“A BOAT, A BOAT, MY KINGDOM FOR A BOAT!”—THE VICTIMS OF A TUNNY FISH.—SENOR BENSAKEN SPEAKS HIS MIND, AND WE ARE REPROVED.—RUNNING WATERS.—HOWLINGS OF TARSHISH.—PEPA’S FAMILY.
“A BOAT, A BOAT, MY KINGDOM FOR A BOAT!”—THE VICTIMS OF A TUNNY FISH.—SENOR BENSAKEN SPEAKS HIS MIND, AND WE ARE REPROVED.—RUNNING WATERS.—HOWLINGS OF TARSHISH.—PEPA’S FAMILY.
WE had another amusing instance of Spanishnonchalanceat Malaga. The original plan of our journey was this:—to see the galleries of Madrid, the Moorish antiquities of Cordova, Seville, and Granada, and from the south of Spain cross over to Oran, and visit the beautiful old city of Tclemcen, the Granada of the West. But to get to Oran it was necessary to obtain information about boats, and this seemed an undertaking simply impossible. We ran hither and thither to the different steam-boat offices; we telegraphed to head-quarters at Gibraltar; we wrote dozens of letters of inquiry; we spenttime, money, and patience; all availed nothing. Sometimes a glimpse of something like hope was vouchsafed to us. There was a weekly boat to Algeciras. There was a fortnightly boat from Gibraltar to Oran; there was a surfeit of boats one day, the next none at all. We were by turns advised to trust to the Algeciras boat, the Gibraltar boat, the Cadiz boat, till we came to the disheartening conclusion that we must give up Tclemcen altogether. No two statements ever agreed, and in this state of uncertainty we went off to Granada.
At six o’clock in the afternoon the diligence was to start, a great cumbersome vehicle divided into three compartments—berlina, coupé, and rotunda, and drawn by nine splendid mules in gay harness. We had taken the precaution to engage the berlina to ourselves,—a precaution I should earnestly recommend to all travellers who visit Spain before the completion of the railways brings back another age of gold. The berlina is a small compartment containing three seats and numerous little bags and hooks for the stowage of small baggage; it is somewhat narrow, it is true, and an imprisonment of fifteen hours within such a compass,not a pleasant ordeal to go through. But what is that to the inconveniences of the rotunda, where you are crowded and cramped so that you cannot stir a limb, where you are stifled with smoke and deafened with the noise of voices, where you are poisoned by foul air and bad smells, and where you are subject to tyranny a thousand times worse than that of fleas? We had been forewarned of these things in time, and were thus enabled to perform the wearisome night-journey to Granada without too much fatigue.
The first part of it was amusing enough. We drove out of the town with a tremendous dash; and as we had a coachman, a postilion, and a runner to urge the mules on, no wonder that we got on very fast. The journey was all up-hill, and the diligence was heavily laden; but the mules seemed so anxious to go fast that one might have fancied a pack of wolves was at their heels. The runner had a very bad time of it. He seemed to know every mule by name, and made the most extraordinary noises to urge his beasts on. Every now and then he sprang on to the step and rested awhile; then, on a sudden, just as the mules wereslackening their pace a little, he would jump to the ground, crack his whip, and utter the most diabolical sounds.
The night was starlight, and we were able to see something of the wild country through which we passed. At regular intervals we came upon a couple ofguardia civile, or gendarmes, standing on each side of the road. They were motionless as statues and looked very brigand-like in their fierce sombreros, hanging cloaks, and tight-fitting gaiters. One of theseguardia civile, well-armed, always accompanies the diligence, though the road is considered safe. Our escort was a thin, cadaverous-looking, but soldierly man, who alighted whenever we changed horses, to smoke a cigarette and drink a cup of chocolate, or glass of water. Spaniards seem to live on cigarettes and chocolate.
At five o’clock in the morning we stopped at a posada for nearly an hour, and very refreshing it was to stretch one’s limbs and breathe the cool mountain air. The posada was an enormous rambling old place, but quiet and clean. The landlord showed us, with other travellers, into a room with a little fire, and very civilly promisedus chocolate. There were two Englishmen among the rest who bitterly complained of the coupé. “Think of it,” they said, “we took the coupé to ourselves, and have had such horrid company all the way—a big, strong-smelling, dried tunny-fish!”
“Perhaps it will be taken out here,” I said, consolingly.
They shrugged their shoulders in a very low-spirited fashion and one replied despairingly,—
“It’s ticketed to Granada, so there’s no chance for us. Five hours longer of it! It’s enough to drive one mad.”
It was certainly enough to drive one into a very evil temper. The smell of salted tunny-fish is nearly as bad as anything in the way of smells can be, and reminds one of those odious combinations with which clever chemists once proposed to supersede shot and shell in driving away one’s enemies. The victims in this instance were very long-suffering, and seemed to forget their troubles in a cigarette. They, too, ordered chocolate, but, like ourselves, had to wait for it.
At the last moment, just as the diligence wasready to start, came cakes and chocolate, and after hastily swallowing a little of both, we entered our berlina. Here another amusing scene occurred. At the tail-end of the last moment, such packages as were addressed to Loja, the name of our halting-place, had to be brought from the roof to the diligence. Amongst others, was a light deal-box, which, by some mismanagement or other, fell with an awful crash into the gutter! Out came, as if by magic, all the paraphernalia of some poor little maiden’s wardrobe and belongings: mantilla, gloves, dresses, slippers, needle-work, chocolate-boxes, love-letters tied up with ribbon, missal, rosary,—all lay sucking up the mire in inextricable confusion. Driver, postilion, landlord, and gendarme, stood still, looking overwhelmed and hopeless. After some minutes the driver picked up a glove, the postilion a shoe, the landlord a love-letter, the gendarme a thimble. Then, as if by mutual consent, they slowly and patiently rescued the miry treasures, stopping now and then to sigh over the ruinous condition of each. It was a very humble little outfit, doubtless of some nursemaid or milliner’s apprentice, whichmade the accident all the more deplorable, and I daresay many of those muddy spots were washed out by tears alone. No one grumbled at the delay, and no one seemed to think that the reason of it was not a legitimate one. How unlike our English promptitude and bustle! It was quite touching to see the concern of the stately gendarme when he took up a neck-ribbon the beauty of which was gone for ever. “La pobrecita! La pobrecita!(Poor little thing! poor little thing!) she’ll never be able to wear that again,” he ejaculated.
