The Alhambra 4

The Alhambra 4

Pursuing our course through a spacious street, we put up at the posada

of San Fernando. As Antiquera, though a considerable city, is, as I

observed, somewhat out of the track of travel, I had anticipated bad

quarters and poor fare at the inn. I was agreeably disappointed,

therefore, by a supper-table amply supplied, and what were still more

acceptable, good clean rooms and comfortable beds. Our man Sancho felt

himself as well off as his namesake when he had the run of the duke’s

kitchen, and let me know, as I retired for the night, that it had been a

proud time for the alforjas.

 

Early in the morning (May 4th) I strolled to the ruins of the old

Moorish castle, which itself had been reared on the ruins of a Roman

fortress. Here, taking my seat on the remains of a crumbling tower, I

enjoyed a grand and varied landscape, beautiful in itself, and full of

storied and romantic associations; for I was now in the very heart of

the country famous for the chivalrous contests between Moor and

Christian. Below me, in its lap of hills, lay the old warrior city so

often mentioned in chronicle and ballad. Out of yon gate and down yon

hill paraded the band of Spanish cavaliers, of highest rank and bravest

bearing, to make that foray during the war and conquest of Granada,

which ended in the lamentable massacre among the mountains of Malaga,

and laid all Andalusia in mourning. Beyond spread out the Vega, covered

with gardens and orchards and fields of grain and enamelled meadows,

inferior only to the famous Vega of Granada. To the right the Rock of

the Lovers stretched like a cragged promontory into the plain, whence

the daughter of the Moorish alcayde and her lover, when closely

pursued, threw themselves in despair.

 

The matin peal from church and convent below me rang sweetly in the

morning air, as I descended. The market-place was beginning to throng

with the populace, who traffic in the abundant produce of the vega; for

this is the mart of an agricultural region. In the market-place were

abundance of freshly plucked roses for sale; for not a dame or damsel of

Andalusia thinks her gala dress complete without a rose shining like a

gem among her raven tresses.

 

On returning to the inn I found our man Sancho in high gossip with the

landlord and two or three of his hangers-on. He had just been telling

some marvellous story about Seville, which mine host seemed piqued to

match with one equally marvellous about Antiquera. There was once a

fountain, he said, in one of the public squares, called _Il fuente del

toro_, (the fountain of the bull,) because the water gushed from the

mouth of a bull’s head, carved of stone. Underneath the head was

inscribed,--

 

En frente del toro

Se hallen tesoro.

 

(In front of the bull there is treasure.) Many digged in front of the

fountain, but lost their labor and found no money. At last one knowing

fellow construed the motto a different way. It is in the forehead

(frente) of the bull that the treasure is to be found, said he to

himself, and I am the man to find it. Accordingly he came, late at

night, with a mallet, and knocked the head to pieces; and what do you

think he found?

 

“Plenty of gold and diamonds!” cried Sancho eagerly.

 

“He found nothing,” rejoined mine host, dryly, “and he ruined the

fountain.”

 

Here a great laugh was set up by the landlord’s hangers-on; who

considered Sancho completely taken in by what I presume was one of mine

host’s standing jokes.

 

Leaving Antiquera at eight o’clock, we had a delightful ride along the

little river, and by gardens and orchards fragrant with the odors of

spring and vocal with the nightingale. Our road passed round the Rock of

the Lovers (el peñon de los enamorados), which rose in a precipice above

us. In the course of the morning we passed through Archidona, situated

in the breast of a high hill, with a three-pointed mountain towering

above it, and the ruins of a Moorish fortress. It was a great toil to

ascend a steep stony street leading up into the city, although it bore

the encouraging name of Calle Real del Llano (the royal street of the

plain), but it was still a greater toil to descend from this mountain

city on the other side.

 

At noon we halted in sight of Archidona, in a pleasant little meadow

among hills covered with olive-trees. Our cloaks were spread on the

grass, under an elm by the side of a bubbling rivulet; our horses were

tethered where they might crop the herbage, and Sancho was told to

produce his alforjas. He had been unusually silent this morning ever

since the laugh raised at his expense, but now his countenance

brightened, and he produced his alforjas with an air of triumph. They

contained the contributions of four days’ journeying, but had been

signally enriched by the foraging of the previous evening in the

plenteous inn at Antiquera; and this seemed to furnish him with a

set-off to the banter of mine host.

 

En frente del toro

Se hallen tesoro

 

would he exclaim, with a chuckling laugh, as he drew forth the

heterogeneous contents one by one, in a series which seemed to have no

end. First came forth a shoulder of roasted kid, very little the worse

for wear; then an entire partridge; then a great morsel of salted

codfish wrapped in paper; then the residue of a ham; then the half of a

pullet, together with several rolls of bread, and a rabble rout of

oranges, figs, raisins, and walnuts. His bota also had been recruited

with some excellent wine of Malaga. At every fresh apparition from his

larder, he would enjoy our ludicrous surprise, throwing himself back on

the grass, shouting with laughter, and exclaiming, “Frente del

toro!--frente del toro! Ah, Señors, they thought Sancho a simpleton at

Antiquera; but Sancho knew where to find the _tesoro_.”

