Granada And The Alhambra.
Mateo Ximenez, the Younger--The Cathedral of Granada--A Monkish
Miracle--Catholic Shrines--Military Cherubs--The Royal Chapel--The Tombs
of Ferdinand and Isabella--Chapel of San Juan de Dios--The
Albaycin--View of the Vega--The Generalife--The Alhambra--Torra de la
Vela--The Walls and Towers--A Visit to Old Mateo--The Court of the
Fish-pond--The Halls of the Alhambra--Character of the
Architecture--Hall of the Abencerrages--Hall of the Two Sisters--The
Moorish Dynasty in Spain.
"Who has not in Granada been,
Verily, he has nothing seen."
_Andalusian Proverb_.
Granada, _Wednesday, Nov._ 17, 1852.
Immediately on reaching here, I was set upon by an old gentleman who
wanted to act as guide, but the mozo of the hotel put into my hand a card
inscribed "Don Mateo Ximenez, Guide to the celebrated Washington Irving,"
and I dismissed the other applicant. The next morning, as the mozo brought
me my chocolate, he said; "Señor, _el chico_ is waiting for you." The
"little one" turned out to be the son of old Mateo, "honest Mateo," who
still lives up in the Alhambra, but is now rather too old to continue his
business, except on great occasions. I accepted the young Mateo, who spoke
with the greatest enthusiasm of Mr. Irving, avowing that the whole family
was devoted to him, in life and death. It was still raining furiously,
and the golden Darro, which roars in front of the hotel, was a swollen
brown flood. I don't wonder that he sometimes threatens, as the old
couplet says, to burst up the Zacatin, and bear it down to his bride, the
Xenil.
Towards noon, the clouds broke away a little, and we sallied out. Passing
through the gate and square of Vivarrambla (may not this name come from
the Arabic _bob er-raml,_ the "gate of the sand?"), we soon reached the
Cathedral. This massive structure, which makes a good feature in the
distant view of Granada, is not at all imposing, near at hand. The
interior is a mixture of Gothic and Roman, glaring with whitewash, and
broken, like that of Seville, by a wooden choir and two grand organs,
blocking up the nave. Some of the side chapels, nevertheless, are splendid
masses of carving and gilding. In one of them, there are two full-length
portraits of Ferdinand and Isabella, supposed to be by Alonzo Cano. The
Cathedral contains some other good pictures by the same master, but all
its former treasures were carried off by the French.
We next went to the Picture Gallery, which is in the Franciscan Convent.
There are two small Murillos, much damaged, some tolerable Alonzo Canos, a
few common-place pictures by Juan de Sevilla, and a hundred or more by
authors whose names I did not inquire, for a more hideous collection of
trash never met my eye. One of them represents a miracle performed by two
saints, who cut off the diseased leg of a sick white man, and replace it
by the sound leg of a dead negro, whose body is seen lying beside the bed.
Judging from the ghastly face of the patient, the operation is rather
painful, though the story goes that the black leg grew fast, and the man
recovered. The picture at least illustrates the absence of "prejudice of
color" among the Saints.
We went into the adjoining Church of Santo Domingo, which has several very
rich shrines of marble and gold. A sort of priestly sacristan opened the
Church of the Madonna del Rosario---a glittering mixture of marble, gold,
and looking-glasses, which has rather a rich effect. The beautiful yellow
and red veined marbles are from the Sierra Nevada. The sacred Madonna--a
big doll with staring eyes and pink cheeks--has a dress of silver, shaped
like an extinguisher, and encrusted with rubies and other precious stones.
The utter absence of taste in most Catholic shrines is an extraordinary
thing. It seems remarkable that a Church which has produced so many
glorious artists should so constantly and grossly violate the simplest
rules of art. The only shrine which I have seen, which was in keeping with
the object adored, is that of the Virgin, at Nazareth, where there is
neither picture nor image, but only vases of fragrant flowers, and
perfumed oil in golden lamps, burning before a tablet of spotless marble.
Among the decorations of the chapel, there are a host of cherubs frescoed
on the ceiling, and one of them is represented in the act of firing off a
blunderbuss. "Is it true that the angels carry blunderbusses?" I asked the
priest. He shrugged his shoulders with a sort of half-smile, and said
nothing. In the Cathedral, on the plinths of the columns in the outer
aisles, are several notices to the effect that "whoever speaks to women,
either in the nave or the aisles, thereby puts himself in danger of
excommunication." I could not help laughing, as I read this monkish and
yet most _un_monk-like statute. "Oh," said Mateo, "all that was in the
despotic times; it is not so now."