When everything had been replaced in the broken box, we went on. Now came the tiresome part of the journey. The early morning air was very cold, the road monotonous, and the berlina seemed to become narrower and more suffocating every league we went.
At last we reached Granada. At first sight we were disappointed with the aspect of the place; and indeed Cordova and Toledo are infinitely more impressive as approached by the ordinary road, but afterwards our preconceived ideas were a hundred-fold realised.
Crowds of beggars, the halt, the lame, and the blind, surrounded the diligence, and it was with some difficulty we got out. Some of the beggars were of loathsome appearance, victims of horrible disease and depravity, and all were terribly importunate. Amongst the crowd was a tall, thin, poor-looking old man, wrapped in a shabby Spanish cloak, who came up to us at once and said in excellent English, “How much baggage have you, ladies?” and on our replying, busied himself with it, and with us, in a way that seemed a little unwarrantable. Commissionnaires and guides stick to you like leeches, and we had determined to employ Bensaken, the well-known cicerone of Ford, of Owen Jones, and of hundreds of travellers. This old man looked more like a beggar than anything else, and, but for his proud manner, I think I should have bribed him with a few cuartos to go away. As it was, I sent a little lad after a fiacre, and managed my luggage myself, not feeling inclined to accept anonymous services, after having heard such golden reports of Emmanuel Bensaken. Our old friend, however, seated himself on the box, and not thinking itworth while to deprive him of the pleasure of the drive, we said nothing, and drove off.
Never was a hotel so enchantingly situated as the Hotel Ortiz, to which we had been recommended.
The Hotel Ortiz stands in the Alhambra gardens. The windows let in golden sunshine, and you look over bright yellow avenues of elms and panoramic views of plain and mountain. The Alhambra is quite near. Here you have a glimpse of battlement, superb in colour and outline, there a tower. The air is light, and warm, and balmy. Everybody has a pleasant smile and a brisk air, and goes about singing. The rooms are sunny, and have charming views, and the Alhambra is close by! It seems too good to be true.
After a bath and some excellent tea and bread and butter, the first we had tasted in Spain, and a little rest, we asked for Señor Bensaken.
Señor Bensaken was in the house, and would wait upon the Señoras at once, was the reply. After waiting an hour, again we asked for Bensaken. “Has he not been?” was the surprised answer. “We sent him to you long ago.” But no Bensaken appeared, and as it was now late in theafternoon, we gave up all idea of seeing the Alhambra that day, and strolled into the gardens instead.
I should say there is no lovelier time than autumn for these beautiful avenues of tall elms, these shelving banks and trickling streams. The melancholy of the season harmonizes with the melancholy of this place; and the setting suns bestow a blood-red pomp, as of a battle-field, upon the glorious plain of the Vega.
The great charm of the Alhambra gardens is the constant purling and plashing of water. You never lose sight or sound of this purling and plashing of melted snow charmed from cool haunts in the Sierra Nevada, and both sight and sound grow upon you like sweet music. The flower-beds, once so carefully kept, are now sadly neglected, but the borders of myrtle and violets are lovely in neglect, and the orange and lemon trees bear blossom and fruit as of old. We lingered till sunset, when the old towers and the yellow forest of elm-trees, were burnished to the hue of brightly-polished copper, and the plain below was flecked with deep shadows, black and purple, and golden.Beyond rose the blue and grey mountains of the Sierra Nevada, their crests shining with the silvery brightness of everlasting snow, in a belt of rosy sky. It was a scene of enchantment.
When we returned to our hotel, we were informed that Bensaken awaited us in the corridor, orsalle à manger; what was our surprise to find Bensaken, the renowned guide, and our old friend in the threadbare cloak, one and the same person!
“Why, Señor Bensaken,” we said, “you should have introduced yourself to us at first. We had no idea it was you, or we should have engaged you as guide on the spot.”
The old man was evidently much offended with us.
“Señora,” he said, “it is not my habit to push myself in where I am not wanted, and you preferred to employ that Spanish boy.Corriente!you had to please yourselves.”
“But,” we urged, “how could we know that you were Señor Bensaken? Why did you not give us your card? We had come to Granada with the intention of employing no other guide but Bensaken. We sent for you this afternoon, andyou did not come.” He had evidently stayed away out of displeasure, and we found it very difficult to heal the sore of which we felt so innocent. At last, growing a little impatient, we said sharply,—
“Señor Bensaken, it is really through your own stupidity, and no fault of ours, that this mistake occurred. If you are willing to act as guide to us, we are willing to engage you, and let the matter end.”
The matter did end, and Señor Bensaken became our cicerone. He is a very old man, stiff in manner, aristocratic in appearance, and very entertaining when the mood takes him; full of stories of the great men he has known, Longfellow, Irving, and others. His English is wonderfully elegant, and he speaks several European languages, besides Arabic. But travellers must make haste to Granada who wish to secure his services, for he is in the sere and yellow leaf, and he coughs terribly.
