Читать книгу The Royal Road to Romance - Richard Halliburton - Страница 10

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Madrid disappointed me. It was beautiful to be sure, in a grand metropolitan way, but about as romantic as Indianapolis. Anglo-Saxon civilization lies heavily upon it. There are no Valencia golden towers, no Granada Alhambras, no Seville cathedrals. In fact it is hard to find anything about Madrid that is Spanish, if one overlooks the bull fights, the eccentric hours, the cafés packed with idling men, the army of beggars, and an occasional mantilla worn by some cranky old-fashioned woman.

After a week’s residence I gave Madrid up as hopelessly disenchanted, and determined to return south to storied Granada where Paul awaited me, and where, surely, in such December moonlight as was then flooding Spain almost anything of a mad and beautiful nature might happen. As my funds were now reduced to thirty dollars I felt it wise to forego the luxury of a railroad ticket, and in consequence spent most of my time during the twenty-four hour journey dodging conductors.

The sun was almost down when we approached Granada, striking with its last shafts the snowy summits of the Sierras, and beating upon a ruddy cluster of castellated battlements crowning an eminence above the town. Anticipation told me that I beheld no commonplace Spanish ruin in this haughty fortress, but the shrine of endless pilgrims, an Oriental palace in the Occident, the most romantic monument in Spain—the Alhambra.

Our pilgrimage could not have been chosen at a better season, since the flood of tourists ebbs in December and leaves one to worship in peace and solitude. Why the Christmas season should be out of season in the “Red City of the Moors” is difficult to explain for the sun pours its rays over the ruddy battlements day after day, and the sky remains blue and brilliant, admiring itself in the unfrosted pools of the gardens where the flowers and orange trees fill the air with fragrance.

During the last fortnight of the last month of the year the fortress belonged to Paul and me. No door was closed to us, no restrictions imposed. All but the sleeping hours, we passed within its walls, where I was allowed to roam at will, leaving Paul, surrounded by beauty, industriously sketching some pool-reflected portal or graceful colonnade.

Every detail of this justly famous castle has been so fully described by writers qualified for the task that I shall not burden these pages with the attempt of an horizon chaser to subdue the terms of Arabian architecture. Even so, since it was soon to prove the scene of an extraordinary adventure, I can not resist dwelling for a moment on the pool in the Court of Myrtles, where the graceful peristyles before the Comares Tower cast their images in the water with such perfect likeness that in a good photograph one can scarcely tell which is which, and I was determined to get such a photograph. But success depends entirely on the mood of the goldfish which animate the sky-blue basin, for if they are in a playful humor the reflection is rippled beyond recognition.

One sunny morning, I adjusted my camera for a picture, and was on the point of congratulating the fish on being in such unusually calm temper, when the splash of a handful of bread thrown by the warden to his piscatorial pets interrupted me. The instant the bread struck the surface a miniature hurricane agitated the water and completely destroyed all signs of reflection.

A long wait for more settled conditions availed nothing, except to convince me that I was being mocked by a school of insignificant goldfish. So I decided to assert my rights, and, declaring war, began to gather in with the assistance of my tripod, all the scattered crumbs, supposing that the enemy deprived of his food would retreat sulkily to the depths. The campaign was progressing splendidly—only one more crumb remained; but it was so far away I had to seize a myrtle bush for support and lean out over the water. Ah, treacherous myrtle! Never again will you be trusted as an ally in wars with the goldfish. I placed confidence in you, poor weed, and you broke, and down came myrtle bough, tripod, photographer and all, with a great resounding splash into the historic fishpond which, in all the vicissitudes of fortune, had perhaps never before received an amphibious unbeliever beneath its mirroring surface.

My cry of distress as I took the plunge, brought Paul hurrying to the scene from an adjoining courtyard. On finding me spluttering in four feet of water, clutching half a myrtle bush in one hand and a tripod in the other, he was too convulsed with laughter to rescue me. Finally getting his hysterics under control, he thought to seize the tripod and drag his ignominiously thwarted companion out of the enemy’s territory.