A deluge of rain put a stop to my sight-seeing until the next morning,
when I set out with Mateo to visit the Royal Chapel. A murder had been
committed in the night, near the entrance of the Zacatin, and the
paving-stones were still red with the blood of the victim. A _funcion_ of
some sort was going on in the Chapel, and we went into the sacristy to
wait. The priests and choristers were there, changing their robes; they
saluted me good-humoredly, though there was an expression in their faces
that plainly said: "a heretic!" When the service was concluded, I went
into the chapel and examined the high altar, with its rude wood-carvings,
representing the surrender of Granada. The portraits of Ferdinand and
Isabella, Cardinal Ximenez, Gonzalvo of Cordova, and King Boabdil, are
very curious. Another tablet represents the baptism of the conquered
Moors.
In the centre of the chapel stand the monuments erected to Ferdinand and
Isabella, and their successors Philip L, and Maria, by Charles V. They are
tall catafalques of white marble, superbly sculptured, with the full
length effigies of the monarchs upon them. The figures are admirable; that
of Isabella, especially, though the features are settled in the repose of
death, expresses all the grand and noble traits which belonged to her
character. The sacristan removed the matting from a part of the floor,
disclosing an iron grating underneath, A damp, mouldly smell, significant
of death and decay, came up through the opening. He lighted two long waxen
tapers, lifted the grating, and I followed him down the narrow steps into
the vault where lie the coffins of the Catholic Sovereigns. They were
brought here from the Alhambra, in 1525. The leaden sarcophagi, containing
the bodies of Ferdinand and Isabella, lie, side by side, on stone slabs;
and as I stood between the two, resting a hand on each, the sacristan
placed the tapers in apertures in the stone, at the head and foot. They
sleep, as they wished, in their beloved Granada, and no profane hand has
ever disturbed the repose of their ashes.
After visiting the Church of San Jeronimo, founded by Gonzalvo of Cordova,
I went to the adjoining Church and Hospital of San Juan de Dios. A fat
priest, washing his hands in the sacristy, sent a boy to show me the
Chapel of San Juan, and the relics. The remains of the Saint rest in a
silver chest, standing in the centre of a richly-adorned chapel. Among the
relics is a thorn from the crown of Christ, which, as any botanist may
see, must have grown on a different plant from the other thorn they show
at Seville; and neither kind is found in Palestine. The true _spina
christi_, the nebbuk, has very small thorns; but nothing could be more
cruel, as I found when riding through patches of it near Jericho. The boy
also showed me a tooth of San Lorenzo, a crooked brown _bicuspis_, from
which I should infer that the saint was rather an ill-favored man. The
gilded chapel of San Juan is in singular contrast with one of the garments
which he wore when living--a cowl of plaited reeds, looking like an old
fish basket--which is kept in a glass case. His portrait is also to be
seen--a mild and beautiful face, truly that of one who went about doing
good. He was a sort of Spanish John Howard, and deserved canonization, if
anybody ever did.
I ascended the street of the Darro to the Albaycin, which we entered by
one of the ancient gates. This suburb is still surrounded by the original
fortifications, and undermined by the capacious cisterns of the Moors. It
looks down on Granada; and from the crumbling parapets there are superb
views over the city, the Vega, and its inclosing mountains. The Alhambra
rose opposite, against the dark-red and purple background of the Sierra
Nevada, and a canopy of heavy rain-clouds rested on all the heights. A
fitful gleam of sunshine now and then broke through and wandered over the
plain, touching up white towers and olive groves and reaches of the
winding Xenil, with a brilliancy which suggested the splendor of the whole
picture, if once thus restored to its proper light. I could see Santa Fé
in the distance, toward Loxa; nearer, and more eastward, the Sierra de
Elvira, of a deep violet color, with the woods of the Soto de Roma, the
Duke of Wellington's estate, at its base; and beyond it the Mountain of
Parapanda, the weather-guage of Granada, still covered with clouds. There
is an old Granadian proverb which says:--"When Parapanda wears his bonnet,
it will rain whether God wills it or no." From the chapel of San Miguel,
above the Albaycin, there is a very striking view of the deep gorge of the
Darro, at one's feet, with the gardens and white walls of the Generalife
rising beyond, and the Silla del Moro and the Mountain of the Sun towering
above it. The long, irregular lines of the Alhambra, with the huge red
towers rising here and there, reminded me somewhat of a distant view of
Karnak; and, like Karnak, the Alhambra is picturesque from whatever point
it is viewed.
We descended through wastes of cactus to the Darro, in whose turbid stream
a group of men were washing for gold. I watched one of them, as he
twirled his bowl in precisely the California style, but got nothing for
his pains. Mateo says that they often make a dollar a day, each. Passing
under the Tower of Comares and along the battlements of the Alhambra, we
climbed up to the Generalife. This charming villa is still in good
preservation, though its exquisite filigree and scroll-work have been
greatly injured by whitewash. The elegant colonnades surround gardens rich
in roses, myrtles and cypresses, and the fountains that lulled the Moorish
Kings in their summer idleness still pour their fertilizing streams. In
one of the rooms is a small and bad portrait gallery, containing a
supposed portrait of Boabdil. It is a mild, amiable face, but wholly lacks
strength of character.
