entreaties in such moving terms that it was not in the nature of mortal
maiden to deny him; so the blushing little warden of the tower
descended, and opened the door with a trembling hand, and if the page
had been charmed by a mere glimpse of her countenance from the window,
he was ravished by the full-length portrait now revealed to him.
Her Andalusian bodice and trim basquiña set off the round but delicate
symmetry of her form, which was as yet scarce verging into womanhood.
Her glossy hair was parted on her forehead with scrupulous exactness,
and decorated with a fresh plucked rose, according to the universal
custom of the country. It is true her complexion was tinged by the ardor
of a southern sun, but it served to give richness to the mantling bloom
of her cheek, and to heighten the lustre of her melting eyes.
Ruyz de Alarcon beheld all this with a single glance, for it became him
not to tarry; he merely murmured his acknowledgments, and then bounded
lightly up the spiral staircase in quest of his falcon.
He soon returned with the truant bird upon his fist. The damsel, in the
mean time, had seated herself by the fountain in the hall, and was
winding silk; but in her agitation she let fall the reel upon the
pavement. The page sprang and picked it up, then dropping gracefully on
one knee, presented it to her; but, seizing the hand extended to receive
it, imprinted on it a kiss more fervent and devout than he had ever
imprinted on the fair hand of his sovereign.
“Ave Maria, Señor!” exclaimed the damsel, blushing still deeper with
confusion and surprise, for never before had she received such a
salutation.
The modest page made a thousand apologies, assuring her it was the way
at court of expressing the most profound homage and respect.
Her anger, if anger she felt, was easily pacified, but her agitation and
embarrassment continued, and she sat blushing deeper and deeper, with
her eyes cast down upon her work, entangling the silk which she
attempted to wind.
The cunning page saw the confusion in the opposite camp, and would fain
have profited by it, but the fine speeches he would have uttered died
upon his lips; his attempts at gallantry were awkward and ineffectual;
and to his surprise, the adroit page, who had figured with such grace
and effrontery among the most knowing and experienced ladies of the
court, found himself awed and abashed in the presence of a simple damsel
of fifteen.
In fact, the artless maiden, in her own modesty and innocence, had
guardians more effectual than the bolts and bars prescribed by her
vigilant aunt. Still, where is the female bosom proof against the first
whisperings of love? The little damsel, with all her artlessness,
instinctively comprehended all that the faltering tongue of the page
failed to express, and her heart was fluttered at beholding, for the
first time, a lover at her feet--and such a lover!
The diffidence of the page, though genuine, was short-lived, and he was
recovering his usual ease and confidence, when a shrill voice was heard
at a distance.
“My aunt is returning from mass!” cried the damsel in affright: “I pray
you, Señor, depart.”
“Not until you grant me that rose from your hair as a remembrance.”
She hastily untwisted the rose from her raven locks. “Take it,” cried
she, agitated and blushing, “but pray begone.”
The page took the rose, and at the same time covered with kisses the
fair hand that gave it. Then, placing the flower in his bonnet, and
taking the falcon upon his fist, he bounded off through the garden,
bearing away with him the heart of the gentle Jacinta.
When the vigilant aunt arrived at the tower, she remarked the agitation
of her niece, and an air of confusion in the hall; but a word of
explanation sufficed. “A ger-falcon had pursued his prey into the hall.”
“Mercy on us! to think of a falcon flying into the tower. Did ever one
hear of so saucy a hawk? Why, the very bird in the cage is not safe!”
The vigilant Fredegonda was one of the most wary of ancient spinsters.
She had a becoming terror and distrust of what she denominated “the
opposite sex,” which had gradually increased through a long life of
celibacy. Not that the good lady had ever suffered from their wiles,
nature having set up a safeguard in her face that forbade all trespass
upon her premises; but ladies who have least cause to fear for
themselves are most ready to keep a watch over their more tempting
neighbors.
The niece was an orphan of an officer who had fallen in the wars. She
had been educated in a convent, and had recently been transferred from
her sacred asylum to the immediate guardianship of her aunt, under whose
overshadowing care she vegetated in obscurity, like an opening rose
blooming beneath a brier. Nor indeed is this comparison entirely
accidental; for, to tell the truth, her fresh and dawning beauty had
caught the public eye, even in her seclusion, and, with that poetical
turn common to the people of Andalusia, the peasantry of the
neighborhood had given her the appellation of “the Rose of the
Alhambra.”
