place, the sweet quiet which prevailed around, and the delicious
serenity of the weather, had a witching effect upon the mind, and drew
from some of the company, versed in local story, several of the popular
fancies and traditions connected with this old Moorish palace; they were
“such stuff as dreams are made of,” but out of them I have shaped the
following legend, which I hope may have the good fortune to prove
acceptable to the reader.
LEGEND OF PRINCE AHMED AL KAMEL
OR, THE PILGRIM OF LOVE
There was once a Moorish king of Granada, who had but one son, whom he
named Ahmed, to which his courtiers added the surname of al Kamel, or
the Perfect, from the indubitable signs of superexcellence which they
perceived in him in his very infancy. The astrologers countenanced them
in their foresight, predicting everything in his favor that could make a
perfect prince and a prosperous sovereign. One cloud only rested upon
his destiny, and even that was of a roseate hue: he would be of an
amorous temperament, and run great perils from the tender passion. If,
however, he could be kept from the allurements of love until of mature
age, these dangers would be averted, and his life thereafter be one
uninterrupted course of felicity.
To prevent all danger of the kind, the king wisely determined to rear
the prince in a seclusion where he should never see a female face, nor
hear even the name of love. For this purpose he built a beautiful palace
on the brow of the hill above the Alhambra, in the midst of delightful
gardens, but surrounded by lofty walls, being, in fact, the same palace
known at the present day by the name of the Generalife. In this palace
the youthful prince was shut up, and intrusted to the guardianship and
instruction of Eben Bonabben, one of the wisest and dryest of Arabian
sages, who had passed the greatest part of his life in Egypt, studying
hieroglyphics, and making researches among the tombs and pyramids, and
who saw more charms in an Egyptian mummy than in the most tempting of
living beauties. The sage was ordered to instruct the prince in all
kinds of knowledge but one,--he was to be kept utterly ignorant of love.
“Use every precaution for the purpose you may think proper,” said the
king, “but remember, O Eben Bonabben, if my son learns aught of that
forbidden knowledge while under your care, your head shall answer for
it.” A withered smile came over the dry visage of the wise Bonabben at
the menace. “Let your majesty’s heart be as easy about your son, as mine
is about my head: am I a man likely to give lessons in the idle
passion?”
Under the vigilant care of the philosopher, the prince grew up in the
seclusion of the palace and its gardens. He had black slaves to attend
upon him--hideous mutes who knew nothing of love, or if they did, had
not words to communicate it. His mental endowments were the peculiar
care of Eben Bonabben, who sought to initiate him into the abstruse lore
of Egypt; but in this the prince made little progress, and it was soon
evident that he had no turn for philosophy.
He was, however, amazingly ductile for a youthful prince, ready to
follow any advice, and always guided by the last counsellor. He
suppressed his yawns, and listened patiently to the long and learned
discourses of Eben Bonabben, from which he imbibed a smattering of
various kinds of knowledge, and thus happily attained his twentieth
year, a miracle of princely wisdom--but totally ignorant of love.
About this time, however, a change came over the conduct of the prince.
He completely abandoned his studies, and took to strolling about the
gardens, and musing by the side of the fountains. He had been taught a
little music among his various accomplishments; it now engrossed a great
part of his time, and a turn for poetry became apparent. The sage Eben
Bonabben took the alarm, and endeavored to work these idle humors out of
him by a severe course of algebra; but the prince turned from it with
distaste. “I cannot endure algebra,” said he; “it is an abomination to
me. I want something that speaks more to the heart.”
The sage Eben Bonabben shook his dry head at the words. “Here is an end
to philosophy,” thought he. “The prince has discovered he has a heart!”
He now kept anxious watch upon his pupil, and saw that the latent
tenderness of his nature was in activity, and only wanted an object. He
wandered about the gardens of the Generalife in an intoxication of
feelings of which he knew not the cause. Sometimes he would sit plunged
in a delicious reverie; then he would seize his lute and draw from it
the most touching notes, and then throw it aside, and break forth into
sighs and ejaculations.
By degrees this loving disposition began to extend to inanimate objects;
he had his favorite flowers, which he cherished with tender assiduity;
then he became attached to various trees, and there was one in
particular, of a graceful form and drooping foliage, on which he
lavished his amorous devotion, carving his name on its bark, hanging
garlands on its branches, and singing couplets in its praise, to the
accompaniment of his lute.
