University of Virginia Library

THE HOUSEHOLD.

It is time that I give some idea of my domestic
arrangements in this singular residence. The royal
palace of the Alhambra is intrusted to the care
of a good old maiden dame called Doña Antonia
Molina, but who, according to Spanish custom,
goes by the more neighbourly appellation of Tia
Antonia (Aunt Antonia.) She maintains the Moorish
halls and gardens in order, and shows them to
strangers; in consideration of which, she is allowed
all the perquisites received from visiters and all the
produce of the gardens, excepting that she is expected
to pay an occasional tribute of fruits and
flowers to the governor. Her residence is in a corner
of the palace, and her family consists of a nephew
and niece, the children of two different brothers.
The nephew, Manuel Molina, is a young

man of sterling worth and Spanish gravity. He
has served in the armies both in Spain and the
West Indies, but is now studying medicine in hopes
of one day or other becoming physician to the fortress,
a post worth at least a hundred and forty
dollars a year. As to the niece, she is a plump little
black-eyed Andalusian damsel named Dolores,
but who from her bright looks and cheerful disposition
merits a merrier name. She is the declared
heiress of all her aunt's possessions, consisting of
certain ruinous tenements in the fortress, yielding
a revenue of about one hundred and fifty dollars.
I had not been long in the Alhambra before I discovered
that a quiet courtship was going on between
the discreet Manuel and his bright-eyed
cousin, and that nothing was wanting to enable
them to join their hands and expectations, but
that he should receive his doctor's diploma, and
purchase a dispensation from the pope, on account
of their consanguinity.

With the good dame Antonia I have made a
treaty, according to which, she furnishes me with
board and lodging, while the merry-hearted little
Dolores keeps my apartment in order and officiates
as handmaid at meal times. I have also at my
command a tall stuttering yellow-haired lad named

Pepe, who works in the garden, and would fain
have acted as valet, but in this he was forestalled
by Mateo Ximenes, “The son of the Alhambra.”
This alert and officious wight has managed, somehow
or other, to stick by me, ever since I first encountered
him at the outer gate of the fortress,
and to weave himself into all my plans, until he
has fairly appointed and installed himself my valet,
cicerone, guide, guard and historio-graphic squire;
and I have been obliged to improve the state of
his wardrobe, that he may not disgrace his various
functions, so that he has cast off his old brown mantle,
as a snake does his skin, and now figures about
the fortress with a smart Andalusian hat and jacket,
to his infinite satisfaction and the great astonishment
of his comrades. The chief fault of honest
Mateo is an over anxiety to be useful. Conscious
of having foisted himself into my employ,
and that my simple and quiet habits render his situation
a sinecure, he is at his wit's end to devise
modes of making himself important to my welfare.
I am in a manner the victim of his officiousness; I
cannot put my foot over the threshold of the palace
to stroll about the fortress, but he is at my elbow
to explain every thing I see, and if I venture
to ramble among the surrounding hills, he insists
upon attending me as a guard, though I vehehemently
suspect he would be more apt to trust
to the length of his legs than the strength of his
arms in case of attack. After all, however, the
poor fellow is at times an amusing companion; he
is simple-minded and of infinite good humour, with
the loquacity and gossip of a village barber, and
knows all the small talk of the place and its environs;
but what he chiefly values himself on is his
stock of local information, having the most marvellous
stories to relate of every tower, and vault
and gateway of the fortress, in all of which he
places the most implicit faith.

Most of these he has derived, according to his own
account, from his grandfather, a little legendary tailor,
who lived to the age of nearly a hundred years,
during which he made but two migrations beyond
the precincts of the fortress. His shop, for the
greater part of a century, was the resort of a knot
of venerable gossips, where they would pass half
the night talking about old times and the wonderful
events and hidden secrets of the place.
The whole living, moving, thinking and acting of
this little historical tailor, had thus been bounded
by the walls of the Alhambra; within them he had
been born, within them he lived, breathed and

had his being, within them he died and was buried.
Fortunately for posterity his traditionary
lore died not with him. The authentic Mateo.
when an urchin, used to be an attentive listener
to the narratives of his grandfather and of the
gossip group assembled round the shop board, and
is thus possessed of a stock of valuable knowledge
concerning the Alhambra, not to be found in the
books, and well worthy the attention of every curious
traveller.

Such are the personages that contribute to my
domestic comforts in the Alhambra, and I question
whether any of the potentates, Moslem or Christian,
who have preceded me in the palace, have
been waited upon with greater fidelity or enjoyed
a serener sway.

When I rise in the morning, Pepe, the stuttering
lad, from the gardens, brings me a tribute of fresh
culled flowers, which are afterwards arranged in
vases by the skilful hand of Dolores, who takes no
small pride in the decorations of my chamber. My
meals are made wherever caprice dictates, sometimes
in one of the Moorish halls, sometimes under
the arcades of the Court of Lions, surrounded by
flowers and fountains; and when I walk out I am
conducted by the assiduous Mateo to the most romantic

retreats of the mountains and delicious
haunts of the adjacent valleys, not one of which,
but is the scene of some wonderful tale.

Though fond of passing the greater part of my
day alone, yet I occasionally repair in the evenings
to the little domestic circle of Doña Antonia. This
is generally held in an old Moorish chamber, that
serves for kitchen as well as hall, a rude fire-place
having been made in one corner, the smoke from
which, has discoloured the walls and almost obliterated
the ancient arabesques. A window with a
balcony overhanging the valley of the Darro, lets
in the cool evening breeze, and here I take my
frugal supper of fruit and milk, and mingle with
the conversation of the family. There is a natural
talent, or mother wit, as it is called, about the
Spaniards, which renders them intellectual and
agreeable companions, whatever may be their condition
in life, or however imperfect may have
been their education; add to this, they are never
vulgar; nature has endowed them with an inherent
dignity of spirit. The good Tia Antonia is a
woman of strong and intelligent, though uncultivated
mind, and the bright-eyed Dolores, though
she has read but three or four books in the whole
course of her life, has an engaging mixture of naivete

and good sense, and often surprises me by
the pungency of her artless sallies. Sometimes
the nephew entertains us by reading some old comedy
of Calderon or Lope de Vega, to which he is
evidently prompted by a desire to improve as well
as amuse his cousin Dolores, though to his great
mortification the little damsel generally falls asleep
before the first act is completed. Sometimes Tia
Antonia has a little bevy of humble friends and dependants,
the inhabitants of the adjacent hamlet,
or the wives of the invalid soldiers. These look up
to her with great deference as the custodian of the
palace, and pay their court to her by bringing the
news of the place, or the rumours that may have
straggled up from Granada. In listening to the
evening gossipings, I have picked up many curious
facts, illustrative of the manners of the people and
the peculiarities of the neighbourhood.

These are simple details of simple pleasures;
it is the nature of the place alone that gives them
interest and importance. I tread haunted ground
and am surrounded by romantic associations. From
earliest boyhood, when, on the banks of the Hudson,
I first pored over the pages of an old Spanish
story about the wars of Granada, that city has
ever been a subject of my waking dreams, and often

have I trod in fancy the romantic halls of the
Alhambra. Behold for once a day dream realized;
yet I can scarcely credit my senses, or believe that
I do indeed inhabit the palace of Boabdil, and look
down from its balconies upon chivalric Granada.
As I loiter through the oriental chambers, and
hear the murmuring of fountains and the song of the
nightingale: as I inhale the odour of the rose and
feel the influence of the balmy climate, I am almost
tempted to fancy myself in the Paradise of
Mahomet, and that the plump little Dolores is one
of the bright eyed Houris, destined to administer
to the happiness of true believers.