The Alhambra 28

The Alhambra 28

By degrees this loving disposition began to extend to inanimate objects;

he had his favorite flowers, which he cherished with tender assiduity;

then he became attached to various trees, and there was one in

particular, of a graceful form and drooping foliage, on which he

lavished his amorous devotion, carving his name on its bark, hanging

garlands on its branches, and singing couplets in its praise, to the

accompaniment of his lute.

 

Eben Bonabben was alarmed at this excited state of his pupil. He saw him

on the very brink of forbidden knowledge--the least hint might reveal to

him the fatal secret. Trembling for the safety of the prince and the

security of his own head, he hastened to draw him from the seductions of

the garden, and shut him up in the highest tower of the Generalife. It

contained beautiful apartments, and commanded an almost boundless

prospect, but was elevated far above that atmosphere of sweets and those

witching bowers so dangerous to the feelings of the too susceptible

Ahmed.

 

What was to be done, however, to reconcile him to this restraint and to

beguile the tedious hours? He had exhausted almost all kinds of

agreeable knowledge; and algebra was not to be mentioned. Fortunately

Eben Bonabben had been instructed, when in Egypt, in the language of

birds by a Jewish Rabbin, who had received it in lineal transmission

from Solomon the Wise, who had been taught it by the queen of Sheba. At

the very mention of such a study, the eyes of the prince sparkled with

animation, and he applied himself to it with such avidity, that he soon

became as great an adept as his master.

 

The tower of the Generalife was no longer a solitude; he had companions

at hand with whom he could converse. The first acquaintance he formed

was with a hawk, who built his nest in a crevice of the lofty

battlements, whence he soared far and wide in quest of prey. The prince,

however, found little to like or esteem in him. He was a mere pirate of

the air, swaggering and boastful, whose talk was all about rapine and

carnage, and desperate exploits.

 

His next acquaintance was an owl, a mighty wise-looking bird, with a

huge head and staring eyes, who sat blinking and goggling all day in a

hole in the wall, but roamed forth at night. He had great pretensions to

wisdom, talked something of astrology and the moon, and hinted at the

dark sciences; he was grievously given to metaphysics, and the prince

found his prosings even more ponderous than those of the sage Eben

Bonabben.

 

Then there was a bat, that hung all day by his heels in the dark corner

of a vault, but sallied out in slipshod style at twilight. He, however,

had but twilight ideas on all subjects, derided things of which he had

taken but an imperfect view, and seemed to take delight in nothing.

 

Besides these there was a swallow, with whom the prince was at first

much taken. He was a smart talker, but restless, bustling, and forever

on the wing; seldom remaining long enough for any continued

conversation. He turned out in the end to be a mere smatterer, who did

but skim over the surface of things, pretending to know everything, but

knowing nothing thoroughly.

 

These were the only feathered associates with whom the prince had any

opportunity of exercising his newly acquired language; the tower was too

high for any other birds to frequent it. He soon grew weary of his new

acquaintances, whose conversation spoke so little to the head and

nothing to the heart, and gradually relapsed into his loneliness. A

winter passed away, spring opened with all its bloom and verdure and

breathing sweetness, and the happy time arrived for birds to pair and

build their nests. Suddenly, as it were, a universal burst of song and

melody broke forth from the groves and gardens of the Generalife, and

reached the prince in the solitude of his tower. From every side he

heard the same universal theme--love--love--love--chanted forth, and

responded to it in every variety of note and tone. The prince listened

in silence and perplexity. “What can be this love,” thought he, “of

which the world seems so full, and of which I know nothing?” He applied

for information to his friend the hawk. The ruffian bird answered in a

tone of scorn: “You must apply,” said he, “to the vulgar peaceable

birds of earth, who are made for the prey of us princes of the air. My

trade is war, and fighting my delight. I am a warrior, and know nothing

of this thing called love.”

 

The prince turned from him with disgust, and sought the owl in his

retreat. “This is a bird,” said he, “of peaceful habits, and may be able

to solve my question.” So he asked the owl to tell him what was this

love about which all the birds in the groves below were singing.

 

Upon this the owl put on a look of offended dignity. “My nights,” said

he, “are taken up in study and research, and my days in ruminating in my

cell upon all that I have learnt. As to these singing birds of whom you

talk, I never listen to them--I despise them and their themes. Allah be

praised, I cannot sing; I am a philosopher, and know nothing of this

thing called love.”

 

The prince now repaired to the vault, where his friend the bat was

hanging by the heels, and propounded the same question. The bat wrinkled

up his nose into a most snappish __EXPRESSION__. “Why do you disturb me in

my morning’s nap with such an idle question?” said he, peevishly. “I

only fly by twilight, when all birds are asleep, and never trouble

myself with their concerns. I am neither bird nor beast, and I thank

heaven for it. I have found out the villany of the whole of them, and

hate them one and all. In a word, I am a misanthrope--and know nothing

of this thing called love.”

