The Lands of the Saracen - Bayard Taylor
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The clouds which had been gathering all day, now settled down upon the
plain, and night came on with a dull rain. At eight o'clock we reached the
City of Ecija, where we had two hours' halt and supper. It was so dark and
rainy that I saw nothing, not even the classic Xenil, the river of
Granada, which flows through the city on its way to the Guadalquivir, The
night wore slowly away, and while the _mozo_ drowsed on his post, I caught
snatches of sleep between his cries. As the landscape began to grow
distinct in the gray, cloudy dawn, we saw before us Cordova, with the dark
range of the Sierra Morena rising behind it. This city, once the glory of
Moorish Spain, the capital of the great Abd-er-Rahman, containing, when in
its prime, a million of inhabitants, is now a melancholy wreck. It has not
a shadow of the art, science, and taste which then distinguished it, and
the only interest it now possesses is from these associations, and the
despoiled remnant of its renowned Mosque.
We crossed the Guadalquivir on a fine bridge built on Roman foundations,
and drove slowly down the one long, rough, crooked street. The diligence
stops for an hour, to allow passengers to breakfast, but my first thought
was for the Cathedral-mosque, _la Mezquita_, as it is still called. "It is
closed," said the ragged crowd that congregated about us; "you cannot get
in until eight o'clock." But I remembered that a silver key will open
anything in Spain, and taking a mozo as a guide we hurried off as fast as
the rough pavements would permit. We had to retrace the whole length of
the city, but on reaching the Cathedral, found it open. The exterior is
low, and quite plain, though of great extent. A Moorish gateway admitted
me into the original court-yard, or _haram_, of the mosque, which is
planted with orange trees and contains the fountain, for the ablutions of
Moslem worshippers, in the centre. The area of the Mosque proper,
exclusive of the court-yard, is about 400 by 350 feet. It was built on the
plan of the great Mosque of Damascus, about the end of the eighth century.
The materials--including twelve hundred columns of marble, jasper and
porphyry, from the ruins of Carthage, and the temples of Asia
Minor---belonged to a Christian basilica, of the Gothic domination, which
was built upon the foundations of a Roman temple of Janus; so that the
three great creeds of the world have here at different times had their
seat. The Moors considered this mosque as second in holiness to the Kaaba
of Mecca, and made pilgrimages to it from all parts of Moslem Spain and
Barbary. Even now, although shorn of much of its glory, it surpasses any
Oriental mosque into which I have penetrated, except St. Sophia, which is
a Christian edifice.
All the nineteen original entrances--beautiful horse-shoe arches--are
closed, except the central one. I entered by a low door, in one corner of
the corridor. A wilderness of columns connected by double arches (one
springing above the other, with an opening between), spread their dusky
aisles before me in the morning twilight. The eight hundred and fifty
shafts of this marble forest formed labyrinths and mazes, which at that
early hour appeared boundless, for their long vistas disappeared in the
shadows. Lamps were burning before distant shrines, and a few worshippers
were kneeling silently here and there. The sound of my own footsteps, as I
wandered through the ranks of pillars, was all that I heard. In the centre
of the wood (for such it seemed) rises the choir, a gaudy and tasteless
excrescence added by the Christians. Even Charles V., who laid a merciless
hand on the Alhambra, reproved the Bishop of Cordova for this barbarous
and unnecessary disfigurement.
The sacristan lighted lamps in order to show me the Moorish chapels.
Nothing but the precious materials of which these exquisite structures are
composed could have saved them from the holy hands of the Inquisition,
which intentionally destroyed all the Roman antiquities of Cordova. Here
the fringed arches, the lace-like filigrees, the wreathed inscriptions,
and the domes of pendent stalactites which enchant you in the Alcazar of
Seville, are repeated, not in stucco, but in purest marble, while the
entrance to the "holy of holies" is probably the most glorious piece of
mosaic in the world. The pavement of the interior is deeply worn by the
knees of the Moslem pilgrims, who compassed it seven times, kneeling, as
they now do in the Kaaba, at Mecca. The sides are embroidered with
sentences from the Koran, in Cufic characters, and the roof is in the
form of a fluted shell, of a single piece of pure white marble, fifteen
feet in diameter. The roof of the vestibule is a wonderful piece of
workmanship, formed of pointed arches, wreathed and twined through each
other, like basket-work. No people ever wrought poetry into stone so
perfectly as the Saracens. In looking on these precious relics of an
elegant and refined race, I cannot help feeling a strong regret that their
kingdom ever passed into other hands.
