The Alhambra
by Washington Irving · English · Gutenberg #49872 · 651,902 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Alhambra
Author: Washington Irving
Author of introduction, etc.: Elizabeth Robins Pennell
Illustrator: Joseph Pennell
Release date: September 4, 2015 [eBook #49872]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/49872
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Melissa McDaniel and the Online Distributed Proofreading
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ALHAMBRA ***
Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
On page 357, "On the verge of great beetling bastion" was changed
to "On the verge of the great beetling bastion".
On page 377, "on which occasion he have" was changed to "on which
occasion he gave".
On page 388, "the talisman that hangs around my neck" was changed
to the talisman that hangs around thy neck".
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by +plus
signs+.
THE ALHAMBRA
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
LONDON . BOMBAY . CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK . BOSTON . CHICAGO
ATLANTA . SAN FRANCISCO
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD
TORONTO
[Illustration: _Washington Irving's rooms, overlooking the Garden of
Lindaraxa._]
THE ALHAMBRA
BY · WASHINGTON · IRVING
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
ELIZABETH ROBINS PENNELL
ILLUSTRATED WITH DRAWINGS
OF THE PLACES MENTIONED
BY JOSEPH PENNELL
LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD.
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1911
RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED,
BRUNSWICK ST., STAMFORD ST.,
AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.
_First Edition (Cranford Series), 1896. Reprinted, 1906, 1911.
Pocket Classics, 1908_.
[Illustration]
INTRODUCTION
It is not possible to forget Washington Irving in the Alhambra. With a
single volume, the simple, gentle, kindly American man of letters became
no less a figure in the Moor's Red Palace than Boabdil and Lindaraxa of
whom he wrote. And yet, never perhaps did a book make so unconscious
a bid for popularity. Irving visited Granada in 1828. He returned the
following year, when the Governor's apartments in the Alhambra were lent
to him as lodgings. There he spent several weeks, his love for the place
growing with every day and hour. It was this affection, and no more
complex motive, that prompted him to describe its courts and gardens and
to record its legends. The work was the amusement of his leisure moments,
filling the interval between the completion of one serious, and now all
but unknown, history and the beginning of the next.
Not many other men just then could write about Spain or anything Spanish
so naturally. For, in 1829, while, within the walls of Alhamar and
Yusef, he was listening to the prattle of Mateo and Dolores, in Paris,
Alfred de Musset was writing his _Contes d'Espagne_, and Victor Hugo was
publishing a new edition of his _Orientales_. A year later and the battle
of _Hernani_ was to be fought at the _Comédie Française_; a few more,
and Théophile Gautier would be on his way across the Pyrenees. Time had
passed since Châteaubriand, the pioneer of romance, could dismiss the
Alhambra with a word. Hugo, in turning all eyes to the East, had declared
that Spain also was Oriental, and to his disciples the journey, dreamed or
made, through the land where Irving travelled in single-minded enjoyment,
was an excuse for the profession of their literary faith. Irving, whatever
his accomplishments, was unencumbered with a mission and innocent of pose.
There is no reason to believe that he had ever heard of the Romanticists,
or the part Spain was playing in the revolution; though he had been in
Paris when the storm was brewing; though he returned after the famous red
waistcoat had been sported in the public's face. At any rate, like the
original genius of to-day, he kept his knowledge to himself.
Literary work took Irving to Spain. Several years before, in 1818, he had
watched the total wreck of his brother's business. This was the second
event of importance in his hitherto mild and colourless existence. The
first had been the death of the girl he was to marry, a loss which left
him without interest or ambition. There was then no need for him to work,
and his health was delicate. He travelled a little: an intelligent,
sympathetic and observant tourist. He wrote a little, discovering
that he was an author with _Knickerbocker_. But his writing was of the
desultory sort until, when he was thirty-five years old, his brother's
failure forced him to make literature his profession. It was after he had
published his _Sketch-Book_ and _Bracebridge Hall_ and _Old Christmas_,
after their reception had been of the kind to satisfy even the present
generation of writers who measure the excellence of work by the price
paid for it, that some one suggested he should translate the journeys
of Columbus, which Navarrete, a Spanish author, had in hand. Murray, it
was thought, would give a handsome sum down for the translation. Murray
himself, however, was not so sure: wanted, wise man, first to see a
portion of the manuscript. This was just what could not be until Irving
had begun his task. But already in Madrid, and assured of nothing, he
found the _rôle_ of translator less congenial than that of historian, and
the Spanish work eventually resolved itself into his _Life of Columbus_.
"Delving in the rich ore" of the old chronicles in the Jesuits' Library
of St. Isidoro, there was one side issue in the history he was studying
that enchanted him above all else. This was the Conquest of Granada,
the brilliant episode which had fascinated him ever since, as a boy at
play on the banks of the Hudson, his allegiance had been divided between
the Spanish cavalier, in gold and silver armour, prancing over the
Vega, and the Red Indian brandishing his tomahawk on the war-path. Now,
occasionally, Columbus was forgotten that he might collect the materials
for a new story of the Conquest to be told by himself. To consult further
documents he started one spring (1828), when the almond trees were
blossoming, for Andalusia; and Granada, of course, came into his journey.
Thus chance brought him to the Alhambra, while (1829) the courtesy of the
Governor and the kindness of old Tia Antonia put him in possession of the
rooms of the beautiful Elizabeth of Parma, overlooking the oranges and
fountains of the Garden of Lindaraxa.
The Alhambra reveals but half its charm to the casual visitor. I know, of
my own experience, how far custom is from staling its infinite variety,
how its beauty increases as day by day one watches the play of light
and shadow on its walls, as day by day one yields to the indolent dreams
for which it was built. There was one summer when, all through July and
August, its halls and courts gave me shelter from the burning, blinding
sunshine of Andalusia, and the weeks in passing strengthened the spell
that held me there. For Gautier, the place borrowed new loveliness
from the one night he slept in the Court of Lions. But by day and night
alike, it belonged to Irving; he saw it before it had degenerated into a
disgracefully managed museum and annex to a _bric-à-brac_ shop for the
tourist; and he had heard all its stories, or had had time to invent
them, before he was called away by his appointment to some useless and
unnecessary diplomatic post at the American Legation in London.
The book was not published until more than two years later (1832).
Irving, though a hack in a manner, had too much self-respect to rush into
print on the slightest provocation. Colburn and Bentley were his English
publishers, their edition preceding by a few months the American, brought
out by Lea and Carey of Philadelphia. The same year saw two further issues
in Paris, one by Galignani, and the other in Baudry's Foreign Library, as
well as a French translation from the house of Fournier. The success of
_The Alhambra_ was immediate. De Musset and Victor Hugo had left the great
public in France as indifferent as ever to the land beyond the Pyrenees.
Irving raised a storm of popular applause in England and America, where,
of a sudden, he made Spain, which the Romanticists would have snatched as
their spoils, the prey of the "_bourgeois_" they despised. Nor was it the
general public only that applauded. There were few literary men in England
who did not welcome the book with delight.
I think to-day, without suspicion of disloyalty, one may wonder a little
at this success. Certainly, in its first edition, _The Alhambra_ is
crude and stilted, though, to compare it with the pompous trash which
Roscoe published three years afterward, as text for the drawings of
David Roberts, is to see in it a masterpiece. Irving, more critical than
his readers, knew it needed revision. "It is generally labour lost,"
he said once in a letter to Alexander Everett, "to attempt to improve a
book that has already made its impression on the public." Nevertheless,
_The Alhambra_ was all but re-written in 1857, when he was preparing a
complete edition of his works for Putnam, the New York publisher, and it
gained enormously in the process. It was not so much by the addition of
new chapters, or the re-arrangement of the old; but rather by the changes
made in the actual text--the light touch of local colour here, and there
the rounding of a period, the developing of an incident. For example "The
Journey," so gay and vivacious in the final version, was, at first, but a
bare statement of facts, with no space for the little adventures by the
way: the rest at the old mill near Seville; the glimpses of Archidona,
Antiquero, Osuna, names that lend picturesque value to the ride; the talk
and story-telling in the inn at Loxa. Another change, less commendable,
is the omission from the late editions of the dedication to Wilkie. It
was a pleasant tribute to the British painter, who, with several of his
fellows--Lewis and Roberts--was carried away by that wave of Orientalism
which sent the French Marilhat and Decamps, Fromentin and Delacroix to
the East, and had not yet spent its force in the time of Regnault. The
dedication was well-written, kindly, appreciative: an amiable reminder
of the rambles the two men had taken together in Toledo and Seville, and
the interest they had shared in the beauty left by the Moor to mark his
passage through the land both were learning to love. As a memorial to the
friendship between author and artist, it could less well have been spared
than any one of the historical chapters that go to swell the volume.
Even in the revised edition it would be easy to belittle Irving's
achievement, now that it is the fashion to disparage him as author.
Certainly, _The Alhambra_ has none of the splendid melodrama of Borrow's
_Bible in Spain_, none of the picturesqueness of Gautier's record. It
is very far from being that "something in the Haroun Alraschid style,"
with dash of Arabian spice, which Wilkie had urged him to make it.
Nor are its faults wholly negative. It has its moments of dulness. It
abounds in repetitions. Certain adjectives recur with a pertinacity that
irritates. The Vega is blooming, the battle is bloody, the Moorish maiden
is beauteous far more than once too often. Worse still, descriptions are
duplicated, practically the same passage reappearing again and again, as
if for the sake of padding, or else as the mere babble of the easy writer.
Indeed, many of the purely historical chapters have been crowded in so
obviously because they happened to be at hand, and he without better means
to dispose of them, and then scattered discreetly, that there is less
hesitation in omitting them altogether from the present edition. An edited
_Tom Jones_, a bowdlerized Shakespeare may be an absurdity. But to drop
certain chapters from _The Alhambra_ is simply to anticipate the reader
in the act of skipping. There is no loss, since all important facts and
descriptions are given more graphically and entertainingly elsewhere in
the book.
Perhaps it may seem injudicious to introduce a new edition of so popular
a work by pointing out its defects. But one can afford to be honest about
Irving. _The Alhambra_ might have more serious blemishes, and its charm
would still survive triumphantly the test of the harshest criticism.
For, whatever subtlety, whatever elegance Irving's style may lack, it is
always distinguished by that something which, for want of a better name,
is called charm--a quality always as difficult to define as Lowell thought
when he found it in verse or in perfume. But there it is in all Washington
Irving wrote: a clue to the lavish praise of his contemporaries--of
Coleridge, who pronounced _The Conquest of Granada_ a _chef d'œuvre_,
and Campbell, who believed he had added clarity to the English tongue; of
Byron and Scott and Southey; of Dickens, whose pockets were at one time
filled with Irving's books worn to tatters; of Thackeray, who likened the
American to Goldsmith, describing him as "one of the most charming masters
of our lighter language."
Much of this power to please is due, no doubt, to the simplicity
and sincerity of Irving's style at its best. Despite a tendency to
diffuseness, despite a fancy for the ornate, when there is a story to be
told, he can be as simple and straightforward as the child's "Once upon a
time," with which he begins many a tale: appropriately, since the legends
of the Alhambra are but stories for grown-up children. And there is no
question of the sincerity of his love for everything savouring of romance.
For that matter, it is seldom that he does not mean what he says and does
not say it so truly with his whole heart, that you are convinced, where
you distrust the emotion of De Amicis, pumping up tears of admiration
before the wrong thing, or of Maurice Barrès seeing all Spain through
a haze of blood, voluptuousness, and death. It was the strength of his
feeling for the Alhambra that led Irving to write in its praise, not the
desire to write that manufactured the feeling. Humour and sentiment some
of his critics have thought the predominant traits of his writing, as of
his character. It is a fortunate combination: his sentiment, though it
often threatens, seldom overflows into gush, kept within bounds as it is
by the sense of humour that so rarely fails him. His power of observation
was of still greater service. He could use his eyes. He could see things
for himself. And he was quick to detect character. Occasionally one
finds him slipping. In his landscape, the purple mountains of Alhama
rise wherever he considers them most effective in the picture; and the
snow considerately never melts from the slopes of the Sierra Nevada,
which I have seen all brown at midsummer. He could look only through the
magnifying glass of tradition at the hand and key on the Gate of Justice:
symbols so gigantic in fiction, so insignificant in fact that one might
miss them altogether, did not every book, paper, and paragraph, every
cadging, swindling tout--I mean guide--in Granada bid one look for them.
But these are minor discrepancies. In essentials, his observation never
played him false. There may not be a single passage to equal in force and
brilliance Gautier's wonderful description of the bull-fight at Malaga;
but his impressions were so clear, his record of them so faithful, that
the effect of his book remains, while the accomplishment of a finer artist
in words may be remembered but vaguely. It is Irving who prepares one
best for the stern grandeur and rugged solemnity of the country between
Seville and Granada. The journey can now be made by rail. But to travel
by road as he did--as we have done--is to know that his arid mountains
and savage passes are no more exaggerated than the pleasant valleys and
plains that lie between. For Spain is not all gaiety as most travellers
would like to imagine it, as most painters have painted it, save Daumier
in his pictures of Don Quixote among the barren hills of La Mancha. And if
nothing in Granada and the Alhambra can be quite unexpected, it is because
one has seen it all beforehand with Irving, from the high Tower of Comares
and the windows of the Hall of Ambassadors, or else, following him through
the baths and mosque and courts of the silent Palace, crossing the ravine
to the cooler gardens of the Generalife, and climbing the Albaycin to the
white church upon its summit.
There have been many changes in the Alhambra since Irving's day. The Court
of Lions lost in loveliness when the roses with which he saw it filled
were uprooted. The desertion he found had more picturesqueness than the
present restoration and pretence of orderliness. Irving was struck with
the efforts which the then Commander, Don Francisco de Serna, was making
to keep the Palace in a state of repair and to arrest its too certain
decay. Had the predecessors of De Serna, he thought, discharged the
duties of their station with equal fidelity, the Alhambra might have been
still almost as the Moor, or at least Spanish royalty had left it. What
would he say, one wonders, to the Alhambra under its present management?
Frank neglect is often less an evil than sham zeal. The student, watched,
badgered, oppressed by red-tapeism, has not gained by official vigilance;
nor is the Palace the more secure because responsibility has been
transferred from a pleasant gossiping old woman to half a dozen indolent
guides. The burnt roof in the ante-chamber to the Hall of Ambassadors
shows the carelessness of which the new officers can be guilty; the
matches and cigarette ends with which courts and halls are strewn explain
that so eloquent a warning has been in vain. And if the restorer has
been let loose in the Alhambra, at the Generalife there is an Italian
proprietor, eager, it would seem, to initiate the somnolent Spaniard into
the brisker ways of Young Italy. Cypresses, old as Zoraïde, have already
been cut down ruthlessly along that once unrivalled avenue, and their
destruction, one fears, is but the beginning of the end.
But whatever changes the past sixty years have brought about in Granada,
the popularity of Irving's book has not weakened with time. Not Ford, nor
Murray, nor Hare has been able to replace it. The tourist reads it within
the walls it commemorates as conscientiously as the devout read Ruskin
in Florence. It serves as text book in the Court of Lions and the Garden
of Lindaraxa. It is the student's manual in the high _mirador_ of the
Sultanas and the court of the mosque where Fortuny painted. In a Spanish
translation it is pressed upon you almost as you cross the threshold.
Irving's rooms in the Palace are always locked, that the guide may get an
extra fee for opening--as a special favour--an apartment which half the
people ask to see. As the steamers "Rip Van Winkle" and "Knickerbocker"
ply up and down the Hudson, so the Hotel Washington Irving rises under
the shadow of the Alhambra. Even the spirits and spooks that haunt every
grove and garden are all of his creation, as Spaniards themselves will
be quick to tell you; though who Irving--or, in their familiar speech,
"Vashington"--was, but very few of them could explain. And thus his name
has become so closely associated with the place that, just as Diedrich
Knickerbocker will be remembered while New York stands, so Washington
Irving cannot be forgotten so long as the Red Palace looks down upon the
Vega and the tradition of the Moor lingers in Granada.
ELIZABETH ROBINS PENNELL.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CONTENTS
PAGE
The Journey 1
Palace of the Alhambra 46
Important Negotiations.--The Author Succeeds to
the Throne of Boabdil 79
Inhabitants of the Alhambra 90
The Hall of Ambassadors 96
The Mysterious Chambers 106
Panorama View from the Tower of Comares 122
The Balcony 134
The Adventure of the Mason 144
The Court of Lions 151
Mementoes of Boabdil 163
The House of the Weathercock 172
Legend of the Arabian Astrologer 176
Visitors to the Alhambra 199
The Generalife 207
Legend of Prince Ahmed al Kamel, or, the Pilgrim
of Love 217
A Ramble Among the Hills 259
Legend of the Moor's Legacy 270
The Tower of Las Infantas 293
Legend of the Three Beautiful Princesses 297
Legend of the Rose of the Alhambra 326
The Veteran 346
The Governor and the Notary 350
Governor Manco and the Soldier 359
A Fête in the Alhambra 377
Legend of the Two Discreet Statues 383
The Crusade of the Grand Master of Alcántara 401
An Expedition in Quest of a Diploma 413
The Legend of the Enchanted Soldier 417
The Author's Farewell to Granada 432
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _Seville_]
THE ALHAMBRA
THE JOURNEY
In the spring of 1829, the author of this work, whom curiosity had brought
into Spain, made a rambling expedition from Seville to Granada in company
with a friend, a member of the Russian Embassy at Madrid. Accident had
thrown us together from distant regions of the globe and a similarity of
taste led us to wander together among the romantic mountains of Andalusia.
[Illustration: _A stern melancholy country._]
And here, before setting forth, let me indulge in a few previous remarks
on Spanish scenery and Spanish travelling. Many are apt to picture
Spain to their imaginations as a soft southern region, decked out with
the luxuriant charms of voluptuous Italy. On the contrary, though there
are exceptions in some of the maritime provinces, yet, for the greater
part, it is a stern, melancholy country, with rugged mountains, and
long sweeping plains, destitute of trees, and indescribably silent and
lonesome, partaking of the savage and solitary character of Africa. What
adds to this silence and loneliness, is the absence of singing-birds, a
natural consequence of the want of groves and hedges. The vulture and the
eagle are seen wheeling about the mountain-cliffs, and soaring over the
plains, and groups of shy bustards stalk about the heaths; but the myriads
of smaller birds, which animate the whole face of other countries, are
met with in but few provinces in Spain, and in those chiefly among the
orchards and gardens which surround the habitations of man.
[Illustration]
In the interior provinces the traveller occasionally traverses great
tracts cultivated with grain as far as the eye can reach, waving at times
with verdure, at other times naked and sunburnt, but he looks round in
vain for the hand that has tilled the soil. At length he perceives some
village on a steep hill, or rugged crag, with mouldering battlements
and ruined watch-tower: a stronghold, in old times, against civil war,
or Moorish inroad: for the custom among the peasantry of congregating
together for mutual protection is still kept up in most parts of Spain,
in consequence of the maraudings of roving freebooters.
But though a great part of Spain is deficient in the garniture of groves
and forests, and the softer charms of ornamental cultivation, yet its
scenery is noble in its severity and in unison with the attributes of its
people; and I think that I better understand the proud, hardy, frugal,
and abstemious Spaniard, his manly defiance of hardships, and contempt of
effeminate indulgences, since I have seen the country he inhabits.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
There is something, too, in the sternly simple features of the Spanish
landscape, that impresses on the soul a feeling of sublimity. The immense
plains of the Castiles and of La Mancha, extending as far as the eye can
reach, derive an interest from their very nakedness and immensity, and
possess, in some degree, the solemn grandeur of the ocean. In ranging
over these boundless wastes, the eye catches sight here and there of
a straggling herd of cattle attended by a lonely herdsman, motionless
as a statue, with his long slender pike tapering up like a lance into
the air; or beholds a long train of mules slowly moving along the waste
like a train of camels in the desert; or a single horseman, armed with
blunderbuss and stiletto, and prowling over the plain. Thus the country,
the habits, the very looks of the people, have something of the Arabian
character. The general insecurity of the country is evinced in the
universal use of weapons. The herdsman in the field, the shepherd in the
plain, has his musket and his knife. The wealthy villager rarely ventures
to the market-town without his _trabuco_, and, perhaps, a servant on
foot with a blunderbuss on his shoulder; and the most petty journey is
undertaken with the preparation of a warlike enterprise.
