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 entrusted 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 gardens, 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 historiographic 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 his old brown mantle, as a
snake does his skin, and now appears
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 wits' 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 vehemently
suspect he would be more apt to trust to
the length of his legs than the strength
of his arms, in case of an attack. After
all, however, the poor fellow is at times
an amusing companion; he is simpleminded,
and of infinite good humour,
with the loquacity and gossip of a village
barber, and knows all the smalltalk
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 historical little 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 shopboard;
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 a female 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 fireplace 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 naïveté 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 to
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 levee of humble friends
and dependents, 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 these 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 daydream
realized; yet I can scarce 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 these
oriental chambers, and hear the murmur
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.