The wary aunt continued to keep a faithful watch over her tempting
little niece as long as the court continued at Granada, and flattered
herself that her vigilance had been successful. It is true the good lady
was now and then discomposed by the tinkling of guitars and chanting of
love-ditties from the moonlit groves beneath the tower; but she would
exhort her niece to shut her ears against such idle minstrelsy, assuring
her that it was one of the arts of the opposite sex, by which simple
maids were often lured to their undoing. Alas! what chance with a simple
maid has a dry lecture against a moonlight serenade?
At length King Philip cut short his sojourn at Granada, and suddenly
departed with all his train. The vigilant Fredegonda watched the royal
pageant as it issued forth from the Gate of Justice, and descended the
great avenue leading to the city. When the last banner disappeared from
her sight, she returned exulting to her tower, for all her cares were
over. To her surprise, a light Arabian steed pawed the ground at the
wicket-gate of the garden;--to her horror, she saw through the thickets
of roses a youth in gayly embroidered dress, at the feet of her niece.
At the sound of her footsteps he gave a tender adieu, bounded lightly
over the barrier of reeds and myrtles, sprang upon his horse, and was
out of sight in an instant.
The tender Jacinta, in the agony of her grief, lost all thought of her
aunt’s displeasure. Throwing herself into her arms, she broke forth into
sobs and tears.
“Ay de mi!” cried she; “he’s gone!--he’s gone!--he’s gone! and I shall
never see him more!”
“Gone!--who is gone?--what youth is that I saw at your feet?”
“A queen’s page, aunt, who came to bid me farewell.”
“A queen’s page, child!” echoed the vigilant Fredegonda, faintly, “and
when did you become acquainted with the queen’s page?”
“The morning that the ger-falcon came into the tower. It was the queen’s
ger-falcon, and he came in pursuit of it.”
“Ah silly, silly girl! know that there are no ger-falcons half so
dangerous as these young prankling pages, and it is precisely such
simple birds as thee that they pounce upon.”
The aunt was at first indignant at learning that in despite of her
boasted vigilance, a tender intercourse had been carried on by the
youthful lovers, almost beneath her eye; but when she found that her
simple-hearted niece, though thus exposed, without the protection of
bolt or bar, to all the machinations of the opposite sex, had come forth
unsinged from the fiery ordeal, she consoled herself with the persuasion
that it was owing to the chaste and cautious maxims in which she had, as
it were, steeped her to the very lips.
While the aunt laid this soothing unction to her pride, the niece
treasured up the oft-repeated vows of fidelity of the page. But what is
the love of restless, roving man? A vagrant stream that dallies for a
time with each flower upon its bank, then passes on, and leaves them all
in tears.
Days, weeks, months elapsed, and nothing more was heard of the page. The
pomegranate ripened, the vine yielded up its fruit, the autumnal rains
descended in torrents from the mountains; the Sierra Nevada became
covered with a snowy mantle, and wintry blasts howled through the halls
of the Alhambra--still he came not. The winter passed away. Again the
genial spring burst forth with song and blossom and balmy zephyr; the
snows melted from the mountains, until none remained but on the lofty
summit of Nevada, glistening through the sultry summer air. Still
nothing was heard of the forgetful page.
In the mean time the poor little Jacinta grew pale and thoughtful. Her
former occupations and amusements were abandoned, her silk lay
entangled, her guitar unstrung, her flowers were neglected, the notes of
her bird unheeded, and her eyes, once so bright, were dimmed with secret
weeping. If any solitude could be devised to foster the passion of a
love-lorn damsel it would be such a place as the Alhambra, where
everything seems disposed to produce tender and romantic reveries. It is
a very paradise for lovers; how hard then to be alone in such a
paradise--and not merely alone, but forsaken!
