La cosa mas alegre que en la vida,
Permite al ser mortal humana gloria,
Es la patria del hombre tan querida
Despues de alguna prospera victoria.
_Lope de Vega._
Ah! che per tutto io veggo
Qualche oggetto funesto!
_Metastasio._
Granada now presented a scene of animated confusion. The repeated
successes of the Christians against the rebels, and the intelligence
lately received of the defeat of El Feri de Benastepar, with the total
destruction of his forces, filled the inhabitants of that city with joy.
Various bands of musicians paraded the gay and busy streets, uniting
their harmonious strains with the more solemn sounds of the bells,
whilst the joyous laugh, and other clamorous evidences of pleasure,
filled the air with a confused yet pleasing din.
It was amidst this tumult of rejoicing, that Theodora entered the city
of Granada. Her party had travelled slowly, so that the intelligence of
the recent victory had reached the place before them, and they were not
surprised at the extraordinary excitement of popular feeling. The
animated scene served, in some degree, to draw her mind from its gloomy
recollections, for during her journey she had again relapsed into her
former state of despondency. She was now traversing the principal
streets of that far-famed and renowned city, so long the grand arena of
the Moslem's greatness, now the undisputed dominion of the victorious
Christian. Every step she advanced exhibited some new object to awaken
her curiosity or excite her feelings, such as a stranger must feel upon
arriving at a city so lately rescued from the possession of an
hereditary enemy.
Relics of Moorish grandeur were every where discernible; every street,
every building, nay the very pavement on which they trod, teemed with
associations of by-gone glory and departed power. The city was now
chiefly inhabited by Spaniards; yet a considerable portion of its
population consisted of Moors, who scrupulously adhered to their
national costume, strikingly contrasted by its gaiety with the less
fanciful but more manly attire of the Christians. The two people widely
differed in all points, though now enclosed within the same precincts.
Two mortal and implacable enemies, united in apparent friendship,
paraded the streets, or tenanted the dwellings of Granada.
The high balconies of the city were hung with costly drapery, and the
turrets of the magnificent palaces adorned with a profusion of large
waving banners and gay pennons. Every window was crowded with rank and
beauty, witnessing the gambols of the merry children or the boisterous
recreations of the populace. The streets themselves afforded a quaint
and curious spectacle, for in promiscuous and gay confusion were seen
the splendid apparel of the noble, and the modest garb of the peasant;
the shining armour and waving plumes of the Christian warrior, and the
gaudy fantastic habiliments of the Moslem. With them appeared the solemn
and lugubrious vestments of the ecclesiastical dignitaries, and the
coarse habit and shaven crown of the monk.
Theodora was lost in wonder, so numerous and so whimsically contrasted
were these various objects. But amongst this motley assemblage there
were some who appeared more capable of interesting her heart and her
fancy. She espied those who were no sincere partakers of the general
joy, and whose sad eye and clouded brow belied the accents of their
tongue. Some, who vainly strove to animate their countenances with a
pleasure that was foreign to their hearts. The dejected and down-fallen
Moors were among these; for though they had submitted to the Christian
government, and admitted to the fullest extent the criminality of their
fellow-countrymen, yet they could not but be sensible that it was the
defeat and annihilation of their friends and former companions that
occasioned these demonstrations of joy. Besides, they felt the pangs of
shame and degradation, rendered still more poignant by a consciousness
of the superior courage of those whose destruction they were now in some
measure compelled to celebrate. To this was added the painful
conviction, that although they might outwardly be treated by the
Spaniards as fellow-subjects, no true sentiment of esteem and friendship
could be awakened in the breasts of those who must always consider them
as vanquished enemies. Besides the hatred which rankled alike in the
hearts of the followers of the Cross and those of the Crescent, a
hatred, which had been hereditary for many ages, was of itself an
insurmountable obstacle to the friendly conjunction of two such
different people. The Moors were therefore a prey to the most galling
reflections, and smarting under the bitterest disappointment, at the
very time that pleasure and contentment alone seemed to hold dominion
in Granada.
Theodora beheld these unfortunates with a lively sensation of pity,
though they had certainly little claim to it. The image of the odious
Caneri was of itself sufficient to banish any kindly feeling; yet they
were forlorn and wretched, and this was alone a sacred title to the
sympathies of her generous soul. She was, however, soon obliged to
recall her thoughts to a subject of individual interest, for as she was
doubling the _Plaza nueva_,[30] amongst the various Moors that paraded
about, her eyes lighted on one that struck a sensation of dread to her
very heart. It was Bermudo the renegade! She could not be deceived in
his person, though his outward appearance had undergone a material
alteration. The ingenuity which had changed his dress and disguised his
manner, could not however alter the peculiar expression of his eye, and
the chilling tranquil sternness of his features. Theodora trembled, for
she perceived that she had been recognised by the renegade, who
intensely fixed his eyes upon her, as though her person powerfully
arrested his attention. She turned with terror from the dreaded object,
and during the rest of her way, felt an involuntary apprehension at
looking around her.
