The Alhambra 51

The Alhambra 51

When the lady had spoken these words, she led the child onward to the

little garden of Lindaraxa, which is hard by the vault of the statues.

The moon trembled upon the waters of the solitary fountain in the centre

of the garden, and shed a tender light upon the orange and citron trees.

The beautiful lady plucked a branch of myrtle and wreathed it round the

head of the child. “Let this be a memento,” said she, “of what I have

revealed to thee, and a testimonial of its truth. My hour is come; I

must return to the enchanted hall; follow me not, lest evil befall

thee;--farewell. Remember what I have said, and have masses performed

for my deliverance.” So saying, the lady entered a dark passage leading

beneath the Tower of Comares, and was no longer seen.

 

The faint crowing of a cock was now heard from the cottages below the

Alhambra, in the valley of the Darro, and a pale streak of light began

to appear above the eastern mountains. A slight wind arose, there was a

sound like the rustling of dry leaves through the courts and corridors,

and door after door shut to with a jarring sound.

 

Sanchica returned to the scenes she had so lately beheld thronged with

the shadowy multitude, but Boabdil and his phantom court were gone. The

moon shone into empty halls and galleries stripped of their transient

splendor, stained and dilapidated by time, and hung with cobwebs. The

bat flitted about in the uncertain light, and the frog croaked from the

fishpond.

 

Sanchica now made the best of her way to a remote staircase that led up

to the humble apartment occupied by her family. The door as usual was

open, for Lope Sanchez was too poor to need bolt or bar; she crept

quietly to her pallet, and, putting the myrtle wreath beneath her

pillow, soon fell asleep.

 

In the morning she related all that had befallen her to her father. Lope

Sanchez, however, treated the whole as a mere dream, and laughed at the

child for her credulity. He went forth to his customary labors in the

garden, but had not been there long when his little daughter came

running to him almost breathless. “Father! father!” cried she, “behold

the myrtle wreath which the Moorish lady bound round my head.”

 

Lope Sanchez gazed with astonishment, for the stalk of the myrtle was of

pure gold, and every leaf was a sparkling emerald! Being not much

accustomed to precious stones, he was ignorant of the real value of the

wreath, but he saw enough to convince him that it was something more

substantial than the stuff of which dreams are generally made, and that

at any rate the child had dreamt to some purpose. His first care was to

enjoin the most absolute secrecy upon his daughter; in this respect,

however, he was secure, for she had discretion far beyond her years or

sex. He then repaired to the vault, where stood the statues of the two

alabaster nymphs. He remarked that their heads were turned from the

portal, and that the regards of each were fixed upon the same point in

the interior of the building. Lope Sanchez could not but admire this

most discreet contrivance for guarding a secret. He drew a line from the

eyes of the statues to the point of regard, made a private mark on the

wall, and then retired.

 

All day, however, the mind of Lope Sanchez was distracted with a

thousand cares. He could not help hovering within distant view of the

two statues, and became nervous from the dread that the golden secret

might be discovered. Every footstep that approached the place made him

tremble. He would have given anything could he but have turned the heads

of the statues, forgetting that they had looked precisely in the same

direction for some hundreds of years, without any person being the

wiser.

 

“A plague upon them,” he would say to himself, “they’ll betray all; did

ever mortal hear of such a mode of guarding a secret?” Then on hearing

any one advance, he would steal off, as though his very lurking near the

place would awaken suspicion. Then he would return cautiously, and peep

from a distance to see if everything was secure, but the sight of the

statues would again call forth his indignation. “Ay, there they stand,”

would he say, “always looking, and looking, and looking, just where they

should not. Confound them! they are just like all their sex; if they

have not tongues to tattle with they’ll be sure to do it with their

eyes.”

 

At length, to his relief, the long anxious day drew to a close. The

sound of footsteps was no longer heard in the echoing halls of the

Alhambra; the last stranger passed the threshold, the great portal was

barred and bolted, and the bat and the frog and the hooting owl

gradually resumed their nightly vocations in the deserted palace.

 

Lope Sanchez waited, however, until the night was far advanced before he

ventured with his little daughter to the hall of the two nymphs. He

found them looking as knowingly and mysteriously as ever at the secret

place of deposit. “By your leaves, gentle ladies,” thought Lope Sanchez,

as he passed between them, “I will relieve you from this charge that

must have set so heavy in your minds for the last two or three

centuries.” He accordingly went to work at the part of the wall which he

had marked, and in a little while laid open a concealed recess, in which

stood two great jars of porcelain. He attempted to draw them forth, but

they were immovable, until touched by the innocent hand of his little

daughter. With her aid he dislodged them from their niche, and found, to

his great joy, that they were filled with pieces of Moorish gold,

mingled with jewels and precious stones. Before daylight he managed to

convey them to his chamber, and left the two guardian statues with their

eyes still fixed on the vacant wall.