To-day I devoted to the Alhambra. The storm, which, as the people say, has
not been equalled for several years, showed no signs of breaking up, and
in the midst of a driving shower I ascended to the Vermilion Towers, which
are supposed to be of Phoenician origin. They stand on the extremity of a
long, narrow ledge, which stretches out like an arm from the hill of the
Alhambra. The _paséo_ lies between, and is shaded by beautiful elms, which
the Moors planted.
I entered the Alhambra by the Gate of Justice, which is a fine specimen of
Moorish architecture, though of common red brick and mortar. It is
singular what a grace the horse-shoe arch gives to the most heavy and
lumbering mass of masonry. The round arches of the Christian edifices of
Granada seem tame and inelegant, in comparison. Over the arch of the
vestibule of this gate is the colossal hand, and over the inner entrance
the key, celebrated in the tales of Washington Irving and the
superstitions of the people. I first ascended the Torre de la Vela, where
the Christian flag was first planted on the 2d of January, 1492. The view
of the Vega and City of Granada was even grander than from the Albaycin.
Parapanda was still bonneted in clouds, but patches of blue sky began to
open above the mountains of Loxa. A little boy accompanied us, to see that
I did not pull the bell, the sound of which would call together all the
troops in the city. While we stood there, the funeral procession of the
man murdered two nights before came up the street of Gomerez, and passed
around the hill under the Vermilion Towers.
I made the circuit of the walls before entering the Palace. In the Place
of the Cisterns, I stopped to take a drink of the cool water of the Darro,
which is brought thither by subterranean channels from the hills. Then,
passing the ostentatious pile commenced by Charles V., but which was never
finished, and never will be, nor ought to be, we walked along the southern
ramparts to the Tower of the Seven Floors, amid the ruins of winch I
discerned the top of the arch by which the unfortunate Boabdil quitted
Granada, and which was thenceforth closed for ever. In the Tower of the
Infantas, a number of workmen were busy restoring the interior, which has
been cruelly damaged. The brilliant _azulejo_, or tile-work, the delicate
arches and filigree sculpture of the walls, still attest its former
elegance, and give some color to the tradition that it was the residence
of the Moorish Princesses.
As we passed through the little village which still exists among the ruins
of the fortress, Mateo invited me to step in and see his father, the
genuine "honest Mateo," immortalized in the "Tales of the Alhambra." The
old man has taken up the trade of silk-weaving, and had a number of
gay-colored ribbons on his loom. He is more than sixty years old and now
quite gray-headed, but has the same simple manners, the same honest face
that attracted his temporary master. He spoke with great enthusiasm of Mr.
Irving, and brought out from a place of safety the "Alhambra" and the
"Chronicles of the Conquest," which he has carefully preserved. He then
produced an Andalusian sash, the work of his own hands, which he insisted
on binding around my waist, to see how it would look. I must next take off
my coat and hat, and put on his Sunday jacket and jaunty sombrero. "_Por
Dios_!" he exclaimed: "_que buen mozo_! Senor, you are a legitimate
Andalusian!" After this, of course, I could do no less than buy the sash.
"You must show it to Washington Irving," said he, "and tell him it was
made by Mateo's own hands;" which I promised. I must then go into the
kitchen, and eat a pomegranate from his garden--a glorious pomegranate,
with kernels of crimson, and so full of blood that you could not touch
them but it trickled through your fingers. El Marques, a sprightly dog,
and a great slate-colored cat, took possession of my legs, and begged for
a share of every mouthful I took, while old Mateo sat beside me, rejoicing
in the flavor of a Gibraltar cigar which I gave him. But my time was
precious, and so I let the "Son of the Alhambra" go back to his loom, and
set out for the Palace of the Moorish Kings.
This palace is so hidden behind the ambitious shell of that of Charles V.
that I was at a loss where it could be. I thought I had compassed the
hill, and yet had seen no indications of the renowned magnificence of the
Alhambra. But a little door in a blank wall ushered me into a true Moorish
realm, the Court of the Fishpond, or of the Myrtles, as it is sometimes
called. Here I saw again the slender pillars, the fringed and embroidered
arches, and the perforated, lace-like tracery of the fairy corridors.
Here, hedges of roses and myrtles still bloomed around the ancient tank,
wherein hundreds of gold-fish disported. The noises of the hill do not
penetrate here, and the solitary porter who admitted me went back to his
post, and suffered me to wander at will through the enchanted halls.
