putting them under the command of Osmyn, one of the bravest of his
generals, sent them forth in hot pursuit of the enemy. The Christians
were overtaken in the defiles of the mountains. A panic seized them;
they were completely routed, and driven with great slaughter across the
borders. Both of the princes lost their lives. The body of Don Pedro was
carried off by his soldiers, but that of Don Juan was lost in the
darkness of the night. His son wrote to the Moorish king, entreating
that the body of his father might be sought and honorably treated.
Ismael forgot in a moment that Don Juan was an enemy, who had carried
ravage and insult to the very gate of his capital; he only thought of
him as a gallant cavalier and a royal prince. By his command diligent
search was made for the body. It was found in a barranco and brought to
Granada. There Ismael caused it to be laid out in state on a lofty bier,
surrounded by torches and tapers, in one of these halls of the Alhambra.
Osmyn and other of the noblest cavaliers were appointed as a guard of
honor, and the Christian captives were assembled to pray around it.
In the mean time, Ismael wrote to the son of Prince Juan to send a
convoy for the body, assuring him it should be faithfully delivered up.
In due time, a band of Christian cavaliers arrived for the purpose. They
were honorably received and entertained by Ismael, and, on their
departure with the body, the guard of honor of Moslem cavaliers escorted
the funeral train to the frontier.
But enough;--the sun is high above the mountains, and pours his full
fervor on our heads. Already the terraced roof is hot beneath our feet;
let us abandon it, and refresh ourselves under the Arcades by the
Fountain of the Lions.
THE TRUANT
We have had a scene of a petty tribulation in the Alhambra, which has
thrown a cloud over the sunny countenance of Dolores. This little damsel
has a female passion for pets of all kinds; and from the superabundant
kindness of her disposition, one of the ruined courts of the Alhambra is
thronged with her favorites. A stately peacock and his hen seem to hold
regal sway here, over pompous turkeys, querulous guinea-fowls, and a
rabble rout of common cocks and hens. The great delight of Dolores,
however, has for some time past been centred in a youthful pair of
pigeons, who have lately entered into the holy state of wedlock, and
even supplanted a tortoise-shell cat and kittens in her affections.
As a tenement for them wherein to commence house-keeping, she had fitted
up a small chamber adjacent to the kitchen, the window of which looked
into one of the quiet Moorish courts. Here they lived in happy ignorance
of any world beyond the court and its sunny roofs. Never had they
aspired to soar above the battlements, or to mount to the summit of the
towers. Their virtuous union was at length crowned by two spotless and
milk-white eggs, to the great joy of their cherishing little mistress.
Nothing could be more praiseworthy than the conduct of the young married
folks on this interesting occasion. They took turns to sit upon the nest
until the eggs were hatched, and while their callow progeny required
warmth and shelter;--while one thus stayed at home, the other foraged
abroad for food, and brought home abundant supplies.
This scene of conjugal felicity has suddenly met with a reverse. Early
this morning, as Dolores was feeding the male pigeon, she took a fancy
to give him a peep at the great world. Opening a window, therefore,
which looks down upon the valley of the Darro, she launched him at once
beyond the walls of the Alhambra. For the first time in his life the
astonished bird had to try the full vigor of his wings. He swept down
into the valley, and then rising upwards with a surge, soared almost to
the clouds. Never before had he risen to such a height, or experienced
such delight in flying; and, like a young spendthrift just come to his
estate, he seemed giddy with excess of liberty, and with the boundless
field of action suddenly opened to him. For the whole day he has been
circling about in capricious flights, from tower to tower, and tree to
tree. Every attempt has been vain to lure him back by scattering grain
upon the roofs; he seems to have lost all thought of home, of his tender
helpmate, and his callow young. To add to the anxiety of Dolores, he has
been joined by two _palomas ladrones_, or robber pigeons, whose instinct
it is to entice wandering pigeons to their own dove-cotes. The fugitive,
like many other thoughtless youths on their first launching upon the
world, seems quite fascinated with these knowing but graceless
companions, who have undertaken to show him life, and introduce him to
society. He has been soaring with them over all the roofs and steeples
of Granada. A thunder-storm has passed over the city, but he has not
sought his home; night has closed in, and still he comes not. To deepen
the pathos of the affair, the female pigeon, after remaining several
