THE BALCONY.
In the Hall of Ambassadors, at the
central window, there is a balcony, of
which I have already made mention: it
projects like a cage from the face of the
tower, high in mid air above the tops of
the trees that grow on the steep hill-side.
It serves me as a kind of observatory,
where I often take my seat to consider,
not merely the heaven above, but the
earth beneath. Besides the magnificent
prospect which it commands of mountain,
valley, and vega, there is a busy little
scene of human life laid open to inspection
immediately below. At the foot of the
hill is an alameda, or public walk, which,
though not so fashionable as the more
modern and splendid paseo of the Xenil,
still boasts a varied and picturesque concourse.
Hither resort the small gentry
of the suburbs, together with priests and
friars, who walk for appetite and digestion,
majos and majas, the beaux and
belles of the lower classes, in their Andalusian
dresses, swaggering contrabandistas,
and sometimes half-muffled and
mysterious loungers of the higher ranks,
on some secret assignation.
It is a moving and motley picture of
Spanish life and character, which I delight
to study; and, as the naturalist has
his microscope to aid him in his investigations,
so I have a small pocket telescope
which brings the countenances of the
motley groups so close, as almost, at
times, to make me think I can divine
their conversation by the play and expression
of their features. I am thus, in
a manner, an invisible observer, and,
without quitting my solitude, can throw
myself in an instant into the midst of
society,—a rare advantage to one of
somewhat shy and quiet habits, and who,
like myself, is fond of observing the
drama of life without becoming an actor
in the scene.
There is a considerable suburb lying
below the Alhambra, filling the narrow
gorge of the valley, and extending up the
opposite hill of the Albaycin. Many of
the houses are built in the Moorish style,
round patios, or courts, cooled by fountains,
and open to the sky; and as the
inhabitants pass much of their time in
these courts, and on the terraced roofs
during the summer season, it follows that
many a glance at their domestic life may
be obtained by an aerial spectator like
myself, who can look down on them
from the clouds.
I enjoy, in some degree, the advantages
of the student in the famous old Spanish
story, who beheld all Madrid unroofed
for his inspection; and my gossiping
squire, Mateo Ximenes, officiates occasionally
as my Asmodeus, to give me
anecdotes of the different mansions and
their inhabitants.
I prefer, however, to perform conjectural
histories for myself, and thus can
sit for hours weaving from casual incidents
and indications that pass under my
eye, the whole tissue of schemes, intrigues,
and occupations of certain of the
busy mortals below. There is scarce a
pretty face, or a striking figure, that I
daily see, about which I have not thus
gradually framed a dramatic story, though
some of my characters will occasionally
act in direct opposition to the part assigned
them, and disconcert my whole
drama. A few days since, as I was reconnoitring
with my glass the streets of
the Albaycin, I beheld the procession of
a novice about to take the veil; and
remarked several circumstances that 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, by 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 evidently the tyrannical
father, who, from some bigoted or sordid
motive, had compelled this sacrifice.
Amidst 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 not 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, clothed
in the conventual garb, her bridal chaplet
taken from her brow, her beautiful head
shorn of its long silken tresses—I heard
her murmur the irrevocable vow. I saw
her extended on her bier; the death-pall
spread over her; the funeral service was
performed; I heard the deep tones of the
organ, and the plaintive requiem chanted
by the nuns; the father looked on with
a hard unfeeling countenance. The
lover—but no, my imagination refused
to paint 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; the
victim, however, remained behind. Almost
the last that came forth were the
father and the lover; 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 has since frequently
been turned to that convent with painful
interest. I remarked late at night a
light burning in a remote window 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."
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, that had 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 was 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, by
being informed that the supposed lover
was the husband of the lady, and a noted
contrabandista; and that 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 that came over 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 urges 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 burthened 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 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, that gleams 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 be, that walk behind.
As the morning advances, the din of
labour augments on every side; the
streets are thronged with man, and steed,
and beast of burthen, 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 retired 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 burthen; 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."
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 the
Xenil.
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 castañets;
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
in 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.
