Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. All other
variations remain unchanged.
Italics are represented thus _italic_, bold thus =bold=.
_HUMOUR SERIES_
EDITED BY W. H. DIRCKS
THE HUMOUR OF SPAIN
ALREADY ISSUED
_FRENCH HUMOUR_
_GERMAN HUMOUR_
_ITALIAN HUMOUR_
_AMERICAN HUMOUR_
_DUTCH HUMOUR_
_IRISH HUMOUR_
_SPANISH HUMOUR_
[Illustration: “WHILE YOUR DAUGHTER WALKS OUT WITH HER BLACK EYES.”—P.
318.]
THE
HUMOUR OF SPAIN
SELECTED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION
AND NOTES,
BY SUSETTE M. TAYLOR:
ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. R.
MILLAR
THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LTD.,
PATERNOSTER SQUARE, LONDON, E.C.
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS,
153-157 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
1909.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTION xi
MY CID PLEDGES TWO COFFRES FULL OF SAND TO THE
JEWS RACHEL AND VIDAS—_Twelfth Century_ 1
THE COWARDICE OF THE INFANTES OF CARRION WHEN THE
LION BREAKS LOOSE—_Thirteenth Century_ 4
THE CAT TURNED NUN—_Fourteenth Century_ 8
THE MADMAN IN THE BATH—_Don Juan Manuel_ 10
THE NAKED KING—_Don Juan Manuel_ 10
“NOT EVEN THE DAY OF THE MUD?”—_Don Juan Manuel_ 16
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW—_Don Juan Manuel_ 18
A LONG TALE—_Fifteenth Century_ 22
ELECTIO NULLA DEBET ESSE IN MALIS—_Fifteenth Century_ 23
THE BITER BIT—_Fifteenth Century_ 23
CALISTO IS SMITTEN WITH MELIBEA’S CHARMS—_Rodrigo Cota_ 26
LOVE AND DEATH 31
THE EATEN PANCAKE—_Lope de Rueda_ 33
THE FAIR CELIBATE—_Gil Vicente_ 36
“THE TABLE-BOOK AND TRAVELLERS’ JOY”—
THE RUSTIC AND THE LACKEYS 38
THE CONTRARY WIFE 40
AN AFFECTIONATE WIFE 42
CHASTISE WITH GOOD WORDS 42
THE ACCOMMODATING FARMER 44
THE ACCOMMODATING LORD 44
DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND 44
THE BEST HOUR TO DINE 45
THE BEST WIFE IN THE WORLD 45
A PIOUS WISH 45
“THE BOOK OF JOKES”—TRAVELLERS’ TALES 54
TALES OF ROGUES—
LAZARO DECLARETH WHOSE SON HE WAS—_Hurtado de
Mendoza_ 57
HOW LAZARO SERVES A BLIND MAN—_Hurtado de Mendoza_ 58
LAZARO IS SERVANT TO A PRIEST—_Hurtado de Mendoza_ 60
A TAILOR WOULD FAIN LEARN OF GUZMAN TO WRITE
HIS NAME, OR TO MAKE FIRMA, OR MARK, AND
THE REASON WHY—_Mateo Aleman_ 70
EPISODE OF THE OFFICIOUS PHYSICIAN—_Mateo Aleman_ 71
OF THE PLEASANT LIFE GUZMAN LED AMONG HIS
BRETHREN, AND AN ACCOUNT OF HIS VISIT TO
GATEA—_Mateo Aleman_ 72
OF THE WICKED OLD HOUSEKEEPER, AND THE FIRST
KNAVISH PRANKS PAUL PLAYED AT ALCALA—_Quevedo_ 79
ESTEBANILLO ACTS ON THE CARDINAL’S BIRTHDAY!—_Estebanillo
Gonzalez_ 86
THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN, DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA—_Miguel
Cervantes_ 90
THE LOVERS’ RUSE—_Lope de Vega_ 128
AUNTS—_Jacinto Polo_ 131
THE MISER CHASTISED—_Doña Maria de Zayas_ 132
THE MARKET OF ANCESTORS—_Velez de Guevara_ 139
VISION OF THE LAST JUDGMENT—_Gomez de Quevedo_ 141
THE REVENGE OF DON LUCAS—_Francesco Rojas de Zorrilla_ 155
THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA—_Calderon de la Barca_ 160
THE SIMPLE GROOMS—_Santos_ 178
PORTUGUESE EPITAPHS AND SAYINGS—_Seventeenth Century_ 180
LA TARASCA AND THE CARRIERS—_Santos_ 181
PEDIGREE OF FOOLS—_Seventeenth Century_ 183
THE FAMOUS PREACHER, FRIAR BLAS 184
THE MUSICAL ASS—_Yriarte_ 187
THE BASHFUL SHEPHERDESS—_Iglesias_ 189
THE BEAR, THE APE, AND THE PIG—_Yriarte_ 189
THE FROG AND THE HEN—_Yriarte_ 190
MARIQUITA THE BALD—_Juan Eugenio Hartzenbusch_ 191
PULPETE AND BALBEJA; OR, AN ANDALUSIAN DUEL—_Estébanez
Calderón_ 207
SEVILLE—_José Zorrilla_ 213
AFTER THE BULL-FIGHT—_Mesonero Romanos_ 213
DELIGHTS OF A MADRID WINTER—_Wenceslao Ayguals de Izco_ 216
IN THE EARLIER DAYS OF PHOTOGRAPHY—_M. Ossorio y
Bernard_ 218
THE OLD CASTILIAN—_Mariano José de Larra_ 221
A DEMAGOGIC JOURNALIST—_Antonio Maria Segovia_ 233
A CAT CHASE DURING THE SIEGE OF GERONA—_Perez Galdos_ 238
A WELL-WON DISH OF CHERRIES—_Perez Galdos_ 242
FIRST LOVE—_Emilia Pardo Bazan_ 246
THE ACCOUNT BOOK—_Pedro Antonio de Alarcon_ 254
SISTER SAINT SULPICE—_A. Palacio Valdés_ 261
PEPITA—_Juan Valera_ 275
IF SHE COULD ONLY WRITE—_Campoamor_ 288
DOCTOR PERTINAX—_Leopoldo Alas_ 291
A FEW THOUGHTS ON LIGHT—_José Selgas_ 300
EPIGRAMS 302
FOLK-TALES 305
MIRACLES OF ST. ISIDRO, PATRON-SAINT OF MADRID 309
THE WEDDING-NIGHT 313
FATHER COBOS’ HINT—_Juan Martinez Villergas_ 316
POPULAR SONGS 318
PROVERBS 321
ANECDOTES 325
ECCENTRICITIES OF ENGLISHMEN—_A. Ribot y Fontserré_ 329
NEWSPAPER HUMOUR 332
HUMOROUS ADVERTISEMENTS 338
AT THE THEATRE 341
NOTES—CRITICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL 345
INTRODUCTION.
A certain mysterious charm clings to the Spanish people, by reason
of the long domain of more than seven hundred years of the Moors
over the Peninsula, and consequent intermingling, to some degree, of
race, and considerable Oriental influence on the national life and
characteristics. The chief sport of the Spaniards, the bull-fight, is
of Moorish origin; their popular dances and songs raise recollections
of Indian Nautch-girls and the choruses in Moroccan coffee-houses;
their predominant sentiment, the jealousy over their women, points back
to the strict seclusion of the harem. To divert to another paramount
influence, Spain, to this day the most Catholic country in the world,
is in history of awful interest as the country in which the dread
Inquisition took root most firmly: here alone 32,000 persons were
condemned to the _auto-da-fe_! Gloominess, pride, and reserve have
for centuries been the reputed qualities of the Spaniards. Oriental
races are not mirthful; it is difficult to make the dignified Moor
smile, much less laugh: the influence of the Moor, therefore, and the
absolute power of the Church as little, could scarcely be conducive
to merriment. And yet Spanish literature is illumined throughout with
bright flashes of humour, like the silver lining to the dark cloud of
the history of the people—a humour which shows itself in almost every
phase of the national literature, from the twelfth to the nineteenth
century: from incidents in the “Poema del Cid” which tickled the rough
sense of humour of the warriors of the Middle Ages, to the delicate
and subtle irony of Valera in “Pepita Jimenez”—quaint and naïve in the
ballads and collections of tales, sprightly in the drama, boisterous
in the “Novela Picaresca,” inimitable in “Don Quixote.” A humour,
moreover, not laboured, not purely literary (though the latter kind is
not lacking), but spontaneous, and embodying the salient features of
the national life and characteristics.
It is both unnecessary and invidious to descant upon “Don Quixote,”
_par excellence_ the work of Spanish Humour. The death-blow to the
chivalrous literature throughout civilised Europe (in Spain more rankly
luxuriant than elsewhere, and where it perhaps reached its climax of
absurdity), this marvellous work spread rapidly from land to land, and
was first put into English in the year 1612. It is here given from the
latest and most scholarly translation, the labour of love for eighteen
years of Mr. H. E. Watts. It may be as well, however, to draw attention
to the special phase of Spanish life round which Spanish humour
collected in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries—namely, the life
of rogues in the “Novela Picaresca”—to which a section of this volume
has been devoted, and the influence of which is traceable in other
authors (such as Guevara and Santos) not included in that section.
This peculiar taste, called El Gusto Picaresco (_pícaro_ = rogue)
owes its origin, according to Ticknor, to the condition of certain
portions of society in the reigns of Charles V. and Philip II., and
it has ever been in popular favour. Le Sage boldly imitated it in his
famous “Gil Blas”;[1] and Fielding, Smollet, and other English authors
show its influence upon English literature. This typical rogue, who
generally starts in life as a servant, has his counterpart on the stage
in the Gracioso (the valet), prototype of the Barbier de Seville of
Beaumarchais, and Molière's Scapin.
As this collection is not intended to be comprehensive, no apology need
be made for omissions obvious perhaps to Spanish scholars. Among other
works, such as those of the Archpriest of Hita, of Castillejo, Forner,
Pitillas, and Moratin, the “Gatomaquia” (_see_ Notes) and “Mosquea,”
burlesque epics after the pattern of the “Batrachomyomachia,” are not
represented; nor yet the famous “Murciliego Alevoso” (in which is
displayed a humour not unlike Pop) of Gonzalez, and the celebrated
periodical _El Padre Cobos_.[2] That the drama, however, the richest in
Europe, and original and characteristic as only either the Greek or the
English drama, should be so little represented is due to the fact that
the fun of a Spanish comedy generally lies in the plot and in comic
situations.
With regard to the tales and anecdotes (both ancient and modern), the
difficulty is any certainty of their origin, though this applies to
the literature of all countries. The story of the cook and the crane is
a common chestnut (with us the crane is a goose), the travellers’ tale
of the huge cauldron and the cabbage is perhaps too familiar to please;
but they are here of interest as from Spanish Tablebooks of so long ago
as the sixteenth century.
To come to the nineteenth century, our English periodical essayists
of the eighteenth—Addison, Steele, and Johnson—will be recognised as
prototypes of Figaro, El Curioso Parlante, El Solitario, &c. These
Spanish _Tatlers_ and _Spectators_ are, however, on the whole, no
servile imitators, and are justly held in high esteem by the Spaniards,
though little known outside the Peninsula.[3] The nineteenth-century
novel, in which critics see the continuity of the Spanish genius, is
here well represented by Valer “Pepita Jiménez,” and “Sister Saint
Sulpice” of Valdés; other novelists, the rightly popular Alarcon, and
the distinguished authoress, Emilia Pardo Bazan, have contributed short
tales.
The chronological order, which on the whole is adhered to down to the
eighteenth century, is somewhat neglected in the nineteenth for the
sake of variety and harmony in the arrangement of the selections. It is
also to be feared that a few names of minor importance have crept in
among the authors of the present century.
This compilation is based upon Ticknor’s great work upon Spanish
literature[4] and Padre Blanco Garcia’s “History of the Literature of the
Nineteenth Century” (published 1891), besides some valuable advice,
generously given under great stress of work and worry, by Senõr Don
Rubió y Lluch, professor of Spanish Literature to the University of
Barcelona. Other authorities consulted, biographies, &c., are too
numerous to detail.
Existing translations have been used, and the translators’ names
appended. Among these many famous ones from Elizabethan to modern times
will be noticed. Many of the selections have been considerably adapted
for various reasons, principally to suit the requirements of a work
intended to be popular. Others are almost literal. In many cases it has
been no little difficulty to select passages comprehensive enough to
dispense with explanations or a long introductory notice.
On the whole liveliness and attractiveness (whether with success or no)
is aimed at rather than scholarly exactness, though it is to be hoped
the collection will also be of interest to the student, and give a
faithful reflection of Spanish humour so far as possible in a foreign
garb.
With regard to the insertion of extracts from translations or Spanish
originals published within the last ten years, I have to thank the
Cassell Publishing Co., New York, for “The Account Book,” translated
by Mary J. Serrano; Messrs. Thomas J. Crowell & Co., New York, for the
extracts from “Sister Saint Sulpice,” translated by N. H. Dole; Mr.
Heinemann, for his kind permission to insert the given extract from the
translation of “Pepita Jiménez”; Messrs. Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner,
and Co. for permission to insert the ballad from Mr. Gibson’s Spanish
Romances; Señora Doña Emilia Pardo Bazan for her gracious permission
to select from her tales; Mr. H. E. Watts for permission to insert
extracts from his translation of “Don Quixote.”
Finally, my best thanks are due to kind friends in Catalonia
(possessors in the Catalan of a distinct tongue and valuable
literature, if less important than the Castilian) for their great
help during my residence at Barcelona by the furthering of my Spanish
studies, privately, and at the University. While I owe much, to
cultured Spaniards, from Santander to Seville, for valuable information
on their national life and customs, and to my Mother, a patient and
enthusiastic traveller, and the origin, in more than one way, of my
sojourn and travels in Spain.
SUSETTE M. TAYLOR.
THE HUMOUR OF SPAIN.
_MY CID PLEDGES TWO COFFRES FULL OF
SAND TO THE JEWS RACHEL AND VIDAS._
“Martin Antolinez, a dowghtye lance art thow
And be my troth thy hire shall ne stinted be, I vow
My gold, alack, is all yespent and eke the silver toe,
And richesse bere I none with me as God on hye is trewe.
With an ill wille I do itte, for my brave companye’s sake,
Togither with thy gude reade tweye strong chests we will make,
The leather schal be cramasie, the nails schal be of gold,
And we’ll fill them ful of gravele, as much as thei can hold
Toe Rachel and to Vidas, now hie thee speedilee:
An outlawe I from Burgos towne, the Kyng is wrath with me,
I needs must leave my tresor because of its sore weyt,
And I will plege it to them at an anantageus rate.”
Martin Antolinez spedde to towne without delai,
And saw the tweye Jewes upon that verye day.
“O Rachel and thow Vidas, dere frendes are ye in trothe,
A message I have privyly to telle onto youe bothe.”
They did not keep him waiting, they went asyde all thre.
“Here Rachel, and thow Vidas, praye giv your handes to me,
Betray me not to Xtian nor yet to any More,
And I will make you ryche, you schal never more be poor.
The Campeador alate gathered in the landes dutie,
And keped from the Kyng grete and mickle bootie;
Tweye coffres he has gotten brimful of shinand gold
And he cannot bere hem with him, unless he had them sold;
But he’ll give them in your keepyng, and borrow what is just,
Soe take the coffres in your care, with hem we youe entrust,
And laye your handes within mine and tel me one and bothe,
That you wil not look insyde them al this yere upon your oathe”—
“And what will my Cid paye toe us for keepyng safe his treasure?”—
Quoth Martin Antolinez, “He will paye you in due measure
But now he needes a hundred markes, and you can paye them here.”—
“We never paye,” the Jewes sayde, “afore we have the ware.”
Soe they mounted ther swift corsiares and rade richt speedilee,
Wen my Cid saw them comynge, he lought most lustilee.
The Jewes bent loe and kissed his hande, Martin wrote down the deed,
Thei sholde have care of the coffers but of lookyng in tayk heed.
The myrth youe sholde have witnest wen the chests were borne away,
They coulde not bere them by themselves all gyf no striplings they.
Sayd Rachel to the Campeador, “O Cid, I kisse thy hand,
Myght I a fyn red moorish skynne on thi returne demande?”
“Richt willyngley,” sayde my Cid, “sych gifts I gladly offer,
Shoulde I perchaunce forget itte, youe must count it on the coffer.”
In the middle of the hall they stretch’d a carpet fringed and rare,
And a shete of fyn bleached linen was also laid out ther.
In a single lot of silver thre hundrith markes they payed;
Brave Antolinez counted them but did not have hem weyed.
Thre hundrith more he toke in gold, and then bespake the two:
“O Rachel and thow Vidas, mickle gain I’ve brought to you,
And in soth I’ve earned your thanks gif not a pair of breeches toe.”
Vidas and Rachel youde asyde and speedilye agreed
That Antolinez verile had earned of them ryche meede.
“Thritte odde markes, wich is but just, Martin, we’ll giv to youe,
And you can buye some fur, a cloake, and paire of breeches toe.”
Soe Antolinez took the markes and thanked them hertelye,
And tayking curteous leave of them spedde backe richt merrylye.
“_Poema del Cid_” (_Twelfth Century_).
[Illustration: THE CID PLEDGES TWO COFFERS OF SAND TO THE JEWS.]
_THE COWARDICE OF THE INFANTES OF
CARRION WHEN THE LION BREAKS LOOSE._
Two years after their marriage did the Infantes of Carrion sojourn in
Valencia in peace and pleasure, to their own great contentment, and
their uncle Suero Gonzalez with them; and at the end of those two years
there came to pass a great misadventure, by reason of which they fell
out with the Cid, in whom there was no fault. There was a lion in the
house of the Cid who had grown a large one, and a strong, and was full
nimble; three men had the keeping of this lion, and they kept him
in a den which was in a courtyard, high up in the palace; and when
they cleansed the court they were wont to shut him up in his den, and
afterward to open the door that he might come out and eat: the Cid kept
him for his pastime, that he might take pleasure with him when he was
minded so to do. Now it was the custom of the Cid to dine every day
with his company, and after he had dined he was wont to sleep awhile
upon his seat. And one day when he had dined there came a man and told
him that a great fleet was arrived in the port of Valencia, wherein
there was a great power of the Moors, whom King Bucar had brought over,
the son of the Miramamolin of Morocco. And when the Cid heard this
his heart rejoiced and he was glad, for it was nigh three years since
he had had a battle with the Moors. Incontinently he ordered a signal
to be made that all the honourable men who were in the city should
assemble together. And when they were all assembled in the Alcazar, and
his sons-in-law with them, the Cid told them the news, and took counsel
with them in what manner they should go out against this great power
of the Moors. And when they had taken counsel the Cid went to sleep
upon his seat, and the Infantes and the others sat playing at tables
and chess. Now at this time the men who were keepers of the lion were
cleaning the court, and when they heard the cry that the Moors were
coming, they opened the den, and came down into the palace where the
Cid was, and left the door of the court open. And when the lion had
ate his meat and saw that the door was open he went out of the court
and came down into the palace, even into the hall where they all were;
and when they who were there saw him, there was a great stir among
them; but the Infantes of Carrion showed greater cowardice than all the
rest. Ferrando Gonzalez having no shame, neither for the Cid nor for
the others who were present, crept under the seat whereon the Cid was
sleeping, and in his haste he burst his mantle and his doublet also at
the shoulders. And Diego Gonzalez, the other, ran to a postern door,
crying, “I shall never see Carrion again!” This door opened upon a
courtyard where there was a winepress, and he jumped out, and by reason
of the great height could not keep on his feet, but fell among the lees
and defiled himself therewith. And all the others who were in the hall
wrapped their cloaks around their arms, and stood round about the seat
whereon the Cid was sleeping, that they might defend him. The noise
which they made awakened the Cid, and he saw the lion coming towards
him, and he lifted up his hand and said, “What is this?“... And the
lion, hearing his voice, stood still; and he rose up and took him by
the mane as if he had been a gentle mastiff, and led him back to the
court where he was before, and ordered his keepers to look better to
him for the time to come. And when he had done this he returned to the
hall and took his seat again; and all they who beheld it were greatly
astonished.
After some time, Ferrando Gonzalez crept from under the seat where he
had hidden himself, and he came out with a pale face, not having yet
lost his fear, and his brother Diego got from among the lees: and when
they who were present saw them in this plight you never saw such sport
as they made; but my Cid forbade their laughter. And Diego went out to
wash himself and change his garments, and he sent to call his brother
forth, and they took counsel together in secret.
“_Chronicle of the Cid_” (_Thirteenth Century_).
_Trans. Southey._
[Illustration: BRAVERY OF THE CID WHEN THE LION BREAKS LOOSE.]
_THE CAT TURNED NUN._
In a certain convent there was a cat which had killed all the mice in
the convent but one, which was very big, which she could not catch.
The cat mused in her heart in what manner she might deceive the mouse
that she might kill him; and thought so long till she agreed she must
take the veil, and clothe herself in nun’s garb, and sit amongst the
nuns at table, and then she might get at the mouse; and she did as
she had thought. The mouse, when he saw the cat eating with the nuns,
rejoiced greatly, and thought, since the cat had become religious,
that she would henceforth do him no harm, insomuch that Don Mouse came
near to where the nuns were eating, and began to leap about here and
there. Then the cat rolled her eyes as one who has no longer eyes for
any vanity or folly, and she kept a peaceful and humble countenance;
and the mouse, seeing that, drew near little by little; and when the
cat saw him nigh her she sprang upon him with her claws and began to
throttle him. And the mouse said, “How is it that thou, a nun, art so
cruel as to wish to kill me?” Whereupon the cat replied, “Think not
thy cries will cause me to free thee; for know, brother, that when it
pleases me I am a nun, and when it pleases me a canoness.”[5]
“_The Book of Cats_” (_Fourteenth Century_).
_Author unknown._
[Illustration: “THE MOUSE, WHEN HE SAW THE CAT EATING WITH THE NUNS,
REJOICED GREATLY.”]
_THE MADMAN IN THE BATH._
Now it chanced that a good man kept some baths, and a neighbour, a
madman, was the first to come daily to this bath; afterwards awaiting
the arrival of the people to bathe, he commenced, as soon as he saw
them, to beat them with sticks or throw stones at them, so that the
proprietor of the baths soon lost all his customers. The good man,
seeing this, determined to rise very early one day, undressed himself,
and went into the bath before the madman arrived, having at hand a pail
full of very hot water and a wooden club. When the madman came to the
bath, determined, as usual, to attack all who came in his way, the good
man, seeing him enter, allowed him to approach, when he suddenly upset
the pail of hot water over his head, attacking him at the same time
with the club. The madman now gave himself up for dead; nevertheless,
he managed to escape, and, running away, he told every one he met to be
careful, for there was a madman in the bath.
_Don Juan Manuel_ (_d._ 1347). _Trans. James York._
_THE NAKED KING._
Three impostors came to a king and told him they were cloth-weavers,
and could fabricate a cloth of so peculiar a nature that a legitimate
son of his father could see the cloth; but if he were illegitimate,
though believed to be legitimate, he could not see it.
Now the King was much pleased at this, thinking that by this means
he would be able to distinguish the men in his kingdom who were
legitimate sons of their supposed fathers’s from those who were not,
and so be enabled to increase his treasures, for among the Moors only
legitimate children inherit their father’s property; and for this end he
ordered a palace to be appropriated to the manufacture of this cloth.
And these men, in order to convince him that they had no intention of
deceiving him, agreed to be shut up in this palace until the cloth was
manufactured, which satisfied the King.
[Illustration: “SUDDENLY UPSET THE PAIL OF HOT WATER.”]
When they were supplied with a large quantity of gold, silver, silk,
and many other things, they entered the palace, and, putting their
looms in order, gave it to be understood that they were working all day
at the cloth.
After some days, one of them came to the King and told him the cloth
was commenced, that it was the most curious thing in the world,
describing the design and construction; he then prayed the King to
favour them with a visit, but begged he would come alone. The King was
much pleased, but wishing to have the opinion of some one first, sent
the Lord Chamberlain to see it, in order to know if they were deceiving
him. When the Lord Chamberlain saw the workmen, and heard all they had
to say, he dared not admit he could not see the cloth, and when he
returned to the King he stated that he had seen it; the King sent yet
another, who gave the same report. When they whom he had sent declared
that they had seen the cloth, he determined to go himself.
On entering the palace and seeing the men at work, who began to
describe the texture and relate the origin of the invention, as also
the design and colour, in which they all appeared to agree, although in
reality they were not working; when the King saw how they appeared to
work, and heard the character of the cloth so minutely described, and
yet could not see it, although those he had sent had seen it, he began
to feel very uneasy, fearing he might not be the son of the King who
was supposed to be his father, and that if he acknowledged he could
not see the cloth he might lose his kingdom; under this impression he
commenced praising the fabric, describing its peculiarities after the
manner of the workmen.
[Illustration: “HE MOUNTED ON HORSEBACK AND RODE INTO THE CITY.”]
On the return to his palace he related to his people how good and
marvellous was the cloth, yet at the same time suspected something
wrong.
At the end of two or three days the King requested his “Alguacil” (or
officer of justice) to go and see the cloth. When the Alguacil entered
and saw the workmen, who, as before, described the figures and pattern
of the cloth, knowing that the King had been to see it, and yet could
not see it himself, he thought he certainly could not be the legitimate
son of his father, and therefore could not see it. He, however, feared
if he was to declare that he could not see it he would lose his
honourable position; to avoid this mischance he commenced praising the
cloth even more vehemently than the others.
When the Alguacil returned to the King and told him that he had seen
the cloth, and that it was the most extraordinary production in the
world, the King was much disconcerted; for he thought that if the
Alguacil had seen the cloth, which he was unable to see, there could
no longer be a doubt that he was not the legitimate son of the King,
as was generally supposed; he therefore did not hesitate to praise the
excellency of the cloth and the skill of the workmen who were able to
make it.
On another day he sent one of his Councillors, and it happened to
him as to the King and the others of whom I have spoken; and in this
manner, and for this reason, they deceived the King and many others,
for no one dared to say he could not see the cloth.
Things went on thus until there came a great feast, when all requested
the King to be dressed in some of the cloth; so the workmen, being
ordered, brought some rolled up in a very fine linen, and inquired of
the King how much of it he wished them to cut off; so the King gave
orders how much and how to make it up.