 

As a last resort, the prince now sought the swallow, and stopped him

just as he was circling about the summit of the tower. The swallow, as

usual, was in a prodigious hurry, and had scarce time to make a reply.

“Upon my word,” said he, “I have so much public business to attend to,

and so many pursuits to follow, that I have had no time to think on the

subject. I have every day a thousand visits to pay; a thousand affairs

of importance to examine into, that leave me not a moment of leisure for

these little sing-song matters. In a word, I am a citizen of the

world--I know nothing of this thing called love.” So saying, the swallow

dived into the valley, and was out of sight in a moment.

 

The prince remained disappointed and perplexed, but with his curiosity

still more piqued by the difficulty of gratifying it. While in this

mood, his ancient guardian entered the tower. The prince advanced

eagerly to meet him. “O Eben Bonabben,” cried he, “thou hast revealed to

me much of the wisdom of the earth; but there is one thing of which I

remain in utter ignorance, and would fain be informed.”

 

“My prince has but to make the inquiry, and everything within the

limited range of his servant’s intellect is at his command.”

 

“Tell me then, O most profound of sages, what is the nature of this

thing called love?”

 

Eben Bonabben was struck as with a thunderbolt. He trembled and turned

pale, and felt as if his head sat but loosely on his shoulders.

 

“What could suggest such a question to my prince,--where could he have

learnt so idle a word?”

 

The prince led him to the window of the tower. “Listen, O Eben

Bonabben,” said he. The sage listened. The nightingale sat in a thicket

below the tower, singing to his paramour the rose; from every

blossomed spray and tufted grove rose a strain of melody; and

love--love--love--was still the unvarying strain.

 

“Allah Akbar! God is great!” exclaimed the wise Bonabben. “Who shall

pretend to keep this secret from the heart of man, when even the birds

of the air conspire to betray it?”

 

Then turning to Ahmed--“O my prince,” cried he, “shut thine ears to

these seductive strains. Close thy mind against this dangerous

knowledge. Know that this love is the cause of half the ills of wretched

mortality. It is this which produces bitterness and strife between

brethren and friends; which causes treacherous murder and desolating

war. Care and sorrow, weary days and sleepless nights, are its

attendants. It withers the bloom and blights the joy of youth, and

brings on the ills and griefs of premature old age. Allah preserve thee,

my prince, in total ignorance of this thing called love!”

 

The sage Eben Bonabben hastily retired, leaving the prince plunged in

still deeper perplexity. It was in vain he attempted to dismiss the

subject from his mind; it still continued uppermost in his thoughts, and

teased and exhausted him with vain conjectures. Surely, said he to

himself, as he listened to the tuneful strains of the birds, there is no

sorrow in those notes; everything seems tenderness and joy. If love be a

cause of such wretchedness and strife, why are not these birds drooping

in solitude, or tearing each other in pieces, instead of fluttering

cheerfully about the groves, or sporting with each other among flowers?

 

He lay one morning on his couch, meditating on this inexplicable matter.

The window of his chamber was open to admit the soft morning breeze,

which came laden with the perfume of orange-blossoms from the valley of

the Darro. The voice of the nightingale was faintly heard, still

chanting the wonted theme. As the prince was listening and sighing,

there was a sudden rushing noise in the air; a beautiful dove, pursued

by a hawk, darted in at the window, and fell panting on the floor, while

the pursuer, balked of his prey, soared off to the mountains.

 

The prince took up the gasping bird, smoothed its feathers, and nestled

it in his bosom. When he had soothed it by his caresses, he put it in a

golden cage, and offered it, with his own hands, the whitest and finest

of wheat and the purest of water. The bird, however, refused food, and

sat drooping and pining, and uttering piteous moans.

 

“What aileth thee?” said Ahmed. “Hast thou not everything thy heart can

wish?”

 

“Alas, no!” replied the dove; “am I not separated from the partner of my

heart, and that too in the happy spring-time, the very season of love!”

 

“Of love!” echoed Ahmed. “I pray thee, my pretty bird, canst thou then

tell me what is love?”

 

“Too well can I, my prince. It is the torment of one, the felicity of

two, the strife and enmity of three. It is a charm which draws two

beings together, and unites them by delicious sympathies, making it

happiness to be with each other, but misery to be apart. Is there no

being to whom you are drawn by these ties of tender affection?”

 

“I like my old teacher Eben Bonabben better than any other being; but he

is often tedious, and I occasionally feel myself happier without his