Leaving Cordova, our road followed the Guadalquivir, along the foot of the
Sierra Morena, which rose dark and stern, a barrier to the central
table-lands of La Mancha. At Alcolea, we crossed the river on a noble
bridge of black marble, out of all keeping with the miserable road. It
rained incessantly, and the scenery through which we passed had a wild and
gloomy character. The only tree to be seen was the olive, which covered
the hills far and near, the profusion of its fruit showing the natural
richness of the soil. This part of the road is sometimes infested with
robbers, and once, when I saw two individuals waiting for us in a lonely
defile, with gun-barrels thrust out from under their black cloaks, I
anticipated a recurrence of a former unpleasant experience. But they
proved to be members of the _guardia civil_, and therefore our protectors.
The ruts and quagmires, made by the rain, retarded our progress, and it
was dark when we reached Andujar, fourteen leagues from Cordova. To
Baylen, where I was to quit the diligence, and take another coming down
from Madrid to Granada, was four leagues further. We journeyed on in the
dark, in a pouring rain, up and down hill for some hours, when all at
once the cries of the mozo ceased, and the diligence came to a dead stop.
There was some talk between our conductors, and then the mayoral opened
the door and invited us to get out. The postillion had fallen asleep, and
the mules had taken us into a wrong road. An attempt was made to turn the
diligence, but failed, leaving it standing plump against a high bank of
mud. We stood, meanwhile, shivering in the cold and wet, and the fair
Andalusian shed abundance of tears. Fortunately, Baylen was close at hand,
and, after some delay, two men came with lanterns and escorted us to the
_posada_, or inn, where we arrived at midnight. The diligence from Madrid,
which was due six hours before, had not made its appearance, and we passed
the rest of the night in a cold room, fasting, for the meal was only to be
served when the other passengers came. At day-break, finally, a single
dish of oily meat was vouchsafed to us, and, as it was now certain that
some accident had happened, the passengers to Madrid requested the
_Administrador_ to send them on in an extra conveyance. This he refused,
and they began to talk about getting up a pronunciamento, when a messenger
arrived with the news that the diligence had broken down at midnight,
about two leagues off. Tools were thereupon dispatched, nine hours after
the accident happened, and we might hope to be released from our
imprisonment in four or five more.
Baylen is a wretched place, celebrated for having the first palm-tree
which those see who come from Madrid, and for the victory gained by
Castanos over the French forces under Dupont, which occasioned the flight
of Joseph Buonaparte from Madrid, and the temporary liberation of Spain
from the French yoke. Castanos, who received the title of Duke de Baylen,
and is compared by the Spaniards to Wellington, died about three months
ago. The battle-field I passed in the night; the palm-tree I found, but it
is now a mere stump, the leaves having been stripped off to protect the
houses of the inhabitants from lightning. Our posada had one of them hung
at the window. At last, the diligence came, and at three P.M., when I
ought to have been in sight of Granada, I left the forlorn walls of
Baylen. My fellow-passengers were a young sprig of the Spanish nobility
and three chubby-faced nuns.
The rest of the journey that afternoon was through a wide, hilly region,
entirely bare of trees and habitations, and but partially cultivated.
There was something sublime in its very nakedness and loneliness, and I
felt attracted to it as I do towards the Desert. In fact, although I have
seen little fine scenery since leaving Seville, have had the worst of
weather, and no very pleasant travelling experiences, the country has
exercised a fascination over me, which I do not quite understand. I find
myself constantly on the point of making a vow to return again. Much to my
regret, night set in before we reached Jaen, the capital of the Moorish
kingdom of that name. We halted for a short time in the large plaza of the
town, where the dash of fountains mingled with the sound of the rain, and
the black, jagged outline of a mountain overhanging the place was visible
through the storm.
All night we journeyed on through the mountains, sometimes splashing
through swollen streams, sometimes coming almost to a halt in beds of deep
mud. When this morning dawned, we were ascending through wild, stony
hills, overgrown with shrubbery, and the driver said we were six leagues
from Granada. Still on, through a lonely country, with now and then a
large _venta_, or country inn, by the road-side, and about nine o'clock,
as the sky became more clear, I saw in front of us, high up under the
clouds, the snow-fields of the Sierra Nevada. An hour afterwards we were
riding between gardens, vineyards, and olive orchards, with the
magnificent Vega of Granada stretching far away on the right, and the
Vermilion Towers of the Alhambra crowning the heights before us.
Chapter XXXV.
Granada And The Alhambra.
