THE Gitános not unfrequently made their appearance in considerable
numbers, so as to be able to bid defiance to any force which could be
assembled against them on a sudden; whole districts thus became a prey to
them, and were plundered and devastated.
It is said that, in the year 1618, more than eight hundred of these
wretches scoured the country between Castile and Aragon, committing the
most enormous crimes. The royal council despatched regular troops
against them, who experienced some difficulty in dispersing them.
But we now proceed to touch upon an event which forms an era in the
history of the Gitános of Spain, and which for wildness and singularity
throws all other events connected with them and their race, wherever
found, entirely into the shade.
THE BOOKSELLER OF LOGROÑO
About the middle of the sixteenth century, there resided one Francisco
Alvarez in the city of Logroño, the chief town of Rioja, a province which
borders on Aragon. He was a man above the middle age, sober, reserved,
and in general absorbed in thought; he lived near the great church, and
obtained a livelihood by selling printed books and manuscripts in a small
shop. He was a very learned man, and was continually reading in the
books which he was in the habit of selling, and some of these books were
in foreign tongues and characters, so foreign, indeed, that none but
himself and some of his friends, the canons, could understand them; he
was much visited by the clergy, who were his principal customers, and
took much pleasure in listening to his discourse.
He had been a considerable traveller in his youth, and had wandered
through all Spain, visiting the various provinces and the most remarkable
cities. It was likewise said that he had visited Italy and Barbary. He
was, however, invariably silent with respect to his travels, and whenever
the subject was mentioned to him, the gloom and melancholy increased
which usually clouded his features.
One day, in the commencement of autumn, he was visited by a priest with
whom he had long been intimate, and for whom he had always displayed a
greater respect and liking than for any other acquaintance. The
ecclesiastic found him even more sad than usual, and there was a haggard
paleness upon his countenance which alarmed his visitor. The good priest
made affectionate inquiries respecting the health of his friend, and
whether anything had of late occurred to give him uneasiness; adding at
the same time, that he had long suspected that some secret lay heavy upon
his mind, which he now conjured him to reveal, as life was uncertain, and
it was very possible that he might be quickly summoned from earth into
the presence of his Maker.
The bookseller continued for some time in gloomy meditation, till at last
he broke silence in these words:—‘It is true I have a secret which weighs
heavy upon my mind, and which I am still loth to reveal; but I have a
presentiment that my end is approaching, and that a heavy misfortune is
about to fall upon this city: I will therefore unburden myself, for it
were now a sin to remain silent.
‘I am, as you are aware, a native of this town, which I first left when I
went to acquire an education at Salamanca; I continued there until I
became a licentiate, when I quitted the university and strolled through
Spain, supporting myself in general by touching the guitar, according to
the practice of penniless students; my adventures were numerous, and I
frequently experienced great poverty. Once, whilst making my way from
Toledo to Andalusia through the wild mountains, I fell in with and was
made captive by a band of the people called Gitános, or wandering
Egyptians; they in general lived amongst these wilds, and plundered or
murdered every person whom they met. I should probably have been
assassinated by them, but my skill in music perhaps saved my life. I
continued with them a considerable time, till at last they persuaded me
to become one of them, whereupon I was inaugurated into their society
with many strange and horrid ceremonies, and having thus become a Gitáno,
I went with them to plunder and assassinate upon the roads.
‘The Count or head man of these Gitános had an only daughter, about my
own age; she was very beautiful, but, at the same time, exceedingly
strong and robust; this Gitána was given to me as a wife or cadjee, and I
lived with her several years, and she bore me children.
‘My wife was an arrant Gitána, and in her all the wickedness of her race
seemed to be concentrated. At last her father was killed in an affray
with the troopers of the Hermandad, whereupon my wife and myself
succeeded to the authority which he had formerly exercised in the tribe.
We had at first loved each other, but at last the Gitáno life, with its
accompanying wickedness, becoming hateful to my eyes, my wife, who was
not slow in perceiving my altered disposition, conceived for me the most
deadly hatred; apprehending that I meditated withdrawing myself from the
society, and perhaps betraying the secrets of the band, she formed a
conspiracy against me, and, at one time, being opposite the Moorish
coast, I was seized and bound by the other Gitános, conveyed across the
sea, and delivered as a slave into the hands of the Moors.
‘I continued for a long time in slavery in various parts of Morocco and
Fez, until I was at length redeemed from my state of bondage by a
missionary friar who paid my ransom. With him I shortly after departed
for Italy, of which he was a native. In that country I remained some
years, until a longing to revisit my native land seized me, when I
returned to Spain and established myself here, where I have since lived
by vending books, many of which I brought from the strange lands which I
visited. I kept my history, however, a profound secret, being afraid of
exposing myself to the laws in force against the Gitános, to which I
should instantly become amenable, were it once known that I had at any
time been a member of this detestable sect.
‘My present wretchedness, of which you have demanded the cause, dates
from yesterday; I had been on a short journey to the Augustine convent,
which stands on the plain in the direction of Saragossa, carrying with me
an Arabian book, which a learned monk was desirous of seeing. Night
overtook me ere I could return. I speedily lost my way, and wandered
about until I came near a dilapidated edifice with which I was
acquainted; I was about to proceed in the direction of the town, when I
heard voices within the ruined walls; I listened, and recognised the
language of the abhorred Gitános; I was about to fly, when a word
arrested me. It was Drao, which in their tongue signifies the horrid
poison with which this race are in the habit of destroying the cattle;
they now said that the men of Logroño should rue the Drao which they had
been casting. I heard no more, but fled. What increased my fear was,
that in the words spoken, I thought I recognised the peculiar jargon of
my own tribe; I repeat, that I believe some horrible misfortune is
overhanging this city, and that my own days are numbered.’