Now when the clothes were made, and the feast day had arrived, the
weavers brought them to the King, informing his Majesty that his dress
was made of the cloth as he had directed, the King all this time not
daring to say he could not see it.
When the King had professed to dress himself in this suit, he mounted
on horseback and rode into the city; but fortunately for him it was
summer time. The people seeing his Majesty come in this manner were
much surprised; but knowing that those who could not see this cloth
would be considered illegitimate sons of their fathers, kept their
surprise to themselves, fearing the dishonour consequent upon such a
declaration. Not so, however, with a negro, who happened to notice the
King thus equipped; for he, having nothing to lose, came to him and
said, “Sire, to me it matters not whose son I am, therefore I tell you
that you are riding without any clothes.” On this the King commenced
beating him, saying that he was not the legitimate son of his supposed
father, and therefore it was that he could not see the cloth. But no
sooner had the negro said this, than others were convinced of its
truth, and said the same; until, at last, the King and all with him
lost their fear of declaring the truth, and saw through the trick of
which these impostors had made them the victims. When the weavers were
sought for they were found to have fled, taking with them all they had
received from the King by their imposition.
_Don Juan Manuel. Trans. James York._
“_NOT EVEN THE DAY OF THE MUD?_”
The King Abit, of Seville, was married to Romaquia, and he loved her
better than anything in the world. She was a very virtuous woman, and
the Moors recount many of her good acts. But in one thing she did not
display much wisdom; this was that she generally had some caprice or
other which the King was always willing to gratify.
One day, being in Cordova during the month of February, there happened
to be (which was very unusual) a very heavy fall of snow. When Romaquia
saw this she began to weep. The King, seeing her so afflicted, desired
to know the cause of her grief.
“I weep,” said she, “because I am not permitted to live in a country
where we sometimes see snow.”
The King, anxious to gratify her, ordered almond-trees to be planted
on all the mountains surrounding Cordova, for, it being a very warm
climate, snow is seldom or never seen there. But now, once a year, and
that in the month of February, the almond-trees came forth in full
blossom, which, from their whiteness, made it appear as if there had
been a fall of snow on the mountains, and was a source of great delight
to the Queen for a time.
On another occasion Romaquia, being in her apartment, which overlooked
the river, saw a woman without shoes or stockings kneading mud on the
banks of the river for the purpose of making bricks. When Romaquia saw
this she began to cry, which the King observing, begged to know the
cause of her grief.
She replied, “It is because I am not free to do as I please; I cannot
do as yonder woman is doing.”
Then the King, in order to gratify her, ordered a lake at Cordova to be
filled with rose-water in place of ordinary water, and to produce mud
he had this filled with sugar, powdered cinnamon and ginger, beautiful
stones, amber, musk, and as many other fragrant spices and perfumes as
could be procured, and in place of straws he ordered to be placed ready
small sugar-canes. Now when this lake was full of such mud, as you may
imagine, the King informed Romaquia that now she might take off her
shoes and stockings and enjoy herself by making as many bricks as she
pleased.
[Illustration: “THE KING ORDERED A LAKE AT CORDOVA TO BE FILLED WITH
ROSE-WATER.”]
Another day, taking a fancy for something not immediately procurable,
she began weeping as before. The King again entreated to know the cause
of her grief.
“How can I refrain from tears,” said she, “when you never do anything
to please me?”
The King, seeing that so much had been done to please and gratify her
caprices, and feeling now at his wits’ end, exclaimed, in Arabic, “_Ehu
alenahac aten_,” which means, “Not even the day of the mud.” That is to
say, that, although all the rest had been forgotten, she might at least
have remembered the mud he had prepared to humour her.
_Don Juan Manuel_ (_d._ 1347). _Trans. James York._
_THE TAMING OF THE SHREW._
There lived in a city a Moor who was much respected, and who had a son,
the most promising youth in the world, but not being rich enough to
accomplish the great deeds which he felt in his heart equal to, he was
greatly troubled, having the will and not the power. Now in the same
town there lived another Moor who held a higher position, and was very
much richer than his father, and who had an only daughter, the very
reverse in character and appearance of the young man, she being of
so very violent a temper that no one could be found willing to marry
such a virago. One day the young man came to his father and said, “You
know that your means will not allow you to put me in a position to
live honourably,” adding that, as he desired to live an easy and quiet
life, he thought it better to seek to enrich himself by an advantageous
marriage, or to leave that part of the country. The father told him
that he would be very happy if he could succeed in such a union. On
this the son proposed, if it were agreeable to his father, to seek the
daughter of their neighbour in marriage. Hearing this, the father was
much astonished, and asked how he could think of such a thing when he
knew that no man, however poor, could be induced to marry her.
Nevertheless the son insisted, and although the father thought it a
strange whim, in the end he gave his consent. The good man then visited
his neighbour telling him the wish of his son.
When the good man heard what his friend said, he answered, “By heaven,
my friend, were I to do such a thing I should prove myself a very
false friend, for you have a worthy son, and it would be base in me to
consent to his injury or death, and I know for certain that, were he to
live with my daughter, he would soon die, or death, at least, would be
preferable to life. Do not think I say this from any objection to your
alliance, for I should only be too grateful to any man who would take
her out of my house.”
The young man’s father was much pleased at this, as his son was so intent
on the marriage. All being ultimately arranged, they were in the end
married, and the bride taken home, according to the Moorish fashion,
to the house of her husband, and left to supper, the friends and
relations returning to their respective homes, waiting anxiously for
the following day, when they feared to find the bridegroom either dead
or seriously injured.
Now, being left alone, the young couple sat down to supper, when the
bridegroom, looking behind him, saw his mastiff, and said to him,
“Bring me water wherewith to wash my hands.” The dog naturally taking
no notice of this command, the young man became irritated, and ordered
the animal more angrily to bring him water for his hands, which the
latter not heeding, the young man arose in a great rage, and, drawing
his sword, commenced a savage attack on the dog, who to avoid him
ran away, but finding no retreat jumped on the table, then to the
fireplace, his master still pursuing him, who, having caught him,
first cut off his head, then his paws, hewing him to pieces, covering
everything with blood. Thus furious and blood-stained he returned to
the table, and looking round saw a cat. “Bring me water for my hands,”
said he to him. The animal not noticing the command, the master cried
out, “How, false traitor, did you not see how I treated the mastiff for
disobeying me? If you do not do as I tell you this instant you shall
share his fate.” The poor little harmless cat continuing motionless,
the master seized him by the paws and dashed him to pieces against
the wall. His fury increasing, he again placed himself at the table,
looking about on all sides as if for something to attack next. His
wife, seeing this, and supposing he had lost his senses, held her
peace. At length he espied his horse, the only one he had, and called
to him fiercely to bring him water to wash his hands. The animal not
obeying he cried out in a rage, “How is this? Think you that because
you are the only horse I have, you may dare thus to disobey my orders?
Know, then, that your fate shall be the same as the others, and that
any one living who dares to disobey me shall not escape my vengeance.”
Saying this he seized the horse, cut off his head, and hacked him to
pieces.
And when the wife saw this, and knowing he had no other horse, felt
that he was really in earnest, she became dreadfully alarmed.
He again sat down to table, raging and all bloody as he was, swearing
he would kill a thousand horses, or even men or women, if they dared
to disobey him. Holding at the same time his bloody sword in his hand,
he looked around with glaring eyes until, fixing them on his wife, he
ordered her to bring him water to wash his hands.
The wife, expecting no other fate than to be cut to pieces if she
demurred, immediately arose and brought him the water.
“Ha! thank God you have done so!” said he, “otherwise, I am so
irritated by these senseless brutes, that I should have done by you
as by them.” He afterwards commanded her to help him to meat. She
complied; but he told her, in a fearful tone of voice, to beware, as
he felt as if he was going mad. Thus passed the night, she not daring
to speak, but strictly obeying all his orders. After letting her sleep
for a short time he said to her, “Get up; I have been so annoyed that I
cannot sleep, take care that nothing disturbs me, and in the meanwhile
prepare me a good and substantial meal.”
While it was yet early the following morning the fathers, mothers, and
other relatives came stealthily to the door of the young people, and,
hearing no movement, feared the bridegroom was either dead or wounded,
and seeing the bride approach the door alone were still more alarmed.
She, seeing them, went cautiously and tremblingly towards them, and
exclaimed: “Traitors, what are you doing? How dare you approach this
gate? Speak not—be silent, or all of us, you as well as I, are dead.”
When they heard this they were much astonished, and on learning what
had taken place the night previous they esteemed the young man very
much who had made so good a commencement in the management of his
household; and from that day forward his wife became tractable and
complaisant, so that they led a very happy life. A few days later his
father-in-law, wishing to follow the example of his son, likewise
killed a horse in order to intimidate his wife, but she said to him,
“My friend, it is too late to begin now; it would not avail you to kill
a hundred horses: we know each other too well.”
“Who would not for life be a henpecked fool,
Must show, from the first, that he means to rule.”
_Don Juan Manuel. Trans. James York._
_A LONG TALE._
A King kept a man to tell him fables and tales at night before going to
sleep. And one night the King, troubled with anxious thoughts, could
not sleep, and the man told him three tales more than on other nights.
And the King bade him tell still more, but he was unwilling, having
told many. And the King said, “Thou hast told many, but they were
short; tell me a long one, and then thou canst hie thee to bed.” The
man, agreeing, began thus: “A countryman had a thousand shillings, and
went to the fair and bought two thousand sheep at sixpence each, and
on his way back he found the water had risen in the river, and that he
could not cross by either bridge or ford; but he found a little boat,
and putting in two sheep, rowed across. And now, the river is wide, the
boat very small, and the sheep many; when the rustic has ferried his
flock across, I will go on with the tale.” And he got up and hied him
to bed.
“_Libro de los Exemplos_” (_Fifteenth Century_).
_ELECTIO NULLA DEBET ESSE IN MALIS._
A knavish fool condemned to death, asked the judge if he might choose
the tree whereon he should be hanged; and this wish granted him, he was
taken to the mountains, but could see no tree to please him. And they
took him before the King, who asked why he was not yet hanged, to which
the fool replied, the fact was he could not find a tree on which he
felt he would like to be hanged.
“_Libro de los Exemplos_” (_Fifteenth Century_).
_THE BITER BIT._
“Who thinks to take another in
Is oft in his turn taken in.”
Two townsmen and a countryman, on a pilgrimage to Mecca, agreed to
share provisions till they should reach Mecca. But the victuals ran
short, so that they had nothing left but a little flour—enough to make
a loaf. And the townsmen, seeing that, said one to the other: “We have
but little food, and our companion eats much, how shall we bring about
that he shall eat none of the bread, and that we alone eat it?” And
they took this counsel—they would make the loaf, and whilst it was
baking should all go to sleep, and whoever dreamed the most marvellous
thing in that time, he should alone eat the bread. This they did,
thinking to betray the simple rustic, and they made the loaf and put it
to bake, and then lay down to sleep. But the rustic saw through their
treachery, and when the companions were sleeping took the half-baked
bread, ate it, and turned to sleep. Then one of the townsmen awoke as
one dreaming and afraid, and called to his companion; and the other
said, “What hast thou?”
“I saw a marvellous vision: methought two angels opened the gates of
heaven, and bore me before the face of God.”
And his companion said, “Marvellous is that vision. But I dreamed that
two angels seized me, and, cleaving the earth, bore me to hell.”
The rustic heard all this and pretended to sleep, but the others called
out to him to awake, and he discreetly, as one amazed, replied, “Who
are ye that are calling me?”
They replied, “We are thy companions.”
And he said, “Have ye returned?”
And they said, “Whence wouldst thou have us return?”
And the rustic said, “But now methought I saw two angels take the one
of you to heaven, and then two other angels take the other to hell; and
seeing this, and thinking you would neither return, I got up and ate
the loaf.”
“_Libro de los Exemplos_” (_Fifteenth Century_).
[Illustration: “WHO ARE YE THAT ARE CALLING ME?”]
_CALISTO IS SMITTEN WITH MELIBEA’S CHARMS._
[Illustration: Melibea and Calisto.]
ARGUMENT.—CALISTO, _entering into a garden after his usual manner, met
there with_ MELIBEA, _with whose love being caught, he began to court
her; by whom being sharply checkt and dismist, he gets him home_.
_Calisto._ Sempronio, Sempronio, why Sempronio, I say, Where is this
accursed Varlet?
_Sempronio._ I am heere, Sir, about your horses.
_Calisto._ My horses (you knave), how haps it then that thou comst out
of the hall?
_Sempronio._ The Gyrfalcon bated, and I came in to set him on the
Pearch.
_Calisto._ Is’t e’en so? Now the divell take thee; misfortune waite on
thy heeles to thy destruction; mischiefe light upon thee; let some
perpetuall intolerable torment seyze upon thee in so high a degree that
it may be beyond all comparison, till it bring thee (which shortly I
hope to see) to a most painfull, miserable, and disastrous death. Goe,
thou unlucky rogue, goe I say, and open the chamber doore, and make
ready my bed.
_Sempronio._ Presently, Sir, the bed is ready for you.
_Calisto._ Shut the windowes, and leave darknesse to accompany him,
whose sad thoughts deserve no light. Oh death! how welcome art thou,
to those who out-live their happinesse! how welcome, wouldst thou but
come when thou art cal! O that Hypocrates and Galen, those learned
Physicians, were now living, and both heere, and felt my paine! O
heavens! if yee have any pitty in you, inspire that Pleberian heart
therewith, lest that my soule, helplesse of hope, should fall into the
like misfortune with Pyrramus and Thisbe.
_Sempronio._ What a thing is this? Wha the matter with you?
_Calisto._ Away, get thee gone, doe not speake to me, unlesse thou
wilt, that these my hands, before thy time be come, cut off thy daies
by speedy death.
_Sempronio._ Since you will lament all alone, and have none to share
with you in your sorrowes, I will be gone, Sir.
_Calisto._ Now the divell goe with thee.
_Sempronio._ With me Sir? There is no reason that he should goe with
me, who stayes with you. O unfortunate, O sudden and unexpected ill;
what contrarious accident, what squint-ey’d starre is it that hath robbed
this Gentleman of his wonted mirth? and not of that alone, but of it
(which is worse) his wits. Shall I leave him all alone? or shall I goe
in to him? If I leave him alone, he will kill himselfe. If I goe in, he
will kill me. Let him bide alone, and bite upon the bit, come what will
come, I care not. Better it is that hee dye, whose life is hatefull
unto him, than that I dye, when life is pleasing unto mee, and say that
I should not desire to live, save only to see my Elicia, that alone
is motive inoughe to make mee louke to my selfe, and guard my person
from dangers.... Well, I will let him alone awhile, and give his humour
leave to work out it selfe; ... againe, if he see me in sight, I shall
see him more incensed against me: For there the sun scorcheth most
where he reflecteth most.... And therefore I think it my best play,
to play least in sight, and to stay a little longer; but if in the
meanewhile he should kill him selfe, then farewell he. Perhaps I may
get more by it than every man is aware of, and cast my skinne, changing
rags for robes, and penury for plenty. But it is an old saying, He that
lookes after dead-men’s shoes, may chance to goe barefoote: Perhaps also
the divell hath deceived me. And so his death may be my death, and then
all the fat is in the fire: The rope will go after the Bucket: and one
losse follows another;—on the other side, your wise men say, That it
is a great ease to a grieved soule to have a companion, to whom he may
communicate his sorrow. Besides, it is generally received, that the
wound which bleedes inward, is ever the more dangerous. Why then in
these two extremes hang I in suspense. What I were best to doe? Sure
the safest is to enter....
_Calisto._ Sempronio!
_Sempronio._ Sir.
_Calisto._ Reach me that Lute.
_Sempronio._ Sir, heere it is.
_Calisto._ “Tell me what griefe so great can be
As to equall my misery.”
_Sempronio._ This Lute, Sir, is out of tune.
_Calisto._ How shall he tune it, who himselfe is out of tune?... Or
how can he do anything well, whose will is not obedient to reason? who
harbors in his brest needles, peace, warre, truce, love, hate, injuries
and suspicions; and all these at once, and from one and the same cause.
Doe thou therefore take this Lute unto thee, and sing me the most
doleful ditty thou canst devise.
_Sempronio._
“Nero from Tarpey, doth behold
How Rome doth burne all on a flame;
He heares the cries of young and old,
Yet is not grievéd at the same.”
_Calisto._ My fire is farre greater, and lesse her pity whom now I
speake of——
_Sempronio._ I was not deceived when I sayd, my Master had lost his
wits.
_Calisto._ Whats that (Sempronio) thou muttrest to thy selfe?
_Sempronio._ Nothing Sir, not I.
_Calisto._ Tell me what thou saidst: Be not afraid.
_Sempronio._ Marry I said, How can that fire be greater which but
tormenteth one living man, than that which burnt such a Citty as that
was, and such a multitude of men?
_Calisto._ How? I shall tell thee. Greater is that flame which lasteth
fourscore yeeres than that which endureth but one day. And greater
that fire which burneth one soule, than that which burneth an hundred
thousand bodies: See what difference there is betwixt apparencies and
existencies; betwixt painted shadowes, and lively substances.... So
great a difference is there betwixt that fire which thou speakest of
and that which burneth mee.
_Sempronio._ I see, I did not mistake my byas; which runnes worse and
worse. Is it not enough to shew thy selfe a fool, but thou must also
speake prophanely?
_Calisto._ Did I not tell thee, when thou speakest, that thou shouldest
speake aloud? Tell me what’s that thou mumblest to thy selfe.
_Sempronio._ Onely I doubted of what religion your Worship was.
_Calisto._ I am a Melibean, I adore Melibea, I believe in Melibea, and
I love Melibea.
_Sempronio._ My Master is all Melibea: whose heart not able to containe
her, like a boyling vessell, goes bubbling her name in his mouth. Well,
I have now as much as I desire: I know on which foot you halt. I shall
heale you.
_Calisto._ Thou speakest of matters beyond the Moone. It is impossible.
_Sempronio._ O Sir, exceeding easie; for the first recovery of
sicknesse, is the discovery of the disease.... Ha, ha, ha, Calisto’s fire;
these, his intolerable paines: as if love shot all his arrowes only
against him. O Cupid, how high and unsearchable are thy mysteries!
What reward has thou ordained for love, since that so necessary a
tribulation attends on lovers? That hast set his bounds, as markes for
men to wonder at: Lovers ever deeming that they only are cast behinde;
that all men breake thorow but themselves, like your light-footed
bulls, which being let loose in the Place, and galled with darts, take
over the bars as soone as they feele themselves prickt.
_Calisto._ Sempronio.
_Sempronio._ Sir.
_Calisto._ Doe not you goe away.
_Sempronio._ This pipe sounds in another tune.
_Calisto._ What dost thou think of my malady?
_Sempronio._ Why, that you love Melibea.
“_Celestina, or the Tragicomedy of Calisto and Melibea._”
The first Act is attributed to Rodrigo Cota, 1480.
_Trans. Puede-Ser, or Mabbe._
_LOVE AND DEATH._
TAPÁROUSE EN UNA VENTA.
Death and Cupid chanced to meet,
On a day when they were roaming,
At a wayside country inn,
After sunset in the gloaming.
Cupid he was bound for Seville,
Death was marching to Madrid,
Both with knapsacks on their shoulders,
Where their wicked wares were hid.
Seemed to me that they were fleeing
From the clutches of the law,
For the couple gained a living
Dealing death on all they saw.
Cupid slily glanced at Death,
As they sat around the board,
Marvelled at her ugly visage,
Shook his merry sides and roared.
“Madam,” quoth he, “’tis so rude
To behave in such a way;
But, in sooth, so fair a fright
I’ve not seen for many a day.”
Death, whose cheeks grew red and fiery,
Put an arrow in her bow;
Cupid put in his another,
And to combat they would go.
Quick the landlord slipped between them,
As they scowled on one another,
Made them swear eternal friendship,
Bade them sit and sup together.
In the kitchen, by the ingle,
They were fain to lay them down,
For no bed was in the tavern,
And the landlord he had none.
They their arrows, bows and quivers,
Gave into Marina’s care,
She, a buxom wench who waited
On the guests that harboured there;
On the morrow at the dawning,
Cupid started from the floor,
Bade the landlord fetch his arms,
Broke his fast and paid his score.
’Twas the arms of Death the landlord
In his haste to Cupid brought,
Cupid flung them on his shoulder,
Took the road and gave no thought.
Death rose up a little after,
Sour, and limp, and woe-begone,
Took at once the arms of Cupid,
Shouldered them, and wandered on.
From that very day to this,
Cupid’s shafts no more revive;
Youths who feel his fatal arrows
Pass not over twenty-five.
And, ’tis stranger still, the old ones,
Whom Death’s arrows used to slay,
When they feel the shafts of Cupid,
Gain a new life and a gay.
What a world, so topsy-turvey!
What a change in people’s lives!
Cupid giving life destroys,
Death destroying life revives!
_Trans. J. Y. Gibson._
_THE EATEN PANCAKE._
_Leno._ Ah, Troico, are you there?
_Troico._ Yes, my good fellow, do you see I am?
_Leno._ It would be better if I did not see it.
_Troico._ Why so, Leno?
_Leno._ Why, then you would not know a piece of ill-luck that has just
happened.
_Troico._ What ill-luck?
_Leno._ What day is it to-day?
_Troico._ Thursday.
_Leno._ Thursday? How soon will Friday come, then?
_Troico._ Friday will come to-morrow.
_Leno._ Well, tha something;—but tell me, are there not other days of
ill-luck as well as Fridays?
_Troico._ Why do you ask?
_Leno._ Because there may be unlucky pancakes, if there are unlucky
Thursdays.
_Troico._ I suppose so.
_Leno._ Now, stop there;—suppose one of yours had been eaten of a
Thursday, on whom would the ill-luck have fallen—on the pancake, or on
you?
_Troico._ On me, of course.
_Leno._ Then, my good Troico, comfort yourself, and begin to suffer and
be patient; for men, as the saying is, are born to misfortunes, and
these are matters, in fine, that come from God; and in the order of
time you must die yourself, and, as the saying is, your last hour will
then be come and arrived. Take it, then, patiently, and remember that
we are here to-morrow and gone to-day.
_Troico._ For heaven’s sake, Leno, is anybody in the family dead? Or else
why do you console me so?
_Leno._ Would to heaven that were all, Troico!
_Troico._ Then what is it? Can’t you tell me without so many
circumlocutions? What is all this preamble about?
_Leno._ When my poor mother died, he that brought me the news, before
he told me of it, dragged me round through more turn-abouts than there
are windings in the rivers Pisuerga and Zapardiel.
_Troico._ But I have got no mother, and never knew one. I don’t know what
you mean.
_Leno._ Then smell this napkin.
_Troico._ Very well, I have smelt it.
_Leno._ What does it smell of?
_Troico._ Something like butter.
_Leno._ Then you may surely say, “Here Troy was.”
_Troico._ What do you mean, Leno?
_Leno._ For you it was given to me; for you Donna Timbria sent it, all
stuck over with nuts;—but, as I have (and Heaven and everybody else
knows it) a sort of natural relationship for whatever is good, my eyes
watched and followed her just as a hawk follows chickens.
_Troico._ Followed whom, villain? Timbria?
_Leno._ Heaven forbid! But how nicely she sent it, all made up with
butter and sugar!
_Troico._ And what was that?
_Leno._ The pancake, to be sure,—don’t you understand?
_Troico._ And who sent a pancake to me?
_Leno._ Why, Donna Timbria.
_Troico._ Then what became of it?
_Leno._ It was consumed.
_Troico._ How?
_Leno._ By looking at it?
_Troico._ Who looked at it?
_Leno._ I, by ill-luck.
_Troico._ In what fashion?
_Leno._ Why, I sat down by the wayside.
_Troico._ Well, what next?
_Leno._ I took it in my hand.
_Troico._ And then?
_Leno._ Then I tried how it tasted; and what between taking and leaving
all around the edges of it, when I tried to think what had become of
it, I found I had no sort of recollection.
_Troico._ The upshot is that you ate it?
_Leno._ It is not impossible.
_Troico._ I’ faith you are a trusty fellow!
_Leno._ Indeed! do you think so? Hereafter, if I bring two, I will eat
them both, and so be better yet.
_Troico._ The business goes on well, truly!
_Leno._ And well advised, and at small cost, and to my content. But
now, go to; suppose we have a little jest with Timbria.
_Troico._ Of what sort?
_Leno._ Suppose you make her believe you ate the pancake yourself, and,
when she thinks it is true, you and I can laugh at the trick till you
split your sides. Can you ask for anything funnier?
_Troico._ You counsel well, indeed.
_Leno._ Well, Heaven bless the men that listen to reason! But tell me,
Troico, do you think you can carry out the jest with a grave face?
_Troico._ I? What have I to laugh about?
_Leno._ Why, don’t you think it is a laughing matter to make her believe
you ate it, when all the time it was your own good Leno that did it?
_Troico._ Wisely said! But now hold your tongue, and go about your
business!
_Lope de Rueda._ “_Timbria_” (_fl._ 1565). _Trans. Ticknor._
_THE FAIR CELIBATE._
They say, “’Tis time, go, marry! go!”
But I’ll no husband! not I! no!
For I would live all carelessly,
Amidst these hills, a maiden free,
And never ask, nor anxious be,
Of wedded weal or woe.
Yet still they say, “Go, marry! go!”
But I’ll no husband! not I! no!
So, mother, think not I shall wed,
And through a tiresome life be led,
Or use, in folly’s ways instead,
What grace the heaven’s bestow—
Yet still they say, “Go, marry! go!”
But I’ll no husband! not I! no!
The man has not been born, I ween,
Who as my husband shall be seen;
And since what frequent tricks have been
Undoubtingly I know,—
In vain they say, “Go, marry! go!”
For I’ll no husband! not I! no!
_Gil Vicente_ (_d._ 1557). _Trans. Ticknor._
[Illustration: THE FAIR CELIBATE.]
“THE TABLE-BOOK AND TRAVELLERS’ JOY.”
