Part 22 (1/2)
It was a Spanish knight, who had long been in Algiers, From ladies high descended and n.o.ble cavaliers, But forced for a season a false Moor's slave to be, Upon the sh.o.r.e his gardener, and his galley-slave at sea.
We have already recounted the tale of the Count Alarcos, and with it Lockhart's collection comes to an end.
But it is not in the pages of Lockhart alone that we should look for good translations of the Spanish romanceros. John Bowring in his Ancient Poetry and Romances of Spain (1824) has undoubtedly done much to render some of the lesser lyrics of Castilian balladeers into successful English verse. His translation of the celebrated ”Fonte Frida” is, perhaps, the best version of that much-discussed poem to be met with in our language. It is clear that Ticknor's rendition of this piece is practically a paraphrase of Bowring's translation, of which I give the first two verses:
Fount of freshness, fount of freshness, Fount of freshness and of love, Where the little birds of spring-time Seek for comfort as they rove; All except the widow'd turtle, Widow'd, sorrowing turtle-dove.
There the nightingale, the traitor, Lingered on his giddy way; And these words of hidden treachery To the dove I heard him say: ”I will be thy servant, lady, I will ne'er thy love betray.”
But no English translation, however fine, can possibly do justice to this beautiful lyric:
Fonte frida, fonte frida, Fonte frida, y con amor, Do todas las avezicas Van tomar consolacion, Sino es la tortolica Que esta viuda y con dolor, Por ay fue a pa.s.sar El traydor del ruysenor Las palabras que el dezia Llenas son de traicion: ”Si tu quisiesses, Senora, Yo seria tu servidor.”
Ticknor speaks truly when he says of the Spanish ballads: ”To feel their true value and power we must read large numbers of them, and read them, too, in their native language; for there is a winning freshness in the originals, as they lie embedded in the old romanceros, that escapes in translations, however free, or however strict.”
The romancero ent.i.tled ”Sale la estrella de Venus” recounts a tragic story. A Moorish warrior, flying from the city of Sidonia because of the cruelty of his lady, who had taunted him with poverty and had bestowed her hand upon another, makes the rocks and hills re-echo with his plaints. He p.r.o.nounces a terrible and bitter curse upon the proud and wanton maiden who has spurned him. Maddened, he seeks the palace of the Alcalde to whom his faithless fair one is to be espoused that night. The building is bright with torches and gay with song.
And the crowds make way before him While he pays his courtesies.
Ha! his b.l.o.o.d.y lance has traversed The Alcalde's fluttering breast, And his life-blood now is flowing, Flowing through his purple vest.
O what horror! What confusion, Desolation and dismay!
While the stern, unnoticed murderer, To Medina takes his way.
We have examined every type of Spanish ballad poetry. The general note struck, we will observe, is a grave and romantic one, the fruit of the thoughts of a proud and imaginative people. Nor can we fail to notice the national note which rings through these poems, the racial individuality which informs them. ”Poor Spain!” How often do we hear the expression employed by men of Anglo-Saxon race! Let these undeceive themselves. What can material poverty signify to a people dowered with such treasures of the imagination? Poor Spain! Nay, opulent Spain; treasure-house of the minted coin of story, of the priceless jewels of romance, of drama, and of song!
CHAPTER XI: MOORISH ROMANCES OF SPAIN
These are, of course, more of the nature of romances of the Moors than by the Moors--tales embedded in Spanish folk-lore relating to Saracen times and themes, rather than written fictions existing in ancient Arab ma.n.u.scripts. The Arab literature of Spain was rather didactic, theological, and philosophical than romantic. Fiction was, perhaps, the province of the itinerant story-teller, as it still is in the East. But that many Moorish legends and stories were handed down among the Spanish peasantry, especially in the more southerly parts of the Peninsula, can hardly be doubted. These, however, have been much neglected by compilers, and but few of them are available. Such as exist in written form make up for their scantiness in number by the qualities of wonder and beauty which inform them. Perhaps no collection of the traditions of the Moors of Spain equals that of Was.h.i.+ngton Irving in his Tales of the Alhambra. These, he tells us, he ”diligently wrought into shape and form, from various legendary sc.r.a.ps and hints picked up in the course of my perambulations, in the same manner that an antiquary works out a regular historical doc.u.ment from a few scattered letters of an almost defaced inscription.” The first of our Moorish legends, therefore, I shall retell from the enchanted pages of the great American wizard in words, apologizing to his shade for the alterations in verbiage which I have been forced to make in view of the requirements of modern readers. I have, indeed, entirely recast the tale for twentieth-century use.