The next day being Sunday, the Alhambra was not open, so we went to see the Cathedral and the Carthusian Convent. The Convent is very rich in inlaid doors and altars of silver, ebony, andtortoise-shell, and is curious in many respects. On the cloister walls are some paintings that Spanish guides show English tourists with sly looks. They represent the persecutions of the English Carthusians by Henry VIII., and one finds the same subject illustrated in other Carthusian convents, which is but natural. Lutheran bigotry still appears to the orthodox Spaniard as dreadful as it then was. The youthful Spanish mind is as vigorously infused with a hatred and fear of heresy as ever, and in the history of Spain used for schools and institutions of the second instruction (Los Institutos y Colegios de segunda enseñanza) occur such passages as these:—
“Por los Paises Bajos prosperaban,Los odiosos errores de Lutero.”
“Por los Paises Bajos prosperaban,Los odiosos errores de Lutero.”
“Por los Paises Bajos prosperaban,Los odiosos errores de Lutero.”
(The odious errors of Luther were prospering in the Low Countries.)
There is a charming view from the terrace of the convent, which, perhaps, repays the traveller for his trouble more than anything to be seen within its walls. The Cathedral every one will naturally visit, on account of the superb monuments of Ferdinand and Isabella. Mass was goingon when we entered, and we could not but notice the terribly irreverent behaviour of the congregation, the choristers, and acolytes. They had, some of them, vicious faces, and all stared about and whispered to each other, and behaved as if they were at a bull-fight.
In the afternoon we drove on the Alameda, very gay at this hour, with a band playing, and ladies promenading, as a Spanish author says, in all their “atractivos;” officers darting past on pretty Andalusian horses, and all the world of Granada out for a holiday.
Granada is very conservative,—Españolisimostill to the backbone, which is rather trying to a traveller’s patience. In spite of the annual influx of foreigners, a foreigner is still stared at and commented on. If you sit down to make a sketch, you are sure to have an obtrusive crowd around you, and I don’t think English ladies could walk with comfort in the town unless accompanied by a guide. At least, we were advised not to try it. It is not that the common people are malicious, but they are so childishly astonished at the sight of strangers, that you feelas if you were a bear being led through a country-town on fair day. Every one has something to say about the bear.
Some of the people were, nevertheless, delightful, the family at the Ortiz, for example. The father acted as cook, the mother as house-keeper, the daughters as chambermaids, and the son as waiter. All were kindly, intelligent, and as gay as larks from morning till night. There was always singing in the house and garden, the same monotonous Arab singing we used to hear at Toledo and Cordova, but here, in sprightly Andalusia, it was infinitely improved upon. The daughters of the house were very pretty, with bright eyes, small regular features, elegant little figures, and great vivacity of expression. One was married, and had a dear little girl, about three, who used to greet us with an English “good morning!” she had learned somewhere. When their work was done, and it seemed done very early in the day, the sisters used to sit on the doorsteps, a friend or two would join them, and what with gossip, needle-work, and singing, they had a merry time of it.
The hotel was quite a little paradise of pleasantness and comfort. From every window were long views of the Alhambra walls and garden; there were very few visitors excepting ourselves, so that we had thesalle à mangerto ourselves, and the people were so kind and careful of our comfort that we could willingly have stayed a month.
Though we were already in December the weather was perfect, soft, golden, and balmy. We were glad of a little wood fire at night, but could have roamed about all day without our bonnets on. Roses and geraniums blossomed in the garden; and, whenever we walked out, little Murillo-like boys offered us bunches of violets.
Before entering the charmed precincts of the Alhambra I must mention a horrifying scene we witnessed just outside our windows. It was a pauper’s funeral. We were warned of its approach by the sound of loud talking and laughter, and, on looking out, saw a wretched coffin borne by four men, smoking cigarettes, followed by a few lookers-on, all appearing equally unconcerned, and preceded by two or three men, who were, I suppose, themourners, bearing lighted candles in their hands. There was no priest, no pall, no semblance of decency, and by-and-by our disgust was increased to the last pitch by the bearers setting the coffin on the bank, and leaning on it to rest themselves!
There is no sort of respect for death in Spain. The body of the pauper is carried to the cemetery in a coffin that belongs to the parish, and is thrust sometimes almost naked into a hole. The priests do not perform burial-service except for those who can afford to pay for it; they read a short service over the body in the church; and when once that ceremony is over, there is no more regard shown for the dead than for the slaughtered horse at a bull-fight. It is horrible.
DAYS IN THE ALHAMBRA.—THE GRANDEUR WITHOUT AND THE BEAUTY WITHIN.—“CIELED WITH CEDAR, AND PAINTED WITH VERMILION.”—AZULEJOS AND ARTESONADOS.—MR. OWEN JONES’ HANDBOOK.
DAYS IN THE ALHAMBRA.—THE GRANDEUR WITHOUT AND THE BEAUTY WITHIN.—“CIELED WITH CEDAR, AND PAINTED WITH VERMILION.”—AZULEJOS AND ARTESONADOS.—MR. OWEN JONES’ HANDBOOK.
THERE is no place in the world like the Alhambra, so graceful, so perfect, so sad. No words can describe it, no pencil can portray it; it remains apart in the heart and fancy, like some second, more golden youth, that has come for a brief season, and made us happy and passed away.
The gardens are bordered with violets and myrtle, and shadowy with orange and lemon trees; the marble floors, the dried fountain, the slender alabaster columns, the gorgeous ceilings, the walls covered with delicate arabesques and verses, the airy courts, the sunny fish-ponds, the luxuriousbaths, the silence and desolation that have fallen over all, are indeed indescribable, and grow upon one like the graces of a most musical poem.
It is a fairy tale for men and women of all countries and religions—a realization of beauty, the most inconceivable and the most intoxicating—a sweet and subtle embodiment of Eastern thought and art. The Alhambra is so ruined as a whole, and yet so perfect in parts, so bare here, so rich in colour there, so desolate and yet so haunted by voices, that it reminds one most, I think, of beautiful antique jewellery. Some of the jewels have dropped out, the gold is tarnished, the clasp is broken, the crown is bent, but gaze a little while, and all becomes as it once was. Pearl and amethyst, emerald and opal, blaze out on some lovely throat, a golden clasp is wound on some round white arm, and a crown shines on some golden head, perhaps of a goddess, perhaps of a woman. Nothing is lost, or changed, or dead.