hours on the nest without being relieved, at length went forth to seek
her recreant mate; but stayed away so long that the young ones perished
for want of the warmth and shelter of the parent bosom. At a late hour
in the evening, word was brought to Dolores that the truant bird had
been seen upon the towers of the Generalife. Now it happens that the
_Administrador_ of that ancient palace has likewise a dove-cote, among
the inmates of which are said to be two or three of these inveigling
birds, the terror of all neighboring pigeon-fanciers. Dolores
immediately concluded that the two feathered sharpers who had been seen
with her fugitive were these bloods of the Generalife. A council of war
was forthwith held in the chamber of Tia Antonia. The Generalife is a
distinct jurisdiction from the Alhambra, and of course some punctilio,
if not jealousy, exists between their custodians. It was determined,
therefore, to send Pèpe, the stuttering lad of the gardens, as
ambassador to the Administrador, requesting that if such fugitive should
be found in his dominions, he might be given up as a subject of the
Alhambra. Pèpe departed accordingly, on his diplomatic expedition,
through the moonlit groves and avenues, but returned in an hour with the
afflicting intelligence that no such bird was to be found in the
dove-cote of the Generalife. The Administrador, however, pledged his
sovereign word that if such vagrant should appear there, even at
midnight, he should instantly be arrested and sent back prisoner to his
little black-eyed mistress.
Thus stands the melancholy affair, which has occasioned much distress
throughout the palace, and has sent the inconsolable Dolores to a
sleepless pillow.
---- “Sorrow endureth for a night,” says the proverb, “but joy cometh in
the morning.” The first object that met my eyes, on leaving my room this
morning, was Dolores, with the truant pigeon in her hands, and her eyes
sparkling with joy. He had appeared at an early hour on the battlements,
hovering shyly about from roof to roof, but at length entered the
window, and surrendered himself prisoner. He gained but little credit,
however, by his return; for the ravenous manner in which he devoured the
food set before him showed that, like the prodigal son, he had been
driven home by sheer famine. Dolores upbraided him for his faithless
conduct, calling him all manners of vagrant names, though, womanlike,
she fondled him at the same time to her bosom, and covered him with
kisses. I observed, however, that she had taken care to clip his wings
to prevent all future soarings;--a precaution which I mention for the
benefit of all those who have truant lovers or wandering husbands. More
than one valuable moral might be drawn from the story of Dolores and her
pigeon.
THE BALCONY
I have spoken of a balcony of the central window of the Hall of
Ambassadors. It served as a kind of observatory, where I used often to
take my seat, and consider not merely the heaven above but the earth
beneath. Besides the magnificent prospect which it commanded of
mountain, valley, and vega, there was a little busy scene of human life
laid open to inspection immediately below. At the foot of the hill was
an alameda, or public walk, which, though not so fashionable as the more
modern and splendid paseo of the Xenil, still boasted a varied and
picturesque concourse. Hither resorted the small gentry of the suburbs,
together with priests and friars, who walked for appetite and digestion;
majos and majas, the beaux and belles of the lower classes, in their
Andalusian dresses; swaggering contrabandistas, and sometimes
half-muffled and mysterious loungers of the higher ranks, on some secret
assignation.
It was a moving picture of Spanish life and character, which I delighted
to study; and as the astronomer has his grand telescope with which to
sweep the skies, and, as it were, bring the stars nearer for his
inspection, so I had a smaller one, of pocket size, for the use of my
observatory, with which I could sweep the regions below, and bring the
countenances of the motley groups so close as almost, at times, to make
me think I could divine their conversation by the play and expression of
their features. I was thus, in a manner, an invisible observer, and,
without quitting my solitude, could throw myself in an instant into the
midst of society,--a rare advantage to one of somewhat shy and quiet
habits, and fond, like myself, of observing the drama of life without
becoming an actor in the scene.
There was a considerable suburb lying below the Alhambra, filling the
narrow gorge of the valley, and extending up the opposite hill of the
Albaycin. Many of the houses were built in the Moorish style, round
patios, or courts, cooled by fountains and open to the sky; and as the
inhabitants passed much of their time in these courts, and on the
terraced roofs during the summer season, it follows that many a glance
at their domestic life might be obtained by an aërial spectator like
myself, who could look down on them from the clouds.
