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The JourneyPart III
Part III
Leaving Antiquera at eight o`clock, we had a delightful ride along the
little river, and by gardens and orchards, fragrant with the odors of spring
and vocal with the nightingale. Our road passed round the Rock of the Lovers
(el Penon de los Enamorados), which rose in a precipice above us. In the
course of the morning we passed through Archidona, situated in the breast of a
high hill, with a three-pointed mountain towering above it, and the ruins of a
Moorish fortress. It was a great toil to ascend a steep stony street leading
up into the city, although it bore the encouraging name of Calle Real del
Llano (the Royal Street of the Plain), but it was still a greater toil to
descend from this mountain city on the other side.
At noon we halted in sight of Archidona, in a pleasant little meadow
among hills covered with olive-trees. Our cloaks were spread on the grass,
under an elm by the side of a bubbling rivulet; our horses were tethered where
they might crop the herbage, and Sancho was told to produce his alforjas. He
had been unusually silent this morning ever since the laugh raised at his
expense, but now his countenance brightened, and he produced his alforjas with
an air of triumph. They contained the contributions of four days` journeying,
but had been signally enriched by the foraging of the previous evening in the
plenteous inn at Antiquera; and this seemed to furnish him with a set-off to
the banter of mine host.
En Frente Del Toro
Se Hallen Tesoro
would he exclaim, with a chuckling laugh, as he drew forth the heterogeneous
contents one by one, in a series which seemed to have no end. First came forth
a shoulder of roasted kid, very little the worse for wear; then an entire
partridge; then a great morsel of salted codfish wrapped in paper; then the
residue of a ham; then the half of a pullet, together with several rolls of
bread, and a rabble rout of oranges, figs, raisins, and walnuts. His bota also
had been recruited with some excellent wine of Malaga. At every fresh
apparition from his larder, he would enjoy our ludicrous surprise, throwing
himself back on the grass, shouting with laughter, and exclaiming "Frente del
toro!-frente del toro! Ah, senores, they thought Sancho a simpleton at
Antiquera; but Sancho knew where to find the tesoro."
While we were diverting ourselves with his simple drollery, a solitary
beggar approached, who had almost the look of a pilgrim. He had a venerable
gray beard, and was evidently very old, supporting himself on a staff, yet age
had not bowed him down; he was tall and erect, and had the wreck of a fine
form. He wore a round Andalusian hat, a sheep-skin jacket, and leathern
breeches, gaiters, and sandals. His dress, though old and patched, was decent,
his demeanor manly, and he addressed us with the grave courtesy that is to be
remarked in the lowest Spaniard. We were in a favorable mood for such a
visitor; and in a freak of capricious charity gave him some silver, a loaf of
fine wheaten bread, and a goblet of our choice wine of Malaga. He received
them thankfully, but without any grovelling tribute of gratitude. Tasting the
wine, he held it up to the light, with a slight beam of surprise in his eye,
then quaffing it off at a draught, "It is many years," said he, "since I have
tasted such wine. It is a cordial to an old man`s heart." Then, looking at the
beautiful wheaten loaf, "Bendito sea tal pan!" "Blessed be such bread!" So
saying, he put it in his wallet. We urged him to eat it on the spot. "No,
senores," replied he, "the wine I had either to drink or leave; but the bread
I may take home to share with my family."
Our man Sancho sought our eye, and reading permission there, gave the old
man some of the ample fragments of our repast, on condition, however, that he
should sit down and make a meal.
He accordingly took his seat at some little distance from us, and began
to eat slowly, and with a sobriety and decorum that would have become a
hidalgo. There was altogether a measured manner and a quiet self-possession
about the old man, that made me think that he had seen better days; his
language too, though simple, had occasionally something picturesque and almost
poetical in the phraseology. I set him down for some broken-down cavalier. I
was mistaken; it was nothing but the innate courtesy of a Spaniard, and the
poetical turn of thought and language often to be found in the lowest classes
of this clear-witted people. For fifty years, he told us, he had been a
shepherd, but now he was out of employ and destitute. "When I was a young
man," said he, "nothing could harm or trouble me; I was always well, always
gay; but now I am seventy-nine years of age, and a beggar, and my heart begins
to fail me."
