes a moment and pass on.
"I have been to your opera," he said, "I like it. But neither the French nor the Italians know what the Spanish theatre is. It is not merely music and drama. It is a school. It is a medium of national instruction. It teaches feeling, expression, deportment, dress, courtesy, taste, appreciation of the beautiful. And that is why Spanish audiences are so difficult to please."
"I wish I could hear you sing," we said.
​"Lo me gustaria mucho," he returned; "but I leave to-night. And you could not judge of what I can do unless you should hear me in the theatre. Do you smoke?" And he presented us with a real "puro."
Suddenly an organ at the corner struck up a fragment of Faust — the Gloria chorus of the soldiers. "Ah! I love that," he murmurred; and suddenly the martial air rolled from his lips in tones rich and deep, but golden-clear as the voice of a mighty organ. It was only for a moment; but in that moment the children ceased their dances, and people passing through the old-fashioned streets paused and turned and wondered at the witchcraft of that marvelous voice.
"Adios, señor!" And we parted forever.