 | INTERIOR OF THE ALHAMBRA. The Alhambra |  |
INTERIOR OF THE ALHAMBRA.
The Alhambra has been so often and so minutely
described by travellers, that a mere sketch will
probably be sufficient for the reader to refresh his
recollection; I will give, therefore, a brief account
of our visit to it the morning after our arrival in
Granada.
Leaving our posada of La Espada, we traversed
the renowned square of the Vivarrambla, once the
scene of Moorish jousts and tournaments, now a
crowded market place. From thence we proceeded
along the Zacatin, the main street of what was
the great Bazaar, in the time of the Moors, where
the small shops and narrow alleys still retain their
Oriental character. Crossing an open place in
front of the palace of the captain-general, we ascended
a confined and winding street, the name of
It is called the Calle, or street of the Gomeres:
from a Moorish family, famous in chronicle
and song. This street led up to a mansion gateway
of Grecian architecture, built by Charles V.,
forming the entrance to the domains of the Alhambra.
At the gate were two or three ragged and superannuated
soldiers dozing on a stone bench, the
successors of the Zegris and the Abencerrages;
while a tall, meagre varlet, whose rusty brown
cloak was, evidently, intended to conceal the ragged
state of his nether garments, was lounging in
the sunshine, and gossipping with an ancient sentinel,
on duty. He joined us as we entered the
gate, and offered his services to show us the fortress.
I have a traveller's dislike to officious ciceroni,
and did not altogether like the garb of the applicant:
“You are well acquainted with the place, I
presume?”
“Ninguno mas—pues, señor, soy hijo de la Alhambra.”
(Nobody better—in fact, sir, I am a son of the
Alhambra.)
The common Spaniards have certainly a most
poetical way of expressing themselves—“A son of
the Alhambra:” the appellation caught me at once;
the very tattered garb of my new acquaintance
assumed a dignity in my eyes. It was emblematic
of the features of the place, and became the progeny
of a ruin.
I put some farther questions to him, and found
his title was legitimate. His family had lived in
the fortress from generation to generation ever
since the time of the conquest. His name was
Mateo Ximenes. “Then, perhaps,” said I, “you
may be a descendant from the great Cardinal
Ximenes.”
“Dios sabe! God knows, señor. It may be so.
We are the oldest family in the Alhambra. Viejos
Cristianos, old Christians, without any taint of
Moor or Jew. I know we belong to some great family
or other, but I forget who. My father knows
all about it. He has the coat of arms hanging up
in his cottage, up in the fortress.”—There is never
a Spaniard, however poor, but has some claim to
high pedigree. The first title of this ragged worthy,
however, had completely captivated me, so I
gladly accepted the services of the “son of the
Alhambra.”
We now found ourselves in a deep narrow ravine,
filled with beautiful groves, with a steep
avenue and various foot-paths winding through
it, bordered with stone seats and ornamented with
fountains. To our left, we beheld the towers of the
Alhambra beetling above us; to our right, on the
opposite side of the ravine, we were equally dominated
by rival towers on a rocky eminence. These,
we were told, were the Torres Vermejos, or Vermilion
towers, so called from their ruddy hue. No
one knows their origin. They are of a date much
anterior to the Alhambra. Some suppose them to
have been built by the Romans; others, by some
wandering colony of Phœnicians. Ascending the
steep and shady avenue, we arrived at the foot of a
huge square Moorish tower, forming a kind of barbican,
through which passed the main entrance to the
fortress. Within the barbican was another groupe
of veteran invalids, one mounting guard at the portal,
while the rest, wrapped in their tattered
cloaks, slept on the stone benches. This portal is
called the Gate of Justice, from the tribunal held
within its porch during the Moslem domination,
for the immediate trial of petty causes; a custom
common to the Oriental nations, and occasionally
alluded to in the sacred Scriptures.
The great vestibule, or porch of the gate, is
formed by an immense Arabian arch of the horse-shoe
form, which springs to half the height of the
tower. On the key-stone of this arch is engraven a
gigantic hand. Within the vestibule, on the key-stone
of the portal, is engraven, in like manner, a
gigantic key. Those who pretend to some knowledge
of Mahometan symbols, affirm, that the hand
is the emblem of doctrine, and the key, of faith;
the latter, they add, was emblazoned on the standard
of the Moslems when they subdued Andalusia,
in opposition to the Christian emblem of the cross.