 

Lope Sanchez had thus on a sudden become a rich man; but riches, as

usual, brought a world of cares to which he had hitherto been a

stranger. How was he to convey away his wealth with safety? How was he

even to enter upon the enjoyment of it without awakening suspicion? Now,

too, for the first time in his life the dread of robbers entered into

his mind. He looked with terror at the insecurity of his habitation, and

went to work to barricade the doors and windows; yet after all his

precautions he could not sleep soundly. His usual gayety was at an end,

he had no longer a joke or a song for his neighbors, and, in short,

became the most miserable animal in the Alhambra. His old comrades

remarked this alteration, pitied him heartily, and began to desert him;

thinking he must be falling into want, and in danger of looking to them

for assistance. Little did they suspect that his only calamity was

riches.

 

The wife of Lope Sanchez shared his anxiety, but then she had ghostly

comfort. We ought before this to have mentioned that, Lope being rather

a light inconsiderate little man, his wife was accustomed, in all grave

matters, to seek the counsel and ministry of her confessor Fray Simon, a

sturdy, broad-shouldered, blue-bearded, bullet-headed friar of the

neighboring convent of San Francisco, who was in fact the spiritual

comforter of half the good wives of the neighborhood. He was moreover in

great esteem among divers sisterhoods of nuns; who requited him for his

ghostly services by frequent presents of those little dainties and

knick-knacks manufactured in convents, such as delicate confections,

sweet biscuits, and bottles of spiced cordials, found to be marvellous

restoratives after fasts and vigils.

 

Fray Simon thrived in the exercise of his functions. His oily skin

glistened in the sunshine as he toiled up the hill of the Alhambra on a

sultry day. Yet notwithstanding his sleek condition, the knotted rope

round his waist showed the austerity of his self-discipline; the

multitude doffed their caps to him as a mirror of piety, and even the

dogs scented the odor of sanctity that exhaled from his garments, and

howled from their kennels as he passed.

 

Such was Fray Simon, the spiritual counsellor of the comely wife of Lope

Sanchez; and as the father confessor is the domestic confidant of women

in humble life in Spain, he was soon acquainted, in great secrecy, with

the story of the hidden treasure.

 

The friar opened his eyes and mouth, and crossed himself a dozen times

at the news. After a moment’s pause, “Daughter of my soul!” said he,

“know that thy husband has committed a double sin--a sin against both

state and church! The treasure he hath thus seized upon for himself,

being found in the royal domains, belongs of course to the crown; but

being infidel wealth, rescued as it were from the very fangs of Satan,

should be devoted to the church. Still, however, the matter may be

accommodated. Bring hither thy myrtle wreath.”

 

When the good father beheld it, his eyes twinkled more than ever with

admiration of the size and beauty of the emeralds. “This,” said he,

“being the first-fruits of this discovery, should be dedicated to pious

purposes. I will hang it up as a votive offering before the image of San

Francisco in our chapel, and will earnestly pray to him, this very

night, that your husband be permitted to remain in quiet possession of

your wealth.”

 

The good dame was delighted to make her peace with heaven at so cheap a

rate, and the friar, putting the wreath under his mantle, departed with

saintly steps toward his convent.

 

When Lope Sanchez came home, his wife told him what had passed. He was

excessively provoked, for he lacked his wife’s devotion, and had for

some time groaned in secret at the domestic visitations of the friar.

“Woman,” said he, “what hast thou done? thou hast put everything at

hazard by thy tattling.”

 

“What!” cried the good woman, “would you forbid my disburdening my

conscience to my confessor?”

 

“No, wife! confess as many of your own sins as you please; but as to

this money-digging, it is a sin of my own, and my conscience is very

easy under the weight of it.”

 

There was no use, however, in complaining; the secret was told, and,

like water spilled on the sand, was not again to be gathered. Their only

chance was, that the friar would be discreet.

 

The next day, while Lope Sanchez was abroad, there was an humble

knocking at the door, and Fray Simon entered with meek and demure

countenance.

 

“Daughter,” said he, “I have earnestly prayed to San Francisco, and he

has heard my prayer. In the dead of the night the saint appeared to me

in a dream, but with a frowning aspect. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘dost thou pray

to me to dispense with this treasure of the Gentiles, when thou seest

the poverty of my chapel? Go to the house of Lope Sanchez, crave in my

name a portion of the Moorish gold, to furnish two candlesticks for the

main altar, and let him possess the residue in peace.’”

 

When the good woman heard of this vision, she crossed herself with awe,

and going to the secret place where Lope had hid the treasure, she