Señor Bensaken was in the house, and would wait upon the Señoras at once, was the reply. After waiting an hour, again we asked for Bensaken. “Has he not been?” was the surprised answer. “We sent him to you long ago.” But no Bensaken appeared, and as it was now late in the afternoon, we gave up all idea of seeing the Alhambra that day, and strolled into the gardens instead.
I should say there is no lovelier time than autumn for these beautiful avenues of tall elms, these shelving banks and trickling streams. The melancholy of the season harmonizes with the melancholy of this place; and the setting suns bestow a blood-red pomp, as of a battle-field, upon the glorious plain of the Vega.
The great charm of the Alhambra gardens is the constant purling and plashing of water. You never lose sight or sound of this purling and plashing of melted snow charmed from cool haunts in the Sierra Nevada, and both sight and sound grow upon you like sweet music. The flower-beds, once so carefully kept, are now sadly neglected, but the borders of myrtle and violets are lovely in neglect, and the orange and lemon trees bear blossom and fruit as of old. We lingered till sunset, when the old towers and the yellow forest of elm-trees, were burnished to the hue of brightly-polished copper, and the plain below was flecked with deep shadows, black and purple, and golden. Beyond rose the blue and grey mountains of the Sierra Nevada, their crests shining with the silvery brightness of everlasting snow, in a belt of rosy sky. It was a scene of enchantment.
When we returned to our hotel, we were informed that Bensaken awaited us in the corridor, or salle à manger; what was our surprise to find Bensaken, the renowned guide, and our old friend in the threadbare cloak, one and the same person!
“Why, Señor Bensaken,” we said, “you should have introduced yourself to us at first. We had no idea it was you, or we should have engaged you as guide on the spot.”
The old man was evidently much offended with us.
“Señora,” he said, “it is not my habit to push myself in where I am not wanted, and you preferred to employ that Spanish boy. Corriente! you had to please yourselves.”
“But,” we urged, “how could we know that you were Señor Bensaken? Why did you not give us your card? We had come to Granada with the intention of employing no other guide but Bensaken. We sent for you this afternoon, and you did not come.” He had evidently stayed away out of displeasure, and we found it very difficult to heal the sore of which we felt so innocent. At last, growing a little impatient, we said sharply,—
“Señor Bensaken, it is really through your own stupidity, and no fault of ours, that this mistake occurred. If you are willing to act as guide to us, we are willing to engage you, and let the matter end.”
The matter did end, and Señor Bensaken became our cicerone. He is a very old man, stiff in manner, aristocratic in appearance, and very entertaining when the mood takes him; full of stories of the great men he has known, Longfellow, Irving, and others. His English is wonderfully elegant, and he speaks several European languages, besides Arabic. But travellers must make haste to Granada who wish to secure his services, for he is in the sere and yellow leaf, and he coughs terribly.