_THE RUSTIC AND THE LACKEYS._
A rustic desirous to see the King, thinking he was more than man, put
his wages in his pocket and took leave of his master. But the pennies
soon melted away on the long journey to the capital. Having arrived
and seen the King, whom he found to be a man like himself, he was so
disgusted at having spent upon this all his money excepting half a
real, that a tooth began to ache, and what with hunger tormenting him
too he did not know what to do, for he said to himself, “If I have the
tooth drawn, and give my half real for that, I shall die of hunger;
while, if I eat the half real, my tooth will go on aching.” As he was
thus debating he approached a pastrycook’s stall, and gazed with longing
eyes at the tarts displayed. By chance two lackeys were passing by,
who, seeing him so taken up with the pastry, cried out, to make sport—
“Hola, rustic, how many tarts would you venture to make a meal of?”
“By heavens! I could swallow fifty.”
“Go to the devil!” said they.
“Gentlemen,” he replied, “you are easily frightened.”
Upon which they offered to lay a wager.
“Done,” said the rustic; “if I don’t eat fifty, you can draw this tooth,”
and he pointed to the one that ached.
[Illustration: “THE OTHERS, MAKING VERY MERRY, BADE A BARBER DRAW THE
TOOTH.”]
All parties pleased, the countryman, very much to his taste, began
whetting his teeth upon the tarts. When his hunger was satisfied he
stopped, saying, “Gentlemen, I have lost.” The others, making very
merry, indulged in much laughter, bade a barber draw the tooth—though
at this our friend feigned great grief—and the more to jeer at him
cried out to the bystanders—
“Did you ever see such a fool of a clown as to lose an ivory to satiate
himself with tarts?”
“Yours is the greater folly,” retorted he; “you have satisfied my
hunger and drawn a grinder which has been aching all the morning.”
The crowd burst out laughing at the trick the rustic had played upon
the lackeys, who, paying the pastrycook and barber, turned their backs
and went away.
_THE CONTRARY WIFE._
A tambourinist had so contrary a wife, he never could get her to
do anything he asked. One day, on their way to a wedding, at which
he was to play, she was riding an ass and carrying his tambourine,
and he cried out, as they were fording a river, “Woman, don’t play the
tambourine, for you’ll frighten the ass.” No sooner said than she began
thrumming; the ass, shying, lost its footing, and threw our dame into
the river; while the husband, however much he wished to help her, could
do no good. Seeing she was drowned, he went up-stream in search of her
body.
“My good fellow,” said a looker-on, “what are you seeking?”
“My wife,” replied he, “who is drowned.”
“And you are looking for her up-stream, friend?”
“Oh, yes, sir, she was always contrary.”
[Illustration: “THE ASS, SHYING, LOST HIS FOOTING, AND THREW OUR DAME
INTO THE RIVER.”]
_AN AFFECTIONATE WIFE._
Matters came to such a pass between a husband and wife—who, having
married against their will, lived a cat and dog life—that the husband
one day gave his spouse a box on the ears, whereupon she, knowing he
had a few days before killed a neighbour, began, without the least
caring about the issue, to raise her voice, crying, “Seize the villain;
he wants to kill me as he did So-and-so.” Somebody heard her, and the
man was accused, and, in accordance with his own confession, condemned
to be hanged. On his way to the gallows he begged to be allowed to
speak with his wife. She came, and he stopped on the road; but the good
woman, eager to see the last of his days, cried, “Husband, why stop
still? Let us walk while we talk, and lose no time.”
_CHASTISE WITH GOOD WORDS._
An honest husband, so ill-starred as to have married a troublesome
widow, beat her with a light stick, whereupon she went and complained
to her kinsfolk. The latter reprehended her husband, bidding him not
treat his wife thus, but chastise her with good words. This he said he
would do, whereupon the skittish widow conducted herself much worse.
The good fellow, not to break his promise, took a cudgel, into which he
cut the _Pater Noster_ on one side, and the _Ave Maria_ on the other,
and when she misbehaved herself beat her with that. The wife renewing
her complaints, her relations came to tell him he had ill kept his
word. “Not so, friends,” replied the young man; “I have done what you
bade me, and only chastised her with good words; read what is written
on the cudgel.”
[Illustration: “READ WHAT IS WRITTEN ON THE CUDGEL.”]
_THE ACCOMMODATING FARMER._
A farmer who had on his land a fig-tree, on which several poor wretches
had from time to time done away with themselves, determined to fell it
as a thing of evil omen; but before so doing sent a cryer through the
town: Should any one wish to hang himself on that fig-tree, he was to
make up his mind within three days, for it was going to be cut down.
_THE ACCOMMODATING LORD._
As a great lord was dining, his servants at the sideboard turning their
backs, there entered a thief, who took one of the best dishes on the
table, and, seeing the master of the house looking at him, signed to
him to keep quiet, and made off. When the dish was found missing, the
lord said, “A thief took it, I saw him do so.”
“Then why didn’t your lordship cry out?”
“Oh, he bade me be quiet.”
_DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND._
A chaplain devouring a fine roast pigeon at an inn was asked by a fresh
arrival to let him eat with him and he would pay his share. This was
refused, and the pedestrian sat down and ate his dry bread, saying
afterwards, “Know, reverend sir, you by tasting, and I by smelling,
have both eaten the pigeon, although against your wish.”
“If that is so, you must pay your part of the pigeon,” replied the
chaplain.
The chaplain insisting, the other refusing, they finally made the
village sacristan judge between them. The sacristan, asking what the
bird cost, was told half a real, and then made the pedestrian disburse
a farthing, which he took and rang on the table, saying, “Reverend sir,
inasmuch as he ate by the smell of the pigeon, consider yourself paid
by the sound of the money.”
_THE BEST HOUR TO DINE._
A great nobleman asked certain physicians what was the best time of the
day to dine. One replied, at ten; another, at eleven; another, at noon.
The oldest said, “My lord, the perfect hour for dining is for the rich
man when he feels inclined, for the poor man when he has something to
eat.”
_THE BEST WIFE IN THE WORLD._
A certain Valencian dame, a very good wife, had one fault: at times she
wagged her tongue more than was needful. One evening at a ball she was
seized with faintness, and they ran for her husband, telling him his
wife had lost her speech. “Let her alone! Let her alone!” said he. “If
this lasts, she’ll be the best wife in the world!”
_A PIOUS WISH._
A captain, when in Flanders, being robbed of some half-boots made to
measure for his feet, which were maimed and crooked, exclaimed, upon
discovering his loss, “Please God, they may fit the rogue who stole
them!”
A country squire, who had killed a crane, bade his cook roast it. As
his master was late to dinner, the cook ate one leg, and when the bird
was sent up to table and the other leg asked for, he replied cranes
only had one leg. Out shooting cranes another day with his master, he
said, “See, sir, they only have one” (for the bird raises one when
standing). “S-s-s-s-t!” cried the Squire, and the cranes flew up,
each showing two legs. “Oh!” exclaimed the cook, “if you had said
‘S-s-s-s-t!’ to the one on the dish, he would also have brought out his
other leg.”
[Illustration: “‘s-s-s-t!’ CRIED THE SQUIRE, AND THE CRANES FLEW UP.”]
* * * * *
An old man, jealous of his pretty young wife and a certain friend of
his, a merchant and widower, fell ill of a mortal disease. Knowing his
case was hopeless, he said to his wife, “You know, my dear, that I
cannot escape this deadly sickness; what I beg of you is, if you care
to please me, that you will not marry that friend of mine, who often
comes to the house, and of whom I have been somewhat jealous.” “Dear
husband,” replied she, “even if I wished, I could not, for I am already
engaged to somebody else.”
* * * * *
An old bachelor, having married at seventy, was reproached by his
friends for having committed a folly, and replied they said true: Man
with years loses his prudence; when he was a young man, and had any, he
never could be induced to marry.
* * * * *
An astrologer, whose wife was with child, cast the horoscope of the
unborn infant and discovered two sons would be born to him, and that
the first would be a cutpurse, the second a murderer. This so grieved
him that he was unable to conceal his sorrow, which being perceived
by his wife, was unburdened to her. “There is a cure for this case,”
said she. “We will make the first a purse-maker, and he will cut
purses; the second a butcher, and he can slay oxen.”
* * * * *
A village maiden, driving before her an ass, which, as it was returning
to its foal, went quicker than the girl, met a courtier. “Where do
you live, my pretty maiden?” “At Getafe,” replied she. “Tell me, do
you know the daughter of the innkeeper in that village?” “Very well,”
replied she. “Then be so kind as to take her a kiss from me!” “Give it
to my donkey, sir; she’ll get there first.”
* * * * *
A father sending his son to study at Salamanca, bade him eat the
cheapest food. The youth on his arrival asked the price of an ox, and
was told ten ducats; then of a partridge, and was told a real. “Oh!”
said he, “then I am bidden to eat partridges!”
* * * * *
Two friends, a weaver and a tailor, became in time enemies, so much so
that the tailor spoke much evil of the weaver behind his back, though
the weaver always spoke well of the tailor. Upon a lady asking the
weaver why he always spoke so well of the tailor, who spoke so ill of
him, he replied: “Madam, we are both liars.”
* * * * *
Two thieves were breaking into a door when the master of the house,
hearing them, looked out of the window and said: “Friends, come a
little later, we are not yet in bed.”
[Illustration: “THEN BE SO KIND AS TO TAKE HER A KISS FROM ME.”]
* * * * *
A man of evil life and fame having built a beautiful house, had
inscribed on the lintel: “Let no evil cross this threshold.” A wit
reading it, said, “Then wherever does the master of the house enter?”
* * * * *
A knight having received a dish of cherries early in the season, had
them placed before him above the dais. His children, a bastard and a
legitimate son, were seated at another table apart, and seeing they got
no cherries, the bastard up with his hand and soundly boxed his brother’s
ears. “How now, you villain,” said the father, “why did you do that?”
“Because, sir, he kept on saying, ‘You won’t get any cherries, you won’t.’”
Upon which the father, much amused, gave some to both.
[Illustration: “YOU WON’T GET ANY CHERRIES, YOU WON’T!”]
* * * * *
A prince had a jester who kept a book of fools, in which he put
everybody deserving that title. One day at table the prince asked the
jester to bring him the book, and opening it saw his own name, and
below, “His Highness, on such a day, gave fifty ducats to an alchemist
with which to go to Italy and bring back materials for making gold and
silver.” “And what if he returns?” said the Prince. “Oh, then she will
scratch out your Highness and put him in.”
* * * * *
A collegian of the Archbishop of Seville’s college was one day at table
overlooked by the prebendary who doles out everybody’s rations. Somewhat
embarrassed as to how he should ask for his food, he suddenly observed
a cat mewing in front of him, which he addressed in a loud voice so
that the prebendary might hear, “Why the deuce are you mewing and
licking your chops at me? I have not yet got my rations, and you must
needs already begin bothering me for the bones.”
* * * * *
A Biscayan, just finished working on the belfry in a small town,
where there chanced to be a man condemned to death, was told by
the authorities that, as they had no executioner, they would give
him a ducat and the condemned man’s clothes to do the job, with which
our Biscayan was well content. A few months after, finding himself
penniless, and remembering how much he had gained by so light a task,
he climbed the belfry, and when the townsfolk hurried by upon the
pealing of the bells, he looked down at them, saying: “Gentlemen, it
is I have called your worships. You must know I have not a blessed
farthing, and you remember you gave me a ducat the other day to hang a
man. Now I have been thinking that, from the smallest to the biggest
of your worships, I should like to hang the whole town at half a ducat
each.”
* * * * *
A blind man hid some money at the foot of a tree in a field belonging
to a rich farmer. Visiting it one day he found it gone, and suspecting
the farmer, went to him and said, “Sir, as you seem an honest man, I
have come to ask your advice. I have a sum of money in a very safe
place, and now I have just as much more, and do not know if I should
hide it where the other is, or somewhere else.” The farmer replied,
“Truly, if I were you, I would not change the place, it being as safe
as you say.” “That’s just what I thought,” said the blind man, and took
his leave. The farmer hurriedly put back the money, hoping to get it
doubled, and the blind man in his turn dug it up, greatly rejoicing at
recovering what he had lost.
_Juan de Timoneda_ (_fl._ 1590).
[Illustration: “I SHOULD LIKE TO HANG THE WHOLE TOWN AT HALF A DUCAT
EACH.”]
“THE BOOK OF JOKES.”
_TRAVELLERS’ TALES._
In Monzon de Campos a nobleman returned from India, as he was one day
relating wonders of those regions to some neighbours, told them how
he had seen a cabbage so immense that three hundred mounted men could
rest under its shade. “I don’t think much of that,” cried a servant of
the Marquess of Poza. “In Biscay I saw a cauldron so vast that two
hundred men were hammering at it, and yet stood so far from each other
that no man heard the noise of his neighbour’s hammer.” The Indian, much
surprised, inquired the use of this cauldron. “Sir, to cook the cabbage
you have just told us about.”
* * * * *
Don Rodrigo Pimentel, Count of Benavente, was a master much feared by
his servants. One day at Benavente, as he was writing some important
despatches, certain of his pages stood round about discussing their
fear of him, and one said, “What will you give me if I go up, just as
he is now, and give him a hard smack on the back of his neck?” The
others eagerly laid a wager with him. Hereupon goes my good page as if
to see if his lord wanted anything, and gives him a sound slap, crying
“St. George!” “What’s that?” said the Count. “Sir, a large spider was
crawling down your Excellenc neck.” The Count sprang up much disturbed,
saying, “What became of it? Did you kill it?” “I knocked it down, sir,
and it’s gone away.” And his delighted comrades willingly paid the wager
he had so cleverly and boldly won.
_Luis de Pinedo_ (_Sixteenth Century_).
[Illustration: “HEREUPON GOES MY GOOD PAGE AND GIVES HIM A SOUND
SMACK.”]
* * * * *
A great favourite of Cardinal Loaysa came one day to speak with him on
a certain matter, arriving so early that the Cardinal was asleep. The
nobleman’s importunity was so great that the servants awoke his Eminence,
telling him who was there. The Cardinal finally ordered him to be shown
in, and learning his business, said, “My friend, I knew long ago that
you wasted your time; but that you got up so early to do so, that I did
not know.”
* * * * *
A pupil at the grammar school of Alcalá once said to the vice-rector,
who, for the sake of economy, always made boys eat very stale bread,
“Domine, fac ut lapides isti panes fiant.”
* * * * *
Bachelor N., at Salamanca, gave bad wine to some pupils, one of whom,
a bold fellow, tasting it, rose, and taking off his hat, said to him,
“Domine, si potest fieri, transeat a me calix iste.”
* * * * *
In the madhouse of Toledo a madman cried out in a loud voice to some
visitors shown round, “I am the angel Gabriel, who came with the
tidings to Our Lady,” and said, “Ave Maria,” &c. Another madman near
him upon this exclaimed, “He is lying; I am God the Father and I sent
him on no such errand.”
TALES OF ROGUES.
_LAZARO DECLARETH WHOSE SON HE WAS._
“Your Worship shall understand, before all things, that my name is
Lazaro de Tormes, son of Thomas Gonzalez and Antonia Pelez, native of
Tejares, a village near Salamanca. I was born within the river called
Tormes, whereof I took my surname. My father (whom God pardon) had
the charge of a mill standing upon that river, wherein he supplied
the room of a miller about fifteen years. It fortuned on a night, my
mother being great with child was there brought to bed, and there was I
born; therefore now I may truly report the river itself to be the place
of my nativity; and after the time I came to the age of eight years,
there was laid to my father’s charge that he had shamefully cut the seams
of men’s sacks that came thither to grind; wherefore he was taken and
imprisoned, and being tormented, he confessed the whole matter, denying
nothing, wherefore he was persecuted. I trust in God he is now in
Paradise, seeing the Gospel doth say that blessed are such as confess
their faults.”
“_Lazarillo de Tormes_,” _Hurtado de Mendoza_, 1503-1575.
_Trans. David Rowland._
_HOW LAZARO SERVES A BLIND MAN._
I am sorry to say that I never met with so avaricious and so wicked an
old curmudgeon; he allowed me almost to die daily of hunger, without
troubling himself about my necessities; and, to say the truth, if I had
not helped myself by means of a ready wit and nimble fingers, I should
have closed my account from sheer starvation.
Notwithstanding all my master’s astuteness and cunning, I contrived so
to outwit him that generally the best half came to my share. But to
accomplish this I was obliged to tax my powers of invention to the
uttermost. The old man was accustomed to carry his bread, meat, and
other things, in a sort of linen knapsack, which was closed at the
mouth with an iron ring, and secured also by a padlock; but in adding
to his store, or taking from it, he used such vigilance that it was
almost an impossibility to cheat him of a single morsel. However, when
he had given me my pittance, which I found no difficulty in dispatching
at about two mouthfuls, and closed his budget, thinking himself
perfectly secure from depredation, I began my tactics, and by means of
a small rent, which I slyly effected in one of the seams of the bag, I
used to help myself to the choicest pieces of meat, bacon, and sausage,
taking care to close the seam according as opportunity occurred. But in
addition to this, all that I could collect together, either by fraud
or otherwise, I carried about me in half farthings; so that when the
old man was sent for to pray, and they gave him farthings (all which
passed through my hands, he being blind), I contrived to slip them into
my mouth, by which process so quick an alteration was effected that
when they reached his hands they were invariably reduced to half the
original value.
[Illustration: “I PROCURED A LARGE STRAW.”]
The cunning old fellow, however, suspected me, for he used to say,
“How the deuce is this? ever since you have been with me they give
me nothing but half-farthings, whereas before it was not an unusual
thing to be paid with halfpence, but never less than farthings. I must
be sharp with _you_, I find.” Whenever we ate, the old man took care
to keep a small jar of wine near him, which was reserved for his own
especial service, but I very soon adopted the practice of bestowing on
this favourite jar sundry loving though stolen embraces. Such pleasures
were but short-lived, for the fervency of my attachment was soon
discovered in the deficiency of the wine; and the old man afterwards,
to secure his draught, never let the jar go without tying it to him by
the handle. But I was a match for him even there; for I procured a long
straw, and, dipping it into the mouth of the jar, renewed my intimacy
with such effect that but a small share was his who came after me. The
old traitor was not long in finding me out; I think he must have heard
me drink, for he quickly changed his plan, and placed the jar between
his knees, keeping the mouth closed with his hand, and in this manner
considered himself secure from my depredations.
_Hurtado de Mendoza._ _Trans. Roscoe._
_LAZARO IS SERVANT TO A PRIEST._
It was during this trying and afflicting time, when, seeing things
going from bad to worse, without any one to advise with, I was praying
with all Christian humility that I might be released from such misery,
that one day, when my wretched, miserable, covetous thief of a master
had gone out, an angel, in the likeness of a tinker, knocked at the
door—for I verily believe he was directed by Providence to assume that
habit and employment—and inquired whether I had anything to mend?
Suddenly a light flashed upon me, as though imparted by an invisible
and unknown power. “Uncle,” said I, “I have unfortunately lost the
key of this great chest, and sadly afraid my master will beat me; for
God’s sake, try if you can fit it, and I will reward you.” The angelic
tinker drew forth a large bunch of keys, and began to try them, while
I assisted his endeavours with my feeble prayers; when lo, and behold!
when least I thought it, the lid of the chest arose, and I almost
fancied I beheld the divine essence therein in the shape of loaves of
bread. “I have no money,” said I to my preserver, “but give me the key
and help yourself.” He took some of the whitest and best bread he could
find, and went away well pleased, though not half so well as myself. I
refrained from taking any for the present, lest the deficiency might be
noticed, and contented myself with the hope that, on seeing so much in
my power, hunger would hardly dare to approach me.
[Illustration: “THE ANGELIC TINKER DREW FORTH A LARGE BUNCH OF KEYS AND
BEGAN TO TRY THEM.”]
My wretched master returned, and it pleased God that the offering my
angel had been pleased to accept remained undiscovered by him. The
next day, when he went out, I went to my farinaceous paradise, and,
taking a loaf between my hands and teeth, in a twinkling it became
invisible; then, not forgetting to lock the treasure, I capered about
the house for joy to think that my miserable life was about to change,
and for some days following I was as happy as a king. But it was not
predestined for me that such good luck should continue long; on the
third day symptoms of my old complaint began to show themselves, for
I beheld my murderer in the act of examining our chest, turning and
counting the loaves over and over again. Of course I dissimulated my
terror, but it was not for want of my prayers and invocations that he
was not struck stone-blind like my old master, but he retained his
eyesight.
After he had been some time considering and counting, he said, “If I
were not well assured of the security of this chest, I should say that
somebody had stolen my bread; but, however, to remove all suspicion,
from this day I shall count the loaves; there remain now exactly nine
and a piece.”
“May nine curses light upon you, you miserable beggar,” said I to
myself, for his words went like an arrow to my heart, and hunger
already began to attack me, seeing a return to my former scanty fare
now inevitable.
No sooner did the priest go out than I opened the chest to console
myself even with the sight of food, and as I gazed on the nice white
loaves a sort of adoration arose within me, which the sight of such
tempting morsels could alone inspire. I counted them carefully to see
if, perchance, the curmudgeon had mistaken the number; but, alas! I
found he was a much better reckoner than I could have desired. The
utmost I dared do was to bestow on these objects of my affection a
thousand kisses, and, in the most delicate manner possible, to nibble
here and there a morsel of the crust. With this I passed the day, and
not quite so jovially as the former, you may suppose.
But as hunger increased, and more so in proportion as I had fared
better the few days previously, I was reduced to the last extremity.
Yet all I could do was to open and shut the chest and contemplate the
divine image within. Providence, however, who does not neglect mortals
in such an extreme crisis, suggested to me a slight palliation of my
present distress. After some consideration, I said within myself, “This
chest is very large and old, and in some parts, though very slightly,
is broken. It is not impossible to suppose that rats may have made an
entrance and gnawed the bread. To take a whole loaf would not be wise,
seeing that it would be missed by my most liberal master, but the other
plan he shall certainly have the benefit of.” Then I began to pick the
loaves on some tablecloths which were there, not of the most costly
sort, taking one loaf and leaving another, so that in the end I made
up a tolerable supply of crumbs, which I ate like so many sugar-plums;
and with that I in some measure consoled myself and contrived to live.
The priest, when he came home to dinner and opened the chest, beheld
with dismay the havoc made in his store; but he immediately supposed
it to have been occasioned by rats, so well had I imitated the style
of those depredators. He examined the chest narrowly, and discovered
the little holes through which the rats might have entered, and calling
me, he said, “Lazaro, look what havoc has been made in our bread during
the night.” I seemed very much astonished, and asked “what it could
possibly be?” “What has done it?” quoth he; “why, rats; confound ‘em,
there is no keeping anything from them.” I fared well at dinner, and
had no reason to repent of the trick I played, for he pared off all the
places which he supposed the rats had nibbled at, and, giving them to
me, he said, “There, eat that; rats are very clean animals.” In this
manner, adding what I thus gained to that acquired by the labour of my
hands, or rather my nails, I managed tolerably well, though I little
expected it. I was destined to receive another shock when I beheld my
miserable tormentor carefully stopping up all the holes in the chest
with small pieces of wood, which he nailed over them, and which bade
defiance to further depredations. “Oh, Lord!” I cried involuntarily,
“to what distress and misfortunes are we unhappy mortals reduced, and
how short-lived are the pleasures of this our transitory existence.
No sooner did I draw some little relief from the measure which kind
fortune suggested, than it is snatched away; and this last act is like
closing the door of consolation against me, and opening that of my
misfortunes.”
It was thus I gave vent to my distress, while the careful workman, with
abundance of wood and nails, was finishing his cruel job, saying with
great glee. “Now, you rascals of rats, we will change sides, if you
please, for your future reception in this house will be right little
welcome.”
The moment he left the house I went to examine his work, and found he
had not left a single hole unstopped by which even a mosquito could
enter. I opened the chest, though without deriving the smallest benefit
from its contents; my key was now utterly useless; but as I gazed with
longing eyes on the two or three loaves which my master believed to be
bitten by the rats, I could not resist the temptation of nibbling a
morsel more, though touching them in the lightest possible manner, like
an experienced swordsman in a friendly assault.
Necessity is a great master, and being in this strait, I passed night
and day in devising means to get out of it. All the rascally plans
that could enter the mind of man did hunger suggest to me, for it is a
saying, and a true one, as I can testify, that hunger makes rogues, and
abundance fools. One night, when my master slept, of which disposition
he always gave sonorous testimony, as I was revolving in my mind the
best mode of renewing my intimacy with the contents of the chest, a
thought struck me, which I forthwith put in execution. I arose very
quietly, and, taking an old knife which, having some little glimmering
of the same idea the day previous, I had left for an occasion of this
nature, I repaired to the chest, and at the part which I considered
least guarded I began to bore a hole. The antiquity of the chest
seconded my endeavours, for the wood had become rotten from age, and
easily yielded to the knife, so that in a short time I managed to
display a hole of very respectable dimensions. I then opened the chest
very gently, and, taking out the bread, I treated it much in the same
manner as heretofore, and then returned safe to my mattress.
The next day my worthy master soon spied my handiwork, as well as the
deficiency in his bread, and began by wishing the rats at the devil.
“What can it mean?” said he; “during all the time I have been here
there have never been rats in the house before.” And he might say so
with truth; if ever a house in the kingdom deserved to be free from
rats, it was his, as they are seldom known to visit where there is
nothing to eat. He began again with nails and wood, but when night
came, and he slept, I resumed my operations, and rendered nugatory all
his ingenuity.
In this manner we went on; the moment he shut one door, I opened
another; like the web of Penelope, what he spun by day I unravelled
by night, and in the course of a few nights the old chest was so
maltreated that little remained of the original that was not covered
with pieces and nailing. When the unhappy priest found his mechanical
ability of no avail, he said, “Really, this chest is in such a state,
and the wood is so old and rotten, that the rats make nothing of it.
The best plan I can think of, since what we have done is of no use, is
to arm ourselves within against these cursed rats.” He then borrowed a
rat-trap, and baiting it with bits of cheese which he begged from the
neighbours, set it under the chest. This was a piece of singular good
fortune for me, for although my hunger needed no sauce, yet I did not
nibble the bread at night with less relish because I added thereto the
bait from the rat-trap. When in the morning he found not only the bread
gone as usual, but the bait likewise vanished, and the trap without a
tenant, he grew almost beside himself. He ran to the neighbours and
asked of them what animal it could possibly be that could positively
eat the very cheese out of the trap, and yet escape untouched. The
neighbours agreed that it could be no rat that could thus eat the bait,
and not remain within the trap, and one more cunning than the rest
observed, “I remember once seeing a snake about your premises, and
depend on it that is the animal which has done you this mischief, for
it could easily pick the bait from the trap without entering entirely,
and thus too it might easily escape.” The rest all agreed that such
must be the fact, which alarmed my master a good deal.
