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 meantime 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 lovelorn
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 dewdrops 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
neighbouring trees, and hushing their own strains, listened in charmed
silence.
Rumour 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
honour 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 splendours
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 rumour reached the court of the
female minstrel who was turning the brains of all Andalusia. The queen
despatched 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 honour 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 thy renown," said she, "and
thou canst cast forth this evil spirit that possesses thy sovereign, thy
fortunes shall henceforth be my care, and honours 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 sphere. 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 splendour, 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-honoured 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 favourite 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!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
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.
He was in America at twelve years of age, and reckoned among the
most signal and fortunate events of his life, his having seen General
Washington. Since then he had taken a part in all the wars of his country;
he could speak experimentally of most of the prisons and dungeons of the
Peninsula; had been lamed of one leg, crippled in his hands, and so cut up
and carbonadoed that he was a kind of walking monument of the troubles of
Spain, on which there was a scar for every battle and broil, as every year
of captivity was notched upon the tree of Robinson Crusoe. The greatest
misfortune of the brave old cavalier, however, appeared to have been
his having commanded at Malaga during a time of peril and confusion, and
been made a general by the inhabitants, to protect them from the invasion
of the French. This had entailed upon him a number of just claims upon
government, that I feared would employ him until his dying day in writing
and printing petitions and memorials, to the great disquiet of his mind,
exhaustion of his purse, and penance of his friends; not one of whom
could visit him without having to listen to a mortal document of half an
hour in length, and to carry away half a dozen pamphlets in his pocket.
This, however, is the case throughout Spain; everywhere you meet with
some worthy wight brooding in a corner, and nursing up some pet grievance
and cherished wrong. Besides, a Spaniard who has a lawsuit, or a claim
upon government, may be considered as furnished with employment for the
remainder of his life.
[Illustration]
I visited the veteran in his quarters in the upper part of the _Torre
del Vino_, or Wine Tower. His room was small but snug, and commanded a
beautiful view of the Vega. It was arranged with a soldier's precision.
Three muskets and a brace of pistols, all bright and shining, were
suspended against the wall, with a sabre and a cane hanging side by side,
and above them two cocked hats, one for parade, and one for ordinary use.
A small shelf, containing some half dozen books, formed his library, one
of which, a little old mouldy volume of philosophical maxims, was his
favourite reading. This he thumbed and pondered over day by day; applying
every maxim to his own particular case, provided it had a little tinge of
wholesome bitterness, and treated of the injustice of the world.
[Illustration]
Yet he was social and kind-hearted, and, provided he could be diverted
from his wrongs and his philosophy, was an entertaining companion. I
like these old weather-beaten sons of fortune, and enjoy their rough
campaigning anecdotes. In the course of my visits to the one in question,
I learnt some curious facts about an old military commander of the
fortress, who seems to have resembled him in some respects, and to have
had similar fortunes in the wars. These particulars have been augmented
by inquiries among some of the old inhabitants of the place, particularly
the father of Mateo Ximenes, of whose traditional stories the worthy I am
about to introduce to the reader was a favourite hero.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _A Beetling Bastion._]
THE GOVERNOR AND THE NOTARY
In former times there ruled, as governor of the Alhambra, a doughty old
cavalier, who, from having lost one arm in the wars, was commonly known
by the name of _el Gobernador Manco_, or "the one-armed governor." He in
fact prided himself upon being an old soldier, wore his moustaches curled
up to his eyes, a pair of campaigning boots, and a toledo as long as a
spit, with his pocket-handkerchief in the basket-hilt.
He was, moreover, exceedingly proud and punctilious, and tenacious of
all his privileges and dignities. Under his sway the immunities of the
Alhambra, as a royal residence and domain, were rigidly exacted. No one
was permitted to enter the fortress with fire-arms, or even with a sword
or staff, unless he were of a certain rank; and every horseman was obliged
to dismount at the gate, and lead his horse by the bridle. Now as the
hill of the Alhambra rises from the very midst of the city of Granada,
being, as it were, an excrescence of the capital, it must at all times
be somewhat irksome to the captain-general, who commands the province, to
thus have an _imperium in imperio_, a petty independent post in the very
centre of his domains. It was rendered the more galling, in the present
instance, from the irritable jealousy of the old governor, that took fire
on the least question of authority and jurisdiction; and from the loose
vagrant character of the people who had gradually nestled themselves
within the fortress, as in a sanctuary, and thence carried on a system of
roguery and depredation at the expense of the honest inhabitants of the
city.