I enjoyed in some degree the advantages of the student in the famous old
Spanish story, who beheld all Madrid unroofed for his inspection; and my
gossiping squire, Mateo Ximenes, officiated occasionally as my Asmodeus,
to give me anecdotes of the different mansions and their inhabitants.
I preferred, however, to form conjectural histories for myself, and thus
would sit for hours, weaving, from casual incidents and indications
passing under my eye, a whole tissue of schemes, intrigues, and
occupations of the busy mortals below. There was scarce a pretty face or
a striking figure that I daily saw, about which I had not thus gradually
framed a dramatic story, though some of my characters would
occasionally act in direct opposition to the part assigned them, and
disconcert the whole drama. Reconnoitring one day with my glass the
streets of the Albaycin, I beheld the procession of a novice about to
take the veil; and remarked several circumstances which excited the
strongest sympathy in the fate of the youthful being thus about to be
consigned to a living tomb. I ascertained to my satisfaction that she
was beautiful, and, from the paleness of her cheek, that she was a
victim rather than a votary. She was arrayed in bridal garments, and
decked with a chaplet of white flowers, but her heart evidently revolted
at this mockery of a spiritual union, and yearned after its earthly
loves. A tall stern-looking man walked near her in the procession: it
was, of course, the tyrannical father, who, from some bigoted or sordid
motive, had compelled this sacrifice. Amid the crowd was a dark handsome
youth, in Andalusian garb, who seemed to fix on her an eye of agony. It
was doubtless the secret lover from whom she was forever to be
separated. My indignation rose as I noted the malignant expression
painted on the countenances of the attendant monks and friars. The
procession arrived at the chapel of the convent; the sun gleamed for the
last time upon the chaplet of the poor novice, as she crossed the fatal
threshold and disappeared within the building. The throng poured in with
cowl, and cross, and minstrelsy; the lover paused for a moment at the
door. I could divine the tumult of his feelings; but he mastered them,
and entered. There was a long interval. I pictured to myself the scene
passing within: the poor novice despoiled of her transient finery, and
clothed in the conventual garb; the bridal chaplet taken from her brow,
and her beautiful head shorn of its long silken tresses. I heard her
murmur the irrevocable vow. I saw her extended on a bier; the death-pall
spread over her; the funeral service performed that proclaimed her dead
to the world; her sighs were drowned in the deep tones of the organ,
and the plaintive requiem of the nuns; the father looked on, unmoved,
without a tear; the lover--no--my imagination refused to portray the
anguish of the lover--there the picture remained a blank.
After a time the throng again poured forth, and dispersed various ways,
to enjoy the light of the sun and mingle with the stirring scenes of
life; but the victim, with her bridal chaplet, was no longer there. The
door of the convent closed that severed her from the world forever. I
saw the father and the lover issue forth; they were in earnest
conversation. The latter was vehement in his gesticulations; I expected
some violent termination to my drama; but an angle of a building
interfered and closed the scene. My eye afterwards was frequently turned
to that convent with painful interest. I remarked late at night a
solitary light twinkling from a remote lattice of one of its towers.
“There,” said I, “the unhappy nun sits weeping in her cell, while
perhaps her lover paces the street below in unavailing anguish.”
--The officious Mateo interrupted my meditations and destroyed in an
instant the cobweb tissue of my fancy. With his usual zeal he had
gathered facts concerning the scene, which put my fictions all to
flight. The heroine of my romance was neither young nor handsome; she
had no lover; she had entered the convent of her own free will, as a
respectable asylum, and was one of the most cheerful residents within
its walls.
It was some little while before I could forgive the wrong done me by the
nun in being thus happy in her cell, in contradiction to all the rules
of romance; I diverted my spleen, however, by watching, for a day or
two, the pretty coquetries of a dark-eyed brunette, who, from the covert
of a balcony shrouded with flowering shrubs and a silken awning, was
carrying on a mysterious correspondence with a handsome, dark,
well-whiskered cavalier, who lurked frequently in the street beneath her
window. Sometimes I saw him at an early hour, stealing forth wrapped to
the eyes in a mantle. Sometimes he loitered at a corner, in various
disguises, apparently waiting for a private signal to slip into the
house. Then there was the tinkling of a guitar at night and a lantern
shifted from place to place in the balcony. I imagined another intrigue
like that of Almaviva, but was again disconcerted in all my
suppositions. The supposed lover turned out to be the husband of the
lady, and a noted contrabandista; and all his mysterious signs and
movements had doubtless some smuggling scheme in view.
