The Alhambra 5

The Alhambra 5

As the old man’s heart warmed with wine and wassail, he went on to tell

us a story of the buried treasure left under the castle by the Moorish

king. His own house was next to the foundations of the castle. The

curate and notary dreamed three times of the treasure, and went to work

at the place pointed out in their dreams. His own son-in-law heard the

sound of their pickaxes and spades at night. What they found, nobody

knows; they became suddenly rich, but kept their own secret. Thus the

old man had once been next door to fortune, but was doomed never to get

under the same roof.

 

I have remarked that the stories of treasure buried by the Moors, so

popular throughout Spain, are most current among the poorest people.

Kind nature consoles with shadows for the lack of substantials. The

thirsty man dreams of fountains and running streams; the hungry man of

banquets; and the poor man of heaps of hidden gold: nothing certainly is

more opulent than the imagination of a beggar.

 

Our afternoon’s ride took us through a steep and rugged defile of the

mountains, called Puerte del Rey, the Pass of the King; being one of the

great passes into the territories of Granada, and the one by which King

Ferdinand conducted his army. Towards sunset the road, winding round a

hill, brought us in sight of the famous little frontier city of Loxa,

which repulsed Ferdinand from its walls. Its Arabic name implies

guardian, and such it was to the Vega of Granada, being one of its

advanced guards. It was the stronghold of that fiery veteran, old Ali

Atar, father-in-law of Boabdil; and here it was that the latter

collected his troops, and sallied forth on that disastrous foray which

ended in the death of the old alcayde and his own captivity. From its

commanding position at the gate, as it were, of this mountain-pass, Loxa

has not unaptly been termed the key of Granada. It is wildly

picturesque; built along the face of an arid mountain. The ruins of a

Moorish alcazar or citadel crown a rocky mound which rises out of the

centre of the town. The river Xenil washes its base, winding among

rocks, and groves, and gardens, and meadows, and crossed by a Moorish

bridge. Above the city all is savage and sterile, below is the richest

vegetation and the freshest verdure. A similar contrast is presented by

the river: above the bridge it is placid and grassy, reflecting groves

and gardens; below it is rapid, noisy, and tumultuous. The Sierra

Nevada, the royal mountains of Granada, crowned with perpetual snow,

form the distant boundary to this varied landscape, one of the most

characteristic of romantic Spain.

 

Alighting at the entrance of the city, we gave our horses to Sancho to

lead them to the inn, while we strolled about to enjoy the singular

beauty of the environs. As we crossed the bridge to a fine alameda, or

public walk, the bells tolled the hour of orison. At the sound the

wayfarers, whether on business or pleasure, paused, took off their hats,

crossed themselves, and repeated their evening prayer: a pious custom

still rigidly observed in retired parts of Spain. Altogether it was a

solemn and beautiful evening scene, and we wandered on as the evening

gradually closed, and the new moon began to glitter between the high

elms of the alameda. We were roused from this quiet state of enjoyment

by the voice of our trusty squire hailing us from a distance. He came up

to us, out of breath. “Ah, Señores,” cried he, “el pobre Sancho no es

nada sin Don Quixote.” (Ah, Señors, poor Sancho is nothing without Don

Quixote.) He had been alarmed at our not coming to the inn; Loxa was

such a wild mountain place, full of contrabandistas, enchanters, and

infiernos; he did not well know what might have happened, and set out to

seek us, inquiring after us of every person he met, until he traced us

across the bridge, and, to his great joy, caught sight of us strolling

in the alameda.

 

The inn to which he conducted us was called the Corona, or Crown, and we

found it quite in keeping with the character of the place, the

inhabitants of which seem still to retain the bold, fiery spirit of the

olden time. The hostess was a young and handsome Andalusian widow, whose

trim basquiña of black silk, fringed with bugles, set off the play of a

graceful form and round pliant limbs. Her step was firm and elastic; her

dark eye was full of fire; and the coquetry of her air, and varied

ornaments of her person, showed that she was accustomed to be admired.

 

She was well matched by a brother, nearly about her own age; they were

perfect models of the Andalusian Majo and Maja. He was tall, vigorous,

and well-formed, with a clear olive complexion, a dark beaming eye, and

curling chestnut whiskers that met under his chin. He was gallantly

dressed in a short green velvet jacket, fitted to his shape, profusely

decorated with silver buttons, with a white handkerchief in each pocket.

He had breeches of the same, with rows of buttons from the hips to the

knees; a pink silk handkerchief round his neck, gathered through a ring,

on the bosom of a neatly plaited shirt; a sash round the waist to match;

bottinas, or spatter-dashes, of the finest russet leather, elegantly

worked, and open at the calf to show his stocking; and russet shoes,

setting off a well-shaped foot.

 

As he was standing at the door, a horseman rode up and entered into low

and earnest conversation with him. He was dressed in a similar style,

and almost with equal finery; a man about thirty, square-built, with

strong Roman features, handsome, though slightly pitted with the

small-pox; with a free, bold, and somewhat daring air. His powerful

black horse was decorated with tassels and fanciful trappings, and a

couple of broad-mouthed blunderbusses hung behind the saddle. He had the

air of one of those contrabandistas I have seen in the mountains of

Ronda, and evidently had a good understanding with the brother of mine

hostess; nay, if I mistake not, he was a favored admirer of the widow.