He now slept not near so soundly as before, and at every little noise,
thinking it was the snake biting the chest, he would get up, and
taking a cudgel which he kept at his bed’s head for the purpose, began to
belabour the poor chest with all his might, so that the noise might
frighten the reptile from his unthrifty proceedings. He even awoke the
neighbours with such prodigious clamour, and I could not get a single
minute’s rest. He turned me out of bed, and looked amongst the straw, and
about the blanket, to see if the creature was concealed anywhere; for,
as he observed, at night they seek warm places, and not unfrequently
injure people by biting them in bed. When he came I always pretended
to be very heavy with sleep, and he would say to me in the morning,
“Did you hear nothing last night, boy? The snake was about, and I think
I heard him at your bed, for they are very cold creatures, and love
warmth.” “I hope to God he will not bite me,” returned I, “for I am
very much afraid.” He was so watchful at night that, by my faith, the
snake could not continue his operations as usual, but in the morning,
when the priest was at church, he resumed them pretty steadily as usual.
Looking with dismay at the damage done to his store, and the little
redress he was likely to have for it, the poor priest became quite
uneasy from fretting, and wandered about all night like a hobgoblin. I
began very much to fear that, during one of these fits of watchfulness,
he might discover my key, which I placed for security under the
straw of my bed. I therefore, with a caution peculiar to my nature,
determined in future to keep this treasure by night safe in my mouth;
and this was an ancient custom of mine, for during the time I lived
with the blind man my mouth was my purse, in which I could retain ten
or twelve maravedies in farthings, without the slightest inconvenience
in any way. Indeed, had I not possessed this faculty, I should never
have had a single farthing of my own, for I had neither pocket nor
bag that the old man did not continually search. Every night I slept
with the key in my mouth without fear of discovery; but, alas! when
misfortune is our lot, ingenuity can be of little avail.
It was decreed, by my evil destiny, or rather, I ought to say, as a
punishment for my evil doings, that one night, when I was fast asleep,
my mouth being somewhat open, the key became placed in such a position
therein that my breath came in contact with the hollow of the key,
and caused—the worst luck for me!—a loud whistling noise. On this
my watchful master pricked up his ears, and thought it must be the
hissing of the snake which had done him all the damage, and certainly
he was not altogether wrong in his conjectures. He arose very quietly,
with his club in his hand, and stealing towards the place whence the
hissing sound proceeded, thinking at once to put an end to his enemy,
he lifted his club, and with all his force discharged such a blow on my
unfortunate head that it needed not another to deprive me of all sense
and motion. The moment the blow was delivered he felt it was no snake
that had received it, and, guessing what he had done, called out to me
in a loud voice, endeavouring to recall me to my senses. Then, touching
me with his hands, he felt the blood, which was by this time in great
profusion about my face, and ran quickly to procure a light. On his
return he found me moaning, yet still holding the key in my mouth, and
partly visible, being in the same situation which caused the whistling
noise he had mistaken for the snake. Without thinking much of me, the
attention of the slayer of snakes was attracted by the appearance of
the key, and drawing it from my mouth, he soon discovered what it was,
for of course the wards were precisely similar to his own. He ran to
prove it, and with that at once found out the extent of my ingenuity.
“Thank God,” exclaimed this cruel snake hunter, “that the rats and the
snakes which have so long made war upon me, and devoured my substance,
are both at last discovered.”
Of what passed for three days afterwards I can give no account, but
that which I have related I heard my master recount to those who came
there to see me. At the end, however, of the third day I began to have
some consciousness of what was passing around me, and found myself
extended on my straw, my head bound up and covered with ointment and
plaisters.
“What is the meaning of all this?” I cried in extreme alarm. The
heartless priest replied, “I have only been hunting the rats and the
snakes, which have almost ruined me.” Seeing the condition in which I
was, I then guessed what had happened to me. At this time an old nurse
entered, with some of the neighbours, who dressed the wounds on my
head, which had assumed a favourable appearance; and as they found my
senses were restored to me, they anticipated but little danger, and
began to amuse themselves with my exploits, while I, unhappy sinner,
could only deplore their effects.
With all this, however, they gave me something to eat, for I was almost
dying with hunger, and at the end of fourteen or fifteen days I was
able to rise from my bed without danger, though not even then without
hunger, and only half cured. The day after I got up my worthy and truly
respectable master took my hand, and, opening the door, put me into
the street, saying, “Lazaro, from this day look out for yourself; seek
another master, and fare you well. No one will ever doubt that you have
served a blind man, but for me, I do not require so diligent nor so
clever a servant.” Then shaking me off, as though I was in league with
the Evil One, he went back into his house and shut the door.
_Hurtado de Mendoza._ _Trans. Roscoe._
_A TAILOR WOULD FAIN LEARN OF GUZMAN TO WRITE HIS NAME, OR TO MAKE
FIRMA, OR MARK, AND THE REASON WHY._
It was my hap one day to bear in my basket, which I brought from the
Shambles, a quarter of Mutton, for a certain Hosier, or Gentleman
Tailor. I had by chance at that time about me, certain old Coplas, or
Ballads, which in a kind of broken tune still, as I read this or t’other
line, I fell a-singing, as I went along. My good Master having (as it
should seem) listened unto me, looked back on the sudden, and smiling,
said—
“How now, my tattered Rascal, a pox take you for a ragga-muffin. Can
you read, you Rogue?”
“Yes, marry, can I, Sir,” quoth I. “I thank God I can read reasonable
well, but my writing is better than my reading.”
“Sayst thou so, Boy?”
And with that he entreated me, that I would teach him to write his
name, or to make some mark that might serve for a subscription, or
undersigning. He cared not which, for either would serve his turn.
“I pray, Sir,” said I, “what good can this do you? What can you benefit
yourself, by having learnt to make a bare mark and no more? Methinks
you should have no great use for that alone, unless you could write
too.”
“Yes, marry, have I, Sir,” quoth he, “for I have much work goes
through these hands, of such and such great men, I make all the
clothes their children wear” (and there, by the way, he reckons me up
a beadroll of these and these Lords) “and therefore I would very fain,
if I knew how, learn to write my Name, or to make my Mark, that if
occasion were offered I might not be taken for an Ass, and say like
a fool as I am when I am called to subscribe, ‘Indeed, Sir, you must
pardon me, I cannot write.’”
And so this business broke off as abruptly, as it began. And I making a
large soliloquium, and meditation to myself, went on.
“_Guzman d’Alfarache_,” _Mateo Aleman_ (_fl. 1609_).
_Trans. Mabbe._
_EPISODE OF THE OFFICIOUS PHYSICIAN._
(In Spain your physician’s fee is ordinarily two shillings; the better
sort give four shillings; and the best seldom above a crown.)
Now methought I saw Heaven opened, and my honest Carrier appearing unto
me in the shape of an Angel. His face was as joyful unto me, as that of
the desired Physician is to him that is afflicted with sickness. I say,
desired; because (as perhaps you may have heard) a Physician hath three
faces: Of a man, when we see him, and have no need of him: of an angel
when we are sick, and cannot be without him: and of a Devil, when at
one and the self-same time our sickness, and our purse ends together,
and yet for his private interest and to gain a fee, he follows us with
daily visits. As it happened to a Gentleman in Madrid, who having sent
for a physician, for a certain infirmity, wherewithal he was troubled,
every visit that he made, gave him a crown. The humour ceased; but his
physician was not in the humour to cease from coming unto him.
Now the Gentleman, when he saw that he was thorough well, and that his
Physician did still continue his visits, he got him up one morning very
early and went to Church.
Now, when the Physician came to visit him, and found him not at home,
he asked his servant whither he was gone. He (like a fool as he was),
for there are Servants still enow for their masters’ hurt, but few
for their profit, told him, that he was gone forth to Mass to such a
Church. My nimble Doctor, putting spurs to his Mule for to make the
more haste, went with all speed to the said Church, and, searching for
him, at last he found him; and then said unto him—
“What in God’s name, Sir, do you mean to commit so great an excess, as to
go abroad without my leave?”
The Gentleman, who knew well enough what he came for, and seeing that
now he had no more need of him, put his hand in his pocket, took out
his purse, drew forth a crown, and putting it in his hand, told him,
“Here, take it, master Doctor; for by the faith of a Gentleman, I now
perceive even this sacred place cannot privilege me from you.”
_Mateo Aleman._ _Trans. Mabbe._
_OF THE PLEASANT LIFE GUZMAN LED AMONG HIS BRETHREN, AND AN ACCOUNT OF
HIS VISIT TO GAETA._
In the evenings we used to assemble, some ten or twelve of us, and
amused ourselves with discussing the different kind of new exclamations
we had hit upon, to rouse public sympathy in our behalf. Such was the
skill of a few, that they had invented forms of benediction from which
they derived considerable profit by the sale of them to other less
ingenious heads than their own; so great was their novelty and efficacy
with all classes.
On every festival we went early in the morning to church, where plenary
indulgence was always granted us. We placed ourselves in the most
convenient stations; we continued there the whole morning; and towards
evening we issued forth into the neighbouring villages, calling at the
country seats and farmhouses on our road. From these we usually brought
away some slices of bacon, bread and cheese, eggs, and sometimes old
clothes and other articles; so successfully did we work upon the
charity of the good people. Did a person above the common rank happen
to make his appearance, we instantly united in setting up a loud
lamentation, even at a distance, giving him time to put his hand into
his pocket, and vociferating louder and louder the nearer he came, so
as to compel him in a manner to be charitable.
If we met a number of good citizens together, and had leisure to
prepare to accost them in due form, each played his own part—one
the _blind_, another the _halt_, a third the _dumb_, a fourth the
_paralytic_, a fifth the _idiotic_, and some with crutches, making
altogether a complication of human misery and distortion, which, with
the most able at our head, was sure to penetrate into the pockets even
of the callous. Could you but have heard the concord of sweet sounds we
made at the crisis that decided the balance in our favour! We beseeched
the Lord to bless them with lovely children—to return their bounty a
hundred fold—and long to preserve their precious health. Not a party of
pleasure could be got up, not a single festival pass, but we had some
share in it; so that however much others expended we gained by them;
and so acute was our scent that we could smell the preparation for them
at an enormous distance.
In the same way the mansions of the cardinals, the bishops, and
ambassadors, with all kind of open houses, were successfully besieged
and occupied by us. Thus we might truly be said to possess all,
levying as we did a tax upon all, though really having nothing. I know
not how my comrades felt inclined on receiving charity from the hands
of a pretty lady; but for my part, miserable sinner, when I accosted
a young creature, enchanting both in face and figure, I looked her
steadily in the face while I asked with my eyes fixed upon hers. If she
gave me anything, I caught her hand, pressed it affectionately, and
imprinted upon it a kiss in the fervour of my gratitude, before she had
time to withdraw it. Yet so respectfully, or rather, hypocritically,
was this done, that the lady, not being previously alarmed, took the
whole in good part, as a transport of grateful joy.
What are called the pleasures of life—erroneously supposed to be
monopolised by the great and the wealthy of this best of worlds—are,
in fact, the chief property of us mendicants, who feel no drawback,
but taste their flavour with a double relish, without a tithe of their
anxiety and trouble to obtain them. Had the happy fellows no other
privilege than that of asking freely, and receiving without the least
touch of shame or pain, it is such a one as the rest of mankind cannot
boast; if we only except monarchs and their royal families, who,
without a blush, can demand what they please from their good people,
while the sole difference between them and other beggars is, that they
always wring out silver and gold even from the poorest people, while
we require nothing but a mere trifle from the most proud and wealthy.
There is no condition, therefore, more happy and respectable than that
of the mendicant, but all do not know their own happiness—“beati si sua
bona norint.”
The most part of us—wholly sunk in the enjoyment of mere animal life;
insensible of the true pleasure of living independently, free from
strife, from all speculative losses, all intrigues of State, eternal
business; in short, from the infernal embarrassment in which the great
are involved—to the day of their death have the folly to envy what they
ought to avoid. The first man who embraced our kind of life must, from
his very nature, have been much better than the great—I mean a great
philosopher.
I had been led to think that this noble fraternity was safe from
the usual shocks of fortune, but the malicious goddess made
them occasionally feel the effects of her ire—throwing little
stumbling-blocks in their way, much like the one I broke my shins
over, when on a visit at Gaeta, whither I had gone out of curiosity,
and in the idea that a man already able in the profession would only
need to enter the town to feel a revivifying shower of alms poured
upon him from all sides. No sooner was I there than, having assumed a
new complexion, I placed myself at the entrance into a church. As luck
would have it, the governor of the place was then passing, and, after
looking at me very earnestly for a few moments, he gave me alms. A
number of the natives immediately followed his example, and it acted
as a continued benediction for me during more than a week; but there
is a medium in all things, and I did not observe the golden rule. On
the next festival, my complexion appearing no longer ingenious enough,
I changed it for a huge ulcer on my leg, and for this purpose I put in
practice one of the choicest secrets of my craft.
After having put my leg into an elegant case, I took an advantageous
station at the entrance to a well-frequented church. There, setting
up a sorrowful howl, caused by the new pain I felt from the ulcer, I
caught the eye of almost every one that passed. I thought I excited
the compassion of all who looked on me, but unluckily my rubicund
complexion, which I had neglected to sicken over with white, seemed to
give the lie to my lamentations, and might well excite suspicion; but
good people are not over suspicious, and I heard the golden shower
dropping sweetly and plentifully as they went into the house of prayer.
In short, I got more than all the rest of my brethren put together, and
they wished me at the devil, with my ulcer, that brought the capital
into one bank.
As the stars at last would have it, there came the governor to hear
mass at this very church—surely for my sins—and he recognised my
voice in a moment, surveying me intently from head to foot. Yes, it
was my voice, for elsewhere I was impenetrable; my whole person being
disguised in the most effectual manner, with a huge napkin round my
head, reaching down to my nose. Alas! he was a man of strong natural
penetration, and suspicious as the devil; for, as he fixed me with his
eyes, he seemed to be saying within himself, “For these several days
past I have heard, I have seen, this odd-looking fish; is it possible
he has got so dreadful an ulcer—all at once? Let us examine a little
farther.” “Friend,” he observed, “you seem in a sad plight; your case
truly deserves compassion; come, follow me, I will at least give you a
shirt to your back.”
I had the indiscretion to obey, for I suspected nothing. Had I so done,
spite of all the people at his heels, I vow I would have given him the
slip, and saved my unfortunate carcase. He had no sooner got me safely
housed than he assumed a cold and severe aspect, from which I augured
nothing pleasant. He then asked me sharply if I were not the person he
had seen at the door of a church, with a complexion as pale as death.
I grew pale enough indeed at this, and lost all presence of mind; I
could not deny it: and when he asked me how I had got so speedily cured
of my scalded head and other infirmities I was still more puzzled than
before. “Besides,” he continued, “I cannot comprehend how, with that
ruddy complexion of thine, thou hast got such a terrible ulcer in
the leg.” “My lord,” replied I, quite disconcerted, and trembling in
every limb, “I know not how it is, except that it is the will of God.”
[Illustration: “COME, FOLLOW ME, I WILL AT LEAST GIVE YOU A SHIRT TO
YOUR BACK.”]
But what was my anxiety when I heard the governor direct one of his
messengers to go and call in a surgeon. I saw what was coming, and
would have made an attempt to save myself had not the doors been
already closed upon me. Not a chance was left me; the dreaded surgeon
came, he examined my leg; but with all his ability and experience, he
would perhaps have been deceived had not the cruel governor privately
communicated the reasons he had to believe me an impostor. Of course,
he had little merit after that of probing the thing to the bottom;
he unbundled it all anew, and putting on a knowing face: “I verily
believe,” he said, “the rogue has nothing amiss with his leg, any more
than I have with my eyes; I see through it; bring me some warm water;”
which being done, he proceeded to restore it to its natural form and
colour. I had not a word to say in my defence, and held my tongue.
The governor then ordered me to be presented with a shirt, as he
had promised, and this was nothing but a most severe flagellation,
administered by a stout fellow, who laid on, at the governor’s special
order, with right good will on my bare carcase. After thirty lashes he
stopped; I was dressed by the same surgeon, and told to take myself
off, spite of my smarting, at double quick time, under a more terrible
penalty were I again found in the same territories. This advice was
quite superfluous. I hastened from the accursed spot, shrugging up
my shoulders, and marched as quickly as possible to reach the milder
government of the Pope. I uttered a thousand benedictions at the sight
of my well-loved Rome once more; I wept for joy as I entered it, and
wished that I had arms long enough to embrace it with the devoted love
of some returning prodigal son or happy pilgrim.
I rejoined my comrades, and took care not to say a word of the new
marks of honour I had brought back with me; there would have been no
end to their raillery, and I should never have heard the last of it.
I merely said I had been making a little excursion to the adjacent
villages, but, with the exception of Rome, there was no place on which
our profession could fairly rely, either for profit or safety. I had
indeed been a great ass to leave such a city at all.
_Mateo Aleman._ _Trans. Roscoe._
_OF THE WICKED OLD HOUSEKEEPER, AND THE FIRST KNAVISH PRANKS PAUL
PLAYED AT ALCALA._
When you are at Rome, do as they do at Rome, says the old proverb; and
it is well said. I took it so seriously into consideration, that I
fully resolved to play the knave among knaves, and to excel them all if
possible. I know not whether I succeeded to my wish, but I am sure I
used all my endeavours. In the first place, I made a law that it should
be no less than death for any pigs to cross the threshold of our house,
or for any of the old housekeeper’s chickens to run out of the yard into
our room. It happened that one day two of the cleverest porkers that
ever my eyes beheld slipped into our dominions; I was then at play
with the other servants, and hearing them grunt, said to one of my
companions, “Go see who it is that grunts in our house;” he went, and
brought word they were actually two swine.
No sooner did I hear, then off I set in a passion, exclaiming—“It was a
great deal of impudence in them to grunt in other people’s houses.” Then
slamming to the door, in a sudden heat of blood, I ran my sword into
the throats of them both, and we afterwards cut off their heads. To
prevent their cries for rescue, we all set up our voices to the highest
pitch during the operation, and between us they soon gave up the ghost.
We next paunched them, saved the blood, and by the help of our straw
bed half roasted them in the yard, so that all was over before our
masters came home, except the mere making of the black puddings. Don
Diego and our steward were informed of this exploit, and flew into such
a passion, that the other lodgers, highly amused, were fain to take my
part.
The don asked me what I should say for myself when the affair should be
found out. I replied that I would plead hunger, the common sanctuary
of all scholars; and if that was not enough, I would urge that, seeing
them come into the house without knocking, just as if they had been at
home, I really thought that they were ours. They all laughed, and Don
Diego said, “By my faith, Paul, you begin to understand the trade.”
It was well worth observing the difference between my master and me;
he so sober and religious, I so arch and roguish, so that the one was
a foil to the other, and served to set off either his virtue or his
vice. Our old housekeeper was pleased to the very heart, for we both
played our parts, and conspired against the larder. I was caterer, and
a mere Judas in my employment, ever since retaining an inclination for
cribbing and stealing. The meat always wasted in the old woman’s keeping,
and she never dressed wedder mutton when she could get ewe or goat.
Besides, she picked the flesh off the bones before she boiled them, so
that the dishes she served up looked as if the cattle had all died of
a consumption. The broth was so clear, that had it been as hard as the
bones, it might have passed for crystal; but when she wanted to make it
seem a little fat, she clapped in a few candles’ ends. When I was by,
she would say to my master, “In truth, sir, Paul is the best servant
in Spain, bating his unluckiness, but that may well enough be borne
with, because he is so honest.” I gave her the same character, and so
we put upon the whole house between us.
When I bought anything at market for the real value, the old body would
pretend to fall out and quarrel; and she, seeming to be in a passion,
would say, “Do not tell me, Paul, that this is a pennyworth of salad.”
At this I pretended to cry and make a great noise, beseeching my master
that he would please to send the steward, that he might prove the base
calumny of the scolding old woman. By such simple means did we both
retain our character for honesty; she appearing to look sharp after
me, and I always being found out to be trustworthy. Don Diego, highly
pleased, would often say, “Would to God, Paul were as virtuous in other
ways as he is honest; I see, my good woman, he is even better than you
represent him.” It was thus we had leisure and opportunity to feast on
them like horse-leeches.
If you ask how much we might cheat them of in the year’s round, I can only
say it amounted to a considerable sum; yet the old woman never missed
going to church daily, nor did I perceive any scruple of conscience she
made of it, though she was so great a saint. She always wore a pair of
beads about her neck, so big, that the wood of them might have served
to roast a sirloin of beef. It was all hung with medals, crosses,
pictures, and other trinkets, on all which, she said, she prayed every
night for her benefactors. She would pray longer than any fanatical
preacher, always in dog Latin, the sound of which almost made us split
our sides with laughter.
The old woman kept fowls, and had about a dozen fine grown chickens,
which made my mouth water, for they were fit for any gentleman’s table.
It happened one day, going to feed them, she called, as is the custom
in Spain, very loud: “Pio, Pio, Pio.” She repeated it so often, that I
cried out in a pretended rage—
“’Fore God! nurse, I wish I had seen you kill a man, or clip and coin,
for then I might have kept your counsel; but now I must be forced to
discover you. The Lord have mercy upon us both, I say.”
She, seeing me in such disorder, was somewhat alarmed: “Why, Paul,” she
said, “what have I done? pray do not jest with me.”
“Jest with you, forsooth, a curse on your iniquity! I cannot avoid
giving information to the Inquisition, or I shall be excommunicated.”
“Oh Lord! the Inquisition; have I committed any crime, then?”
“Have you _not_?” I answered; “don’t think to trifle with the Inquisitors;
own you are in the wrong; eat your own words as fast as you can, and
deny not the blasphemy and irreverence.”
She replied in great consternation: “But, Paul, will they punish me if
I recant?”
“No,” I replied, “they will then only absolve you.”
“Then I recant,” said she; “only tell me what it is I have to recant;
for I know nothing of it, as I hope for mercy.”
“Bless me,” replied I; “is it possible you should be so dull? the
irreverence was so great I hardly know how to express it. Wretch as
you are, did you not call the chickens, Pio, Pio; and Pius is the name
of several Popes, who are Christ’s vicars upon earth, and heads of the
church. Now do you consider whether that be any trifling sin?”
She stood as if she had been thunderstruck, and after a while cried:
“’Tis true, I said so, Paul; but may I be burnt if I did it with any
ill design. I recant—I do, indeed; and try to find some way not to
inform of me; for I shall die if they get me into the Inquisition.”
“Provided you take your oath on the holy altar that you meant it not
for blasphemy; but then you must give me the two chickens you called
in that unsanctified way, by the names of the Popes, that they may be
burnt by the officers of the Inquisition. This you must do now, or I
shall otherwise be compelled to lay an information against you as quick
as possible.”
She was glad to escape so easily, and instantly consented, giving me
three instead of two, which I took to a neighbouring cook, had them
dressed, and ate with my companions. Don Diego came to hear of the
trick, and made excellent sport of it in the family. The old woman had
nearly fretted herself to death for mere vexation, and was a thousand
times in the mind of taking revenge, and discovering all my schemes.
She was, however, too deeply implicated; and having once quarrelled
with me, there was no end to the tricks I played her. In short, I
became a great authority in all that the scholars called snatching and
shop-lifting, at which I had many pleasant adventures.
One evening, about nine o’clock, as I was passing through the great
street, I spied a confectioner’s shop open, and in it a frail of raisins
upon the counter. I whipped in, took hold of it, and set a-running;
the confectioner scoured after me, and so did several neighbours and
servants. Being loaded, I perceived that, though I had the start, they
would overtake me, and so, turning the corner of a street, I clapped
the frail upon the ground and sat down upon it, and wrapping my cloak
about my leg, began to cry out, “God forgive him, he has trod upon me
and crippled me.” When they came up I began to cry, “For God’s sake, pity
the lame; I pray God you may never be lame!”
[Illustration: “‘FRIEND,’ THEY EXCLAIMED, ‘DID YOU SEE A MAN RUN THIS
WAY?’”]
“Friend!” they exclaimed, “did you see a man run this way?”
“He is before you,” was my answer, “for he trod upon me.”
I boasted of this exploit, and with some reason: I even invited them
to come and see me steal a box of sweetmeats another night. They came,
and observing that all the boxes were so far within the shop, that
there was no reaching them, they concluded the thing was impracticable.
Drawing my sword, however, about a dozen paces from the shop, I ran on,
and crying out at the door, “You are a dead man!” I made a strong pass
just before the confectioner’s breast, who dropped down calling for help;
and my sword running clean through a box of sweetmeats, I drew it, box
and all, and took to my heels. They were all amazed at the contrivance,
and ready to burst with laughing on hearing him bid the people search
him, for that he was badly wounded; even when he found out the cheat he
continued to bless himself, while I was employed in eating the fruits
of my exploit. My comrades used to say that I could easily maintain my
family upon nothing; as much as to say, by my wits and sleight-of-hand.
This had the effect of encouraging me to commit more. I used to bring
home my girdle, hung all round with little pitchers, which I stole from
nuns, begging some water to drink of them; and when they turned it out
in their wheel, I went off with the mugs, they being shut up and not
able to help themselves.
“_Paul, the Spanish Sharper._” _Quevedo_ (1580-1645).
_Trans. Roscoe._
_ESTEBANILLO ACTS ON THE CARDINAL’S BIRTHDAY!_
When I had been there five weeks, to reward my good service, I was
prefe to be under-sweeper below stairs. Thus men rise who behave
themselves well in their employment, and are careful to please their
superiors. I was barefoot, half-naked, and as black as a collier, when
I entered upon my new charge, where I fared not so well as in the
kitchen; for places of honour are not often so profitable as those
of less reputation, and nothing could stick to me but the dust of
the house, whereas before I never wanted a sop in the pan, or other
perquisites.
[Illustration: “I CAME TO THE SEASHORE.”]
