The Alhambra 43
The niece was an orphan of an officer who had fallen in the wars. She
had been educated in a convent, and had recently been transferred from
her sacred asylum to the immediate guardianship of her aunt, under whose
overshadowing care she vegetated in obscurity, like an opening rose
blooming beneath a brier. Nor indeed is this comparison entirely
accidental; for, to tell the truth, her fresh and dawning beauty had
caught the public eye, even in her seclusion, and, with that poetical
turn common to the people of Andalusia, the peasantry of the
neighborhood had given her the appellation of “the Rose of the
Alhambra.”
The wary aunt continued to keep a faithful watch over her tempting
little niece as long as the court continued at Granada, and flattered
herself that her vigilance had been successful. It is true the good lady
was now and then discomposed by the tinkling of guitars and chanting of
love-ditties from the moonlit groves beneath the tower; but she would
exhort her niece to shut her ears against such idle minstrelsy, assuring
her that it was one of the arts of the opposite sex, by which simple
maids were often lured to their undoing. Alas! what chance with a simple
maid has a dry lecture against a moonlight serenade?
At length King Philip cut short his sojourn at Granada, and suddenly
departed with all his train. The vigilant Fredegonda watched the royal
pageant as it issued forth from the Gate of Justice, and descended the
great avenue leading to the city. When the last banner disappeared from
her sight, she returned exulting to her tower, for all her cares were
over. To her surprise, a light Arabian steed pawed the ground at the
wicket-gate of the garden;--to her horror, she saw through the thickets
of roses a youth in gayly embroidered dress, at the feet of her niece.
At the sound of her footsteps he gave a tender adieu, bounded lightly
over the barrier of reeds and myrtles, sprang upon his horse, and was
out of sight in an instant.
The tender Jacinta, in the agony of her grief, lost all thought of her
aunt’s displeasure. Throwing herself into her arms, she broke forth into
sobs and tears.
“Ay de mi!” cried she; “he’s gone!--he’s gone!--he’s gone! and I shall
never see him more!”
“Gone!--who is gone?--what youth is that I saw at your feet?”
“A queen’s page, aunt, who came to bid me farewell.”
“A queen’s page, child!” echoed the vigilant Fredegonda, faintly, “and
when did you become acquainted with the queen’s page?”
“The morning that the ger-falcon came into the tower. It was the queen’s
ger-falcon, and he came in pursuit of it.”
“Ah silly, silly girl! know that there are no ger-falcons half so
dangerous as these young prankling pages, and it is precisely such
simple birds as thee that they pounce upon.”
The aunt was at first indignant at learning that in despite of her
boasted vigilance, a tender intercourse had been carried on by the
youthful lovers, almost beneath her eye; but when she found that her
simple-hearted niece, though thus exposed, without the protection of
bolt or bar, to all the machinations of the opposite sex, had come forth
unsinged from the fiery ordeal, she consoled herself with the persuasion
that it was owing to the chaste and cautious maxims in which she had, as
it were, steeped her to the very lips.
While the aunt laid this soothing unction to her pride, the niece
treasured up the oft-repeated vows of fidelity of the page. But what is
the love of restless, roving man? A vagrant stream that dallies for a
time with each flower upon its bank, then passes on, and leaves them all
in tears.
Days, weeks, months elapsed, and nothing more was heard of the page. The
pomegranate ripened, the vine yielded up its fruit, the autumnal rains
descended in torrents from the mountains; the Sierra Nevada became
covered with a snowy mantle, and wintry blasts howled through the halls
of the Alhambra--still he came not. The winter passed away. Again the
genial spring burst forth with song and blossom and balmy zephyr; the
snows melted from the mountains, until none remained but on the lofty
summit of Nevada, glistening through the sultry summer air. Still
nothing was heard of the forgetful page.
In the mean time the poor little Jacinta grew pale and thoughtful. Her
former occupations and amusements were abandoned, her silk lay
entangled, her guitar unstrung, her flowers were neglected, the notes of
her bird unheeded, and her eyes, once so bright, were dimmed with secret
weeping. If any solitude could be devised to foster the passion of a
love-lorn damsel it would be such a place as the Alhambra, where
everything seems disposed to produce tender and romantic reveries. It is
a very paradise for lovers; how hard then to be alone in such a
paradise--and not merely alone, but forsaken!
“Alas, silly child!” would the staid and immaculate Fredegonda say, when
she found her niece in one of her desponding moods--“did I not warn thee
against the wiles and deceptions of these men? What couldst thou expect,
too, from one of a haughty and aspiring family--thou an orphan, the
descendant of a fallen and impoverished line? Be assured, if the youth
were true, his father, who is one of the proudest nobles about the
court, would prohibit his union with one so humble and portionless as
thou. Pluck up thy resolution, therefore, and drive these idle notions
from thy mind.”