Eben Bonabben was alarmed at this excited state of his pupil. He saw him
on the very brink of forbidden knowledge--the least hint might reveal to
him the fatal secret. Trembling for the safety of the prince and the
security of his own head, he hastened to draw him from the seductions of
the garden, and shut him up in the highest tower of the Generalife. It
contained beautiful apartments, and commanded an almost boundless
prospect, but was elevated far above that atmosphere of sweets and those
witching bowers so dangerous to the feelings of the too susceptible
Ahmed.
What was to be done, however, to reconcile him to this restraint and to
beguile the tedious hours? He had exhausted almost all kinds of
agreeable knowledge; and algebra was not to be mentioned. Fortunately
Eben Bonabben had been instructed, when in Egypt, in the language of
birds by a Jewish Rabbin, who had received it in lineal transmission
from Solomon the Wise, who had been taught it by the queen of Sheba. At
the very mention of such a study, the eyes of the prince sparkled with
animation, and he applied himself to it with such avidity, that he soon
became as great an adept as his master.
The tower of the Generalife was no longer a solitude; he had companions
at hand with whom he could converse. The first acquaintance he formed
was with a hawk, who built his nest in a crevice of the lofty
battlements, whence he soared far and wide in quest of prey. The prince,
however, found little to like or esteem in him. He was a mere pirate of
the air, swaggering and boastful, whose talk was all about rapine and
carnage, and desperate exploits.
His next acquaintance was an owl, a mighty wise-looking bird, with a
huge head and staring eyes, who sat blinking and goggling all day in a
hole in the wall, but roamed forth at night. He had great pretensions to
wisdom, talked something of astrology and the moon, and hinted at the
dark sciences; he was grievously given to metaphysics, and the prince
found his prosings even more ponderous than those of the sage Eben
Bonabben.
Then there was a bat, that hung all day by his heels in the dark corner
of a vault, but sallied out in slipshod style at twilight. He, however,
had but twilight ideas on all subjects, derided things of which he had
taken but an imperfect view, and seemed to take delight in nothing.
Besides these there was a swallow, with whom the prince was at first
much taken. He was a smart talker, but restless, bustling, and forever
on the wing; seldom remaining long enough for any continued
conversation. He turned out in the end to be a mere smatterer, who did
but skim over the surface of things, pretending to know everything, but
knowing nothing thoroughly.
These were the only feathered associates with whom the prince had any
opportunity of exercising his newly acquired language; the tower was too
high for any other birds to frequent it. He soon grew weary of his new
acquaintances, whose conversation spoke so little to the head and
nothing to the heart, and gradually relapsed into his loneliness. A
winter passed away, spring opened with all its bloom and verdure and
breathing sweetness, and the happy time arrived for birds to pair and
build their nests. Suddenly, as it were, a universal burst of song and
melody broke forth from the groves and gardens of the Generalife, and
reached the prince in the solitude of his tower. From every side he
heard the same universal theme--love--love--love--chanted forth, and
responded to it in every variety of note and tone. The prince listened
in silence and perplexity. “What can be this love,” thought he, “of
which the world seems so full, and of which I know nothing?” He applied
for information to his friend the hawk. The ruffian bird answered in a
tone of scorn: “You must apply,” said he, “to the vulgar peaceable
birds of earth, who are made for the prey of us princes of the air. My
trade is war, and fighting my delight. I am a warrior, and know nothing
of this thing called love.”
The prince turned from him with disgust, and sought the owl in his
retreat. “This is a bird,” said he, “of peaceful habits, and may be able
to solve my question.” So he asked the owl to tell him what was this
love about which all the birds in the groves below were singing.
Upon this the owl put on a look of offended dignity. “My nights,” said
he, “are taken up in study and research, and my days in ruminating in my
cell upon all that I have learnt. As to these singing birds of whom you
talk, I never listen to them--I despise them and their themes. Allah be
praised, I cannot sing; I am a philosopher, and know nothing of this
thing called love.”
