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
for ever 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 for ever. 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."
[Illustration]
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!
[Illustration: _The Market._]
As the morning advances, the din of labour 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 retire 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 labourer
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 fria que la nieve_)."
[Illustration: _House of the Darro._]
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.
[Illustration: _The Convent._]
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.
[Illustration: _In the Sierras._]
[Illustration: _Mosque._]
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.'
[Illustration: _House of the Priests._]
"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.
[Illustration]
"'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.'
[Illustration]
"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 labour 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.
[Illustration: _The Moorish Fountain._]
"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 gipsies. 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, _señors_,--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.'
[Illustration: _Banks of Xenil._]
"'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.'
"'Enough,' said the mason sturdily: 'let me live in your house rent-free
until some better tenant present, and I will engage to put it in repair,
and to quiet the troubled spirit that disturbs it. I am a good Christian
and a poor man, and am not to be daunted by the Devil himself, even though
he should come in the shape of a big bag of money!'
"The offer of the honest mason was gladly accepted; he moved with his
family into the house, and fulfilled all his engagements. By little and
little he restored it to its former state; the clinking of gold was no
more heard at night in the chamber of the defunct priest, but began to be
heard by day in the pocket of the living mason. In a word, he increased
rapidly in wealth, to the admiration of all his neighbours, and became one
of the richest men in Granada: he gave large sums to the Church, by way,
no doubt, of satisfying his conscience, and never revealed the secret of
the vault until on his death-bed to his son and heir."
[Illustration]
THE COURT OF LIONS
The peculiar charm of this old dreamy palace is its power of calling
up vague reveries and picturings of the past, and thus clothing naked
realities with the illusions of the memory and the imagination. As I
delight to walk in these "vain shadows," I am prone to seek those parts
of the Alhambra which are most favourable to this phantasmagoria of the
mind; and none are more so than the Court of Lions, and its surrounding
halls. Here the hand of time has fallen the lightest, and the traces of
Moorish elegance and splendour exist in almost their original brilliancy.
Earthquakes have shaken the foundations of this pile, and rent its rudest
towers; yet see! not one of those slender columns has been displaced,
not an arch of that light and fragile colonnade given way, and all the
fairy fretwork of these domes, apparently as unsubstantial as the crystal
fabrics of a morning's frost, exist after the lapse of centuries, almost
as fresh as if from the hand of the Moslem artist. I write in the midst
of these mementoes of the past, in the fresh hour of early morning, in the
fated Hall of the Abencerrages. The blood-stained fountain, the legendary
monument of their massacre, is before me; the lofty jet almost casts its
dew upon my paper. How difficult to reconcile the ancient tale of violence
and blood with the gentle and peaceful scene around! Everything here
appears calculated to inspire kind and happy feelings, for everything is
delicate and beautiful. The very light falls tenderly from above, through
the lantern of a dome tinted and wrought as if by fairy hands. Through
the ample and fretted arch of the portal I behold the Court of Lions,
with brilliant sunshine gleaming along its colonnades and sparkling in
its fountains. The lively swallow dives into the court, and, rising with
a surge, darts away twittering over the roofs; the busy bee toils humming
among the flower-beds; and painted butterflies hover from plant to plant,
and flutter up and sport with each other in the sunny air. It needs but a
slight exertion of the fancy to picture some pensive beauty of the harem,
loitering in these secluded haunts of Oriental luxury.
He, however, who would behold this scene under an aspect more in unison
with its fortunes, let him come when the shadows of evening temper the
brightness of the court, and throw a gloom into the surrounding halls.
Then nothing can be more serenely melancholy, or more in harmony with the
tale of departed grandeur.
[Illustration: _Court of Lions._]
At such times I am apt to seek the Hall of Justice, whose deep shadowy
arcades extend across the upper end of the court. Here was performed,
in presence of Ferdinand and Isabella and their triumphant court, the
pompous ceremonial of high mass, on taking possession of the Alhambra.
The very cross is still to be seen upon the wall, where the altar was
erected, and where officiated the Grand Cardinal of Spain, and others of
the highest religious dignitaries of the land. I picture to myself the
scene when this place was filled with the conquering host, that mixture
of mitred prelate and shaven monk, and steel-clad knight and silken
courtier; when crosses and crosiers and religious standards were mingled
with proud armorial-ensigns and the banners of the haughty chiefs of
Spain, and flaunted in triumph through these Moslem halls. I picture to
myself Columbus, the future discoverer of a world, taking his modest stand
in a remote corner, the humble and neglected spectator of the pageant. I
see in imagination the Catholic sovereigns prostrating themselves before
the altar, and pouring forth thanks for their victory; while the vaults
resound with sacred minstrelsy, and the deep-toned _Te Deum_.
[Illustration: _Hall of Justice._]
The transient illusion is over,--the pageant melts from the
fancy,--monarch, priest, and warrior return into oblivion with the poor
Moslems over whom they exulted. The hall of their triumph is waste and
desolate. The bat flits about its twilight vault, and the owl hoots from
the neighbouring tower of Comares.
