The Alhambra 17

The Alhambra 17

“‘Are you willing,’ said he, ‘to return and complete your work?’

 

“‘Gladly, Señor Padre, provided I am so well paid.’

 

“‘Well, then, to-morrow at midnight I will call again.’

 

“He did so, and the vault was completed.

 

“‘Now,’ said the priest, ‘you must help me to bring forth the bodies

that are to be buried in this vault.’

 

“The poor mason’s hair rose on his head at these words: he followed the

priest, with trembling steps, into a retired chamber of the mansion,

expecting to behold some ghastly spectacle of death, but was relieved

on perceiving three or four portly jars standing in one corner. They

were evidently full of money, and it was with great labor that he and

the priest carried them forth and consigned them to their tomb. The

vault was then closed, the pavement replaced, and all traces of the work

were obliterated. The mason was again hoodwinked and led forth by a

route different from that by which he had come. After they had wandered

for a long time through a perplexed maze of lanes and alleys, they

halted. The priest then put two pieces of gold into his hand: ‘Wait

here,’ said he, ‘until you hear the cathedral bell toll for matins. If

you presume to uncover your eyes before that time, evil will befall

you’: so saying, he departed. The mason waited faithfully, amusing

himself by weighing the gold pieces in his hand, and clinking them

against each other. The moment the cathedral bell rang its matin peal,

he uncovered his eyes, and found himself on the banks of the Xenil;

whence he made the best of his way home, and revelled with his family

for a whole fortnight on the profits of his two nights’ work; after

which he was as poor as ever.

 

“He continued to work a little, and pray a good deal, and keep saints’

days and holidays, from year to year, while his family grew up as gaunt

and ragged as a crew of gypsies. As he was seated one evening at the

door of his hovel, he was accosted by a rich old curmudgeon, who was

noted for owning many houses, and being a griping landlord. The man of

money eyed him for a moment from beneath a pair of anxious shagged

eyebrows.

 

“‘I am told, friend, that you are very poor.’

 

“‘There is no denying the fact, Señor,--it speaks for itself.’

 

“‘I presume, then, that you will be glad of a job, and will work cheap.’

 

“‘As cheap, my master, as any mason in Granada.’

 

“‘That’s what I want. I have an old house fallen into decay, which costs

me more money than it is worth to keep it in repair, for nobody will

live in it; so I must contrive to patch it up and keep it together at as

small expense as possible.’

 

“The mason was accordingly conducted to a large deserted house that

seemed going to ruin. Passing through several empty halls and chambers,

he entered an inner court, where his eye was caught by an old Moorish

fountain. He paused for a moment, for a dreaming recollection of the

place came over him.

 

“‘Pray,’ said he, ‘who occupied this house formerly?’

 

“‘A pest upon him!’ cried the landlord; ‘it was an old miserly priest,

who cared for nobody but himself. He was said to be immensely rich, and,

having no relations, it was thought he would leave all his treasures to

the Church. He died suddenly, and the priests and friars thronged to

take possession of his wealth; but nothing could they find but a few

ducats in a leathern purse. The worst luck has fallen on me, for, since

his death, the old fellow continues to occupy my house without paying

rent, and there is no taking the law of a dead man. The people pretend

to hear the clinking of gold all night in the chamber where the old

priest slept, as if he were counting over his money, and sometimes a

groaning and moaning about the court. Whether true or false, these

stories have brought a bad name on my house, and not a tenant will

remain in it.’

 

“‘Enough,’ said the mason sturdily: ‘let me live in your house rent-free

until some better tenant present, and I will engage to put it in repair,

and to quiet the troubled spirit that disturbs it. I am a good Christian

and a poor man, and am not to be daunted by the Devil himself, even

though he should come in the shape of a big bag of money!’

 

“The offer of the honest mason was gladly accepted; he moved with his

family into the house, and fulfilled all his engagements. By little and

little he restored it to its former state; the clinking of gold was no

more heard at night in the chamber of the defunct priest, but began to

be heard by day in the pocket of the living mason. In a word, he

increased rapidly in wealth, to the admiration of all his neighbors, and

became one of the richest men in Granada: he gave large sums to the

Church, by way, no doubt, of satisfying his conscience, and never

revealed the secret of the vault until on his death-bed to his son and

heir.”

 

 

 

 

THE COURT OF LIONS

 

 

The peculiar charm of this old dreamy palace is its power of calling up

vague reveries and picturings of the past, and thus clothing naked

realities with the illusions of the memory and the imagination. As I

delight to walk in these “vain shadows,” I am prone to seek those parts

of the Alhambra which are most favorable to this phantasmagoria of the

mind; and none are more so than the Court of Lions, and its surrounding

halls. Here the hand of time has fallen the lightest, and the traces of

Moorish elegance and splendor exist in almost their original brilliancy.