One doesn’t know what to admire most in this small but exquisite realm of enchantment. Like children at a fair, who clap their hands andlaugh for joy at every new toy, crying out,—“This is best! no, this! no, this!” we passed from court to court, and hall to hall, declaring each to rival each as we went along. At one time I held that the court of Lindaraja bore the palm, at another the Alberca; but each is so perfect in its way that it is almost impossible to have preference for any. The view of the Alberca, or fish-pond court, is very sweet on a sunny day. We first saw it when the sunlight were playing on the water, and the rainbow-coloured reflexion of it on the delicate alabaster colums was magical. But all is magical—the Court of Lions, the Baths, the Hall of Ambassadors, the Mezquita, the Hall of the Two Sisters; and one could weep at the desecration that has done its best to ruin them.
What never ceases to surprise you is the richness and the delicate, one might almost say, effeminate finish and elaborateness of every part. The walls are covered with colouredfaïenceand arabesques; the ceilings are either of inlaid pine or cedar wood, and hollowed after the fashion of stalactite caves; the floors are of polished white marble, the palm-like columns, of alabaster andfountains abound everywhere. There is nothing to add and nothing to take away from this Palace of Aladdin; and as you learn to know the place, you love it, and marvel at it more and more. But if it is a Palace of Aladdin now, what must it have been when the fountains were shedding floods of pearl in the sunlight; when all the courts were filled with perfume of myrtle, of oleander, and of orange-blossom; when the glistening white floors were partly hidden by gorgeous carpets; when the delicate columns were covered with gold, and the fretted domes blazed with colour, orange, purple, and red; when the Caliph administered justice, surrounded by his courtiers, a second Solomon with more than Solomon’s glory; when the Alberca Court rang with the merry voices of Moorish girls, who bathed, and played, and told each other love-stories all day long; when every hall echoed with voices, and was bright with the rich Oriental dresses, what must it have been indeed? Only the poets and chroniclers of the time can tell us; but their name is Legion, for never did the sun of patronage shine brighter than under the Ommeyad dynasty, and the gloriesand disasters of beautiful Granada formed a favourite theme of both poet and poetess.
The Alhambra is not understood in a day. At first sight you are apt to be disappointed. The courts are smaller than you thought, or they seem over-laden with ornament, or they want breadth here, loftiness there; but this is only the captiousness of ignorance. Like a beautiful, capricious child, who tries you and torments you one moment, and the next is all sweetness and grace, and only in need of caresses, the Alhambra must be taken on trust; and when you have seen it as we saw it, in the pearly light of early morning, in the blaze of noon-day sun, in the dusky twilight, in the silvery night, you will come away, filled with the joy that is born of beauty, and thank the happy chance that led your steps to Granada. The outer walls and towers are very grand; but to enjoy their grandeur you must lose sight of the Palace of Charles V., the rankest toad-stool that ever grew up amid sweet summer flowers.
We had come to Granada in the season of sunsets, and what sunsets they were! Thenthe long lines of broken wall, ordinarily of that rich yellow colour, with which the pipe stains white marble, were flushed into deepest crimson, the faded elms were aglow with rosy light, the whole world seemed floating in golden mist. Or if we lost sight of the walls, and turned our faces westward, we looked across a broad purple plain, bounded by the snow-tipped Sierra, behind which the sun was setting in an unutterable splendour of colour and light. Another moment, and the blaze was gone; pink clouds, like rose-leaves, floated about the sky and disappeared slowly one by one, and, last of all, came the bluish-grey twilight, and myriads of large southern stars.
One grows so rooted to the place, for sake of its many-sided beauty,—beauty of art, of atmosphere, of everything, that one never wishes to leave it. That is to say, if one were an intellectual being one would never wish to leave it; but the material part of every poor person and every Protestant must make the thought of dying at Granada simply horrible. I never felt such a distaste for Catholic Spain, andsuch a respect for Mahomedan Spain, as here. The Moors made Granada the paradise we find it, and it was an evil hour for the civilised world when their enlightened rule came to an end. Everything good in Granada is Moorish; instead of arts, philosophy, toleration, charity, and wealth, came ignorance, the Inquisition, superstition, misery, pauperism.
But let us forget these things and give our time and thoughts to the Alhambra. It is quite marvellous that such a creation—what other name can one use in speaking of the Alhambra?—should have been the work of the last period of Mahomedan glory. Like some flower, the last and loveliest of an Indian summer, it only reached maturity when the sun, that had ripened it, was on the wane; and hardly had the petals opened one by one when they were nipped by frost and wind. Everything that contempt and malice, and it must be admitted also earthquakes, could do, was done to despoil the fairy palace of the Moors, and the only marvel is, that anything remains to show what it once was. This mixture of beauty and desolation on every side reminds oneof Heidelberg; only that Heidelberg is less perfect and less melancholy, since with its prosperity, the civilisation that had called it into existence did not pass away.
Descriptions, however poetic or minute, photographs, water-colour drawings, fail to give one a complete idea of the Alhambra. A single visit disappoints all preconceived expectation. To know it and value it for what it is, it must be seen again and again, and studied in every part; and to appreciate it according to its real worth, requires real knowledge of Moorish art and sympathy with its deep religious feeling.
