 | The works of Washington Irving |  |
VISITERS TO THE ALHAMBRA.
It is now nearly three months since I
took up my abode in the Alhambra,
during which time the progress of the
season has wrought many changes.
When I first arrived every thing was
in the freshness of May; the foliage of
the trees was still tender and transparent;
the pomegranate had not yet shed
its brilliant crimson blossoms; the
orchards of the Xenil and the Darro
were in full bloom; the rocks were hung
with wild flowers, and Granada seemed
completely surrounded by a wilderness
of roses, among which innumerable
nightingales sang, not merely in the
night, but all day long.
The advance of summer has withered
the rose and silenced the nightingale,
and the distant country begins to look
parched and sunburnt; though a perennial
verdure reigns immediately round
the city, and in the deep narrow valleys
at the foot of the snow-capped mountains.
The Alhambra possesses retreats graduated
to the heat of the weather, among
which the most peculiar is the almost subterranean
apartment of the baths. This
still retains its ancient Oriental character,
though stamped with the touching traces
of decline. At the entrance, opening
into a small court formerly adorned with
flowers, is a hall, moderate in size, but
light and graceful in architecture. It is
overlooked by a small gallery supported
by marble pillars and Moresco arches.
An alabaster fountain in the centre of the
pavement still throws up a jet of water to
cool the place. On each side are deep
alcoves with raised platforms, where the
bathers, after their ablutions, reclined on
luxurious cushions, soothed to voluptuous
repose by the fragrance of the perfumed
air and the notes of soft music from the
gallery. Beyond this hall are the interior
chambers, still more private and retired,
where no light is admitted but
through small apertures in the vaulted
ceilings. Here was the sanctum sanctorum
of female privacy, where the beauties
of the harem indulged in the luxury
of the baths. A soft mysterious light
reigns through the place, the broken
baths are still there, and traces of ancient
elegance. The prevailing silence and
obscurity have made this a favourite
resort of bats, who nestle during the day
in the dark nooks and corners, and on
being disturbed, flit mysteriously about
the twilight chambers, heightening, in an
indescribable degree, their air of desertion
and decay.
In this cool and elegant, though dilapidated
retreat, which has the freshness
passed the sultry hours of the day,
emerging towards sunset; and bathing,
or rather swimming, at night in the great
reservoir of the main court. In this way
I have been enabled in a measure to
counteract the relaxing and enervating
influence of the climate.
My dream of absolute sovereignty,
however, is at an end. I was roused
from it lately by the report of fire-arms,
which reverberated among the towers as
if the castle had been taken by surprise.
On sallying forth, I found an old cavalier
with a number of domestics, in possession
of the Hall of Ambassadors. He was an
ancient count who had come up from his
palace in Granada to pass a short time
in the Alhambra for the benefit of purer
air; and who, being a veteran and inveterate
sportsman, was endeavouring to
get an appetite for his breakfast by shooting
at swallows from the balconies. It
was a harmless amusement, for though,
by the alertness of his attendants in loading
his pieces, he was enabled to keep up
a brisk fire, I could not accuse him of
the death of a single swallow. Nay,
the birds themselves seemed to enjoy
the sport, and to deride his want of skill,
skimming in circles close to the balconies
and twittering as they darted by.
The arrival of this old gentleman has
in some manner changed the aspect of
affairs, but has likewise afforded matter
for agreeable speculation. We have
tacitly shared the empire between us,
like the last kings of Granada, excepting
that we maintain a most amicable alliance.
He reigns absolute over the Court
of the Lions and its adjacent halls, while
I maintain peaceful possession of the
regions of the baths and the little garden
of Lindaraxa. We take our meals together
under the arcades of the court,
where the fountains cool the air, and
bubbling rills run along the channels of
the marble pavement.
In the evening a domestic circle gathers
about the worthy old cavalier. The
countess comes up from the city, with a
favourite daughter about sixteen years of
age. Then there are the official dependents
of the count, his chaplain, lawyer,
his secretary, his steward, and other officers
and agents of his extensive possessions.
Thus he holds a kind of domestic
court, where every person seeks to contribute
to his amusement without sacrificing
his own pleasure or self-respect.
In fact, whatever may be said of Spanish
pride, it certainly does not enter into
social or domestic life. Among no people
are the relations between kindred more
cordial, or between superior and dependent
more frank and genial; in these
respects there still remains, in the provincial
life of Spain, much of the vaunted
simplicity of the olden times.
The most interesting member of this
family group, however, is the daughter of
the count, the charming though almost
infantile little Carmen. Her form has
not yet attained its maturity, but has
already the exquisite symmetry and
pliant grace so prevalent in this country.