[Illustration: _Picturesque Ronda._]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _Roman Bridge, Ronda._]
[Illustration]
The dangers of the road produce also a mode of travelling resembling,
on a diminutive scale, the caravans of the East. The _arrieros_, or
carriers, congregate in convoys, and set off in large and well-armed
trains on appointed days; while additional travellers swell their number,
and contribute to their strength. In this primitive way is the commerce
of the country carried on. The muleteer is the general medium of traffic,
and the legitimate traverser of the land, crossing the peninsula from the
Pyrenees and the Asturias to the Alpuxarras, the _Serrania de Ronda_,
and even to the gates of Gibraltar. He lives frugally and hardily: his
_alforjas_ of coarse cloth hold his scanty stock of provisions; a leathern
bottle, hanging at his saddle-bow, contains wine or water, for a supply
across barren mountains and thirsty plains; a mule-cloth spread upon the
ground is his bed at night, and his pack-saddle his pillow. His low, but
clean-limbed and sinewy form betokens strength; his complexion is dark
and sunburnt; his eye resolute, but quiet in its expression, except when
kindled by sudden emotion; his demeanour is frank, manly, and courteous,
and he never passes you without a grave salutation: "_Dios guarde à
usted!_" "_Va usted con Dios, Caballero!_" "God guard you!" "God be with
you, Cavalier!"
[Illustration: _Serrania de Ronda._]
As these men have often their whole fortune at stake upon the burden of
their mules, they have their weapons at hand, slung to their saddles, and
ready to be snatched out for desperate defence; but their united numbers
render them secure against petty bands of marauders, and the solitary
_bandolero_, armed to the teeth, and mounted on his Andalusian steed,
hovers about them, like a pirate about a merchant convoy, without daring
to assault.
The Spanish muleteer has an inexhaustible stock of songs and ballads, with
which to beguile his incessant wayfaring. The airs are rude and simple,
consisting of but few inflections. These he chants forth with a loud
voice, and long, drawling cadence, seated sideways on his mule, who seems
to listen with infinite gravity, and to keep time, with his paces, to the
tune. The couplets thus chanted are often old traditional romances about
the Moors, or some legend of a saint, or some love-ditty; or, what is
still more frequent, some ballad about a bold _contrabandista_, or hardy
_bandolero_, for the smuggler and the robber are poetical heroes among
the common people of Spain. Often, the song of the muleteer is composed
at the instant, and relates to some local scene, or some incident of the
journey. This talent of singing and improvising is frequent in Spain, and
is said to have been inherited from the Moors. There is something wildly
pleasing in listening to these ditties among the rude and lonely scenes
they illustrate; accompanied, as they are, by the occasional jingle of
the mule-bell.
[Illustration]
It has a most picturesque effect also to meet a train of muleteers in some
mountain-pass. First you hear the bells of the leading mules, breaking
with their simple melody the stillness of the airy height; or, perhaps,
the voice of the muleteer admonishing some tardy or wandering animal, or
chanting, at the full stretch of his lungs, some traditionary ballad.
At length you see the mules slowly winding along the cragged defile,
sometimes descending precipitous cliffs, so as to present themselves in
full relief against the sky, sometimes toiling up the deep arid chasms
below you. As they approach, you descry their gay decorations of worsted
stuffs, tassels, and saddle-cloths, while, as they pass by, the ever
ready _trabuco_, slung behind the packs and saddles, gives a hint of the
insecurity of the road.
[Illustration: _Approach to Granada. From near Elvira._]
The ancient kingdom of Granada, into which we were about to penetrate, is
one of the most mountainous regions of Spain. Vast _sierras_, or chains
of mountains, destitute of shrub or tree, and mottled with variegated
marbles and granites, elevate their sunburnt summits against a deep-blue
sky; yet in their rugged bosoms lie ingulfed verdant and fertile valleys,
where the desert and the garden strive for mastery, and the very rock is,
as it were, compelled to yield the fig, the orange, and the citron, and
to blossom with the myrtle and the rose.
[Illustration]
In the wild passes of these mountains the sight of walled towns and
villages, built like eagles' nests among the cliffs, and surrounded by
Moorish battlements, or of ruined watch-towers perched on lofty peaks,
carries the mind back to the chivalric days of Christian and Moslem
warfare, and to the romantic struggle for the conquest of Granada. In
traversing these lofty _sierras_ the traveller is often obliged to alight,
and lead his horse up and down the steep and jagged ascents and descents,
resembling the broken steps of a staircase. Sometimes the road winds along
dizzy precipices, without parapet to guard him from the gulfs below, and
then will plunge down steep and dark and dangerous declivities. Sometimes
it struggles through rugged _barrancos_, or ravines, worn by winter
torrents, the obscure path of the _contrabandista_; while, ever and anon,
the ominous cross, the monument of robbery and murder, erected on a mound
of stones at some lonely part of the road, admonishes the traveller that
he is among the haunts of banditti, perhaps at that very moment under
the eye of some lurking _bandolero_. Sometimes, in winding through the
narrow valleys, he is startled by a hoarse bellowing, and beholds above
him on some green fold of the mountain a herd of fierce Andalusian bulls,
destined for the combat of the arena. I have felt, if I may so express it,
an agreeable horror in thus contemplating, near at hand, these terrific
animals, clothed with tremendous strength, and ranging their native
pastures in untamed wildness, strangers almost to the face of man: they
know no one but the solitary herdsman who attends upon them, and even he
at times dares not venture to approach them. The low bellowing of these
bulls, and their menacing aspect as they look down from their rocky
height, give additional wildness to the savage scenery.
I have been betrayed unconsciously into a longer disquisition than I
intended on the general features of Spanish travelling; but there is
a romance about all the recollections of the Peninsula dear to the
imagination.
As our proposed route to Granada lay through mountainous regions, where
the roads are little better than mule-paths, and said to be frequently
beset by robbers, we took due travelling precautions. Forwarding the most
valuable part of our luggage a day or two in advance by the _arrieros_,
we retained merely clothing and necessaries for the journey and money
for the expenses of the road; with a little surplus of hard dollars
by way of _robber purse_, to satisfy the gentlemen of the road should
we be assailed. Unlucky is the too wary traveller who, having grudged
this precaution, falls into their clutches empty-handed; they are apt
to give him a sound rib-roasting for cheating them out of their dues.
"_Caballeros_ like them cannot afford to scour the roads and risk the
gallows for nothing."
A couple of stout steeds were provided for our own mounting, and a third
for our scanty luggage and the conveyance of a sturdy Biscayan lad,
about twenty years of age, who was to be our guide, our groom, our valet,
and at all times our guard. For the latter office he was provided with
a formidable _trabuco_ or carbine, with which he promised to defend us
against _rateros_ or solitary foot-pads; but as to powerful bands, like
that of the "Sons of Ecija," he confessed they were quite beyond his
prowess. He made much vainglorious boast about his weapon at the outset of
the journey; though, to the discredit of his generalship, it was suffered
to hang unloaded behind his saddle.
According to our stipulations, the man from whom we hired the horses was
to be at the expense of their feed and stabling on the journey, as well
as of the maintenance of our Biscayan squire, who of course was provided
with funds for the purpose; we took care, however, to give the latter
a private hint, that, though we made a close bargain with his master,
it was all in his favour, as, if he proved a good man and true, both
he and the horses should live at our cost, and the money provided for
their maintenance remain in his pocket. This unexpected largess, with the
occasional present of a cigar, won his heart completely. He was, in truth,
a faithful, cheery, kind-hearted creature, as full of saws and proverbs
as that miracle of squires, the renowned Sancho himself, whose name, by
the by, we bestowed upon him, and, like a true Spaniard, though treated
by us with companionable familiarity, he never for a moment, in his utmost
hilarity, overstepped the bounds of respectful decorum.
Such were our minor preparations for the journey, but above all we laid
in an ample stock of good-humour, and a genuine disposition to be pleased;
determining to travel in true _contrabandista_ style; taking things as we
found them, rough or smooth, and mingling with all classes and conditions
in a kind of vagabond companionship. It is the true way to travel in
Spain. With such disposition and determination, what a country is it for
a traveller, where the most miserable inn is as full of adventure as an
enchanted castle, and every meal is in itself an achievement! Let others
repine at the lack of turnpike roads and sumptuous hotels, and all the
elaborate comforts of a country cultivated and civilised into tameness
and commonplace; but give me the rude mountain scramble; the roving,
hap-hazard, wayfaring; the half wild, yet frank and hospitable manners,
which impart such a true game-flavour to dear old romantic Spain!
[Illustration]
Thus equipped and attended, we cantered out of "Fair Seville city" at
half-past six in the morning of a bright May day, in company with a
lady and gentleman of our acquaintance, who rode a few miles with us, in
the Spanish mode of taking leave. Our route lay through old _Alcala de
Guadaira_ (Alcala on the river Aira), the benefactress of Seville, that
supplies it with bread and water. Here live the bakers who furnish Seville
with that delicious bread for which it is renowned; here are fabricated
those _roscas_ well known by the well-merited appellation of _pan de Dios_
(bread of God); with which, by the way, we ordered our man, Sancho, to
stock his _alforjas_ for the journey. Well has this beneficent little city
been denominated the "Oven of Seville"; well has it been called _Alcala de
los Panaderos_ (Alcala of the bakers), for a great part of its inhabitants
by lines of mules and donkeys laden with great panniers of loaves and
_roscas_.
[Illustration]
I have said Alcala supplies Seville with water. Here are great tanks or
reservoirs, of Roman and Moorish construction, whence water is conveyed
to Seville by noble aqueducts. The springs of Alcala are almost as much
vaunted as its ovens; and to the lightness, sweetness, and purity of its
water is attributed in some measure the delicacy of its bread.
[Illustration]
Here we halted for a time, at the ruins of the old Moorish castle, a
favourite resort for picnic parties from Seville, where we had passed many
a pleasant hour. The walls are of great extent, pierced with loopholes;
enclosing a huge square tower or keep, with the remains of _masmoras_, or
subterranean granaries. The Guadaira winds its stream round the hill, at
the foot of these ruins, whimpering among reeds, rushes, and pond-lilies,
and overhung with rhododendron, eglantine, yellow myrtle, and a profusion
of wild flowers and aromatic shrubs; while along its banks are groves of
oranges, citrons, and pomegranates, among which we heard the early note
of the nightingale.
[Illustration]
A picturesque bridge was thrown across the little river, at one end of
which was the ancient Moorish mill of the castle, defended by a tower of
yellow stone; a fisherman's net hung against the wall to dry, and hard
by in the river was his boat; a group of peasant women in bright-coloured
dresses, crossing the arched bridge, were reflected in the placid stream.
Altogether it was an admirable scene for a landscape-painter.
[Illustration]
The old Moorish mills, so often found on secluded streams, are
characteristic objects in Spanish landscape, and suggestive of the
perilous times of old. They are of stone, and often in the form of towers
with loopholes and battlements, capable of defence in those warlike days
when the country on both sides of the border was subject to sudden inroad
and hasty ravage, and when men had to labour with their weapons at hand,
and some place of temporary refuge.
Our next halting-place was at Gandul, where were the remains of another
Moorish castle, with its ruined tower, a nestling-place for storks,
and commanding a view over a vast _campiña_ or fertile plain, with the
mountains of Ronda in the distance. These castles were strongholds to
protect the plains from the _talas_ or forays to which they were subject,
when the fields of corn would be laid waste, the flocks and herds swept
from the vast pastures, and, together with captive peasantry, hurried off
in long _cavalgadas_ across the borders.
[Illustration]
At Gandul we found a tolerable _posada_; the good folks could not tell us
what time of day it was, the clock only struck once in the day, two hours
after noon; until that time it was guess-work. We guessed it was full time
to eat; so, alighting, we ordered a repast. While that was in preparation,
we visited the palace once the residence of the Marquis of Gandul. All
was gone to decay; there were but two or three rooms habitable, and very
poorly furnished. Yet here were the remains of grandeur: a terrace, where
fair dames and gentle cavaliers may once have walked; a fish-pond and
ruined garden, with grape-vines and date-bearing palm-trees. Here we were
joined by a fat curate, who gathered a bouquet of roses, and presented
it, very gallantly, to the lady who accompanied us.
Below the palace was the mill, with orange-trees and aloes in front, and a
pretty stream of pure water. We took a seat in the shade; and the millers,
all leaving their work, sat down and smoked with us; for the Andalusians
are always ready for a gossip. They were waiting for the regular visit
of the barber, who came once a week to put all their chins in order.
He arrived shortly afterwards: a lad of seventeen, mounted on a donkey,
eager to display his new _alforjas_ or saddle-bags, just bought at a fair;
price one dollar, to be paid on St. John's day (in June), by which time
he trusted to have mown beards enough to put him in funds.
By the time the laconic clock of the castle had struck two we had finished
our dinner. So, taking leave of our Seville friends, and leaving the
millers still under the hands of the barber, we set off on our ride across
the _campiña_. It was one of those vast plains, common in Spain, where for
miles and miles there is neither house nor tree. Unlucky the traveller who
has to traverse it, exposed as we were to heavy and repeated showers of
rain. There is no escape nor shelter. Our only protection was our Spanish
cloaks, which nearly covered man and horse, but grew heavier every mile.
By the time we had lived through one shower we would see another slowly
but inevitably approaching; fortunately in the interval there would be an
outbreak of bright, warm, Andalusian sunshine, which would make our cloaks
send up wreaths of steam, but which partially dried them before the next
drenching.
Shortly after sunset we arrived at Arahal, a little town among the hills.
We found it in a bustle with a party of _miquelets_, who were patrolling
the country to ferret out robbers. The appearance of foreigners like
ourselves was an unusual circumstance in an interior country town; and
little Spanish towns of the kind are easily put in a state of gossip
and wonderment by such an occurrence. Mine host, with two or three old
wise-acre comrades in brown cloaks, studied our passports in a corner
of the _posada_, while an _Alguazil_ took notes by the dim light of a
lamp. The passports were in foreign languages and perplexed them, but
our Squire Sancho assisted them in their studies, and magnified our
importance with the grandiloquence of a Spaniard. In the meantime the
magnificent distribution of a few cigars had won the hearts of all around
us; in a little while the whole community seemed put in agitation to
make us welcome. The _Corregidor_ himself waited upon us, and a great
rush-bottomed arm-chair was ostentatiously bolstered into our room by our
landlady, for the accommodation of that important personage. The commander
of the patrol took supper with us: a lively, talking, laughing _Andaluz_,
who had made a campaign in South America, and recounted his exploits in
love and war with much pomp of phrase, vehemence of gesticulation, and
mysterious rolling of the eye. He told us that he had a list of all the
robbers in the country, and meant to ferret out every mother's son of
them; he offered us at the same time some of his soldiers as an escort.
"One is enough to protect you, _señors_; the robbers know me, and know
my men; the sight of one is enough to spread terror through a whole
_sierra_." We thanked him for his offer, but assured him, in his own
strain, that with the protection of our redoubtable squire, Sancho, we
were not afraid of all the _ladrones_ of Andalusia.
[Illustration]
While we were supping with our drawcansir friend, we heard the notes of
a guitar, and the click of castanets, and presently a chorus of voices
singing a popular air. In fact, mine host had gathered together the
amateur singers and musicians, and the rustic belles of the neighbourhood,
and, on going forth, the court-yard or _patio_ of the inn presented a
scene of true Spanish festivity. We took our seats with mine host and
hostess and the commander of the patrol, under an archway opening into the
court; the guitar passed from hand to hand, but a jovial shoemaker was the
Orpheus of the place. He was a pleasant-looking fellow, with huge black
whiskers; his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He touched the guitar
with masterly skill, and sang a little amorous ditty with an expressive
leer at the women, with whom he was evidently a favourite. He afterwards
danced a _fandango_ with a buxom Andalusian damsel, to the great delight
of the spectators. But none of the females present could compare with
mine host's pretty daughter, Pepita, who had slipped away and made her
toilette for the occasion and had covered her head with roses; and who
distinguished herself in a _bolero_ with a handsome young dragoon. We
ordered our host to let wine and refreshment circulate freely among the
company, yet, though there was a motley assembly of soldiers, muleteers,
and villagers, no one exceeded the bounds of sober enjoyment. The scene
was a study for a painter: the picturesque group of dancers, the troopers
in their half military dresses, the peasantry wrapped in their brown
cloaks; nor must I omit to mention the old meagre _Alguazil_, in a short
black cloak, who took no notice of anything going on, but sat in a corner
diligently writing by the dim light of a huge copper lamp, that might have
figured in the days of Don Quixote.
The following morning was bright and balmy, as a May morning ought to
be, according to the poets. Leaving Arahal at seven o'clock, with all
the _posada_ at the door to cheer us off, we pursued our way through a
fertile country, covered with grain and beautifully verdant; but which
in summer, when the harvest is over and the fields parched and brown,
must be monotonous and lonely; for, as in our ride of yesterday, there
were neither houses nor people to be seen. The latter all congregate in
villages and strongholds among the hills, as if these fertile plains were
still subject to the ravages of the Moor.
At noon we came to where there was a group of trees, beside a brook in a
rich meadow. Here we alighted to make our mid-day meal. It was really a
luxurious spot, among wild flowers and aromatic herbs, with birds singing
around us. Knowing the scanty larders of Spanish inns, and the houseless
tracts we might have to traverse, we had taken care to have the _alforjas_
of our squire well stocked with cold provisions, and his _bota_, or
leathern bottle, which might hold a gallon, filled to the neck with choice
Valdepeñas wine.[1] As we depended more upon these for our well-being than
even his _trabuco_, we exhorted him to be more attentive in keeping them
well charged; and I must do him the justice to say that his namesake,
the trencher-loving Sancho Panza, was never a more provident purveyor.
Though the _alforjas_ and the _bota_ were frequently and vigorously
assailed throughout the journey, they had a wonderful power of repletion,
our vigilant squire sacking everything that remained from our repasts at
the inns to supplying these junketings by the road-side, which were his
delight.
[Illustration]
On the present occasion he spread quite a sumptuous variety of remnants
on the greensward before us, graced with an excellent ham brought from
Seville; then, taking his seat at a little distance, he solaced himself
with what remained in the _alforjas_. A visit or two to the _bota_ made
him as merry and chirruping as a grasshopper filled with dew. On my
comparing his contents of the _alforjas_ to Sancho's skimming of the
flesh-pots at the wedding of Camacho, I found he was well versed in the
history of Don Quixote, but, like many of the common people of Spain,
firmly believed it to be a true history.
"All that happened a long time ago, _Señor_," said he, with an inquiring
look.
"A very long time," I replied.
"I dare say more than a thousand years,"--still looking dubiously.
"I dare say not less."
The squire was satisfied. Nothing pleased the simple-hearted valet more
than my comparing him to the renowned Sancho for devotion to the trencher;
and he called himself by no other name throughout the journey.
[Illustration]
Our repast being finished, we spread our cloaks on the greensward under
the tree, and took a luxurious _siesta_, in the Spanish fashion. The
clouding up of the weather, however, warned us to depart, and a harsh wind
sprang up from the southeast. Towards five o'clock we arrived at Osuna, a
town of fifteen thousand inhabitants, situated on the side of a hill, with
a church and a ruined castle. The _posada_ was outside of the walls; it
had a cheerless look. The evening being cold, the inhabitants were crowded
round a _brasero_ in a chimney-corner; and the hostess was a dry old
woman, who looked like a mummy. Every one eyed us askance as we entered,
as Spaniards are apt to regard strangers; a cheery, respectful salutation
on our part, caballeroing them and touching our sombreros, set Spanish
pride at ease; and when we took our seat among them, lit our cigars, and
passed the cigar-box round among them, our victory was complete. I have
never known a Spaniard, whatever his rank or condition, who would suffer
himself to be outdone in courtesy; and to the common Spaniard the present
of a cigar _puro_ is irresistible. Care, however, must be taken never to
offer him a present with an air of superiority and condescension: he is
too much of a _caballero_ to receive favours at the cost of his dignity.
[Illustration]
Leaving Osuna at an early hour the next morning, we entered the _sierra_
or range of mountains. The road wound through picturesque scenery, but
lonely; and a cross here and there by the roadside, the sign of a murder,
showed that we were now coming among the "robber haunts." This wild and
intricate country, with its silent plains and valleys intersected by
mountains, has ever been famous for banditti. It was here that Omar Ibn
Hassan, a robber-chief among the Moslems, held ruthless sway in the ninth
century, disputing dominion even with the califs of Cordova. This too was
a part of the regions so often ravaged during the reign of Ferdinand and
Isabella by Ali Atar, the old Moorish _alcayde_ of Loxa, father-in-law of
Boabdil so that it was called Ali Atar's garden, and here "Jose Maria,"
famous in Spanish brigand story, had his favourite lurking-places.
