The Alhambra 16

The Alhambra 16

It was a moving picture of Spanish life and character, which I delighted

to study; and as the astronomer has his grand telescope with which to

sweep the skies, and, as it were, bring the stars nearer for his

inspection, so I had a smaller one, of pocket size, for the use of my

observatory, with which I could sweep the regions below, and bring the

countenances of the motley groups so close as almost, at times, to make

me think I could divine their conversation by the play and __EXPRESSION__ of

their features. I was thus, in a manner, an invisible observer, and,

without quitting my solitude, could throw myself in an instant into the

midst of society,--a rare advantage to one of somewhat shy and quiet

habits, and fond, like myself, of observing the drama of life without

becoming an actor in the scene.

 

There was a considerable suburb lying below the Alhambra, filling the

narrow gorge of the valley, and extending up the opposite hill of the

Albaycin. Many of the houses were built in the Moorish style, round

patios, or courts, cooled by fountains and open to the sky; and as the

inhabitants passed much of their time in these courts, and on the

terraced roofs during the summer season, it follows that many a glance

at their domestic life might be obtained by an aërial spectator like

myself, who could look down on them from the clouds.

 

I enjoyed in some degree the advantages of the student in the famous old

Spanish story, who beheld all Madrid unroofed for his inspection; and my

gossiping squire, Mateo Ximenes, officiated occasionally as my Asmodeus,

to give me anecdotes of the different mansions and their inhabitants.

 

I preferred, however, to form conjectural histories for myself, and thus

would sit for hours, weaving, from casual incidents and indications

passing under my eye, a whole tissue of schemes, intrigues, and

occupations of the busy mortals below. There was scarce a pretty face or

a striking figure that I daily saw, about which I had not thus gradually

framed a dramatic story, though some of my characters would

occasionally act in direct opposition to the part assigned them, and

disconcert the whole drama. Reconnoitring one day with my glass the

streets of the Albaycin, I beheld the procession of a novice about to

take the veil; and remarked several circumstances which excited the

strongest sympathy in the fate of the youthful being thus about to be

consigned to a living tomb. I ascertained to my satisfaction that she

was beautiful, and, from the paleness of her cheek, that she was a

victim rather than a votary. She was arrayed in bridal garments, and

decked with a chaplet of white flowers, but her heart evidently revolted

at this mockery of a spiritual union, and yearned after its earthly

loves. A tall stern-looking man walked near her in the procession: it

was, of course, the tyrannical father, who, from some bigoted or sordid

motive, had compelled this sacrifice. Amid the crowd was a dark handsome

youth, in Andalusian garb, who seemed to fix on her an eye of agony. It

was doubtless the secret lover from whom she was forever to be

separated. My indignation rose as I noted the malignant __EXPRESSION__

painted on the countenances of the attendant monks and friars. The

procession arrived at the chapel of the convent; the sun gleamed for the

last time upon the chaplet of the poor novice, as she crossed the fatal

threshold and disappeared within the building. The throng poured in with

cowl, and cross, and minstrelsy; the lover paused for a moment at the

door. I could divine the tumult of his feelings; but he mastered them,

and entered. There was a long interval. I pictured to myself the scene

passing within: the poor novice despoiled of her transient finery, and

clothed in the conventual garb; the bridal chaplet taken from her brow,

and her beautiful head shorn of its long silken tresses. I heard her

murmur the irrevocable vow. I saw her extended on a bier; the death-pall

spread over her; the funeral service performed that proclaimed her dead

to the world; her sighs were drowned in the deep tones of the organ,

and the plaintive requiem of the nuns; the father looked on, unmoved,

without a tear; the lover--no--my imagination refused to portray the

anguish of the lover--there the picture remained a blank.

 

After a time the throng again poured forth, and dispersed various ways,

to enjoy the light of the sun and mingle with the stirring scenes of

life; but the victim, with her bridal chaplet, was no longer there. The

door of the convent closed that severed her from the world forever. I

saw the father and the lover issue forth; they were in earnest

conversation. The latter was vehement in his gesticulations; I expected

some violent termination to my drama; but an angle of a building

interfered and closed the scene. My eye afterwards was frequently turned

to that convent with painful interest. I remarked late at night a

solitary light twinkling from a remote lattice of one of its towers.

“There,” said I, “the unhappy nun sits weeping in her cell, while

perhaps her lover paces the street below in unavailing anguish.”

 

--The officious Mateo interrupted my meditations and destroyed in an

instant the cobweb tissue of my fancy. With his usual zeal he had

gathered facts concerning the scene, which put my fictions all to

flight. The heroine of my romance was neither young nor handsome; she

had no lover; she had entered the convent of her own free will, as a

respectable asylum, and was one of the most cheerful residents within

its walls.