The prince now repaired to the vault, where his friend the bat was
hanging by the heels, and propounded the same question. The bat wrinkled
up his nose into a most snappish expression. “Why do you disturb me in
my morning’s nap with such an idle question?” said he, peevishly. “I
only fly by twilight, when all birds are asleep, and never trouble
myself with their concerns. I am neither bird nor beast, and I thank
heaven for it. I have found out the villany of the whole of them, and
hate them one and all. In a word, I am a misanthrope--and know nothing
of this thing called love.”
As a last resort, the prince now sought the swallow, and stopped him
just as he was circling about the summit of the tower. The swallow, as
usual, was in a prodigious hurry, and had scarce time to make a reply.
“Upon my word,” said he, “I have so much public business to attend to,
and so many pursuits to follow, that I have had no time to think on the
subject. I have every day a thousand visits to pay; a thousand affairs
of importance to examine into, that leave me not a moment of leisure for
these little sing-song matters. In a word, I am a citizen of the
world--I know nothing of this thing called love.” So saying, the swallow
dived into the valley, and was out of sight in a moment.
The prince remained disappointed and perplexed, but with his curiosity
still more piqued by the difficulty of gratifying it. While in this
mood, his ancient guardian entered the tower. The prince advanced
eagerly to meet him. “O Eben Bonabben,” cried he, “thou hast revealed to
me much of the wisdom of the earth; but there is one thing of which I
remain in utter ignorance, and would fain be informed.”
“My prince has but to make the inquiry, and everything within the
limited range of his servant’s intellect is at his command.”
“Tell me then, O most profound of sages, what is the nature of this
thing called love?”
Eben Bonabben was struck as with a thunderbolt. He trembled and turned
pale, and felt as if his head sat but loosely on his shoulders.
“What could suggest such a question to my prince,--where could he have
learnt so idle a word?”
The prince led him to the window of the tower. “Listen, O Eben
Bonabben,” said he. The sage listened. The nightingale sat in a thicket
below the tower, singing to his paramour the rose; from every
blossomed spray and tufted grove rose a strain of melody; and
love--love--love--was still the unvarying strain.
“Allah Akbar! God is great!” exclaimed the wise Bonabben. “Who shall
pretend to keep this secret from the heart of man, when even the birds
of the air conspire to betray it?”
Then turning to Ahmed--“O my prince,” cried he, “shut thine ears to
these seductive strains. Close thy mind against this dangerous
knowledge. Know that this love is the cause of half the ills of wretched
mortality. It is this which produces bitterness and strife between
brethren and friends; which causes treacherous murder and desolating
war. Care and sorrow, weary days and sleepless nights, are its
attendants. It withers the bloom and blights the joy of youth, and
brings on the ills and griefs of premature old age. Allah preserve thee,
my prince, in total ignorance of this thing called love!”
The sage Eben Bonabben hastily retired, leaving the prince plunged in
still deeper perplexity. It was in vain he attempted to dismiss the
subject from his mind; it still continued uppermost in his thoughts, and
teased and exhausted him with vain conjectures. Surely, said he to
himself, as he listened to the tuneful strains of the birds, there is no
sorrow in those notes; everything seems tenderness and joy. If love be a
cause of such wretchedness and strife, why are not these birds drooping
in solitude, or tearing each other in pieces, instead of fluttering
cheerfully about the groves, or sporting with each other among flowers?
He lay one morning on his couch, meditating on this inexplicable matter.
The window of his chamber was open to admit the soft morning breeze,
which came laden with the perfume of orange-blossoms from the valley of
the Darro. The voice of the nightingale was faintly heard, still
chanting the wonted theme. As the prince was listening and sighing,
there was a sudden rushing noise in the air; a beautiful dove, pursued
by a hawk, darted in at the window, and fell panting on the floor, while
the pursuer, balked of his prey, soared off to the mountains.
The prince took up the gasping bird, smoothed its feathers, and nestled
it in his bosom. When he had soothed it by his caresses, he put it in a
golden cage, and offered it, with his own hands, the whitest and finest
of wheat and the purest of water. The bird, however, refused food, and
sat drooping and pining, and uttering piteous moans.
“What aileth thee?” said Ahmed. “Hast thou not everything thy heart can
wish?”
“Alas, no!” replied the dove; “am I not separated from the partner of my
heart, and that too in the happy spring-time, the very season of love!”
“Of love!” echoed Ahmed. “I pray thee, my pretty bird, canst thou then
tell me what is love?”
