The Alhambra 44

The Alhambra 44

Rumor soon spread the news abroad. The inhabitants of Granada thronged

to the Alhambra to catch a few notes of the transcendent music that

floated about the tower of Las Infantas.

 

The lovely little minstrel was at length drawn forth from her retreat.

The rich and powerful of the land contended who should entertain and do

honor to her; or rather, who should secure the charms of her lute to

draw fashionable throngs to their saloons. Wherever she went her

vigilant aunt kept a dragon watch at her elbow, awing the throngs of

impassioned admirers who hung in raptures on her strains. The report of

her wonderful powers spread from city to city. Malaga, Seville, Cordova,

all became successively mad on the theme; nothing was talked of

throughout Andalusia but the beautiful minstrel of the Alhambra. How

could it be otherwise among a people so musical and gallant as the

Andalusians, when the lute was magical in its powers, and the minstrel

inspired by love!

 

While all Andalusia was thus music mad, a different mood prevailed at

the court of Spain. Philip V., as is well known, was a miserable

hypochondriac, and subject to all kinds of fancies. Sometimes he would

keep to his bed for weeks together, groaning under imaginary complaints.

At other times he would insist upon abdicating his throne, to the great

annoyance of his royal spouse, who had a strong relish for the splendors

of a court and the glories of a crown, and guided the sceptre of her

imbecile lord with an expert and steady hand.

 

Nothing was found to be so efficacious in dispelling the royal megrims

as the power of music; the queen took care, therefore, to have the best

performers, both vocal and instrumental, at hand, and retained the

famous Italian singer Farinelli about the court as a kind of royal

physician.

 

At the moment we treat of, however, a freak had come over the mind of

this sapient and illustrious Bourbon that surpassed all former vagaries.

After a long spell of imaginary illness, which set all the strains of

Farinelli and the consultations of a whole orchestra of court-fiddlers

at defiance, the monarch fairly, in idea, gave up the ghost, and

considered himself absolutely dead.

 

This would have been harmless enough, and even convenient both to his

queen and courtiers, had he been content to remain in the quietude

befitting a dead man; but to their annoyance he insisted upon having

the funeral ceremonies performed over him, and, to their inexpressible

perplexity, began to grow impatient, and to revile bitterly at them for

negligence and disrespect, in leaving him unburied. What was to be done?

To disobey the king’s positive commands was monstrous in the eyes of the

obsequious courtiers of a punctilious court--but to obey him, and bury

him alive would be downright regicide!

 

In the midst of this fearful dilemma a rumor reached the court of the

female minstrel who was turning the brains of all Andalusia. The queen

dispatched missions in all haste to summon her to St. Ildefonso, where

the court at that time resided.

 

Within a few days, as the queen with her maids of honor was walking in

those stately gardens, intended, with their avenues and terraces and

fountains, to eclipse the glories of Versailles, the far-famed minstrel

was conducted into her presence. The imperial Elizabetta gazed with

surprise at the youthful and unpretending appearance of the little being

that had set the world madding. She was in her picturesque Andalusian

dress, her silver lute in hand, and stood with modest and downcast eyes,

but with a simplicity and freshness of beauty that still bespoke her

“the Rose of the Alhambra.”

 

As usual she was accompanied by the ever-vigilant Fredegonda, who gave

the whole history of her parentage and descent to the inquiring queen.

If the stately Elizabetta had been interested by the appearance of

Jacinta, she was still more pleased when she learnt that she was of a

meritorious though impoverished line, and that her father had bravely

fallen in the service of the crown. “If thy powers equal their renown,”

said she, “and thou canst cast forth this evil spirit that possesses thy

sovereign, thy fortunes shall henceforth be my care, and honors and

wealth attend thee.”

 

Impatient to make trial of her skill, she led the way at once to the

apartment of the moody monarch.

 

Jacinta followed with downcast eyes through files of guards and crowds

of courtiers. They arrived at length at a great chamber hung with black.

The windows were closed to exclude the light of day: a number of yellow

wax tapers in silver sconces diffused a lugubrious light, and dimly

revealed the figures of mutes in mourning dresses, and courtiers who

glided about with noiseless step and woe-begone visage. In the midst of

a funeral bed or bier, his hands folded on his breast, and the tip of

his nose just visible, lay extended this would-be-buried monarch.

 

The queen entered the chamber in silence, and pointing to a footstool in

an obscure corner, beckoned to Jacinta to sit down and commence.

