himself, he ordered a thousand workmen to dig, with pickaxe and spade,
into the ground where the astrologer had disappeared. They digged
and digged, but in vain; the flinty bosom of the hill resisted their
implements; or if they did penetrate a little way, the earth filled in
again as fast as they threw it out. Aben Habuz sought the mouth of the
cavern at the foot of the hill, leading to the subterranean palace of
the astrologer; but it was nowhere to be found. Where once had been an
entrance, was now a solid surface of primeval rock. With the disappearance
of Ibrahim Ebn Abu Ayub ceased the benefit of his talismans. The bronze
horseman remained fixed, with his face turned toward the hill, and his
spear pointed to the spot where the astrologer had descended, as if there
still lurked the deadliest foe of Aben Habuz.
From time to time the sound of music, and the tones of a female voice,
could be faintly heard from the bosom of the hill; and a peasant one
day brought word to the king, that in the preceding night he had found a
fissure in the rock, by which he had crept in, until he looked down into
a subterranean hall, in which sat the astrologer, on a magnificent divan,
slumbering and nodding to the silver lyre of the princess, which seemed
to hold a magic sway over his senses.
Aben Habuz sought the fissure in the rock, but it was again closed. He
renewed the attempt to unearth his rival, but all in vain. The spell of
the hand and key was too potent to be counteracted by human power. As to
the summit of the mountain, the site of the promised palace and garden,
it remained a naked waste; either the boasted elysium was hidden from
sight by enchantment, or was a mere fable of the astrologer. The world
charitably supposed the latter, and some used to call the place "The
King's Folly"; while others named it "The Fool's Paradise."
To add to the chagrin of Aben Habuz, the neighbours whom he had defied
and taunted, and cut up at his leisure while master of the talismanic
horseman, finding him no longer protected by magic spell, made inroads
into his territories from all sides, and the remainder of the life of the
most pacific of monarchs was a tissue of turmoils.
At length Aben Habuz died, and was buried. Ages have since rolled away.
The Alhambra has been built on the eventful mountain, and in some measure
realises the fabled delights of the garden of Irem. The spellbound gateway
still exists entire, protected no doubt by the mystic hand and key, and
now forms the Gate of Justice, the grand entrance to the fortress. Under
that gateway, it is said, the old astrologer remains in his subterranean
hall, nodding on his divan lulled by the silver lyre of the princess.
The old invalid sentinels who mount guard at the gate hear the strains
occasionally in the summer nights; and, yielding to their soporific
power, doze quietly at their posts. Nay, so drowsy an influence pervades
the place, that even those who watch by day may generally be seen
nodding on the stone benches of the barbican, or sleeping under the
neighbouring trees; so that in fact it is the drowsiest military post
in all Christendom. All this, say the ancient legends, will endure from
age to age. The princess will remain captive to the astrologer; and the
astrologer, bound up in magic slumber by the princess, until the last day,
unless the mystic hand shall grasp the fated key, and dispel the whole
charm of this enchanted mountain.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VISITORS TO THE ALHAMBRA
For nearly three months had I enjoyed undisturbed my dream of sovereignty
in the Alhambra,--a longer term of quiet than had been the lot of many
of my predecessors. During this lapse of time the progress of the season
had wrought the usual change. On my arrival I had found everything in
the freshness of May; the foliage of the trees was still tender and
transparent; the pomegranate had not yet shed its brilliant crimson
blossoms; the orchards of the Xenil and the Darro were in full bloom;
the rocks were hung with wild-flowers, and Granada seemed completely
surrounded by a wilderness of roses; among which innumerable nightingales
sang, not merely in the night, but all day long.
Now the advance of summer had withered the rose and silenced the
nightingale, and the distant country began to look parched and sunburnt;
though a perennial verdure reigned immediately round the city and in the
deep narrow valleys at the foot of the snow-capped mountains.
