The Alhambra 3

The Alhambra 3

A picturesque bridge was thrown across the little river, at one end of

which was the ancient Moorish mill of the castle, defended by a tower of

yellow stone; a fisherman’s net hung against the wall to dry, and hard

by in the river was his boat; a group of peasant women in bright-colored

dresses, crossing the arched bridge, were reflected in the placid

stream. Altogether it was an admirable scene for a landscape-painter.

 

The old Moorish mills, so often found on secluded streams, are

characteristic objects in Spanish landscape, and suggestive of the

perilous times of old. They are of stone, and often in the form of

towers with loopholes and battlements, capable of defence in those

warlike days when the country on both sides of the border was subject to

sudden inroad and hasty ravage, and when men had to labor with their

weapons at hand, and some place of temporary refuge.

 

Our next halting-place was at Gandul, where were the remains of another

Moorish castle, with its ruined tower, a nestling-place for storks, and

commanding a view over a vast campiña or fertile plain, with the

mountains of Ronda in the distance. These castles were strongholds to

protect the plains from the talas or forays to which they were subject,

when the fields of corn would be laid waste, the flocks and herds swept

from the vast pastures, and, together with captive peasantry, hurried

off in long cavalgadas across the borders.

 

At Gandul we found a tolerable posada; the good folks could not tell us

what time of day it was, the clock only struck once in the day, two

hours after noon; until that time it was guesswork. We guessed it was

full time to eat; so, alighting, we ordered a repast. While that was in

preparation, we visited the palace once the residence of the Marquis of

Gandul. All was gone to decay; there were but two or three rooms

habitable, and very poorly furnished. Yet here were the remains of

grandeur: a terrace, where fair dames and gentle cavaliers may once have

walked; a fish-pond and ruined garden, with grape-vines and date-bearing

palm-trees. Here we were joined by a fat curate, who gathered a bouquet

of roses, and presented it, very gallantly, to the lady who accompanied

us.

 

Below the palace was the mill, with orange-trees and aloes in front, and

a pretty stream of pure water. We took a seat in the shade; and the

millers, all leaving their work, sat down and smoked with us; for the

Andalusians are always ready for a gossip. They were waiting for the

regular visit of the barber, who came once a week to put all their chins

in order. He arrived shortly afterwards: a lad of seventeen, mounted on

a donkey, eager to display his new alforjas or saddle-bags, just bought

at a fair; price one dollar, to be paid on St. John’s day (in June), by

which time he trusted to have mown beards enough to put him in funds.

 

By the time the laconic clock of the castle had struck two we had

finished our dinner. So, taking leave of our Seville friends, and

leaving the millers still under the hands of the barber, we set off on

our ride across the campiña. It was one of those vast plains, common in

Spain, where for miles and miles there is neither house nor tree.

Unlucky the traveller who has to traverse it, exposed as we were to

heavy and repeated showers of rain. There is no escape nor shelter. Our

only protection was our Spanish cloaks, which nearly covered man and

horse, but grew heavier every mile. By the time we had lived through one

shower we would see another slowly but inevitably approaching;

fortunately in the interval there would be an outbreak of bright, warm,

Andalusian sunshine, which would make our cloaks send up wreaths of

steam, but which partially dried them before the next drenching.

 

Shortly after sunset we arrived at Arahal, a little town among the

hills. We found it in a bustle with a party of miquelets, who were

patrolling the country to ferret out robbers. The appearance of

foreigners like ourselves was an unusual circumstance in an interior

country town; and little Spanish towns of the kind are easily put in a

state of gossip and wonderment by such an occurrence. Mine host, with

two or three old wiseacre comrades in brown cloaks, studied our

passports in a corner of the posada, while an Alguazil took notes by the

dim light of a lamp. The passports were in foreign languages and

perplexed them, but our squire, Sancho, assisted them in their studies,

and magnified our importance with the grandiloquence of a Spaniard. In

the mean time the magnificent distribution of a few cigars had won the

hearts of all around us; in a little while the whole community seemed

put in agitation to make us welcome. The corregidor himself waited upon

us, and a great rush-bottomed arm-chair was ostentatiously bolstered

into our room by our landlady, for the accommodation of that important

personage. The commander of the patrol took supper with us: a lively,

talking, laughing Andaluz, who had made a campaign in South America, and

recounted his exploits in love and war with much pomp of phrase,

vehemence of gesticulation, and mysterious rolling of the eye. He told

us that he had a list of all the robbers in the country, and meant to

ferret out every mother’s son of them; he offered us at the same time

some of his soldiers as an escort. “One is enough to protect you,

Señors; the robbers know me, and know my men; the sight of one is enough

to spread terror through a whole sierra.” We thanked him for his offer,

but assured him, in his own strain, that with the protection of our

redoubtable squire, Sancho, we were not afraid of all the ladrones of

Andalusia.