 

At first she touched her lute with a faltering hand, but gathering

confidence and animation as she proceeded, drew forth such soft aërial

harmony, that all present could scarce believe it mortal. As to the

monarch, who had already considered himself in the world of spirits, he

set it down for some angelic melody or the music of the spheres. By

degrees the theme was varied, and the voice of the minstrel accompanied

the instrument. She poured forth one of the legendary ballads treating

of the ancient glories of the Alhambra and the achievements of the

Moors. Her whole soul entered into the theme, for with the recollections

of the Alhambra was associated the story of her love. The

funeral-chamber resounded with the animating strain. It entered into the

gloomy heart of the monarch. He raised his head and gazed around; he sat

up on his couch, his eye began to kindle--at length, leaping upon the

floor, he called for sword and buckler.

 

The triumph of music, or rather of the enchanted lute, was complete; the

demon of melancholy was cast forth; and, as it were, a dead man brought

to life. The windows of the apartment were thrown open; the glorious

effulgence of Spanish sunshine burst into the late lugubrious chamber;

all eyes sought the lovely enchantress, but the lute had fallen from her

hand, she had sunk upon the earth, and the next moment was clasped to

the bosom of Ruyz de Alarcon.

 

The nuptials of the happy couple were celebrated soon afterwards with

great splendor, and the Rose of the Alhambra became the ornament and

delight of the court. “But hold--not so fast”--I hear the reader

exclaim; “this is jumping to the end of a story at a furious rate! First

let us know how Ruyz de Alarcon managed to account to Jacinta for his

long neglect?” Nothing more easy; the venerable, time-honored excuse,

the opposition to his wishes by a proud, pragmatical old father:

besides, young people who really like one another soon come to an

amicable understanding, and bury all past grievances when once they

meet.

 

But how was the proud, pragmatical old father reconciled to the match?

 

Oh! as to that, his scruples were easily overcome by a word or two from

the queen; especially as dignities and rewards were showered upon the

blooming favorite of royalty. Besides, the lute of Jacinta, you know,

possessed a magic power, and could control the most stubborn head and

hardest breast.

 

And what came of the enchanted lute?

 

Oh, that is the most curious matter of all, and plainly proves the truth

of the whole story. That lute remained for some time in the family, but

was purloined and carried off, as was supposed, by the great singer

Farinelli, in pure jealousy. At his death it passed into other hands in

Italy, who were ignorant of its mystic powers, and melting down the

silver, transferred the strings to an old Cremona fiddle. The strings

still retain something of their magic virtues. A word in the reader’s

ear, but let it go no further: that fiddle is now bewitching the whole

world,--it is the fiddle of Paganini!

 

 

 

 

THE VETERAN

 

 

Among the curious acquaintances I made in my rambles about the fortress,

was a brave and battered old colonel of Invalids, who was nestled like a

hawk in one of the Moorish towers. His history, which he was fond of

telling, was a tissue of those adventures, mishaps, and vicissitudes

that render the life of almost every Spaniard of note as varied and

whimsical as the pages of Gil Blas.

 

He was in America at twelve years of age, and reckoned among the most

signal and fortunate events of his life, his having seen General

Washington. Since then he had taken a part in all the wars of his

country; he could speak experimentally of most of the prisons and

dungeons of the Peninsula; had been lamed of one leg, crippled in his

hands, and so cut up and carbonadoed that he was a kind of walking

monument of the troubles of Spain, on which there was a scar for every

battle and broil, as every year of captivity was notched upon the tree

of Robinson Crusoe. The greatest misfortune of the brave old cavalier,

however, appeared to have been his having commanded at Malaga during a

time of peril and confusion, and been made a general by the inhabitants,

to protect them from the invasion of the French. This had entailed upon

him a number of just claims upon government, that I feared would employ

him until his dying day in writing and printing petitions and memorials,

to the great disquiet of his mind, exhaustion of his purse, and penance

of his friends; not one of whom could visit him without having to listen

to a mortal document of half an hour in length, and to carry away half

a dozen pamphlets in his pocket. This, however, is the case throughout

Spain; everywhere you meet with some worthy wight brooding in a corner,

and nursing up some pet grievance and cherished wrong. Besides, a

Spaniard who has a lawsuit, or a claim upon government, may be

considered as furnished with employment for the remainder of his life.

 

I visited the veteran in his quarters in the upper part of the Torre del

Vino, or Wine Tower. His room was small but snug, and commanded a

beautiful view of the Vega. It was arranged with a soldier’s precision.

Three muskets and a brace of pistols, all bright and shining, were

suspended against the wall, with a sabre and a cane hanging side by

side, and above them two cocked hats, one for parade, and one for

ordinary use. A small shelf, containing some half dozen books, formed

his library, one of which, a little old mouldy volume of philosophical

maxims, was his favorite reading. This he thumbed and pondered over day

by day; applying every maxim to his own particular case, provided it had

a little tinge of wholesome bitterness, and treated of the injustice of