HE Alcazar at Seville (each Spanish city has its Alcazar) still stands in the centre of the city. Not the decorated palace we see it now, rebuilt by the Toledan Zalubi for Prince Abdurrahman, and afterwards enlarged and beautified by Don Pedro el Cruel, in imitation of the Alhambra of Granada, but a veritable citadel, surrounded by low tapia walls, on the verge of the tidal current of the Guadalquivir, and flanked by the Gothic tower (Torre del oro) which still remains.
Not a poetic ruin, this Alcazar like the Alhambra, but a real castle, whole and entire, ready to receive, to this day, emirs or sultans, kings, queens, or princes, whenever their good pleasure calls them to Seville.
Behind lie the gardens, flushed with roses, oleanders, and pomegranates, approached by stately terraces sweet with the familiar scent of carnation, violet, and jasmine. A delicious plaisance formed into a series of squares, divided by low myrtle hedges, and orange-lined walls, central fountains bubbling up in sheets of foam, and streams and runnels, tanks and ponds, along which are walks paved with variegated tiles.
The azahar of a thousand blossoms is in the air, golden oranges hang tempting on the stem, and deeply tinted butterflies course each other among embowered alleys, leading to gaily painted kiosks and pavilions with latticed walls.
Whether Abdul-asis exacted the tribute demanded by the Moorish law of a hundred Christian “virgins, fifty rich and fifty poor,” to adorn his harem, I cannot say. He would scarcely have dared openly to omit it. But instead of choosing from among these damsels that pleased his eye, and selling the rest as slaves, he contented himself with selecting one, and dowered such others who were poor, and married them to his Moors.
In his harem he also maintained many Christian captives as hostages for the land. But they were treated not only with respect, but with luxury, within the precincts of the lovely little Patio de las Muñecas—from all time devoted to the harem—the loveliest sheet of snowy lace-work ever beheld. Not a speck of colour on the pure stone; not a badge or motto, only tiers of open galleries, latticed in white.
If ever these dark Eastern beauties return to haunt the glimpses of the moon, it is surely in this patio their dazzling forms will linger!
Here they lived a pleasant life, plied their fingers in rich embroidery copied from the looms of Damascus, danced ole or cachucha, to castanets, or sang to lute and cither those wild malagueñas, with long sad notes.
Many were even contented with their lot. But all followed with longing eyes the graceful form of the young Emir, putting forth their charms to attract his roving eyes.
“Beware, O my son, of the seductions of love,” had written Mousa to his son. “It is an idle passion which enfeebles the heart and blinds the judgment.”