 | The works of Washington Irving |  |
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
has given way, and all the fairy
fretwork of these domes, apparently as
unsubstantial as the crystal fabrics of a
morning's frost, yet 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 mementos 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! Every thing here appears calculated
to inspire kind and happy feelings,
for every thing 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 then surging upwards,
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.
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
themselves before the altar, and pouring
forth thanks for their victory; while the
vaults resounded with sacred minstrelsy;
and the deep-toned Te Deum.
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.
On entering the Court of the Lions, a
few evenings since, I was startled at beholding
a turbaned Moor quietly seated
near the fountain. It seemed, for a
moment, as if one of the superstitions of
the place were realized, and some ancient
inhabitant of the Alhambra 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, which were built and adorned
in similar style, though with less magnificence.
As we walked about the palace, he
pointed out several of the Arabic inscriptions,
as possessing much poetic beauty.
"Ah, señor," said he, "when the
Moors held Granada, they were a gayer
people than they are now-a-days. They
thought only of love, of 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, señor, the people of
Barbary, even those of the lower classes,
still make couplets, and good ones too, as
in the olden time; 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 that 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."
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 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 the
soil, and especially concerning the favoured
regions 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
when the Moors would conquer their
rightful domains; and that the day was
perhaps not far distant, when Mahommedan
worship would again be offered up
in the Mosque of Cordova and a Mahommedan
prince sit on his throne in the
Alhambra.
Such is the general aspiration and
belief among the Moors of Barbary; who
consider Spain, and especially Andalusia,
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 Mahommedan
communities to any hereditary distinction,
except in the royal line.
These families, it is said, continue to
sigh after the terrestial 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.
The Court of the Lions has also its share
of supernatural legends. I have already
mentioned the belief in the murmuring of
voices and clanking of chains, made at
night by the spirits of the murdered
Abencerrages. Mateo Ximenes, a few
evenings since, at one of the gatherings
in Dame Antonia's apartment, related a
fact which happened within the knowledge
of his grandfather, the legendary
tailor.
There was an invalid soldier, who had
charge of the Alhambra to show it to
strangers. As he was one evening, about
twilight, passing through the Court of
Lions, he heard footsteps in the Hall of
the Abencerrages. Supposing some visiters
to be lingering there, he advanced
to attend upon them, when to his astonishment
he beheld four Moors richly
dressed, with gilded cuirasses and cimeters,
and poniards glittering with precious
stones. They were walking to and fro,
with solemn pace; but paused and beckoned
to him. The old soldier, however,
took to flight, and could never afterwards
be prevailed upon to enter the Alhambra.
Thus it is that men sometimes turn their
backs upon fortune; for it is the firm
opinion of Mateo, that the Moors intended
to reveal the place where their treasures
lay buried. A successor to the invalid
soldier was more knowing, he came to
the Alhambra poor; but at the end of a
year went off to Malaga, bought houses,
set up a carriage, and still lives there
one of the richest as well as oldest men
of the place; all which, Mateo sagely surmises,
was in consequence of his finding
out the golden secret of these phantom
Moors.
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