Antonio de Trueba (1819-1889) was a Spanish reteller of folklore in the tradition of Gustavo Bécquer and Fernán Caballero (the pen name of Cecilia Francisca Josefa Böhl de Faber) — both of whom I’ve posted on before. Trueba combined the traditional stories of the Spanish campesinos with sophisticated literary style and humorous political and social commentary. I found this delightful tale in a back issue of the fairy tale studies journal Marvels & Tales, and it hooked me at the first paragraph:
There once was a king so avaricious that instead of spending his life making his subjects happy, he passed it running throughout his kingdom searching for mines of gold and silver, and leaving the devil in charge of the ship of State. A pox on such kings!
I have a feeling this one will speak to a lot of people.
I’m still working on my hummingbird legends, but in the meantime I thought I’d share this charming tale with you. I found it in a fun 1921 collection called Devil’s Stories: An Anthology by Maximilian J. Rudwin. He intended this work to be the first volume in a series of collections of devil-related literature. Alas, the rest of the volumes never came to be.
The author of “The Devil’s Mother-in-Law” is one Fernán Caballero, the pseudonym of Swiss-born, Spanish-residing Cecilia Francisca Josefa Böhl de Faber, Marchioness de Arco-Hermoso. “The Devil’s Mother-in-Law” is originally from her 1859 Cuentos y poesias populares Andaluces (Popular Andalucian Stories and Poetry), translated into English as Spanish Fairy Tales in 1881. As Rudwin says, “in her stories we find perhaps the purest expression of mediaevalism in modern times.”
I featured a couple of winter tales by Spanish author and poet Gustavo Bécquer this past December; this week I’m sharing my favorite Bécquer ghost story, “The Miserere“ , in honor of Holy Week (the week leading into Easter).
In the Abbey of Fitero, the narrator (presumably, Bécquer) discovers a curious piece of sheet music, an unfinished Miserere:
This was what got my attention at first, but when I looked more closely at the sheets of music, I noticed that, instead of the Italian terms they usually use, like maestoso, allegro, ritardando, più vivo, pianissimo, there were some lines written in fine print in German, some of which mentioned things that would be difficult to do, like: “they are creaking…, the bones creak and it should seem like cries that come from the marrow”; or this other one, “the chord moans without being out of tune, the brass thunders but does not deafen; therefore, everything is heard and nothing is lost, and all of this is Humanity that sobs and moans”; and then undoubtedly the strangest of all, at the end of the final verse it declared: “The notes are bones covered with flesh; undying light, the heavens and their harmony…, strength!…, strength and sweetness.”
Naturally, the narrator is curious, and asks the monks about this. An old man then shares with the narrator the story of a musician whose mission in life was to compose the ultimate Miserere (as penance for a youthful crime), and of the ghostly monks, murder victims who died without last rites, who return to the ruins of their monastery every Maundy Thursday (Thursday of Holy Week) to pray for redemption — by singing the Miserere. This is the creepiest of all Bécquer’s ghost stories; the scene where the monks and their monastery come back at the stroke of eleven is just awesome.
Many of you are familiar with the (multiple) series of Japanese woodblock prints known as Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji; Hokusai produced a series of that name, and so did Hiroshige. You may also be familiar with Henri Riviere’s homage to Hokusai and Hiroshige: Thirty-six Views of the Eiffel Tower (video of all 36 prints; link to a book of the prints). This is my contribution to the genre.
In the blockprint series, the monument in question isn’t always the focal point of the images. Riviere’s images are especially subtle; I still can’t find the Eiffel Tower in several of the scenes. My photos aren’t always so subtle; I was in full-blown tourist mode, after all. Still, the Alhambra dominates the older section of Granada in such a way that when I looked through my snapshots, I discovered its distinctive towers peeping out from unexpected corners. I’m especially proud of my photo of the Alhambra through the windows of the Generalife. I hope you enjoy.
The Mirador de San Nicolas: supposedly the best view of the Alhambra in town. It was certainly the most crowded.
From the Sacromonte.
Along the Rio Darro
We stumbled on this quiet plaza while wandering the Albayzin looking for the Mirador de San Nicolas. A much more peaceful spot, and it also provided a great view of the Alhambra, with the Sierra Nevada in the background.
This my favorite photo in the Gallery: the Alhambra as seen through the windows of the Generalife.