[Illustration]
In the course of the day we passed through Fuente la Piedra, near a little
salt lake of the same name, a beautiful sheet of water, reflecting like
a mirror the distant mountains. We now came in sight of Antiquera, that
old city of warlike reputation, lying in the lap of the great _sierra_
which runs through Andalusia. A noble _vega_ spread out before it, a
picture of mild fertility set in a frame of rocky mountains. Crossing a
gentle river we approached the city between hedges and gardens, in which
nightingales were pouring forth their evening song. About nightfall we
arrived at the gates. Everything in this venerable city has a decidedly
Spanish stamp. It lies too much out of the frequented track of foreign
travel to have its old usages trampled out. Here I observed old men still
wearing the _montero_, or ancient hunting-cap, once common throughout
Spain; while the young men wore the little round-crowned hat, with brim
turned up all round, like a cup turned down in its saucer; while the brim
was set off with little black tufts like cockades. The women, too, were
all in _mantillas_ and _basquinas_. The fashions of Paris had not reached
Antiquera.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Pursuing our course through a spacious street, we put up at the _posada_
of San Fernando. As Antiquera, though a considerable city, is, as
I observed, somewhat out of the track of travel, I had anticipated
bad quarters and poor fare at the inn. I was agreeably disappointed,
therefore, by a supper-table amply supplied, and what were still more
acceptable, good clean rooms and comfortable beds. Our man Sancho felt
himself as well off as his namesake when he had the run of the duke's
kitchen, and let me know, as I retired for the night, that it had been a
proud time for the _alforjas_.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Early in the morning (May 4th) I strolled to the ruins of the old Moorish
castle, which itself had been reared on the ruins of a Roman fortress.
Here, taking my seat on the remains of a crumbling tower, I enjoyed a
grand and varied landscape, beautiful in itself, and full of storied and
romantic associations; for I was now in the very heart of the country
famous for the chivalrous contests between Moor and Christian. Below
me, in its lap of hills, lay the old warrior city so often mentioned
in chronicle and ballad. Out of yon gate and down yon hill paraded the
band of Spanish cavaliers, of highest rank and bravest bearing, to make
that foray during the war and conquest of Granada, which ended in the
lamentable massacre among the mountains of Malaga, and laid all Andalusia
in mourning. Beyond spread out the _vega_, covered with gardens and
orchards and fields of grain and enamelled meadows, inferior only to the
famous _vega_ of Granada. To the right the Rock of the Lovers stretched
like a cragged promontory into the plain, whence the daughter of the
Moorish alcayde and her lover, when closely pursued, threw themselves in
despair.
[Illustration]
The matin peal from church and convent below me rang sweetly in the
morning air, as I descended. The market-place was beginning to throng with
the populace, who traffic in the abundant produce of the _vega_; for this
is the mart of an agricultural region. In the market-place were abundance
of freshly plucked roses for sale; for not a dame or damsel of Andalusia
thinks her gala dress complete without a rose shining like a gem among
her raven tresses.
On returning to the inn I found our man Sancho in high gossip with the
landlord and two or three of his hangers-on. He had just been telling some
marvellous story about Seville, which mine host seemed piqued to match
with one equally marvellous about Antiquera. There was once a fountain,
he said, in one of the public squares called _Il fuente del toro_ (the
fountain of the bull), because the water gushed from the mouth of the
bull's head, carved of stone. Underneath the head was inscribed,--
_En frente del toro
Se hallen tesoro._
In front of the bull there is treasure. Many digged in front of the
fountain, but lost their labour and found no money. At last one knowing
fellow construed the motto a different way. It is in the forehead _frente_
of the bull that the treasure is to be found, said he to himself, and I
am the man to find it. Accordingly he came, late at night, with a mallet,
and knocked the head to pieces; and what do you think he found?
[Illustration]
"Plenty of gold and diamonds!" cried Sancho, eagerly.
"He found nothing," rejoined mine host, dryly, "and he ruined the
fountain."
Here a great laugh was set up by the landlord's hangers-on; who considered
Sancho completely taken in by what I presume was one of mine host's
standing jokes.
Leaving Antiquera at eight o'clock, we had a delightful ride along the
little river, and by gardens and orchards fragrant with the odours of
spring and vocal with the nightingale. Our road passed round the Rock of
the Lovers (_el peñon de los enamorados_), which rose in a precipice above
us. In the course of the morning we passed through Archidona, situated
in the breast of a high hill, with a three-pointed mountain towering
above it, and the ruins of a Moorish fortress. It was a great toil to
ascend a steep stony street leading up into the city, although it bore
the encouraging name of _Calle Real del Llano_ (the royal street of the
plain), but it was a still greater toil to descend from this mountain city
on the other side.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
At noon we halted in sight of Archidona, in a pleasant little meadow
among hills covered with olive-trees. Our cloaks were spread on the grass,
under an elm by the side of a bubbling rivulet; our horses were tethered
where they might crop the herbage, and Sancho was told to produce his
_alforjas_. He had been unusually silent this morning ever since the laugh
raised at his expense, but now his countenance brightened, and he produced
his _alforjas_ with an air of triumph. They contained the contributions
of four days' journeying, but had been signally enriched by the foraging
of the previous evening in the plenteous inn at Antiquera; and this seemed
to furnish him with a set-off to the banter of mine host.
_En frente del toro
Se hallen tesoro_
would he exclaim, with a chuckling laugh, as he drew forth the
heterogeneous contents one by one, in a series which seemed to have no
end. First came forth a shoulder of roasted kid, very little the worse
for wear; then an entire partridge; then a great morsel of salted codfish
wrapped in paper; then the residue of a ham; then the half of a pullet,
together with several rolls of bread, and a rabble rout of oranges,
figs, raisins, and walnuts. His _bota_ also had been recruited with some
excellent wine of Malaga. At every fresh apparition from his larder, he
would enjoy our ludicrous surprise, throwing himself back on the grass,
shouting with laughter, and exclaiming, "_Frente del toro!--frente del
toro!_ Ah, _señors_, they thought Sancho a simpleton at Antiquera; but
Sancho knew where to find the _tesoro_."
While we were diverting ourselves with his simple drollery, a solitary
beggar approached, who had almost the look of a pilgrim. He had a
venerable gray beard, and was evidently very old, supporting himself on
a staff, yet age had not bowed him down; he was tall and erect, and had
the wreck of a fine form. He wore a round Andalusian hat, a sheep-skin
jacket, and leathern breeches, gaiters, and sandals. His dress, though
old and patched, was decent, his demeanour manly, and he addressed us
with the grave courtesy that is to be remarked in the lowest Spaniard. We
were in a favourable mood for such a visitor; and in a freak of capricious
charity gave him some silver, a loaf of fine wheaten bread, and a goblet
of our choice wine of Malaga. He received them thankfully, but without
any grovelling tribute of gratitude. Tasting the wine, he held it up
to the light, with a slight beam of surprise in his eye; then quaffing
it off at a draught, "It is many years," said he, "since I have tasted
such wine. It is a cordial to an old man's heart." Then, looking at the
beautiful wheaten loaf, "_bendito sea tal pan!_" "blessed be such bread!"
So saying, he put it in his wallet. We urged him to eat it on the spot.
"No, _señors_," replied he, "the wine I had either to drink or leave; but
the bread I may take home to share with my family."
Our man Sancho sought our eye, and reading permission there, gave the old
man some of the ample fragments of our repast, on condition, however, that
he should sit down and make a meal.
He accordingly took his seat at some little distance from us, and
began to eat slowly, and with a sobriety and decorum that would have
become a _hidalgo_. There was altogether a measured manner and a quiet
self-possession about the old man, that made me think that he had seen
better days: his language, too, though simple, had occasionally something
picturesque and almost poetical in the phraseology. I set him down for
some broken-down cavalier. I was mistaken; it was nothing but the innate
courtesy of a Spaniard, and the poetical turn of thought and language
often to be found in the lowest classes of this clear-witted people.
For fifty years, he told us, he had been a shepherd, but now he was out
of employ and destitute. "When I was a young man," said he, "nothing
could harm or trouble me; I was always well, always gay; but now I am
seventy-nine years of age, and a beggar, and my heart begins to fail me."
Still he was not a regular mendicant: it was not until recently that want
had driven him to this degradation; and he gave a touching picture of the
struggle between hunger and pride, when abject destitution first came upon
him. He was returning from Malaga without money; he had not tasted food
for some time, and was crossing one of the great plains of Spain, where
there were but few habitations. When almost dead with hunger, he applied
at the door of a venta or country inn. "_Perdon usted por Dios hermano!_"
(Excuse us, brother, for God's sake!) was the reply--the usual mode in
Spain of refusing a beggar. "I turned away," said he, "with shame greater
than my hunger, for my heart was yet too proud. I came to a river with
high banks, and deep, rapid current, and felt tempted to throw myself
in: 'What should such an old, worthless, wretched man as I live for?' But
when I was on the brink of the current, I thought on the blessed Virgin,
and turned away. I travelled on until I saw a country-seat at a little
distance from the road, and entered the outer gate of the court-yard.
The door was shut, but there were two young _señoras_ at a window. I
approached and begged;--'Perdon _usted por Dios hermano!_'--and the window
closed. I crept out of the court-yard, but hunger overcame me, and my
heart gave way: I thought my hour at hand, so I laid myself down at the
gate, commended myself to the Holy Virgin, and covered my head to die.
In a little while afterwards the master of the house came home: seeing me
lying at his gate, he uncovered my head, had pity on my gray hairs, took
me into his house, and gave me food. So, _señors_, you see that one should
always put confidence in the protection of the Virgin."
[Illustration]
The old man was on his way to his native place, Archidona, which was in
full view on its steep and rugged mountain. He pointed to the ruins of its
castle. "That castle," he said, "was inhabited by a Moorish king at the
time of the wars of Granada. Queen Isabella invaded it with a great army;
but the king looked down from his castle among the clouds, and laughed
her to scorn! Upon this the Virgin appeared to the queen, and guided her
and her army up a mysterious path in the mountains, which had never before
been known. When the Moor saw her coming, he was astonished, and springing
with his horse from a precipice, was dashed to pieces! The marks of his
horse's hoofs," said the old man, "are to be seen in the margin of the
rock to this day. And see, _señors_, yonder is the road by which the queen
and her army mounted: you see it like a ribbon up the mountain's side; but
the miracle is, that, though it can be seen at a distance, when you come
near it disappears!"
The ideal road to which he pointed was undoubtedly a sandy ravine of the
mountain, which looked narrow and defined at a distance, but became broad
and indistinct on an approach.
As the old man's heart warmed with wine and wassail, he went on to tell us
a story of the buried treasure left under the castle by the Moorish king.
His own house was next to the foundations of the castle. The curate and
notary dreamed three times of the treasure, and went to work at the place
pointed out in their dreams. His own son-in-law heard the sound of their
pick-axes and spades at night. What they found, nobody knows; they became
suddenly rich, but kept their own secret. Thus the old man had once been
next door to fortune, but was doomed never to get under the same roof.
[Illustration]
I have remarked that the stories of treasure buried by the Moors, so
popular throughout Spain, are most current among the poorest people. Kind
nature consoles with shadows for the lack of substantials. The thirsty man
dreams of fountains and running streams; the hungry man of banquets; and
the poor man of heaps of hidden gold: nothing certainly is more opulent
than the imagination of a beggar.
Our afternoon's ride took us through a steep and rugged defile of the
mountains, called _Puerta del Rey_, the Pass of the King; being one of
the great passes into the territories of Granada, and the one by which
King Ferdinand conducted his army. Towards sunset the road, winding round
a hill, brought us in sight of the famous little frontier city of Loxa,
which repulsed Ferdinand from its walls. Its Arabic name implies guardian,
and such it was to the _vega_ of Granada, being one of its advanced
guards. It was the stronghold of that fiery veteran, old Ali Atar, father
in-law of Boabdil; and here it was that the latter collected his troops,
and sallied forth on that disastrous foray which ended in the death of
the old _alcayde_ and his own captivity. From its commanding position at
the gate, as it were, of this mountain-pass, Loxa has not unaptly been
termed the key of Granada. It is wildly picturesque; built along the
face of an arid mountain. The ruins of a Moorish _alcazar_ or citadel
crown a rocky mound which rises out of the centre of the town. The river
Xenil washes its base, winding among rocks, and groves, and gardens, and
meadows, and crossed by a Moorish bridge. Above the city all is savage
and sterile, below is the richest vegetation and the freshest verdure. A
similar contrast is presented by the river: above the bridge it is placid
and grassy, reflecting groves and gardens; below it is rapid, noisy, and
tumultuous. The Sierra Nevada, the royal mountains of Granada, crowned
with perpetual snow, form the distant boundary to this varied landscape,
one of the most characteristic of romantic Spain.
[Illustration]
Alighting at the entrance of the city, we gave our horses to Sancho to
lead them to the inn, while we strolled about to enjoy the singular beauty
of the environs. As we crossed the bridge to a fine _alameda_, or public
walk, the bells tolled the hour of orison. At the sound the wayfarers,
whether on business or pleasure, paused, took off their hats, crossed
themselves, and repeated their evening prayer: a pious custom still
rigidly observed in retired parts of Spain. Altogether it was a solemn
and beautiful evening scene, and we wandered on as the evening gradually
closed, and the new moon began to glitter between the high elms of the
_alameda_. We were roused from this quiet state of enjoyment by the voice
of our trusty squire hailing us from a distance. He came up to us, out
of breath. "_Ah, señores_" cried he, "_el pobre Sancho no es nada sin
Don Quixote._" (Ah, señors, poor Sancho is nothing without Don Quixote.)
He had been alarmed at our not coming to the inn; Loxa was such a wild
mountain place, full of _contrabandistas_, enchanters, and _infiernos_;
he did not well know what might have happened, and set out to seek us,
inquiring after us of every person he met, until he traced us across
the bridge, and, to his great joy, caught sight of us strolling in the
_alameda_.
[Illustration]
The inn to which he conducted us was called the _Corona_, or Crown,
and we found it quite in keeping with the character of the place, the
inhabitants of which seem still to retain the bold, fiery spirit of the
olden time. The hostess was a young and handsome Andalusian widow, whose
trim _basquiña_ of black silk, fringed with bugles, set off the play of
a graceful form and round pliant limbs. Her step was firm and elastic;
her dark eye was full of fire and the coquetry of her air, and varied
ornaments of her person, showed that she was accustomed to be admired.
She was well matched by a brother, nearly about her own age; they were
perfect models of the Andalusian Majo and Maja. He was tall, vigorous,
and well-formed, with a clear olive complexion, a dark beaming eye,
and curling chestnut whiskers that met under his chin. He was gallantly
dressed in a short green velvet jacket, fitted to his shape, profusely
decorated with silver buttons, with a white handkerchief in each pocket.
He had breeches of the same, with rows of buttons from the hips to the
knees; a pink silk handkerchief round his neck, gathered through a ring,
on the bosom of a neatly plaited shirt; a sash round the waist to match;
_bottinas_, or spatterdashes, of the finest russet leather, elegantly
worked, and open at the calf to show his stocking; and russet shoes,
setting off a well-shaped foot.
As he was standing at the door, a horseman rode up and entered into low
and earnest conversation with him. He was dressed in a similar style, and
almost with equal finery; a man about thirty, square-built, with strong
Roman features, handsome, though slightly pitted with the small-pox;
with a free, bold, and somewhat daring air. His powerful black horse
was decorated with tassels and fanciful trappings, and a couple of
broad-mouthed blunderbusses hung behind the saddle. He had the air of
one of those _contrabandistas_ I have seen in the mountains of Ronda,
and evidently had a good understanding with the brother of mine hostess;
nay, if I mistake not, he was a favoured admirer of the widow. In fact,
the whole inn and its inmates had something of a _contrabandista_ aspect,
and a blunderbuss stood in a corner beside the guitar. The horseman
I have mentioned passed his evening in the _posada_, and sang several
bold mountain romances with great spirit. As we were at supper, two poor
Asturians put in, in distress, begging food and a night's lodging. They
had been waylaid by robbers as they came from a fair among the mountains,
robbed of a horse which carried all their stock in trade, stripped
of their money, and most of their apparel, beaten for having offered
resistance, and left almost naked in the road. My companion, with a prompt
generosity natural to him, ordered them a supper and a bed, and gave them
a sum of money to help them forward towards their home.
[Illustration: _Moorish Gate, Ronda._]
As the evening advanced, the _dramatis personæ_ thickened. A large man,
about sixty years of age, of powerful frame, came strolling in, to gossip
with mine hostess. He was dressed in the ordinary Andalusian costume,
but had a huge sabre tucked under his arm; wore large moustaches, and had
something of a lofty swaggering air. Every one seemed to regard him with
great deference.
Our man Sancho whispered to us that he was Don Ventura Rodriguez, the
hero and champion of Loxa, famous for his prowess and the strength of his
arm. In the time of the French invasion he surprised six troopers who were
asleep; he first secured their horses, then attacked them with his sabre,
killed some, and took the rest prisoners. For this exploit the king allows
him a peseta (the fifth of a duro, or dollar) per day, and has dignified
him with the title of Don.
I was amused to behold his swelling language and demeanour. He was
evidently a thorough Andalusian, boastful as brave. His sabre was always
in his hand or under his arm. He carries it always about with him as a
child does its doll, calls it his Santa Teresa, and says, "When I draw
it, the earth trembles" (_tiembla la tierra_).
I sat until a late hour listening to the varied themes of this motley
group, who mingled together with the unreserve of a Spanish _posada_. We
had _contrabandista_ songs, stories of robbers, guerrilla exploits, and
Moorish legends. The last were from our handsome landlady, who gave a
poetical account of the _infiernos_, or infernal regions of Loxa,--dark
caverns, in which subterranean streams and waterfalls make a mysterious
sound. The common people say that there are money-coiners shut up
there from the time of the Moors; and that the Moorish kings kept their
treasures in those caverns.
I retired to bed with my imagination excited by all that I had seen and
heard in this old warrior city. Scarce had I fallen asleep when I was
aroused by a horrid din and uproar, that might have confounded the hero
of La Mancha himself, whose experience of Spanish inns was a continual
uproar. It seemed for a moment as if the Moors were once more breaking
into the town; or the _infiernos_ of which mine hostess talked had broken
loose. I sallied forth, half dressed, to reconnoitre. It was nothing more
nor less than a _charivari_ to celebrate the nuptials of an old man with
a buxom damsel. Wishing him joy of his bride and his serenade, I returned
to my more quiet bed, and slept soundly until morning.
While dressing, I amused myself in reconnoitring the populace from my
window. There were groups of fine-looking young men in the trim fanciful
Andalusian costume, with brown cloaks, thrown about them in true Spanish
style, which cannot be imitated, and little round majo hats stuck on
with a peculiar knowing air. They had the same galliard look which I have
remarked among the dandy mountaineers of Ronda. Indeed, all this part of
Andalusia abounds with such game-looking characters. They loiter about
the towns and villages; seem to have plenty of time and plenty of money;
"horse to ride and weapon to wear." Great gossips, great smokers, apt at
touching the guitar, singing couplets to their maja belles, and famous
dancers of the _bolero_. Throughout all Spain the men, however poor, have
a gentlemanlike abundance of leisure; seeming to consider it the attribute
of a true _cavaliero_ never to be in a hurry; but the Andalusians are
gay as well as leisurely, and have none of the squalid accompaniments
of idleness. The adventurous contraband trade which prevails throughout
these mountain regions, and along the maritime borders of Andalusia, is
doubtless at the bottom of this galliard character.
In contrast to the costume of these groups was that of two long-legged
Valencians conducting a donkey, laden with articles of merchandise; their
muskets slung crosswise over his back, ready for action. They wore round
jackets (_jalecos_), wide linen _bragas_ or drawers scarce reaching to
the knees and looking like kilts, red _fajas_ or sashes swathed tightly
round their waists, sandals of _espartal_ or bass weed, coloured kerchiefs
round their heads somewhat in the style of turbans, but leaving the top
of the head uncovered; in short, their whole appearance having much of
the traditional Moorish stamp.
On leaving Loxa we were joined by a cavalier, well mounted and well
armed, and followed on foot by an _escopetero_ or musketeer. He saluted
us courteously, and soon let us into his quality. He was chief of the
customs, or rather, I should suppose, chief of an armed company whose
business it is to patrol the roads and look out for _contrabandistas_. The
_escopetero_ was one of his guards. In the course of our morning's ride I
drew from him some particulars concerning the smugglers, who have risen to
be a kind of mongrel chivalry in Spain. They come into Andalusia, he said,
from various parts, but especially from La Mancha; sometimes to receive
goods, to be smuggled on an appointed night across the line at the _plaza_
or strand of Gibraltar; sometimes to meet a vessel, which is to hover on a
given night off a certain part of the coast. They keep together and travel
in the night. In the daytime they lie quiet in _barrancos_, gullies of the
mountains, or lonely farmhouses; where they are generally well received,
as they make the family liberal presents of their smuggled wares. Indeed,
much of the finery and trinkets worn by the wives and daughters of the
mountain hamlets and farm-houses are presents from the gay and open-handed
_contrabandistas_.