The party of Theodora had by this time arrived at the palace of Don
Alonso de Aguilar, but an entrance was not to be effected without
considerable difficulty, all the avenues leading to it being crowded
with the multitude eager to congratulate the daughter of the victorious
warrior. The lady herself appeared for a moment at the balcony, gaily
surrounded by gallant knights and pages, waving her silken scarf in
grateful acknowledgment of these public demonstrations of respect.
Ramirez turned, and conducting his party to the back of the mansion,
sought an easier admission by the garden entrance. Theodora was soon
ushered into a splendid apartment, while her attentive conductor
proceeded alone, to fulfil his instructions to the daughter of Aguilar.
During the short interval that succeeded the departure of Ramirez, the
mind of Theodora was alternately agitated between hope and fear. Not
that she had any reason to doubt the reception she would experience from
Leonor, but she felt the painful difficulty of affording the explanation
that would naturally be required of her upon the arrival of Aguilar,
whose return was daily expected. These painful reflections, however,
were checked by the return of Ramirez, who taking the trembling hand of
Theodora, led her to Leonor's private apartment. They traversed in
silence the spacious corridors of the palace, and before Theodora had
time to collect her scattered senses, a pair of folding doors were
thrown open, and she found herself in the presence of one whom her
fervid imagination had almost portrayed as something more than mortal.
Leonor advanced gracefully to meet her guest, and observing her extreme
emotion, endeavoured to sooth it by the most friendly expressions.
"So lovely a being," she said, as she led the passive Theodora towards
a sofa, "needed not the recommendation of my noble parent, to be
received with cordial hospitality by his daughter;--but rest yourself,"
she continued, "for you must be in want of repose, after the journey you
have undergone."
Theodora, notwithstanding this reassuring tone, was unable to give
utterance to the acknowledgments of her grateful heart. There was
something in the whole appearance of Leonor that contributed to heighten
her natural timidity, and even the kindness and affability of the
daughter of Aguilar could not entirely dissipate an indefinable
sensation of awe, which Theodora felt in her presence. She had been at
first sight struck by the imposing and majestic beauty of Leonor,
together with the dazzling splendour in which she was attired. Her
senses were bewildered in the contemplation of so much grandeur and
magnificence.
Indeed Leonor de Aguilar was designed by nature to produce those
sensations in minds far more familiar with scenes of greatness and
power than the simple and unsophisticated heart of the guileless
Theodora. Leonor de Aguilar was a model of that peculiar beauty which
partakes at once of the lovely graces of her own sex, with some of the
more decided attributes of man. Her form was largely but most elegantly
framed, and exhibited a classic boldness of contour that perfectly
harmonized with her stateliness of carriage. Her complexion was of a
transparent brown, mellowed by the rich rosy tint that played over it,
and her large brilliant eyes sparkled with dazzling and energetic fire.
Dark glossy tresses overshadowed her oval face, where a beautiful shaped
aquiline nose, and lips of the deepest carnation, contributed to give
her countenance an expression of striking brilliancy. Yet there was
something stern in the resolute flash of her eye, and the bold curl of
her lip. A slight tincture of hauteur was likewise occasionally to be
detected, through the affability of manner by which she was
characterized; and in the very tone of her voice, even when attuned to
the softest expressions of kindness and regard, there was a chord that
vibrated upon the ear, which told of conscious superiority and masculine
genius. Yet these peculiarities were favorable to the commanding style
of her beauty, and served to heighten the impression which her natural
attractions could not fail to produce.
"But come," said Leonor, after the first salutations, and when Theodora
felt a little reassured; "come, I must introduce you to the grand
saloon, where some of the first nobility of Spain are now assembled: I
am sure," she added with a smile, "those gallant knights will be greatly
beholden to me for bringing so lovely an addition to their society."
"Your kind flattery," replied Theodora, "would certainly arouse a
feeling of vanity, if any such, alas! still lingered in my heart; but at
present sad recollections too severely oppress me to render society
desirable: besides, I should feel myself lost amidst so brilliant an
assemblage."