In fact, the whole inn and its inmates had something of a contrabandista

aspect, and a blunderbuss stood in a corner beside the guitar. The

horseman I have mentioned passed his evening in the posada, and sang

several bold mountain romances with great spirit. As we were at supper,

two poor Asturians put in in distress, begging food and a night’s

lodging. They had been waylaid by robbers as they came from a fair among

the mountains, robbed of a horse which carried all their stock in trade,

stripped of their money, and most of their apparel, beaten for having

offered resistance, and left almost naked in the road. My companion,

with a prompt generosity natural to him, ordered them a supper and a

bed, and gave them a sum of money to help them forward towards their

home.

 

As the evening advanced, the _dramatis personæ_ thickened. A large man,

about sixty years of age, of powerful frame, came strolling in, to

gossip with mine hostess. He was dressed in the ordinary Andalusian

costume, but had a huge sabre tucked under his arm; wore large

moustaches, and had something of a lofty swaggering air. Every one

seemed to regard him with great deference.

 

Our man Sancho whispered to us that he was Don Ventura Rodriguez, the

hero and champion of Loxa, famous for his prowess and the strength of

his arm. In the time of the French invasion he surprised six troopers

who were asleep; he first secured their horses, then attacked them with

his sabre, killed some, and took the rest prisoners. For this exploit

the king allows him a peseta (the fifth of a duro, or dollar) per day

and has dignified him with the title of Don.

 

I was amused to behold his swelling language and demeanor. He was

evidently a thorough Andalusian, boastful as brave. His sabre was always

in his hand or under his arm. He carries it always about with him as a

child does its doll, calls it his Santa Teresa, and says, “When I draw

it, the earth trembles” (tiembla la tierra).

 

I sat until a late hour listening to the varied themes of this motley

group, who mingled together with the unreserve of a Spanish posada. We

had contrabandista songs, stories of robbers, guerrilla exploits, and

Moorish legends. The last were from our handsome landlady, who gave a

poetical account of the infiernos, or infernal regions of Loxa,--dark

caverns, in which subterranean streams and waterfalls make a mysterious

sound. The common people say that there are money-coiners shut up there

from the time of the Moors; and that the Moorish kings kept their

treasures in those caverns.

 

I retired to bed with my imagination excited by all that I had seen and

heard in this old warrior city. Scarce had I fallen asleep when I was

aroused by a horrid din and uproar, that might have confounded the hero

of La Mancha himself, whose experience of Spanish inns was a continual

uproar. It seemed for a moment as if the Moors were once more breaking

into the town; or the infiernos of which mine hostess talked had broken

loose. I sallied forth, half dressed, to reconnoitre. It was nothing

more nor less than a charivari to celebrate the nuptials of an old man

with a buxom damsel. Wishing him joy of his bride and his serenade, I

returned to my more quiet bed, and slept soundly until morning.

 

While dressing, I amused myself in reconnoitring the populace from my

window. There were groups of fine-looking young men in the trim fanciful

Andalusian costume, with brown cloaks, thrown about them in true Spanish

style, which cannot be imitated, and little round majo hats stuck on

with a peculiar knowing air. They had the same galliard look which I

have remarked among the dandy mountaineers of Ronda. Indeed, all this

part of Andalusia abounds with such game-looking characters. They loiter

about the towns and villages; seem to have plenty of time and plenty of

money; “horse to ride and weapon to wear.” Great gossips, great smokers,

apt at touching the guitar, singing couplets to their maja belles, and

famous dancers of the bolero. Throughout all Spain the men, however

poor, have a gentlemanlike abundance of leisure; seeming to consider it

the attribute of a true cavaliero never to be in a hurry; but the

Andalusians are gay as well as leisurely, and have none of the squalid

accompaniments of idleness. The adventurous contraband trade which

prevails throughout these mountain regions, and along the maritime

borders of Andalusia, is doubtless at the bottom of this galliard

character.

 

In contrast to the costume of these groups was that of two long-legged

Valencians conducting a donkey, laden with articles of merchandise;

their musket slung crosswise over his back, ready for action. They wore

round jackets (jalecos), wide linen bragas or drawers scarce reaching to

the knees and looking like kilts, red fajas or sashes swathed tightly

round their waists, sandals of espartal or bass weed, colored kerchiefs

round their heads somewhat in the style of turbans, but leaving the top

of the head uncovered; in short, their whole appearance having much of

the traditional Moorish stamp.

 

On leaving Loxa we were joined by a cavalier, well-mounted and

well-armed, and followed on foot by an escopetero or musketeer. He

saluted us courteously, and soon let us into his quality. He was chief

of the customs, or rather, I should suppose, chief of an armed company

whose business it is to patrol the roads and look out for

contrabandistas. The escopetero was one of his guards. In the course of

our morning’s ride I drew from him some particulars concerning the