I passed out of this court by an opposite door, and saw, through the
vistas of marble pillars and the wonderful fret-work which seems a thing
of air rather than of earth, the Fountain of the Lions. Thence I entered
in succession the Hall of the Abencerrages, the Hall of the Two Sisters,
the apartments of the Sultanas, the Mosque, and the Hall of the
Ambassadors. These places--all that is left of the renowned palace--are
now well kept, and carefully guarded. Restorations are going on, here and
there, and the place is scrupulously watched, that no foreign Vandal, may
further injure what the native Goths have done their best to destroy. The
rubbish has been cleared away; the rents in the walls have been filled up,
and, for the first time since it passed into Spanish hands, there seems a
hope that the Alhambra will be allowed to stand. What has been already
destroyed we can only partially conjecture; but no one sees what remains
without completing the picture in his own imagination, and placing it
among the most perfect and marvellous creations of human genius.
Nothing can exceed the richness of invention which, in this series of
halls, corridors, and courts, never repeats the same ornaments, but, from
the simplest primitive forms and colors, produces a thousand
combinations, not one of which is in discord with the grand design. It is
useless to attempt a detailed description of this architecture; and it is
so unlike anything else in the world, that, like Karnak and Baalbec, those
only know the Alhambra who see it. When you can weave stone, and hang your
halls with marble tapestry, you may rival it. It is nothing to me that
these ornaments are stucco; to sculpture them in marble is only the work
of the hands. Their great excellence is in the design, which, like all
great things, suggests even more than it gives. If I could create all that
the Court of Lions suggested to me for its completion, it would fulfil the
dream of King Sheddad, and surpass the palaces of the Moslem Paradise.
The pavilions of the Court of Lions, and the halls which open into it, on
either side, approach the nearest to their original perfection. The floors
are marble, the wainscoting of painted tiles, the walls of embroidery,
still gleaming with the softened lustre of their original tints, and the
lofty conical domes seem to be huge sparry crystalizations, hung with
dropping stalactites, rather than any work of the human hand. Each of
these domes is composed of five thousand separate pieces, and the pendent
prismatic blocks, colored and gilded, gradually resolve themselves, as you
gaze, into the most intricate and elegant designs. But you must study long
ere you have won all the secret of their beauty. To comprehend them, one
should spend a whole day, lying on his back, under each one. Mateo spread
his cloak for me in the fountain in the Hall of the Abencerrages, over the
blood-stains made by the decapitation of those gallant chiefs, and I lay
half an hour looking upward: and this is what I made out of the dome. From
its central pinnacle hung the chalice of a flower with feathery petals,
like the "crape myrtle" of our Southern States Outside of this, branched
downward the eight rays of a large star, whose points touched the base of
the dome; yet the star was itself composed of flowers, while between its
rays and around its points fell a shower of blossoms, shells, and sparry
drops. From the base of the dome hung a gorgeous pattern of lace, with a
fringe of bugles, projecting into eight points so as to form a star of
drapery, hanging from the points of the flowery star in the dome. The
spaces between the angles were filled with masses of stalactites, dropping
one below the other, till they tapered into the plain square sides of the
hall.
In the Hall of the Two Sisters, I lay likewise for a considerable time,
resolving its misty glories into shape. The dome was still more suggestive
of flowers. The highest and central piece was a deep trumpet-flower, whose
mouth was cleft into eight petals. It hung in the centre of a superb
lotus-cup, the leaves of which were exquisitely veined and chased. Still
further below swung a mass of mimosa blossoms, intermixed with pods and
lance-like leaves, and around the base of the dome opened the bells of
sixteen gorgeous tulips. These pictures may not be very intelligible, but
I know not how else to paint the effect of this fairy architecture.
In Granada, as in Seville and Cordova, one's sympathies are wholly with
the Moors. The few mutilated traces which still remain of their power,
taste, and refinement, surpass any of the monuments erected by the race
which conquered them. The Moorish Dynasty in Spain was truly, as Irving
observes, a splendid exotic, doomed never to take a lasting root in the
soil It was choked to death by the native weeds; and, in place of lands
richly cultivated and teeming with plenty, we now have barren and-almost
depopulated wastes--in place of education, industry, and the cultivation
of the arts and sciences, an enslaved, ignorant and degenerate race.
Andalusia would be far more prosperous at this day, had she remained in
Moslem hands. True, she would not have received that Faith which is yet
destined to be the redemption of the world, but the doctrines of Mahomet
are more acceptable to God, and more beneficial to Man than those of that
Inquisition, which, in Spain alone, has shed ten times as much Christian
blood as all the Moslem races together for the last six centuries. It is
not from a mere romantic interest that I lament the fate of Boabdil, and
the extinction of his dynasty. Had he been a king worthy to reign in those
wonderful halls, he never would have left them. Had he perished there,
fighting to the last, he would have been freed from forty years of weary
exile and an obscure death. Well did Charles V. observe, when speaking of
him: "Better a tomb in the Alhambra than a palace in the Alpujanas!"