“The architecture of the Arabs,” says Mr. Owen Jones, “is essentially religious, and the offspring of the Koran, as Gothic architecture is of the Bible. And this truth must always be held in the traveller’s remembrance. Indeed, it is impossible to understand any of the great works of the Moors without having read the Koran, their reverence for which is testified in the numerous texts from it with which they adorned their walls. In the Alhambra these sacred writings have been most gorgeously andelaborately inscribed; and what Arabic scholars consider as a labour of love, with no omission of vowel or grammatical sign. In writing ordinary Arabic the vowels are treated as if they were women and are kept out of sight, but as the Koran admits women to Paradise, so Art admits the inferior letters into his service.”[12]
The life of the East is so full of charm, that it is grateful alike to the heart and fancy to find in Arab architecture a transcript of it. Who can doubt that the graceful columns were suggested by the still more graceful palm, the light colonnade by the airy tent, the arabesques of colour and gold, by the silk stuff of Damascus? And the Alhambra itself, so gorgeous within, so unadorned and warlike and well defended without, may be called an embodiment of the spirit of the Koran, which is atthe same time, religious, warlike, luxurious, sensuous, æsthetic.
If you wish to study Moorish art in detail, take in hand one of the beautiful marqueterie, orartesonadoceilings, or a glazed tile, orazulejo. In both these cases the history of the word is the history of the thing.Artesonadomeans a kneading-trough; which, doubtless, first suggested the form of these ceilings; andazulejois directly derived from the Arabic wordzuluja, a varnished tile, andazul, which in its turn is derived fromluzmad, lapis lazuli. Most names for colour in Spanish are derived from the same source in all arts, for as in the case of theazulejo, or coloured tile, the teachers of the art had to supply the name. Bothartesonadoroofing andazulejopavements are very Oriental and ancient. We read in the Bible of the houses “cieled with cedar and painted with vermilion,” and of the “pavements of saphire,” &c.
Nothing can equal the taste and good sense,—always an infallible criterion of art—displayed in both these triumphs of form, colour, and convenience. The tile, which is always of gracefulpattern and beautifully enamelled colours, is cool, clean, and exactly the flooring suited for hot climates. Labour both of brain and hand are never spared, for wherever goodazulejowork exists, there is sure to be plenty of variety, both as to colour and design. But it is chiefly in theartesonadoceilings that the Moorish artist is unrivalled. Here his gorgeous fancy runs riot, and the eyes are dazzled by the wonderful combinations of form and colour that have no counterpart save in his equally intricate and equally rich poetry. A verse of the Koran is just as florid and harmonious to the ear of the Arab scholar, as one of their designs must be to the eye of any artist, no matter what his nation may be.
But the simplicity of the original plan is the most striking point to consider. The Arab was as thorough a geometrician as he was an artist, and brought his geometry to bear upon his art in an extraordinary fashion.
Some of the most beautiful tiles and ceilings are to be seen at the Generalife, the summer palace of the kings of Granada. A pretty walk leads to it; and here, even in December, I found the gardensfull of roses and other summer flowers in blossom. Granada is indeed a garden of roses; and the Generalife is the lightest, airiest summer-house ever reared by Oriental lover of coolness, and running streams and bosquets of myrtle. It recalls how:—
“In Xanadu did Kubla KhanA stately pleasure-house decree.”
“In Xanadu did Kubla KhanA stately pleasure-house decree.”
“In Xanadu did Kubla KhanA stately pleasure-house decree.”
But why say more of Granada? After all, descriptions are all but useless.Vidi tantum!Having seen the Alhambra, one seems to have seen everything.
PIGS, VULGAR AND ARISTOCRATIC.—THE GIPSY CAPTAIN BEWITCHES US.—WE GO DOWN TO THE POTTER’S HOUSE.—A FAMILY DANCE.—AN AWFUL DISCOVERY.—A BOOKSELLER OF TARSHISH.
PIGS, VULGAR AND ARISTOCRATIC.—THE GIPSY CAPTAIN BEWITCHES US.—WE GO DOWN TO THE POTTER’S HOUSE.—A FAMILY DANCE.—AN AWFUL DISCOVERY.—A BOOKSELLER OF TARSHISH.
IHEARD two horrid stories at Granada, which I would not repeat except that I feel some of their truth. We were walking in the town one day, and observing an unusual air of stir and excitement, asked a stander-by what it meant.
The person in question told us that a certain Señor, Don So-and-so, had just died, and that as he was a great enemy to the Liberal party, and a great tyrant, there was rejoicing among the people. We were interested in the matter, and talked of it afterwards to an oldGranadino, whose acquaintance we had made during our stay, and he more than confirmed the report.
“He was a bad man,” he said, “but of thesangre azul(blue blood), a thorough aristocrat, and very powerful. I could tell you stories of what he did that you would not believe. Oh! the people who have blue blood in their veins can do anything in Spain, I assure you. It is acosa de España. Now just listen to a thing this Señor Don L—— did not more than nine years ago. A poor honest man known to me, was taken up accused of committing a theft. He belonged to the Liberal party, and was hated by the blue blood. Well, this man, who is just dead, had him brought into the Plaza de Toos, and tied him up to one of the posts by the hands. ‘Did you or did you not commit this theft?’ he asked. ‘Señor, I know nothing of it. I am as innocent as a child,’”Then this Señor Don —— ordered his man to hammer on to the prisoner’s hands with an iron hammer.
“‘Did you or did you not commit this theft?’ he was asked again by the great gentleman of the blue blood. ‘Señor, I have said I am innocent.’ Again the hammer fell on the poor man’s hands, and again and again, till the boneswere broken, and he still denying the deed. At last, finding him so obstinate, they let him go back to prison, where he was kept for weeks. When he came out I saw with my own eyes the ruin they had made of his poor hands.”
“But that is as bad as the Inquisition,” I said, horrified.