“Alas, silly child!” would the staid and immaculate Fredegonda say, when
she found her niece in one of her desponding moods--“did I not warn thee
against the wiles and deceptions of these men? What couldst thou expect,
too, from one of a haughty and aspiring family--thou an orphan, the
descendant of a fallen and impoverished line? Be assured, if the youth
were true, his father, who is one of the proudest nobles about the
court, would prohibit his union with one so humble and portionless as
thou. Pluck up thy resolution, therefore, and drive these idle notions
from thy mind.”
The words of the immaculate Fredegonda only served to increase the
melancholy of her niece, but she sought to indulge it in private. At a
late hour one midsummer night, after her aunt had retired to rest, she
remained alone in the hall of the tower, seated beside the alabaster
fountain. It was here that the faithless page had first knelt and kissed
her hand; it was here that he had often vowed eternal fidelity. The poor
little damsel’s heart was overladen with sad and tender recollections,
her tears began to flow, and slowly fell drop by drop into the
fountain. By degrees the crystal water became agitated,
and--bubble--bubble--bubble--boiled up and was tossed about, until a
female figure, richly clad in Moorish robes, slowly rose to view.
Jacinta was so frightened that she fled from the hall, and did not
venture to return. The next morning she related what she had seen to her
aunt, but the good lady treated it as a fantasy of her troubled mind, or
supposed she had fallen asleep and dreamt beside the fountain. “Thou
hast been thinking of the story of the three Moorish princesses that
once inhabited this tower,” continued she, “and it has entered into thy
dreams.”
“What story, aunt? I know nothing of it.”
“Thou hast certainly heard of the three princesses, Zayda, Zorayda, and
Zorahayda, who were confined in this tower by the king their father, and
agreed to fly with three Christian cavaliers. The two first accomplished
their escape, but the third failed in her resolution, and, it is said,
died in this tower.”
“I now recollect to have heard of it,” said Jacinta, “and to have wept
over the fate of the gentle Zorahayda.”
“Thou mayest well weep over her fate,” continued the aunt, “for the
lover of Zorahayda was thy ancestor. He long bemoaned his Moorish love;
but time cured him of his grief, and he married a Spanish lady, from
whom thou art descended.”
Jacinta ruminated upon these words. “That what I have seen is no fantasy
of the brain,” said she to herself, “I am confident. If indeed it be the
spirit of the gentle Zorahayda, which I have heard lingers about this
tower, of what should I be afraid? I’ll watch by the fountain
to-night--perhaps the visit will be repeated.”
Towards midnight, when everything was quiet, she again took her seat in
the hall. As the bell in the distant watch-tower of the Alhambra struck
the midnight hour, the fountain was again agitated; and
bubble--bubble--bubble--it tossed about the waters until the Moorish
female again rose to view. She was young and beautiful; her dress was
rich with jewels, and in her hand she held a silver lute. Jacinta
trembled and was faint, but was reassured by the soft and plaintive
voice of the apparition, and the sweet expression of her pale,
melancholy countenance.
“Daughter of mortality,” said she, “what aileth thee? Why do thy tears
trouble my fountain, and thy sighs and plaints disturb the quiet watches
of the night?”
“I weep because of the faithlessness of man, and I bemoan my solitary
and forsaken state.”
“Take comfort; thy sorrows may yet have an end. Thou beholdest a Moorish
princess, who, like thee, was unhappy in her love. A Christian knight,
thy ancestor, won my heart, and would have borne me to his native land
and to the bosom of his church. I was a convert in my heart, but I
lacked courage equal to my faith, and lingered till too late. For this
the evil genii are permitted to have power over me, and I remain
enchanted in this tower until some pure Christian will deign to break
the magic spell. Wilt thou undertake the task?”
“I will,” replied the damsel, trembling.
“Come hither, then, and fear not; dip thy hand in the fountain, sprinkle
the water over me, and baptize me after the manner of thy faith; so
shall the enchantment be dispelled, and my troubled spirit have repose.”
The damsel advanced with faltering steps, dipped her hand in the
fountain, collected water in the palm, and sprinkled it over the pale
face of the phantom.
The latter smiled with ineffable benignity. She dropped her silver lute
at the feet of Jacinta, crossed her white arms upon her bosom, and
melted from sight, so that it seemed merely as if a shower of dew-drops
had fallen into the fountain.