Arrived at the part of the coast where a vessel is to meet them, they look
out at night from some rocky point or headland. If they descry a sail
near the shore they make a concerted signal; sometimes it consists in
suddenly displaying a lantern three times from beneath the folds of the
cloak. If the signal is answered, they descend to the shore and prepare
for quick work. The vessel runs close in; all her boats are busy landing
the smuggled goods, made up into snug packages for transportation on
horseback. These are hastily thrown on the beach, as hastily gathered up
and packed on the horses, and then the _contrabandistas_ clatter off to
the mountains. They travel by the roughest, wildest, and most solitary
roads, where it is almost fruitless to pursue them. The custom-house
guards do not attempt it: they take a different course. When they hear
of one of these bands returning full freighted through the mountains,
they go out in force, sometimes twelve infantry and eight horsemen, and
take their station where the mountain defile opens into the plain. The
infantry, who lie in ambush some distance within the defile, suffer the
band to pass, then rise and fire upon them. The _contrabandistas_ dash
forward, but are met in front by the horsemen. A wild skirmish ensues.
The _contrabandistas_, if hard pressed, become desperate. Some dismount,
use their horses as breastworks, and fire over their backs; others cut
the cords, let the packs fall off to delay the enemy, and endeavour
to escape with their steeds. Some get off in this way with the loss of
their packages; some are taken, horses, packages, and all; others abandon
everything, and make their escape by scrambling up the mountains. "And
then," cried Sancho, who had been listening with a greedy ear, "_se hacen
ladrones legitimos_,"--and then they become legitimate robbers.
[Illustration]
I could not help laughing at Sancho's idea of a legitimate calling of
the kind; but the chief of customs told me it was really the case that
the smugglers, when thus reduced to extremity, thought they had a kind
of right to take to the road, and lay travellers under contribution,
until they had collected funds enough to mount and equip themselves in
_contrabandista_ style.
Towards noon our wayfaring companion took leave of us and turned up a
steep defile, followed by his _escopetero_; and shortly afterwards we
emerged from the mountains, and entered upon the far-famed _vega_ of
Granada.
Our last mid-day's repast was taken under a grove of olive-trees on the
border of a rivulet. We were in a classical neighbourhood; for not far
off were the groves and orchards of the Soto de Roma. This, according to
fabulous tradition, was a retreat founded by Count Julian to console his
daughter Florinda. It was a rural resort of the Moorish kings of Granada;
and has in modern times been granted to the Duke of Wellington.
[Illustration]
Our worthy squire made a half melancholy face as he drew forth, for the
last time, the contents of his _alforjas_, lamenting that our expedition
was drawing to a close, for, with such cavaliers, he said, he could travel
to the world's end. Our repast, however, was a gay one; made under such
delightful auspices. The day was without a cloud. The heat of the sun
was tempered by cool breezes from the mountains. Before us extended the
glorious _vega_. In the distance was romantic Granada surmounted by the
ruddy towers of the Alhambra, while far above it the snowy summits of the
Sierra Nevada shone like silver.
Our repast finished, we spread our cloaks and took our last siesta _al
fresco_, lulled by the humming of bees among the flowers and the notes
of doves among the olive-trees. When the sultry hours were passed we
resumed our journey. After a time we overtook a pursy little man, shaped
not unlike a toad and mounted on a mule. He fell into conversation with
Sancho, and finding we were strangers, undertook to guide us to a good
_posada_. He was an _escribano_ (notary), he said, and knew the city as
thoroughly as his own pocket. "_Ah Dios, Señores!_ what a city you are
going to see. Such streets! such squares! such palaces! and then the
women--ah, _Santa Maria purisima_--what women!" "But the _posada_ you talk
of," said I, "are you sure it is a good one?"
[Illustration]
"Good! _Santa Maria!_ the best in Granada, _Salones grandes--camas de
luxo--colchones de pluma_ (grand saloons--luxurious sleeping-rooms--beds
of down). Ah, _Señores_, you will fare like King Chico in the Alhambra."
"And how will my horses fare?" cried Sancho.
"Like King Chico's horses. _Chocolate con leche y bollos para almuerza_"
(chocolate and milk with sugar cakes for breakfast), giving the squire a
knowing wink and a leer.
After such satisfactory accounts, nothing more was to be desired on that
head. So we rode quietly on, the squab little notary taking the lead, and
turning to us every moment with some fresh exclamation about the grandeurs
of Granada and the famous times we were to have at the _posada_.
[Illustration]
Thus escorted, we passed between hedges of aloes and Indian figs, and
through that wilderness of gardens with which the _vega_ is embroidered,
and arrived about sunset at the gates of the city. Our officious little
conductor conveyed us up one street and down another, until he rode
into the court-yard of an inn where he appeared to be perfectly at home.
Summoning the landlord by his Christian name, he committed us to his care
as two _cavalleros de mucho valor_, worthy of his best apartments and most
sumptuous fare. We were instantly reminded of the patronising stranger
who introduced Gil Blas with such a flourish of trumpets to the host
and hostess of the inn at Pennaflor, ordering trouts for his supper, and
eating voraciously at his expense. "You know not what you possess," cried
he to the innkeeper and his wife. "You have a treasure in your house.
Behold in this young gentleman the eighth wonder of the world--nothing in
this house is too good for Señor Gil Blas of Santillane, who deserves to
be entertained like a prince."
Determined that the little notary should not eat trouts at our expense,
like his prototype of Pennaflor, we forbore to ask him to supper; nor
had we reason to reproach ourselves with ingratitude, for we found before
morning the little varlet, who was no doubt a good friend of the landlord,
had decoyed us into one of the shabbiest _posadas_ in Granada.
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTE:
[1] It may be as well to note here, that the _alforjas_ are square
pockets at each end of a long cloth about a foot and a half
wide, formed by turning up its extremities. The cloth is then
thrown over the saddle, and the pockets hang on each side like
saddle-bags. It is an Arab invention. The _bota_ is a leathern bag
or bottle, of portly dimensions, with a narrow neck. It is also
Oriental. Hence the scriptural caution which perplexed me in my
boyhood, not to put new wine into old bottles.
[Illustration: _Piedralga Cassla._]
PALACE OF THE ALHAMBRA
[Illustration]
To the traveller imbued with a feeling for the historical and poetical,
so inseparately intertwined in the annals of romantic Spain, the Alhambra
is as much an object of devotion as is the Caaba to all true Moslems.
How many legends and traditions, true and fabulous,--how many songs and
ballads, Arabian and Spanish, of love and war and chivalry, are associated
with this Oriental pile! It was the royal abode of the Moorish kings,
where, surrounded with the splendours and refinements of Asiatic luxury,
they held dominion over what they vaunted as a terrestrial paradise, and
made their last stand for empire in Spain. The royal palace forms but
a part of a fortress, the walls of which, studded with towers, stretch
irregularly round the whole crest of a hill, a spur of the Sierra Nevada
or Snowy Mountains, and overlook the city; externally it is a rude
congregation of towers and battlements, with no regularity of plan nor
grace of architecture, and giving little promise of the grace and beauty
which prevail within.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
In the time of the Moors the fortress was capable of containing within its
outward precincts an army of forty thousand men, and served occasionally
as a stronghold of the sovereigns against their rebellious subjects. After
the kingdom had passed into the hands of the Christians, the Alhambra
continued to be a royal demesne, and was occasionally inhabited by the
Castilian monarchs. The emperor Charles V. commenced a sumptuous palace
within its walls, but was deterred from completing it by repeated shocks
of earthquakes. The last royal residents were Philip V. and his beautiful
queen, Elizabetta of Parma, early in the eighteenth century. Great
preparations were made for their reception. The palace and gardens were
placed in a state of repair, and a new suite of apartments erected, and
decorated by artists brought from Italy. The sojourn of the sovereigns was
transient, and after their departure the palace once more became desolate.
Still the place was maintained with some military state. The governor
held it immediately from the crown, its jurisdiction extended down into
the suburbs of the city, and was independent of the captain-general
of Granada. A considerable garrison was kept up; the governor had his
apartments in the front of the old Moorish palace, and never descended
into Granada without some military parade. The fortress, in fact, was a
little town of itself, having several streets of houses within its walls,
together with a Franciscan convent and a parochial church.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The desertion of the court, however, was a fatal blow to the Alhambra.
Its beautiful halls became desolate, and some of them fell to ruin; the
gardens were destroyed, and the fountains ceased to play. By degrees
the dwellings became filled with a loose and lawless population:
_contrabandistas_, who availed themselves of its independent jurisdiction
to carry on a wide and daring course of smuggling, and thieves and rogues
of all sorts, who made this their place of refuge whence they might
depredate upon Granada and its vicinity. The strong arm of government
at length interfered; the whole community was thoroughly sifted; none
were suffered to remain but such as were of honest character, and had
legitimate right to a residence; the greater part of the houses were
demolished and a mere hamlet left, with the parochial church and the
Franciscan convent. During the recent troubles in Spain, when Granada was
in the hands of the French, the Alhambra was garrisoned by their troops,
and the palace was occasionally inhabited by the French commander. With
that enlightened taste which has ever distinguished the French nation
in their conquests, this monument of Moorish elegance and grandeur was
rescued from the absolute ruin and desolation that were overwhelming
it. The roofs were repaired, the saloons and galleries protected from
the weather, the gardens cultivated, the watercourses restored, the
fountains once more made to throw up their sparkling showers; and Spain
may thank her invaders for having preserved to her the most beautiful and
interesting of her historical monuments.
[Illustration]
On the departure of the French they blew up several towers of the outer
wall, and left the fortifications scarcely tenable. Since that time the
military importance of the post is at an end. The garrison is a handful
of invalid soldiers, whose principal duty is to guard some of the outer
towers, which serve occasionally as a prison of state; and the governor,
abandoning the lofty hill of the Alhambra, resides in the centre of
Granada, for the more convenient despatch of his official duties.
Our first object of course, on the morning after our arrival, was a visit
to this time-honoured edifice; it has been so often, however, and so
minutely described by travellers, that I shall not undertake to give a
comprehensive and elaborate account of it, but merely occasional sketches
of parts, with the incidents and associations connected with them.
[Illustration]
Leaving our _posada_, and traversing the renowned square of the
Vivarrambla, once the scene of Moorish jousts and tournaments, now a
crowded market-place, we proceeded along the Zacatin, the main street
of what, in the time of the Moors, was the Great Bazaar, and where
small shops and narrow alleys still retain the Oriental character.
Crossing an open place in front of the palace of the captain-general,
we ascended a confined and winding street, the name of which reminded
us of the chivalric days of Granada. It is called the Calle, or street
of the Gomeres, from a Moorish family famous in chronicle and song. This
street led up to the Puerta de las Granadas, a massive gateway of Grecian
architecture, built by Charles V., forming the entrance to the domains of
the Alhambra.
At the gate were two or three ragged superannuated soldiers, dozing on
a stone bench, the successors of the Zegris and the Abencerrages; while
a tall meagre varlet, whose rusty-brown cloak was evidently intended
to conceal the ragged state of his nether garments, was lounging in the
sunshine and gossiping with an ancient sentinel on duty. He joined us as
we entered the gate, and offered his services to show us the fortress.
[Illustration]
I have a traveller's dislike to officious ciceroni, and did not altogether
like the garb of the applicant.
"You are well acquainted with the place, I presume?"
"_Ninguno mas; pues señor, soy hijo de la Alhambra._"
(Nobody better; in fact, sir, I am a son of the Alhambra!)
The common Spaniards have certainly a most poetical way of expressing
themselves. "A son of the Alhambra!" the appellation caught me at once;
the very tattered garb of my new acquaintance assumed a dignity in my
eyes. It was emblematic of the fortunes of the place, and befitted the
progeny of a ruin.
[Illustration]
I put some further questions to him, and found that his title was
legitimate. His family had lived in the fortress from generation to
generation ever since the time of the Conquest. His name was Mateo
Ximenes. "Then, perhaps," said I, "you may be a descendant from the great
Cardinal Ximenes?"--"_Dios sabe!_ God knows, Señor! It may be so. We are
the oldest family in the Alhambra,--_Christianos viejos_, old Christians,
without any taint of Moor or Jew. I know we belong to some great family or
other, but I forgot whom. My father knows all about it: he has the coat
of arms hanging up in his cottage, up in the fortress." There is not any
Spaniard, however poor, but has some claim to high pedigree. The first
title of this ragged worthy, however, had completely captivated me; so I
gladly accepted the services of the "son of the Alhambra."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
We now found ourselves in a deep narrow ravine, filled with beautiful
groves, with a steep avenue, and various footpaths winding through it,
bordered with stone seats, and ornamented with fountains. To our left we
beheld the towers of the Alhambra beetling above us; to our right, on the
opposite side of the ravine, we were equally dominated by rival towers
on a rocky eminence. These, we were told, were the Torres Vermejos, or
vermilion towers, so called from their ruddy hue. No one knows their
origin. They are of a date much anterior to the Alhambra: some suppose
them to have been built by the Romans; others, by some wandering colony
of Phœnicians. Ascending the steep and shady avenue, we arrived at the
foot of a huge square Moorish tower, forming a kind of barbican, through
which passed the main entrance to the fortress. Within the barbican was
another group of veteran invalids, one mounting guard at the portal, while
the rest, wrapped in their tattered cloaks, slept on the stone benches.
This portal is called the Gate of Justice, from the tribunal held within
its porch during the Moslem domination, for the immediate trial of petty
causes: a custom common to the Oriental nations, and occasionally alluded
to in the sacred Scriptures. "Judges and officers shalt thou make thee
_in all thy gates_, and they shall judge the people with just judgment."
[Illustration]
The great vestibule, or porch of the gate, is formed by an immense Arabian
arch, of the horseshoe form, which springs to half the height of the
tower. On the keystone of this arch is engraven a gigantic hand. Within
the vestibule, on the keystone of the portal, is sculptured, in like
manner, a gigantic key. Those who pretend to some knowledge of Mohammedan
symbols, affirm that the hand is the emblem of doctrine; the five fingers
designating the five principal commandments of the creed of Islam,
fasting, pilgrimage, alms-giving, ablution, and war against infidels. The
key, say they, is the emblem of the faith or of power; the key of Daoud,
or David, transmitted to the prophet. "And the key of the house of David
will I lay upon his shoulder; so he shall open, and none shall shut, and
he shall shut, and none shall open." (Isaiah xxii. 22.) The key we are
told was emblazoned on the standard of the Moslems in opposition to the
Christian emblem of the cross, when they subdued Spain or Andalusia. It
betokened the conquering power invested in the prophet. "He that hath the
key of David, he that openeth, and no man shutteth; and shutteth, and no
man openeth." (Rev. iii. 7.)
[Illustration]
A different explanation of these emblems, however, was given by the
legitimate son of the Alhambra, and one more in unison with the notions of
the common people, who attach something of mystery and magic to everything
Moorish, and have all kinds of superstitions connected with this old
Moslem fortress. According to Mateo, it was a tradition handed down from
the oldest inhabitants, and which he had from his father and grandfather,
that the hand and key were magical devices on which the fate of the
Alhambra depended. The Moorish king who built it was a great magician, or,
as some believed, had sold himself to the devil, and had laid the whole
fortress under a magic spell. By this means it had remained standing, for
several years, in defiance of storms and earthquakes, while almost all
other buildings of the Moors had fallen to ruin and disappeared. This
spell, the tradition went on to say, would last until the hand on the
outer arch should reach down and grasp the key, when the whole pile would
tumble to pieces, and all the treasures buried beneath it by the Moors
would be revealed.
[Illustration]
Notwithstanding this ominous prediction, we ventured to pass through
the spell-bound gateway, feeling some little assurance against magic art
in the protection of the Virgin, a statue of whom we observed above the
portal.
[Illustration]
After passing through the barbican, we ascended a narrow lane, winding
between walls, and came on an open esplanade within the fortress, called
the Plaza de los Algibes, or Place of the Cisterns, from great reservoirs
which undermine it, cut in the living rock by the Moors to receive the
water brought by conduits from the Darro, for the supply of the fortress.
Here, also, is a well of immense depth, furnishing the purest and coldest
of water,--another monument of the delicate taste of the Moors, who were
indefatigable in their exertions to obtain that element in its crystal
purity.
In front of this esplanade is the splendid pile commenced by Charles V.,
and intended, it is said, to eclipse the residence of the Moorish kings.
Much of the Oriental edifice intended for the winter season was demolished
to make way for this massive pile. The grand entrance was blocked up;
so that the present entrance to the Moorish palace is through a simple
and almost humble portal in a corner. With all the massive grandeur and
architectural merit of the palace of Charles V., we regarded it as an
arrogant intruder, and passing by it with a feeling almost of scorn, rang
at the Moslem portal.
[Illustration]
While waiting for admittance, our self-imposed cicerone, Mateo Ximenes,
informed us that the royal palace was intrusted to the care of a worthy
old maiden dame called Doña Antonia-Molina, but who, according to Spanish
custom, went by the more neighbourly appellation of Tia Antonia (Aunt
Antonia), who maintained the Moorish halls and gardens in order and showed
them to strangers. While we were talking, the door was opened by a plump
little black-eyed Andalusian damsel, whom Mateo addressed as Dolores, but
who from her bright looks and cheerful disposition evidently merited a
merrier name. Mateo informed me in a whisper that she was the niece of Tia
Antonia, and I found she was the good fairy who was to conduct us through
the enchanted palace. Under her guidance we crossed the threshold, and
were at once transported, as if by magic wand, into other times and an
oriental realm, and were treading the scenes of Arabian story. Nothing
could be in greater contrast than the unpromising exterior of the pile
with the scene now before us. We found ourselves in a vast _patio_ or
court, one hundred and fifty feet in length, and upwards of eighty feet
in breadth, paved with white marble, and decorated at each end with
light Moorish peristyles, one of which supported an elegant gallery of
fretted architecture. Along the mouldings of the cornices and on various
parts of the walls were escutcheons and ciphers, and cufic and Arabic
characters in high relief, repeating the pious mottoes of the Moslem
monarchs, the builders of the Alhambra, or extolling their grandeur and
munificence. Along the centre of the court extended an immense basin or
tank (_estanque_), a hundred and twenty-four feet in length, twenty-seven
in breadth, and five in depth, receiving its water from two marble vases.
Hence it is called the Court of the Alberca (from _al beerkah_, the Arabic
for a pond or tank). Great numbers of gold-fish were to be seen gleaming
through the waters of the basin, and it was bordered by hedges of roses.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _The Gardens_]
[Illustration: _Court of the Tank._]
[Illustration: _Fishponds of the Alhambra._]
Passing from the court of the Alberca under a Moorish archway, we entered
the renowned court of Lions. No part of the edifice gives a more complete
idea of its original beauty than this, for none has suffered so little
from the ravages of time. In the centre stands the fountain famous in
song and story. The alabaster basins still shed their diamond drops; the
twelve lions which support them, and give the court its name, still cast
forth crystal streams as in the days of Boabdil. The lions, however, are
unworthy of their fame, being of miserable sculpture, the work probably of
some Christian captive. The court is laid out in flower-beds, instead of
its ancient and appropriate pavement of tiles or marble; the alteration,
an instance of bad taste was made by the French when in possession of
Granada. Round the four sides of the court are light Arabian arcades of
open filigree work, supported by slender pillars of white marble, which
it is supposed were originally gilded. The architecture, like that in
most parts of the interior of the palace, is characterised by elegance
rather than grandeur, bespeaking a delicate and graceful taste, and a
disposition to indolent enjoyment. When one looks upon the fairy traces
of the peristyles, and the apparently fragile fretwork of the walls, it
is difficult to believe that so much has survived the wear and tear of
centuries, the shocks of earthquakes, the violence of war, and the quiet,
though no less baneful, pilferings of the tasteful traveller: it is almost
sufficient to excuse the popular tradition, that the whole is protected
by a magic charm.
[Illustration: _Tower of Comares._]
[Illustration: _The Court of Myrtles._]
On one side of the court a rich portal opens into the Hall of the
Abencerrages: so called from the gallant cavaliers of that illustrious
line who were here perfidiously massacred. There are some who doubt the
whole story, but our humble cicerone Mateo pointed out the very wicket of
the portal through which they were introduced one by one into the court
of Lions, and the white marble fountain in the centre of the hall beside
which they were beheaded. He showed us also certain broad ruddy stains on
the pavement, traces of their blood, which, according to popular belief,
can never be effaced.
[Illustration: _Alhambra from Mountain of the Sun._]
[Illustration]
Finding we listened to him apparently with easy faith, he added, that
there was often heard at night, in the court of Lions, a low confused
sound, resembling the murmuring of a multitude, and now and then a faint
tinkling, like the distant clank of chains. These sounds were made by the
spirits of the murdered Abencerrages, who nightly haunt the scene of their
suffering and invoke the vengeance of Heaven on their destroyer.
