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 spatter-dashes, 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 favored 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.
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 demeanor. 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 musket 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, colored 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 farm-houses; 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 a
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 endeavor 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 legítimos_,”--and then they become
legitimate robbers.
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 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 neighborhood; 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.
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 purísima--what women!”--“But the posada you talk
of,” said I, “are you sure it is a good one?”
“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.
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 patronizing
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.
PALACE OF THE ALHAMBRA
To the traveller imbued with a feeling for the historical and poetical,
so inseparably 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 splendors 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.
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.
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.
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 dispatch of his official duties. I
cannot conclude this brief notice of the state of the fortress without
bearing testimony to the honorable exertions of its present commander,
Don Francisco de Serna, who is tasking all the limited resources at his
command to put the palace in a state of repair, and by his judicious
precautions has for some time arrested its too certain decay. Had his
predecessors discharged the duties of their station with equal fidelity,
the Alhambra might yet have remained in almost its pristine beauty; were
government to second him with means equal to his zeal, this relic of it
might still be preserved for many generations to adorn the land, and
attract the curious and enlightened of every clime.
Our first object of course, on the morning after our arrival, was a
visit to this time-honored 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.
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.
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.
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 forget 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.”
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.”