--I occasionally amused myself with noting from this balcony the gradual
changes of the scenes below, according to the different stages of the
day.
Scarce has the gray dawn streaked the sky, and the earliest cock crowed
from the cottages of the hill-side, when the suburbs give sign of
reviving animation; for the fresh hours of dawning are precious in the
summer season in a sultry climate. All are anxious to get the start of
the sun, in the business of the day. The muleteer drives forth his
loaded train for the journey; the traveller slings his carbine behind
his saddle, and mounts his steed at the gate of the hostel; the brown
peasant from the country urges forward his loitering beasts, laden with
panniers of sunny fruit and fresh dewy vegetables, for already the
thrifty housewives are hastening to the market.
The sun is up and sparkles along the valley, tipping the transparent
foliage of the groves. The matin bells resound melodiously through the
pure bright air, announcing the hour of devotion. The muleteer halts his
burdened animals before the chapel, thrusts his staff through his belt
behind, and enters with hat in hand, smoothing his coal-black hair, to
hear a mass, and to put up a prayer for a prosperous wayfaring across
the sierra. And now steals forth on fairy foot the gentle Señora, in
trim basquiña, with restless fan in hand, and dark eye flashing from
beneath the gracefully folded mantilla; she seeks some well-frequented
church to offer up her morning orisons; but the nicely adjusted dress,
the dainty shoe and cobweb stocking, the raven tresses exquisitely
braided, the fresh-plucked rose, gleaming among them like a gem, show
that earth divides with Heaven the empire of her thoughts. Keep an eye
upon her, careful mother, or virgin aunt, or vigilant duenna, whichever
you may be, that walk behind!
As the morning advances, the din of labor augments on every side; the
streets are thronged with man, and steed, and beast of burden, and there
is a hum and murmur, like the surges of the ocean. As the sun ascends to
his meridian, the hum and bustle gradually decline; at the height of
noon there is a pause. The panting city sinks into lassitude, and for
several hours there is a general repose. The windows are closed, the
curtains drawn, the inhabitants retired into the coolest recesses of
their mansions; the full-fed monk snores in his dormitory; the brawny
porter lies stretched on the pavement beside his burden; the peasant and
the laborer sleep beneath the trees of the Alameda, lulled by the sultry
chirping of the locust. The streets are deserted, except by the
water-carrier, who refreshes the ear by proclaiming the merits of his
sparkling beverage, “colder than the mountain snow (_mas friaque la
nieve_).”
As the sun declines, there is again a gradual reviving, and when the
vesper bell rings out his sinking knell, all nature seems to rejoice
that the tyrant of the day has fallen. Now begins the bustle of
enjoyment, when the citizens pour forth to breathe the evening air, and
revel away the brief twilight in the walks and gardens of the Darro and
Xenil.
As night closes, the capricious scene assumes new features. Light after
light gradually twinkles forth; here a taper from a balconied window;
there a votive lamp before the image of a Saint. Thus, by degrees, the
city emerges from the pervading gloom, and sparkles with scattered
lights, like the starry firmament. Now break forth from court and
garden, and street and lane, the tinkling of innumerable guitars, and
the clicking of castanets; blending, at this lofty height, in a faint
but general concert. “Enjoy the moment” is the creed of the gay and
amorous Andalusian, and at no time does he practise it more zealously
than on the balmy nights of summer, wooing his mistress with the dance,
the love-ditty, and the passionate serenade.
I was one evening seated in the balcony, enjoying the light breeze that
came rustling along the side of the hill, among the tree-tops, when my
humble historiographer Mateo, who was at my elbow, pointed out a
spacious house, in an obscure street of the Albaycin, about which he
related, as nearly as I can recollect, the following anecdote.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE MASON
There was once upon a time a poor mason, or bricklayer, in Granada, who
kept all the saints’ days and holidays, and Saint Monday into the
bargain, and yet, with all his devotion, he grew poorer and poorer, and
could scarcely earn bread for his numerous family. One night he was
roused from his first sleep by a knocking at his door. He opened it, and
beheld before him a tall, meagre, cadaverous-looking priest.