But Fortune so ordered it that the Cardinal’s servants undertook to act
a play on his Eminency’s birthday; and in distributing the parts, they
pitched upon me to represent a young King of Leon, either because I
was young, or for being descended from the renowned Fernan Gonzales,
who, as I said before, was my progenitor, and Earl of Castile, before
there were kings of that country. I took care to learn my part, and
persuaded him that took the management of it to give me half a pound of
raisins and a couple of oranges every day, that I might eat a little
collation at night, and rub my temples with the orange-peels in the
morning fasting, telling him that would help my memory, which was very
weak, else I should never get it by heart, tho’ the whole was not
above twenty lines; and assuring him I had seen this done by the most
celebrated comedians in Spain, when they acted the greatest parts.
When the day of the solemnity came, a stately theatre was erected in
the largest room in the palace, making a wood of green boughs at the
end next the attiring room, where I was to lye asleep, and Moors to
come and carry me away captive. My lord, the Cardinal, invited all
the men of quality and ladies of the court to this diversion. Our
Merry-Andrew actors dressed themselves like so many Jack-Puddings, and
all the palace was richly hung and adorned. They put me on a very fine
cloth suit, half cover’d with rich silver loops, and laced down the seams,
which was as good as giving me wings to take my flight and be gone.
Seeing myself in such equipage as I had never known before, I thought
not fit to return to my rags again, but resolv’d to shift for myself.
The play began at three in the afternoon, the audience consisting of
all the flower of the city. The manager of the representation was so
active and watchful, because he had hir’d my clothes, and was bound to see
them forthcoming, that he never suffered me to go out of his sight.
But when they came to that part where I was to appear as if I had been
hunting, and then to lye down in the wood, pretending weariness and
sleep; I repeated a few verses, and those who came out with me upon
the stage having left me, I turn’d into that green copse, where it cannot
be said I was taken napping, for going in at one end I follow’d a narrow
path that was left among the boughs, to the other end of the theatre,
whence I slipped down, and going along under it to the door of that
great hall, bid those who stood about it, make way, for I was going
to shift my clothes. Upon this they all let me pass, I made but two
steps down the stairs, and flew along the streets like an arrow out
of a bow, till I came to the sea-shore, whither I had steer’d my course,
in hopes of some conveniency to carry me off. I was told afterwards
when I returned to Palermo, that at the time when I quitted the stage,
there came out half-a-dozen Christian Moors, well stuff’d with gammon of
bacon, and encouraged with rich wine; who coming to the wood to seize
their prize, thinking I had been there, cry’d out with loud voice: “Young
Christian King, appear!” To which I supposing them to be my servants,
was to answer, “Is it time to move?” I being then too far on my way,
not for fear of being made a slave among infidels, but rather of being
stripped of my fine clothes, could not play my part, or answer to the
Moors, because I was a mile off, driving a bargain with Christians.
The prompter perceiving I did not answer, was very diligent, repeating
what I was to say, as believing I had forgot myself, tho’ he was much
mistaken, for I had all my business fresh in my head. The Moors being
tired with expectation, and concluding I had really fallen asleep, when
I ought only to counterfeit, went into the imaginary wood, and found no
footsteps of a King. They were all amazed, there was no proceeding on
the play; some ran about calling upon me, and others went to enquire
after my Majesty, whilst he, who had engag’d for my clothes, tore his
hair for vexation, and offer’d vows to Heaven in case I were found, and
he escaped that shipwreck. They told the Cardinal I was fled, who
answered, I was much in the right to make my escape from the enemies
of the Christian religion, and not suffer myself to be made prisoner
by them. That, without doubt, I was gone back to the city of Leon,
where I kept my court, whence it was likely I would take care to return
the clothes; but in the meanwhile, he would pay the value, so that
they need not take the trouble of sending after me, for he would not
disoblige so great a prince, especially on his birthday. He ordered my
part should be read, and the rest of the play acted; which was done
accordingly, to the great satisfaction of the audience, and no less of
the manager, having such good security for his clothes.
“_The Life of Estebanillo Gonzalez_” (_written by himself
in 1646_). _Trans. Captain John Stevens._
_THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN, DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA._
_Which treats of the condition and way of life of the famous gentleman,
Don Quixote of La Mancha._
In a certain village of La Mancha, whose name I will not recall, there
lived not long ago a gentleman—one of those who keep a lance in the
rack, an ancient target, a lean hackney, and a greyhound for coursing.
A mess of somewhat more beef than mutton, a salad on most nights, a
hotch-potch on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, with the addition of a
pigeon on Sundays, consumed three parts of his substance. The rest of
it was spent in a doublet of fine broadcloth, a pair of velvet breeches
for holidays, with slippers of the same, and his home-spun of the
finest, with which he decked himself on week-days. He kept at home a
housekeeper, who was past forty, and a niece who had not yet reached
twenty, besides a lad for the field and market, who saddled the nag and
handled the pruning-hook.
The age of our gentleman bordered upon fifty years. He was of a
vigorous constitution, spare of flesh, dry of visage, a great early
riser, and a lover of the chase. They affirm that his surname was
Quejada, or Quesada (and in this there is some variance among the
authors who treat of the matter), although by very probable conjectures
we are led to conclude that he was called Quijana. But this is of
small import to our story; enough that in the telling of it we swerve
not a jot from the truth.
Be it known, then, that this gentleman above mentioned, during the
interval that he was idle, which was the greater part of the year, gave
himself up to the reading of books of chivalries, with so much fervour
and relish, that he almost entirely neglected the exercise of the
chase and even the management of his estate. And to such a pitch did
his curiosity and infatuation reach, that he sold many acres of arable
land in order to buy romances of chivalry to read; and so he brought
home as many of them as he could procure. And of all none seemed to him
so good as those composed by the famous Feliciano de Silva, for their
brilliancy of style and those entangled sentences seemed to him to be
very pearls; and especially when he came to read of the passages of
love, and cartels of defiance, wherein he often found written things
like these: “_The reason of the unreason which is done to my reason in
such wise my reason debilitates, that with reason I complain of your
beauteousness_.” And also when he read: “_The lofty heavens which of
your divinity do divinely fortify you with the constellations, and make
you deserver of the deserts which your mightiness deserves_.”
Over these reasons our poor gentleman lost his senses, and he used to
keep awake at night in trying to comprehend them, and in plucking out
their meaning, which not Aristotle himself could extract or understand,
were he to come to life for that special purpose. He did not much
fancy the wounds which Don Belianis gave and received; for he thought
that, however potent were the masters who had healed him, the Knight
could not but have his face and all his body full of scars and marks.
Nevertheless, he praised in the author the ending of his book with the
promise of that interminable adventure, and ofttimes he was seized with
a desire to take up the pen, and put a finish to it in good earnest,
as is there purposed. And doubtless he would have done so—aye, and
gone through with it—had not other greater and more lasting thoughts
diverted his mind.
Many times he held dispute with the Priest of his village (who was a
learned man, a graduate of Siguenza) as to who should have been the
better knight, Palmerin of England, or Amadis of Gaul; though Master
Nicholas, the Barber of the same village, was used to say that none
came up to the Knight of the Sun, and that if any one could compare
with him it was Don Galaor, brother of Amadis of Gaul, for he had a
very accommodating temper for everything; he was no prudish cavalier,
nor such a sniveller as his brother, nor in the article of valour any
behind him.
In fine, our gentleman was so absorbed in these studies, that he
passed his nights reading from eve to dawn, and his days from dark to
dusk; and so with little sleep and much study his brain dried up, to
the end that he lost his wits. He filled himself with the imagination
of all that he read in the books: with enchantments, with quarrels,
battles, challenges, wounds, amorous plaints, loves, torments, and
follies impossible. And so assured was he of the truth of all that
mass of fantastic inventions of which he read, that for him there was
no other history in the world so certain. He would say that the Cid
Ruy Diaz must have been a good knight, but not to be named with the
Knight of the Flaming Sword, who only with one back-stroke had severed
two fierce and monstrous giants through the middle. He better liked
Bernardo del Carpio, because at Roncesvalles he had slain Orlando
the Enchanted, availing himself of Hercules’ trick when he throttled
Anteus, son of Terra, in his arms. He spoke very well of the giant
Morgante; for, though of that gigantesque brood who are all arrogant
and uncivil, he alone was affable and well-mannered. But, above all, he
esteemed Rinaldo of Montalvan, especially when he saw him sally from
his castle and rob all he met, and when in Heathenrie he stole that
idol of Mahound, which was all of gold, as his history tells. As for
the traitor Galalon, for a volley of kicks at him he would have given
his housekeeper—aye, and his niece to boot. In short, his wits utterly
wrecked, he fell into the strangest delusion ever madman conceived in
the world, and this was, that it was fitting and necessary for him,
as he thought, both for the augmenting of his honour and the service
of the State, to make himself a Knight Errant, and travel through
the world with his armour and his horse seeking for adventures, and
to exercise himself in all that he had read that the Knight Errant
practised, redressing all kinds of wrong, and placing himself in perils
and passes by the surmounting of which he might achieve an everlasting
name and fame. Already the poor man imagined himself, by the valour
of his arm, crowned with, at the least, the Empire of Trebizond. And
so, with these imaginations so delightful, rapt in the strange zest
with which they inspired him, he made haste to give effect to what he
desired. The first thing he did was to furbish up some armour which
had belonged to his great-grandfathers, which, eaten with rust and
covered with mould, had lain for ages, where it had been put away and
forgotten, in a corner. He scoured and dressed it as well as he was
able, but he saw that it had one great defect, which was that there was
no covered helmet, but only a simple morion or, headpiece. This his
ingenuity supplied, for, with pieces of pasteboard, he fashioned a sort
of half-beaver, which, fitted to the morion, gave it the appearance
of a complete helmet. The fact is that, to prove it to be strong and
able to stand the chance of a sword-cut, he drew his sword and gave it
a couple of strokes, demolishing with the very first in a moment what
had cost him a week to make. The ease with which he had knocked it to
pieces not seeming to him good, in order to secure himself against
this danger he set to making it anew, fitting some bars of iron within
in such a manner as to leave him satisfied with his defence; and
without caring to make a fresh trial of it, he constituted and accepted
it for a very perfect good helmet. He went then to inspect his nag,
a beast which, though it had more quarters than there are in a real,
and more blemishes than the horse of Gonela, who, _tantum pellis et
ossa fuit_, appeared to him to surpass Alexander’s Bucephalus and the Ci
Bavieca. Four days were spent by our gentlemen in meditating on what
name to give him; for, as he said to himself, it was not right that the
steed of Knight so famous, and in himself so good, should be without a
recognised appellation; and therefore he endeavoured to fit him with
one which should signify what he had been prior to his belonging to
a Knight Errant, and what he was then; since he thought it but right
that, the master having changed his condition, the horse should also
change his name, and get him one sublime and high-sounding, as befitted
the new order and the new office which he professed. And so, after
many names which he devised, effaced, and rejected, amended, re-made
and un-made in his mind and fancy, finally he decided to call him
ROZINANTE—a name, in his opinion, lofty, sonorous, and significative of
what his animal had been when he was a common hackney, before he became
what he now was, before, and in front of, all the hackneys in the world.
Having given to his horse a name so much to his liking, he then desired
to give one to himself, and the thinking of this cost him eight other
days. At last he decided to call himself DON QUIXOTE; whereupon the
authors of this truthful history, as has been said, have found occasion
to affirm that his name was Quijada, and not Quesada, as others would
have it. Then recollecting that the valorous Amadis was not contented
with calling himself simply Amadis, but added the name of his kingdom
and native country, to make it famous, taking the name of Amadis of
Gaul, so he desired, like a good knight, to add to his own the name of
his native land, and call himself DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA, whereby,
to his seeming, he made lively proclamation of his lineage and his
country, and honoured it by taking his surname therefrom.
His armour then being cleaned, his morion manufactured into a helmet,
a name given to his horse, and himself confirmed with a new one, it
struck him that he lacked nothing else than to look for a lady of
whom to be enamoured; for the Knight Errant without amours was a tree
without leaves and without fruit, and a body without soul. He would say
to himself: “Were I, for my sins, or through good luck, to encounter
hereabouts some giant, as usually happens to Knights Errant, and to
overthrow him at the onset, or cleave him through the middle of his
body, or, in fine, vanquish him and make him surrender, would it not be
well to have some one to whom to send him as a present, that he might
enter and bend the knee before my sweet mistress, and say with humble
and subdued voice: ‘I, lady, am the giant Caraculiambro, lord of the
island of Malindramia, whom the never-to-be-praised-as-he-deserves
Knight, Don Quixote of La Mancha, vanquished in single combat—he
who hath commanded me to present myself before your grace that your
highness may dispose of me at your pleasure.’”
Oh, how our good knight was pleased with himself when he had delivered
this speech!—and the more when he found one to whom to give the name
of his lady. It happened, as the belief is, that in a village near his
own there was a well-looking peasant girl, with whom he had once fallen
in love, though it is understood that she never knew it or had proof
thereof. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo, and upon her he judged it fit
to bestow the title of mistress of his fancy; and, seeking for her a
name which should not much belie her own, and yet incline and approach
to that of a princess or great lady, he decided to call her DULCINEA
DEL TOBOSO, for she was a native of El Toboso—a name, in his opinion,
musical, romantic, and significant, as were all which he had given to
himself and his belongings.
_Wherein is related the pleasant method by which Don Quixote got
himself dubbed Knight._
... Don Quixote promised to perform all that was recommended to him
with all exactness; whereupon he was enjoined forthwith to keep watch
over his armour in a large yard by the inn-side. Collecting the pieces
all together, he placed them on top of a stone trough which stood near
a well, and, buckling on his shield, he grasped his lance, and began
with a jaunty air to pace in front of the trough, it being now dark
when he commenced his exercise.
The landlord told all who were staying in the inn of his guest’s craze,
the watching of the armour, and the dubbing of Knighthood which he
awaited. Wondering at this strange kind of madness, they went to look
at him from afar, and saw him sometimes pacing with a tranquil mien,
sometimes resting on his lance, with his eyes fixed on his armour,
from which he would not take them off for some time. The night had now
closed in, with a moon of such brightness that she might have vied with
him who lent it to her,[6] so that whatever our novice did could be
plainly seen by all. Just then one of the muleteers who were staying
in the inn, wanting to give water to his team, found it necessary to
remove Don Quixote’s armour from where it lay on the trough. The Knight,
seeing the man approach, exclaimed with a loud voice: “O thou,
whosoever thou art, rash cavalier! who comest to touch the armour of
the most valiant Errant that ever girt sword on himself, take heed what
thou doest, and touch it not, if thou wouldst not lose thy life in
forfeit of thy temerity.”
The muleteer paid no regard to these words (and better for him it had
been had he regarded them, for he would have re-guarded his safety),
but, taking hold of the armour by the straps, flung it some way from
him. When Don Quixote saw this, he lifted his eyes to heaven, and
addressing himself, as it seemed, to his Lady Dulcinea, cried, “Succour
me, mistress mine, in this the first affront which is offered to this
enthralled bosom: let not your favour and help fail me in this first
trial!”
And uttering these and other such words, and loosing his shield, he
raised his lance in both hands, and with it dealt such a mighty blow
on the muleteer’s head that it felled him to the earth in such ill plight
that, if it had been followed up with a second, there would have been
no need of a leech to cure him. Soon after, another muleteer, without
knowing what had passed (for the first still lay stunned), came up
with the same purpose of giving water to his mules, and was going to
remove the armour so as to clear the trough, when Don Quixote, without
speaking a word or asking any one’s favour, again loosed his shield and
again raised his lance, and without breaking it made more than three of
the second muleteer’s head, for he broke it into four pieces. At the noise
all the people of the inn ran out, and the landlord among them. Seeing
this, Don Quixote buckled on his shield, and, setting his hand to his
sword, cried, “O lady of beauty! strength and vigour of this debile
heart! now is the hour when you should turn the eyes of your grandeur
on this your captive Knight, who is awaiting this mighty adventure!”
[Illustration: “DEALT SUCH A MIGHTY BLOW ON THE MULETEER’S HEAD, THAT IT
FELLED HIM TO THE EARTH.”]
Thereupon he seemed to himself to acquire so much courage, that if all
the muleteers in the world had assailed him he would not have budged
a foot backwards. The companions of the wounded, seeing them in that
plight, began to shower stones upon Don Quixote from a distance, who
sheltered himself as well as he could with his shield, not venturing to
leave the horse-trough lest he should seem to abandon his armour. The
innkeeper called out to them to leave him alone, for he had told them
already that it was a madman, and being mad he would be scot-free even
if he killed them all. Don Quixote also cried out yet louder, calling
them cowards and traitors, and declaring the Lord of the castle to be
a craven and a base-born Knight for consenting to Knights Errant being
so treated, and that if he himself had received the order of Knighthood
he would have made him sensible of his perfidy: “But of you, base and
wild rabble, I make no account. Shoot! come on! advance! assail me as
much as ye are able; you shall see the penalty you have to pay for your
folly and insolence!”
This he said with so much spirit and intrepidity that he struck all who
heard him with a terrible fear; and therefore, and partly by the host’s
persuasions, they left off pelting him, and he on his part permitted
them to carry off their wounded, returning to the vigil of his arms
with the same calmness and composure as before.
These pranks of his guest were not to the innkeeper’s liking, so he
determined to despatch and give him that plaguy order of Knighthood
forthwith, before other mischief should happen. Going up to him,
therefore, he apologised for the insolence with which those base
fellows had behaved without his knowledge, but, he added, they had been
well chastised for their hardihood. And seeing there was no chapel in
that castle, as he had said before, there was no need, he declared,
for the rest of the performance—that the whole point of Knight-making
consisted in the slap of the hand and the stroke on the shoulder,
according to his knowledge of the ceremonial of the order, and this
could be done in the middle of a field; and that Don Quixote had
already accomplished all that pertained to the watching of arms, more
by token that he had been more than four hours at what might have been
finished off with a two hours’ watch.
To all this Don Quixote gave credence, and he said to the host that
he was there ready to obey him, praying him to conclude the business
as soon as possible, for, were he assaulted again when full Knight,
he purposed not to leave any one alive in the castle, except those he
might spare at the Castellan’s bidding, and out of regard for him.
The Castellan, thus forewarned, and apprehensive of what might happen,
brought out a book in which he used to enter the straw and barley
which he supplied to the muleteers, and, with a candle-end borne by a
lad, the two damsels aforesaid with him, went up to where Don Quixote
was standing, whom he ordered to go down on his knees. Reading in his
manual as though he were reciting some devout prayer, he broke off
in the middle, and, lifting up his hand, dealt Don Quixote a sound
blow on the head, and after this a brisk thwack on the shoulder with
his own sword, still muttering between his teeth as though he were
praying. This done, he commanded one of those ladies to gird on Don
Quixote’s sword, which she did with much sprightliness and discretion,
and it needed no little of that last article to avoid bursting with
laughter at each point of the ceremonies, though the prowesses they
had witnessed of the new Knight kept their mirth within bounds. At the
girding on of the sword the good lady said, “God make your worship
a fortunate Knight, and give you good luck in battles!” Don Quixote
besought her to tell him her name, that thenceforward he might know to
whom he was indebted for the favour received, for he designed to bestow
on her some portion of the honour which he was to reap by the valour
of his arm. She replied, with much humility, that her name was _La
Tolosa_, and that she was the daughter of a cobbler, native of Toledo,
who lived among the stalls of Sancho Bienaya, and that wheresoever
she might be, she was at his service and took him for her master. Don
Quixote begged her in reply, for love of him, henceforth to assume the
_Don_, and call herself Donna Tolosa, which she promised to do. The
other damsel buckled on him his spurs, with whom there passed almost
the same colloquy as with her of the sword. He asked her her name, and
she answered that she was called _La Molinera_, and was the daughter
of a miller of Antequera. Her also Don Quixote besought to take upon
her the _Don_, and call herself Donna Molinera, renewing his offers of
service and favour.
These never-before-seen ceremonies having been despatched at a gallop
and post-haste, Don Quixote could not rest till he saw himself on
horseback, sallying forth in quest of adventures. So saddling Rozinante
at once he mounted, and embracing the innkeeper, thanked him for
the favour done in the knighting in terms so extravagant that it is
impossible to give an exact relation of them. The innkeeper, seeing him
well outside his inn, responded to his speeches with others no less
flowery although more brief, and, without asking him for the cost of
his lodging, let him go with a hearty good will.
_Of the good success which Don Quixote had in the terrible and
never-before imagined adventure of the windmills, with other events
worthy of happy remembrance._
While thus conversing, they caught sight of some thirty or forty
windmills which are in that plain, and as soon as Don Quixote perceived
them, he exclaimed—
“Fortune is guiding our affairs better than we could have desired,
for look yonder, friend Sancho, where thirty or more huge giants are
revealed, with whom I intend to do battle, and take all their lives.
With their spoils we will begin to enrich ourselves, for this is fair
war, and it is doing God great service to clear this evil spawn from
off the face of the earth.
“What giants?” asked Sancho Panza.
“Those thou seest there,” replied his master, “with the long arms,
which some of them are wont to have of two leagues’ length.”
“Take care, sir,” cried Sancho, “for those we see yonder are not
giants, but windmills, and what in them look like arms are the sails
which, being whirled about by the wind, make the mill-stone to go.”
“It is manifest,” answered Don Quixote, “that thou art not experienced
in this matter of adventures. They are giants, and if thou art afraid
get thee away home and dispose thyself to prayer, while I go to engage
with them in fierce and unequal combat.”
So saying, he clapped spurs to Rozinante, his steed, without heeding
the cries which Sancho Panza, his squire, uttered, warning him that
those he was going to encounter were beyond all doubt windmills and not
giants. But he went on so fully persuaded that they were giants, that
he neither listened to the cries of his squire Sancho, nor stopped to
mark what they were, but shouted to them in a loud voice—
“Fly not, cowards, vile creatures, for it is a single cavalier who
assails you!”
A slight breeze having sprung up at this moment, the great sail-arms
began to move, on perceiving which Don Quixote cried—
“Although ye should wield more arms than had the giant Briareus, ye
shall pay for it!”
Saying this, and commending himself with his whole soul to his lady
Dulcinea, beseeching her to succour him in this peril, well covered
with his buckler, with his lance in rest, he charged at Rozinante’s best
gallop, and attacked the first mill before him and thrusting his lance
into the sail the wind turned it with so much violence that the lance
was shivered to pieces, carrying with it the horse and his rider, who
was sent rolling over the plain sorely damaged.
[Illustration: “THE HORSE AND HIS RIDER SENT ROLLING OVER THE PLAIN
SORELY DAMAGED.”]
Sancho Panza hastened to his master’s help as fast as his ass could go,
and when he came up he found the Knight unable to stir, such a shock
had Rozinante given him in the fall.
“God bless me,” cried Sancho, “did I not tell your worship to look to
what you were doing, for they were nought but windmills? And nobody
could mistake them but one who had other such in his head.”
“Peace, friend Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “for the things of war
are more than other subject to continual mutation. And, moreover, I
believe, and that is the truth, that the same sage Friston, who robbed
me of my room and my books, hath turned these giants into windmills, in
order to deprive me of the glory of their overthrow, so great is the
enmity he bears to me; but in the upshot his evil arts shall little
avail against the goodness of my sword.”
“God send it as He will,” answered Sancho; and helping him to rise, the
Knight remounted Rozinante, whose shoulders were half dislocated.
_Which treats of the lofty adventure and the rich winning of Mambrino’s
helmet._
... Now, the truth of the matter as to the helmet, the horse, and the
Knight that Don Quixote saw was this. There were in that neighbourhood
two villages, one so small that it possessed neither apothecary’s shop
nor barber, which the other, close to it, had; and so the barber of
the larger village did duty for the smaller, in which was a sick man
who required to be blooded, and another who wanted shaving; on which
account the barber was coming, bringing with him a brass basin; and
it chanced that, at the time he was travelling, it commenced to rain,
and, not to spoil his hat, which was a new one, he clapt upon his head
the basin, which, being a clean one, shone half a league off. He rode
upon a grey ass, as Sancho said, and this was how to Don Quixote there
appeared the dapple-grey steed and the Knight and the helmet of gold,
for all things that he saw he made to fall in very easily with his
wild chivalries and his vagabond fancies. And, when he perceived that
luckless horseman draw near, without stopping to parley with him, he
ran at him with his lance couched at Rozinante’s full gallop, with intent
to pierce him through and through; and as he came up to him, without
abating the fury of his career, he cried out—
[Illustration: “BEGAN TO RACE ACROSS THE PLAIN FASTER THAN THE WIND.”]
“Defend thyself, vile caitiff creature, or render me up of thine own
will that which by all right is my due.”
The barber, who saw that apparition bearing down upon him, without
thought or apprehension of any such thing, had no other way to save
himself from the thrust of the lance than to let himself fall off his
ass, and no sooner had he touched the ground when he rose more nimbly
than a deer, and began to race across the plain faster than the wind.
The basin he left upon the ground, with which Don Quixote was well
content, remarking that the Paynim had done wisely, and that he had
imitated the beaver, who, when he finds himself hard pressed by the
hunters, tears and cuts off with his teeth that for which he knows by
natural instinct he is chased. He bade Sancho pick up the helmet, who,
taking it in his hands, said—
“In sooth the basin is a good one, and worth a real of eight, if it is
worth a maravedi.”
He gave it to his master, who placed it upon his head, turning it about
from side to side in search of the vizor, and, not finding it, he said—
“Doubtless the Paynim to whose measure this famous headpiece was first
forged, must have had a very large head, and the worst of it is that
half of it is wanting.”
When Sancho heard him call the basin a headpiece, he could not contain
his laughter, but bethinking him of his master’s wrath, he checked himself
in the midst of it.
“What dost thou laugh at?” asked Don Quixote.
“I am laughing,” replied he, “for thinking of the big head the Paynim
owner of this helmet must have had, for it looks for all the world like
nothing but a perfect barber’s basin.”
“Knowest thou what I suspect, Sancho? That this famous piece of the
enchanted helmet must by some strange accident have come into the hands
of one who did not know or esteem its worth, and who, ignorant of what
he did, seeing it to be of pure gold, must have melted down the other
half of it to profit by its worth, and of this half he has made what
looks to thee like a barber’s basin, as thou sayest. But, be that as it
may, to me who recognise it, its transmutation makes no matter, for I
will have it rectified in the first village where there is a smith,
and in such wise that it shall not be surpassed or even approached by
that which was made and forged by the god of smithies for the god of
battles. And, in the meantime, I will wear it as I can, for something
is better than nothing; all the more as it will well suffice to protect
me against any blow from a stone.”