 

While we were diverting ourselves with his simple drollery, a solitary

beggar approached, who had almost the look of a pilgrim. He had a

venerable gray beard, and was evidently very old, supporting himself on

a staff, yet age had not bowed him down; he was tall and erect, and had

the wreck of a fine form. He wore a round Andalusian hat, a sheep-skin

jacket, and leathern breeches, gaiters, and sandals. His dress, though

old and patched, was decent, his demeanor manly, and he addressed us

with the grave courtesy that is to be remarked in the lowest Spaniard.

We were in a favorable mood for such a visitor; and in a freak of

capricious charity gave him some silver, a loaf of fine wheaten bread,

and a goblet of our choice wine of Malaga. He received them thankfully,

but without any grovelling tribute of gratitude. Tasting the wine, he

held it up to the light, with a slight beam of surprise in his eye; then

quaffing it off at a draught, “It is many years,” said he, “since I have

tasted such wine. It is a cordial to an old man’s heart.” Then, looking

at the beautiful wheaten loaf, “_bendito sea tal pan!_” “blessed be such

bread!” So saying, he put it in his wallet. We urged him to eat it on

the spot. “No, Señors,” replied he, “the wine I had either to drink or

leave; but the bread I may take home to share with my family.”

 

Our man Sancho sought our eye, and reading permission there, gave the

old man some of the ample fragments of our repast, on condition,

however, that he should sit down and make a meal.

 

He accordingly took his seat at some little distance from us, and began

to eat slowly, and with a sobriety and decorum that would have become a

hidalgo. There was altogether a measured manner and a quiet

self-possession about the old man, that made me think that he had seen

better days: his language too, though simple, had occasionally something

picturesque and almost poetical in the phraseology. I set him down for

some broken-down cavalier. I was mistaken; it was nothing but the innate

courtesy of a Spaniard, and the poetical turn of thought and language

often to be found in the lowest classes of this clear-witted people. For

fifty years, he told us, he had been a shepherd, but now he was out of

employ and destitute. “When I was a young man,” said he, “nothing could

harm or trouble me; I was always well, always gay; but now I am

seventy-nine years of age, and a beggar, and my heart begins to fail

me.”

 

Still he was not a regular mendicant: it was not until recently that

want had driven him to this degradation; and he gave a touching picture

of the struggle between hunger and pride, when abject destitution first

came upon him. He was returning from Malaga without money; he had not

tasted food for some time, and was crossing one of the great plains of

Spain, where there were but few habitations. When almost dead with

hunger, he applied at the door of a venta or country inn. “_Perdón usted

por Dios hermano!_” (Excuse us, brother, for God’s sake!) was the

reply--the usual mode in Spain of refusing a beggar. “I turned away,”

said he, “with shame greater than my hunger, for my heart was yet too

proud. I came to a river with high banks, and deep, rapid current, and

felt tempted to throw myself in: ‘What should such an old, worthless,

wretched man as I live for?’ But when I was on the brink of the current,

I thought on the blessed Virgin, and turned away. I travelled on until I

saw a country-seat at a little distance from the road, and entered the

outer gate of the court-yard. The door was shut, but there were two

young señoras at a window. I approached and begged;--‘_Perdón usted por

Dios hermano!_’--and the window closed. I crept out of the court-yard,

but hunger overcame me, and my heart gave way: I thought my hour at

hand, so I laid myself down at the gate, commended myself to the Holy

Virgin, and covered my head to die. In a little while afterwards the

master of the house came home: seeing me lying at his gate, he uncovered

my head, had pity on my gray hairs, took me into his house, and gave me

food. So, Señors, you see that one should always put confidence in the

protection of the Virgin.”

 

The old man was on his way to his native place, Archidona, which was in

full view on its steep and rugged mountain. He pointed to the ruins of

its castle. “That castle,” he said, “was inhabited by a Moorish king at

the time of the wars of Granada. Queen Isabella invaded it with a great

army; but the king looked down from his castle among the clouds, and

laughed her to scorn! Upon this the Virgin appeared to the queen, and

guided her and her army up a mysterious path in the mountains, which had

never before been known. When the Moor saw her coming, he was

astonished, and springing with his horse from a precipice, was dashed to

pieces! The marks of his horse’s hoofs,” said the old man, “are to be

seen in the margin of the rock to this day. And see, Señors, yonder is

the road by which the queen and her army mounted: you see it like a

ribbon up the mountain’s side; but the miracle is, that, though it can

be seen at a distance, when you come near it disappears!”

 

The ideal road to which he pointed was undoubtedly a sandy ravine of the