THE ALHAMBRA
[Illustration: TOWER OF THE PRINCESSES.]
Fulton Edition
THE WORKS OF
WASHINGTON IRVING
THE ALHAMBRA
[Illustration: colophon]
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1910]
PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION
Rough draughts of some of the following tales and essays were actually
written during a residence in the Alhambra; others were subsequently
added, founded on notes and observations made there. Care was taken to
maintain local coloring and verisimilitude; so that the whole might
present a faithful and living picture of that microcosm, that singular
little world into which I had been fortuitously thrown; and about which
the external world had a very imperfect idea. It was my endeavor
scrupulously to depict its half Spanish, half Oriental character; its
mixture of the heroic, the poetic, and the grotesque; to revive the
traces of grace and beauty fast fading from its walls; to record the
regal and chivalrous traditions concerning those who once trod its
courts; and the whimsical and superstitious legends of the motley race
now burrowing among its ruins.
The papers thus roughly sketched out lay for three or four years in my
portfolio, until I found myself in London, in 1832, on the eve of
returning to the United States. I then endeavored to arrange them for
the press, but the preparations for departure did not allow sufficient
leisure. Several were thrown aside as incomplete; the rest were put
together somewhat hastily and in rather a crude and chaotic manner.
In the present edition I have revised and rearranged the whole work,
enlarged some parts, and added others, including the papers originally
omitted; and have thus endeavored to render it more complete and more
worthy of the indulgent reception with which it has been favored.
W. I.
SUNNYSIDE 1851.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE JOURNEY 1
PALACE OF THE ALHAMBRA 33
IMPORTANT NEGOTIATIONS.--THE AUTHOR SUCCEEDS TO THE THRONE OF BOABDIL 47
INHABITANTS OF THE ALHAMBRA 54
THE HALL OF AMBASSADORS 58
THE JESUITS’ LIBRARY 64
ALHAMAR, THE FOUNDER OF THE ALHAMBRA 65
YUSEF ABUL HAGIG, THE FINISHER OF THE ALHAMBRA 72
THE MYSTERIOUS CHAMBERS 76
PANORAMA FROM THE TOWER OF COMARES 85
THE TRUANT 92
THE BALCONY 95
THE ADVENTURE OF THE MASON 101
THE COURT OF LIONS 105
THE ABENCERRAGES 112
MEMENTOS OF BOABDIL 124
PUBLIC FÊTES OF GRANADA 129
LOCAL TRADITIONS 137
THE HOUSE OF THE WEATHERCOCK 139
LEGEND OF THE ARABIAN ASTROLOGER 142
VISITORS OF THE ALHAMBRA 162
RELICS AND GENEALOGIES 167
THE GENERALIFE 170
LEGEND OF PRINCE AHMED AL KAMEL; OR, THE PILGRIM OF LOVE 172
A RAMBLE AMONG THE HILLS 205
LEGEND OF THE MOOR’S LEGACY 214
THE TOWER OF LAS INFANTAS 236
LEGEND OF THE THREE BEAUTIFUL PRINCESSES 237
LEGEND OF THE ROSE OF THE ALHAMBRA 262
THE VETERAN 279
THE GOVERNOR AND THE NOTARY 281
GOVERNOR MANCO AND THE SOLDIER 288
A FÊTE IN THE ALHAMBRA 306
LEGEND OF THE TWO DISCREET STATUES 311
THE CRUSADE OF THE GRAND MASTER OF ALCANTRA 330
SPANISH ROMANCE 338
LEGEND OF DON MUNIO SANCO DE HINOJOSA 341
POETS AND POETRY OF MOSLEM ANDALUS 347
AN EXPEDITION IN QUEST OF A DIPLOMA 355
THE LEGEND OF THE ENCHANTED SOLDIER 358
THE AUTHOR’S FAREWELL TO GRANADA 373
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. Should these pages meet his eye, wherever thrown
by the duties of his station, whether mingling in the pageantry of
courts, or meditating on the truer glories of nature, may they recall
the scenes of our adventurous companionship, and with them the
recollection of one, in whom neither time nor distance will obliterate
the remembrance of his gentleness and worth.[1]
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.
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 watchtower: 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.
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.
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 demeanor 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!”
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.
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.
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.
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 ribroasting 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 footpads; 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 favor, 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-humor, 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 civilized 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-flavor to
dear old romantic Spain!
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 are of that handicraft, and the highway
hence to Seville is constantly traversed by lines of mules and donkeys
laden with great panniers of loaves and roscas.
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.
Here we halted for a time, at the ruins of the old Moorish castle, a
favorite 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.
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-colored
dresses, crossing the arched bridge, were reflected in the placid
stream. Altogether it was an admirable scene for a landscape-painter.
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 labor 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.
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 guesswork. 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 wiseacre 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 mean time 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.
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
neighborhood, and, on going forth, the courtyard 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 favorite. 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.[2] 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 supply these junketings by the road-side,
which were his delight.
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 Cammacho, 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 varlet 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.
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 favors at
the cost of his dignity.
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 road-side, 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 caliphs 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 favorite
lurking-places.
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.
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.
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.
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 a 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 labor 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?
“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 odors 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 still a greater toil to descend from this mountain
city on the other side.
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 demeanor manly, and he addressed us
with the grave courtesy that is to be remarked in the lowest Spaniard.
We were in a favorable 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. “_Perdón 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;--‘_Perdón 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.”
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 pickaxes 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.
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 Puerte 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.
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.
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.