 

It was some little while before I could forgive the wrong done me by the

nun in being thus happy in her cell, in contradiction to all the rules

of romance; I diverted my spleen, however, by watching, for a day or

two, the pretty coquetries of a dark-eyed brunette, who, from the covert

of a balcony shrouded with flowering shrubs and a silken awning, was

carrying on a mysterious correspondence with a handsome, dark,

well-whiskered cavalier, who lurked frequently in the street beneath her

window. Sometimes I saw him at an early hour, stealing forth wrapped to

the eyes in a mantle. Sometimes he loitered at a corner, in various

disguises, apparently waiting for a private signal to slip into the

house. Then there was the tinkling of a guitar at night and a lantern

shifted from place to place in the balcony. I imagined another intrigue

like that of Almaviva, but was again disconcerted in all my

suppositions. The supposed lover turned out to be the husband of the

lady, and a noted contrabandista; and all his mysterious signs and

movements had doubtless some smuggling scheme in view.

 

--I occasionally amused myself with noting from this balcony the gradual

changes of the scenes below, according to the different stages of the

day.

 

Scarce has the gray dawn streaked the sky, and the earliest cock crowed

from the cottages of the hill-side, when the suburbs give sign of

reviving animation; for the fresh hours of dawning are precious in the

summer season in a sultry climate. All are anxious to get the start of

the sun, in the business of the day. The muleteer drives forth his

loaded train for the journey; the traveller slings his carbine behind

his saddle, and mounts his steed at the gate of the hostel; the brown

peasant from the country urges forward his loitering beasts, laden with

panniers of sunny fruit and fresh dewy vegetables, for already the

thrifty housewives are hastening to the market.

 

The sun is up and sparkles along the valley, tipping the transparent

foliage of the groves. The matin bells resound melodiously through the

pure bright air, announcing the hour of devotion. The muleteer halts his

burdened animals before the chapel, thrusts his staff through his belt

behind, and enters with hat in hand, smoothing his coal-black hair, to

hear a mass, and to put up a prayer for a prosperous wayfaring across

the sierra. And now steals forth on fairy foot the gentle Señora, in

trim basquiña, with restless fan in hand, and dark eye flashing from

beneath the gracefully folded mantilla; she seeks some well-frequented

church to offer up her morning orisons; but the nicely adjusted dress,

the dainty shoe and cobweb stocking, the raven tresses exquisitely

braided, the fresh-plucked rose, gleaming among them like a gem, show

that earth divides with Heaven the empire of her thoughts. Keep an eye

upon her, careful mother, or virgin aunt, or vigilant duenna, whichever

you may be, that walk behind!

 

As the morning advances, the din of labor augments on every side; the

streets are thronged with man, and steed, and beast of burden, and there

is a hum and murmur, like the surges of the ocean. As the sun ascends to

his meridian, the hum and bustle gradually decline; at the height of

noon there is a pause. The panting city sinks into lassitude, and for

several hours there is a general repose. The windows are closed, the

curtains drawn, the inhabitants retired into the coolest recesses of

their mansions; the full-fed monk snores in his dormitory; the brawny

porter lies stretched on the pavement beside his burden; the peasant and

the laborer sleep beneath the trees of the Alameda, lulled by the sultry

chirping of the locust. The streets are deserted, except by the

water-carrier, who refreshes the ear by proclaiming the merits of his

sparkling beverage, “colder than the mountain snow (_mas friaque la

nieve_).”

 

As the sun declines, there is again a gradual reviving, and when the

vesper bell rings out his sinking knell, all nature seems to rejoice

that the tyrant of the day has fallen. Now begins the bustle of

enjoyment, when the citizens pour forth to breathe the evening air, and

revel away the brief twilight in the walks and gardens of the Darro and

Xenil.

 

As night closes, the capricious scene assumes new features. Light after

light gradually twinkles forth; here a taper from a balconied window;

there a votive lamp before the image of a Saint. Thus, by degrees, the

city emerges from the pervading gloom, and sparkles with scattered

lights, like the starry firmament. Now break forth from court and

garden, and street and lane, the tinkling of innumerable guitars, and

the clicking of castanets; blending, at this lofty height, in a faint

but general concert. “Enjoy the moment” is the creed of the gay and

amorous Andalusian, and at no time does he practise it more zealously

than on the balmy nights of summer, wooing his mistress with the dance,

the love-ditty, and the passionate serenade.

 

I was one evening seated in the balcony, enjoying the light breeze that

came rustling along the side of the hill, among the tree-tops, when my

humble historiographer Mateo, who was at my elbow, pointed out a

spacious house, in an obscure street of the Albaycin, about which he

related, as nearly as I can recollect, the following anecdote.

 

 

 

 

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MASON

 

 

There was once upon a time a poor mason, or bricklayer, in Granada, who

kept all the saints’ days and holidays, and Saint Monday into the

bargain, and yet, with all his devotion, he grew poorer and poorer, and

could scarcely earn bread for his numerous family. One night he was

roused from his first sleep by a knocking at his door. He opened it, and

beheld before him a tall, meagre, cadaverous-looking priest.