"Well," continued Leonor, "I will not impose any exertion upon my fair
guest that may not accord with the present state of her mind; let us,
however, hope that her sorrows are not so deeply rooted but that, in the
kindness of her friends, she may soon find some alleviation. Yet," she
added, "if you will not join in our festivities, you will at least be
able to witness them, without inconvenience, from your casement. The
grand procession will presently move towards the cathedral, to return a
solemn thanksgiving for the successes of the Christian arms. The queen
will shortly leave her palace, attended with the flower of Spanish
warriors, and all the rank and beauty of Granada. And now, my gentle
friend," she continued in a kind tone, "I shall be obliged for a time to
leave you, as my attendance on the queen is absolutely required."
She then appointed two of her maids to attend on her guest, and renewing
her assurances of regard and friendship, she retired, leaving the
unfortunate daughter of Monteblanco deeply impressed with gratitude and
admiration.
Upon the departure of Leonor, Theodora drew near the window, and gazed
on the moving multitude below. The increased clamour of the populace,
and an unusual hurrying to and fro, together with the tolling of the
cathedral bells, now announced that the procession had left the palace,
and was approaching. Soon after, the sumptuous cavalcade came in sight,
slowly moving forwards. A magnificent banner was borne at the head of
the procession, displaying the cross of Santiago, patron of Spain,
gorgeously embroidered thereon, and followed by the knights of that
noble military order, in their grand ceremonial costumes. After them,
came those of the order of Calatrava, with their brave and renowned
maestre at their head. A long train of noblemen and knights, all
martially equipped, and mounted on beautiful steeds, succeeded, bearing
amongst them the spoils taken in the late conflicts. Isabella herself at
last appeared, seated on a superb milk-white charger, with the ease and
elegance of a perfect equestrian. She was immediately attended by the
Count de Tendilla, governor of the city, and the Archbishop of Toledo
and that of Granada, who were to officiate at the cathedral. The
splendor of the cavalcade was diversified by ranks of friars and monks
of various orders, who moved in regular order, mingling the sounds of
solemn anthems to the notes of clarions and other warlike instruments.
Then the incense rose to the sky, flinging around a grateful odour,
whilst the din and confusion of the overwhelming throng that closed the
march, evinced the interest which the scene excited in the minds of the
people.
Theodora gazed after the procession until it gradually diminished in the
distance, and the clamorous noise was gradually subdued into a tranquil
and pleasing murmur. The pageant moved forward to the cathedral, where a
grand _Te Deum_ was sung, and a thousand voices united in heartfelt
gratitude to that awful power which had been so propitious to the
Christian people.
Theodora now retired from the casement, and abandoned herself to her
former thoughts. The sumptuous display she had just witnessed forcibly
recalled her mind to the subject of its constant meditations. Alas!
amongst the host of gallant knights that composed the scene, the best
and bravest was not there; and the image of her murdered lover, arrayed
in terror, rose sadly before the imagination of Theodora. Her
attendants, ignorant of the nature of her sorrows, but in the true
spirit of female compassion, endeavoured to divert her thoughts to more
pleasing channels. The mind may be better weaned from scenes of past
distress, by interesting the curiosity, than by a consolation which
often, instead of healing the lacerated heart, serves but to increase
the torture of the wound.
The kind females, therefore, led Theodora to view the interior of the
palace, which, from its venerable antiquity, and the interesting relics
of Moorish taste and ornament it contained, afforded a subject for
curious investigation. The quaint and fantastic carvings of the cornices
of the grand saloon, together with its Arabic devices and decorations,
and the mosaic pavement, harmonized strangely with the armorial bearings
and heavily grouped emblems of Christian panoplies.
Theodora gazed on these warlike trophies with a listless indifference,
but when she came to a long gallery hung round with pictures, both of
Christian and Moorish subjects, her feelings were powerfully excited,
and she beheld those living mockeries of departed greatness with a deep
sensation of awe. Many a picture was there which recorded the faded
splendour of the Moslems. Many a scene of the chivalrous tales and
amours of the valiant Gazul and the love-smitten Lindaraxa, and other
characters now highly prized in Moorish legend. These scenes of private
and individual interest were artificially mixed with other
representations of a more general and dignified nature. Battles and
sieges and valorous deeds of Mahomedan warriors were gaudily portrayed
by the Moorish artist, who had taken care to bestow with his pencil a
gratuitous splendor upon the exploits of his countrymen, as they passed
in review under his hand. These works were succeeded by others of a very
different character, in which the Christian artist had ingeniously taken
the hint from his Mahomedan rival, and had fairly outdone the infidel in
the fierce and indomitable expression of his heroes.