Her blue eyes, fair complexion, and
light hair, are unusual in Andalusia, and
give a mildness and gentleness to her
demeanour, in contrast to the usual fire
of Spanish beauty, but in perfect unison
with the guileless and confiding innocence
of her manners. She has, however,
all the innate aptness and versatility
of her fascinating countrywomen,
and sings, dances, and plays the guitar,
and other instruments, to admiration.
A few days after taking up his residence
in the Alhambra, the count gave
a domestic fête on his Saint's day, assembling
round him the members of his
family and household, while several old
servants came from his distant possessions
to pay their reverence to him, and
partake of the good cheer. This patriarchal
spirit, which characterized the Spanish
nobility in the days of their opulence,
has declined with their fortunes; but
some who, like the count, still retain
their ancient family possessions, keep up
a little of the ancient system and have
their estates overrun and almost eaten up
by generations of idle retainers. According
to this magnificent old Spanish
system, in which the national pride and
generosity bore equal parts, a superannuated
servant was never turned off,
but became a charge for the rest of his
days; nay, his children and his children's
children, and often their relatives,
to the right and left, became gradually
entailed upon the family. Hence the
which have such an air of empty ostentation
from the greatness of their size
compared with the mediocrity and scantiness
of their furniture, were absolutely
required in the golden days of Spain, by
the patriarchal habits of their possessors.
They were little better than vast barracks
for the hereditary generations of
hangers on, that battened at the expense
of a Spanish noble. The worthy old
count, who has estates in various parts
of the kingdom, assures me that some of
them barely feed the hordes of dependents
nestled upon them; who consider themselves
entitled to be maintained upon the
place rent-free, because their forefathers
have been so for generations.
The domestic fête of the count broke
in upon the usual still life of the Alhambra;
music and laughter resounded
through its late silent halls; there were
groups of the guests amusing themselves
about the galleries and gardens, and
officious servants from town hurrying
through the courts, bearing viands to the
ancient kitchen, which was again alive
with the tread of cooks and scullions, and
blazed with unwonted fires.
The feast, for a Spanish set dinner is
literally a feast, was laid in the beautiful
Moresco hall called "La Sala de los dos
Hermanas" (the saloon of the two sisters),
the table groaned with abundance, and a
joyous conviviality prevailed round the
board; for though the Spaniards are
generally an abstemious people, they are
complete revellers at a banquet. For
my own part, there was something peculiarly
interesting in thus sitting at a feast
in the royal halls of the Alhambra, given
by the representative of one of its most
renowned conquerors; for the venerable
count, though unwarlike himself, is the
lineal descendant and representative of
the "Great Captain," the illustrious Gonsalvo
of Cordova, whose sword he guards
in the archives of his palace at Granada.
The banquet ended, the company adjourned
to the Hall of Ambassadors.
Here every one contributed to the general
amusement by exerting some peculiar
talent; singing, improvising, telling wonderful
tales, or dancing to that all-pervading
talisman of Spanish pleasure, the
guitar.
The life and charm of the whole
assemblage, however, was the gifted
little Carmen. She took her part in two
or three scenes from Spanish comedies,
exhibiting a charming dramatic talent;
she gave imitations of the popular Italian
singers with singular and whimsical felicity,
and a rare quality of voice; she
imitated the dialects, dances and ballads
of the gipsies and the neighbouring
peasantry, but did every thing with a
facility, a neatness, a grace, and an all-pervading
prettiness, that were perfectly
fascinating.
The great charm of her performances,
however, was their being free from all
pretension, or ambition of display. She
seemed unconscious of the extent of her
own talents, and in fact is accustomed
only to exert them casually, like a child,
for the amusement of the domestic circle.
Her observation and tact must be remarkably
quick, for her life is passed in
the bosom of her family, and she can
only have had casual and transient
glances at the various characters and
traits, brought out impromptu in moments
of domestic hilarity like the one in
question. It is pleasing to see the fondness
and admiration with which every
one of the household regard her; she is
never spoken of, even by the domestics,
by any other appellation than that of La
Niña, "the child," an appellation which
thus applied has something peculiarly
kind and endearing in the Spanish language.
Never shall I think of the Alhambra
without remembering the lovely little
Carmen sporting in happy and innocent
girlhood in its marble halls, dancing to
the sound of the Moorish castañets, or
mingling the silver warbling of her voice
with the music of the fountains.
On this festive occasion several curious
and amusing legends and traditions were
told; many of which have escaped my
memory; but out of those that most struck
me, I will endeavour to shape forth some
entertainment for the reader.
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