Jacinta retired from the hall filled with awe and wonder. She scarcely
closed her eyes that night; but when she awoke at daybreak out of a
troubled slumber, the whole appeared to her like a distempered dream. On
descending into the hall, however, the truth of the vision was
established, for beside the fountain she beheld the silver lute
glittering in the morning sunshine.
She hastened to her aunt, to relate all that had befallen her, and
called her to behold the lute as a testimonial of the reality of her
story. If the good lady had any lingering doubts, they were removed when
Jacinta touched the instrument, for she drew forth such ravishing tones
as to thaw even the frigid bosom of the immaculate Fredegonda, that
region of eternal winter, into a genial flow. Nothing but supernatural
melody could have produced such an effect.
The extraordinary power of the lute became every day more and more
apparent. The wayfarer passing by the tower was detained, and, as it
were, spell-bound, in breathless ecstasy. The very birds gathered in the
neighboring trees, and hushing their own strains, listened in charmed
silence.
Rumor soon spread the news abroad. The inhabitants of Granada thronged
to the Alhambra to catch a few notes of the transcendent music that
floated about the tower of Las Infantas.
The lovely little minstrel was at length drawn forth from her retreat.
The rich and powerful of the land contended who should entertain and do
honor to her; or rather, who should secure the charms of her lute to
draw fashionable throngs to their saloons. Wherever she went her
vigilant aunt kept a dragon watch at her elbow, awing the throngs of
impassioned admirers who hung in raptures on her strains. The report of
her wonderful powers spread from city to city. Malaga, Seville, Cordova,
all became successively mad on the theme; nothing was talked of
throughout Andalusia but the beautiful minstrel of the Alhambra. How
could it be otherwise among a people so musical and gallant as the
Andalusians, when the lute was magical in its powers, and the minstrel
inspired by love!
While all Andalusia was thus music mad, a different mood prevailed at
the court of Spain. Philip V., as is well known, was a miserable
hypochondriac, and subject to all kinds of fancies. Sometimes he would
keep to his bed for weeks together, groaning under imaginary complaints.
At other times he would insist upon abdicating his throne, to the great
annoyance of his royal spouse, who had a strong relish for the splendors
of a court and the glories of a crown, and guided the sceptre of her
imbecile lord with an expert and steady hand.
Nothing was found to be so efficacious in dispelling the royal megrims
as the power of music; the queen took care, therefore, to have the best
performers, both vocal and instrumental, at hand, and retained the
famous Italian singer Farinelli about the court as a kind of royal
physician.
At the moment we treat of, however, a freak had come over the mind of
this sapient and illustrious Bourbon that surpassed all former vagaries.
After a long spell of imaginary illness, which set all the strains of
Farinelli and the consultations of a whole orchestra of court-fiddlers
at defiance, the monarch fairly, in idea, gave up the ghost, and
considered himself absolutely dead.
This would have been harmless enough, and even convenient both to his
queen and courtiers, had he been content to remain in the quietude
befitting a dead man; but to their annoyance he insisted upon having
the funeral ceremonies performed over him, and, to their inexpressible
perplexity, began to grow impatient, and to revile bitterly at them for
negligence and disrespect, in leaving him unburied. What was to be done?
To disobey the king’s positive commands was monstrous in the eyes of the
obsequious courtiers of a punctilious court--but to obey him, and bury
him alive would be downright regicide!
In the midst of this fearful dilemma a rumor reached the court of the
female minstrel who was turning the brains of all Andalusia. The queen
dispatched missions in all haste to summon her to St. Ildefonso, where
the court at that time resided.
Within a few days, as the queen with her maids of honor was walking in
those stately gardens, intended, with their avenues and terraces and
fountains, to eclipse the glories of Versailles, the far-famed minstrel
was conducted into her presence. The imperial Elizabetta gazed with
surprise at the youthful and unpretending appearance of the little being
that had set the world madding. She was in her picturesque Andalusian
dress, her silver lute in hand, and stood with modest and downcast eyes,
but with a simplicity and freshness of beauty that still bespoke her
“the Rose of the Alhambra.”