[Illustration]
The sounds in question had no doubt been produced, as I had afterwards an
opportunity of ascertaining, by the bubbling currents and tinkling falls
of water conducted under the pavement through pipes and channels to supply
the fountains; but I was too considerate to intimate such an idea to the
humble chronicler of the Alhambra.
[Illustration: _Entrance to Hall of Abencerrages._]
Encouraged by my easy credulity, Mateo gave me the following as an
undoubted fact, which he had from his grandfather:--
There was once an invalid soldier, who had charge of the Alhambra to show
it to strangers; as he was one evening, about twilight, passing through
the court of Lions, he heard footsteps on the hall of the Abencerrages;
supposing some strangers to be lingering there, he advanced to attend
upon them, when to his astonishment he beheld four Moors richly dressed,
with gilded cuirasses and cimeters, and poniards glittering with precious
stones. They were walking to and fro, with solemn pace; but paused and
beckoned to him. The old soldier, however, took to flight, and could never
afterwards be prevailed upon to enter the Alhambra. Thus it is that men
sometimes turn their backs upon fortune; for it is the firm opinion of
Mateo, that the Moors intended to reveal the place where their treasures
lay buried. A successor to the invalid soldier was more knowing; he came
to the Alhambra poor; but at the end of a year went off to Malaga, bought
houses, set up a carriage, and still lives there, one of the richest as
well as oldest men of the place; all which, Mateo sagely surmised, was in
consequence of his finding out the golden secret of these phantom Moors.
[Illustration: _Court of Lions._]
I now perceived I had made an invaluable acquaintance in this son of the
Alhambra, one who knew all the apocryphal history of the place and firmly
believed in it, and whose memory was stuffed with a kind of knowledge
for which I have a lurking fancy, but which is too apt to be considered
rubbish by less indulgent philosophers. I determined to cultivate the
acquaintance of this learned Theban.
[Illustration: _Fountain of Abencerrages._]
Immediately opposite the hall of the Abencerrages, a portal, richly
adorned, leads into a hall of less tragical associations. It is light
and lofty, exquisitely graceful in its architecture, paved with white
marble, and bears the suggestive name of the Hall of the Two Sisters. Some
destroy the romance of the name by attributing it to two enormous slabs of
alabaster which lie side by side, and form a great part of the pavement:
an opinion strongly supported by Mateo Ximenes. Others are disposed to
give the name a more poetical significance, as the vague memorial of
Moorish beauties who once graced this hall, which was evidently a part
of the royal harem. This opinion I was happy to find entertained by
our little bright-eyed guide, Dolores, who pointed to a balcony over an
inner porch, which gallery, she had been told, belonged to the women's
apartment. "You see, _señor_," said she, "it is all grated and latticed,
like the gallery in a convent chapel where the nuns hear mass; for the
Moorish kings," added she, indignantly, "shut up their wives just like
nuns."
[Illustration]
The latticed _jalousies_, in fact, still remain, whence the dark-eyed
beauties of the harem might gaze unseen upon the _zambras_ and other
dances and entertainments of the hall below.
[Illustration]
On each side of this hall are recesses or alcoves for ottomans and
couches, on which the voluptuous lords of the Alhambra indulged in that
dreamy repose so dear to the Orientalists. A cupola or lantern admits a
tempered light from above and a free circulation of air; while on one
side is heard the refreshing sound of waters from the fountain of the
lions, and on the other side the soft plash from the basin in the garden
of Lindaraxa.
[Illustration: _Alcove, Hall of Two Sisters._]
It is impossible to contemplate this scene, so perfectly Oriental, without
feeling the early associations of Arabian romance, and almost expecting to
see the white arm of some mysterious princess beckoning from the gallery,
or some dark eye sparkling through the lattice. The abode of beauty is
here as if it had been inhabited but yesterday; but where are the two
sisters, where the Zoraydas and Lindaraxas!
An abundant supply of water, brought from the mountains by old Moorish
aqueducts, circulates throughout the palace, supplying its baths and
fish-pools, sparkling in jets within its halls or murmuring in channels
along the marble pavements. When it has paid its tribute to the royal
pile, and visited its gardens and parterres, it flows down the long
avenue leading to the city, tinkling in rills, gushing in fountains, and
maintaining a perpetual verdure in those groves that embower and beautify
the whole hill of the Alhambra.
[Illustration]
Those only who have sojourned in the ardent climates of the South can
appreciate the delights of an abode combining the breezy coolness of
the mountain with the freshness and verdure of the valley. While the
city below pants with the noontide heat, and the parched Vega trembles
to the eye, the delicate airs from the Sierra Nevada play through these
lofty halls, bringing with them the sweetness of the surrounding gardens.
Everything invites to that indolent repose, the bliss of southern climes;
and while the half-shut eye looks out from shaded balconies upon the
glittering landscape, the ear is lulled by the rustling of groves and the
murmur of running streams.
I forbear for the present, however, to describe the other delightful
apartments of the palace. My object is merely to give the reader a general
introduction into an abode where, if so disposed, he may linger and
loiter with me day by day until we gradually become familiar with all its
localities.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _Cabra._]
IMPORTANT NEGOTIATIONS.--THE AUTHOR SUCCEEDS TO THE THRONE OF BOABDIL
The day was nearly spent before we could tear ourselves from this region
of poetry and romance to descend to the city and return to the forlorn
realities of a Spanish _posada_. In a visit of ceremony to the Governor of
the Alhambra, to whom we had brought letters, we dwelt with enthusiasm on
the scenes we had witnessed, and could not but express surprise that he
should reside in the city when he had such a paradise at his command. He
pleaded the inconvenience of a residence in the palace from its situation
on the crest of a hill, distant from the seat of business and the resorts
of social intercourse. It did very well for monarchs, who often had need
of castle walls to defend them from their own subjects. "But, _señors_,"
added he, smiling, "if you think a residence there so desirable, my
apartments in the Alhambra are at your service."
It is a common and almost indispensable point of politeness in a Spaniard,
to tell you his house is yours.--"_Esta casa es siempre à la disposicion
de Vm._"--"This house is always at the command of your Grace." In fact,
anything of his which you admire, is immediately offered to you. It is
equally a mark of good breeding in you not to accept it; so we merely
bowed our acknowledgments of the courtesy of the Governor in offering us
a royal palace. We were mistaken, however. The Governor was in earnest.
"You will find a rambling set of empty, unfurnished rooms," said he; "but
Tia Antonia, who has charge of the palace, may be able to put them in
some kind of order, and to take care of you while you are there. If you
can make any arrangement with her for your accommodation, and are content
with scanty fare in a royal abode, the palace of King Chico is at your
service."
[Illustration]
We took the Governor at his word, and hastened up the steep Calle de los
Gomeres, and through the Great Gate of Justice, to negotiate with Dame
Antonia,--doubting at times if this were not a dream, and fearing at times
that the sage _Dueña_ of the fortress might be slow to capitulate. We knew
we had one friend at least in the garrison, who would be in our favour,
the bright-eyed little Dolores, whose good graces we had propitiated
on our first visit; and who hailed our return to the palace with her
brightest looks.
All, however, went smoothly. The good Tia Antonia had a little furniture
to put in the rooms, but it was of the commonest kind. We assured her
we could bivouac on the floor. She could supply our table, but only in
her own simple way;--we wanted nothing better. Her niece, Dolores, would
wait upon us; and at the word we threw up our hats and the bargain was
complete.
[Illustration]
The very next day we took up our abode in the palace, and never did
sovereigns share a divided throne with more perfect harmony. Several days
passed by like a dream, when my worthy associate, being summoned to Madrid
on diplomatic duties, was compelled to abdicate, leaving me sole monarch
of this shadowy realm. For myself, being in a manner a haphazard loiterer
about the world, and prone to linger in its pleasant places, here have I
been suffering day by day to steal away unheeded, spell-bound, for aught
I know, in this old enchanted pile. Having always a companionable feeling
for my reader, and being prone to live with him on confidential terms, I
shall make it a point to communicate to him my reveries and researches
during this state of delicious thraldom. If they have the power of
imparting to his imagination any of the witching charms of the place, he
will not repine at lingering with me for a season in the legendary halls
of the Alhambra.
[Illustration: _Gate of the Alhambra_]
And first it is proper to give him some idea of my domestic arrangements:
they are rather of a simple kind for the occupant of a regal palace; but
I trust they will be less liable to disastrous reverses than those of my
royal predecessors.
[Illustration]
My quarters are at one end of the Governor's apartment, a suite of
empty chambers, in front of the palace, looking out upon the great
esplanade called _la plaza de los algibes_ (the place of the cisterns);
the apartment is modern, but the end opposite to my sleeping-room
communicates with a cluster of little chambers, partly Moorish, partly
Spanish, allotted to the _châtelaine_ Doña Antonia and her family. In
consideration of keeping the palace in order, the good dame is allowed
all the perquisites received from visitors, and all the produce of the
gardens; excepting that she is expected to pay an occasional tribute of
fruits and flowers to the Governor. Her family consists of a nephew and
niece, the children of two different brothers. The nephew, Manuel Molina,
is a young man of sterling worth and Spanish gravity. He had served in the
army, both in Spain and the West Indies, but is now studying medicine in
the hope of one day or other becoming physician to the fortress, a post
worth at least one hundred and forty dollars a year. The niece is the
plump little black-eyed Dolores already mentioned; and who, it is said,
will one day inherit all her aunt's possessions, consisting of certain
petty tenements in the fortress, in a somewhat ruinous condition it is
true, but which, I am privately assured by Mateo Ximenes, yield a revenue
of nearly one hundred and fifty dollars; so that she is quite an heiress
in the eyes of the ragged son of the Alhambra. I am also informed by the
same observant and authentic personage, that a quiet courtship is going on
between the discreet Manuel and his bright-eyed cousin, and that nothing
is wanting to enable them to join their hands and expectations but his
doctor's diploma, and a dispensation from the Pope on account of their
consanguinity.
[Illustration]
The good dame Antonia fulfils faithfully her contract in regard to my
board and lodging; and as I am easily pleased, I find my fare excellent;
while the merry-hearted little Dolores keeps my apartment in order, and
officiates as handmaid at meal-times. I have also at my command a tall,
stuttering, yellow-haired lad, named Pépe, who works in the gardens, and
would fain have acted as valet; but in this he was forestalled by Mateo
Ximenes, the "son of the Alhambra." This alert and officious wight has
managed, somehow or other, to stick by me ever since I first encountered
him at the outer gate of the fortress, and to weave himself into all my
plans, until he has fairly appointed and installed himself my valet,
cicerone, guide, guard, and historiographic squire; and I have been
obliged to improve the state of his wardrobe, that he may not disgrace his
various functions; so that he has cast his old brown mantle, as a snake
does his skin, and now appears about the fortress with a smart Andalusian
hat and jacket, to his infinite satisfaction, and the great astonishment
of his comrades. The chief fault of honest Mateo is an over-anxiety to
be useful. Conscious of having foisted himself into my employ, and that
my simple and quiet habits render his situation a sinecure, he is at his
wits' ends to devise modes of making himself important to my welfare. I
am in a manner the victim of his officiousness; I cannot put my foot over
the threshold of the palace to stroll about the fortress, but he is at
my elbow, to explain everything I see; and if I venture to ramble among
the surrounding hills, he insists upon attending me as a guard, though I
vehemently suspect he would be more apt to trust to the length of his legs
than the strength of his arms, in case of attack. After all, however, the
poor fellow is at times an amusing companion; he is simple-minded and of
infinite good humour, with the loquacity and gossip of a village barber,
and knows all the small-talk of the place and its environs; but what he
chiefly values himself on, is his stock of local information, having the
most marvellous stories to relate of every tower, and vault, and gateway
of the fortress, in all of which he places the most implicit faith.
[Illustration]
Most of these he has derived, according to his own account, from his
grandfather, a little legendary tailor, who lived to the age of nearly
a hundred years, during which he made but two migrations beyond the
precincts of the fortress. His shop, for the greater part of a century,
was the resort of a knot of venerable gossips, where they would pass half
the night talking about old times, and the wonderful events and hidden
secrets of the place. The whole living, moving, thinking, and acting of
this historical little tailor had thus been bounded by the walls of the
Alhambra; within them he had been born, within them he lived, breathed,
and had his being; within them he died and was buried. Fortunately for
posterity his traditionary lore died not with him. The authentic Mateo,
when an urchin, used to be an attentive listener to the narratives of his
grandfather, and of the gossiping group assembled round the shop-board,
and is thus possessed of a stock of valuable knowledge concerning the
Alhambra, not to be found in books, and well worthy the attention of every
curious traveller.
[Illustration: _The Surrounding Hills._]
Such are the personages that constitute my regal household; and I question
whether any of the potentates, Moslem or Christian, who have preceded me
in the palace, have been waited upon with greater fidelity, or enjoyed a
serener sway.
When I rise in the morning, Pépe, the stuttering lad from the gardens,
brings me a tribute of fresh-culled flowers, which are afterwards arranged
in vases by the skilful hand of Dolores, who takes a feminine pride in the
decoration of my chambers. My meals are made wherever caprice dictates;
sometimes in one of the Moorish halls, sometimes under the arcades of the
court of Lions, surrounded by flowers and fountains: and when I walk out,
I am conducted by the assiduous Mateo to the most romantic retreats of
the mountains, and delicious haunts of the adjacent valleys, not one of
which but is the scene of some wonderful tale.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Though fond of passing the greater part of my day alone, yet I
occasionally repair in the evenings to the little domestic circle of
Doña Antonia. This is generally held in an old Moorish chamber, which
serves the good dame for parlour, kitchen, and hall of audience, and
which must have boasted of some splendour in the time of the Moors, if
we may judge from the traces yet remaining; but a rude fireplace has been
made in modern times in one corner, the smoke from which has discoloured
the walls, and almost obliterated the ancient arabesques. A window,
with a balcony overhanging the valley of the Darro, lets in the cool
evening breeze; and here I take my frugal supper of fruit and milk, and
mingle with the conversation of the family. There is a natural talent
or mother-wit, as it is called, about the Spaniards, which renders them
intellectual and agreeable companions, whatever may be their condition in
life, or however imperfect may have been their education: add to this,
they are never vulgar; nature has endowed them with an inherent dignity
of spirit. The good Tia Antonia is a woman of strong and intelligent,
though uncultivated mind; and the bright-eyed Dolores, though she has read
but three or four books in the whole course of her life, has an engaging
mixture of naïveté and good sense, and often surprises me by the pungency
of her artless sallies. Sometimes the nephew entertains us by reading some
old comedy of Calderon or Lope de Vega, to which he is evidently prompted
by a desire to improve as well as amuse his cousin Dolores; though, to
his great mortification, the little damsel generally falls asleep before
the first act is completed. Sometimes Tia Antonia has a little levée of
humble friends and dependants, the inhabitants of the adjacent hamlet,
or the wives of the invalid soldiers. These look up to her with great
deference, as the custodian of the palace, and pay their court to her by
bringing the news of the place, or the rumours that may have straggled
up from Granada. In listening to these evening gossipings I have picked
up many curious facts illustrative of the manners of the people and the
peculiarities of the neighbourhood.
These are simple details of simple pleasures; it is the nature of the
place alone that gives them interest and importance. I tread haunted
ground, and am surrounded by romantic associations. From earliest boyhood,
when, on the banks of the Hudson, I first pored over the pages of old
Gines Perez de Hytas's apocryphal but chivalresque history of the civil
wars of Granada, and the feuds of its gallant cavaliers, Zegries and
Abencerrages, that city has ever been a subject of my waking dreams; and
often have I trod in fancy the romantic halls of the Alhambra. Behold
for once a day-dream realised; yet I can scarce credit my senses, or
believe that I do indeed inhabit the palace of Boabdil, and look down
from its balconies upon chivalric Granada. As I loiter through these
Oriental chambers, and hear the murmur of fountains and the song of the
nightingale; as I inhale the odour of the rose, and feel the influence of
the balmy climate, I am almost tempted to fancy myself in the paradise
of Mahomet, and that the plump little Dolores is one of the bright-eyed
houris, destined to administer to the happiness of true believers.
[Illustration: _Alcandite._]
[Illustration: _A Moorish Mill._]
INHABITANTS OF THE ALHAMBRA
I have often observed that the more proudly a mansion has been tenanted
in the day of its prosperity, the humbler are its inhabitants in the day
of its decline, and that the palace of a king commonly ends in being the
nestling-place of the beggar.
The Alhambra is in a rapid state of similar transition. Whenever a
tower falls to decay, it is seized upon by some tatterdemalion family,
who become joint-tenants, with the bats and owls, of its gilded halls;
and hang their rags, those standards of poverty, out of its windows and
loopholes.
I have amused myself with remarking some of the motley characters that
have thus usurped the ancient abode of royalty, and who seem as if placed
here to give a farcical termination to the drama of human pride. One of
these even bears the mockery of a regal title. It is a little old woman
named Maria Antonia Sabonea, but who goes by the appellation of _la Reyna
Coquina_, or the Cockle-queen. She is small enough to be a fairy; and a
fairy she may be for aught I can find out, for no one seems to know her
origin. Her habitation is in a kind of closet under the outer staircase
of the palace, and she sits in the cool stone corridor, plying her needle
and singing from morning till night, with a ready joke for every one that
passes; for though one of the poorest, she is one of the merriest little
women breathing. Her great merit is a gift for story-telling, having,
I verily believe, as many stories at her command as the inexhaustible
Scheherezade of the Thousand and One Nights. Some of these I have heard
her relate in the evening tertulias of Dame Antonia, at which she is
occasionally a humble attendant.
[Illustration]
That there must be some fairy gift about this mysterious little old
woman, would appear from her extraordinary luck, since, notwithstanding
her being very little, very ugly, and very poor, she has had, according
to her own account, five husbands and a half, reckoning as a half one a
young dragoon, who died during courtship. A rival personage to this little
fairy queen is a portly old fellow with a bottle-nose, who goes about in
a rusty garb, with a cocked hat of oil-skin and a red cockade. He is one
of the legitimate sons of the Alhambra, and has lived here all his life,
filling various offices, such as deputy alguazil, sexton of the parochial
church, and marker of a fives-court, established at the foot of one of the
towers. He is as poor as a rat, but as proud as he is ragged, boasting
of his descent from the illustrious house of Aguilar, from which sprang
Gonzalvo of Cordova, the grand captain. Nay, he actually bears the name
of Alonzo de Aguilar, so renowned in the history of the Conquest; though
the graceless wags of the fortress have given him the title of _el padre
santo_, or the holy father, the usual appellation of the Pope, which I had
thought too sacred in the eyes of true Catholics to be thus ludicrously
applied. It is a whimsical caprice of fortune to present, in the grotesque
person of this tatterdemalion, a namesake and descendant of the proud
Alonzo de Aguilar, the mirror of Andalusian chivalry, leading an almost
mendicant existence about this once haughty fortress, which his ancestor
aided to reduce; yet such might have been the lot of the descendants of
Agamemnon and Achilles, had they lingered about the ruins of Troy!
[Illustration]
Of this motley community, I find the family of my gossiping squire, Mateo
Ximenes, to form, from their numbers at least, a very important part.
His boast of being a son of the Alhambra is not unfounded. His family has
inhabited the fortress ever since the time of the Conquest, handing down
an hereditary poverty from father to son; not one of them having ever been
known to be worth a _maravedi_. His father, by trade a ribbon-weaver, and
who succeeded the historical tailor as the head of the family, is now near
seventy years of age, and lives in a hovel of reeds and plaster, built
by his own hands, just above the iron gate. The furniture consists of a
crazy bed, a table, and two or three chairs; a wooden chest, containing,
besides his scanty clothing, the "archives of the family." These are
nothing more nor less than the papers of various lawsuits sustained
by different generations; by which it would seem that, with all their
apparent carelessness and good-humour, they are a litigious brood. Most of
the suits have been brought against gossiping neighbours for questioning
the purity of their blood, and denying their being _Christianos viejos_,
_i.e._ old Christians, without Jewish or Moorish taint. In fact, I doubt
whether this jealousy about their blood has not kept them so poor in
purse: spending all their earnings on _escribanos_ and _alguazils_. The
pride of the hovel is an escutcheon suspended against the wall, in which
are emblazoned quarterings of the arms of the Marquis of Caiesedo, and of
various other noble houses, with which this poverty-stricken brood claim
affinity.
[Illustration]
As to Mateo himself, who is now about thirty-five years of age, he has
done his utmost to perpetuate his line and continue the poverty of the
family, having a wife and a numerous progeny, who inhabit an almost
dismantled hovel in the hamlet. How they manage to subsist, He only who
sees into all mysteries can tell; the subsistence of a Spanish family of
the kind is always a riddle to me; yet they do subsist, and what is more,
appear to enjoy their existence. The wife takes her holiday stroll on the
Paseo of Granada, with a child in her arms and half a dozen at her heels;
and the eldest daughter, now verging into womanhood, dresses her hair with
flowers, and dances gaily to the castanets.