Mateo Ximenez, the Younger--The Cathedral of Granada--A Monkish
Miracle--Catholic Shrines--Military Cherubs--The Royal Chapel--The Tombs
of Ferdinand and Isabella--Chapel of San Juan de Dios--The
Albaycin--View of the Vega--The Generalife--The Alhambra--Torra de la
Vela--The Walls and Towers--A Visit to Old Mateo--The Court of the
Fish-pond--The Halls of the Alhambra--Character of the
Architecture--Hall of the Abencerrages--Hall of the Two Sisters--The
Moorish Dynasty in Spain.
"Who has not in Granada been,
Verily, he has nothing seen."
_Andalusian Proverb_.
Granada, _Wednesday, Nov._ 17, 1852.
Immediately on reaching here, I was set upon by an old gentleman who
wanted to act as guide, but the mozo of the hotel put into my hand a card
inscribed "Don Mateo Ximenez, Guide to the celebrated Washington Irving,"
and I dismissed the other applicant. The next morning, as the mozo brought
me my chocolate, he said; "Senor, _el chico_ is waiting for you." The
"little one" turned out to be the son of old Mateo, "honest Mateo," who
still lives up in the Alhambra, but is now rather too old to continue his
business, except on great occasions. I accepted the young Mateo, who spoke
with the greatest enthusiasm of Mr. Irving, avowing that the whole family
was devoted to him, in life and death. It was still raining furiously,
and the golden Darro, which roars in front of the hotel, was a swollen
brown flood. I don't wonder that he sometimes threatens, as the old
couplet says, to burst up the Zacatin, and bear it down to his bride, the
Xenil.
Towards noon, the clouds broke away a little, and we sallied out. Passing
through the gate and square of Vivarrambla (may not this name come from
the Arabic _bob er-raml,_ the "gate of the sand?"), we soon reached the
Cathedral. This massive structure, which makes a good feature in the
distant view of Granada, is not at all imposing, near at hand. The
interior is a mixture of Gothic and Roman, glaring with whitewash, and
broken, like that of Seville, by a wooden choir and two grand organs,
blocking up the nave. Some of the side chapels, nevertheless, are splendid
masses of carving and gilding. In one of them, there are two full-length
portraits of Ferdinand and Isabella, supposed to be by Alonzo Cano. The
Cathedral contains some other good pictures by the same master, but all
its former treasures were carried off by the French.
We next went to the Picture Gallery, which is in the Franciscan Convent.
There are two small Murillos, much damaged, some tolerable Alonzo Canos, a
few common-place pictures by Juan de Sevilla, and a hundred or more by
authors whose names I did not inquire, for a more hideous collection of
trash never met my eye. One of them represents a miracle performed by two
saints, who cut off the diseased leg of a sick white man, and replace it
by the sound leg of a dead negro, whose body is seen lying beside the bed.
Judging from the ghastly face of the patient, the operation is rather
painful, though the story goes that the black leg grew fast, and the man
recovered. The picture at least illustrates the absence of "prejudice of
color" among the Saints.
We went into the adjoining Church of Santo Domingo, which has several very
rich shrines of marble and gold. A sort of priestly sacristan opened the
Church of the Madonna del Rosario---a glittering mixture of marble, gold,
and looking-glasses, which has rather a rich effect. The beautiful yellow
and red veined marbles are from the Sierra Nevada. The sacred Madonna--a
big doll with staring eyes and pink cheeks--has a dress of silver, shaped
like an extinguisher, and encrusted with rubies and other precious stones.
The utter absence of taste in most Catholic shrines is an extraordinary
thing. It seems remarkable that a Church which has produced so many
glorious artists should so constantly and grossly violate the simplest
rules of art. The only shrine which I have seen, which was in keeping with
the object adored, is that of the Virgin, at Nazareth, where there is
neither picture nor image, but only vases of fragrant flowers, and
perfumed oil in golden lamps, burning before a tablet of spotless marble.
Among the decorations of the chapel, there are a host of cherubs frescoed
on the ceiling, and one of them is represented in the act of firing off a
blunderbuss. "Is it true that the angels carry blunderbusses?" I asked the
priest. He shrugged his shoulders with a sort of half-smile, and said
nothing. In the Cathedral, on the plinths of the columns in the outer
aisles, are several notices to the effect that "whoever speaks to women,
either in the nave or the aisles, thereby puts himself in danger of
excommunication." I could not help laughing, as I read this monkish and
yet most _un_monk-like statute. "Oh," said Mateo, "all that was in the
despotic times; it is not so now."
