 | Wolfert's roost |  |
RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ALHAMBRA.
I have already given to the world some anecdotes of a summer's
residence in the old Moorish palace of the Alhambra. It was a
dreamy sojourn, during which I lived, as it were, in the midst of
an Arabian tale, and shut my eyes as much as possible to every
thing that should call me back to every day life. If there is
any country in Europe where one can do so, it is among these
magnificent but semi-barbaric ruins of poor, wild, legendary, romantic
Spain. In the silent and deserted halls of the Alhambra,
surrounded with the insignia of regal sway, and the vivid,
though dilapidated traces of Oriental luxury, I was in the strong-hold
of Moorish story, where every thing spoke of the palmy
days of Granada when under the dominion of the crescent.
Much of the literature of Spain turns upon the wars of the
Moors and Christians, and consists of traditional ballads and
tales or romances, about the “buenas andanzas,” and “grandes
hechos,” the “Jucky adventures,” and “great exploits” of the
warriors of yore. It is worthy of remark, that many of these
lays which sing of prowess and magnanimity in war, and tenderness
and fidelity in love, relate as well to Moorish as to Spanish
rancor of ancient hostility; and the warriors of Granada, once
the objects of bigot detestation, are now often held up by Spanish
poets as mirrors of chivalric virtue.
None have been the theme of higher eulogy than the illustrious
line of the Abencerrages, who in the proud days of Moslem
domination were the soul of every thing noble and chivalric.
The veterans of the family sat in the royal council, and
were foremost in devising heroic enterprises to carry dismay
into the Christian territories; and what the veterans devised the
young men of the name were foremost to execute. In all adventures,
enterprises, and hair-breadth hazards, the Abencerrages
were sure to win the brightest laurels. In the tilt and tourney,
in the riding at the ring, the daring bull fight, and all other recreations
which bore an affinity to war, the Abencerrages carried
off the palm. None equalled them for splendor of array, for
noble bearing, and glorious horsemanship. Their open-handed
munificence made them the idols of the people; their magnanimity
and perfect faith gained the admiration of the high-minded.
Never did they decry the merits of a rival, nor betray
the confidings of a friend; and the word of an Abencerrage was
a guarantee never to be doubted.
And then their devotion to the fair! Never did Moorish
beauty consider the fame of her charms established, until she
had an Abencerrage for a lover; and never did an Abencerrage
prove recreant to his vows. Lovely Granada! City of delights!
Who ever bore the favors of thy dames more proudly on their
casques, or championed them more gallantly in the chivalrous
tilts of the Vivarambla? Or who ever made thy moon-lit balconies,
pomegranates, respond to more tender serenades?
Such were the fancies I used to conjure up as I sat in the
beautiful hall of the Abencerrages, celebrated in the tragic story
of that devoted race, where thirty-six of its bravest cavaliers
were treacherously sacrificed to appease the jealous fears of a
tyrant. The fountain which once ran red with their blood,
throws up a sparkling jet, and spreads a dewy freshness through
the hall; but a deep stain on the marble pavement is still pointed
out as a sanguinary record of the massacre. The truth of the
record has been called in question, but I regarded it with the
same determined faith with which I contemplated the stains of
Rizzio's blood on the floor of the palace of Holyrood. I thank
no one for enlightening my credulity on points of poetical belief.
It is like robbing the statue of Memnon of its mysterious music.
Dispel historical illusions, and there is an end to half the charms
of travelling.
The hall of the Abencerrages is connected moreover with the
recollection of one of the sweetest evenings and sweetest scenes
I ever enjoyed in Spain. It was a beautiful summer evening,
when the moon shone down into the Court of Lions, lighting up
its sparkling fountain. I was seated with a few companions
in the hall in question, listening to those traditional ballads
and romances in which the Spaniards delight. They were sung
to the accompaniment of the guitar, by one of the most gifted
and fascinating beings that I ever met with even among the fascinating
daughters of Spain. She was young and beautiful; and
light and ethereal; full of fire, and spirit, and pure enthusiasm.
She wore the fanciful Andalusian dress; touched the guitar with
as she became excited by her theme, or by the rapt attention of
her auditors, would pour forth, in the richest and most melodious
strains, a succession of couplets, full of striking description, or
stirring narrative, and composed, as I was assured, at the moment.