[Illustration]
There are two classes of people to whom life seems one long holiday,--the
very rich and the very poor; one, because they need do nothing; the other,
because they have nothing to do; but there are none who understand the art
of doing nothing and living upon nothing, better than the poor classes of
Spain. Climate does one half, and temperament the rest. Give a Spaniard
the shade in summer and the sun in winter, a little bread, garlic, oil,
and _garbances_, an old brown cloak and a guitar, and let the world roll
on as it pleases. Talk of poverty! with him it has no disgrace. It sits
upon him with a grandiose style, like his ragged cloak. He is a _hidalgo_,
even when in rags.
The "sons of the Alhambra" are an eminent illustration of this practical
philosophy. As the Moors imagined that the celestial paradise hung over
this favoured spot, so I am inclined at times to fancy that a gleam of
the golden age still lingers about this ragged community. They possess
nothing, they do nothing, they care for nothing. Yet, though apparently
idle all the week, they are as observant of all holy days and saints' days
as the most laborious artisan. They attend all _fêtes_ and dancings in
Granada and its vicinity, light bonfires on the hills on St. John's eve,
and dance away the moonlight nights on the harvest-home of a small field
within the precincts of the fortress, which yield a few bushels of wheat.
Before concluding these remarks, I must mention one of the amusements of
the place, which has particularly struck me. I had repeatedly observed a
long lean fellow perched on the top of one of the towers, manœuvring
two or three fishing-rods, as though he were angling for the stars. I
was for some time perplexed by the evolutions of this aërial fisherman,
and my perplexity increased on observing others employed in like manner
on different parts of the battlements and bastions; it was not until I
consulted Mateo Ximenes that I solved the mystery.
It seems that the pure and airy situation of this fortress has rendered
it, like the castle of Macbeth, a prolific breeding-place for swallows
and martlets, who sport about its towers in myriads, with the holiday
glee of urchins just let loose from school. To entrap these birds in
their giddy circlings, with hooks baited with flies, is one of the
favourite amusements of the ragged "sons of the Alhambra," who, with the
good-for-nothing ingenuity of arrant idlers, have thus invented the art
of angling in the sky.
[Illustration]
THE HALL OF AMBASSADORS
In one of my visits to the old Moorish chamber where the good Tia Antonia
cooks her dinner and receives her company, I observed a mysterious
door in one corner, leading apparently into the ancient part of the
edifice. My curiosity being aroused, I opened it, and found myself in
a narrow, blind corridor, groping along which I came to the head of a
dark winding staircase, leading down an angle of the tower of Comares.
Down this staircase I descended darkling, guiding myself by the wall
until I came to a small door at the bottom, throwing which open, I was
suddenly dazzled by emerging into the brilliant antechamber of the Hall
of Ambassadors; with the fountain of the court of the Alberca sparkling
before me. The antechamber is separated with the court by an elegant
gallery, supported by slender columns with spandrels of openwork in the
Morisco style. At each end of the antechamber are alcoves, and its ceiling
is richly stuccoed and painted. Passing through a magnificent portal, I
found myself in the far-famed Hall of Ambassadors, the audience chamber
of the Moslem monarchs. It is said to be thirty-seven feet square, and
sixty feet high; occupies the whole interior of the Tower of Comares; and
still bears the traces of past magnificence. The walls are beautifully
stuccoed and decorated with Morisco fancifulness; the lofty ceiling was
originally of the same favourite material, with the usual frostwork
and pensile ornaments or stalactites; which, with the embellishments
of vivid colouring and gilding, must have been gorgeous in the extreme.
Unfortunately it gave way during an earthquake, and brought down with it
an immense arch which traversed the hall. It was replaced by the present
vault or dome of larch or cedar, with intersecting ribs, the whole
curiously wrought and richly coloured; still Oriental in its character,
reminding one of "those ceilings of cedar and vermilion that we read of
in the Prophets and the _Arabian Nights_."[2]
From the great height of the vault above the windows, the upper part of
the hall is almost lost in obscurity; yet there is a magnificence as well
as solemnity in the gloom, as through it we have gleams of rich gilding
and the brilliant tints of the Moorish pencil.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The royal throne was placed opposite the entrance in a recess, which still
bears an inscription intimating that Yusef I. (the monarch who completed
the Alhambra) made this the throne of his empire. Everything in this noble
hall seems to have been calculated to surround the throne with impressive
dignity and splendour; there was none of the elegant voluptuousness which
reigns in other parts of the palace. The tower is of massive strength,
domineering over the whole edifice and overhanging the steep hillside. On
three sides of the Hall of Ambassadors are windows cut through the immense
thickness of the walls and commanding extensive prospects. The balcony
of the central window especially looks down upon the verdant valley
of the Darro, with its walks, its groves, and gardens. To the left it
enjoys a distant prospect of the Vega; while directly in front rises the
rival height of the Albaycin, with its medley of streets, and terraces,
and gardens, and once crowned by a fortress that vied in power with the
Alhambra. "Ill fated the man who lost all this!" exclaimed Charles V., as
he looked forth from this window upon the enchanting scenery it commands.
[Illustration]
The balcony of the window where this royal exclamation was made, has of
late become one of my favourite resorts. I have just been seated there,
enjoying the close of a brilliant long day. The sun, as he sank behind
the purple mountains of Alhama, sent a stream of effulgence up the valley
of the Darro, that spread a melancholy pomp over the ruddy towers of the
Alhambra; while the Vega, covered with a slight sultry vapour that caught
the setting ray, seemed spread out in the distance like a golden sea.
Not a breath of air disturbed the stillness of the hour, and though the
faint sound of music and merriment now and then rose from the gardens of
the Darro, it but rendered more impressive the monumental silence of the
pile which overshadowed me. It was one of those hours and scenes in which
memory asserts an almost magical power: and, like the evening sun beaming
on these mouldering towers, sends back her retrospective rays to light up
the glories of the past.
[Illustration: Mountains of Alhambra.]
As I sat watching the effect of the declining daylight upon this Moorish
pile, I was led into a consideration of the light, elegant, and voluptuous
character prevalent throughout its internal architecture, and to contrast
it with the grand but gloomy solemnity of the Gothic edifices reared by
the Spanish conquerors. The very architecture thus bespeaks the opposite
and irreconcilable natures of the two warlike people who so long battled
here for the mastery of the Peninsula. By degrees I fell into a course
of musing upon the singular fortunes of the Arabian or Morisco-Spaniards,
whose whole existence is as a tale that is told, and certainly forms one
of the most anomalous yet splendid episodes in history. Potent and durable
as was their dominion, we scarcely know how to call them. They were a
nation without a legitimate country or name. A remote wave of the great
Arabian inundation, cast upon the shores of Europe, they seem to have all
the impetus of the first rush of the torrent. Their career of conquest,
from the rock of Gibraltar to the cliffs of the Pyrenees, was as rapid and
brilliant as the Moslem victories of Syria and Egypt. Nay, had they not
been checked on the plains of Tours, all France, all Europe, might have
been overrun with the same facility as the empires of the East, and the
Crescent at this day have glittered on the fanes of Paris and London.
[Illustration: _Tomb of St. Ferdinand, Seville._]
[Illustration]
Repelled within the limits of the Pyrenees, the mixed hordes of Asia and
Africa, that formed this great irruption, gave up the Moslem principle
of conquest, and sought to establish in Spain a peaceful and permanent
dominion. As conquerors, their heroism was only equalled by their
moderation; and in both, for a time, they excelled the nations with whom
they contended. Severed from their native homes, they loved the land given
them as they supposed by Allah, and strove to embellish it with everything
that could administer to the happiness of man. Laying the foundations of
their power in a system of wise and equitable laws, diligently cultivating
the arts and sciences, and promoting agriculture, manufactures, and
commerce, they gradually formed an empire unrivalled for its prosperity
by any of the empires of Christendom; and diligently drawing round them
the graces and refinements which marked the Arabian empire in the East, at
the time of its greatest civilisation, they diffused the light of Oriental
knowledge through the western regions of benighted Europe.
The cities of Arabian Spain became the resort of Christian artisans,
to instruct themselves in the useful arts. The universities of Toledo,
Cordova, Seville, and Granada were sought by the pale student from other
lands to acquaint himself with the sciences of the Arabs and the treasured
lore of antiquity; the lovers of the gay science resorted to Cordova and
Granada, to imbibe the poetry and music of the East; and the steel-clad
warriors of the North hastened thither to accomplish themselves in the
graceful exercises and courteous usages of chivalry.
[Illustration: _Court of Mosque, Cordova._]
If the Moslem monuments in Spain, if the Mosque of Cordova, the Alcazar
of Seville, and the Alhambra of Granada, still bear inscriptions fondly
boasting of the power and permanency of their dominion, can the boast
be derided as arrogant and vain? Generation after generation, century
after century, passed away, and still they maintained possession of the
land. A period elapsed longer than that which has passed since England
was subjugated by the Norman Conqueror, and the descendants of Musa and
Taric might as little anticipate being driven into exile across the same
straits, traversed by their triumphant ancestors, as the descendants of
Rollo and William, and their veteran peers, may dream of being driven back
to the shores of Normandy.
With all this, however, the Moslem empire in Spain was but a brilliant
exotic, that took no permanent root in the soil it embellished. Severed
from all their neighbours in the West by impassable barriers of faith and
manners, and separated by seas and deserts from their kindred of the East,
the Morisco-Spaniards were an isolated people. Their whole existence was
a prolonged, though gallant and chivalric struggle for a foothold in a
usurped land.
[Illustration: _Garden of Alcazar, Seville._]
They were the outposts and frontiers of Islamism. The Peninsula was the
great battle-ground where the Gothic conquerors of the north and the
Moslem conquerors of the East met and strove for mastery; and the fiery
courage of the Arab was at length subdued by the obstinate and persevering
valour of the Goth.
Never was the annihilation of a people more complete than that of
the Morisco-Spaniards. Where are they? Ask the shores of Barbary and
its desert places. The exiled remnant of their once powerful empire
disappeared among the barbarians of Africa, and ceased to be a nation.
They have not even left a distinct name behind them, though for nearly
eight centuries they were a distinct people. The home of their adoption,
and of their occupation for ages, refuses to acknowledge them, except as
invaders and usurpers. A few broken monuments are all that remain to bear
witness to their power and dominion, as solitary rocks, left far in the
interior, bear testimony to the extent of some vast inundation. Such is
the Alhambra;--a Moslem pile in the midst of a Christian land; an Oriental
palace amidst the Gothic edifices of the West; an elegant memento of a
brave, intelligent, and graceful people, who conquered, ruled, flourished,
and passed away.
[Illustration: _Cadiz._]
FOOTNOTE:
[2] Urquhart's _Pillars of Hercules_.
[Illustration]
THE MYSTERIOUS CHAMBERS
As I was rambling one day about the Moorish halls, my attention was, for
the first time, attracted to a door in a remote gallery, communicating
apparently with some part of the Alhambra which I had not yet explored. I
attempted to open it, but it was locked. I knocked, but no one answered,
and the sound seemed to reverberate through empty chambers. Here then was
a mystery. Here was the haunted wing of the castle. How was I to get at
the dark secrets here shut up from the public eye? Should I come privately
at night with lamp and sword, according to the prying custom of heroes of
romance; or should I endeavour to draw the secret from Pépe the stuttering
gardener; or the ingenuous Dolores, or the loquacious Mateo? Or should
I go frankly and openly to Dame Antonia the chatelaine, and ask her all
about it? I chose the latter course, as being the simplest though the
least romantic; and found, somewhat to my disappointment, that there was
no mystery in the case. I was welcome to explore the apartment, and there
was the key.
[Illustration]
Thus provided, I returned forthwith to the door. It opened, as I had
surmised, to a range of vacant chambers; but they were quite different
from the rest of the palace. The architecture, though rich and antiquated,
was European. There was nothing Moorish about it. The first two rooms were
lofty; the ceilings, broken in many places, were of cedar, deeply panelled
and skilfully carved with fruits and flowers, intermingled with grotesque
masks or faces.
The walls had evidently in ancient times been hung with damask; but now
were naked, and scrawled over by that class of aspiring travellers who
defile noble monuments with their worthless names. The windows, dismantled
and open to wind and weather, looked out into a charming little secluded
garden, where an alabaster fountain sparkled among roses and myrtles,
and was surrounded by orange and citron trees, some of which flung their
branches into the chambers. Beyond these rooms were two saloons, longer
but less lofty, looking also into the garden. In the compartments of
the panelled ceilings were baskets of fruit and garlands of flowers,
painted by no mean hand, and in tolerable preservation. The walls also
had been painted in fresco in the Italian style, but the paintings were
nearly obliterated; the windows were in the same shattered state with
those of the other chambers. This fanciful suite of rooms terminated in
an open gallery with balustrades, running at right angles along another
side of the garden. The whole apartment, so delicate and elegant in its
decorations, so choice and sequestered in its situation along this retired
little garden, and so different in architecture from the neighbouring
halls, awakened an interest in its history. I found on inquiry that it was
an apartment fitted up by Italian artists in the early part of the last
century, at the time when Philip V. and his second wife, the beautiful
Elizabetta of Farnese, daughter of the Duke of Parma, were expected at the
Alhambra. It was destined for the queen and the ladies of her train. One
of the loftiest chambers had been her sleeping-room. A narrow staircase,
now walled up, led up to a delightful belvidere, originally a mirador of
the Moorish sultanas, communicating with the harem; but which was fitted
up as a boudoir for the fair Elizabetta, and still retains the name of
_el tocador de la Reyna_, or the queen's toilette.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _Garden of Lindaraxa_]
[Illustration: _Fountain of Lindaraxa._]
One window of the royal sleeping-room commanded a prospect of the
Generalife and its embowered terraces; another looked out into the
little secluded garden I have mentioned, which was decidedly Moorish
in its character, and also had its history. It was in fact the garden
of Lindaraxa, so often mentioned in descriptions of the Alhambra, but
who this Lindaraxa was I had never heard explained. A little research
gave me the few particulars known about her. She was a Moorish beauty
who flourished in the court of Muhamed the Left-Handed, and was the
daughter of his loyal adherent, the _alcayde_ of Malaga, who sheltered
him in his city when driven from the throne. On regaining his crown, the
_alcayde_ was rewarded for his fidelity. His daughter had her apartment
in the Alhambra, and was given by the king in marriage to Nasar, a young
Cetimerien prince descended from Aben Hud the Just. Their espousals were
doubtless celebrated in the royal palace and their honeymoon may have
passed among these very bowers.[3]
Four centuries had elapsed since the fair Lindaraxa passed away, yet
how much of the fragile beauty of the scenes she inhabited remained! The
garden still bloomed in which she delighted; the fountain still presented
the crystal mirror in which her charms may once have been reflected;
the alabaster, it is true, had lost its whiteness; the basin beneath,
overrun with weeds, had become the lurking-place of the lizard, but there
was something in the very decay that enhanced the interest of the scene,
speaking as it did of that mutability, the irrevocable lot of man and all
his works.
The desolation too of these chambers, once the abode of the proud and
elegant Elizabetta, had a more touching charm for me than if I had beheld
them in their pristine splendour, glittering with the pageantry of a
court.
When I returned to my quarters, in the governor's apartment, everything
seemed tame and commonplace after the poetic region I had left. The
thought suggested itself: Why could I not change my quarters to these
vacant chambers? that would indeed be living in the Alhambra, surrounded
by its gardens and fountains, as in the time of the Moorish sovereigns. I
proposed the change to Dame Antonia and her family, and it occasioned vast
surprise. They could not conceive any rational inducement for the choice
of an apartment so forlorn, remote, and solitary. Dolores exclaimed at
its frightful loneliness; nothing but bats and owls flitting about,--and
then a fox and wildcat, kept in the vaults of the neighbouring baths,
roamed about at night. The good Tia had more reasonable objections. The
neighbourhood was infested by vagrants: gipsies swarmed in the caverns
of the adjacent hills; the palace was ruinous and easy to be entered in
many places; the rumour of a stranger quartered alone in one of the remote
and ruined apartments, out of the hearing of the rest of the inhabitants,
might tempt unwelcome visitors in the night, especially as foreigners were
always supposed to be well stocked with money. I was not to be diverted
from my humour, however, and my will was law with these good people. So,
calling in the assistance of a carpenter, and the ever officious Mateo
Ximenes, the doors and windows were soon placed in a state of tolerable
security, and the sleeping-room of the stately Elizabetta prepared for
my reception. Mateo kindly volunteered as a body-guard to sleep in my
antechamber; but I did not think it worth while to put his valour to the
proof.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _Prospect from the Hall of Ambassadors._]
With all the hardihood I had assumed and all the precautions I had taken,
I must confess the first night passed in these quarters was inexpressibly
dreary. I do not think it was so much the apprehension of dangers from
without that affected me, as the character of the place itself, with
all its strange associations: the deeds of violence committed there; the
tragical ends of many of those who had once reigned there in splendour. As
I passed beneath the fated halls of the tower of Comares on the way to my
chamber, I called to mind a quotation that used to thrill me in the days
of boyhood:
"Fate sits on these dark battlements and frowns;
And, as the portal opens to receive me,
A voice in sullen echoes through the courts
Tells of a nameless deed!"
The whole family escorted me to my chamber, and took leave of me as of one
engaged in a perilous enterprise; and when I heard their retreating steps
die away along the waste antechambers and echoing galleries, and turned
the key of my door, I was reminded of those hobgoblin stories, where the
hero is left to accomplish the adventure of an enchanted house.
Even the thoughts of the fair Elizabetta and the beauties of her court,
who had once graced these chambers, now, by a perversion of fancy, added
to the gloom. Here was the scene of their transient gaiety and loveliness;
here were the very traces of their elegance and enjoyment; but what and
where were they? Dust and ashes! tenants of the tomb! phantoms of the
memory!
A vague and indescribable awe was creeping over me. I would fain
have ascribed it to the thoughts of robbers awakened by the evening's
conversation, but I felt it was something more unreal and absurd. The
long-buried superstitions of the nursery were reviving, and asserting
their power over my imagination. Everything began to be affected by the
working of my mind. The whispering of the wind among the citron-trees
beneath my window had something sinister. I cast my eyes into the garden
of Lindaraxa; the groves presented a gulf of shadows; the thickets,
indistinct and ghastly shapes. I was glad to close the window, but
my chamber itself became infected. There was a slight rustling noise
overhead; a bat suddenly emerged from a broken panel of the ceiling,
flitting about the room and athwart my solitary lamp; and as the fateful
bird almost flouted my face with his noiseless wing, the grotesque faces
carved in high relief in the cedar ceiling, whence he had emerged, seemed
to mope and mow at me.
[Illustration]
Rousing myself, and half smiling at this temporary weakness, I resolved
to brave it out in the true spirit of the hero of the enchanted house;
so, taking lamp in hand, I sallied forth to make a tour of the palace.
Notwithstanding every mental exertion the task was a severe one. I had
to traverse waste halls and mysterious galleries, where the rays of the
lamp extended but a short distance around me. I walked, as it were, in
a mere halo of light, walled in by impenetrable darkness. The vaulted
corridors were as caverns; the ceilings of the halls were lost in gloom.
I recalled all that had been said of the danger from interlopers in these
remote and ruined apartments. Might not some vagrant foe be lurking before
or behind me, in the outer darkness? My own shadow, cast upon the wall,
began to disturb me. The echoes of my own footsteps along the corridors
made me pause and look around. I was traversing scenes fraught with dismal
recollections. One dark passage led down to the mosque where Yusef, the
Moorish monarch, the finisher of the Alhambra, had been basely murdered.
In another place I trod the gallery where another monarch had been struck
down by the poniard of a relative whom he had thwarted in his love.
A low murmuring sound, as of stifled voices and clanking chains, now
reached me. It seemed to come from the Hall of the Abencerrages. I knew
it to be the rush of water through subterranean channels, but it sounded
strangely in the night, and reminded me of the dismal stories to which it
had given rise.
Soon, however, my ear was assailed by sounds too fearfully real to be
the work of fancy. As I was crossing the Hall of Ambassadors, low moans
and broken ejaculations rose, as it were, from beneath my feet. I paused
and listened. They then appeared to be outside of the tower--then again
within. Then broke forth howlings as of an animal--then stifled shrieks
and inarticulate ravings. Heard in that dead hour and singular place,
the effect was thrilling. I had no desire for further perambulation; but
returned to my chamber with infinitely more alacrity than I had sallied
forth, and drew my breath more freely when once more within its walls
and the door bolted behind me. When I awoke in the morning, with the sun
shining in at my window and lighting up every part of the building with
his cheerful and truth-telling beams, I could scarcely recall the shadows
and fancies conjured up by the gloom of the preceding night; or believe
that the scenes around me, so naked and apparent, could have been clothed
with such imaginary horrors.