As usual she was accompanied by the ever-vigilant Fredegonda, who gave
the whole history of her parentage and descent to the inquiring queen.
If the stately Elizabetta had been interested by the appearance of
Jacinta, she was still more pleased when she learnt that she was of a
meritorious though impoverished line, and that her father had bravely
fallen in the service of the crown. “If thy powers equal their renown,”
said she, “and thou canst cast forth this evil spirit that possesses thy
sovereign, thy fortunes shall henceforth be my care, and honors and
wealth attend thee.”
Impatient to make trial of her skill, she led the way at once to the
apartment of the moody monarch.
Jacinta followed with downcast eyes through files of guards and crowds
of courtiers. They arrived at length at a great chamber hung with black.
The windows were closed to exclude the light of day: a number of yellow
wax tapers in silver sconces diffused a lugubrious light, and dimly
revealed the figures of mutes in mourning dresses, and courtiers who
glided about with noiseless step and woe-begone visage. In the midst of
a funeral bed or bier, his hands folded on his breast, and the tip of
his nose just visible, lay extended this would-be-buried monarch.
The queen entered the chamber in silence, and pointing to a footstool in
an obscure corner, beckoned to Jacinta to sit down and commence.
At first she touched her lute with a faltering hand, but gathering
confidence and animation as she proceeded, drew forth such soft aërial
harmony, that all present could scarce believe it mortal. As to the
monarch, who had already considered himself in the world of spirits, he
set it down for some angelic melody or the music of the spheres. By
degrees the theme was varied, and the voice of the minstrel accompanied
the instrument. She poured forth one of the legendary ballads treating
of the ancient glories of the Alhambra and the achievements of the
Moors. Her whole soul entered into the theme, for with the recollections
of the Alhambra was associated the story of her love. The
funeral-chamber resounded with the animating strain. It entered into the
gloomy heart of the monarch. He raised his head and gazed around; he sat
up on his couch, his eye began to kindle--at length, leaping upon the
floor, he called for sword and buckler.
The triumph of music, or rather of the enchanted lute, was complete; the
demon of melancholy was cast forth; and, as it were, a dead man brought
to life. The windows of the apartment were thrown open; the glorious
effulgence of Spanish sunshine burst into the late lugubrious chamber;
all eyes sought the lovely enchantress, but the lute had fallen from her
hand, she had sunk upon the earth, and the next moment was clasped to
the bosom of Ruyz de Alarcon.
The nuptials of the happy couple were celebrated soon afterwards with
great splendor, and the Rose of the Alhambra became the ornament and
delight of the court. “But hold--not so fast”--I hear the reader
exclaim; “this is jumping to the end of a story at a furious rate! First
let us know how Ruyz de Alarcon managed to account to Jacinta for his
long neglect?” Nothing more easy; the venerable, time-honored excuse,
the opposition to his wishes by a proud, pragmatical old father:
besides, young people who really like one another soon come to an
amicable understanding, and bury all past grievances when once they
meet.
But how was the proud, pragmatical old father reconciled to the match?
Oh! as to that, his scruples were easily overcome by a word or two from
the queen; especially as dignities and rewards were showered upon the
blooming favorite of royalty. Besides, the lute of Jacinta, you know,
possessed a magic power, and could control the most stubborn head and
hardest breast.
And what came of the enchanted lute?
Oh, that is the most curious matter of all, and plainly proves the truth
of the whole story. That lute remained for some time in the family, but
was purloined and carried off, as was supposed, by the great singer
Farinelli, in pure jealousy. At his death it passed into other hands in
Italy, who were ignorant of its mystic powers, and melting down the
silver, transferred the strings to an old Cremona fiddle. The strings
still retain something of their magic virtues. A word in the reader’s
ear, but let it go no further: that fiddle is now bewitching the whole
world,--it is the fiddle of Paganini!
THE VETERAN
Among the curious acquaintances I made in my rambles about the fortress,
was a brave and battered old colonel of Invalids, who was nestled like a
hawk in one of the Moorish towers. His history, which he was fond of
telling, was a tissue of those adventures, mishaps, and vicissitudes
that render the life of almost every Spaniard of note as varied and
whimsical as the pages of Gil Blas.