Most of these were suggested by the place, and related
to the ancient glories of Granada, and the prowess of her chivalry.
The Abencerrages were her favorite heroes; she felt a
woman's admiration of their gallant courtesy, and high-souled
honor; and it was touching and inspiring to hear the praises of
that generous but devoted race, chanted in this fated hall of their
calamity, by the lips of Spanish beauty.
Among the subjects of which she treated, was a tale of Moslem
honor, and old-fashioned Spanish courtesy, which made a
strong impression on me. She disclaimed all merit of invention,
however, and said she had merely dilated into verse a popular
tradition; and, indeed, I have since found the main facts inscrted
at the end of Conde's History of the Domination of the
Arabs, and the story itself embodied in the form of an episode
in the Diana of Montemayor. From these sources I have drawn
it forth, and endeavored to shape it according to my recollection
of the version of the beautiful minstrel; but alas! what can
supply the want of that voice, that look, that form, that action,
which gave magical effect to her chant, and held every one rapt
in breathless admiration! Should this mere travestie of her inspired
numbers ever meet her eye, in her stately abode at Granada,
may it meet with that indulgence which belongs to her benignant
nature. Happy should I be, if it could awaken in her
bosom one kind recollection of the stranger, for whose gratification
powers, in the moon-lit halls of the Alhambra.
THE ABENCERRAGE.
On the summit of a craggy hill, a spur of the mountains of
Ronda, stands the castle of Allora; now a mere ruin, infested
by bats and owlets; but in old times, a strong border-hold which
kept watch upon the warlike kingdom of Granada, and held the
Moors in check. It was a post always confided to some well-tried
commander, and at the time of which we treat, was held by
Roderigo de Narvaez, alcayde, or military governor of Antiquera.
It was a frontier post of his command; but he passed
most of his time there, because its situation on the borders gave
frequent opportunity for those adventurous exploits in which the
Spanish chivalry delighted.
He was a veteran, famed among both Moors and Christians,
not only for deeds of arms, but for that magnanimous courtesy
which should ever be entwined with the stern virtues of the
soldier.
His garrison consisted of fifty chosen men, well appointed and
well-mounted, with which he maintained such vigilant watch that
nothing could escape his eye. While some remained on guard in the
castle, he would sally forth with others, prowling about the highways,
the paths and defiles of the mountains by day and night,
and now and then making a daring foray into the very Vega of
Granada.
On a fair and beautiful night in summer, when the moon was
in the full, and the freshness of the evening breeze had tempered
the heat of day, the alcayde, with nine of his cavaliers, was going
the rounds of the mountains in quest of adventures. They rode
silently and cautiously, for it was a night to tempt others abroad,
and they might be overheard by Moorish scout or traveller; they
kept along ravines and hollow ways, moreover, lest they should
be betrayed by the glittering of the moon upon their armor.
Coming to a fork in the road, the alcayde ordered five of his
cavaliers to take one of the branches, while he, with the remaining
four, would take the other. Should either party be in danger,
the blast of a horn was to be the signal for succor. The party
of five had not proceeded far, when, in passing through a defile,
they heard the voice of a man singing. Concealing themselves
among trees, they awaited his approach. The moon, which left
the grove in shadow, shone full upon his person, as he slowly advanced,
mounted on a dapple gray steed of powerful frame and
generous spirit, and magnificently caparisoned. He was a Moorish
cavalier of noble demeanor and graceful carriage, arrayed in a
marlota, or tunic, and an albornoz of crimson damask fringed
with gold. His Tunisian turban, of many folds, was of striped
silk and cotton, bordered with a golden fringe; at his girdle hung
a Damascus scimitar, with loops and tassels of silk and gold. On
his left arm he bore an ample target, and his right hand grasped
a long double-pointed lance. Apparently dreaming of no danger,
he sat negligently on his steed, gazing on the moon, and singing,
with a sweet and manly voice, a Moorish love ditty.
Just opposite the grove where the cavaliers were concealed,
the horse turned aside to drink at a small fountain in a rock beside
drink at his ease, and continued his song.