Once we had reached our lodging (a long mile away), and I had changed my dripping clothes for an extra outfit of Paul’s (since, with my submersion my entire wardrobe was likewise submerged), we deemed it wise to take a brisk walk as a means of reviving my chilled circulation. The gardens of the Generalife, a summer palace of Moorish kings, located just across a ravine from the Alhambra, was chosen as a destination. However, being without the necessary passes, the gate-keeper, a decidedly choleric old Spaniard, bruskly refused us admittance. But I was not going to be disappointed, having come this far, so while Paul was arguing with him, I slipped through the pearly gates and once inside, broke into a run, in an effort to get a glimpse of the dilapidated Moorish heaven before the celestial bouncer should drive me, as Adam was driven, out of the garden for having committed the unpardonable sin of disobedience. Needless to say the conquest soon met with fierce opposition from St. Peter who removed his obstructing presence from Paul’s path and turned to pursue the impudent intruder with all the indignation of an irate farmer after juvenile apple thieves. Up one path and down another I raced, with the guardian angel swearing and panting close behind, as McGrath, dancing with excitement, urged us both on with lusty cheers. All records for rapidity for sightseeing in those gardens were broken that day, for to say Paul and I were within the enclosure five minutes would be a gross exaggeration.

As we made our precipitous and undignified exit, the solid oak gate closed behind us with a furious bang and rattle of chains that might have made one suspect another Moslem assault was anticipated.

“What we saw was scarcely worth the trouble, was it?” said Paul, recovering his breath.

“Then we shall see more,” I retorted, angered by the new insult that had been added to my aquatic injury. “We’re going to get back into that garden again though it be Gethsemane.”

The gate was obviously out of the question, but by systematic exploration we discovered a pass over the surrounding wall, and by dropping through a clump of rose-bushes, from which we plucked a boutonnière apiece, trod once more on the forbidden ground.

The gate-keeper was still smarting from the lack of respect shown his position when he heard familiar voices behind him, and, on investigating, beheld his ancient enemies strolling peacefully near the very spot from which he had catapulted them shortly before. Astonishment overcame him. Surely they were devils sent to haunt him, but devils or not, they were not going to stay in his protectorate without a ticket; so once more, sputtering inarticulate Spanish, he rushed upon us. The rose boutonnières suggested the route by which we had entered, and amid a volcano of threats the guard shook his finger in the direction of the rose-covered obstruction. Ah, yes—Paul understood—the warden was outraged because two poor little flowers had been plucked from their bush. To appease his wrath, McGrath made a respectful bow and with an expression of seraphic innocence extended his purloined bud toward its guardian. Such imbecility was more than this Spaniard could stand. He howled wildly, clutched at his temples, and fled back to his cell, where he remained until the two diabolic fiends, after a leisurely visit, had left the garden.

Christmas Eve was at hand, and all Granada was preparing to attend the special midnight service being held in the cathedral. It seemed a peculiarly inappropriate moment to seek the Alhambra, yet I felt that on Christmas Eve more than at any other hour, the irreconcilably infidel personality of the Mohammedan temple would manifest itself. High Catholic services could be attended any time; I would perhaps never again be present to watch the captive Alhambra, on the night it most detested, defy and mock the religion and the race that held it in bondage. And so, an hour before midnight, Paul, who preferred the animated Cathedral to the deserted Moorish ruins, separated from me—he to consort with living Christians, I with dead Mohammedans.

There was not another person to be seen within the walls. Wardens and visitors alike had shunned the intolerant fortress and left it in haughty solitude to look down upon Granada blazing in holiday lights.

But how lonely it was, how cold and forbidding. On that evening the pagan palace with its scornful attitude had not one friend other than myself, for its uncompromising aloofness repelled even those who hold beauty to be above theology, and drove them into the very arms of the Christian church, which was only too ready to profit by its rival’s lack of hospitality, and to welcome each and all into its radiant wide-flung portals.

Alone I stood on a wall and listened to the carnival in the streets. All about me the towers, so ruddy and sparkling by day, stood black and ominous, silhouetted against the starry sky of the December night. Unbowed they were by their centuries of captivity, proud of their glorious past, disdainful of the unwarlike Spaniards, unconverted by their Christian surroundings, and as all Granada moved in the direction of the Cathedral to celebrate the nativity of Christ, the Alhambra, infidel to the core, drew itself to its supreme height and mocked all this pitiful yet amusing festivity of unbelievers. The wind blowing through the empty halls whispered past me, taunting and derisive. I sought refuge in the Court of Lions. Here the fountain, in disdain, spat its spray upon me. “Hypocrite,” it seemed to say, “go to your infidel priests, go sing your foolish psalms: the Alhambra, the abode of kings, needs no sympathy.”

Such ridicule, such arrogance, was unendurable. Unconcerned with creed and sect I had come here to worship beauty—I was being driven away. An overwhelming revulsion and a fierce desire to escape took hold of me. I hurried from beneath the shadowy entrance arch and fled down the hill, followed by the mocking laughter of the echoing walls.

Immediately, eagerly, I sought the Christian cathedral and, casting one challenging glance back at the contemptuous Alhambra, entered the welcoming doors.