Still he was not a regular mendicant: it was not until recently that want
had driven him to this degradation; and he gave a touching picture of the
struggle between hunger and pride, when abject destitution first came upon
him. He was returning from Malaga without money; he had not tasted food for
some time, and was crossing one of the great plains of Spain, where there were
but few habitations. When almost dead with hunger, he applied at the door of a
venta or country inn. "Perdon usted por Dios, hermano!" ("Excuse us, brother,
for God`s sake!") was the reply - the usual mode in Spain of refusing a
beggar.
"I turned away," said he, "with shame greater than my hunger, for my
heart was yet too proud. I came to a river with high banks, and deep, rapid
current, and felt tempted to throw myself in: `What should such an old,
worthless, wretched man as I live for?` But when I was on the brink of the
current, I thought on the blessed Virgin, and turned away. I travelled on
until I saw a country-seat at a little distance from the road, and entered the
outer gate of the court-yard. The door was shut, but there were two young
senoras at a window. I approached and begged. `Perdon usted por Dios,
hermano!` - and the window closed.
"I crept out of the court-yard, but hunger overcame me, and my heart gave
way: I thought my hour at hand, so I laid myself down at the gate, commended
myself to the Holy Virgin, and covered my head to die. In a little while
afterwards the master of the house came home. Seeing me lying at his gate, he
uncovered my head, had pity on my gray hairs, took me into his house, and gave
me food. So, senores, you see that one should always put confidence in the
protection of the Virgin."
The old man was on his way to his native place, Archidona, which was in
full view on its steep and rugged mountain. He pointed to the ruins of its
castle. "That castle," he said, "was inhabited by a Moorish king at the time
of the wars of Granada. Queen Isabella invaded it with a great army; but the
king looked down from his castle among the clouds, and laughed her to scorn!
Upon this the Virgin appeared to the queen, and guided her and her army up a
mysterious path in the mountains, which had never before been known. When the
Moor saw her coming, he was astonished, and springing with his horse from a
precipice, was dashed to pieces! The marks of his horse`s hoofs," said the old
man, "are to be seen in the margin of the rock to this day. And see, senores,
yonder is the road by which the queen and her army mounted: you see it like a
ribbon up the mountain`s side; but the miracle is, that, though it can be
seen at a distance, when you come near it disappears!"
The ideal road to which he pointed was undoubtedly a sandy ravine of the
mountain, which looked narrow and defined at a distance, but became broad and
indistinct on an approach.
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 Puerto 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 gas
to the vega of Granada, being one of its advanced guards. It was the
strong-hold 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 oration. 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, senores," cried he, "el pobre Sancho no es nada sin Don Quixote." ("Ah,
senores, 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 basquina 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
spatterdashes, of the finest russet leather, elegantly worked, and open at the
calf to show his stockings 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 personae 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 Rodriquez, 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
her 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, guerilla 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 reconnoiter. 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 reconnoitering 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 gentleman-like 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 smugglers, who have risen to be a kind of mongrel
chivalry in Spain. They come into Andalusia, he said, from various parts, but
especially from La Mancha, sometimes to receive goods, to be smuggled on an
appointed night across the line at the plaza or strand of Gibraltar,
sometimes to meet a vessel, which is to hover on a given night off a certain
part of the coast. They keep together and travel in the night. In the daytime
they lie quiet in barrancos, gullies of the mountains or lonely farm-houses;
where they are generally well received, as they make the family liberal
presents of their smuggled wares. Indeed, much of the finery and trinkets
worn by the wives and daughters of the mountain hamlets and farm-houses are
presents from the gay and open-handed contrabandistas.
Arrived at the part of the coast where a vessel is to meet them, they
look out at night from some rocky point or headland. If they descry a sail
near the shore they make a concerted signal; sometimes it consists in suddenly
displaying a lantern three times from beneath the folds of a cloak. If the
signal is answered, they descend to the shore and prepare for quick work. The
vessel runs close in; all her boats are busy landing the smuggled goods, made
up into snug packages for transportation on horseback. These are hastily
thrown on the beach, as hastily gathered up and packed on the horses, and then
the contrabandistas clatter off to the mountains. They travel by the roughest,
wildest, and most solitary roads, where it is almost fruitless to pursue them.