The cavaliers whispered with each other. Charmed with the
gallant and gentle appearance of the Moor, they determined not to
harm, but capture him; an easy task, as they supposed, in his
negligent mood. Rushing forth, therefore, they thought to surround,
and take him by surprise. Never were men more mistaken.
To gather up his reins, wheel round his steed, brace his
buckler, and couch his lance, was the work of an instant, and there
he sat, fixed like a castle in his saddle.
The cavaliers checked their steeds, and reconnoitred him
warily, loth to come to an encounter which must prove fatal to
him.
The Moor now held a parley. “If ye be true knights, and
seek for honorable fame, come on singly, and I will meet each in
succession; if ye be mere lurkers of the road, intent on spoil,
come all at once, and do your worst.”
The cavaliers communed together for a moment, when one
parting from the others, advanced. “Although no law of chivalry,”
said he, “obliges us to risk the loss of a prize, when fairly in our
power, yet we willingly grant as a courtesy what we might refuse
as a right. Valiant Moor, defend thyself!”
So saying, he wheeled, took proper distance, couched his lance
and putting spurs to his horse, made at the stranger. The latter
met him in mid career, transpierced him with his lance, and threw
him from his saddle. A second and a third succeeded, but were
unhorsed with equal facility, and thrown to the earth, severely
wounded. The remaining two, seeing their comrades thus roughly
treated, forgot all compact of courtesy, and charged both at
wounded by the other in the thigh, and in the shock and confusion
dropped his lance. Thus disarmed, and closely pressed, he pretended
to fly, and was hotly pursued. Having drawn the two
cavaliers some distance from the spot, he wheeled short about,
with one of those dexterous movements for which the Moorish
horsemen were renowned; passed swiftly between them, swung
himself down from his saddle, so as to catch up his lance, then,
lightly replacing himself, turned to renew the combat.
Seeing him thus fresh for the encounter, as if just issued
from his tent, one of the cavaliers put his lips to his horn, and
blew a blast, that soon brought the Alcayde and his four companions
to the spot.
Narvaez, seeing three of his cavaliers extended on the earth,
and two others hotly engaged with the Moor, was struck with admiration,
and coveted a contest with so accomplished a warrior.
Interfering in the fight, he called upon his followers to desist, and
with courteous words invited the Moor to a more equal combat.
The challenge was readily accepted. For some time the contest was
doubtful, and the Alcayde had need of all his skill and strength
to ward off the blows of his antagonist. The Moor, however, exhausted
by previous fighting, and by loss of blood, no longer sat
his horse firmly, nor managed him with his wonted skill. Collecting
all his strength for a last assault, he rose in his stirrups, and
made a violent thrust with his lance; the Alcayde received it upon
his shield, and at the same time wounded the Moor in the right arm;
then closing, in the shock, grasped him in his arms, dragged him
from his saddle, and fell with him to the earth: when putting his
knee upon his breast, and his dagger to his throat, “Cavalier,” exclaimed
hands!”
“Kill me, rather,” replied the Moor, “for death would be less
grievous than loss of liberty.”
The Alcayde, however, with the clemency of the truly brave,
assisted him to rise, ministered to his wounds with his own hands,
and had him conveyed with great care to the castle of Allora.
His wounds in a few days were nearly cured; but the deepest had
been inflicted on his spirit. He was constantly buried in a profound
melancholy.
The Alcayde, who had conceived a great regard for him, treated
him more as a friend than a captive, and tried in every way to
cheer him, but in vain; he was always sad and moody, and, when
on the battlements of the castle, would keep his eyes turned to the
south, with a fixed and wistful gaze.
“How is this?” exclaimed the Alcayde, reproachfully, “that
you, who were so hardy and fearless in the field, should lose all
spirit when a captive. If any secret grief preys on your heart,
confide it to me, as to a friend, and I promise on the faith of a
cavalier, that you shall have no cause to repent the disclosure.”
The Moorish knight kissed the hand of the Alcayde. “Noble
cavalier,” said he, “that I am cast down in spirit, is not from my
wounds, which are slight, nor from my captivity, for your kindness
has robbed it of all gloom; nor from my defeat, for to be
conquered by so accomplished and renowned a cavalier, is no disgrace.
But to explain the cause of my grief, it is necessary to
give some particulars of my story; and this I am moved to do,
by the sympathy you have manifested toward me, and the magnanimity
that shines through all your actions.