These were followed by a series of portraits, both of living personages
and others who were long since dead. Amongst these, Theodora saw the
mighty form of Alonso de Aguilar, on whose noble countenance was stamped
that commanding expression which brought vividly to her memory the image
of his daughter Leonor. There also stood as in life the renowned and
terrible Ruy Diaz de Vivar, surnamed _El Cid Campeador_,[31] mounted on
his scarcely less celebrated charger Babieca, both actively engaged in
the destruction of their Moorish enemies; for it is a received
tradition that the animal had an instinctive horror and abhorrence of
the infidels, and accordingly never lost an opportunity of exhibiting
towards them his patriotic propensities by the force of his bites and
kicks. There was likewise the awful and sanctified figure of the apostle
_Santiago_, riding like a whirlwind through the air, on his milk-white
horse, and accomplishing in his progress those wonderful and miraculous
deeds which have so much embellished the pages of the old legends, and
from whose rich sources the romancers have derived such heroic spirit
and power. The portraits of the Catholic Ferdinand, and his noble spouse
Isabella, were also there, together with many other Christian sovereigns
and warriors, who had played conspicuous parts in the history of their
country.
Theodora unconsciously wandered along until she had nearly reached the
extremity of the gallery, when, as she was about to return, her eye
suddenly alighted on a figure that thrilled the inmost fibres of her
frame. It was _him_ she saw, so truly portrayed and so exact in every
lineament, that the painted canvas seemed endowed with life. Gomez Arias
was there; his bold demeanor, his proud smile, the intelligent glance of
his eye--all, all was religiously preserved in that inanimate
counterpart of living reality. Theodora gazed and gazed, until her
dilated eyes seemed ready to start from their orbits. The unfortunate
girl was rivetted to the spot, for she felt a melancholy pleasure in
dwelling on the semblance of those handsome features. She descried all
the graces of her lover in that perfect memorial of him, and her own
vivid imagination imparted to it life and passion. She stood before the
picture, till she fancied her lover present, earnestly gazing on her
immovable form, and she felt a portion of that happiness which he never
failed to create when he whispered the ardent vows of everlasting love.
Theodora remained some time plunged in a tide of feeling, painful yet
pleasing, and in the recollection of past scenes she almost forgot the
horrid fate of Gomez Arias. She gazed, and in the height of her
enthusiasm she was happy; but, alas! how short, how transient was the
delusion which, when dissolved, would tend to sink her deeper in
affliction! The brazen, heavy voice of the cathedral bell suddenly broke
the magic charm. Theodora started from her reverie, and all again became
a chaos of misery and despondence.
The pageant was now returning from the Cathedral, and once more the
tolling of bells and the martial strains rung in the air. Theodora,
unwilling to betray her situation to her attendants, returned to her
apartment, where she endeavoured to conceal her emotion as well as the
high excitement of her feelings would permit.
The generous Leonor soon repaired to her charge.
"Come," said she, as she entered, "I suppose you will at least grace the
convivial table, since I could not prevail on you to adorn the
procession?"
"Suffer me," gently answered Theodora, "to trespass so far on your kind
indulgence as to excuse my absence from the feast. My mind, alas! is in
no state to enjoy the revelry, and I should but cast a gloom on the
brilliancy of the scene."
Leonor had a superior knowledge of human nature, and an unusual
quickness of discernment. She prudently considered that consolation
could much better be promoted by a gentle and timely acquiescence with
the desires of the afflicted, than by an overstrained and ill-timed
attempt to obtrude gaiety on a mind that was not prepared for its
admission. Theodora's request to keep her apartment was accordingly
complied with. There she passed the remainder of the day in busy
communion with her own thoughts, and bewildered in contemplating the
conduct that she ought to adopt in her unfortunate situation. Her
forlorn heart naturally and affectionately turned to the home of her
childhood; her ideas fondly returned to the pure channel from whence
they had too long wandered, and momentarily overpowered the terrors
which a consciousness of guilt presented to her imagination. Her father
would not discard his afflicted, his repentant child. Her offence
towards him had been great, but it could not be greater than the
parental anxiety, the fond, boundless affection he had ever shown to the
only remaining pledge of her mother's love, the sole descendant of his
ancient house.
These consoling reflections happily soothed the heart of Theodora. She
arose from her despondency with a sudden start of resolution, and
determined that on the moment her generous deliverer should arrive, she
would acquaint him with her wishes, and crave his assistance to conduct
her to the feet of her sorrowing parent.