The custom-house guards do not attempt it: they take a different course. When
they hear of one of these bands returning full freighted through the
mountains, they go out in force, sometimes twelve infantry and eight horsemen,
and take their station where the mountain defile opens into the plain. The
infantry, who lie in ambush some distance within the defile, suffer the band
to pass, then rise and fire upon them. The contrabandistas dash forward, but
are met in front by the horsemen. A wild skirmish ensues. The contrabandistas,
if hard pressed, become desperate. Some dismount, use their horses as
breast-works, and fire over their backs; others cut the cords, let the packs
fall off to delay the enemy, and endeavor to escape with their steeds. Some
get off in this way with the loss of their packages; some are taken, horses,
packages, and all; others abandon every thing, and make their escape by
scrambling up the mountains. "And then," cried Sancho, who had been listening
with a greedy ear, "se hacen ladrones legitimos" - and then they become
legitimate robbers.
I could not help laughing at Sancho`s idea of a legitimate calling of the
kind; but the chief of customs told me it was really the case that the
smugglers, when thus reduced to extremity, thought they had a kind of right to
take the road, and lay travellers under contribution, until they had collected
funds enough to mount and equip themselves in contrabandista style.
Towards noon our wayfaring companion took leave of us and turned up a
steep defile, followed by his escopetero; and shortly afterwards we emerged
from the mountains, and entered upon the far famed Vega of Granada.
Our last mid-day`s repast was taken under a grove of olive-trees on the
border of a rivulet. We were in a classical neighborhood; for not far off were
the groves and orchards of the Soto de Roma. This, according to fabulous
tradition, was a retreat founded by Count Julian to console his daughter
Florinda. It was a rural resort of the Moorish kings of Granada, and has in
modern times been granted to the Duke of Wellington.
Our worthy squire made a half melancholy face as he drew forth, for the
last time, the contents of his alforjas, lamenting that our expedition was
drawing to a close, for, with such cavaliers, he said, he could travel to the
world`s end. Our repast, however, was a gay one; made under such delightful
auspices. The day was without a cloud. The heat of the sun was tempered by
cool breezes from the mountains. Before us extended the glorious Vega. In the
distance was romantic Granada surmounted by the ruddy towers of the Alhambra,
while far above it the snowy summits of the Sierra Nevada shone like silver.
Our repast finished, we spread our cloaks and took our last siesta al
fresco, lulled by the humming of bees among the flowers and the notes of doves
among the olive-trees. When the sultry hours were passed we resumed our
journey. After a time we overtook a pursy little man, shaped not unlike a toad
and mounted on a mule. He fell into conversation with Sancho, and finding we
were strangers, undertook to guide us to a good posada. He was an escribano
(notary), he said, and knew the city as thoroughly as his own pocket. "Ah
Dios, senores! what a city you are going to see. Such streets! such squares!
such palaces! and then the women - ah Santa Maria purisima - what women!" "But
the posada you talk of," said I; "are you sure it is a good one?"
"Good! Santa Maria! the best in Granada. Salones grandes-camas de
luxo-colchones de pluma (grand saloons-luxurious sleeping rooms-beds of down).
Ah, senores, you will fare like King Chico in the Alhambra."
"And how will my horses fare?" cried Sancho.
"Like King Chico`s horses. Chocolate con leche y bollos para almuerza"
("chocolate and milk with sugar cakes for breakfast"), giving the squire a
knowing wink and a leer.
After such satisfactory accounts nothing more was to be desired on that
head. So we rode quietly on, the squab little notary taking the lead, and
turning to us every moment with some fresh exclamation about the grandeurs of
Granada and the famous times we were to have at the posada.
Thus escorted, we passed between hedges of aloes and Indian figs, and
through that wilderness of gardens with which the Vega is embroidered, and
arrived about sunset at the gates of the city. Our officious little conductor
conveyed us up one street and down another, until he rode into the courtyard
of an inn where he appeared to be perfectly at home. Summoning the landlord by
his Christian name, he committed us to his care as two caballeros de mucho
valor, worthy of his best apartments and most sumptuous fare. We were
instantly reminded of the patronizing stranger who introduced Gil Blas with
such a flourish of trumpets to the host and hostess of the inn at Pennaflor,
ordering trouts for his supper, and eating voraciously at his expense. "You
know not what you possess," cried he to the innkeeper and his wife. "You have
a treasure in your house. Behold in this young gentleman the eighth wonder of
the world-nothing in this house is too good for Senor Gil Blas of Santillane,
who deserves to be entertained like a prince."
Determined that the little notary should not eat trouts at our expense,
like his prototype of Pennaflor, we forbore to ask him to supper; nor had we
reason to reproach ourselves with ingratitude, for we found before morning the
little varlet, who was no doubt a good friend of the landlord, had decoyed us
into one of the shabbiest posadas in Granada.
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