“Know, then, that my name is Abendaraez, and that I am
of the noble but unfortunate line of the Abencerrages. You
have doubtless heard of the destruction that fell upon our race.
Charged with treasonable designs, of which they were entirely innocent,
many of them were beheaded, the rest banished; so that
not an Abencerrage was permitted to remain in Granada, excepting
my father and my uncle, whose innocence was proved, even to the
satisfaction of their persecutors. It was decreed, however, that,
should they have children, the sons should be educated at a distance
from Granada, and the daughters should be married out of
the kingdom.
“Conformably to this decree, I was sent, while yet an infant,
to be reared in the fortress of Cartama, the Alcayde of which was
an ancient friend of my father. He had no children, and received
me into his family as his own child, treating me with the kindness
and affection of a father; and I grew up in the belief that he
really was such. A few years afterward, his wife gave birth to a
daughter, but his tenderness toward me continued undiminished.
I thus grew up with Xarisa, for so the infant daughter of the
Alcayde was called, as her own brother. I beheld her charms
unfolding, as it were, leaf by leaf, like the morning rose, each
moment disclosing fresh sweetness and beauty, and thought the
growing passion which I felt for her was mere fraternal affection.
“At length one day I accidentally overheard a conversation
between the Alcayde and his confidential domestic, of which I
found myself the subject.
“In this I learnt the secret of my real parentage, which the Alcayde
had withheld from me as long as possible, through reluctance
to inform me of my being of a proscribed and unlucky race.
might adopt a career in life.
“I retired without, letting it be perceived that I had overheard
the conversation. The intelligence it conveyed, would
have overwhelmed me at an earlier period; but now the intimation
that Xarisa was not my sister, operated like magic. In an
instant the brotherly affection with which my heart at times had
throbbed almost to excess, was transformed into ardent love.
“I sought Xarisa in the garden, where I found her in a bower
of jessamines, arranging her beautiful hair in the mirror of a
crystal fountain. I ran to her with open arms, and was received
with a sister's embraces; upbraiding me for leaving her so long
alone.
“We seated ourselves by the fountain, and I hastened to reveal
the secret conversation I had overheard.
“`Alas!” cried she, `then our happiness is at an end!'
“`How!' cried I, `wilt thou cease to love me because I am
not thy brother?'
“`Alas, no!' replied she, gently withdrawing from my embrace,
`but when it is once made known we are not brother and
sister, we shall no longer be permitted to be thus always together.'
“In fact, from that moment our intercourse took a new character.
We met often at the fountain among the jessamines, but
Xarisa no longer advanced with open arms to meet me. She
became reserved and silent, and would blush, and cast down her
eyes, when I seated myself beside her. My heart became a prey
to the thousand doubts and fears that ever attend upon true love.
Restless and uneasy, I looked back with regret to our unreserved
I would not have had the relationship true, for the world.
“While matters were in this state between us, an order came
from the King of Granada for the Alcayde to take command of
the fortress of Coyn, on the Christian frontier. He prepared to
remove, with all his family, but signified that I should remain at
Cartama. I declared that I could not be parted from Xarisa.
`That is the very cause,' said he, `why I leave thee behind. It
is time, Abendaraez, thou shouldst know the secret of thy birth.
Thou art no son of mine, neither is Xarisa thy sister.' `I know
it all,' exclaimed I, `and I love her with tenfold the affection of a
brother. You have brought us up together; you have made us
necessary to each other's happiness; our hearts have entwined
themselves with our growth; do not now tear them asunder. Fill
up the measure of your kindness; be indeed a father to me, by
giving me Xarisa for my wife.'
“The brow of the Alcayde darkened as I spoke. `Have I
then been deceived?' said he. `Have those nurtured in my very
bosom, been conspiring against me? Is this your return for my
paternal tenderness?—to beguile the affections of my child, and
teach her to deceive her father? It would have been cause enough
to refuse thee the hand of my daughter, that thou wert of a proscribed
race, who can never approach the walls of Granada; this,
however, I might have passed over; but never will I give my
daughter to a man who has endeavored to win her from me by deception.'
“All my attempts to vindicate myself and Xarisa were unavailing.