[Illustration: _Sanctum Sanctorum._]
The Alhambra possesses retreats graduated to the heat of the weather,
among which the most peculiar is the almost subterranean apartment of
the baths. This still retains its ancient Oriental character, though
stamped with the touching traces of decline. At the entrance, opening
into a small court formerly adorned with flowers, is a hall, moderate in
size, but light and graceful in architecture. It is overlooked by a small
gallery supported by marble pillars and moresco arches. An alabaster
fountain in the centre of the pavement still throws up a jet of water
to cool the place. On each side are deep alcoves with raised platforms,
where the bathers, after their ablutions, reclined on cushions, soothed
to voluptuous repose by the fragrance of the perfumed air and the
notes of soft music from the gallery. Beyond this hall are the interior
chambers, still more retired; the _sanctum sanctorum_ of female privacy;
for here the beauties of the Harem indulged in the luxury of the baths.
A soft mysterious light reigns through the place, admitted through small
apertures (_lumbreras_) in the vaulted ceiling. The traces of ancient
elegance are still to be seen; and the alabaster baths in which the
sultanas once reclined. The prevailing obscurity and silence have made
these vaults a favourite resort of bats, who nestle during the day in the
dark nooks and corners, and on being disturbed, flit mysteriously about
the twilight chambers, heightening, in an indescribable degree, their air
of desertion and decay.
[Illustration: _The Small Court._]
In this cool and elegant, though dilapidated retreat, which had the
freshness and seclusion of a grotto, I passed the sultry hours of the
day as summer advanced, emerging towards sunset; and bathing, or rather
swimming, at night in the great reservoir of the main court. In this
way I was enabled in a measure to counteract the relaxing and enervating
influence of the climate.
My dream of absolute sovereignty, however, came at length to an end. I was
roused one morning by the report of firearms, which reverberated among the
towers as if the castle had been taken by surprise. On sallying forth, I
found an old cavalier with a number of domestics in possession of the Hall
of Ambassadors. He was an ancient count who had come up from his palace
in Granada to pass a short time in the Alhambra for the benefit of purer
air; and who, being a veteran and inveterate sportsman, was endeavouring
to get an appetite for his breakfast by shooting at swallows from the
balconies. It was a harmless amusement; for though, by the alertness of
his attendants in loading his pieces, he was enabled to keep up a brisk
fire, I could not accuse him of the death of a single swallow. Nay, the
birds themselves seemed to enjoy the sport, and to deride his want of
skill, skimming in circles close to the balconies, and twittering as they
darted by.
[Illustration: _The Great Reservoir._]
[Illustration: _Entrance to Hall of Ambassadors._]
The arrival of this old gentleman changed essentially the aspect of
affairs, but caused no jealousy nor collision. We tacitly shared the
empire between us, like the last kings of Granada, excepting that we
maintained a most amicable alliance. He reigned absolute over the Court of
the Lions and its adjacent halls, while I maintained peaceful possession
of the regions of the baths and the little garden of Lindaraxa. We took
our meals together under the arcades of the court, where the fountains
cooled the air, and bubbling rills ran along the channels of the marble
pavement.
[Illustration: _Garden of Lindaraxa._]
In the evenings a domestic circle would gather about the worthy old
cavalier. The countess, his wife by a second marriage, would come up
from the city accompanied by her step-daughter Carmen, an only child, a
charming little being, still in her girlish years. Then there were always
some of his official dependants, his chaplain, his lawyer, his secretary,
his steward, and other officers and agents of his extensive possessions,
who brought him up the news or gossip of the city, and formed his evening
party of _tresillo_ or _ombre_. Thus he held a kind of domestic court,
where each one paid him deference, and sought to contribute to his
amusement, without, however, any appearance of servility, or any sacrifice
of self-respect. In fact, nothing of the kind was exacted by the demeanour
of the count; for whatever may be said of Spanish pride, it rarely chills
or constrains the intercourse of social or domestic life. Among no people
are the relations between kindred more unreserved and cordial, or between
superior and dependant more free from haughtiness on the one side, and
obsequiousness on the other. In these respects there still remains in
Spanish life, especially in the provinces, much of the vaunted simplicity
of the olden time.
