The Alhambra has been so often described (by the present writer among others) that it is not easy to say anything new in regard to it, or even to avoid identity of language with other writers in the description of certain of its parts. Yet it would be impossible to give any account of Granada without some notice of this famous building. To begin with, I must impress on those about to visit it for the first time that the Alhambra is not a single palace, but properly speaking is the name given to a fortified eminence lying to the south-east of the city, and including two palaces, a citadel, and a multitude of private residences. In its nature it may be compared with the Acropolis of Athens and the far-distant Castle of Bamborough. The name, as most people are aware, is derived from Kalat al hamra—"the Red Castle," to adopt a translation which I have never seen disputed. (While not pretending to rank as an Arabist, I have not failed to notice that an infinite number of words put forward as Arabic by writers on the Spanish Moors are unintelligible to Syrian and Egyptian Arabs, and, which is more to the point, to many Hindu students of Arabic.) In shape the hill has been cleverly compared by Ford to a grand piano. Rearward it abuts on the Cerro del Sol ("the Mountain of the Sun"), to which Washington Irving alludes so often.
To the south of the Alhambra hill lies another and a narrower spur, which is crowned near the town end by the Vermilion Towers, or Torres Bermejas; on the north-east rises the hill of the Generalife, laid out in gardens. The townward extremity of the Alhambra is washed at the foot by the river Darro, and is crowned by the Torre de la Vela, of which more anon.
To reach the Alhambra you ascend from the Plaza Nueva in the heart of the town by the steep and narrow Calle Gomeres. This street is laid out to attract and cater for tourists, who are greeted here with a civility and cordiality not always conspicuous in the rest of the town. Half-way up the toilsome ascent you will probably be waylaid by a theatrically-attired personage who will accost you in bad French with the information that he is the chief of the gipsies. The costume he wears was given to his father or grandfather by Fortuny—one of the rare examples of artists condescending to manufacture the picturesque. The chief will endeavour to engage you in conversation, and will offer you his photograph at fifty centimes a copy. If you have a camera he will allow you to take his portrait for a consideration. It seems incredible that a human being could be so much of a nuisance and yet remain in good health and spirits.
The dragon having been successfully circumvented, you enter the Hesperides, or in other words, the charming Alamedas of the Alhambra. These groves occupy the deep depression between the famous hill and the Vermilion Towers. They are planted with magnificent elms, sent hither, I believe, from England by the Duke of Wellington. They have thriven well in Spanish soil, and harbour a colony of nightingales and other singing-birds, unusually numerous for this land of passion, where wines are rich and birds are rare. The "bulbul," as certain writers love to call it, sings very sweetly in these leafy retreats, a statement some travellers who persist in coming at the wrong season will not hesitate to contradict. I must admit that the bird is as elusive as the "alpengluh," or as the hunter's moon at Tintern. It is always cool here on the slope of the Alhambra. Even the fierce rays of the Andalusian sun cannot penetrate the thick leafage. Rills bubbling forth from the red sides of the hill, or tumbling over its edge, keep the roots of the trees perennially moist and feed a dense under-growth. On summer afternoons this is the only spot in Granada where you may sit in comfort. Meanwhile, up and down in quick succession pass the sandalled water-carriers hurrying to fill their skins with the precious fluid and to dispense it in the scorched, thirsty town below. "Agua-a-ah!" Their prolonged nasal drawling cry comes back to me as I write, and I seem to hear the rapid patter of their feet and to see the light cutting chequers on the shadow of the trees. A great man is the water-carrier, loved and respected by all the people of southern Spain. We who live in the humid sea-girt North can little understand the longing for clear, cool water, the reverence for its dispensers, that must ever be felt in the South. How constantly wells are referred to in the Bible: "As the hart panteth after the water brooks," "With joy shall ye draw waters from the wells of salvation." How significant are these beautiful passages for those that have journeyed to the South!
Reluctantly withdrawing from this delightful spot, you must climb the hill to the right of the entrance—there is a winding path to the summit. Here you find the Torres Bermejas—a group of exceedingly ancient and not very dilapidated towers, used as a military prison. They date, it is believed, from the days before the Zirite dynasty, but you will not be tempted to examine them attentively, for the purlieus are of the most uninviting description. The adjoining cottages are peopled by rascally-looking men and slatternly women, who would be better, one would think, inside than just outside a gaol.
In ancient days an embattled wall connected these towers with the opposite point of the Alhambra, closing the mouth of the valley, which was not then the pleasaunce it is now, but an arid ravine used as the burial ground of the fortress. The entrance to the valley is now through the Puerta de las Granadas, built by order of Charles V. Taking the path to the left, we soon reach the fountain in the Renaissance style, erected in 1545 by Pedro Machuca, by order of the Conde de Tendilla. It is ornamented with the imperial shield and the heads of the three river-gods, Genil, Darro, and Beiro. The medallions represent Alexander the Great, Hercules slaying the hydra, Phryxus and Helle, and Daphne pursued by Apollo. The laurels growing out of the distressed damsel's head give her the appearance of a Sioux brave. A few steps beyond we reach the famous Puerta de la Justicia, so called because within it the Moorish sultans or their kadis administered justice—or it may have been merely law. This entrance is formed by two towers of reddish brick, placed back to back, and united by an upper storey. We look at once for the hand and key so often referred to by Irving, and distinguish them with difficulty—the first over the outermost horseshoe arch, the latter over the middle arch. Opinion is divided as to the meaning of these symbols. The key is supposed by some to signify the power of God to unlock the gate of Heaven to the true believer, while the hand appears to have been regarded as a talisman against the evil eye. A winding corridor leads through the gate into the citadel, past an inscription celebrating the Conquest in 1492, and an altar now enclosed within a sort of cupboard.