I retired in anguish from his presence, and seeking Xarisa,
told her of this blow, which was worse than death to me.
Thy father will guard thee rigidly. Thy beauty and his wealth
will soon attract some happier rival, and I shall be forgotten!'
“Xarisa reproached my want of faith, and promised eternal
constancy. I still doubted and desponded, until, moved by my
anguish and despair, she agreed to a secret union. Our espousals
made, we parted, with a promise on her part to send me word
from Coyn, should her father absent himself from the fortress.
The very day after our secret nuptials, I beheld the whole train
of the Alcayde depart from Cartama, nor would he admit me to
his presence, nor permit me to bid farewell to Xarisa. I remained
at Cartama, somewhat pacified in spirit by our secret bond of
union; but every thing around fed my passion, and reminded me
of Xarisa. I saw the window at which I had so often beheld her.
I wandered through the apartment she had inhabited; the chamber
in which she had slept. I visited the bower of jessamines,
and lingered beside the fountain in which she had delighted.
Every thing recalled her to my imagination, and filled my heart
with melancholy.
“At length, a confidential servant arrived with a letter from
her, informing me, that her father was to depart that day for
Granada, on a short absence, inviting me to hasten to Coyn, describing
a secret portal at which I should apply, and the signal
by which I would obtain admittance.
“If ever you have loved, most valiant Alcayde, you may
judge of my trransport. That very night I arrayed myself in
gallant attire, to pay due honor to my bride; and arming myself
against any casual attack, issued forth privately from Cartama.
You know the rest, and by what sad fortune of war I find myself,
wounded, and a prisoner within the walls of Allora. The
term of absence of the father of Xarisa is nearly expired. Within
three days he will return to Coyn, and our meeting will no
longer be possible. Judge, then, whether I grieve without cause,
and whether I may not well be excused for showing impatience
under confinement.”
Don Rodrigo was greatly moved by this recital; for, though
more used to rugged war than scenes of amorous softness, he was
of a kind and generous nature.
“Abendaraez,” said he, “I did not seek thy confidence to gratify
an idle curiosity. It grieves me much that the good fortune
which delivered thee into my hands, should have marred so fair
an enterprise. Give me thy faith, as a true knight, to return prisoner
to my castle, within three days, and I will grant thee permission
to accomplish thy nuptials.”
The Abencerrage, in a transport of gratitude, would have
thrown himself at his feet, but the Alcayde prevented him. Calling
in his cavaliers, he took Abendaraez by the right hand,
in their presence, exclaiming solemnly, “You promise, on the
faith of a cavalier, to return to my castle of Allora within three
days, and render yourself my prisoner?” And the Abencerrage
said, “I promise.”
Then said the Alcayde, “Go! and may good fortune attend
you. If you require any safeguard, I and my cavaliers are
ready to be your companions.”
The Abencerrage kissed the hand of the Alcayde, in grateful
acknowledgment. “Give me,” said he, “my own armor, and
my steed, and I require no guard. It is not likely that I shall
again meet with so valorous a foe.”
The shades of night had fallen, when the tramp of the dapple
gray steed resounded over the drawbridge, and immediately afterwards,
the light clatter of hoofs along the road bespoke the fleetness
with which the youthful lover hastened to his bride. It was
deep night when the Moor arrived at the castle of Coyn. He
silently and cautiously walked his panting steed under its dark
walls, and having nearly passed round them, came to the portal
denoted by Xarisa. He paused, looked round to see that he was
not observed, and knocked three times with the butt of his lance.
In a little while the portal was timidly unclosed by the duenna of
Xarisa. “Alas! Señor,” said she, “what has detained you thus
long? Every night have I watched for you; and my lady is sick
at heart with doubt and anxiety.”
The Abencerrage hung his lance, and shield, and scimitar
against the wall, and followed the duenna, with silent steps, up a
winding staircase, to the apartment of Xarisa. Vain would be
the attempt to describe the raptures of that meeting. Time flew
too swiftly, and the Abencerrage had nearly forgotten, until too
late, his promise to return a prisoner to the Alcayde of Allora.