The words of the immaculate Fredegonda only served to increase the
melancholy of her niece, but she sought to indulge it in private. At a
late hour one midsummer night, after her aunt had retired to rest, she
remained alone in the hall of the tower, seated beside the alabaster
fountain. It was here that the faithless page had first knelt and kissed
her hand; it was here that he had often vowed eternal fidelity. The poor
little damsel’s heart was overladen with sad and tender recollections,
her tears began to flow, and slowly fell drop by drop into the
fountain. By degrees the crystal water became agitated,
and--bubble--bubble--bubble--boiled up and was tossed about, until a
female figure, richly clad in Moorish robes, slowly rose to view.
Jacinta was so frightened that she fled from the hall, and did not
venture to return. The next morning she related what she had seen to her
aunt, but the good lady treated it as a fantasy of her troubled mind, or
supposed she had fallen asleep and dreamt beside the fountain. “Thou
hast been thinking of the story of the three Moorish princesses that
once inhabited this tower,” continued she, “and it has entered into thy
dreams.”
“What story, aunt? I know nothing of it.”
“Thou hast certainly heard of the three princesses, Zayda, Zorayda, and
Zorahayda, who were confined in this tower by the king their father, and
agreed to fly with three Christian cavaliers. The two first accomplished
their escape, but the third failed in her resolution, and, it is said,
died in this tower.”
“I now recollect to have heard of it,” said Jacinta, “and to have wept
over the fate of the gentle Zorahayda.”
“Thou mayest well weep over her fate,” continued the aunt, “for the
lover of Zorahayda was thy ancestor. He long bemoaned his Moorish love;
but time cured him of his grief, and he married a Spanish lady, from
whom thou art descended.”
Jacinta ruminated upon these words. “That what I have seen is no fantasy
of the brain,” said she to herself, “I am confident. If indeed it be the
spirit of the gentle Zorahayda, which I have heard lingers about this
tower, of what should I be afraid? I’ll watch by the fountain
to-night--perhaps the visit will be repeated.”
Towards midnight, when everything was quiet, she again took her seat in
the hall. As the bell in the distant watch-tower of the Alhambra struck
the midnight hour, the fountain was again agitated; and
bubble--bubble--bubble--it tossed about the waters until the Moorish
female again rose to view. She was young and beautiful; her dress was
rich with jewels, and in her hand she held a silver lute. Jacinta
trembled and was faint, but was reassured by the soft and plaintive
voice of the apparition, and the sweet __EXPRESSION__ of her pale,
melancholy countenance.
“Daughter of mortality,” said she, “what aileth thee? Why do thy tears
trouble my fountain, and thy sighs and plaints disturb the quiet watches
of the night?”
“I weep because of the faithlessness of man, and I bemoan my solitary
and forsaken state.”
“Take comfort; thy sorrows may yet have an end. Thou beholdest a Moorish
princess, who, like thee, was unhappy in her love. A Christian knight,
thy ancestor, won my heart, and would have borne me to his native land
and to the bosom of his church. I was a convert in my heart, but I
lacked courage equal to my faith, and lingered till too late. For this
the evil genii are permitted to have power over me, and I remain
enchanted in this tower until some pure Christian will deign to break
the magic spell. Wilt thou undertake the task?”
“I will,” replied the damsel, trembling.
“Come hither, then, and fear not; dip thy hand in the fountain, sprinkle
the water over me, and baptize me after the manner of thy faith; so
shall the enchantment be dispelled, and my troubled spirit have repose.”
The damsel advanced with faltering steps, dipped her hand in the
fountain, collected water in the palm, and sprinkled it over the pale
face of the phantom.
The latter smiled with ineffable benignity. She dropped her silver lute
at the feet of Jacinta, crossed her white arms upon her bosom, and
melted from sight, so that it seemed merely as if a shower of dew-drops
had fallen into the fountain.
Jacinta retired from the hall filled with awe and wonder. She scarcely
closed her eyes that night; but when she awoke at daybreak out of a
troubled slumber, the whole appeared to her like a distempered dream. On
descending into the hall, however, the truth of the vision was
established, for beside the fountain she beheld the silver lute
glittering in the morning sunshine.
She hastened to her aunt, to relate all that had befallen her, and
called her to behold the lute as a testimonial of the reality of her
story. If the good lady had any lingering doubts, they were removed when
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