 | The works of Washington Irving |  |
THE ALHAMBRA BY MOONLIGHT.
I have given a picture of my apartment
on my first taking possession of it;
a few evenings have produced a thorough
change in the scene and in my feelings.
The moon, which then was invisible, has
gradually gained upon the night, and
now rolls in full splendour above the
towers, pouring a flood of tempered light
into every court and hall. The garden
beneath my window is gently lighted
up; the orange and citron trees are
tipped with silver; the fountain sparkles
in the moonbeams, and even the blush of
the rose is faintly visible.
I have sat for hours at my window,
inhaling the sweetness of the garden,
and musing on the chequered fortunes
of those whose history is dimly shadowed
out in the elegant memorials around.
Sometimes I have issued forth at midnight,
when every thing was quiet, and
have wandered over the whole building.
Who can do justice to a moonlight night
in such a climate and in such a place!
The temperature of an Andalusian midnight
in summer is perfectly ethereal.
We seem lifted up into a purer atmosphere;
there is a serenity of soul, a
buoyancy of spirits, an elasticity of
frame, that render mere existence enjoyment.
The effect of moonlight too,
on the Alhambra, has something like
enchantment. Every rent and chasm of
time, every mouldering tint and weather-stain
disappears; the marble resumes its
brighten in the moonbeams, the halls
are illuminated with a softened radiance,
until the whole edifice reminds one of
the enchanted palace of an Arabian tale.
At such a time I have ascended to the
little pavilion called the Queen's Toilette,
to enjoy its varied and extensive prospect.
To the right, the snowy summits
of the Sierra Nevada would gleam like
silver clouds against the darker firmament,
and all the outlines of the mountain
would be softened, yet delicately
defined. My delight, however, would be
to lean over the parapet of the tocador,
and gaze down upon Granada, spread
out like a map below me; all buried in
deep repose, and its white palaces and
convents sleeping, as it were, in the
moonshine.
Sometimes I would hear the faint
sounds of castañets from some party of
dancers lingering in the Alameda, at
other times I have heard the dubious
tones of a guitar, and the notes of a single
voice rising from some solitary street,
and have pictured to myself some youthful
cavalier serenading his lady's window;
a gallant custom of former days,
but now sadly on the decline, except in
the remote towns and villages of Spain.
Such were the scenes that have detained
me for many an hour loitering about the
courts and balconies of the castle, enjoying
that mixture of revery and sensation
which steal away existence in a southern
climate, and it has been almost morning
before I have retired to my bed, and been
lulled to sleep by the falling waters of
the fountain of Lindaraxa.
| The works of Washington Irving | |