A deluge of rain put a stop to my sight-seeing until the next morning,
when I set out with Mateo to visit the Royal Chapel. A murder had been
committed in the night, near the entrance of the Zacatin, and the
paving-stones were still red with the blood of the victim. A _funcion_ of
some sort was going on in the Chapel, and we went into the sacristy to
wait. The priests and choristers were there, changing their robes; they
saluted me good-humoredly, though there was an expression in their faces
that plainly said: "a heretic!" When the service was concluded, I went
into the chapel and examined the high altar, with its rude wood-carvings,
representing the surrender of Granada. The portraits of Ferdinand and
Isabella, Cardinal Ximenez, Gonzalvo of Cordova, and King Boabdil, are
very curious. Another tablet represents the baptism of the conquered
Moors.
In the centre of the chapel stand the monuments erected to Ferdinand and
Isabella, and their successors Philip L, and Maria, by Charles V. They are
tall catafalques of white marble, superbly sculptured, with the full
length effigies of the monarchs upon them. The figures are admirable; that
of Isabella, especially, though the features are settled in the repose of
death, expresses all the grand and noble traits which belonged to her
character. The sacristan removed the matting from a part of the floor,
disclosing an iron grating underneath, A damp, mouldly smell, significant
of death and decay, came up through the opening. He lighted two long waxen
tapers, lifted the grating, and I followed him down the narrow steps into
the vault where lie the coffins of the Catholic Sovereigns. They were
brought here from the Alhambra, in 1525. The leaden sarcophagi, containing
the bodies of Ferdinand and Isabella, lie, side by side, on stone slabs;
and as I stood between the two, resting a hand on each, the sacristan
placed the tapers in apertures in the stone, at the head and foot. They
sleep, as they wished, in their beloved Granada, and no profane hand has
ever disturbed the repose of their ashes.
After visiting the Church of San Jeronimo, founded by Gonzalvo of Cordova,
I went to the adjoining Church and Hospital of San Juan de Dios. A fat
priest, washing his hands in the sacristy, sent a boy to show me the
Chapel of San Juan, and the relics. The remains of the Saint rest in a
silver chest, standing in the centre of a richly-adorned chapel. Among the
relics is a thorn from the crown of Christ, which, as any botanist may
see, must have grown on a different plant from the other thorn they show
at Seville; and neither kind is found in Palestine. The true _spina
christi_, the nebbuk, has very small thorns; but nothing could be more
cruel, as I found when riding through patches of it near Jericho. The boy
also showed me a tooth of San Lorenzo, a crooked brown _bicuspis_, from
which I should infer that the saint was rather an ill-favored man. The
gilded chapel of San Juan is in singular contrast with one of the garments
which he wore when living--a cowl of plaited reeds, looking like an old
fish basket--which is kept in a glass case. His portrait is also to be
seen--a mild and beautiful face, truly that of one who went about doing
good. He was a sort of Spanish John Howard, and deserved canonization, if
anybody ever did.
I ascended the street of the Darro to the Albaycin, which we entered by
one of the ancient gates. This suburb is still surrounded by the original
fortifications, and undermined by the capacious cisterns of the Moors. It
looks down on Granada; and from the crumbling parapets there are superb
views over the city, the Vega, and its inclosing mountains. The Alhambra
rose opposite, against the dark-red and purple background of the Sierra
Nevada, and a canopy of heavy rain-clouds rested on all the heights. A
fitful gleam of sunshine now and then broke through and wandered over the
plain, touching up white towers and olive groves and reaches of the
winding Xenil, with a brilliancy which suggested the splendor of the whole
picture, if once thus restored to its proper light. I could see Santa Fe
in the distance, toward Loxa; nearer, and more eastward, the Sierra de
Elvira, of a deep violet color, with the woods of the Soto de Roma, the
Duke of Wellington's estate, at its base; and beyond it the Mountain of
Parapanda, the weather-guage of Granada, still covered with clouds. There
is an old Granadian proverb which says:--"When Parapanda wears his bonnet,
it will rain whether God wills it or no." From the chapel of San Miguel,
above the Albaycin, there is a very striking view of the deep gorge of the
Darro, at one's feet, with the gardens and white walls of the Generalife
rising beyond, and the Silla del Moro and the Mountain of the Sun towering
above it. The long, irregular lines of the Alhambra, with the huge red
towers rising here and there, reminded me somewhat of a distant view of
Karnak; and, like Karnak, the Alhambra is picturesque from whatever point
it is viewed.