A different explanation, however, was given by the
legitimate “son of the Alhambra,” and one more
in unison with the notions of the common people,
who attach something of mystery and magic to
every thing Moorish, and have all kinds of superstitions
connected with this old Moslem fortress.
According to Mateo, it was a tradition handed
down from the oldest inhabitants, and which he had
from his father and grandfather, that the hand and
key were magical devices on which the fate of the
Alhambra depended. The Moorish king who built
it was a great magician, and, as some believed, had
sold himself to the devil, and had laid the whole
fortress under a magic spell. By this means it had
of storms and earthquakes, while almost all
the other buildings of the Moors had fallen to ruin
and disappeared. This spell, the tradition went on
to say, would last until the hand on the outer arch
should reach down and grasp the key, when the
whole pile would tumble to pieces, and all the treasures
buried beneath it by the Moors, would be
revealed.
Notwithstanding this ominous prediction, we ventured
to pass through the spell-bound gateway,
feeling some little assurance against magic art in
the protection of the Virgin, a statue of whom we
observed above the portal.
After passing through the Barbican, we ascended
a narrow lane, winding between walls, and
came on an open esplanade within the fortress,
called the Plaza de los Algibes, or Place of the
Cisterns, from great reservoirs which undermine
it, cut in the living rock by the Moors, for the supply
of the fortress. Here, also, is a well of immense
depth, furnishing the purest and coldest of
water,—another monument of the delicate taste
of the Moors, who were indefatigable in their exertions
to obtain that element in its crystal purity.
In front of this esplanade is the splendid pile,
commenced by Charles V., intended, it is said, to
eclipse the residence of the Moslem kings. With
all its grandeur and architectural merit, it appeared
to us like an arrogant intrusion, and passing
by it we entered a simple unostentatious portal,
opening into the interior of the Moorish palace.
The transition was almost magical; it seemed as
if we were at once transported into other times
and another realm, and were treading the scenes
of Arabian story. We found ourselves in a great
court paved with white marble and decorated at
each end with light Moorish peristyles. It is
called the court of the Alberca. In the centre
was an immense basin, or fish-pool, a hundred and
thirty feet in length, by thirty in breadth, stocked
with gold-fish, and bordered by hedges of roses.
At the upper end of this court, rose the great tower
of Comares.
From the lower end, we passed through a Moorish
arch-way into the renowned Court of Lions.
There is no part of the edifice that gives us a more
complete idea of its original beauty and magnificence
than this; for none has suffered so little from
the ravages of time. In the centre stands the fountain
still shed their diamond drops, and the twelve
lions which support them, cast forth their crystal
streams as in the days of Boabdil. The court is
laid out in flower beds, and surrounded by light
Arabian arcades of open filigree work, supported by
slender pillars of white marble. The architecture,
like that of all the other parts of the palace, is
characterized by elegance, rather than grandeur,
bespeaking a delicate and graceful taste, and a disposition
to indolent enjoyment. When we look
upon the fairy tracery of the peristyles, and the
apparently fragile fret-work of the walls, it is difficult
to believe that so much has survived the
wear and tear of centuries, the shocks of earthquakes,
the violence of war, and the quiet, though
no less baneful, pilferings of the tasteful traveller.
It is almost sufficient to excuse the popular tradition,
that the whole is protected by a magic
charm.
On one side of the court, a portal richly adorned
opens into a lofty hall paved with white marble,
and called the Hall of the two Sisters. A cupola or
lantern admits a tempered light from above, and a
free circulation of air. The lower part of the
walls is incrusted with beautiful Moorish tiles, on
the Moorish monarchs: the upper part is faced
with the fine stucco work invented at Damascus,
consisting of large plates cast in moulds and
artfully joined, so as to have the appearance of
having been laboriously sculptured by the hand into
light relievos and fanciful arabesques, intermingled
with texts of the Koran, and poetical inscriptions
in Arabian and Celtic characters. These decorations
of the walls and cupolas are richly gilded,
and the interstices panneled with lapis lazuli and
other brilliant and enduring colours. On each
side of the wall are recesses for ottomans and
arches. Above an inner porch, is a balcony which
communicated with the women's apartment. The
latticed balconies still remain, from whence the
dark-eyed beauties of the harem might gaze unseen
upon the entertainments of the hall below.