The Arabian Astrologer
Aben Habuz, King of Granada, had in his old age earned the right to repose. But the young and ardent princes whose territories marched with his were in no mind that his old age should be free from the alarms of war, and although he took every precaution to ensure his possessions against the incursions of such hotheads, the constant menace of an attack from one or other of them, no less than the unrest which occasionally raised its head within his own dominions, filled his declining years with irritation and anxiety.
Hara.s.sed and perplexed, he cast about him for an adviser capable of a.s.sisting him to strengthen his position, but among the sages and n.o.bles of his Court he experienced such a cold selfishness and lack of patriotic fervour as restrained him from adopting any of them as his confidant in high affairs of state. While he meditated upon his friendless condition it was announced to him that an Arabian sage had arrived in Granada, whose fame as a man of wisdom and understanding was proverbial throughout the East. The name of this pundit was Ibrahim Ebn Abu Ajib, and it was whispered of him that he had existed since the days of Mohammed, of one of whose personal friends he was the son. As a child he had accompanied the army of Amru, the Prophet's general, into Egypt, where he had remained for generations, employing his time in the study of those occult sciences of which the Egyptian priests were such consummate masters. Old as he was--and his appearance was most venerable--he had walked the whole way from Egypt on foot, aided only by a staff, on which were engraved hieroglyphs of deep and hidden import. His beard descended to his girdle, his piercing eyes bespoke insight and intelligence almost superhuman, and his bearing was more grave and majestic than that of the most reverend mullah in Granada. It was said that he possessed the secret of the elixir of life, but as he had attained this knowledge when already well on in years, he had perforce to be content with his aged exterior, although he had already succeeded in prolonging his existence for upward of two hundred years.
King Aben Habuz, gratified at being able to extend his hospitality to a visitor of such consequence, entertained him with marked distinction. But the sage refused all his offers of soft living, and established himself in a cave in the side of the hill on which the famous palace of the Alhambra was later to be erected. This cavern he caused to be altered in such a manner that it bore a resemblance to the interiors of those lofty temples of the Egyptian land in which he had pa.s.sed so many years of his long life. Through the living rock which formed its roof he commanded the Court architect to drive a deep shaft, so that from the gloom of his cavernous abode he might be able to behold the stars even at midday; for Ibrahim was pre-eminent in the study of that lore of the heavenly bodies, that thrice n.o.ble science of astrology, which the truly wise of all ages have recognized as the real source of all divine knowledge, and the shallow erudition of a later day foolishly despises. But only for a day in the round of eternity shall that great and golden book be set aside; nor shall its pages, arabesqued with mysterious and awful characters, ever be wholly closed to man. The weird, serpentine script of this language of the sages ornamented the walls of the astrologer's cavern, interspersed with the no less mystic symbols of ancient Egypt, and, surrounded by these hieroglyphs and provided with the primitive telescope we have described, the wise Ibrahim busied himself in deciphering the history of events to come as written in the glittering pages of the heavens.
It was only natural that the distressed Aben Habuz should avail himself of the wisdom and foresight of the astrologer to the fullest degree. Indeed, Ibrahim became indispensable to him, and was consulted in every emergency. He responded graciously, and placed his marvellous gifts entirely at the service of the hara.s.sed monarch. On one occasion Aben Habuz complained bitterly of the constant vigilance he was forced to maintain against the attacks of his restless neighbours. For a s.p.a.ce the astrologer was lost in thought. Then he replied: ”O King, many years since I beheld a marvel in Egypt, wrought by a wise priestess of that land. Above the city of Borsa towers a lofty mountain, on which was placed the image of a ram, and above it the figure of a c.o.c.k, both cast in brazen effigy and turning upon a pivot. Should the land be threatened by invasion the ram would turn in the direction of the enemy and the c.o.c.k would crow, and by this means the inhabitants of Borsa were enabled to take timely measures for defence.”
”Would that such a contrivance might be erected at Granada,” said the King fervently. ”Then might we rest in peace.”