[Illustration]
The most interesting member of this family group, in my eyes, was the
daughter of the count, the lovely little Carmen. She was but about
sixteen years of age, and appeared to be considered a mere child, though
the idol of the family, going generally by the childlike but endearing
appellation of _la Niña_. Her form had not yet attained full maturity
and development, but possessed already the exquisite symmetry and pliant
grace so prevalent in this country. Her blue eyes, fair complexion, and
light hair, were unusual in Andalusia, and gave a mildness and gentleness
to her demeanour in contrast to the usual fire of Spanish beauty, but in
unison with the guileless and confiding innocence of her manners. She had
at the same time the innate aptness and versatility of her fascinating
countrywomen. Whatever she undertook to do she did well and apparently
without effort. She sang, played the guitar and other instruments, and
danced the picturesque dances of her country to admiration, but never
seemed to seek admiration. Everything was spontaneous, prompted by her
own gay spirits and happy temper.
The presence of this fascinating little being spread a new charm about
the Alhambra, and seemed to be in unison with the place. While the count
and countess, with the chaplain or secretary, were playing their game
of _tresillo_ under the vestibule of the Court of Lions, she, attended
by Dolores, who acted as her maid of honour, would sit by one of the
fountains, and accompanying herself on the guitar, would sing some of
those popular romances which abound in Spain, or, what was still more to
my taste, some traditional ballad about the Moors.
Never shall I think of the Alhambra without remembering this lovely little
being, sporting in happy and innocent girlhood in its marble halls,
dancing to the sound of the Moorish castanets, or mingling the silver
warbling of her voice with the music of its fountains.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE GENERALIFE
[Illustration]
High above the Alhambra, on the breast of the mountain, amidst embowered
gardens and stately terraces, rise the lofty towers and white walls of the
Generalife; a fairy palace full of storied recollections. Here are still
to be seen the famous cypresses of enormous size which flourished in the
time of the Moors, and which tradition has connected with the fabulous
story of Boabdil and his sultana.
[Illustration: _Hall of Portraits._]
Here are preserved the portraits of many who figured in the romantic
drama of the Conquest. Ferdinand and Isabella, Ponce de Leon, the
gallant Marquis of Cadiz, and Garcilaso de la Vega, who slew in desperate
fight Tarfe the Moor, a champion of Herculean strength. Here too hangs
a portrait which has long passed for that of the unfortunate Boabdil,
but which is said to be that of Aben Hud, the Moorish king from whom
descended the princes of Almeria. From one of these princes, who joined
the standard of Ferdinand and Isabella towards the close of the Conquest,
and was Christianised by the name of Don Pedro de Granada Venegas, was
descended the present proprietor of the palace, the Marquis of Campotejar.
The proprietor, however, dwells in a foreign land, and the palace has no
longer a princely inhabitant.
[Illustration: _Outer Court of the Generalife._]
[Illustration: _Generalife from Alhambra._]
Yet here is everything to delight a southern voluptuary: fruits, flowers,
fragrance, green arbours and myrtle hedges, delicate air and gushing
waters. Here I had an opportunity of witnessing those scenes which
painters are fond of depicting about southern palaces and gardens. It was
the saint's day of the count's daughter, and she had brought up several of
her youthful companions from Granada, to sport away a long summer's day
among the breezy halls and bowers of the Moorish palaces. A visit to the
Generalife was the morning's entertainment. Here some of the gay company
dispersed itself in groups about the green walks, the bright fountains,
the flights of Italian steps, the noble terraces and marble balustrades.
Others, among whom I was one, took their seats in an open gallery or
colonnade commanding a vast prospect; with the Alhambra, the city, and
the Vega, far below, and the distant horizon of mountains--a dreamy
world, all glimmering to the eye in summer sunshine. While thus seated,
the all-pervading tinkling of the guitar and click of the castanets came
stealing up from the valley of the Darro, and half-way down the mountain
we descried a festive party under the trees, enjoying themselves in true
Andalusian style; some lying on the grass, others dancing to the music.
[Illustration: _Alhambra from Generalife._]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _The Red Palace._]
[Illustration]
All these sights and sounds together with the princely seclusion of the
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.
[Illustration: _Court of the Aqueduct._]
[Illustration: _The Cypress Walk, Generalife, destroyed in 1896._]
[Illustration]
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 super-excellence which they
perceived in him in his very infancy. The astrologers countenanced them
in their foresight, predicting everything in his favour 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 greater 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.
[Illustration: _Fountain of the Generalife._]
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 sides 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 endeavoured to work these idle humours 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 favourite 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.
[Illustration: _The highest Tower._]
The tower of the Generalise 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 for ever 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 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.
[Illustration]
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."