[Illustration]
Thus there was a perpetual feud and heart-burning between the
captain-general and the governor, the more virulent on the part of
the latter, inasmuch as the smallest of two neighbouring potentates is
always the most captious about his dignity. The stately palace of the
captain-general stood in the Plaza Nueva, immediately at the foot of the
hill of the Alhambra; and here was always a bustle and parade of guards,
and domestics, and city functionaries. A beetling bastion of the fortress
overlooked the palace and public square in front of it; and on this
bastion the old governor would occasionally strut backwards and forwards,
with his toledo girded by his side, keeping a wary eye down upon his
rival, like a hawk reconnoitring his quarry from his nest in a dry tree.
Whenever he descended into the city, it was in grand parade; on horseback,
surrounded by his guards; or in his state coach, an ancient and unwieldy
Spanish edifice of carved timber and gilt leather, drawn by eight mules,
with running footmen, outriders, and lackeys; on which occasions he
flattered himself he impressed every beholder with awe and admiration as
vicegerent of the king; though the wits of Granada, particularly those who
loitered about the palace of the captain-general, were apt to sneer at his
petty parade, and, in allusion to the vagrant character of his subjects,
to greet him with the appellation of "the king of the beggars." One of
the most fruitful sources of dispute between these two doughty rivals
was the right claimed by the governor to have all things passed free of
duty through the city that were intended for the use of himself or his
garrison. By degrees this privilege had given rise to extensive smuggling.
A nest of _contrabandistas_ took up their abode in the hovels of the
fortress and the numerous caves in its vicinity, and drove a thriving
business under the connivance of the soldiers of the garrison.
The vigilance of the captain-general was aroused. He consulted his
legal adviser and factotum, a shrewd meddlesome _escribano_, or notary,
who rejoiced in an opportunity of perplexing the old potentate of the
Alhambra, and involving him in a maze of legal subtleties. He advised
the captain-general to insist upon the right of examining every convoy
passing through the gates of his city, and penned a long letter for
him in vindication of the right. Governor Manco was a straightforward
cut-and-thrust old soldier, who hated an _escribano_ worse than the devil,
and this one in particular worse than all other _escribanos_.
"What!" said he, curling up his moustaches fiercely, "does the
captain-general set his man of the pen to practise confusions upon me?
I'll let him see an old soldier is not to be baffled by schoolcraft."
[Illustration: _The Gate of Xenil._]
He seized his pen and scrawled a short letter in a crabbed hand, in
which, without deigning to enter into argument, he insisted on the right
of transit free of search, and denounced vengeance on any custom-house
officer who should lay his unhallowed hand on any convoy protected by the
flag of the Alhambra. While this question was agitated between the two
pragmatical potentates, it so happened that a mule laden with supplies
for the fortress arrived one day at the gate of Xenil, by which it was to
traverse a suburb of the city on its way to the Alhambra. The convoy was
headed by a testy old corporal, who had long served under the governor,
and was a man after his own heart; as rusty and staunch as an old toledo
blade.
As they approached the gate of the city, the corporal placed the banner
of the Alhambra on the pack-saddle of the mule, and drawing himself up
to a perfect perpendicular, advanced with his head dressed to the front,
but with the wary side-glance of a cur passing through hostile ground and
ready for a snap and a snarl.
"Who goes there?" said the sentinel at the gate.
"Soldier of the Alhambra!" said the corporal, without turning his head.
"What have you in charge?"
"Provisions for the garrison."
"Proceed."
The corporal marched straight forward, followed by the convoy, but had not
advanced many paces before a posse of custom-house officers rushed out of
a small toll-house.