Still, the dismal howlings and ejaculations I had heard were not ideal;
they were soon accounted for, however, by my handmaid Dolores: being
the ravings of a poor maniac, a brother of her aunt, who was subject to
violent paroxysms, during which he was confined in a vaulted room beneath
the Hall of Ambassadors.
In the course of a few evenings a thorough change took place in the scene
and its associations. The moon, which when I took possession of my new
apartments was invisible, gradually gained each evening upon the darkness
of the night, and at length rolled in full splendour above the towers,
pouring a flood of tempered light into every court and hall. The garden
beneath my window, before wrapped in gloom, was gently lighted up; the
orange and citron trees were tipped with silver; the fountain sparkled in
the moonbeams, and even the blush of the rose was faintly visible.
I now felt the poetic merit of the Arabic inscription on the walls,--"How
beauteous is this garden; where the flowers of the earth vie with the
stars of heaven. What can compare with the vase of yon alabaster fountain
filled with crystal water? nothing but the moon in her fulness, shining
in the midst of an unclouded sky!"
[Illustration]
On such heavenly nights I would sit for hours at my window inhaling the
sweetness of the garden, and musing on the chequered fortunes of those
whose history was dimly shadowed out in the elegant memorials around.
Sometimes, when all was quiet, and the clock from the distant cathedral of
Granada struck the midnight hour, I have sallied out on another tour and
wandered over the whole building; but how different from my first tour!
No longer dark and mysterious; no longer peopled with shadowy foes; no
longer recalling scenes of violence and murder; all was open, spacious,
beautiful; everything called up pleasing and romantic fancies; Lindaraxa
once more walked in her garden; the gay chivalry of Moslem Granada once
more glittered about the Court of Lions! Who can do justice to a moonlight
night in such a climate and such a place? The temperature of a summer
midnight in Andalusia is perfectly ethereal. We seem lifted up into a
purer atmosphere; we feel a serenity of soul, a buoyancy of spirits,
an elasticity of frame, which render mere existence happiness. But when
moonlight is added to all this, the effect is like enchantment. Under its
plastic sway the Alhambra seems to regain its pristine glories. Every rent
and chasm of time; every mouldering tint and weather-stain is gone; the
marble resumes its original whiteness; the long colonnades brighten in the
moonbeams; the halls are illuminated with a softened radiance,--we tread
the enchanted palace of an Arabian tale!
[Illustration: _El Tocador de la Reyna._]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
What a delight, at such a time, to ascend to the little airy pavilion of
the queen's toilette (_el tocador de la reyna_), which, like a bird-cage,
overhangs the valley of the Darro, and gaze from its light arcades upon
the moonlight prospect! To the right, the swelling mountains of the Sierra
Nevada, robbed of their ruggedness and softened into a fairy land, with
their snowy summits gleaming like silver clouds against the deep blue
sky. And then to lean over the parapet of the Tocador and gaze down upon
Granada and the Albaycin spread out like a map below; all buried in deep
repose; the white palaces and convents sleeping in the moonshine, and
beyond all these the vapoury Vega fading away like a dreamland in the
distance.
[Illustration: _House of the Grand Captain._]
Sometimes the faint click of castanets rise from the Alameda, where some
gay Andalusians are dancing away the summer night. Sometimes the dubious
tones of a guitar and the notes of an amorous voice, tell perchance the
whereabout of some moonstruck lover serenading his lady's window.
Such is a faint picture of the moonlight nights I have passed loitering
about the courts and halls and balconies of this most suggestive pile;
"feeding my fancy with sugared suppositions," and enjoying that mixture
of reverie and sensation which steal away existence in a southern climate;
so that it has been almost morning before I have retired to bed, and been
lulled to sleep by the falling waters of the fountain of Lindaraxa.
[Illustration: _Tower of Iron_]
FOOTNOTES
[3] Una de las cosas en que tienen precisa intervencion los Reyes
Moros as en el matrimonio de sus grandes: de aqui nace que todos
los señores llegadas à la persona real si casan en palacio, y
siempre huvo su quarto destinado para esta ceremonia.
One of the things in which the Moorish kings interfered was in
the marriage of their nobles: hence it came that all the señors
attached to the royal person were married in the palace; and
there was always a chamber destined for the ceremony.--_Paseos
por Granada_, Paseo XXI.
[Illustration]
PANORAMA FROM THE TOWER OF COMARES
It is a serene and beautiful morning: the sun has not gained sufficient
power to destroy the freshness of the night. What a morning to mount to
the summit of the Tower of Comares, and take a bird's-eye view of Granada
and its environs!
Come then, worthy reader and comrade, follow my steps into this vestibule,
ornamented with rich tracery, which opens into the Hall of Ambassadors. We
will not enter the hall, however, but turn to this small door opening into
the wall. Have a care! here are steep winding steps and but scanty light;
yet up this narrow, obscure, and spiral staircase, the proud monarchs
of Granada and their queens have often ascended to the battlements to
watch the approach of invading armies, or gaze with anxious hearts on the
battles in the Vega.
At length we have reached the terraced roof, and may take breath for a
moment, while we cast a general eye over the splendid panorama of city and
country; of rocky mountain, verdant valley, and fertile plain; of castle,
cathedral, Moorish towers, and Gothic domes, crumbling ruins, and blooming
groves. Let us approach the battlements, and cast our eyes immediately
below. See, on this side we have the whole plain of the Alhambra laid
open to us, and can look down into its courts and gardens. At the foot of
the tower is the Court of the Alberca, with its great tank or fishpool,
bordered with flowers; and yonder is the Court of Lions, with its famous
fountain, and its light Moorish arcades; and in the centre of the pile is
the little garden of Lindaraxa, buried in the heart of the building, with
its roses and citrons and shrubbery of emerald green.
[Illustration]
That belt of battlements, studded with square towers, straggling round
the whole brow of the hill, is the outer boundary of the fortress. Some
of the towers, you may perceive, are in ruins, and their massive fragments
buried among vines, fig-trees, and aloes.
[Illustration]
Let us look on this northern side of the tower. It is a giddy height;
the very foundations of the tower rise above the groves of the steep
hill-side. And see! a long fissure in the massive walls shows that the
tower has been rent by some of the earthquakes which from time to time
have thrown Granada into consternation; and which, sooner or later,
must reduce this crumbling pile to a mere mass of ruin. The deep narrow
glen below us, which gradually widens as it opens from the mountains,
is the valley of the Darro; you see the little river winding its way
under embowered terraces, and among orchards and flower-gardens. It is
a stream famous in old times for yielding gold, and its sands are still
sifted occasionally, in search of the precious ore. Some of those white
pavilions, which here and there gleam from among groves and vineyards,
were rustic retreats of the Moors, to enjoy the refreshment of their
gardens. Well have they been compared by one of their poets to so many
pearls set in a bed of emeralds.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The airy palace, with its tall white towers and long arcades, which
breasts yon mountain, among pompous groves and hanging gardens, is the
Generalife, a summer palace of the Moorish kings, to which they resorted
during the sultry months to enjoy a still more breezy region than that
of the Alhambra. The naked summit of the height above it, where you
behold some shapeless ruins, is the Silla del Moro, or seat of the Moor,
so called from having been a retreat of the unfortunate Boabdil during
the time of an insurrection, where he seated himself and looked down
mournfully upon his rebellious city.
A murmuring sound of water now and then rises from the valley. It is
from the aqueduct of yon Moorish mill, nearly at the foot of the hill.
The avenue of trees beyond is the Alameda, along the bank of the Darro;
a favourite resort in evenings, and a rendezvous of lovers in the summer
nights, when the guitar may be heard at a late hour from the benches
along its walks. At present you see none but a few loitering monks there,
and a group of water-carriers. The latter are burdened with water-jars
of ancient Oriental construction, such as were used by the Moors. They
have been filled at the cold and limpid spring called the fountain of
Avellanos. Yon mountain path leads to the fountain, a favourite resort
of Moslems as well as Christians; for this is said to be the Adinamar
(_Aynu-l-adamar_), the "Fountain of Tears," mentioned by Ibn Batuta the
traveller, and celebrated in the histories and romances of the Moors.
[Illustration]
You start! 'tis nothing but a hawk that we have frightened from his nest.
This old tower is a complete breeding-place for vagrant birds; the swallow
and martlet abound in every chink and cranny, and circle about it the
whole day long; while at night, when all other birds have gone to rest,
the moping owl comes out of its lurking-place, and utters its boding cry
from the battlements. See how the hawk we have dislodged sweeps away below
us, skimming over the tops of the trees, and sailing up to the ruins above
the Generalife!
[Illustration: _Puente Pinos._]
I see you raise your eyes to the snowy summit of yon pile of mountains,
shining like a white summer cloud in the blue sky. It is the Sierra
Nevada, the pride and delight of Granada; the source of her cooling
breezes and perpetual verdure; of her gushing fountains and perennial
streams. It is this glorious pile of mountains which gives to Granada that
combination of delights so rare in a southern city,--the fresh vegetation
and temperate airs of a northern climate, with the vivifying ardour of a
tropical sun, and the cloudless azure of a southern sky. It is this aërial
treasury of snow, which, melting in proportion to the increase of the
summer heat, sends down rivulets and streams through every glen and gorge
of the Alpuxarras, diffusing emerald verdure and fertility throughout a
chain of happy and sequestered valleys.
Those mountains may be well called the glory of Granada. They dominate the
whole extent of Andalusia, and may be seen from its most distant parts.
The muleteer hails them, as he views their frosty peaks from the sultry
level of the plain; and the Spanish mariner on the deck of his bark,
far, far off on the bosom of the blue Mediterranean, watches them with a
pensive eye, thinks of delightful Granada, and chants, in low voice, some
old romance about the Moors.
[Illustration]
See to the south at the foot of those mountains a line of arid hills,
down which a long train of mules is slowly moving. Here was the closing
scene of Moslem domination. From the summit of one of those hills the
unfortunate Boabdil cast back his last look upon Granada, and gave vent
to the agony of his soul. It is the spot famous in song and story, "The
last sigh of the Moor."
[Illustration: _Santa Fe._]
Further this way these arid hills slope down into the luxurious Vega, from
which he had just emerged: a blooming wilderness of grove and garden,
and teeming orchard, with the Xenil winding through it in silver links,
and feeding innumerable rills; which, conducted through ancient Moorish
channels, maintain the landscape in perpetual verdure. Here were the
beloved bowers and gardens, and rural pavilions, for which the unfortunate
Moors fought with such desperate valour. The very hovels and rude granges,
now inhabited by boors, show, by the remains of arabesques and other
tasteful decoration, that they were elegant residences in the days of the
Moslems. Behold, in the very centre of this eventful plain, a place which
in a manner links the history of the Old World with that of the New. Yon
line of walls and towers gleaming in the morning sun, is the city of Santa
Fe, built by the Catholic sovereigns during the siege of Granada, after a
conflagration had destroyed their camp. It was to these walls Columbus was
called back by the heroic queen, and within them the treaty was concluded
which led to the discovery of the Western World. Behind yon promontory to
the west is the bridge of Pinos, renowned for many a bloody fight between
Moors and Christians. At this bridge the messenger overtook Columbus when,
despairing of success with the Spanish sovereigns, he was departing to
carry his project of discovery to the court of France.
[Illustration: _Pass of Elvira._]
[Illustration: _Alcala._]
Above the bridge a range of mountains bounds the Vega to the west,--the
ancient barrier between Granada and the Christian territories. Among
their heights you may still discern warrior towns; their gray walls and
battlements seeming of a piece with the rocks on which they are built.
Here and there a solitary _atalaya_, or watchtower, perched on a mountain
peak, looks down as it were from the sky into the valley on either side.
How often have these _atalayas_ given notice, by fire at night or smoke
by day, of an approaching foe! It was down a cragged defile of these
mountains, called the Pass of Lope, that the Christian armies descended
into the Vega. Round the base of yon gray and naked mountain (the
mountain of Elvira), stretching its bold rocky promontory into the bosom
of the plain, the invading squadrons would come bursting into view, with
flaunting banners and clangour of drum and trumpet.
[Illustration: _Alcaudete._]
Five hundred years have elapsed since Ismael ben Ferrag, a Moorish king
of Granada, beheld from this very tower an invasion of the kind, and an
insulting ravage of the Vega; on which occasion he displayed an instance
of chivalrous magnanimity, often witnessed in the Moslem princes; "whose
history," says an Arabian writer, "abounds in generous actions and noble
deeds that will last through all succeeding ages, and live for ever in the
memory of man."--But let us sit down on this parapet, and I will relate
the anecdote.
[Illustration: _Illora._]
It was in the year of Grace 1319, that Ismael ben Ferrag beheld from this
tower a Christian camp whitening the skirts of yon mountain of Elvira.
The royal princes, Don Juan and Don Pedro, regents of Castile during
the minority of Alphonso XI., had already laid waste the country from
Alcaudete to Alcalá la Real, capturing the castle of Illora, and setting
fire to its suburbs, and they now carried their insulting ravages to
the very gates of Granada, defying the king to sally forth and give them
battle.
Ismael, though a young and intrepid prince, hesitated to accept the
challenge. He had not sufficient force at hand, and awaited the arrival
of troops summoned from the neighbouring towns. The Christian princes,
mistaking his motives, gave up all hope of drawing him forth, and having
glutted themselves with ravage, struck their tents and began their
homeward march. Don Pedro led the van, and Don Juan brought up the
rear, but their march was confused and irregular, the army being greatly
encumbered by the spoils and captives they had taken.
[Illustration]
By this time King Ismael had received his expected resources, and putting
them under the command of Osmyn, one of the bravest of his generals, sent
them forth in hot pursuit of the enemy. The Christians were overtaken in
the defiles of the mountains. A panic seized them; they were completely
routed, and driven with great slaughter across the borders. Both of the
princes lost their lives. The body of Don Pedro was carried off by his
soldiers, but that of Don Juan was lost in the darkness of the night. His
son wrote to the Moorish king, entreating that the body of his father
might be sought and honourably treated. Ismael forgot in a moment that
Don Juan was an enemy, who had carried ravage and insult to the very gate
of his capital; he only thought of him as a gallant cavalier and a royal
prince. By his command diligent search was made for the body. It was found
in a _barranco_ and brought to Granada. There Ismael caused it to be laid
out in state on a lofty bier, surrounded by torches and tapers, in one of
these halls of the Alhambra. Osmyn and other of the noblest cavaliers were
appointed as a guard of honour, and the Christian captives were assembled
to pray around it.
In the meantime, Ismael wrote to the son of Prince Juan to send a convoy
for the body, assuring him it should be faithfully delivered up. In due
time, a band of Christian cavaliers arrived for the purpose. They were
honourably received and entertained by Ismael, and, on their departure
with the body, the guard of honour of Moslem cavaliers escorted the
funeral train to the frontier.
But enough; the sun is high above the mountains, and pours his full
fervour on our heads. Already the terraced roof is hot beneath our feet;
let us abandon it, and refresh ourselves under the Arcades by the Fountain
of the Lions.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE BALCONY
I have spoken of a balcony of the central window of the Hall of
Ambassadors. It served as a kind of observatory, where I used often to
take my seat, and consider not merely the heaven above but the earth
beneath. Besides the magnificent prospect which it commanded of mountain,
valley, and Vega, there was a little busy scene of human life laid open to
inspection immediately below. At the foot of the hill was an _alameda_,
or public walk, which, though not so fashionable as the more modern and
splendid _paseo_ of the Xenil, still boasted a varied and picturesque
concourse. Hither resorted the small gentry of the suburbs, together with
priests and friars, who walked for appetite and digestion; _majos_ and
_majas_, the beaux and belles of the lower classes, in their Andalusian
dresses; swaggering _contrabandistas_, and sometimes half-muffled and
mysterious loungers of the higher ranks, on some secret assignation.
It was a moving picture of Spanish life and character, which I delighted
to study; and as the astronomer has his grand telescope with which
to sweep the skies, and, as it were, bring the stars nearer for his
inspection, so I had a smaller one, of pocket size, for the use of my
observatory, with which I could sweep the regions below, and bring the
countenances of the motley groups so close as almost, at times, to make
me think I could divine their conversation by the play and expression
of their features. I was thus, in a manner, an invisible observer, and,
without quitting my solitude, could throw myself in an instant into the
midst of society,--a rare advantage to one of somewhat shy and quiet
habits, and fond, like myself, of observing the drama of life without
becoming an actor in the scene.
[Illustration]
There was a considerable suburb lying below the Alhambra, filling the
narrow gorge of the valley, and extending up the opposite hill of the
Albaycin. Many of the houses were built in the Moorish style, round
_patios_, or courts, cooled by fountains and open to the sky; and as the
inhabitants passed much of their time in these courts, and on the terraced
roofs during the summer season, it follows that many a glance of their
domestic life might be obtained by an aërial spectator like myself, who
could look down on them from the clouds.
I enjoyed in some degree the advantages of the student in the famous old
Spanish story, who beheld all Madrid unroofed for his inspection; and my
gossiping squire, Mateo Ximenes, officiated occasionally as my Asmodeus,
to give me anecdotes of the different mansions and their inhabitants.
[Illustration]
I preferred, however, to form conjectural histories for myself, and thus
would sit for hours, weaving, from casual incidents and indications
passing under my eye, a whole tissue of schemes, intrigues, and
occupations of the busy mortals below. There was scarce a pretty face or
a striking figure that I daily saw, about which I had not thus gradually
framed a dramatic story, though some of my characters would occasionally
act in direct opposition to the part assigned them, and disconcert the
whole drama. Reconnoitring one day with my glass the streets of the
Albaycin, I beheld the procession of a novice about to take the veil; and
remarked several circumstances which excited the strongest sympathy in the
fate of the youthful being thus about to be consigned to a living tomb.
I ascertained to my satisfaction that she was beautiful, and, from the
paleness of her cheek, that she was a victim rather than a votary. She was
arrayed in bridal garments, and decked with a chaplet of white flowers,
but her heart evidently revolted at this mockery of a spiritual union, and
yearned after its earthly loves. A tall stern-looking man walked near her
in the procession: it was, of course, the tyrannical father, who, from
some bigoted or sordid motive, had compelled this sacrifice. Amid the
crowd was a dark handsome youth, in Andalusian garb, who seemed to fix on
her an eye of agony. It was doubtless the secret lover from whom she was
for ever to be separated. My indignation rose as I noted the malignant
expression painted on the countenances of the attendant monks and friars.
The procession arrived at the chapel of the convent; the sun gleamed for
the last time upon the chaplet of the poor novice, as she crossed the
fatal threshold and disappeared within the building. The throng poured
in with cowl, and cross, and minstrelsy; the lover paused for a moment
at the door. I could divine the tumult of his feelings; but he mastered
them, and entered. There was a long interval. I pictured to myself the
scene passing within: the poor novice despoiled of her transient finery,
and clothed in the conventual garb; the bridal chaplet taken from her
brow, and her beautiful head shorn of its long silken tresses. I heard her
murmur the irrevocable vow. I saw her extended on a bier; the death pall
spread over her; the funeral service performed that proclaimed her dead
to the world; her sighs were drowned in the deep tones of the organ, and
the plaintive requiem of the nuns; the father looked on, unmoved, without
a tear; the lover--no--my imagination refused to portray the anguish of
the lover--there the picture remained a blank.
After a time the throng again poured forth, and dispersed various ways, to
enjoy the light of the sun and mingle with the stirring scenes of life;
but the victim, with her bridal chaplet, was no longer there. The door
of the convent closed that severed her from the world for ever. I saw
the father and the lover issue forth; they were in earnest conversation.
The latter was vehement in his gesticulations; I expected some violent
termination to my drama; but an angle of a building interfered and closed
the scene. My eye afterwards was frequently turned to that convent with
painful interest. I remarked late at night a solitary light twinkling from
a remote lattice of one of its towers. "There," said I, "the unhappy nun
sits weeping in her cell, while perhaps her lover paces the street below
in unavailing anguish."
[Illustration]
The officious Mateo interrupted my meditations and destroyed in an instant
the cobweb tissue of my fancy. With his usual zeal he had gathered facts
concerning the scene, which put my fictions all to flight. The heroine
of my romance was neither young nor handsome; she had no lover; she had
entered the convent of her own free will, as a respectable asylum, and
was one of the most cheerful residents within its walls.