The old man, with a good deal of Spanish punctiliousness, had a touch of Moorish resignation, or what might better be called perhaps fatalism. “We have had to bear such things. I can tell you what happened to me in my youth, when there was still more difference between the law for the blue blood and the white.[13]I am of the white of course, no Don or Caballero, but a humble Señor, of little account. I was a dealerin pigs, Señoras; and I sold a fine lot of pigs to a certain aristocratic gentleman whom I will call Don Serafin. Don Serafin agreed to buy my pigs for five hundred dollars, paying half the sum down, and giving me a written document engaging to pay the other at the end of three months. My beautiful pigs went, and the three months passed. No money from Don Serafin. As I did not wish to appear impertinent, (being of the white blood, therefore, nobody, you know, Señoras) I waited patiently till three months more had slipped away. Then I waited on Don Serafin, and respectfully demanded my money. ‘I owe him money!’ cried the great man to his servants, ‘turn the impertinent fellow away,Es un mentira. He lies.’
“I saw that nothing remained for me but to sue him for my money, which I did. On the day appointed, we appeared before the Alcalde, who received Don Serafin with bows and scrapes, gave him the seat of honour, begged to know to what chance he was indebted for the pleasure of seeing him, and so on. ‘Why, it is that fellow there,’ said Don Serafin, ‘who has brought me herewith a cooked-up story about some pigs,Es un mentira. I never bought his pigs, or if I did, paid for them long ago. Don’t believe a word of it.’ The Alcalde then turned to me, who stood by, hat in hand, like a criminal. ‘Speak out,hombre,’ he said, sternly, ‘of what do you accuse his grace, Don Serafin de So and so and So and so’ (the blue-blooded race have very long titles, you know). ‘Señor,’ I said, still standing, ‘I sold Don Serafin a lot of beautiful pigs, and he agreed to give five hundred dollars for them, paying half the sum down and the other at the end of three months. Señor, I have never received the last half of the money.’ The Alcalde turned to Don Serafin, smiling sweetly; ‘Senor Don Serafin, you hear what this fellow says—is it true or not?’
“‘Es un mentira, a pack of lies and nothing more,’ again answered his grace Don Serafin; ‘don’t believe half a syllable of the story.’
“The Alcalde looked at me with a scowl as if he could devour me.
“‘How dare you accuse a gentleman of such a thing? Get along with you, you lying rogue.’
“I then with great humility brought out the paper signed by Don Serafin himself, in which the money was promised at a certain date. ‘Señor,’ I said, ‘your grace will recognise this writing. The money is a large sum to a poor man like me; I hope you will pay it at once.’
“The Alcalde looked at the paper and was obliged to admit my claim. But he still smiled sweetly on Don Serafin, and looked as fiercely at me as if I were robbing them both.
“Don Serafin tossed back the paper scornfully, and with it a note for fifty dollars. ‘You shall have the rest in two months’ time,’ he said, ‘will that satisfy you?’
“‘Pardon me, your grace,’ I said, ‘but I am a poor man and I want the money. It seems, I dare say, but a mere trifle to you, it is a little fortune to me. Please pay me my two hundred and fifty dollars.’
“Don Serafin looked at the Alcalde, making a sign. The Alcalde was silent. ‘You fellow, to dictate to me in that way; take the fifty dollars and be thankful to the Virgin; or leave them if you please, I don’t care.’
“I turned to the Alcalde and humbly asked his intercession; but it was quite clear I had little enough to expect of him. He seemed to think I was mighty lucky to get anything at all; so, after standing in the presence of the great man till I was ready to drop, I took the fifty dollars and went away.”
“And did you ever get the remaining two hundred dollars?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“No, Signorita, not I. I got a part, ten dollars one month, ten another, and so on, but never the whole.Es una cosa de España.We of the white blood must submit to those of the blue.”
These stories are both worth something as testimony of things as they are, or very lately were, in Spain, and we heard others which I remember less clearly.
There are a great many gipsies at Granada still, and, though they have lost their prestige for romance and daring, a good deal of interest is attached to them. They seem now to be held as very inoffensive sort of people, are miserablypoor, dirty, and live troglodyte fashion, in caves hollowed in the hill-side. The King of the Gipsies, orEl Capitanas he is called, is a fine musician, and we invited him to come up to the hotel one evening and play to us. Captain Antonio’s company is not to be had for the asking. He is, or affects to be, a little shy, wants coaxing and persuading, will not play except before a large audience; and, as Bensaken said to us, “He is a great man in his way, and you couldn’t offer him less than two dollars.”
After disappointing us on several occasions, Captain Antonio came. He had pleaded a sore finger as excuse for his delay, but I am inclined to think that he waited in expectation of a larger audience and more dollars; for the arrival of an American family healed the Captain’s finger miraculously fast. It was sore in the morning, very bad indeed! and, lo and behold! in the evening it was quite well; but let that pass—Captain Antonio’s music made us very forgiving.
He came in—a tall, superbly built man in the prime of life, with a tawny skin, eyes of extraordinary brilliancy, receding jaws, and very lowbrow, long narrow throat, and altogether, of an Egyptian, ancient look, as if he had been one of the old Nile gods come to life.
He bowed graciously, threw off his Spanish cloak, for the gitanos, like all the rest of the world, are growing conventional now, losing costume and characteristics every day; and commenced tuning his guitar.
It was a wretchedly poor instrument, and we began to wonder what sort of torments were about to be inflicted on us, when, on a sudden, the tuning ceased and the music seized hold of us like galvanism. For it was such music as one had never dreamed of before. His fingers but touch the chords, and all at once your breath is taken away, your blood is warmed as if by strong wine, your brain whirls, your eyes see visions, your ears hear marvellous voices, your senses are all mastered by a power that seems to shake the very spheres.
You see the strangest forms and faces, imp, devil, witch, and wizard; you hear a jargon of voices, in love, in anger, in war, in worship, in joy, in despair. Beautiful gitanos come in the charmed circle, join hands, dance for a moment and vanish,or it is filled by a gipsy camp—the fires are blazing, you see men and women feasting, singing, making love, when, all at once, a cry of alarm is heard, and the scene is changed to bloodshed and horrors. Every phase of savage life is brought before your eyes and made real, as if you were tasting it in the flesh. You are indeed for the nonce a gipsy, and know what the gipsy’s world is, above, below, in heaven and in hell; your pulses are quickened to gipsy pitch, you are ready to make love and war, to heal and slay, to wander to the world’s end, to be outlawed and hunted down, to dare and do anything for the sake of the sweet, untrammelled life of the tent, the bright blue sky, the mountain air, the free savagedom, the joyous dance, the passionate friendship, the fiery love.