 

While we were supping with our drawcansir friend, we heard the notes of

a guitar, and the click of castanets, and presently a chorus of voices

singing a popular air. In fact, mine host had gathered together the

amateur singers and musicians, and the rustic belles of the

neighborhood, and, on going forth, the courtyard or patio of the inn

presented a scene of true Spanish festivity. We took our seats with mine

host and hostess and the commander of the patrol, under an archway

opening into the court; the guitar passed from hand to hand, but a

jovial shoemaker was the Orpheus of the place. He was a

pleasant-looking fellow, with huge black whiskers; his sleeves were

rolled up to his elbows. He touched the guitar with masterly skill, and

sang a little amorous ditty with an expressive leer at the women, with

whom he was evidently a favorite. He afterwards danced a fandango with a

buxom Andalusian damsel, to the great delight of the spectators. But

none of the females present could compare with mine host’s pretty

daughter, Pepita, who had slipped away and made her toilette for the

occasion, and had covered her head with roses; and who distinguished

herself in a bolero with a handsome young dragoon. We ordered our host

to let wine and refreshment circulate freely among the company, yet,

though there was a motley assembly of soldiers, muleteers, and

villagers, no one exceeded the bounds of sober enjoyment. The scene was

a study for a painter: the picturesque group of dancers, the troopers in

their half military dresses, the peasantry wrapped in their brown

cloaks; nor must I omit to mention the old meagre Alguazil, in a short

black cloak, who took no notice of anything going on, but sat in a

corner diligently writing by the dim light of a huge copper lamp, that

might have figured in the days of Don Quixote.

 

The following morning was bright and balmy, as a May morning ought to

be, according to the poets. Leaving Arahal at seven o’clock, with all

the posada at the door to cheer us off, we pursued our way through a

fertile country, covered with grain and beautifully verdant; but which

in summer, when the harvest is over and the fields parched and brown,

must be monotonous and lonely; for, as in our ride of yesterday, there

were neither houses nor people to be seen. The latter all congregate in

villages and strongholds among the hills, as if these fertile plains

were still subject to the ravages of the Moor.

 

At noon we came to where there was a group of trees, beside a brook in a

rich meadow. Here we alighted to make our mid-day meal. It was really a

luxurious spot, among wild flowers and aromatic herbs, with birds

singing around us. Knowing the scanty larders of Spanish inns, and the

houseless tracts we might have to traverse, we had taken care to have

the alforjas of our squire well stocked with cold provisions, and his

bota, or leathern bottle, which might hold a gallon, filled to the neck

with choice Valdepeñas wine.[2] As we depended more upon these for our

well-being than even his trabuco, we exhorted him to be more attentive

in keeping them well charged; and I must do him the justice to say that

his namesake, the trencher-loving Sancho Panza, was never a more

provident purveyor. Though the alforjas and the bota were frequently and

vigorously assailed throughout the journey, they had a wonderful power

of repletion, our vigilant squire sacking everything that remained from

our repasts at the inns, to supply these junketings by the road-side,

which were his delight.

 

On the present occasion he spread quite a sumptuous variety of remnants

on the greensward before us, graced with an excellent ham brought from

Seville; then, taking his seat at a little distance, he solaced himself

with what remained in the alforjas. A visit or two to the bota made him

as merry and chirruping as a grasshopper filled with dew. On my

comparing his contents of the alforjas to Sancho’s skimming of the

flesh-pots at the wedding of Cammacho, I found he was well versed in

the history of Don Quixote, but, like many of the common people of

Spain, firmly believed it to be a true history.

 

“All that happened a long time ago, Señor,” said he, with an inquiring

look.

 

“A very long time,” I replied.

 

“I dare say more than a thousand years,”--still looking dubiously.

 

“I dare say not less.”

 

The squire was satisfied. Nothing pleased the simple-hearted varlet more

than my comparing him to the renowned Sancho for devotion to the

trencher; and he called himself by no other name throughout the journey.

 

Our repast being finished, we spread our cloaks on the greensward under

the tree, and took a luxurious siesta in the Spanish fashion. The

clouding up of the weather, however, warned us to depart, and a harsh

wind sprang up from the southeast. Towards five o’clock we arrived at

Osuna, a town of fifteen thousand inhabitants, situated on the side of a

hill, with a church and a ruined castle. The posada was outside of the

walls; it had a cheerless look. The evening being cold, the inhabitants

were crowded round a brasero in a chimney-corner; and the hostess was a

dry old woman, who looked like a mummy. Every one eyed us askance as we

entered, as Spaniards are apt to regard strangers; a cheery, respectful

salutation on our part, caballeroing them and touching our sombreros,

set Spanish pride at ease; and when we took our seat among them, lit our

cigars, and passed the cigar-box round among them, our victory was

complete. I have never known a Spaniard, whatever his rank or condition,

who would suffer himself to be outdone in courtesy; and to the common

Spaniard the present of a cigar (puro) is irresistible. Care, however,

must be taken never to offer him a present with an air of superiority