“‘Hark ye, honest friend!’ said the stranger; ‘I have observed that you
are a good Christian, and one to be trusted; will you undertake a job
this very night?’
“‘With all my heart, Señor Padre, on condition that I am paid
accordingly.’
“‘That you shall be; but you must suffer yourself to be blindfolded.’
“To this the mason made no objection. So, being hoodwinked, he was led
by the priest through various rough lanes and winding passages, until
they stopped before the portal of a house. The priest then applied a
key, turned a creaking lock, and opened what sounded like a ponderous
door. They entered, the door was closed and bolted, and the mason was
conducted through an echoing corridor and a spacious hall to an interior
part of the building. Here the bandage was removed from his eyes, and he
found himself in a patio, or court, dimly lighted by a single lamp. In
the centre was the dry basin of an old Moorish fountain, under which the
priest requested him to form a small vault, bricks and mortar being at
hand for the purpose. He accordingly worked all night, but without
finishing the job. Just before daybreak the priest put a piece of gold
into his hand, and having again blindfolded him, conducted him back to
his dwelling.
“‘Are you willing,’ said he, ‘to return and complete your work?’
“‘Gladly, Señor Padre, provided I am so well paid.’
“‘Well, then, to-morrow at midnight I will call again.’
“He did so, and the vault was completed.
“‘Now,’ said the priest, ‘you must help me to bring forth the bodies
that are to be buried in this vault.’
“The poor mason’s hair rose on his head at these words: he followed the
priest, with trembling steps, into a retired chamber of the mansion,
expecting to behold some ghastly spectacle of death, but was relieved
on perceiving three or four portly jars standing in one corner. They
were evidently full of money, and it was with great labor that he and
the priest carried them forth and consigned them to their tomb. The
vault was then closed, the pavement replaced, and all traces of the work
were obliterated. The mason was again hoodwinked and led forth by a
route different from that by which he had come. After they had wandered
for a long time through a perplexed maze of lanes and alleys, they
halted. The priest then put two pieces of gold into his hand: ‘Wait
here,’ said he, ‘until you hear the cathedral bell toll for matins. If
you presume to uncover your eyes before that time, evil will befall
you’: so saying, he departed. The mason waited faithfully, amusing
himself by weighing the gold pieces in his hand, and clinking them
against each other. The moment the cathedral bell rang its matin peal,
he uncovered his eyes, and found himself on the banks of the Xenil;
whence he made the best of his way home, and revelled with his family
for a whole fortnight on the profits of his two nights’ work; after
which he was as poor as ever.
“He continued to work a little, and pray a good deal, and keep saints’
days and holidays, from year to year, while his family grew up as gaunt
and ragged as a crew of gypsies. As he was seated one evening at the
door of his hovel, he was accosted by a rich old curmudgeon, who was
noted for owning many houses, and being a griping landlord. The man of
money eyed him for a moment from beneath a pair of anxious shagged
eyebrows.
“‘I am told, friend, that you are very poor.’
“‘There is no denying the fact, Señor,--it speaks for itself.’
“‘I presume, then, that you will be glad of a job, and will work cheap.’
“‘As cheap, my master, as any mason in Granada.’
“‘That’s what I want. I have an old house fallen into decay, which costs
me more money than it is worth to keep it in repair, for nobody will
live in it; so I must contrive to patch it up and keep it together at as
small expense as possible.’
“The mason was accordingly conducted to a large deserted house that
seemed going to ruin. Passing through several empty halls and chambers,
he entered an inner court, where his eye was caught by an old Moorish
fountain. He paused for a moment, for a dreaming recollection of the
place came over him.
“‘Pray,’ said he, ‘who occupied this house formerly?’
“‘A pest upon him!’ cried the landlord; ‘it was an old miserly priest,
who cared for nobody but himself. He was said to be immensely rich, and,
having no relations, it was thought he would leave all his treasures to
the Church. He died suddenly, and the priests and friars thronged to
take possession of his wealth; but nothing could they find but a few
ducats in a leathern purse. The worst luck has fallen on me, for, since
his death, the old fellow continues to occupy my house without paying
rent, and there is no taking the law of a dead man. The people pretend
to hear the clinking of gold all night in the chamber where the old
priest slept, as if he were counting over his money, and sometimes a
groaning and moaning about the court. Whether true or false, these
stories have brought a bad name on my house, and not a tenant will
remain in it.’