All at once the gipsy stopped, and the spell was broken. We had never been gipsies, after all; the camp-fires burning under the dark night, the flashing knives, the peaceful dance, the happy loves, the vagabond wanderings over plain and mountain, the midnight encounter,—all these had been but shadows evoked by Captain Antonio’sguitar, and we were a company of ladies and gentlemen, whose utmost vagabondage had not exceeded boiling a pic-nic kettle in Epsom Forest, or, more likely, taking tea on our own lawns. We felt thankful to Señor Antonio for having given us so full an experience of wild life in the space of a few minutes. I cannot say how real it had all seemed. We had wandered with him over so many southern lands, had bivouacked under such fiery suns, that I looked at a fair-haired English lady present, almost with a feeling of wonder to see her hair still golden and her cheeks still rosy.
The gipsy captain received our expressed thanks, as I thought, indifferently, but looked into our faces as if he would read our real criticisms there. Whether he approved either of them or of us, it were quite impossible to say; he had a face as unreadable as a bit of hieroglyphic writing, except that whilst playing, a strange fiery light shone in his eyes, as if he were himself possessed by the devilry of his music.
When he had rested a little and drunk acopita, or thimbleful of brandy, we asked him fora sacred song, and he said he would play us a Christmas hymn. What a change! It was as touching and sweet a melody as any of our Christmas carols, and quite as solemn.
By-and-by some one proposed a dance. Would Captain Antonio oblige us by a bolero or fandango? Most readily, he answered, but he must have a partner; of course,—so we went down into the kitchen, and, after much pressing, up came the daughters of the house, Pepita and little Pepita, Maria, and a friend as young and pretty and playful as themselves. The brother, our little waiter, threw aside his napkin and took up the gipsy’s guitar as naturally as if he had been a musician by profession; one of the young ladies, after a little coyness, consented to become Captain Antonio’s partner, and the dance commenced,—that musical, monotonous dance, so popular among the pleasure-loving Andalusians. But to gain a thorough idea of a gipsy dance, you must get up what is called afuncion,—rather a costly affair; that is to say, you must invite a troop of gipsies, who will not come to dance and sing and play to you without being well paid. Captain Antonio every one should hearand see; he is quite a genius, and if enticed to London or Paris, would create a sensation. We said to him,—
“You should purchase a better guitar, Señor Antonio, and go to London. You would come home a rich man.”
He smiled, showing his glittering white teeth and shook his head:—
“I have a wife and five children, Señora,” he replied; “London is too far off.”
And he did not like the disparagement of his guitar, I think, for he took it up and tuned it in a caressing sort of way, as if it were a living pet we had been slighting.
There is nothing of romance left to the gipsies in Spain now but their costume, even that fast disappearing, and their music. When Borrow wrote of them more than sixty years ago, he speaks of the happy effects of Charles the Third’s edicts, which, by admitting the gipsies into the pale of civilised society, has done more than the fierce persecutions of his predecessors to assimilate this savage race with others. Ferdinand and Isabella and the Philips, did their utmost to put down what theycalled the Egyptians, publishing edict after edict against them, but in vain. Whilst they were a proscribed caste, whilst the very privilege of sanctuary was denied them, whilst they were hunted down and persecuted by fire and sword, the Egyptians, or Gitanos, flourished and had their palmy days; murdering, stealing, cheating, telling fortunes, hating the Busnees, and all who were not Romanys, to their heart’s content.Gitanisimo—that is to say, quoting Borrow, gipsy villany of every description, flourished tillGitanisimowas declared to be no more. Charles the Third, in 1733, published a humane edict in which he declared the gipsies capable of following any career of arts and sciences, and altogether ignored that they were a separate people, amenable to separate laws. What was the consequence?The law of Carlos Tercero has superseded gipsy law, say the gipsies a little regretfully.Gitanisimo, or gipsydom, if not wholly transformed, has been modified. The gipsies no longer wander about living by murder and theft. The women still tell fortunes, and the men, as dealers in horses and mules, are not to be trusted, but they are everywhere spoken of as apoor and harmless set of people; and though the instinct of caste is just as strong as ever among themselves, they are no longer feared or hated. At the time Borrow wrote the gipsies in Spain numbered 40,000 souls; at the commencement of the present century they numbered only 20,000, so that the race here, as elsewhere, seems dying out, or, at any rate, greatly decreasing. Indeed, nothing else could have been expected of them. Wild animals from African deserts are not more out of place, caged in English gardens, than these kings and queens of savagedom compelled to sleep under a roof, and to consider killing as murder. But their dancing and music are worthy of a less lawless and terrible race, and arecosas de España, not to be missed by any travellers.
In the afternoon we drove to the Albaycin, or old town, in search of pottery. The views from this part of Granada are very fine, but the inhabitants are so unused to the sight of travellers, and are such strange, half-civilised beings, that you are hardly able to see anything. We alighted in one place to walk a few yards, and in a moment, as wasps gather round a fallen peach, wewere surrounded by a youthful rabble who looked at us suspiciously, and not content with that, caught hold of our clothes, begged from us, laughed at us—all but tore us to pieces. We had left our coachman behind, as we had come by a way notcarrossable, in order to see a view, and our poor old guide was wholly inefficient to keep off the tribe of persecutors. Two or three big gipsyish girls of twelve or thirteen, caught hold of his coat, and I expected to see his pockets attacked every moment. The noise and noisomeness of this dirty, unkempt mob of juveniles no words can describe. Bensaken’s mild reproof, “Are not these señoras like other señoras? why do you behave so rudely to them?” had no effect. We lost temper, shook our umbrellas threateningly, scolded, and pushed on, never waiting to see the view, and only too glad to close the carriage-door on the merciless, miserable little rabble. Any Englishwoman venturing alone in the streets of the Albaycin would have reason to regret such a piece of audacity as long as she lived. I believe she would be pelted with mud and stones. Nothing is too bad to expect from those awful children. What are the priestsafter, that they are left in such a state of savagedom?