It is impossible to contemplate this once favourite
abode of Oriental manners, without feeling the
early associations of Arabian romance, and almost
expecting to see the white arm of some mysterious
princess beckoning from the balcony, or some dark
eye sparkling through the lattice. The abode of
beauty is here, as if it had been inhabited but yesterday—but
where are the Zoraydas and Linderaxas!
On the opposite side of the court of Lions, is the
hall of the Abencerrages, so called from the gallant
cavaliers of that illustrious line, who were here
perfidiously massacred. There are some who
doubt the whole truth of this story, but our humble
attendant, Mateo, pointed out the very wicket
of the portal through which they are said to have
been introduced, one by one, and the white marble
fountain in the centre of the hall, where they
were beheaded. He showed us also certain broad
ruddy stains in the pavement, traces of their blood,
which, according to popular belief, can never be
effaced. Finding we listened to him with easy
faith, he added, that there was often heard at night,
in the Court of the Lions, a low confused sound, resembling
the murmurings of a multitude; with now
and then a faint tinkling, like the distant clank of
chains. These noises are probably produced by
the bubbling currents and tinkling falls of water,
conducted under the pavement through pipes and
channels to supply the fountains; but according to
the legend of the son of the Alhambra, they are
made by the spirits of the murdered Abencerrages,
who nightly haunt the scene of their suffering, and
invoke the vengeance of Heaven on their destroyer.
From the Court of Lions, we retraced our steps
through the court of the Alberca, or great fish-pool,
Comares, so called from the name of the Arabian
architect. It is of massive strength, and lofty
height, domineering over the rest of the edifice,
and overhanging the steep hill side, which descends
abruptly to the banks of the Darro. A Moorish
archway admitted us into a vast and lofty hall,
which occupies the interior of the tower, and was
the grand audience chamber of the Moslem monarchs,
thence called the hall of Ambassadors. It
still bears the traces of past magnificence. The wall
are richly stuccoed and decorated with arabesques,
the vaulted ceilings of cedar wood, almost lost in
obscurity from its height, still gleam with rich
gilding and the brilliant tints of the Arabian pencil.
On three sides of the saloon, are deep windows
cut through the immense thickness of the
walls, the balconies of which, looking down upon
the verdant valley of the Darro, the streets and
convents of the Albaycin, and command a prospect
of the distant Vega. I might go on to describe the
other delightful apartments of this side of the palace;
the Tocador or toilet of the Queen, an open
belvedere on the summit of the tower, where the
Moorish sultanas enjoyed the pure breezes from
the mountain and the prospect of the surrounding
Lindaraxa, with its alabaster fountain, its thickets
of roses and myrtles, of citrons and oranges. The
cool halls and grottoes of the baths, where the
glare and heat of day are tempered into a self-mysterious
light and a pervading freshness. But I
appear to dwell minutely on these scenes. My
object is merely to give the reader a general introduction
into an abode, where, if disposed, he
may linger and loiter with me through the remainder
of this work, gradually becoming familiar
with all its beauties.
An abundant supply of water, brought from the
mountains by old Moorish aqueducts, circulates
throughout the palace, supplying its baths and fish-pools,
sparkling in jets within its halls, or murmuring
in channels along the marble pavements.
When it has paid its tribute to the royal pile, and
visited its gardens and pastures, it flows down the
long avenue leading to the city, tinkling in rills,
gushing in fountains, and maintaining a perpetual
verdure in those groves that embower and beautify
the whole hill of the Alhambra.
Those, only, who have sojourned in the ardent
climates of the South, can appreciate the delights
of an abode combining the breezy coolness of the
valley.
While the city below pants with the noon-tide
heat, and the parched Vega trembles to the eye,
the delicate airs from the Sierra Nevada play
through the lofty halls, bringing with them the
sweetness of the surrounding gardens. Every thing
invites to that indolent repose, the bliss of Southern
climes; and while the half shut eye looks out from
shaded balconies upon the glittering landscape, the
ear is lulled by the rustling of groves, and the murmur
of running streams.
| INTERIOR OF THE ALHAMBRA. The Alhambra | |