_Wherein is set forth the highest point and extreme to which the
never-before-heard-of courage of Don Quixote reached or could reach;
with the happily achieved Adventure of the Lions._
The history tells that Sancho, when Don Quixote called for his helmet,
was buying some curds of the shepherds, and in his perturbation at his
master’s hurried call, knew not what to do with them or how to carry them;
so in order not to lose what he had now paid for, he bethought him
of clapping them into his master’s helmet, and having thus made shift,
he turned back to see what Don Quixote wanted, who, on his coming up,
cried, “Give me that helmet, friend, for I know little of adventure
or that which I descry yonder is one which should require, and does
require, me to take to arms.”
He of the Green Coat, hearing this, turned his eyes every way, but saw
nothing but a cart which came towards them with two or three little
flags, which made him think that it must be carrying the King’s treasure,
and so he told Don Quixote. But the Knight would not credit it, always
supposing and imagining that all which happened was adventures, and
still adventures; and so he replied—
“Forewarned is forearmed; nothing is lost by taking precaution, for I
know by experience that I have enemies visible and invisible, nor know
I when, nor where, nor in what moment, nor in what shape I have to
encounter them.”
And turning to Sancho he asked for his helmet, which the squire, not
having an opportunity of relieving it of the curds, was compelled to
hand to him as it was. Don Quixote took it, and without giving a look
to what it contained, clapped it on his head in all haste; and as the
curds were squeezed and pressed, the whey began to pour over all Don
Quixote’s face and beard, from which he got such a fright that he said to
Sancho—
“What is this, Sancho? For methinks my skull is softening, or my brains
are melting, or I sweat from feet to head. And if it is that I am
sweating, truly it is not from fear. Without doubt I believe this is
terrible, the adventure that now means to befall me. Give me something,
if you can, with which to wipe myself, for this copious sweat doth
blind my eyes.”
Sancho held his tongue and gave him a cloth, and with it thanks to
God that his master had not found out the truth. Don Quixote wiped
himself, and took off the helmet to see what it was which seemed to
chill his head, and finding the white clots within his headpiece, held
them to his nose, and smelling them, cried—
“By the life of my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, but these are curds thou
hast put here, thou traitor! villain, brazen-faced squire!”
To which, with much deliberation and command of countenance, Sancho
replied, “If they are curds give them to me, your worship, and I will
eat them; but let the devil eat them, for it must be he who put them
there. I to dare soil your worship’s helmet! You must know who it is
that’s so bold. In faith, sir, as God reads my mind, I, too, must have
enchanters who persecute me as a creature and limb of your worship;
and they will have put that nastiness there to move your patience to
anger, and make you baste my ribs as you are wont to do; but, in truth,
this time they have jumped wide of the mark, for I rely on my master’s
good judgment, who will consider that I have neither curds nor milk
about me, nor anything like; and if I had I would rather put it into my
stomach than in the helmet.”
“It may be all so,” quoth Don Quixote. And the gentleman in the Green
Coat, who noted all, was utterly amazed, especially when, after Don
Quixote had wiped dry his head, face, beard, and helmet, he put it on
again, and settling himself firmly in his stirrups, reaching for his
sword and grasping his lance, exclaimed—
“Now come what may, for here I stand to do battle with Satan himself in
person.”
The cart with the flags now approached, in which was nobody but the
carter upon one of the mules and a man seated in front. Planting
himself before it, Don Quixote exclaimed—
“Whither go ye, my brethren; what cart is this? What do you carry
therein? And what flags are these?”
To which the carter replied, “The cart is mine; what go in it are two
bold lions in a cage, which the General is sending from Oran to the
capital as a present to his Majesty; the flags are the King‘s, our master,
in token that something of his goes here.”
“And are they large, the lions?” asked Don Quixote.
“So large,” answered the man at the door of the van, “that none larger
or so large have ever passed from Africa to Spain; and I am the
lion-keeper, and have carried many, but none like these. They are male
and female; the male goes in the first cage, and the female in the one
behind, and they are now very hungry, for they have not eaten to-day;
and so let your worship stand aside, for we must needs reach quickly
the place where we are to give them their dinner.”
On which said Don Quixote, with a little smile, “Lion-whelps to me?
To me, lion-whelps? And at this time of day? Then by Heaven, those
gentleman who send them here shall see whether I am a man who is
frightened of lions. Alight, good fellow, and since you are the
lion-keeper, open these cages, and turn me out these beasts, for in the
middle of this open field I will teach them to know who Don Quixote of
La Mancha is, in defiance and despite of the enchanters who send them
to me.”
“So, so,” said he of the Green Coat to himself at this, “our good
knight gives us a proof of what he is; the curds i’ faith have softened
his skull and mellowed his brain.”
Here Sancho came up to him, and exclaimed, “For God’s sake, sir, mind that
my master, Don Quixote, does not fight with these lions, for if he
fights them all we here will be torn to pieces.”
“But is your master so mad,” the gentleman answered, “that you fear and
believe that he will fight with animals so fierce?”
“Not mad is he,” replied Sancho, “but headstrong.”
“I will make him desist,” said the gentleman. And coming up to Don
Quixote, who was pressing the keeper to open the cage, he said, “Sir
Knight, Knights Errant have to engage in adventures which hold out some
prospect of a good issue from them, and not in those that are wholly
devoid of it, for the valour which enters within the bounds of temerity
has more of madness than of fortitude; moreover, these lions come not
against you, nor do they dream of doing so, but are going as a present
to his Majesty, and it will not be right to detain them or hinder their
journey.”
“Get you gone, Sir Country-squire,” replied Don Quixote, “and look
after your quiet pointer and your saucy ferret, and leave every one
to do his duty; this is mine, and I know whether they come against me
or not, these gentlemen the lions.” And, turning to the keeper, he
said, “I swear, Don Rascal, that if you do not open the cage at once,
instantly, I will pin you to the cart with this lance.”
The carter, seeing that armed phantom’s determination, said to him—
“Be pleased, dear sir, for charity, to let me unyoke the mules and
place myself and them in safety before the lions are let loose, for if
they are killed I shall be utterly ruined, for I have no other property
but this cart and these mules.”
“O man of little faith!” replied Don Quixote, “get down and unyoke, and
do what thou wilt, for soon thou shalt see that thou toilest in vain,
and might spare thyself these pains.”
The carter alighted and in great haste unyoked, and the keeper cried
in a loud voice, “Be witnesses as many as are here, how against my
will and on compulsion I open the cages and let loose the lions, and
that I protest to this gentleman, that all the evil and damage these
beasts shall do will run and go to his account, with my wages and dues
besides. Let you, sirs, make yourselves safe before I open; for myself,
I am sure they will do me no harm.”
Once more Don Diego entreated him not to commit such an act of madness,
for to engage in such a freak were a tempting of Providence, to which
Don Quixote replied that he knew what he was doing. The gentleman
pressed him again to look well to it, for that he was surely mistaken.
“Nay, sir,” quoth Don Quixote, “if your worship would not bear witness
to this, which in your opinion is about to be a tragedy, spur your grey
and put yourself in safety.”
Sancho, on hearing this, prayed his master with tears in his eyes
to desist from such an enterprise, compared to which that of the
windmills, and the fearful one of the fulling-mills, and, in short, all
the deeds his master had attempted in the course of his life, were but
pleasuring and junketing.
“Look, sir,” quoth Sancho, “here there is no enchantment, nor anything
like it, for I have seen through the chinks and bars of the cage a claw
of a real lion, and I gather from it that such a lion, to have such a
claw, is bigger than a mountain.”
“Fear, at least,” said Don Quixote, “will make it seem bigger to thee
than half the earth. Retire, Sancho, and leave me, and if I die here,
thou knowest our old compact: thou wilt betake thee to Dulcinea. I say
no more.”
Other words he added to these which took away all hope of his giving
up proceeding with his insane purpose. He of the Green Coat would have
resisted him in it, but he saw himself unequal in arms, and judged it
not wise to fight with a madman, for such he now appeared to him to be
at all points. Don Quixote once more pressing the keeper and repeating
his threats, caused the gentleman to urge his mare, and Sancho Dapple,
and the carter his mules, all trying to get away from the cart as far
as possible before the lions broke loose. Sancho wept over the death
of his master, for this time he verily believed it had come from the
lion’s claws; he cursed his fortune and called it a fatal hour when it
came into his mind once more to serve Don Quixote; but none the less,
in weeping and lamenting, did he stop cudgelling Dapple to get him
farther from the cart. The lion-keeper, seeing now that those who had
fled were well away, again entreated and warned Don Quixote as he had
entreated and warned him before, but the Knight replied that he heard
him, and that he cared for no more warnings and entreaties, which would
be fruitless, and bade him despatch. Whilst the keeper was engaged in
opening the first cage, Don Quixote was considering whether it would
be better to have the battle on foot or on horseback, and finally he
decided to have it on foot, fearing lest Rozinante should be startled
at the sight of the lions. Therefore, he leapt from his horse, threw
away his lance, and buckling his shield and unsheathing his sword,
leisurely, with a marvellous intrepidity and valiant heart advanced to
post himself in front of the cart, commending his soul to God and then
to his lady Dulcinea.
And it is to be known that, coming to this passage, the author of this
truthful history breaks out into this exclamation, saying—
“O brave and beyond all commendation courageous Don Quixote of La
Mancha! mirror wherein all the valiant may behold themselves, a
second and new Don Manuel de Leon, who was the honour and glory of
Spanish Knights! In what words shall I recount this dread exploit,
or by what argument make it creditable to future ages? What praises
can there be unfitting and unmeet for thee, be they ever such
hyperboles upon hyperboles? Thou on foot, thou alone, thou fearless,
thou great-hearted, with thy simple sword, and that not one of your
trenchant dog blades; with a shield of no very bright and shining
steel, standest watching and waiting for two of the fiercest lions that
ever the African forests engendered! Let thy deeds themselves, valorous
Manchegan, extol thee, for here I leave them at their height, failing
words to glorify them.”
[Illustration: “HE PUT HIS HEAD OUT OF THE CAGE AND GAZED ALL ABOUT
WITH HIS EYES BLAZING LIKE LIVE COALS.”]
Here the author breaks off from his apostrophe, and proceeds to take up
the thread of his history, saying—
The keeper, seeing Don Quixote fixed in his position, and that it was
impossible to avoid letting loose the male lion without falling under
the resentment of the rageful and dauntless Knight, opened wide the
door of the first cage where, as has been said, was the male lion,
who looked to be of extraordinary size and of a hideous and terrible
aspect. The first thing he did was to turn himself round in his cage,
and to extend his claws and stretch himself to his full length. Then
he opened his mouth and yawned very leisurely, and with about two
hands’-breadth of tongue which he put out, he licked the dust from his
eyes and bathed his face. This done, he put his head out of the cage
and gazed all about with his eyes blazing like live coals, a spectacle
and attitude to instil dread into daring itself. Don Quixote alone
looked at him intently, longing for him to leap out of the cart and
come within reach of his hands, between which he thought to rend him to
pieces.
To this height did his unheard-of madness carry him; but the generous
lion, more courteous than arrogant, taking no notice of these childish
tricks and swaggerings, after having looked round about him, as has
been said, turned his back and, showing to Don Quixote his hinder
parts, with great calmness and nonchalance flung himself down again in
the cage. Seeing this Don Quixote commanded him to give him some blows
and tease him so that he might come out.
“That I will not do,” answered the keeper, “for if I excite him the
first he will tear in pieces will be myself. Let your worship, Sir
Knight, be content with what has been done, which is all that one can
tell of in point of valour, and seek not to tempt fortune a second
time. The lion has his door open; it rests with him to come out or not;
but since he has not come out up to now he will not come out all day.
Your worship’s greatness of heart is now made fully manifest. No champion
fighter, as I take it, is bound to do more than defy his enemy and wait
for him in the field; if the opponent does not appear the infamy rests
upon him, and he who waits wins the crown of victory.”
“That is true,” said Don Quixote; “close the door, friend, and give in
the best form thou canst a voucher of what thou hast seen me do: to
wit, how that thou didst open to the lion; I awaited him; he did not
come out; I waited for him again; again he did not come out, but turned
to lie down. I am bound to do no more. Enchantments avaunt! and God
prosper justice and truth and true chivalry! Shut the door, friend,
whilst I signal to the fugitive and absent to return that they may
learn of this exploit from thy mouth.”
The keeper did so, and Don Quixote, placing on the point of his lance
the cloth with which he had wiped the shower of curds off his face,
began to hail those who had never ceased retreating all in a troop,
looking round at every step, driven before him by the gentlemen in
Green. Sancho happened to perceive the signal of the white cloth, and
exclaimed, “May I die if my master has not conquered the wild beasts,
for he is calling us!”
They all stopped, and seeing that it was Don Quixote who was making the
signals, losing some of their fear, little by little they came nearer,
until they clearly heard the voice of Don Quixote calling to them.
At length they returned to the cart, and on their approach Don Quixote
said to the carter—
“Yoke your mules again, friend, and proceed on your journey, and thou,
Sancho, give him two gold crowns for himself and for the keeper,
towards amends for my having detained them.”
“I will give them with all my heart,” answered Sancho; “but what has
been done with the lions? Are they dead or alive?”
Then the keeper recounted minutely and at his leisure the issue of the
encounter, extolling, to the best of his power and skill, the valour
of Don Quixote, at sight of whom the cowed lion cared not, or durst
not, to come out of his cage, though he had held the door open a good
while, and that it was through his having told the Knight that it was a
tempting of Providence to provoke the lion so as to force him to come
out, as he wanted him to do, that he had most unwillingly and against
the grain permitted him to close the door.”
“What is your judgment on this, Sancho?” quoth Don Quixote; “are there
enchantments which avail against true valour? The enchanters may be
able to rob me indeed of fortune, but of my resolution and courage, it
is impossible.”
Sancho gave the gold crowns; the carter yoked up; the keeper kissed
Don Quixote’s hands for the largess received, and promised to relate that
valorous deed to the King himself when he should see him at Court.
“And if by chance his Majesty should ask who performed it,” said
Don Quixote, “you shall tell him, _The Knight of the Lions_; for
henceforth I would that into this may be changed, altered, varied, and
transferred, the name which till now I have borne, of the Knight of
the Rueful Feature; and in this I follow the ancient usage of Knights
Errant, who changed their names at their pleasure and according to the
occasion.”
The cart proceeded on its journey, and Don Quixote. Sancho, and he of
the Green Coat, continued theirs.
_Of the strange adventures which happened to Don Quixote in the Castle._
... With this she began to touch a harp very softly.
On hearing this Don Quixote was startled, for in that moment there came
into his memory the infinite adventures similar to that, of windows,
lattices, and gardens; of serenades, love-plaints, and languishments,
which he had read of in his giddy books of chivalries. He at once
conceived that some one of the Duchess’s maidens was enamoured of him,
and that modesty compelled her to keep her love in secret. He trembled
lest he should yield, but resolved in his mind not to let himself be
overcome; so, commending himself with all good heart and soul to his
lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he determined to listen to the music; and to
let them know he was there, he feigned to sneeze, at which the damsels
were not a little rejoiced, for they desired nothing better than that
Don Quixote should hear them. Then, the harp being set up and tuned,
Altisidora struck up this ballad—
BALLAD.
Thou that all the night till morning
Sleepest on thy downy bed;
Gaily with thy legs out-stretched,
’twixt two sheets of linen laid:
Valiant Knight! thou whom La Mancha
Knows none greater or more bold;
Purer, blesseder, and chaster
Than Arabia’s sifted gold:
Hear a woful maid’s complaining,
Nurtured well but thriven ill,
Whose fond heart the burning sun-rays
From thine eyes do scorch and kill.
Seekest thou thine own adventures;
Others’ ventures thou suppliest;
Dealest wounds, yet for their healing
Salve of plaster thou deniest.
Tell me, lusty youth and valiant,
May thy wishes all be sped!
Was’t in Jaca’s gloomy mountains,
Or in Lybia thou wert bred?
Say, didst suck thy milk from serpents;
Was thine infant babyhood
Nurséd by the horrid mountain,
Dandled by the rugged wood?
Well may Dulcinea, thy charmer,
Damsel plump and round, be proud,
Conquering that heart of tiger,
Softening that bosom rude!
This shall make thy name e’er famous
From Jarama to Henares;
From Pisuerga to Arlanza;
From Tagus e’en to Manzanares.
Might I change with Dulcinea,
give her my best petticoat;
Rarest silk, of pretty colours,
Golden fringe and all to boot!
O to live within thine arms, and
O to sit beside thy bed!
O that poll so sweet to scratch, and
Brush the scurf from that dear head!
Much I ask, though undeserving
Of so notable a grace,
Would that I thy feet were stroking,
That’s enough for maid so base.
What fine night-caps I would work thee;
What fine shiny silvern socks;
Breeches of the rarest damask;
Lovely yellow Holland cloaks!
Precious milk-white pearls I’d give thee,
Each as big as any gall,
Such as, having no companions,
Orphans they are wont to call.
Gaze not from thy rock Tarpeian
On the fire which scorches me,
Nero of the world Manchegan!
Nor revive it cruelly.
Child I am—a tender pullet—
Fifteen years I’ve never seen;
I vow, by God and on my conscience,
I’m only three months past fourteen.
Lame I am not, neither crooked,
Nothing in my body’s wrong;
Locks like lilies, when I stand up,
Sweep the ground, they are so long.
Though my mouth is like an eagle’s,
And a little flat my nose,
With my topaz teeth,—of beauty
I’ve enough for Heaven, with those.
And my voice is, if you listen,
Equal to the best, I trow;
And I am of form and figure
Something less than middling too.
Spoils of thy spear, thy bow and quiver,
These my charms and more, are;
Maid am I of this here castle,
And my name Altisidora!
Here ended the lay of the sore-wounded Altisidora, and here began the
terror of the courted Don Quixote, who, heaving a deep sigh, said to
himself—
“How unhappy an Errant am I, that there is no maiden but looks upon
me, who is not enamoured of me! How sad is the fate of the peerless
Dulcinea, whom they will not leave free to enjoy my incomparable
fidelity! Queens, what do ye want of her? Empresses, why do ye
persecute her? Maidens of fourteen and fifteen, wherefore do ye molest
her? Leave, O leave the unhappy one to triumph, to rejoice, to glory
in the lot which love would assign her in the rendering her my heart,
and delivering to her my soul! Know, ye amorous crew, that for Dulcinea
alone am I dough and sugar-paste, and for all the rest of you flint.
For her I am honey, and for you aloes. For me Dulcinea alone is the
beautiful, the sensible, the chaste, the gay, and the well-bred;
and the rest ugly, silly, wanton and base-born. To be her’s and none
other’s Nature sent me into the world. Let Altisidora weep or sing; let
the lady despair for whose sake they belaboured me in the castle of
the enchanted Moor; for Dulcinea’s I must be—roasted or boiled, clean,
well-born, and chaste—in spite of all the powers of witchcraft in the
world.”
And with that he clapt the window to, and laid down on his bed; where
for the present we will leave him, for the great Sancho calls, who is
desirous of making a beginning with his famous Governorship.
_Of the mode in which the great Sancho Panza began to govern, when he
had taken possession of his Isle._
... At this moment there entered the justice-hall two men, one dressed
as a labourer and the other as a tailor, for he bore a pair of scissors
in his hand, and the tailor said—
“Sir Governor, I and this labouring man have come before your worship
for the cause that this good fellow came to my shop yesterday, who,
saving your presences, am a licensed tailor, blessed be God! and
putting a piece of cloth in my hands, asked me: ‘Sir, would there be
enough in this cloth to make me a cap?’I, measuring the stuff, answered
him ‘_Yes_.’He must have suspected, as I suspect, and suspected
rightly, that without doubt I wished to rob him of some part of his
cloth, founding his belief on his own roguery and the ill-opinion there
is of tailors, and he replied that I should look and see if there were
enough for two. I guessed his drift, and said, ‘_Yes_’ and he, riding
away on his first damned intent, went on adding caps, and I adding
_yeses_, till we reached five caps; and now at this moment he has come
for them, and I am giving them to him; and he will not pay me for the
making, but rather demands that I shall pay him, or give him back his
cloth.”
“Is all this so, brother?” inquired Sancho.
“Yes, sir,” answered the man; “but let your worship make him show the
five caps he has made me.”
“With all my heart,” said the tailor, and thrusting his hand suddenly
under his cloak he showed five caps on it, placed on the five tops of
his fingers, and said: “Here are the five caps which this good man
wants of me, and on God and my conscience I have none of the cloth left
for myself, and I will give the work to be examined by the inspectors
of the trade.”
All those present laughed at the number of caps, and at the novelty of
the suit. Sancho set himself to consider a little while, and then said—
“Methinks there need be no long delays in this case, but that it may
be decided, according to a wise mans’ judgment, off-hand; and so I decree
that the tailor shall lose the making, and the countryman the stuff,
the caps to be given to the prisoners in the gaol; and let no more be
said.”
This judgment provoked the laughter of the audience, but what the
Governor commanded was done.
_Of how Don Quixote fell sick, and of the will he made, and of his
death._
... The Notary entered with the rest, and after having written the
preamble to the will, and Don Quixote had disposed of his soul with
all those Christian circumstances which are requisite, coming to the
bequests he said—
“_Item, it is my will that of certain moneys which Sancho Panza, whom
in my madness I made my squire, retains, that because there have been
between him and me certain accounts, receipts, and disbursements, I
wish that he be not charged with them, nor that any reckoning be asked
from him, but that, if there should be any surplus after he has paid
himself what I owe him, the residue should be his, which will be very
little, and may it do him much good. And if I, being mad, was a party
to giving him the governorship of the Isle, now, being sane, I would
give him that of a Kingdom, were I able, for the simplicity of his
nature and the fidelity of his behaviour deserve it._”
And turning to Sancho, he said to him—
“Pardon me, friend, that I have given thee occasion to appear mad like
myself, making thee fall into the error into which I fell, that there
were and are Knights Errant in the world.”
“Alack!” responded Sancho, weeping, “don’t you die, your worship, dear
master, but take my advice and live many years, for the maddest thing
a man can do in this life is to let himself die without more ado,
without anybody killing him, nor other hands to finish him off than
those of melancholy. Look you, do not be lazy, but get out of that
bed, and we will go into the country, dressed like shepherds, as we
have arranged. Mayhap behind some hedge we shall find the lady Donna
Dulcinea disenchanted, and as fine as may be seen. If so be that you
are dying of fretting at being conquered, put the fault on me, and say
they overthrew you because I girthed Rozinante badly; more by token,
as your worship must have seen in your books of chivalries, that it
was a common thing for some Knights to overthrow others, and he who is
conquered to-day may be conqueror to-morrow.”
“It is so,” said Samson, “and honest Sancho is very true about these
matters.”
“Gently, sirs,” said Don Quixote, “for _in last year’s nests you look
not for birds of this year_. I was mad, and now I am sane. I was Don
Quixote of La Mancha, and to-day I am, as I have said, Alonso Quixano
the Good. May my repentance and my sincerity restore me to the esteem
you once had for me, and so let Master Notary go on.”
“_Item, I bequeath all my estate, without reserve, to Antonia Quixana,
my Niece, who is present, there being first deducted from it, as may be
most convenient, what is needed for the satisfaction of the bequests
which I have made; and the first payment to be made I desire to be
of the salary due to my Housekeeper from the time she has been in my
service, with twenty ducats more for a dress. I leave as my executors
Master Priest, and Master Bachelor Samson Carrasco, who are present.
Item, it is my wish that if Antonia Quixana, my Niece, is inclined to
marry, she should wed a man of whom she shall first have evidence that
he knows not what books of chivalries are; and in case it shall be
discovered that he does know, and yet my Niece wishes to marry with him
and does so marry, that she shall forfeit all that I have bequeathed
her, which my executors are empowered to distribute in pious works at
their pleasure. Item, I beseech the said gentlemen, my executors, that
if good fortune should bring them to know the author who, they say,
wrote a history which is current hereabout under the title of Second
Part of the Exploits of Don Quixote of La Mancha, that they will on my
behalf beg him, as earnestly as they can, to pardon the occasion which
I unwittingly gave him for writing so many and such enormous follies
as therein be written, for I quit this life with some tenderness of
conscience for having given him a motive for writing them._”
With this he concluded his testament, and, being taken with a fainting
fit, he lay extended at full length upon the bed. They were all
alarmed, and ran to his assistance, and during the three days that
he lived after the day on which he made his will he fainted very
frequently. The house was all in confusion; however, the Niece ate, the
Housekeeper drank, and Sancho Panza was cheerful; for this inheriting
of something dulls or tempers in the inheritor the memory of the pain
which the dead man naturally leaves behind.
At last came Don Quixote’s end, after he had received all the sacraments,
and after he had expressed with many and moving terms his horror at the
books of chivalries. The Notary was present, and said that never had he
read in any book of chivalries that any Knight Errant had died in his
bed so tranquilly and so Christianlike as Don Quixote, who, amidst the
tears and lamentations of all who stood by, gave up his spirit,—that is
to say, died.
On seeing this, the Priest asked the Notary to give him a certificate
that Alonso Quixano the Good, commonly called Don Quixote of La
Mancha, had passed out of this present life, and had died a natural
death; declaring that he sought such certificate in order to take away
from any other author than Cid Hamet Benengeli the excuse falsely to
resuscitate him, and write interminable histories of his deeds.
This was the end of the Ingenious Gentleman of La Mancha, whose village
Cid Hamet desired not to indicate precisely, in order to let all the
cities and towns of La Mancha contend among themselves for the honour
of giving him birth and adopting him for their own, as the seven cities
of Greece contended for Homer. The lamentations of Sancho, of the
Niece, and the Housekeeper of Don Quixote are here omitted, as well as
the new epitaphs upon his tomb; but this was what Samson Carrasco put
there:—
“A valiant gentleman here lies,
Whose courage reached to such a height,
Of death itself he made a prize,
When against Death he lost the fight.
He reck’d not of the world a jot,
The world’s great bugbear and the dread;
Strong was his arm, and strange his lot;
Stark mad in life,—when sober, dead.“
“_Don Quixote de La Mancha._” _Miguel Cervantes_ (1547-1616).