But the Albaycin has pleasanter aspects. Bensaken now took us to a little spot far away from the scene of our persecution, and we soon found ourselves in a scene so peaceful, so poetic, and so lovely, that the ugly dream faded away from our memories. It was the potter’s house we had come to see. The outer walls were whitewashed and bare, after the fashion of Moorish houses, but no sooner was the threshold passed than all was life and colour.
Picture to yourselves a sunny little court with a fountain in the midst, pots of flowers here and there, dogs basking in the sun, pigeons fluttering over head, and rows of lustrous pottery, blue, green, yellow, and brown, placed against the walls, or heaped up in the corners. We entered a little sitting-room and were made welcome by the whole family. There was a grandmother, an aunt, a cousin, and I do not know how many more, but I am only concerned with the young potter and his mother. The first was a lad of nineteen, with quite an artist’s face, sensitive, refined, full ofhappy expression; the second was a handsome, portly creature, a regular type of the Andalusian matron, and as ready to sing or dance a bolero, as the youngest of her daughters.
We were enchanted with the pottery, which is often rude in shape and colouring, but never without a certain childish grace and feeling for art. Some of the designs are wonderfully good, bold, simple, and unique, whilst the coloured patterns often testify a richness of fancy and comprehension of decorative art, quite astonishing in artists so untaught. The prevailing colour is dark rich blue, reminding one of old Wedgwood, and there is always a liberality of imagination both in shape and ornament; no vases or dishes are alike either in the one respect or the other. But, alas! cheap as this quaint pottery is, and plentiful as it would be if appreciated, the manufactures of France and England are taking its place, and by-and-by travellers will have to look far and wide for specimens of it.
The boy seemed delighted at our appreciation of his work, and took us into his atelier. It reminded us of the prophet who said, “I went downinto the potter’s house, and he wrought a work on the wheels,” the place was so primitive and Eastern. The young potter sat down at his work, and fashioned a dish for us; then he took up one already “tried in the fire,” and showed us his manner of colouring. It was quite beautiful to see the dexterity with which he worked, and the fondness with which he regarded his work. We tried our hand and found the matter not so easy as it had appeared.
When we had seen enough and made our purchases, noticing a guitar that lay near, we asked for some music. The request was granted smilingly. Our young potter sat down and played a fandango, his mother and one of the younger women dancing for us. They were all so kindly pleasant, and so amused at being able to amuse us.
We bade these nice people adieu with some regret, and hoped that all other travellers would be guided by some lucky star to their pretty Moorish “potter’s house.” It was pretty enough to make us forget all other diabolical spirits haunting the Albaycin, or old town of Granada.
In the modern town, there is little to beseen excepting a very beautiful old Moorishpassage, with horse-shoe arches, sculptured friezes, and delicate marble columns. Of course, this will soon be a thing of tradition only, but whilst it lasts, it is perfectly Eastern and very picturesque. I went out shopping several times, though it requires an effort to quit the fairy-like region of the Alhambra, and descend into such dingy, ill-paved, smelling streets.
One morning, to our infinite consternation, we found that we had come to an end of our books. We looked into each other’s faces with dismay, and turned over our treasures again and again. Yes, it was but too true. We had read Ford from beginning to end, we had readDon Quixote, we had read our beloved Street, our Stirling, our Borrow, our one volume of Wordsworth, our guides and geographies, ourVie de Cervantes, again and again; and last, but not least, our Benjamin of books, viz., Owen Jones’Handbook to the Alhambra. We had even devoured with avidity some odd chapters of French novels, given for translation into Spanish, in a little book recommended to meby my Spanish master in Madrid. And as to newspapers, a number of thePetit Journalwould have been a mine of wealth to us, in this intellectual desert. We had purchased a stray copy of a Granada paper, grandiosely called,El Triumfo Granadino, and found it a very poor affair indeed, made up of gossip, poor jokes, advertisements, and feuilleton.
We were confidently assured that there were books in plenty to be obtained in the town, English, French, or in Spanish, so I set off in the search, Bensaken accompanying me.
“Mind,” said my friend, “and bring home something light, witty, and entertaining. A good French novel or two, or one of the last Tauchnitz editions.”
I promised to do my best, but experience proved that there was no judgment to be exercised in the matter. It was simply a case of Hobson’s choice. There was only one bookseller’s shop, and in that bookseller’s shop was only one book—that is to say, available book. The bookseller, a very nonchalant person indeed, smoked a cigarette, and chatted with a neighbour, whilst I investigated his stock in trade.
On the first shelf stood a row of school-books and penny parts of cheap illustrated editions of Cervantes, Paul de Koch, Eugene Sue, andGil Blas; on the second, were a few novels of Alex. Dumas, fils, in the well-known green covers, at a franc each; on the third, were, firstly, Victor Hugo’sTravailleurs de Mer; secondly, an odd volume of Byron; thirdly, the American edition of Washington Irving’sTales of the Alhambra; fourthly, an English story, calledOnce and Again, published by Tauchnitz. The first-named books we had, of course, read; but oh! how greedily I seized upon that little English story, and carried it home with me! How we gloried in the possession of it, and glowed over the love-story of it! The book was by no means stirring as a story, or first-rate as a work of art, but we had been living without novels for months past, and it was like being made quite youthful again. If ever it be my fate to meet the author of that little story in the flesh, I mean to thank her for the pleasure she gave us in a bookless “city of Tarshish.”