“Too well can I, my prince. It is the torment of one, the felicity of
two, the strife and enmity of three. It is a charm which draws two
beings together, and unites them by delicious sympathies, making it
happiness to be with each other, but misery to be apart. Is there no
being to whom you are drawn by these ties of tender affection?”
“I like my old teacher Eben Bonabben better than any other being; but he
is often tedious, and I occasionally feel myself happier without his
society.”
“That is not the sympathy I mean. I speak of love, the great mystery and
principle of life; the intoxicating revel of youth; the sober delight of
age. Look forth, my prince, and behold how at this blest season all
nature is full of love. Every created being has its mate; the most
insignificant bird sings to its paramour; the very beetle wooes its
lady-beetle in the dust, and yon butterflies which you see fluttering
high above the tower and toying in the air, are happy in each other’s
loves. Alas, my prince! hast thou spent so many of the precious days of
youth without knowing anything of love? Is there no gentle being of
another sex--no beautiful princess nor lovely damsel who has ensnared
your heart, and filled your bosom with a soft tumult of pleasing pains
and tender wishes?”
“I begin to understand,” said the prince, sighing; “such a tumult I have
more than once experienced, without knowing the cause; and where should
I seek for an object such as you describe, in this dismal solitude?”
A little further conversation ensued, and the first amatory lesson of
the prince was complete.
“Alas!” said he, “if love be indeed such a delight, and its interruption
such a misery, Allah forbid that I should mar the joy of any of its
votaries.” He opened the cage, took out the dove, and having fondly
kissed it, carried it to the window. “Go, happy bird,” said he, “rejoice
with the partner of thy heart in the days of youth and spring-time. Why
should I make thee a fellow-prisoner in this dreary tower, where love
can never enter?”
The dove flapped its wings in rapture, gave one vault into the air, and
then swooped downward on whistling wings to the blooming bowers of the
Darro.
The prince followed him with his eyes, and then gave way to bitter
repining. The singing of the birds, which once delighted him, now added
to his bitterness. Love! love! love! Alas, poor youth! he now understood
the strain.
His eyes flashed fire when next he beheld the sage Bonabben. “Why hast
thou kept me in this abject ignorance?” cried he. “Why has the great
mystery and principle of life been withheld from me, in which I find the
meanest insect is so learned? Behold all nature is in a revel of
delight. Every created being rejoices with its mate. This--this is the
love about which I have sought instruction. Why am I alone debarred its
enjoyment? Why has so much of my youth been wasted without a knowledge
of its raptures?”
The sage Bonabben saw that all further reserve was useless; for the
prince had acquired the dangerous and forbidden knowledge. He revealed
to him, therefore, the predictions of the astrologers, and the
precautions that had been taken in his education to avert the threatened
evils. “And now, my prince,” added he, “my life is in your hands. Let
the king your father discover that you have learned the passion of love
while under my guardianship, and my head must answer for it.”
The prince was as reasonable as most young men of his age, and easily
listened to the remonstrances of his tutor, since nothing pleaded
against them. Besides, he really was attached to Eben Bonabben, and
being as yet but theoretically acquainted with the passion of love, he
consented to confine the knowledge of it to his own bosom, rather than
endanger the head of the philosopher.
His discretion was doomed, however, to be put to still further proofs. A
few mornings afterwards, as he was ruminating on the battlements of the
tower, the dove which had been released by him came hovering in the air,
and alighted fearlessly upon his shoulder.
The prince fondled it to his heart. “Happy bird,” said he, “who can fly,
as it were, with the wings of the morning to the uttermost parts of the
earth. Where hast thou been since we parted?”
“In a far country, my prince, whence I bring you tidings in reward for
my liberty. In the wild compass of my flight, which extends over plain
and mountain, as I was soaring in the air, I beheld below me a
delightful garden with all kinds of fruits and flowers. It was in a
green meadow, on the banks of a wandering stream; and in the centre of
the garden was a stately palace. I alighted in one of the bowers to
repose after my weary flight. On the green bank below me was a youthful
princess, in the very sweetness and bloom of her years. She was
surrounded by female attendants, young like herself, who decked her
with garlands and coronets of flowers; but no flower of field or garden
could compare with her for loveliness. Here, however, she bloomed in
secret, for the garden was surrounded by high walls, and no mortal man
was permitted to enter. When I beheld this beauteous maid, thus young
and innocent and unspotted by the world, I thought, here is the being
formed by heaven to inspire my prince with love.”
