University of Virginia Library

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
answers me as a kind of observatory, where I often
take my seat to consider, not merely the heavens
above, but the “earth beneath.” Beside 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, especially
on holydays and Sundays. 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 silent
assignation.

It is a moving picture of Spanish life which I
delight to study; and as the naturalist has his microscope
to assist him in his curious investigations,
so I have a small pocket telescope which brings
the countenances of the motley groupes 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.

Then 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 cluds.

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 gossipping squire Mateo Ximenes, officiates
occasionally as my Asmodeus, to give me anecdotes
of the different mansions and their inhabitants.

I prefer, however, to form conjectural histories
for myself; and thus can sit up aloft for hours,
weaving from casual incidents and indications that
pass under my eye, the whole tissue of schemes, intrigues
and occupations, carrying on by certain of
the busy mortals below us. There is scarce a pretty
face or 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 various 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 exultation
painted in 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
from sight. The throng poured in with cowl and
cross and minstrelsy. The lover paused for a moment
at the door, I could understand 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; the 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; the funeral service performed that
proclaimed her dead to the world; her sighs were
drowned in the wailing anthem of the nuns and
the sepulchral tones of the organ—the father
looked, unmoved, without a tear—the lover—no—
my fancy refused to portray the anguish of the lover—there
the picture remained a blank—The
ceremony was over: the crowd again issued forth
to behold the day and mingle in the joyous stir of
life—but the victim with her bridal chaplet was
no longer there—the door of the convent closed
that secured her from the world for ever. I saw
the father and the lover issue forth—they were in
earnest conversation—the young man was violent
in his gestures, when the wall of a house intervened
and shut them from my sight.

That evening I noticed a solitary light twinkling
from a remote lattice of the convent. There,
said I, the unhappy novice sits weeping in her

cell, while 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 interested
me. The heroine of my romance was
neither young nor handsome—she had no love—
she had entered the convent of her own free will,
as a respectable asylum, and was one of the cheerfulest
residents within its walls!

I felt at first half vexed with the nun for being
thus happy in her cell, in contradiction to all the
rules of romance; but diverted my spleen 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, 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 the corner, in various disguises,
apparently waiting for a private signal to
slip into the bower. Then there was a tinkling
of a guitar at night, and a lantern shifted from

place to place in the balcony. I imagined another
romantic 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.

Scarce had the gray dawn streaked the sky
and the earliest cock crowed from the cottages of
the hill-side, when the suburbs gave 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 donkeys, 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,
topping 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 burdened 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 with fairy foot the gentle
Señora, in trim busquina; with restless fan in hand
and dark eye flashing from beneath her gracefully
folded mantilla. She seeks some well frequented
church to offer up her orisons; but the nicely adjusted
dress; the dainty shoe and cobweb stocking;
the raven tresses scrupulously braided, the
fresh plucked rose that gleams among them like
a gem, show that earth divides with heaven the
empire of her thoughts.

As the morning advances, the din of labour augments
on every side; the streets are thronged with
man and steed, and beast of burden; the universal
movement produces 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 fullfed
monk snores in his dormitory. The brawny porter

lies stretched on the pavement beside his burden.
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 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. 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 the night closes, the motley 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 castanets,
blending at this lofty height, in a faint and

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 seated one evening 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—