It was some little while before I could forgive the wrong done me by the
nun in being thus happy in her cell, in contradiction to all the rules
of romance; I diverted my spleen, however, by watching, for a day or two,
the pretty coquetries of a dark-eyed brunette, who, from the covert of a
balcony shrouded with flowering shrubs and a silken awning, was carrying
on a mysterious correspondence with a handsome, dark, well-whiskered
cavalier, who lurked frequently in the street beneath her window.
Sometimes I saw him at an early hour stealing forth wrapped to the eyes
in a mantle. Sometimes he loitered at a corner, in various disguises,
apparently waiting for a private signal to slip into the house. Then there
was the tinkling of a guitar at night and a lantern shifted from place to
place in the balcony. I imagined another intrigue like that of Almaviva,
but was again disconcerted in all my suppositions. The supposed lover
turned out to be the husband of the lady, and a noted _contrabandista_;
and all his mysterious signs and movements had doubtless some smuggling
scheme in view.
I occasionally amused myself with noting from this balcony the gradual
changes of the scenes below, according to the different stages of the day.
Scarce has the gray dawn streaked the sky, and the earliest cock crowed
from the cottages of the hill-side, when the suburbs give sign of reviving
animation; for the fresh hours of dawning are precious in the summer
season in a sultry climate. All are anxious to get the start of the sun,
in the business of the day. The muleteer drives forth his loaded train
for the journey; the traveller slings his carbine behind his saddle, and
mounts his steed at the gate of the hostel; the brown peasant from the
country urges forward his loitering beasts, laden with panniers of sunny
fruit and fresh dewy vegetables, for already the thrifty housewives are
hastening to the market.
The sun is up and sparkles along the valley, tipping the transparent
foliage of the groves. The matin bells resound melodiously through the
pure bright air, announcing the hour of devotion. The muleteer halts his
burdened animals before the chapel, thrusts his staff through his belt
behind, and enters with hat in hand, smoothing his coal-black hair to
hear a mass, and to put up a prayer for a prosperous wayfaring across
the _sierra_. And now steals forth on fairy foot the gentle _señora_, in
trim _basquiña_, with restless fan in hand, and dark eye flashing from
beneath the gracefully folded mantilla; she seeks some well-frequented
church to offer up her morning orisons; but the nicely adjusted dress, the
dainty shoe and cobweb stocking, the raven tresses exquisitely braided,
the fresh-plucked rose, gleaming among them like a gem, show that earth
divides with Heaven the empire of her thoughts. Keep an eye upon her,
careful mother, or virgin aunt, or vigilant _duenna_, whichever you may
be, that walk behind!
[Illustration: _The Market._]
As the morning advances, the din of labour augments on every side; the
streets are thronged with man, and steed, and beast of burden, and there
is a hum and murmur, like the surges of the ocean. As the sun ascends to
his meridian, the hum and bustle gradually decline; at the height of noon
there is a pause. The panting city sinks into lassitude, and for several
hours there is a general repose. The windows are closed, the curtains
drawn, the inhabitants retire into the coolest recesses of their mansions;
the full-fed monk snores in his dormitory; the brawny porter lies
stretched on the pavement beside his burden; the peasant and the labourer
sleep beneath the trees of the Alameda, lulled by the sultry chirping of
the locust. The streets are deserted, except by the water-carrier, who
refreshes the ear by proclaiming the merits of his sparkling beverage,
"colder than the mountain snow (_mas fria que la nieve_)."
[Illustration: _House of the Darro._]
As the sun declines, there is again a gradual reviving, and when the
vesper bell rings out his sinking knell, all nature seems to rejoice that
the tyrant of the day has fallen. Now begins the bustle of enjoyment, when
the citizens pour forth to breathe the evening air, and revel away the
brief twilight in the walks and gardens of the Darro and Xenil.
[Illustration: _The Convent._]
As night closes, the capricious scene assumes new features. Light after
light gradually twinkles forth; here a taper from a balconied window;
there a votive lamp before the image of a saint. Thus, by degrees, the
city emerges from the pervading gloom, and sparkles with scattered lights,
like the starry firmament. Now break forth from court and garden, and
street and lane, the tinkling of innumerable guitars, and the clicking of
castanets; blending, at this lofty height, in a faint but general concert.
"Enjoy the moment" is the creed of the gay and amorous Andalusian, and
at no time does he practise it more zealously than on the balmy nights
of summer, wooing his mistress with the dance, the love-ditty, and the
passionate serenade.
I was one evening seated in the balcony, enjoying the light breeze that
came rustling along the side of the hill, among the tree-tops, when my
humble historiographer Mateo, who was at my elbow, pointed out a spacious
house, in an obscure street of the Albaycin, about which he related, as
nearly as I can recollect, the following anecdote.
[Illustration: _In the Sierras._]
[Illustration: _Mosque._]
THE ADVENTURE OF THE MASON
There was once upon a time a poor mason, or bricklayer, in Granada, who
kept all the saints' days and holidays, and Saint Monday into the bargain,
and yet, with all his devotion, he grew poorer and poorer, and could
scarcely earn bread for his numerous family. One night he was roused from
his first sleep by a knocking at his door. He opened it, and beheld before
him a tall, meagre cadaverous-looking priest.
"'Hark ye, honest friend!' said the stranger; 'I have observed that you
are a good Christian, and one to be trusted; will you undertake a job this
very night?'
"'With all my heart, _Señor_ Padre, on condition that I am paid
accordingly.'
"'That you shall be; but you must suffer yourself to be blindfolded.'
[Illustration: _House of the Priests._]
"To this the mason made no objection. So, being hoodwinked, he was led
by the priest through various rough lanes and winding passages, until
they stopped before the portal of a house. The priest then applied a key,
turned a creaking lock, and opened what sounded like a ponderous door.
They entered, the door was closed and bolted, and the mason was conducted
through an echoing corridor and a spacious hall to an interior part of the
building. Here the bandage was removed from his eyes, and he found himself
in a _patio_, or court, dimly lighted by a single lamp. In the centre
was the dry basin of an old Moorish fountain, under which the priest
requested him to form a small vault, bricks and mortar being at hand for
the purpose. He accordingly worked all night, but without finishing the
job. Just before daybreak the priest put a piece of gold into his hand,
and having again blindfolded him, conducted him back to his dwelling.
[Illustration]
"'Are you willing,' said he, 'to return and complete your work?'
"'Gladly, Señor Padre, provided I am so well paid.'
"'Well, then, to-morrow at midnight I will call again.'
"He did so, and the vault was completed.
"'Now, 'said the priest, 'you must help me to bring forth the bodies that
are to be buried in this vault.'
[Illustration]
"The poor mason's hair rose on his head at these words: he followed the
priest, with trembling steps, into a retired chamber of the mansion,
expecting to behold some ghastly spectacle of death, but was relieved on
perceiving three or four portly jars standing in one corner. They were
evidently full of money, and it was with great labour that he and the
priest carried them forth and consigned them to their tomb. The vault
was then closed, the pavement replaced, and all traces of the work were
obliterated. The mason was again hoodwinked and led forth by a route
different from that by which he had come. After they had wandered for a
long time through a perplexed maze of lanes and alleys, they halted. The
priest then put two pieces of gold into his hand: 'Wait here,' said he,
'until you hear the cathedral bell toll for matins. If you presume to
uncover your eyes before that time, evil will befall you:' so saying, he
departed. The mason waited faithfully, amusing himself by weighing the
gold pieces in his hand, and clinking them against each other. The moment
the cathedral bell rang its matin peal, he uncovered his eyes, and found
himself on the banks of the Xenil; whence he made the best of his way
home, and revelled with his family for a whole fortnight on the profits
of his two nights' work; after which he was as poor as ever.
[Illustration: _The Moorish Fountain._]
"He continued to work a little, and pray a good deal, and keep saints'
days and holidays, from year to year, while his family grew up as gaunt
and ragged as a crew of gipsies. As he was seated one evening at the door
of his hovel, he was accosted by a rich old curmudgeon, who was noted for
owning many houses, and being a griping landlord. The man of money eyed
him for a moment from beneath a pair of anxious shagged eyebrows.
"'I am told, friend, that you are very poor.'
"'There is no denying the fact, _señors_,--it speaks for itself.'
"'I presume, then, that you will be glad of a job, and will work cheap.'
"'As cheap, my master, as any mason in Granada.'
[Illustration: _Banks of Xenil._]
"'That's what I want. I have an old house fallen into decay, which costs
me more money than it is worth to keep it in repair, for nobody will live
in it; so I must contrive to patch it up and keep it together at as small
expense as possible.'
"The mason was accordingly conducted to a large deserted house that
seemed going to ruin. Passing through several empty halls and chambers,
he entered an inner court, where his eye was caught by an old Moorish
fountain. He paused for a moment, for a dreaming recollection of the place
came over him.
"'Pray,' said he, 'who occupied this house formerly?'
"'A pest upon him!' cried the landlord; 'it was an old miserly priest,
who cared for nobody but himself. He was said to be immensely rich, and,
having no relations, it was thought he would leave all his treasures to
the Church. He died suddenly, and the priests and friars thronged to take
possession of his wealth; but nothing could they find but a few ducats in
a leathern purse. The worst luck has fallen on me, for, since his death,
the old fellow continues to occupy my house without paying rent, and
there is no taking the law of a dead man. The people pretend to hear the
clinking of gold all night in the chamber where the old priest slept, as
if he were counting over his money, and sometimes a groaning and moaning
about the court. Whether true or false, these stories have brought a bad
name on my house, and not a tenant will remain in it.'
"'Enough,' said the mason sturdily: 'let me live in your house rent-free
until some better tenant present, and I will engage to put it in repair,
and to quiet the troubled spirit that disturbs it. I am a good Christian
and a poor man, and am not to be daunted by the Devil himself, even though
he should come in the shape of a big bag of money!'
"The offer of the honest mason was gladly accepted; he moved with his
family into the house, and fulfilled all his engagements. By little and
little he restored it to its former state; the clinking of gold was no
more heard at night in the chamber of the defunct priest, but began to be
heard by day in the pocket of the living mason. In a word, he increased
rapidly in wealth, to the admiration of all his neighbours, and became one
of the richest men in Granada: he gave large sums to the Church, by way,
no doubt, of satisfying his conscience, and never revealed the secret of
the vault until on his death-bed to his son and heir."
[Illustration]
THE COURT OF LIONS
The peculiar charm of this old dreamy palace is its power of calling
up vague reveries and picturings of the past, and thus clothing naked
realities with the illusions of the memory and the imagination. As I
delight to walk in these "vain shadows," I am prone to seek those parts
of the Alhambra which are most favourable to this phantasmagoria of the
mind; and none are more so than the Court of Lions, and its surrounding
halls. Here the hand of time has fallen the lightest, and the traces of
Moorish elegance and splendour exist in almost their original brilliancy.
Earthquakes have shaken the foundations of this pile, and rent its rudest
towers; yet see! not one of those slender columns has been displaced,
not an arch of that light and fragile colonnade given way, and all the
fairy fretwork of these domes, apparently as unsubstantial as the crystal
fabrics of a morning's frost, exist after the lapse of centuries, almost
as fresh as if from the hand of the Moslem artist. I write in the midst
of these mementoes of the past, in the fresh hour of early morning, in the
fated Hall of the Abencerrages. The blood-stained fountain, the legendary
monument of their massacre, is before me; the lofty jet almost casts its
dew upon my paper. How difficult to reconcile the ancient tale of violence
and blood with the gentle and peaceful scene around! Everything here
appears calculated to inspire kind and happy feelings, for everything is
delicate and beautiful. The very light falls tenderly from above, through
the lantern of a dome tinted and wrought as if by fairy hands. Through
the ample and fretted arch of the portal I behold the Court of Lions,
with brilliant sunshine gleaming along its colonnades and sparkling in
its fountains. The lively swallow dives into the court, and, rising with
a surge, darts away twittering over the roofs; the busy bee toils humming
among the flower-beds; and painted butterflies hover from plant to plant,
and flutter up and sport with each other in the sunny air. It needs but a
slight exertion of the fancy to picture some pensive beauty of the harem,
loitering in these secluded haunts of Oriental luxury.
He, however, who would behold this scene under an aspect more in unison
with its fortunes, let him come when the shadows of evening temper the
brightness of the court, and throw a gloom into the surrounding halls.
Then nothing can be more serenely melancholy, or more in harmony with the
tale of departed grandeur.
[Illustration: _Court of Lions._]
At such times I am apt to seek the Hall of Justice, whose deep shadowy
arcades extend across the upper end of the court. Here was performed,
in presence of Ferdinand and Isabella and their triumphant court, the
pompous ceremonial of high mass, on taking possession of the Alhambra.
The very cross is still to be seen upon the wall, where the altar was
erected, and where officiated the Grand Cardinal of Spain, and others of
the highest religious dignitaries of the land. I picture to myself the
scene when this place was filled with the conquering host, that mixture
of mitred prelate and shaven monk, and steel-clad knight and silken
courtier; when crosses and crosiers and religious standards were mingled
with proud armorial-ensigns and the banners of the haughty chiefs of
Spain, and flaunted in triumph through these Moslem halls. I picture to
myself Columbus, the future discoverer of a world, taking his modest stand
in a remote corner, the humble and neglected spectator of the pageant. I
see in imagination the Catholic sovereigns prostrating themselves before
the altar, and pouring forth thanks for their victory; while the vaults
resound with sacred minstrelsy, and the deep-toned _Te Deum_.
[Illustration: _Hall of Justice._]
The transient illusion is over,--the pageant melts from the
fancy,--monarch, priest, and warrior return into oblivion with the poor
Moslems over whom they exulted. The hall of their triumph is waste and
desolate. The bat flits about its twilight vault, and the owl hoots from
the neighbouring tower of Comares.
[Illustration: _Hall of Justice._]
Entering the Court of the Lions a few evenings since, I was almost
startled at beholding a turbaned Moor quietly seated near the fountain.
For a moment one of the fictions of the place seemed realised: an
enchanted Moor had broken the spell of centuries, and become visible.
He proved, however, to be a mere ordinary mortal: a native of Tetuan in
Barbary, who had a shop in the Zacatin of Granada, where he sold rhubarb,
trinkets, and perfumes. As he spoke Spanish fluently, I was enabled to
hold conversation with him, and found him shrewd and intelligent. He told
me that he came up the hill occasionally in the summer, to pass a part of
the day in the Alhambra, which reminded him of the old palaces in Barbary,
being built and adorned in similar style, though with more magnificence.
As we walked about the palace, he pointed out several of the Arabic
inscriptions, as possessing much poetic beauty.
[Illustration]
"Ah, _señors_," said he, "when the Moors held Granada, they were a gayer
people than they are nowadays. They thought only of love, music, and
poetry. They made stanzas upon every occasion, and set them all to music.
He who could make the best verses, and she who had the most tuneful voice,
might be sure of favour and preferment. In those days, if any one asked
for bread, the reply was, make me a couplet; and the poorest beggar, if
he begged in rhyme, would often be rewarded with a piece of gold."
"And is the popular feeling for poetry," said I, "entirely lost among you?"
"By no means, _señors_; the people of Barbary, even those of the lower
classes, still make couplets, and good ones too, as in old times; but
talent is not rewarded as it was then; the rich prefer the jingle of their
gold to the sound of poetry or music."
As he was talking, his eye caught one of the inscriptions which foretold
perpetuity to the power and glory of the Moslem monarchs, the masters
of this pile. He shook his head, and shrugged his shoulders, as he
interpreted it. "Such might have been the case," said he; "the Moslems
might still have been reigning in the Alhambra, had not Boabdil been a
traitor, and given up his capital to the Christians. The Spanish monarchs
would never have been able to conquer it by open force."
[Illustration: _A Window in the Hall of Justice._]
I endeavoured to vindicate the memory of the unlucky Boabdil from this
aspersion, and to show that the dissensions which led to the downfall of
the Moorish throne originated in the cruelty of his tiger-hearted father;
but the Moor would admit of no palliation.
"Muley Abul Hassan," said he, "might have been cruel; but he was brave,
vigilant, and patriotic. Had he been properly seconded, Granada would
still have been ours; but his son Boabdil thwarted his plans, crippled
his power, sowed treason in his palace, and dissension in his camp. May
the curse of God light upon him for his treachery!" With these words the
Moor left the Alhambra.
The indignation of my turbaned companion agrees with an anecdote related
by a friend, who, in the course of a tour in Barbary, had an interview
with the Pacha of Tetuan. The Moorish governor was particular in his
inquiries about Spain, and especially concerning the favoured region of
Andalusia, the delights of Granada, and the remains of its royal palace.
The replies awakened all those fond recollections, so deeply cherished by
the Moors, of the power and splendour of their ancient empire in Spain.
Turning to his Moslem attendants, the Pacha stroked his beard, and broke
forth in passionate lamentations, that such a sceptre should have fallen
from the sway of true believers. He consoled himself, however, with the
persuasion, that the power and prosperity of the Spanish nation were on
the decline; that a time would come when the Moors would conquer their
rightful domains; and that the day was perhaps not far distant when
Mohammedan worship would again be offered up in the mosque of Cordova,
and a Mohammedan prince sit on his throne in the Alhambra.
Such is the general aspiration and belief among the Moors of Barbary; who
consider Spain, or Andaluz, as it was anciently called, their rightful
heritage, of which they have been despoiled by treachery and violence.
These ideas are fostered and perpetuated by the descendants of the exiled
Moors of Granada, scattered among the cities of Barbary. Several of these
reside in Tetuan, preserving their ancient names, such as Paez and Medina,
and refraining from intermarriage with any families who cannot claim
the same high origin. Their vaunted lineage is regarded with a degree of
popular deference rarely shown in Mohammedan communities to any hereditary
distinction, excepting in the royal line.
These families, it is said, continue to sigh after the terrestrial
paradise of their ancestors, and to put up prayers in their mosques
on Fridays, imploring Allah to hasten the time when Granada shall be
restored to the faithful: an event to which they look forward as fondly
and confidently as did the Christian Crusaders to the recovery of the Holy
Sepulchre. Nay, it is added, that some of them retain the ancient maps
and deeds of the estates and gardens of their ancestors at Granada, and
even the keys of the houses; holding them as evidences of their hereditary
claims, to be produced at the anticipated day of restoration.
[Illustration: _Mosque Cordova._]
My conversation with the Moor set me to musing on the fate of Boabdil.
Never was surname more applicable than that bestowed upon him by his
subjects of el Zogoybi, or the Unlucky. His misfortunes began almost in
his cradle, and ceased not even with his death. If ever he cherished the
desire of leaving an honourable name on the historic page, how cruelly has
he been defrauded of his hopes! Who is there that has turned the least
attention to the romantic history of the Moorish domination in Spain,
without kindling with indignation at the alleged atrocities of Boabdil?
Who has not been touched with the woes of his lovely and gentle queen,
subjected by him to a trial of life and death, on a false charge of
infidelity? Who has not been shocked by his alleged murder of his sister
and her two children, in a transport of passion? Who has not felt his
blood boil at the inhuman massacre of the gallant Abencerrages, thirty-six
of whom, it is affirmed, he ordered to be beheaded in the Court of Lions?
All these charges have been reiterated in various forms; they have passed
into ballads, dramas, and romances, until they have taken too thorough
possession of the public mind to be eradicated. There is not a foreigner
of education that visits the Alhambra, but asks for the fountain where the
Abencerrages were beheaded; and gazes with horror at the grated gallery
where the queen is said to have been confined; not a peasant of the Vega
or the Sierra, but sings the story in rude couplets, to the accompaniment
of his guitar, while his hearers learn to execrate the very name of
Boabdil.
Never, however, was name more foully and unjustly slandered. I have
examined all the authentic chronicles and letters written by Spanish
authors, contemporary with Boabdil; some of whom were in the confidence of
the Catholic sovereigns, and actually present in the camp throughout the
war. I have examined all the Arabian authorities I could get access to,
through the medium of translation, and have found nothing to justify these
dark and hateful accusations. The most of these tales may be traced to a
work commonly called _The Civil Wars of Granada_, containing a pretended
history of the feuds of the Zegries and Abencerrages, during the last
struggle of the Moorish empire. The work appeared originally in Spanish,
and professed to be translated from the Arabic by one Gines Perez de Hita,
an inhabitant of Murcia. It has since passed into various languages, and
Florian has taken from it much of the fable of his Gonsalvo of Cordova:
it has thus, in a great measure, usurped the authority of real history,
and is currently believed by the people, and especially the peasantry of
Granada. The whole of it, however, is a mass of fiction, mingled with
a few disfigured truths, which give it an air of veracity. It bears
internal evidence of its falsity; the manners and customs of the Moors
being extravagantly misrepresented in it, and scenes depicted totally
incompatible with their habits and their faith, and which never could have
been recorded by a Mohammedan writer.
[Illustration]
I confess there seems to me something almost criminal in the wilful
perversions of this work: great latitude is undoubtedly
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