The description was a spark of fire to the combustible heart of Ahmed;
all the latent amorousness of his temperament had at once found an
object, and he conceived an immeasurable passion for the princess. He
wrote a letter, couched in the most impassioned language, breathing his
fervent devotion, but bewailing the unhappy thraldom of his person,
which prevented him from seeking her out and throwing himself at her
feet. He added couplets of the most tender and moving eloquence, for he
was a poet by nature, and inspired by love. He addressed his letter--“To
the Unknown Beauty, from the captive Prince Ahmed”; then perfuming it
with musk and roses, he gave it to the dove.
“Away, trustiest of messengers!” said he. “Fly over mountain, and
valley, and river, and plain; rest not in bower, nor set foot on earth,
until thou hast given this letter to the mistress of my heart.”
The dove soared high in air, and taking his course darted away in one
undeviating direction. The prince followed him with his eye until he was
a mere speck on a cloud, and gradually disappeared behind a mountain.
Day after day he watched for the return of the messenger of love, but he
watched in vain. He began to accuse him of forgetfulness, when towards
sunset one evening the faithful bird fluttered into his apartment, and
falling at his feet expired. The arrow of some wanton archer had pierced
his breast, yet he had struggled with the lingerings of life to execute
his mission. As the prince bent with grief over this gentle martyr to
fidelity, he beheld a chain of pearls round his neck, attached to which,
beneath his wing, was a small enamelled picture. It represented a lovely
princess in the very flower of her years. It was doubtless the unknown
beauty of the garden; but who and where was she?--how had she received
his letter? and was this picture sent as a token of her approval of his
passion? Unfortunately the death of the faithful dove left everything in
mystery and doubt.
The prince gazed on the picture till his eyes swam with tears. He
pressed it to his lips and to his heart; he sat for hours contemplating
it almost in an agony of tenderness. “Beautiful image!” said he, “alas,
thou art but an image! Yet thy dewy eyes beam tenderly upon me; those
rosy lips look as though they would speak encouragement: vain fancies!
Have they not looked the same on some more happy rival? But where in
this wide world shall I hope to find the original? Who knows what
mountains, what realms may separate us; what adverse chances may
intervene? Perhaps now, even now, lovers may be crowding around her,
while I sit here a prisoner in a tower, wasting my time in adoration of
a painted shadow.”
The resolution of Prince Ahmed was taken. “I will fly from this palace,”
said he, “which has become an odious prison; and, a pilgrim of love,
will seek this unknown princess throughout the world.” To escape from
the tower in the day, when every one was awake, might be a difficult
matter; but at night the palace was slightly guarded; for no one
apprehended any attempt of the kind from the prince, who had always been
so passive in his captivity. How was he to guide himself, however, in
his darkling flight, being ignorant of the country? He bethought him of
the owl, who was accustomed to roam at night, and must know every
by-lane and secret pass. Seeking him in his hermitage, he questioned him
touching his knowledge of the land. Upon this the owl put on a mighty
self-important look. “You must know, O prince,” said he, “that we owls
are of a very ancient and extensive family, though rather fallen to
decay, and possess ruinous castles and palaces in all parts of Spain.
There is scarcely a tower of the mountains, or a fortress of the plains,
or an old citadel of a city, but has some brother, or uncle, or cousin,
quartered in it; and in going the rounds to visit this my numerous
kindred, I have pried into every nook and corner, and made myself
acquainted with every secret of the land.”
The prince was overjoyed to find the owl so deeply versed in topography,
and now informed him, in confidence, of his tender passion and his
intended elopement, urging him to be his companion and counsellor.
“Go to!” said the owl, with a look of displeasure; “am I a bird to
engage in a love-affair?--I, whose whole time is devoted to meditation
and the moon?”
“Be not offended, most solemn owl,” replied the prince; “abstract
thyself for a time from meditation and the moon, and aid me in my
flight, and thou shalt have whatever heart can wish.”
“I have that already,” said the owl: “a few mice are sufficient for my
frugal table, and this hole in the wall is spacious enough for my
studies; and what more does a philosopher like myself desire?”