The priest, having conversed with him for some time upon particular
points of the history that he had related, took his leave, advising him
to compose his spirits, as he saw no reason why he should indulge in such
gloomy forebodings.
The very next day a sickness broke out in the town of Logroño. It was
one of a peculiar kind; unlike most others, it did not arise by slow and
gradual degrees, but at once appeared in full violence, in the shape of a
terrific epidemic. Dizziness in the head was the first symptom: then
convulsive retchings, followed by a dreadful struggle between life and
death, which generally terminated in favour of the grim destroyer. The
bodies, after the spirit which animated them had taken flight, were
frightfully swollen, and exhibited a dark blue colour, checkered with
crimson spots. Nothing was heard within the houses or the streets, but
groans of agony; no remedy was at hand, and the powers of medicine were
exhausted in vain upon this terrible pest; so that within a few days the
greatest part of the inhabitants of Logroño had perished. The bookseller
had not been seen since the commencement of this frightful visitation.
Once, at the dead of night, a knock was heard at the door of the priest,
of whom we have already spoken; the priest himself staggered to the door,
and opened it,—he was the only one who remained alive in the house, and
was himself slowly recovering from the malady which had destroyed all the
other inmates; a wild spectral-looking figure presented itself to his
eye—it was his friend Alvarez. Both went into the house, when the
bookseller, glancing gloomily on the wasted features of the priest,
exclaimed, ‘You too, I see, amongst others, have cause to rue the Drao
which the Gitános have cast. Know,’ he continued, ‘that in order to
accomplish a detestable plan, the fountains of Logroño have been poisoned
by emissaries of the roving bands, who are now assembled in the
neighbourhood. On the first appearance of the disorder, from which I
happily escaped by tasting the water of a private fountain, which I
possess in my own house, I instantly recognised the effects of the poison
of the Gitános, brought by their ancestors from the isles of the Indian
sea; and suspecting their intentions, I disguised myself as a Gitáno, and
went forth in the hope of being able to act as a spy upon their actions.
I have been successful, and am at present thoroughly acquainted with
their designs. They intended, from the first, to sack the town, as soon
as it should have been emptied of its defenders.
‘Midday, to-morrow, is the hour in which they have determined to make the
attempt. There is no time to be lost; let us, therefore, warn those of
our townsmen who still survive, in order that they may make preparations
for their defence.’
Whereupon the two friends proceeded to the chief magistrate, who had been
but slightly affected by the disorder; he heard the tale of the
bookseller with horror and astonishment, and instantly took the best
measures possible for frustrating the designs of the Gitános; all the men
capable of bearing arms in Logroño were assembled, and weapons of every
description put in their hands. By the advice of the bookseller all the
gates of the town were shut, with the exception of the principal one; and
the little band of defenders, which barely amounted to sixty men, was
stationed in the great square, to which, he said, it was the intention of
the Gitános to penetrate in the first instance, and then, dividing
themselves into various parties, to sack the place. The bookseller was,
by general desire, constituted leader of the guardians of the town.
It was considerably past noon; the sky was overcast, and tempest clouds,
fraught with lightning and thunder, were hanging black and horrid over
the town of Logroño. The little troop, resting on their arms, stood
awaiting the arrival of their unnatural enemies; rage fired their minds
as they thought of the deaths of their fathers, their sons, and their
dearest relatives, who had perished, not by the hand of God, but, like
infected cattle, by the hellish arts of Egyptian sorcerers. They longed
for their appearance, determined to wreak upon them a bloody revenge; not
a word was uttered, and profound silence reigned around, only interrupted
by the occasional muttering of the thunder-clouds. Suddenly, Alvarez,
who had been intently listening, raised his hand with a significant
gesture; presently, a sound was heard—a rustling like the waving of
trees, or the rushing of distant water; it gradually increased, and
seemed to proceed from the narrow street which led from the principal
gate into the square. All eyes were turned in that direction. . . .
That night there was repique or ringing of bells in the towers of
Logroño, and the few priests who had escaped from the pestilence sang
litanies to God and the Virgin for the salvation of the town from the
hands of the heathen. The attempt of the Gitános had been most signally
defeated, and the great square and the street were strewn with their
corpses. Oh! what frightful objects: there lay grim men more black than
mulattos, with fury and rage in their stiffened features; wild women in
extraordinary dresses, their hair, black and long as the tail of the
horse, spread all dishevelled upon the ground; and gaunt and naked
children grasping knives and daggers in their tiny hands. Of the
patriotic troop not one appeared to have fallen; and when, after their
enemies had retreated with howlings of fiendish despair, they told their
numbers, only one man was missing, who was never seen again, and that man
was Alvarez.
In the midst of the combat, the tempest, which had for a long time been
gathering, burst over Logroño, in lightning, thunder, darkness, and
vehement hail.
A man of the town asserted that the last time he had seen Alvarez, the
latter was far in advance of his companions, defending himself
desperately against three powerful young heathen, who seemed to be acting
under the direction of a tall woman who stood nigh, covered with barbaric
ornaments, and wearing on her head a rude silver crown. {69}
Such is the tale of the Bookseller of Logroño, and such is the narrative
of the attempt of the Gitános to sack the town in the time of pestilence,
which is alluded to by many Spanish authors, but more particularly by the
learned Francisco de Cordova, in his _Didascalia_, one of the most
curious and instructive books within the circle of universal literature.