We descended through wastes of cactus to the Darro, in whose turbid stream
a group of men were washing for gold. I watched one of them, as he
twirled his bowl in precisely the California style, but got nothing for
his pains. Mateo says that they often make a dollar a day, each. Passing
under the Tower of Comares and along the battlements of the Alhambra, we
climbed up to the Generalife. This charming villa is still in good
preservation, though its exquisite filigree and scroll-work have been
greatly injured by whitewash. The elegant colonnades surround gardens rich
in roses, myrtles and cypresses, and the fountains that lulled the Moorish
Kings in their summer idleness still pour their fertilizing streams. In
one of the rooms is a small and bad portrait gallery, containing a
supposed portrait of Boabdil. It is a mild, amiable face, but wholly lacks
strength of character.
To-day I devoted to the Alhambra. The storm, which, as the people say, has
not been equalled for several years, showed no signs of breaking up, and
in the midst of a driving shower I ascended to the Vermilion Towers, which
are supposed to be of Phoenician origin. They stand on the extremity of a
long, narrow ledge, which stretches out like an arm from the hill of the
Alhambra. The _paseo_ lies between, and is shaded by beautiful elms, which
the Moors planted.
I entered the Alhambra by the Gate of Justice, which is a fine specimen of
Moorish architecture, though of common red brick and mortar. It is
singular what a grace the horse-shoe arch gives to the most heavy and
lumbering mass of masonry. The round arches of the Christian edifices of
Granada seem tame and inelegant, in comparison. Over the arch of the
vestibule of this gate is the colossal hand, and over the inner entrance
the key, celebrated in the tales of Washington Irving and the
superstitions of the people. I first ascended the Torre de la Vela, where
the Christian flag was first planted on the 2d of January, 1492. The view
of the Vega and City of Granada was even grander than from the Albaycin.
Parapanda was still bonneted in clouds, but patches of blue sky began to
open above the mountains of Loxa. A little boy accompanied us, to see that
I did not pull the bell, the sound of which would call together all the
troops in the city. While we stood there, the funeral procession of the
man murdered two nights before came up the street of Gomerez, and passed
around the hill under the Vermilion Towers.
I made the circuit of the walls before entering the Palace. In the Place
of the Cisterns, I stopped to take a drink of the cool water of the Darro,
which is brought thither by subterranean channels from the hills. Then,
passing the ostentatious pile commenced by Charles V., but which was never
finished, and never will be, nor ought to be, we walked along the southern
ramparts to the Tower of the Seven Floors, amid the ruins of winch I
discerned the top of the arch by which the unfortunate Boabdil quitted
Granada, and which was thenceforth closed for ever. In the Tower of the
Infantas, a number of workmen were busy restoring the interior, which has
been cruelly damaged. The brilliant _azulejo_, or tile-work, the delicate
arches and filigree sculpture of the walls, still attest its former
elegance, and give some color to the tradition that it was the residence
of the Moorish Princesses.
As we passed through the little village which still exists among the ruins
of the fortress, Mateo invited me to step in and see his father, the
genuine "honest Mateo," immortalized in the "Tales of the Alhambra." The
old man has taken up the trade of silk-weaving, and had a number of
gay-colored ribbons on his loom. He is more than sixty years old and now
quite gray-headed, but has the same simple manners, the same honest face
that attracted his temporary master. He spoke with great enthusiasm of Mr.
Irving, and brought out from a place of safety the "Alhambra" and the
"Chronicles of the Conquest," which he has carefully preserved. He then
produced an Andalusian sash, the work of his own hands, which he insisted
on binding around my waist, to see how it would look. I must next take off
my coat and hat, and put on his Sunday jacket and jaunty sombrero. "_Por
Dios_!" he exclaimed: "_que buen mozo_! Senor, you are a legitimate
Andalusian!" After this, of course, I could do no less than buy the sash.
"You must show it to Washington Irving," said he, "and tell him it was
made by Mateo's own hands;" which I promised. I must then go into the
kitchen, and eat a pomegranate from his garden--a glorious pomegranate,
with kernels of crimson, and so full of blood that you could not touch
them but it trickled through your fingers. El Marques, a sprightly dog,
and a great slate-colored cat, took possession of my legs, and begged for
a share of every mouthful I took, while old Mateo sat beside me, rejoicing
in the flavor of a Gibraltar cigar which I gave him. But my time was
precious, and so I let the "Son of the Alhambra" go back to his loom, and
set out for the Palace of the Moorish Kings.