[Illustration: _Hall of Justice._]
Entering the Court of the Lions a few evenings since, I was almost
startled at beholding a turbaned Moor quietly seated near the fountain.
For a moment one of the fictions of the place seemed realised: an
enchanted Moor had broken the spell of centuries, and become visible.
He proved, however, to be a mere ordinary mortal: a native of Tetuan in
Barbary, who had a shop in the Zacatin of Granada, where he sold rhubarb,
trinkets, and perfumes. As he spoke Spanish fluently, I was enabled to
hold conversation with him, and found him shrewd and intelligent. He told
me that he came up the hill occasionally in the summer, to pass a part of
the day in the Alhambra, which reminded him of the old palaces in Barbary,
being built and adorned in similar style, though with more magnificence.
As we walked about the palace, he pointed out several of the Arabic
inscriptions, as possessing much poetic beauty.
[Illustration]
"Ah, _señors_," said he, "when the Moors held Granada, they were a gayer
people than they are nowadays. They thought only of love, music, and
poetry. They made stanzas upon every occasion, and set them all to music.
He who could make the best verses, and she who had the most tuneful voice,
might be sure of favour and preferment. In those days, if any one asked
for bread, the reply was, make me a couplet; and the poorest beggar, if
he begged in rhyme, would often be rewarded with a piece of gold."
"And is the popular feeling for poetry," said I, "entirely lost among you?"
"By no means, _señors_; the people of Barbary, even those of the lower
classes, still make couplets, and good ones too, as in old times; but
talent is not rewarded as it was then; the rich prefer the jingle of their
gold to the sound of poetry or music."
As he was talking, his eye caught one of the inscriptions which foretold
perpetuity to the power and glory of the Moslem monarchs, the masters
of this pile. He shook his head, and shrugged his shoulders, as he
interpreted it. "Such might have been the case," said he; "the Moslems
might still have been reigning in the Alhambra, had not Boabdil been a
traitor, and given up his capital to the Christians. The Spanish monarchs
would never have been able to conquer it by open force."
[Illustration: _A Window in the Hall of Justice._]
I endeavoured to vindicate the memory of the unlucky Boabdil from this
aspersion, and to show that the dissensions which led to the downfall of
the Moorish throne originated in the cruelty of his tiger-hearted father;
but the Moor would admit of no palliation.
"Muley Abul Hassan," said he, "might have been cruel; but he was brave,
vigilant, and patriotic. Had he been properly seconded, Granada would
still have been ours; but his son Boabdil thwarted his plans, crippled
his power, sowed treason in his palace, and dissension in his camp. May
the curse of God light upon him for his treachery!" With these words the
Moor left the Alhambra.
The indignation of my turbaned companion agrees with an anecdote related
by a friend, who, in the course of a tour in Barbary, had an interview
with the Pacha of Tetuan. The Moorish governor was particular in his
inquiries about Spain, and especially concerning the favoured region of
Andalusia, the delights of Granada, and the remains of its royal palace.
The replies awakened all those fond recollections, so deeply cherished by
the Moors, of the power and splendour of their ancient empire in Spain.
Turning to his Moslem attendants, the Pacha stroked his beard, and broke
forth in passionate lamentations, that such a sceptre should have fallen
from the sway of true believers. He consoled himself, however, with the
persuasion, that the power and prosperity of the Spanish nation were on
the decline; that a time would come when the Moors would conquer their
rightful domains; and that the day was perhaps not far distant when
Mohammedan worship would again be offered up in the mosque of Cordova,
and a Mohammedan prince sit on his throne in the Alhambra.
Such is the general aspiration and belief among the Moors of Barbary; who
consider Spain, or Andaluz, as it was anciently called, their rightful
heritage, of which they have been despoiled by treachery and violence.
These ideas are fostered and perpetuated by the descendants of the exiled
Moors of Granada, scattered among the cities of Barbary. Several of these
reside in Tetuan, preserving their ancient names, such as Paez and Medina,
and refraining from intermarriage with any families who cannot claim
the same high origin. Their vaunted lineage is regarded with a degree of
popular deference rarely shown in Mohammedan communities to any hereditary
distinction, excepting in the royal line.
These families, it is said, continue to sigh after the terrestrial
paradise of their ancestors, and to put up prayers in their mosques
on Fridays, imploring Allah to hasten the time when Granada shall be
restored to the faithful: an event to which they look forward as fondly
and confidently as did the Christian Crusaders to the recovery of the Holy
Sepulchre. Nay, it is added, that some of them retain the ancient maps
and deeds of the estates and gardens of their ancestors at Granada, and
even the keys of the houses; holding them as evidences of their hereditary
claims, to be produced at the anticipated day of restoration.
[Illustration: _Mosque Cordova._]