_Trans. H. E. Watts._
_CERVANTES TAKES A MERRY LEAVE OF LIFE._
It happened afterwards, dear reader, that as two of my friends and
myself were coming from Esquivias, a place famous for twenty reasons,
more especially for its illustrious families and for its excellent
wines, I heard a man behind me whipping his nag with all his might, and
seemingly very desirous of overtaking us. Presently he called out to
us, and begged us to stop, which we did; and when he came up, he turned
out to be a country student, dressed in brown, with spatterdashes and
round-toed shoes. He had a sword in a huge sheath, and a band tied
with tape. He had indeed but two tapes, so that his band got out of
its place, which he took great pains to rectify. “Doubtless,” said he,
“Señors, you are in quest of some office or some prebendal stall at
the court of my Lord of Toledo, or from the King, if I may judge from
the celerity with which you journey; for, in good truth, my ass has
hitherto had the fame of a good trotter, and yet he could not overtake
you.”
One of my companions answered, “It is the stout steed of Señor Miguel
Cervantes that is the cause of it, for he is very quick in his paces.”
Scarcely had the student heard the name of Cervantes, than, throwing
himself off his ass, whilst his cloak-bag tumbled on one side and his
portmanteau on the other, and his bands covered his face, he sprang
towards me, and seizing me by the left hand, exclaimed: “This, then,
is the famous one-handed author, the merriest of writers, the favourite
of the Muses.”
As for me, when I heard him pouring forth all these praises, I thought
myself obliged in politeness to answer him; so embracing his neck,
whereby I contrived to pull off his bands altogether, I said: “I am
indeed Cervantes, Señor, but not the favourite of the Muses, nor any
other of those fine things which you have said of me. Pray, sir, mount
your ass again, and let us converse together for the small remainder of
our journey.”
The good student did as I desired. We then drew bit, and proceeded at
a more moderate pace. As we rode on, we talked of my illness, but the
student gave me little hope, saying: “It is an hydropsy, which all the
water in the ocean, if you could drink it, would not cure; you must
drink less, Señor Cervantes, and not neglect to eat, for this alone can
cure you.”
“Many other people,” said I, “have told me the same thing; but it is as
impossible for me not to drink, as if I had been born for nothing but
drinking. My life is pretty nearly ended, and to judge by the quickness
of my pulse, I cannot live longer than next Sunday. You have made
acquaintance with me at a very unfortunate time, as I fear that I shall
not live to show my gratitude to you for your obliging conduct.”
Such was our conversation when we arrived at the bridge of Toledo, over
which I was to pass, while he was bound another route by the bridge of
Segovia.
“As to my future history, I leave that to the care of fame. My friends
will, no doubt, be very anxious to narrate it, and I should have great
pleasure in hearing it.”
I embraced him anew, and repeated the offer of my services. He spurred
his ass and left me as ill inclined to prosecute my journey, as he was
well disposed to do so. He had, however, supplied my pen with ample
materials for pleasantry. But all times are not the same. Perhaps the
time may yet arrive when, taking up the thread which I am now compelled
to break, I may complete what is now wanting, and what I fain would
tell. But adieu to gaiety, adieu to humour, adieu, my pleasant friends!
I must now die, and I wish for nothing better than speedily to see you
well contented in another world.
_Preface_ (written a little time before the author’s death) _to the
“Labours of Persiles and Sigismunda.”_ _Miguel Cervantes_ (1547-1616).
_Trans. Roscoe._
_THE LOVERS’ RUSE._
_Theodora._ Show more of gentleness and modesty;
Of gentleness in walking quietly,
Of modesty in looking only down
Upon the earth you tread.
_Belisa._ ’Tis what I do.
_Theodora._ What? When yoe looking straight towards that man?
_Belisa._ Did you not bid me look upon the earth?
And what is he but just a bit of it?
_Theodora._ I said the earth whereon you tread, my niece.
_Belisa._ But that whereon I tread is hidden quite
With my own petticoat and walking-dress.
_Theodora._ Words such as these become no well-bred maid.
But by your mother’s blessèd memory,
I’ll put an end to all your pretty tricks;—
What? You look back at him again?
_Belisa._ Who? I?
[Illustration: “BELISA: ‘WHY, SURE YOU THINK IT WISE AND WARY TO NOTICE
WELL THE PLACE I STUMBLED AT.’”]
_Theodora._ Yes, you; and make him secret signs besides.
_Belisa._ Not I. ’Tis only that you troubled me
With teasing questions and perverse replies,
So that I stumbled and looked round to see
Who would prevent my fall.
_Riselo_ (_to Lisardo_). She falls again.
Be quick and help her.
_Lisardo_ (_to Belisa_). Pardon me lady,
And forgive my glove.
_Theodora._ Who ever saw the like?
_Belisa._ Thank you, sir; you saved me from a fall.
_Lisardo._ An angel, lady, might have fallen so;
Or stars that shine with Heaven’s own blessèd light.
_Theodora._ I, too, can fall; but this is but a trick.
Good gentleman, farewell to you!
_Lisardo._ Madam,
Your servants. (Heaven save us from such spleen!)
_Theodora._ A pretty fall you made of it, and now I hope
You’ll be content, since they assisted you.
_Belisa._ And you no less content, since now you have
The means to tease me for a week to come.
_Theodora._ But why again do you turn back your head?
_Belisa._ Why, sure you think it wise and wary
To notice well the place I stumbled at,
Lest I should stumble there when next I pass,
_Theodora._ Go to! Come home! come home!
_Belisa._ Now we shall have
A pretty scolding cook’d up out of this.
_“El Azero de Madrid.” Lope de Vega (1562-1635)._
_Trans. Ticknor._
_AUNTS._
That young creature whom you see there,” said the God of Love, as he
led me on, “is the chief captain of my war, the one that has brought
most men under my banners. The elderly person that is leading her along
by the hand is her aunt.”
“Her _aunt_, did you say?” I replied; “her _aunt_? Then there is an end
of all my love for her. That word ‘_aunt_’is a counter-poison that has
disinfected me entirely, and quite healed the wound your well-planted
arrow was beginning to make in my heart. For, however much a man may be
in love, there can be no doubt an _aunt_ will always be enough to purge
him clean of it. Inquisitive, suspicious, envious,—one or the other she
cannot fail to be,—and if the niece have the luck to escape, the lover
never has; for if she is envious, she wants him for herself; and if
she is only suspicious, she still spoils all comfort, so disconcerting
every little project, and so disturbing every little nice plan, as to
render pleasure itself unsavoury.”
“Why, what a desperately bad opinion you have of aunts?” said Love.
“To be sure I have,” said I. “If the state of innocence in which Adam
and Eve were created had nothing else to recommend it, the simple fact
that there could have been no _aunts_ in Paradise would have been
enough for me. Why, every morning, as soon as I get up, I cross myself
and say, ‘By the sign of the Holy Rood, from all aunts deliver us this
day, good Lord.’And every time I repeat the _Pater Noster_, after
‘Lead us not into temptation,’I always add, ‘nor into the way of aunts
either.’”
_Jacinto Polo (?) (fl. 1630). Trans. Ticknor._
_THE MISER CHASTISED._
In this edifying manner did Don Marcos arrive at the age of thirty,
with the reputation of a wealthy man; and with good reason, for he had
gathered together, at the expense of every gentlemanly quality, and
the starvation of his unfortunate carcase, a good round sum, which he
always retained near him, for he dreaded every kind of speculation that
might place in the slightest degree of jeopardy his darling treasure.
Now as Don Marcos was known to be neither a gambler nor a libertine,
good opportunities of marriage continually presented themselves, of
which, however, he did not avail himself always, considering it a
speculation, and not unlikely to lead to some unfortunate result.
Nevertheless, he wished to appear to advantage in the eyes of the
ladies, some of whom, not knowing him, might have no objection to him
as a husband. To them he appeared more in the light of a gallant than
a miser. Amongst others who would have no objection to him, was a lady
who had been married, but was not so well reconciled to her situation
as a widow.
She was a lady of superior air and pretentions, although somewhat past
the prime of life; but by the help of a little study and skill, no
one would have supposed that she had arrived at so discreet an age as
she certainly had. She was prettily enough called Donna Isidora, and
was reported to be very rich; that she had actual property, at least
according to those who knew her well, her manner of living clearly
enough proved. Now this eligible match was proposed to Don Marcos; the
lady was represented to him in such engaging colours, with such perfect
assurance that she possessed more than fourteen or fifteen thousand
ducats, that he was led into temptation—the temptation of Mammon. Her
deceased husband was represented to have been a gentleman of one of the
best families of Andalusia, and Donna Isidora was equally well born,
and a native of the famous city of Seville.
These flattering communications so worked on the avarice and pride of
our friend Don Marcos, that he almost wished himself already married,
that he might be sure of the possession of so enviable a prize. He who
first entangled Don Marcos in this notable affair was a cunning rogue
of a dealer, who not only dealt in marriages, but in other descriptions
of more sure traffic.
He promised therefore an introduction to Don Marcos that very evening,
because, as he said, there was danger in delay.
Donna Isidora was profuse in her thanks to the obliging gentleman who
had procured her the pleasure of such an acquaintance; and she finally
established her triumph over Don Marcos, by inviting him to a costly
entertainment, wherein she displayed the utmost luxury and wealth.
At this entertainment Don Marcos was introduced to a young man of a
very gallant and prepossessing appearance, whom Donna Isidora honoured
with the title of nephew. His name was Augustin, and he, in turn,
seemed happy in the chance that gave him so delightful a relationship.
The under servant, Ines, waited on them at table, because Marcella,
the upper maid, by the order of her mistress, was engaged to entertain
them with her guitar, in the management of which she was so perfect,
that even the grandees of the court were seldom regaled with better
music. Her voice, which she accompanied with the instrument, was so
melodious, that it appeared more like that of an angel than a woman.
The unaffected manner, too, without the slightest timidity, yet equally
free from boldness, in which she sung, lent an additional charm;
for without being entreated, she continued to amuse them, feeling
confident that her performance would be well received.
Don Marcos felt himself so completely at ease with the well-bred,
though generous hospitality of Donna Isidora and her nephew, that
without the least scruple he amply indemnified himself for many a
hungry day, as the sensible diminution of the luxuries of the table
bore abundant, or rather scanty testimony. It may be said without
exaggeration, that that evening’s entertainment furnished him with as
much as six days of his ordinary consumption; and the continual and
repeated supplies, forced on him by his elegant and kind hostess, were
in themselves sufficient to enable him to dispense with eating for a
considerable time to come.
The pleasures of the conversation and of the table finished with the
daylight, and four wax candles were placed in beautiful candelabras,
by the light of which, and the sounds which Augustin drew from the
instrument which Marcella had before touched so well, the two girls
commenced a dance, in which they moved with such grace, as to excite
the admiration of their superiors. After all this, Marcella, at the
request of Don Marcos, again took her guitar, and closed the evening’s
amusement with an old chivalric romance.
On the conclusion of the song, the gentleman who had introduced
Don Marcos gave him a hint that it was time to retire; who, though
unwilling to leave such good company, and such good cheer, and at
such little cost, took leave of his kind hostess with expressions of
consideration and friendship, and took his road homewards, entertaining
his friend by the way with expressions of admiration of Donna Isidora,
or rather, more properly speaking, of her money. He begged him as
soon as possible to have a deed drawn up which would ensure to him so
enviable a treasure. His friend replied that he might already consider
the marriage concluded, for that his opinion held such weight with
Donna Isidora, that he would take an early opportunity of speaking
with her to effect the arrangement, for he fully agreed with him, that
delays were dangerous.
With this excellent maxim they separated, the one to recount to Donna
Isidora what had passed, and the other to return to the house of his
master.
It being very late, all the household had retired to rest. Don Marcos
availing himself of the end of a candle, which he generally carried in
his pocket for the purpose, withdrew to a small lamp, which lighted an
image of the Virgin, at the corner of the street. There he placed it on
the point of his sword and lighted it, making, at the same time, a very
short but devout prayer that the very reasonable hopes he had framed
might not be disappointed. Satisfied with this pious duty, he then
retired to rest, waiting, however, impatiently for the day which should
crown his expectations.
The next day he was visited by his friend Gamorre, such was the name
of the gentleman who had recommended to him this tempting alliance.
Don Marcos had risen by times that morning, for love and interest had
conspired to banish sleep from his pillow. It was, therefore, with
the utmost joy that he welcomed his visitor, who informed him that he
had been successful in his mission to Donna Isidora, and that he was
the bearer of an invitation to him from that lady to pass the day at
her house, when he would have an opportunity of personally pressing
his suit, and perhaps concluding the negociation which had so happily
commenced.
* * * * *
Before they parted that night everything was arranged for their
marriage, which in three days from that time was solemnised with all
the splendour becoming people of rank and wealth. Don Marcos on this
occasion so far overcame his parsimony as to present his wife with a
rich wedding dress of great cost and fashion; calculating very wisely
that the expense was but trifling in comparison with what he had to
receive.
Behold, then, our friend Don Marcos, lord and master of this sumptuous
dwelling, and its amiable inmates; and when the day of the auspicious
union arrived, it found him in a state of the greatest possible
contentment and happiness.
“Surely this is the happiest day of my life,” he said to himself.
The future domestic arrangements were all carefully discussed by the
calculating mind of the bridegroom; and he already had disposed of his
anticipated savings in a speculation; for he had begun even to think of
speculating as to the greatest saving and profit.
Before retiring to rest, however, these flattering visions were
a little disturbed by the sudden illness of Augustin. Whether it
proceeded from mortification at his aunt’s wedding, which threatened to
curtail him of some of his fair proportions—his accustomed pleasures,
or from some natural cause, it is impossible to say; but the house
was suddenly thrown into a state of the greatest confusion; servants
running about for remedies, and Donna Isidora in a state of the most
violent agitation! However, the invalid became composed with the
efforts which were made in his behalf; and Donna Isidora ventured to
leave him and retire to rest, while the bridegroom went his round,
taking care to see that the doors and windows were all fast, possessing
himself of the keys for their better security.
This last act of caution seemed to be looked on with great distrust by
the servants, who immediately attributed to jealousy that which was
the result only of care and prudence; for Don Marcos had that morning
removed to the house, with his own valuable person, and all his worldly
possessions, including his six thousand ducats, which had not for a
long time seen the light of day, and which he intended should still
be consigned to solitary confinement, as far as locks and keys would
ensure it.
Having arranged everything to his satisfaction, he retired to his
bridal-chamber, leaving the servants to bewail their unhappy fortune,
in having got a master whose habits threatened to curtail them of
little liberties which the kindness of their mistress had so long
indulged. Marcella spoke of her dissatisfaction at once; saying that
rather than live like a nun, she should seek her fortune elsewhere, but
Ines fancying that she heard a noise in the chamber of Don Augustin,
and feeling he might require something in his illness, stepped lightly
to his room to inquire in what she might assist him.
On the ensuing morning Ines was about the house earlier than usual,
and to her surprise found the chamber of Marcella empty, and no
appearance of her having slept there that night. Astonished at so
strange a circumstance, she left the room to seek her, and was still
more surprised on finding the outer door unlocked, which her master had
so carefully fastened the night before, and which now, as if for the
purpose of disturbing Don Marcos’s ideas of security, had been left wide
open.
On seeing this, Ines became terribly alarmed, and flew to the chamber
of her mistress, raising an outcry that the house had been broken into.
The bridegroom, half stupified with terror, leaped from the couch,
calling for his wife to do the same; at the same time drawing aside all
the curtains, and throwing open all the windows, in order that there
might be no deficiency of light to see whether anything were missing.
The first thing he beheld was what he supposed to be his wife, but so
altered, that he could scarce believe her to be the same; instead of
six-and-thirty years of age, which she professed to be, this sudden
and unwelcome visitation of morning light added at least twenty years
to her appearance; small locks of grey hair peeped from beneath
her nightcap, which had been carefully concealed by the art of the
hair-dresser, but the false hair had in the carelessness of sleep been
unluckily transferred to the ground.
The suddenness of this morning’s alarm had produced another no less
unfortunate mischance; her teeth, which Don Marcos had so complimented
for their regularity and whiteness, were now, alas! not to be seen,
and the lady at least verified the old proverb of not casting pearls
before swine. We will not attempt to describe the consternation of the
poor hidalgo, or waste words which the imagination can so much better
supply. We will only say that Donna Isidora was confounded. It was
intolerable that her imperfections should be made thus manifest at so
unseasonable an hour, and snatching up her strayed locks, she attempted
to replace them, but with such little success, owing to her extreme
hurry, that had not Don Marcos been overwhelmed with consternation, he
would assuredly hardly have refrained from laughter. She then sought
to lay hands on the dress she had worn the previous day; but, alas!
nothing of the rich paraphernalia in which she had been attired by the
gallantry of her husband—not one of the jewels and trinkets in which
she had dazzled the spectators’ eyes—remained.
Don Marcos, on his part, was struck dumb with horror, on finding that
his own wedding suit was missing, and likewise a valuable gold chain
which he had worn at the ceremony, and which he had drawn from his
treasure for the purpose. No pen can describe the agony of Don Marcos
upon this fatal discovery; he could not even console himself with the
youthful graces of his wife, for turning towards her he saw nothing but
age and ugliness, and turning his eyes again from her, he found his
expensive clothes all vanished, and his chain gone.
Almost out of his wits, he ran out into the saloon, and throughout
the apartments, attired only in his shirt, wringing his hands, and
betraying every sign of a miser’s lamentation and despair. While in this
mood, Donna Isidora escaped to her dressing-room, without giving
herself the trouble of inquiring into the minor catastrophe, and busied
herself in repairing the personal injuries which the untoward event had
produced. Don Augustin had by this time risen, and Ines recounted to
him the adventures of the morning, and they both laughed heartily at
the consternation of poor Don Marcos, the ridiculous accident of Donna
Isidora, and the roguishness of Marcella.
_Doña Maria de Zayas_ (_fl._ 1637). _Trans. Roscoe._
_THE MARKET OF ANCESTORS._
They hereupon entered a fairly wide street, littered with coffins,
amongst which walked several sextons, while a number of grave-diggers
were breaking into various graves. Don Cleofas said to his companion—
“What street is this, it is the oddest I have ever seen?”
“This is more worldly and of the times than any other,” replied the
Limping Devil, “and the most useful. It is the old-clothes market of
ancestors, where anybody in want of forefathers, his own not suiting
him, or being somewhat shabby, comes to pick out the one he likes best
for his money. Just look at that poor, deformed gentleman trying on
a grandmother he badly wants, and the other, who has already chosen
a father, putting on a grandfather as well, who’s much too big for
him. That fellow lower down is exchanging his grandfather for another,
offering a sum of money into the bargain, but can’t come to terms because
the sexton, who is the dealer, would be a loser by it. The man over
there has just turned his great-grandfather inside out and is patching
him up with somebody else’s great-grandmother. Her another with a
policeman to look for an ancestor of whom he has been robbed, and who
is hanging up in the market. If you want an ancestor or two on credit,
no your chance; one of the dealers is a friend of mine.”
“I could do with some money, but I’m not in want of ancestors,” replied the
student. So they continued their adventures.
“_The Limping Devil._” _Velez de Guevara_ (1644).
[Illustration: “IT IS THE OLD-CLOTHES MARKET OF ANCESTORS.”]
_VISION OF THE LAST JUDGMENT._
Homer, we find, represents Jupiter as the author or inspirer of dreams,
more especially the dreams of princes and governors, granting always
that the subject of them be of a religious and important character.
It is stated, moreover, as the opinion of the learned Propertius,
“that good dreams are sent from above, have their meaning, and ought
not to be slighted.” To give frankly my own idea upon this subject,
I am inclined to his way of thinking, in particular as to the case
of a certain dream I had the other night. As I was reading a sermon
concerning the end of the world, it happened that I fell asleep over
it, and pursuing the same line of thought, dreamed the following dream
of the Last Judgment—a thing rarely admitted into the house of a poet,
so much as in a dream. I was in this way reminded too of an observation
in “Claudian,” “that all creatures dream at night of what they have
heard and seen in the day; as the hound,” says Petronius Arbiter,
“dreams of hunting the hare.”
Well, methought I beheld a noble-looking youth towering in the air,
and drawing loud and solemn tones from a mighty trumpet. The vehemence
of his breath did certainly detract somewhat from the effect of his
glorious beauty, yet even the monumental marbles, the earth-closed
caverns—nay, the very dead within—obeyed his fearful call; for the
ground was seen gradually to open, the bones to rise and unite
together, and a mighty harvest of the living spring from the long-sown
seed of the dead. The first that appeared were soldiers,—such as
generals of armies, captains, lieutenants, and the common foot, who,
thinking that a fresh charge had sounded, rose out of their graves
with considerable boldness and alacrity, as if they had been preparing
for combat, or a sudden assault. The misers next put their heads out,
all pale and trembling, with the idea they were going to be again
plundered. Cavaliers and boon companions came trooping along, supposing
they were going to a horse-race, or a grand hunt. In short, though all
heard the trumpet sound, not any one seemed to understand it, for their
thoughts were plain enough to be read by the strangeness of their looks
and gestures.
While the souls came trooping in on all sides, many were seen to
approach their new bodies, not without signs of considerable aversion
and difficulty. Others stood spellbound with wonder and horror, as
if not venturing to come nearer to so dreadful a spectacle; for this
wanted an arm, that an eye, and the other a head. Though, on the whole,
I could not forbear smiling at so strange a variety of figures, I found
yet greater matter for awe and admiration at the power of Providence,
which drew order out of chaos, and restored every part and member to
its particular owner. I dreamed that I was myself in a churchyard; that
I saw numbers busied in changing heads, who were averse to make their
appearance; and an attorney would have put in a demurrer, on the plea
that he had got a soul that could be none of his, for that his soul and
body belonged to some different ones elsewhere.
When it came at length to be generally understood that here at last was
the Day of Judgment, it was curious to observe what strange evasions
and excuses were made use of among the wicked. The man of pleasure,
the betrayer of innocence, the epicure, and the hypocrite, would not
own their eyes, nor the slanderer his tongue, because they were sure
to appear in evidence against them. Pick-pockets were seen running
away as fast as possible from their own fingers, while an old usurer
wandered about anxiously inquiring if the money-bags were not to rise
as well as the bodies? I should have laughed outright at this, had not
my attention been called away to a throng of cutpurses, hastening all
speed from their own ears, now offered them, that they might not hear
so many sad stories against themselves.
I was a witness to the whole scene, from a convenient station above
it, when all at once there was uttered a loud outcry at my feet of
“Withdraw, withdraw!” No sooner was it pronounced, than down I came,
and forthwith a number of handsome women put out their heads and called
me a base clown for not showing the respect and courtesy due to their
high quality, not being a whit the less inclined to stand upon their
etiquette,—although in Hell itself. They appeared half-naked, and as
proud as Juno’s peacock, whenever they happened to catch your eye; and, to
say truth, they had a good complexion, and were well made. When they
were informed, however, that it was no other than the Day of Judgment,
they took the alarm, all their vivacity vanished, and slowly they took
their way towards an adjacent valley, quite pensive and out of humour.
Of these one among the rest had wedded seven husbands, and promised
to each of them that she would never marry again, for she was unable
to love any one like she had loved the last. Now the lady was eagerly
inventing all manner of excuses, in order that she might return a
proper answer when examined on this part of her conduct. Another, that
had been common as the common air, affected to hum a tune, and delay
the arrival on pretence of having forgotten some of her trickeries, as
an eye-brow, or a comb; but, spite of her art—for she could now neither
lead nor drive—she was impelled on till she came within sight of the
throne. There she beheld a vast throng, among whom were not a few she
had brought far on their way to the worst place; and no sooner did they
recognise her than they began to hoot after and pursue her, till she
took refuge in a troop of city police.
Next appeared a number of persons driving before them a certain
physician along the banks of a river, whither he had unfairly
dispatched them considerably before their time. They assailed his
ears all the way with cries of “_justice! justice!_” at the same time
urging him forwards towards the seat of judgment, where they at length
arrived. Meantime, I heard upon my left hand something like a paddling
in the water, as if some one were trying to swim; and what should it
all be but a judge, plunged into the middle of a river, and vainly
trying to wash his hands of the foul matter that adhered to them.
I inquired what he was employed about, and he told me, that in his
lifetime he had often had them oiled so as to let the business slip the
better through them, and he would gladly get out the stains before he
came to hold up his hand before the bar. What was yet more horrible,
I saw coming under guard of a legion of devils, all armed with rods,
scourges, and clubs, a whole posse of vintners and tailors, suffering
no little correction; and many pretended to be deaf, being unwilling to
leave the grave under dread of a far worse lodging.
As they were proceeding, however, up started a little dapper lawyer,
and inquired whither they were going; to which it was replied, that
they were going to give an account of their works. On hearing this,
the lawyer threw himself down flat on his face in his hole again,
exclaiming at the same time, “If down I must without a plea, I am at
least so far on my way.” An innkeeper seemed in a great sweat as he
walked along, while a demon at his elbow jeering at him cried,—“Well
done, my brave fellow, get rid of the water, that we may have no more
of it in our wine.” But a poor little tailor, well bolstered up, with
crooked fingers, and bandy legged, had not a word to say for himself
all the way he went, except, “Alas! alas! how can any man be a thief
that dies for want of bread!” As he cried, his companions, however,
rebuked him for running down his own trade. Next followed a gang of
highwaymen, treading upon the heels of one another, and in no little
dread of treachery and cheating among each other. These were brought up
by a party of devils in the turning of a hand, and were quartered along
with the tailors; for, as was observed by one of the company, your real
highwayman is but a wild sort of tailor. To be sure, they were a little
quarrelsome at the first, but in a short time they went together down
into the valley, and took up their quarters very quietly together.
A little behind them came Folly, Bells, and Co., with their band of
poets, fiddlers, lovers, and fencers—that kind of people, in short,
that last dream of a day of reckoning. These were chiefly distributed
among the hangmen, Jews, scribes, and philosophers. There were also
a great many solicitors, greatly wondering among themselves how they
could have so much conscience when dead, and none at all in their
lifetime. In short, the catch-word “silence” was the order of the day.