Earthquakes have shaken the foundations of this pile, and rent its

rudest towers; yet see! not one of those slender columns has been

displaced, not an arch of that light and fragile colonnade given way,

and all the fairy fretwork of these domes, apparently as unsubstantial

as the crystal fabrics of a morning’s frost, exist after the lapse of

centuries, almost as fresh as if from the hand of the Moslem artist. I

write in the midst of these mementos of the past, in the fresh hour of

early morning, in the fated Hall of the Abencerrages. The blood-stained

fountain, the legendary monument of their massacre, is before me; the

lofty jet almost casts its dew upon my paper. How difficult to reconcile

the ancient tale of violence and blood with the gentle and peaceful

scene around! Everything here appears calculated to inspire kind and

happy feelings, for everything is delicate and beautiful. The very light

falls tenderly from above, through the lantern of a dome tinted and

wrought as if by fairy hands. Through the ample and fretted arch of the

portal I behold the Court of Lions, with brilliant sunshine gleaming

along its colonnades and sparkling in its fountains. The lively swallow

dives into the court, and, rising with a surge, darts away twittering

over the roofs; the busy bee toils humming among the flower-beds; and

painted butterflies hover from plant to plant, and flutter up and sport

with each other in the sunny air. It needs but a slight exertion of the

fancy to picture some pensive beauty of the harem, loitering in these

secluded haunts of Oriental luxury.

 

He, however, who would behold this scene under an aspect more in unison

with its fortunes, let him come when the shadows of evening temper the

brightness of the court, and throw a gloom into the surrounding halls.

Then nothing can be more serenely melancholy, or more in harmony with

the tale of departed grandeur.

 

At such times I am apt to seek the Hall of Justice, whose deep shadowy

arcades extend across the upper end of the court. Here was performed, in

presence of Ferdinand and Isabella and their triumphant court, the

pompous ceremonial of high mass, on taking possession of the Alhambra.

The very cross is still to be seen upon the wall, where the altar was

erected, and where officiated the Grand Cardinal of Spain, and others of

the highest religious dignitaries of the land. I picture to myself the

scene when this place was filled with the conquering host, that mixture

of mitred prelate and shaven monk, and steel-clad knight and silken

 

[Illustration: FOUNTAIN OF LIONS.]

 

courtier; when crosses and crosiers and religious standards were mingled

with proud armorial ensigns and the banners of the haughty chiefs of

Spain, and flaunted in triumph through these Moslem halls. I picture to

myself Columbus, the future discoverer of a world, taking his modest

stand in a remote corner, the humble and neglected spectator of the

pageant. I see in imagination the Catholic sovereigns prostrating

themselves before the altar, and pouring forth thanks for their victory;

while the vaults resound with sacred minstrelsy, and the deep-toned Te

Deum.

 

The transient illusion is over,--the pageant melts from the

fancy,--monarch, priest, and warrior return into oblivion with the poor

Moslems over whom they exulted. The hall of their triumph is waste and

desolate. The bat flits about its twilight vault, and the owl hoots from

the neighboring Tower of Comares.

 

Entering the Court of the Lions a few evenings since, I was almost

startled at beholding a turbaned Moor quietly seated near the fountain.

For a moment one of the fictions of the place seemed realized: an

enchanted Moor had broken the spell of centuries, and become visible. He

proved, however, to be a mere ordinary mortal: a native of Tetuan in

Barbary, who had a shop in the Zacatin of Granada, where he sold

rhubarb, trinkets, and perfumes. As he spoke Spanish fluently, I was

enabled to hold conversation with him, and found him shrewd and

intelligent. He told me that he came up the hill occasionally in the

summer, to pass a part of the day in the Alhambra, which reminded him of

the old palaces in Barbary, being built and adorned in similar style,

though with more magnificence.

 

As we walked about the palace, he pointed out several of the Arabic

inscriptions, as possessing much poetic beauty.

 

“Ah, Señor,” said he, “when the Moors held Granada, they were a gayer

people than they are nowadays. They thought only of love, music, and

poetry. They made stanzas upon every occasion, and set them all to

music. He who could make the best verses, and she who had the most

tuneful voice, might be sure of favor and preferment. In those days, if

any one asked for bread, the reply was, make me a couplet; and the

poorest beggar, if he begged in rhyme, would often be rewarded with a

piece of gold.”

 

“And is the popular feeling for poetry,” said I, “entirely lost among

you?”