The recollection of it came to him with a pang, and woke him
from his dream of bliss. Xarisa saw his altered looks, and heard
with alarm his stifled sighs; but her countenance brightened when
she heard the cause. “Let not thy spirit be cast down,” said
she, throwing her white arms around him. “I have the keys of
my father's treasures; send ransom more than enough to satisfy
the Christian, and remain with me.”
“No,” said Abendaraez, “I have given my word to return in
person, and like a true knight, must fulfil my promise. After
that, fortune must do with me as it pleases.”
“Then,” said Xarisa, “I will accompany thee. Never shalt
thou return a prisoner, and I remain at liberty.”
The Abencerrage was transported with joy at this new proof
of devotion in his beautiful bride. All preparations were speedily
made for their departure. Xarisa mounted behind the Moor,
on his powerful steed; they left the castle walls before day-break,
nor did they pause, until they arrived at the gate of the
castle of Allora.
Alighting in the court, the Abencerrage supported the steps
of his trembling bride, who remained closely veiled, into the
presence of Rodrigo de Narvaez. “Behold, valiant Alcayde!”
said he, “the way in which an Abencerrage keeps his word. I
promised to return to thee a prisoner, but I deliver two captives
into thy power. Behold Xarisa, and judge whether I grieved
without reason, over the loss of such a treasure. Receive us as
thine own, for I confide my life and her honor to thy hands.”
The Alcayde was lost in admiration of the beauty of the
lady, and the noble spirit of the Moor. “I know not,” said he,
“which of you surpasses the other; but I know that my castle is
graced and honored by your presence. Consider it your own,
while you deign to reside with me.”
For several days, the lovers remained at Allora, happy in
each other's love, and in the friendship of the Alcayde. The
latter wrote a letter to the Moorish king of Granada, relating
the whole event, extolling the valor and good faith of the Abencerrage,
and craving for him the royal countenance.
The king was moved by the story, and pleased with an opportunity
of showing attention to the wishes of a gallant and chivalrous
enemy; for though he had often suffered from the prowess
Calling the Alcayde of Coyn into his presence, he gave him the
letter to read. The Alcayde turned pale, and trembled with
rage, on the perusal. “Restrain thine anger,” said the king;
“there is nothing that the Alcayde of Allora could ask, that I
would not grant, if in my power. Go thou to Allora; pardon
thy children; take them to thy home. I receive this Abencer
rage into my favor, and it will be my delight to heap benefits
upon you all.”
The kindling ire of the Alcayde was suddenly appeased. He
hastened to Allora; and folded his children to his bosom, who
would have fallen at his feet. Rodrigo de Narvaez gave liberty
to his prisoner without ransom, demanding merely a promise of
his friendship. He accompanied the youthful couple and their
father to Coyn, where their nuptials were celebrated with great
rejoicings. When the festivities were over, Don Rodrigo returned
to his fortress of Allora.
After his departure, the Alcayde of Coyn addressed his children:
“To your hands,” said he, “I confide the disposition of
my wealth. One of the first things I charge you, is not to forget
the ransom you owe to the Alcayde of Allora. His magnanimity
you can never repay, but you can prevent it from
wronging him of his just dues. Give him, moreover, your entire
friendship, for he merits it fully, though of a different faith.”
The Abencerrage thanked him for his proposition, which so
truly accorded with his own wishes. He took a large sum of
gold, and inclosed it in a rich coffer; and, on his own part, sent
six beautiful horses, superbly caparisoned; with six shields and
lances, mounted and embossed with gold. The beautiful Xarisa,
of gratitude and friendship, and sent him a box of fragrant
cypress wood, containing linen, of the finest quality, for his
person. The Alcayde disposed of the present in a characteristic
manner. The horses and armor he shared among the cavaliers
who had accompanied him on the night of the skirmish.
The box of cypress wood and its contents he retained, for the
sake of the beautiful Xarisa; and sent her, by the hands of the
messenger, the sum of gold paid as a ransom, entreating her to
receive it as a wedding present. This courtesy and magnanimity
raised the character of the Alcayde Rodrigo de Narvaez still
higher in the estimation of the Moors, who extolled him as a
perfect mirror of chivalric virtue; and from that time forward,
there was a continual exchange of good offices between them.
Those who would read tho foregoing story decked out with
poetic grace in the pure Castilian, let them seek it in the Diana
of Montemayor.
| Wolfert's roost | |