The throne of the Eternal being at length elevated, and the mighty
day of days at hand which spake of comfort to the good, and of terror
to the wicked; the sun and the stars, like satraps, cast their glory
round the footstool of the Supreme Judge—the avenger of the innocent,
and the Judge of the greatest monarchs and judges of the earth. The
wind was stilled; the waters were quiet in their ocean-sleep—the earth
being in suspense and anguish for fear of her human offspring. The
whole creation looked about to yield up its trust in huge confusion
and dismay. The just and righteous were employed in prayer and
thanksgiving; the impious and wicked were vainly busy in weaving fresh
webs of sophistry and deceit, the better to mitigate their sentence. On
one side stood the guardian angels ready to show how they had fulfilled
the part entrusted to them; and on the other frowned the evil genii,
or the devils who had eagerly contended with the former, and fomented
the worst human passions, attending now to aggravate every matter of
charge against their unfortunate victims. The Ten Commandments held the
guard of a narrow gate, so straight indeed, that the most subdued and
extenuated body could not get through without leaving the better part
of his skin behind.
In one portion of this vast theatre were thronged together Disgrace,
Misfortune, Plague, Grief, and Trouble, and all were in a general
clamour against the doctors. The plague admitted fairly that she had
smitten many, but it was the doctor at last who did their business.
Black Grief and Shame both said the same; and human calamities of
all kinds made open declaration that they never brought any man to
his grave without the help and abetting of a doctor. It was thus the
gentlemen of the faculty were called to account for the number of
fellow-men they had killed, and which were found to exceed by far those
who had fallen by the sword. They accordingly took their station upon
the scaffold, provided with pen, ink, and paper; and always as the
dead were called, some or other of them made answer to the name, and
quoted the year and day when such or such a patient passed from time to
eternity through his hands.
They began the inquiry as far back as Adam, who, to say the truth, was
rather roughly handled about biting an apple. “Alas!” cried one Judas
that stood by, “if that were such a fault, what must be the end of me,
who sold and betrayed my own Lord and Master?” Then next approached the
race of patriarchs; and next the Apostles, who took up their places by
the side of St. Peter. It was well worth observing that on this day
there was not a whit distinction between kings and beggars: all were
equal before the judgment-seat. Herod and Pilate had no sooner put out
their heads, than they found it was likely to go hard with them. “My
judgment, however, is just,” exclaimed Pilate. “But alas!” cried Herod,
“what have I to confide in? Heaven is no abiding place for me, and in
Limbo I shall fall among the very innocents whom I murdered; I have no
choice, therefore, but must e’en take up my quarters in Hell—the general
refuge for the most notorious malefactors.” After this, a rough sort of
sour, ill-grained fellow, made his appearance: “See here,” he cried,
“here are my credentials—take these letters.” The company, surprised at
his odd humour, inquired of the porter who he was? “Who am I?” quoth
he, “I am master of the noble science of defence”: then pulling out a
number of sealed parchments, “These will bear witness to my exploits.”
As he said these words, the testimonials fell out of his hand, and two
devils near him were just going to pick them up, to keep as evidence
against him at his trial, but the fencer was too nimble for them, and
seized on them. An angel, however, now offered him his hand to help
him in; while he, as if fearing an attack, leapt a step back, throwing
himself into an attitude of defence. “Now,” he exclaimed, “if you
like, I will give you a taste of my skill”; upon which the company set
a-laughing, and this sentence was pronounced against him: “That since
by his art he had caused so many duels and murders, he should himself
be allowed to go to the devil in a perpendicular line.” He pleaded he
was no mathematician, and knew no such a line; but with that word a
devil came up, and gave him a twirl or two round, and down he tumbled
before he could bring his sentence to an end.
The public treasurers came after him, pursued by such a hooting at
their heels, that some supposed the whole band of thieves themselves
were coming; which others denying, the company fell into a dispute upon
it. They were greatly troubled at the word “thieves,” and one and all
requested they might be permitted to have the benefit of counsel. “For
a very good reason,” said one of the devils. “Here’s a discarded apostle,
a Judas, that played into both hands at once; seize him!”
On hearing this, the treasurers turned away; but a vast roll of
accusations against them, held in another devil’s hand, met their
eyes, and one of them exclaimed, “For mercy’s sake, away with those
informations! We will one and all submit to any penalty; to remain
in purgatory a thousand years, if you will only remove them from our
sight.” “Is it so?” quoth the cunning devil that had drawn out the
charges—“you are hard put to it to think of compounding on terms like
these.” The treasurers had no more to say; but, finding they must make
the best of a bad case, they very quietly followed the dancing-master.
Close upon the last came an unfortunate pastryman, and on being asked
if he wished to be tried, he replied that he did, and with the help of
the Lord would stand the venture. The counsel against him then prest
the charge; namely, that he had roasted cats for hares, and filled his
pies with bones in place of meat, and sold nothing but horse-flesh,
dogs, and foxes, in lieu of good beef and mutton. It turned out, in
fact, that Noah had never had so many animals in his ark as this
ingenious fellow had put in his pies (for we hear of no rats and mice
in the former); so that, in utter despair, he threw up his cause, and
went to be baked in his turn with other sinners like himself.
“Next came and next did go” a company of barefoot philosophers with
their syllogisms, and it was amusing enough to hear them chop logic,
and try all manner of questions in mood and figure, at the expense of
their own souls. Yet the most entertaining of them all were the poets,
who refused to be tried at any lesser tribunal than that of Jupiter
himself. Virgil, with his _Sicelides Musæ_, made an eloquent defence of
himself, declaring that he had prophecied the Nativity. But up jumped a
devil with a long story about Mæcenas and Octavius, declaring that he
was no better than an idolater of the old school. Orpheus then put in
a word, asserting that, as he was the elder, he ought to be allowed to
speak for all, commanding the poet to repeat his experiment of going
into hell, and trying to get out again, with as many of the company as
he could take along with him.
They were no sooner gone, than a churlish old miser knocked at the
gate, but was informed that it was guarded by the Ten Commandments, to
which he had always been an utter stranger. Yet he contended that if
he had not kept, he had never broken, any of them, and proceeded to
justify his conduct from point to point. His quirks, however, were not
admitted—his works were made the rule of decision—and he was marched
off to receive a due reward.
He was succeeded by a gang of housebreakers and others of the same
stamp, some of whom were so fortunate as to be saved just in the nick
of time. The usurers and attorneys, seeing this, thought they too had
a good chance, and put so good a face on the matter that Judas and
Mahomet began to look about them, and advanced rather confidently to
meet their trial, a movement which made the devils themselves fall to
laughing.
It was now the accusing demons of the usurers and attorneys proceeded
with their accusations, which they took not from the bills of
indictment made out, but from the acts of their lives, insisting upon
the plain matter of fact, so as to leave them without the possibility
of an excuse. Addressing the Judge—“The great crime of which these
men were guilty was their being attorneys at all;”—to which it was
ingeniously answered by the men of law—“No, not so; we only acted
as the secretaries of other men.” They nearly all denied their own
calling; and the result was that, after much cross-questioning and
pleading, two or three only were acquitted, while to the rest their
accusers cried out, “You here! you are wanted elsewhere;” and they
then proceeded to swear against some other people, some bribing the
witnesses, making them say things which they had never heard, and see
things they had never seen, in order to leave innocence no chance of
escape. The lie was concocted in all its labyrinths; and I saw Judas,
Mahomet, and Luther draw back, while the former prest his money-bag
closer to him. Luther observed that he did just the same thing in his
writings (_i.e._, draw back); but the doctor interrupted him, declaring
that, compelled by those who had betrayed him, _he_ now appeared with
the apothecary and the barber to defend himself. On this a demon with
the accusations in his hand turned sharp round on him, asking, “Who
it was had sent the greater part of the dead then present, and with
the aid of his worthy _aide-de-camps_, had, in fact, occasioned the
whole proceedings of that day.” But the apothecary’s advocate put in a
plea for him, asserting that he had dosed the poor people for nothing.
“No matter,” retorted a devil, “I have him down on my list; two of
his pill-boxes despatched more than ten thousand pikes could do in
a battle, such was the virulence of his poisonous drugs, with which
indeed he entered into a partnership with the plague, and destroyed two
entire villages.” The physician defended himself from any participation
in these exploits, and at last the apothecary was obliged to succumb,
the physician and the barber each taking the deaths that respectively
belonged to them.
A lawyer was next condemned for taking bribes from both sides, and
betraying both; and lurking behind him was discovered a fellow who
seemed very desirous of concealing himself, and who, on being asked his
name, replied that he was a player. “And a very comic player indeed,”
rejoined a devil, “who had done better not to appear on that stage
to-day.” The poor wretch promised to retire, and was as good as his
word. A tribe of vintners next took their station, accused of having
assassinated numbers of thirsty souls by substituting bad water for
good wine. They tried to defend themselves on the plea of compensation,
having supplied a hospital gratis with wine for the sacred ceremonies;
but this was overruled, as was that preferred by the tailors, of having
clothed some charity boys on the same terms, and they were all sent to
the same place.
Three or four rich merchants next appeared, who had got wealth by
defrauding their correspondents and creditors, but the accusing
demon now informed them they would find it more difficult to make a
composition; and turning towards Jupiter, he said, “Other men, my Lord
Judge, have to give account of their own affairs, but these have had
to do with everybody’s.” Sentence was forthwith pronounced, but I could
not well catch it, so speedily they all disappeared. A cavalier now
came forward with so good a face, and so upright, as to challenge even
justice itself. He made a very lowly obeisance on entering, but his
collar was of such a size as to defy you to say whether he had got any
head in it at all. A messenger inquired, on the part of Jupiter, if he
was a man, to which he courteously replied in the affirmative, adding
that his name was Don Fulano, on the faith of a cavalier. At this one
of the devils laughed, and he was then asked what it was he wanted?
To which he replied that he wanted to be saved. He was delivered
over to the demons, whom he entreated to use him gently, lest they
should chance to disorder his mustachios and ruff. Behind him came
a man uttering great lamentations, which he himself interrupted by
saying, “Though I cry, I am none so badly off, for I have shaken the
dust off the saints themselves before now.” Every one looked round,
thinking to see a hero, or a Diocletian, from his brushing the ears of
the saints; but he turned out to be a poor wretch whose highest office
was to sweep the pictures, statues, and other ornaments of the church.
His cause seemed safe, when all at once he was accused by one of the
devils of drinking the oil out of the lamps, but which he again laid to
the charge of an owl; that he had moreover clothed himself out of the
church suits, that he drank the wine, ate the bread, and even laid a
duty on the fees. He made but a lame defence, and was ordered to take
the left hand road in his descent.
[Illustration: “A BEVY OF FINE LADIES, TRICKED OUT IN CAP AND FEATHER.”]
He made way for a bevy of fine ladies, tricked out in cap and feather,
and so full of merriment that they fell to amuse themselves with the
odd figures of the demons themselves. It was stated by their advocate
that they had been “excellent devotees.” “True,” retorted the demon,
“devoted to anything but chastity and virtue.” “Yes, certainly,”
replied one that had taken her full fling in life, and whose trial
now came on. She was accused of making religion itself a cloak, and
even marrying, the better to conceal the enormities of her conduct.
When condemned she retired, bitterly complaining that, had she known
the result, she would have taken care not to have done any of the
charitable things, and said so many masses as she had.
Next, after some delay, appeared Judas, Mahomet, and Martin Luther, of
whom a messenger inquired which of the three was Judas? To this both
Mahomet and Luther replied that he was the man; on which Judas cried
out in a rage that they were both liars, for that he was the true
Judas, and that they only affected to be so, in order to escape a worse
fate than his, for though he had indeed sold his Master, the world
had been the better of it, while the other rascals, by selling both
themselves and his Master, had well-nigh ruined it. They were all sent
to the place they deserved.
An attorney who held the evidence in his hand now called on the
alguazils and runners to answer the accusations brought against them.
They cut a woful figure, and so clear was the case against them, that
they were condemned without more ado.
An astrologer now entered with his astrolabes, globes, and other
quackery, crying out that there was some mistake, for that was not the
Day of Judgment, as Saturn had not yet completed his course, nor he out
of sheer fear his own. But a devil turned round on him, and seeing him
loaded with wooden instruments and maps, exclaimed, “Well done, friend,
you have brought firewood along with you, though it is a hard thing,
methinks, after making so many heavens as are here, you should be sent
to the wrong place at last for the want of a single one.” “I will not
go, not I,” said the astrologer. “Then carry him,” said the devil, and
away he went.
The whole court after this broke up: the shadows and clouds withdrew,
the air grew refreshing, flowers scented once more the breezes, the
sunny sky reappeared, while I methought remained in the valley; and
wandering about, heard a good deal of noise and voices of lamentation,
as if rising out of the ground. I pressed forward to inquire what it
could be, and I saw in a hollow cavern (a fit mouth to hell) a number
of persons in pain. Among these was a _Letrado_, but busied not so
much with dead laws as with live coals,—and an _Escrivano_, devouring
only letters. A miser was there, counting more pangs than pieces; a
physician contemplating a dead patient; and an apothecary steeped in
his own mixtures.
I laughed so outright at this that I started wide awake, and was withal
more merry than sad to find myself on my bed.
The foregoing indeed are dreams, but such as if your excellency will
sleep upon them, it will come to pass, that in order to see the things
as I see them, you will pray for them to turn out as I say they are.
_Gomez de Quevedo_ (1580-1645). _Trans. Roscoe._
_THE REVENGE OF DON LUCAS._
DON LUCAS, _a rich, fat, ugly little man, betrothed to his ward_,
DOÑA ISABEL, _against her will_.
DON PEDRO, _young cousin to_ DON LUCAS, _and in love with_ ISABEL.
DON LUIS, _a gaunt old batchelor, also in love with_ ISABEL.
DOÑA ISABEL.
DOÑA ALFONSA, _an old maid, sister to_ DON LUCAS, _and in love with_
DON PEDRO.
PERIWIG, _valet to_ DON LUCAS.
DON LUCAS _and_ DON LUIS.
_Don Luis._ I tell you—yesterday at Illescas she departed from her mute
coyness and, quitting her chamber, came to discourse with me under the
porch, where she told me she would be my bride with all her heart, and
that her hand was bestowed upon you against her will. If this be truth,
why separate two loving souls? ... I hold you for a man of mind, and
therefore come to demand....
_Don Lucas._ No more, for by the devil, I’ll pay you out....
_D. Alfonsa._ (_knocking without_). Is my brother here?
_Don Lucas._ Into my bedroom, quick, I must see my sister.
_Don Luis._ Let me know first if my life and liberty are secure!
_Don Lucas._ Be off with you, ther time enough to look after your life
and liberty.
[_Exit_ DON LUIS.
DON LUCAS _and_ DOÑA ALFONSA.
_D. Alfonsa._ Brother?
_Don Lucas._ Well, sister Alfonsa?
_D. Alfonsa._ I have something to tell you.
_Don Lucas._ Deuce take it, everybody has something to tell me. But it’s
my own fault for listening.
_D. Alfonsa._ Are we alone?
_Don Lucas._ Yes, sister.
_D. Alfonsa._ Will you be angry at what I’m going to tell you?
_Don Lucas._ How do I know?
_D. Alfonsa._ Well, you know....
_Don Lucas._ I don’t know.
_D. Alfonsa._ ... That I am a woman....
_Don Lucas._ I don’t know anything of the kind.
_D. Alfonsa._ Brother?...
_Don Lucas._ Do be quick and have done with it. You’ll all be the death of
me.
_D. Alfonsa._ Well, I am a woman, and in love....
_Don Lucas._ The point at last.
_D. Alfonsa._ And with Don Pedro.
_Don Lucas._ All right.
_D. Alfonsa._ But he doesn’t love me; the treacherous wretch is courting
Doña Isabel, and betraying both of us.
_Don Lucas._ I say, I don’t believe it.
_D. Alfonsa._ Well, you know, I often have fainting fits.
_Don Lucas._ Yes!
_D. Alfonsa._ And do you remember that I also had one at the inn at
Illescas?
_Don Lucas._ Well, what of that?
_D. Alfonsa._ You must know it was feigned.
_Don Lucas._ And now who’ll believe you when you really have one?
_D. Alfonsa._ I did it with a motive. Don Pedro, the traitor, thinking
it was real, seized the opportunity to say a thousand tender things to
Doña Isabel. I would have given vent to my rage, but he is so far gone,
he even makes love to her before _you_.
_Don Lucas._ A pretty how-d’ye-do!
_D. Alfonsa._ Last—night—he—met—her—in—the—parlour—secretly.... And now
you know my wrongs. Make haste and avenge both yourself and me on that
treacherous Don Pedro.
_Don Lucas._ A pretty kettle of fish. But, devil take it, Don Luis has
just been to tell me that Isabel is in love with _him_. Perhaps she
loves them both, she seems to have a great facility that way. But if
Don Pedro is her accepted lover, I’ll pay them both out! I shall have
such a revenge as shall last their whole lives! To kill them would be
too poor a vengeance.
_D. Alfonsa._ What do you mean to do?
_Don Lucas._ (_calling_). Don Pedro!
_D. Alfonsa._ There, he’s just come in.
_Don Lucas._ (_calling_). Doña Isabel!
_D. Alfonsa._ Here she is.
_Enter_ DOÑA ISABEL, DON PEDRO, _and_ PERIWIG.
_D. Isabel._ Why are you calling me?
_Don Pedro._ What can I do for you?
_Don Lucas._ Just wait for a bit. Periwig, shut that door.
_Periwig._ Yes, sir. (_Shuts it._)
_Don Lucas._ Lock it.
_Periwig._ Certainly, sir. (_Locks it._)
_Don Lucas._ Give me the key.
_Periwig._ Here it is, your honour. (_Hands him the key._)
_Don Lucas._ (_opening his bedroom door_). Come out, Don Luis.
_Don Luis._ Here I am. (_Comes out._)
_D. Isabel._ What are you going to do?
_Don Pedro._ }
} What’s all this?
_Don Luis._ }
_Don Lucas._ Listen, all of you. Señor Don Luis, whom you here behold,
has told me he is Doña Isabel’s lover, and that he must marry her, for she
gave him her word at Illescas and....
_Periwig._ Oh no, beg pardon, sir. I saw the gent knock at a door at
Illescas and palaver with Doña Alfonsa, whom he took for the young
lady. Don’t you remember, sir, you heard a noise, and came out with a
light and your sword? Well, it was him, sir.
_Don Luis._ I will not deny it. You came forth, and I discreetly hid,
but I thought I was speaking with Isabel, not with Alfonsa.
_D. Alfonsa._ Wait, it was I with whom you spoke, but I took you for
Don Pedro.
_Don Pedro._ (_aside_). Blessings upon Cupid and my lucky star.
_Don Lucas._ Well, that’s one gallant done with. But to proceed (_to Don
Pedro_), my sister, Doña Alfonsa, tells me treacherous and unloyal
fellow, that you love Isabel.
_Don Pedro._ Yes, it is so. I confess I have long loved her, before you
even thought of her; and who can blame my impotence to stifle a love so
great that....
_Don Lucas._ Hold your tongue, young cousin, for by h——, but no, I won’t
swear.... I must have fierce and fatal vengeance.
_Don Pedro._ Plunge your poniard into this my throat.
_Don Lucas._ No, I won’t do that; I don’t want to kill you: that’s what
you’d like.
_Don Pedro._ Then what will you do?
_Don Lucas._ You shall know. You, Don Pedro, are a pauper, and but for
me would have starved.
_Don Pedro._ It is true.
_Don Lucas._ Doña Isabel is a beggar. I was going to marry her for her
looks only, for she hasn’t a farthing for a dowry.
_Don Pedro._ But she is virtuous and beautiful.
_Don Lucas._ Well, then, give her your hand, for this is my vengeance.
You are very poor, and she is very poor; no more happiness for you.
Love flies out of the window when poverty enters the door. On your
wedding-day you may laugh at me, but on the morrow when breakfasting on
kisses, with vows on the table for victuals, and constancy for supper,
Love instead of a silk frock, and “Darling” to keep you warm, you will
see who laughs longest and last.
_Don Pedro._ Cousin....
_Don Lucas._ I say, you shall marry her.
_Periwig._ (_aside_). The punishment is _too_ severe!
_Don Lucas._ (_joins_ DON PEDRO’S _and_ DOÑA ISABEL’S _hands_).
Join hands, you fond and pretty fools,
By vengeance is the nuptial knot:
Too soon you’ll learn what Love is like
When there is nothing in the Pot.
“_Entre Bobos anda el Juego._” _Francesco Rojas de Zorrilla_ (_fl._
1670).
_THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA._
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
KING PHILIP II.[7]
DON LOPE DE FIGUERROA.
DON ALVARO DE ATAIDE.
PEDRO CRESPO, _a Farmer of Zalamea_.
JUAN, _his Son_.
ISABEL, _his Daughter_.
INES, _his Niece_.
DON MENDO, _a poor Hidalgo_.
NUÑO, _his Servant_.
REBOLLEDO, _a Soldier_.
CHISPA, _his Sweetheart_.
A SERGEANT, A NOTARY, SOLDIERS, LABOURERS, CONSTABLES,
ROYAL SUITE, &c.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—_Country near Zalamea._ _Enter_ REBOLLEDO, CHISPA, _and
Soldiers_.
_Reb._ Confound, say I, these forced marches from place to place,
without halt or bait; what say you, friends?
_All._ Amen!
_Reb._ To be trailed over the country like a pack of gipsies, after a
little scrap of flag upon a pole, eh?
_1st. Soldier._ Rebolledo’s off!
_Reb._ And that infernal drum, which has at last been good enough to
stop a moment, stunning us.
_2nd. Sold._ Come, come, Rebolledo, don’t storm; we shall soon be at
Zalamea.
_Reb._ And where will be the good of that if I’m dead before I get there?
And if not, ’twill only be from bad to worse: for if we all reach
the place alive, as sure as death up comes Mr. Mayor to persuade the
Commissary we had better march on to the next town. At first Mr.
Commissary replies very virtuously, “Impossible! the men are fagged to
death.” But after a little pocket persuasion, then it’s all “Gentlemen, I’m
very sorry, but orders have come for us to march forward, and
immediately,” and away we have to trot, foot-weary, dust bedraggled,
and starved as we are. Well, I swear if I do get alive to Zalamea
to-day, I’ll not leave it this side o’ sunrise for love, lash, or money.
It won’t be the first time in my life I’ve given ‘em the slip.
_1st. Sold._ Nor the first time a poor fellow has had the slip given
him for doing so. And more likely than ever now that Don Lope de
Figuerroa has taken the command, a fine brave fellow they say, but a
devil of a tartar, who’ll have every inch of duty done, or take the
change out of his own son, without waiting for trial either.[8]
_Reb._ Listen to this now, gentlemen! By Heaven, I’ll be beforehand with
him.
_2nd. Sold._ Come, come, a soldier shouldn‘t talk so.
_Reb._ I tell you it isn’t for myself I care so much, as for this poor
little thing that follows me.
_Chis._ Signor Rebolledo, don’t you fret about me; you know I was born
with a beard on my heart if not on my chin, if ever girl was; and your
fearing for me is as bad as if I was afeard myself. Why, when I came
along with you I made up my mind to hardship and danger for honour’s
sake; else if I’d wanted to live in clover, I never should have left the
Alderman who kept such a table as all aldermen don’t, I promise you. Well,
what’s the odds? I chose to leave him and follow the drum, and here I am,
and if I don’t flinch, why should you?
_Reb._ ‘Fore Heaven, you’re the crown of womankind!
_Soldiers._ So she is, so she is, _Viva la Chispa!_
_Reb._ And so she is, and one cheer more for her—hurrah! especially if
she’ll give us a song to lighten the way.
_Chis._ The castanet shall answer for me.
_Reb._ I’ll join in—and do you, comrades, bear a hand in the chorus.
_Soldiers._ Fire away!
_Chispa sings._
I.
“Titiri tiri, marching is weary,
Weary, weary, and long is the way:
Titiri tiri, hither, my deary,
What meat have you got for the soldier to-day?
‘Meat have I none, my merry men,’Titiri tiri, then kill the old hen.
‘Alas and a day! the old hen is dead!’Then give us a cake from the
oven instead.
Titiri titiri titiri tiri,
Give us a cake from the oven instead.
II.
Admiral, admiral, where have you been-a?
I‘ve been fighting where the waves roar.’ Ensign, ensign, what have
you seen-a?
‘Glory and honour and gunshot galore;
Fighting the Moors in column and line,
Poor fellows, they never hurt me or mine—
Titiri titiri titiri tina ...’”
_1st Sold._ Look, look, comrades—what between singing and grumbling we
never noticed yonder church among the trees.
_Reb._ Is that Zalamea?
_Chis._ Yes, that it is, I know the steeple. Hoorah! we’ll finish the
song when we get into quarters, or have another as good; for you know I
have ‘em of all sorts and sizes.
_Reb._ Halt a moment, here’s the sergeant.
_2nd. Sold._ And the captain, too.
_Enter_ CAPTAIN _and_ SERGEANT.
_Capt._ Good news, men, no more marching for to-day at least; we halt
at Zalamea till Don Lope joins with the rest of the regiment from
Llerena. So who knows but you may have a several days’ rest here?
_Reb. and Solds._ Hurrah for our captain!
_Capt._ Your quarters are ready, and the Commissary will give every one
his billet on marching in.
_Chis._ (_singing_). Now then for
“Titiri tiri, hither, my deary,
Heat the oven and kill the old hen.”
[_Exit with Soldiers._
_Capt._ Well, Mr. Sergeant, have you my billet?
_Serg._ Yes, sir.
_Capt._ And where am I to be put up?
_Serg._ With the richest man in Zalamea, a farmer, as proud as Lucifer’s
heir-apparent.
_Capt._ Ah, the old story of an upstart.
_Serg._ However, sir, you have the best quarters in the place,
including his daughter, who is, they say, the prettiest woman in
Zalamea.
_Capt._ Pooh! a pretty peasant! splay hands and feet.
_Serg._ Shame! shame!
_Capt._ Isn’t it true, puppy?
_Serg._ What would a man on march have better than a pretty country
lass to toy with?
_Capt._ Well, I never saw one I cared for, even on march. I can’t call
a woman a woman unless she’s clean about the hands and fetlocks, and
otherwise well appointed—a lady, in short.
_Serg._ Well, any one for me who’ll let me kiss her. Come, sir, let us
be going, for if you won’t be at her, I will.
_Capt._ Look, look yonder!
_Serg._ Why, it must be Don Quixote himself, with his very Rosinante
too, that Michel Cervantes writes of.
_Capt._ And his Sancho at his side. Well, carry you my kit on before to
quarters, and then come and tell me when all’s ready.
[_Exeunt._